Pirate's Wraith, The

by Penelope Marzec

  “Where would that be?”

  He shook his head. “I came from Connecticut, along the coastline in a town called Lyme. My father had a business making barrel staves. Our family was prosperous, but my older brother took to gambling. After my father’s death, my brother sold everything, but that did not help settle the accounts he had with his creditors. I took to the sea at the age of fourteen for nothing remained of my father’s fortune.”

  “Is that why you became a pirate?”

  His face hardened and she regretted asking the question. “I will regain my fortune.”

  “But ... you could get killed ... or hung.”

  “Would it matter?”

  “Well, yes.” She wanted to tell him that maybe he could find love again and maybe he could have another son. Or maybe he could just have one incredible roll in the hay with her.

  Scratch that last thought. She could die having a baby in this century.

  He gave a mirthless laugh. “My destiny is set.”

  “But I told you about the pardons. Former pirates became well-respected members of their communities.”

  “I do not believe you when you talk of the future. It is bibble-babble.”

  She sighed. “Okay then. Bibble-babble sounds better than witchcraft and sorcery. Bottoms up. I guess getting blasted might be a good thing right now.”

  He left the cabin. She sipped a bit of the whiskey. It burned all the way down.

  She had tried various potent alcoholic drinks. The liquor consumed at frat parties tended to be extremely inexpensive and was generally referred to as rotgut by the majority of the students. The women mixed it with whatever fruit juice happened to be available, but it still had devastating effects.

  It didn’t take long for Lesley to remember why she had given up drinking rotgut. Yes, the alcohol lulled her to sleep, but then she began to dream.

  * * * *

  Elsbeth wiped the sweat from her eyes as she scrubbed the linen sheet in the wooden tub. The scorching summer sun bore down and though she labored in the dappled shade of the maple the air barely moved and her mouth grew gritty with dust. Several months ago, she had begun to take in laundry from the inn down the road. Harlan had been gone for more than a year, far longer than expected. The money he had left for her and Josiah had not been enough. Her little garden had done poorly with the summer’s drought. There would not be enough to eat when winter came.

  She had begun to consider the idea that Harlan may have died. Her eyes misted with tears. She went to the docks whenever a ship arrived, but she caught no word of Harlan or his ship. His last letter had come ten months ago. Brief and concise, it contained no hint of passion or unhappiness at their long separation. Not a single word mentioned how he suffered without her. Obviously, he did not long for her as much as she did for him. Her heart ached.

  If he never came back, what would she do?

  With her hands reddened from the lye, she pulled out the sheet and twisted it. Thunderclouds had appeared over the water, which she welcomed because the rain would rinse all the laundry for her, but she needed to scrub the remaining linens in the basket before the downpour began.

  Setting aside the finished sheet, she picked up another and dropped it into the tub. This one had several brown stains. Blood undoubtedly caused the stains, and if it had been fresh she could have removed it. However, the stains refused to come out no matter how hard she rubbed so the sheet must have been ignored for quite some time. Nevertheless, Mistress Wigg would not be satisfied with her work and would give her less for her efforts.

  Elsbeth glanced up and saw Josiah coming toward her with a cup of water. She swiped at her tear-stained cheeks with her apron and pasted on a bright smile. Josiah was her angel and she always did her best to be happy for him, despite their hardships.

  “I did not spill too many drops, but my cough shook some out.” He stepped carefully as he crossed over the dried out grass in the yard. Then he coughed again and a bit more water sloshed out of the cup.

  “Sorry, mama.” He held out the cup.

  “Your are kind to bring it to me.” She touched his hot cheek and then his forehead. He had been ill for a week. Mistress Wigg said it was the ague. Elsbeth put mustard plasters on him but it did not seem to help and he suffered worse from the blisters.

  “This is delicious.” She took the cup and drank down the small amount of water. It did not help to cool her, but a freshening breeze played with the leaves and sent a shiver along her arms.

  “Mr. Bertram says it is going to rain.” Josiah said. “His bad leg talks to him.”

  Elsbeth toyed with a lock of his dark hair, so like her own. Yet, his eyes were Harlan’s, of the faintest blue. “Mr. Bertram’s leg does not speak to him, but no doubt it aches sometimes and that’s when he thinks rain is coming.” She turned back to the basket and plopped another sheet into the tub. “I have two more sheets to scrub before the rain comes. You best get into the house now, for the thunder will be very loud and the wind will chill you.”

  “Yes, mama.” He shuffled away as if he wished to be a part of the excitement when the storm hit.

  She had thought of taking Josiah to the doctor, but she knew what the doctor would do. He would bleed her child. She had seen other children die as a result of the doctor’s methods.

  She needed help. If only Harlan were here. She needed his strong arms around her and his guidance. The weight of handling everything wore her down. She scrubbed more furiously as her own throat ached with sadness.

  The first rolling booms of thunder sounded in the distance and Elsbeth threw herself into her task with even more vigor. Big drops of rain splattered about her as she draped the sheets over the bushes and over the low limbs of the maple.

  The rain fell harder, but she refused to stop. Already drenched, she vowed she would finish. The sheets would be rinsed by the rain, then dried by the sunshine afterward.

  Once the last sheet was in place, she raced toward the house. In that instant, the bright flash of lightning blinded her and she stumbled backward as the ground shook with a deafening crack.

  She blinked her eyes a few times to clear them. Then she saw the flames leaping from the house.

  “Josiah!” She ran while her heart pounded in fear. “Josiah!”

  Chapter Ten

  Harlan returned to his cabin and found Lesley with her eyes closed but her arms flailing in the air. A fine sheen of perspiration glinted on her brow while her breathing sounded labored and harsh. A dull ache rose in his chest as he watched her suffer in the grip of a fearsome nightmare. Perhaps, she saw another great wave coming toward the ship.

  He closed his eyes as the horror of that moment took his breath away. Indeed, he wondered if he would be able to sleep after that alarming experience and the devastation left in its wake. If he had enough men he would take another ship, but his crew was sorely depleted.

  When he opened his eyes, Lesley shifted restlessly and he feared she might fall from the bunk. Waking her should release her from the terror that held her captive. It would be a kindness.

  “Josiah.” she called out in a harsh whisper. “Josiah.”

  He stared in horror as his very soul chilled. She called out the name of his long dead son and doubt coursed through him. What strange and awful power did this woman possess? This woman who resembled Elsbeth—who had the toy he had given to his son—who called out his son’s name?

  Had Elsbeth’s ghost come to haunt him? Had she returned as she said she would? Or was she a wraith from hell? What demon lurked in her heart?

  Intent on forcing her to divulge the truth, he crossed to the bunk. He shook her by the shoulders.

  “Wake up,” he commanded.

  Her eyelids fluttered before her eyes opened. Then she gasped.

  “Why did you call for my son?” He spat out the words.

  “I had a nightmare, I guess.” Her chest heaved and he forgot his fury. Suddenly, all he could think about was the taste of her and the feel of h
er soft breasts so well hidden beneath the baggy shirt and jacket she wore. The spark of need threatened to ignite in him again.

  “What did you dream?” He must find out the truth.

  “Remind me never to drink your whiskey again.”

  She drew her hand across her forehead and he longed to hold it in his, but he drew his hands into fists and held them rigidly at his side.

  “Your son was in my dream. At least, I think it was him. Were his eyes the same color as yours?”

  Fear gripped him and his chest grew tight. He told himself she must be a cousin of Elsbeth, or perhaps a younger sister. He went to the cabinet and poured himself a glass of whiskey. “Yes, his eyes looked much like mine, but he had dark hair like his mother—and like yours.”

  Momentary panic flashed in her eyes. “He looked very young and he had a fever with a bad cough. I ...” She stopped abruptly. “It was weird ... like I was there ... not that being here isn’t weird, too. It was like I went tripping on some crazy drug, but I’m not taking anything right now ... as far as I know ... except for that whiskey. What’s in it?”

  Her frown furrowed into lines and he had a strong urge to smooth away the deep creases, but he knew touching her would only fuel his fires.

  “Tell me all you dreamed.” He hardened his tone.

  “Well, I was afraid. Your son was in the house when the lightning hit it and started a fire.”

  He could not move. His soul went numb and he froze in place. By sheer will, he forced his mouth to form a question. “Who told you that?”

  “Nobody told me. I dreamed it.”

  “Are you Elsbeth’s cousin? Or her younger sister?”

  “I never met Elsbeth.” Her lips drew into a tight, thin line. “I told you where I came from.”

  “I do not believe you.”

  “Big surprise there. You think I’m a witch, but do you think I would be lying here with a sprained ankle on a smelly, lumpy mattress if I had any kind of magical power?” Her choked laugh bordered on a sob. Yet, he knew he must not weaken.

  “Tell me the rest.” Hearing it would still stab him in the heart. Seven years had passed, but the pain lingered on.

  “You woke me up. There isn’t anything else to tell.”

  He downed the whiskey in one long swallow and cursed his existence. By the time he had learned of the fire, months had passed.

  “Look, I’m sorry about your son. I didn’t mean to upset you, but let’s blame it on the whiskey. Okay?”

  “You look like Elsbeth. You had the toy I carved for my son.”

  “Did Elsbeth ever have a badly sprained ankle?”

  “No—”

  “Did she ever go to college?”

  “College?”

  “School. Don’t tell me there are no schools in America?”

  “Elsbeth could not read.”

  “Why didn’t you teach her?”

  “A woman does not need to read. She has no time for it.”

  Lesley’s glare had fire in it. “Chauvinist.”

  He had never heard of her word, but he understood she believed women should be able to read—and that he was remiss in not educating his wife.

  “This is a horrible century. Women have no rights and you go along with all the other men in keeping women in the dark. It’s unconscionable. Yet you think she was a witch. Tell me about that. What powers did she have? She got sick and died. Right? No magic there. It’s tragic—and sad.” Her trembling hand covered her eyes.

  He turned away and pounded the bulkhead with his fist. “You are wrong. She gathered herbs, which she insisted had to be picked by the light of the full moon. She brewed them and made teas...” His voice grew husky. He did not want to remember, but all the pain of those days rolled over him and he thought he would suffocate.

  “Dr. Gilroy brews decoctions. All kinds of herbs and even bark goes into his mixture.”

  “He has explained it to me. There are four humors in the body—”

  “That’s what he was taught, but it’s wrong. There are germs and you need strong medicine to kill the germs. Some plants have antiseptic properties. Antiseptics kill germs. Elsbeth’s herbs killed germs. Dr. Gilroy decoctions do, too, even though he doesn’t know it.”

  “She sold her soul to the devil.” He wanted more whiskey. He wanted to be dead drunk so he would not feel anything. No. He wanted to slide his hands around Lesley’s luscious curves and press her against his need.

  Dammit. He threw the glass to the floor. It shattered against the metal corner of his sailing chest.

  “Great. I hope that makes you feel better. Now, not only does this ship have no spoons, there’s one less glass as well. You’ll have to guzzle the whiskey straight from the jug, but that shouldn’t be a problem. No mollycoddling on this ship.”

  He left the cabin.

  * * * *

  Lesley winced as he slammed the door behind him. He had major issues with his backward ideas. How could he possibly believe his wife was a witch?

  Until now, Lesley never believed in any supernatural stuff. She assumed those who professed to know about magic, ESP, vampires, auras, ghosts, and other supernatural nonsense were potheads. Everything should have a logical explanation.

  She put her faith in science and the wonders of medication--until they both failed her.

  The dream had startled her with its clarity. Every detail had come to her as vividly as if she had lived it. She had choked on the dust in her throat. The tepid water had a metallic taste when she drank it. She had touched her son’s hair, which had the gossamer weight of silken strands.

  Could she be the reincarnated version of Elsbeth? Elsbeth OS 2? She had no intention of telling the captain that in her dream she was Elsbeth. He would burn her at the stake if he knew.

  Lesley shivered. Had Harlan’s dead wife possessed her? Why should it take Elsbeth three hundred years to get herself reincarnated? Didn’t used souls have a faster turnaround time available? On the other hand, Elsbeth could have been a novice at magic and witchcraft. It may have taken her three hundred years to figure out a solution to her problem.

  Lesley searched around in the bunk for the little wooden horse, but she could not locate it. It must have fallen on the floor. She peered over the edge of the bunk, but she did not see it anywhere.

  She sighed and wondered if the captain had any entertaining novels written in understandable English in a simple font in his bookshelf. Hell, she’d even read Shakespeare at this point. Still, since she nearly passed out the first time she got out of the bunk, she decided to stay in place for a while longer.

  She thought about poor Elsbeth. The woman had it rough. No money, an absent husband, a sick kid, and a house fried by lightning with the kid inside it. Oh yes, and the miserly employer who would give her less money due to the stains on the sheets, which weren’t her fault.

  If she turned into a witch, who could blame her? More than likely, she became a common ordinary, garden-variety bitch. Plenty of people had accused Lesley of being a bitch—even Jim—come to think of it.

  Jim had tried to control her every way he could.

  She clenched her teeth. Damn him. She had been such a fool. She hoped his precious boat sank—and that he found another woman who would take him for all he was worth, which did not amount to much. She regretted every single gift of Henri Lloyd sportswear she had given to him.

  A knock came at the door but she kept mum, fearing it might be an unwelcome visitor. However, the door opened anyway and the same cabin boy who had helped out with Dr. Gilroy’s amputations came to her bearing a bowl of overcooked beans and a mug of rum. She tried not to gag.

  “The doctor says you’re to keep up your strength.”

  She struggled to sit up. “Thanks for bringing me something to eat.” It looked as appetizing as soggy cardboard.

  “Does your ankle hurt?”

  “Yes.”

  “The doctor does not think he will have to amputate.”

  A cold swea
t broke out on Lesley’s brow. “He told me it was a bad sprain and not broken.”

  “You were brave when the doctor had to do those amputations. What did you call the instrument you used to stop the bleeding?”

  “A tourniquet.” She put the bowl in her lap. “It would be easier to eat if I had something like a spoon.”

  “I carved one for you.” The boy held it up. “Dr. Gilroy said you needed one and I learned to make these when I was but ten.”

  “How old are you now?”

  “Sixteen.” He looked more like fifteen to her—a gangly high school sophomore.

  “What’s your name?”

  “The men here called me Jibby because I got knocked out with the jib when I first came on board.”

  “That’s mean.”

  He shrugged. “I can take their teasing long as I get my share. My real name’s Jean, but I never liked it.”

  “Do you have a family?”

  “A sister but she married an old drunk who did not want me around, so I left.”

  “But why did you join up with a pirate crew? You could be hanged if you’re caught.”

  His hand started to move toward his throat, but halfway there it went back to his side. “The captain started out as privateer, but the crew prevailed upon him to go on the account. Makes no matter to me. I’ve no place else to go.”

  Poor kid. Lesley wondered how the human race had ever managed to survive.

  “Are you afraid of being hung?” he asked.

  “A few hours ago, I thought I would drown,” she confessed.

  “My friend, Frank, the other cabin boy, he’s gone.” He wiped his nose with his sleeve.

  “I’m sorry.”

  He wiped his nose again with his other sleeve. “The doctor said I could stay and talk with you for a while.”

  “Thanks. I could use some company.” She figured he could use some counseling, but she didn’t have a clue where to start. She should have been more diligent when it came to psychology.

  Jibby pulled the captain’s chair up to the bunk. “Tell me more about those tourniquets.”

  Lesley smiled. Finally, someone willing to listen to her. The pain in her leg diminished as she told the boy all she had learned in her first aid course about bleeding.