The Restitution

by M. L. Tyndall

  With a snort, Sawkins looked away. “I had not thought to die aboard your ship, but upon my own—perhaps in a glorious sea battle, a fitting end to my resplendent career.”

  Kent raised a brow. “If you are ever able to retain a ship of your own, do contact me. I’d be happy to oblige you.”

  Sawkins’s eyes darted about in a frenzy. “We are about be slaughtered, and you continue your insolent jests.” His lips quivered. “Indeed, I hope we die and are not left maimed for life.” He glanced with disgust at the doctor.

  Taking a puff from his pipe, Cutter glared at Sawkins. He pulled the brown tube from his lips and blew a cloud of smoke toward his lordship before turning to face Kent. “’Tis been a pleasure and an honor to have sailed with you, Captain. No one could have foreseen this.”

  “Aye, that goes for me too.” Hoornes added, approaching them.

  Hann dashed to Cutter’s side.

  Logan popped up from the main hatch.

  “On my order, run out the guns and fire at will,” Kent instructed him.

  A loud Spanish voice blared from their left. “No encienda los cañónes. Permítalo pasar.”

  Shock jolted through Kent. He peered toward the Spaniard on the galleon and ran the words through his limited Spanish vocabulary. Surely he had misinterpreted what the soldier had said, yet when he glanced at the ship in front of them, the two men who’d manned the swivel guns withdrew the linstock and backed away from the cannons.

  Opening her eyes, Isabel tugged on his sleeve as Cutter, Hann, and Sawkins showered him with questioning looks.

  Kent rubbed his chin. “I believe he just ordered them not to shoot and to allow us to pass.”

  “Nigh impossible.” Cutter swung his gaze back toward the galleon.

  Hann crinkled her nose. “But why would they? ’Tis obvious we are not Spaniards.”

  Still clinging to the mast, Sawkins opened his mouth as if to say something, but merely coughed instead.

  All eyes darted to Isabel. She quickly released her grip on Kent’s arm, her face reddening, then broke into a beaming smile. “My prayer has been answered, gentlemen.”

  “Are you saying this is God’s doing?” Cutter’s eyes widened.

  Kent returned his gaze to the galleon off their larboard side. The soldiers had dispersed and were raising their topsails to catch the full wind.

  Pirates scrambled to the railings and stared aghast at the galleon. Its gun ports slammed shut as it sped after its compatriots, leaving flurries of Spanish in its wake. As the might vessel shrunk, the abandoned swivel guns peered at them like two gaping eyes.

  Kent studied Isabel’s calm face. She raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. A gentle smile graced her lips. Yet reason still clambering in his mind for anything solid to hold onto. There must be another explanation, but as he watched the enemy ships withdraw without so much as a shot fired, he could think of none. Isabel’s God had answered her again. A deep longing welled within Kent—a desire to know this powerful God, to meet His approval and be valued by Him as Isabel seemed to be. But what would a holy God want with Kent?

  Hope drowned beneath a resurgent flood of unworthiness. Bunching his fists, Kent forced his focus back to what he did best, captaining a ship, and at the moment, his frigate was not out of danger. Scanning the pirates remaining on the foredeck, his gaze landed on Hann. “Furl all sails.”

  With a nod, Hann started on his way, but Kent clutched his arm and stopped him. “Do it quietly, and”—Kent cast a quick glance behind him—“alter our course twenty degrees south southeast. We’ll let them sail right past us.” He released Hann, and the lad disappeared down the ladder.

  Kent turned to Isabel. “I don’t know what is happening, and I’m not sure I believe it, but the fortune that has come upon us is not of this world.”

  Isabel’s eyes sparkled.

  Cutter shot Kent a curious look from the railing, then continued to smoke his pipe and gaze out over the Spanish fleet.

  “Ye hear that, little fellow.” Hoornes plucked his rat from a pouch hanging at his belt and perched him upon his shoulder. “We are saved.” He smiled at Isabel. “Now I best be gettin’ to me post.”

  With all sails taken in and the yards nearly bare, the Restitution eased into a slow, clumsy drift. One by one, the massive ships of the Spanish fleet sailed past them on both sides. The only indication that they knew the Restitution sailed among them was an occasional hail by one of their captains—to which Kent gave the appropriate reply. As the galleons parted the sea with their heavy frames, the Restitution rolled and quaked over each burgeoning wake, but otherwise remained untouched.

  The last galleon rose like a menacing beast off their starboard side. She sailed so close to the Restitution that Kent could see the expressions on the Spaniards’ faces—no shock, no alarm flickered in them, no indication that they saw the pirate ship drifting in their path. He shook his head in continued disbelief.

  Finally stepping away from the mainmast, Sawkins brushed the specks of wood from his doublet and balled his hands on his hips. He cast an imperious glance at Isabel. “What devilry is at work here, milady?”

  “’Tis no devilry, I assure you,” Isabel answered with a tilt of her head. “Quite the opposite.”

  Cutter raised his scarred lips in a pretentious grin. “I’d still my tongue, Sawkins, if I were you. Or perhaps the Almighty will change His mind. The ships are still within firing range.”

  “What of fate, good doctor?” Isabel regarded him with a faint smirk.

  “Fate cannot do this, milady.”

  Smithy popped up on deck, and Kent leaned over the foredeck railing. “Bring the helm hard over, Mr. Hoornes. Smithy, begin to lower all sails. Let’s put some distance between us and our Spanish friends.”

  Hoornes sped to the whipstaff.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Smithy scratched his thick sideburns, then turned and barked orders that sent a dozen men leaping into the ratlines.

  Leveling his spyglass to his eye, Kent steadied himself as the ship lurched to starboard.

  Sawkins clutched Isabel’s elbow to keep her from stumbling. “This is not God,” he stammered, then stormed toward Kent, flashing angry eyes. “’Tis some clever trick you are playing upon me—to make me appear the fool.”

  “Ah, but you need no assistance in that regard.” Kent lowered the glass.

  Sawkins clenched his fists. “God cannot create such an illusion.”

  As if agreeing with his declaration, the roar of a cannon thundered across the sky. Round shot crashed into the deck amidships in a blast of splintering wood that sent a shudder through the frigate. A scream sliced the air.

  Dashing to the railing, Kent raised the spyglass. A plume of smoke jetted from the stern of the galleon that had just passed. Why had only the last ship fired upon them? And why now?

  Cutter gave Sawkins a smug look. “Look what you have done.”

  “Egad, you dare blame me, sir?” Sawkins snorted. “I knew ’twas not God.”

  Kent glanced aloft. “Spread all canvas to the wind, gentlemen. Tops and studding sails up.” The Restitution had nearly completed her turn, and the sails began to swell with the warm Caribbean air. Behind them, the pursuing galleon fumbled in its tack as shifting sails floundered in the breeze. A flare shot from the Spanish ship’s starboard battery. Kent grabbed Isabel as a roaring boom hammered the air. This time, however, the round shot splashed into the sea several yards aft of the ship.

  Tugging from his grasp, Isabel gazed toward the galleon. “They won’t catch us.”

  “Nay, milady. We are windward and have the sailing advantage,” Kent answered, unsure whether she asked a question or merely made a statement. Turning, he leaned over the foredeck railing. “What damage?” he yelled below.

  A crowd of pirates huddled on the main deck. One of them looked up. “It be Hann, Cap’n. He’s hit.”

  Isabel gasped.

  Kent’s stomach lurched. He darted his gaze to Cutter’s.<
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  Dropping his pipe, the doctor flew down the ladder, shoved the pirates aside, and knelt beside his friend.

  Kent tightened his grip on the railing. Hann was more than a quartermaster. He was a good pirate and had been kind to Isabel. He did not want to lose him.

  Isabel snatched up the smoldering pipe, lifted her skirts, and darted down the stairs, ignoring Kent’s beckoning call behind her. Terror raked over her, prodding her forward. The only thought racing through her mind was that Hann was hurt, possibly dead.

  A blackened, smoking hole gaped at Isabel from the starboard bulwark. Spears of charred wood littered the deck. Two pirates grabbed Hann’s legs and arms and lifted her. Isabel peered between them to see a blotch of deep red creeping across Hann’s waistcoat. At its center, a wooden spike at least one inch thick protruded from her side. Droplets of blood marred her face and neck.

  “Easy men, easy,” Cutter admonished, fear quaking in his voice.

  Isabel flew to his side. “Will she—he—be all right?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He nudged her out of the way and assisted the men down the companionway.

  Isabel followed them into the darkness below, down two flights of stairs, past the gun deck, and into the berth where the crew slept and ate. A chill swept over her despite the stifling heat. She’d never ventured this deep into the bowels of the ship before, and the stench of rot, filth, and urine suffocated her. Hammocks swung from beams overhead. Rats scurried across tables littered with rotted food and spilt grog. Faces, their expressions twisted in the lantern light, emerged from the shadows. Toward the aft of the ship, slaves huddled in the darkness as if unaccustomed to the light.

  With a frenzied sweep of his arm, Cutter cleared one of the tables in the corner, sending bowls, mugs, and utensils clanking to the floor. The pirates laid Hann’s unconscious body across the filthy slab of oak.

  “Get my satchel,” Cutter yelled to one of the pirates as he tore off his doublet and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. The skin on his left arm curled in a weave of purple and red. “And some water and rum!”

  Isabel rushed to Hann’s side and grabbed her hand, so cold and lifeless. “Hann,” she sobbed, forcing back a flood of tears.

  Cutter leaned his head over Hann’s mouth and hesitated, his eyes closed. “He’s alive,” he announced with a sigh of relief. Then, stepping back, he began unbuttoning Hann’s bloody waistcoat.

  Isabel gasped and Cutter lifted his gaze to her as if he’d just noticed she were still there. “You should go. This is a bloody business and no place for a lady.”

  Isabel shook her head, but no words came to her lips. She must tell him Hann was a woman before he found out for himself. But as her eyes shifted from the blood spurting from Hann’s wound to the white pallor of death shrouding her friend’s face, Isabel thought it best to allow the doctor to work undistracted.

  “Very well. If you’re staying, make yourself useful.” Cutter ran a bloody hand through his hair, lifted the lantern from its hook above them, and handed it to Isabel. “Hold this over him.”

  The pirate returned, and Cutter plucked a knife from his bag and began slicing Hann’s clothing from around the spike that still protruded from her body. Layer by layer, he peeled back the bloodied waistcoat, vest, and undergarments, flinging each saturated piece to the floor.

  Isabel held the lantern above her friend’s bruised and bloodied body. Raising her other hand to her mouth, she groaned in an effort to fight the nausea rising in her throat.

  “If you are going to be sick, please leave.” Cutter eyed her sharply. “I have no need of another patient.”

  “Nay, I must stay.” Isabel swallowed and squared her shoulders, praying for strength. She had to stay—for Hann’s sake.

  With a shake of his head, Cutter returned to his task. “Odd.” His brow suddenly wrinkled.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Looks like sailcloth.” Cutter yanked a strip of blood-soaked cloth from Hann’s wound and held it up to the lantern. “But how would sailcloth get inside his clothes?”

  Isabel coughed and peered into the bloody mess as Cutter pulled out the rest of the material with a pair of tongs. Then, dipping a sponge into the bucket of water, he dabbed at the blood surrounding the spike. Hann let out a strangled moan, and Isabel gave her hand a squeeze.

  “Hold his legs,” he ordered the pirates. “And his shoulders.”

  Grabbing the flask of rum, Cutter poured it over Hann’s side. One of the pirates skirted Isabel and clutched both of Hann’s shoulders while the other grabbed her ankles.

  The ship lunged and Isabel nearly lost her footing.

  “Hold the lantern closer!” Cutter yelled as he flung a white cloth over his shoulder and grabbed the shaft with both hands. “And say a prayer.” The desperate look in his eyes caught Isabel’s breath in her throat.

  She moved the lantern toward the doctor, her shoulder aching from the strain, and turned her face away. Oh Lord, please do not let Hann die.

  Grunting, the doctor pulled the spike from Hann’s side in a gurgling smack of flesh. Hann writhed in the pirates’ grasps and let out an ear-piercing scream. Isabel turned to see a red pool surging from the wound. Cutter dropped the shaft to the floor and pressed the white cloth against the puncture, panting. Sweat beaded on his brow. He held the cloth there for several minutes, a troubled look brewing in his gray eyes.

  The pungent, tangy smell of blood joined the other foul orders of the hold. Shoving the lantern into a pirate’s hand, Isabel darted to the corner and vomited.

  Chuckles sounded behind her.

  Wiping her mouth with her handkerchief, she took a deep breath and returned. With a nod, she grabbed the lantern back from the pirate and resumed her duties.

  Cutter flashed her an approving nod. He pulled the rag away and peered into the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but Hann had slipped back into unconsciousness.

  “Will she live?” Isabel could wait no longer for an answer.

  Confusion crossed Cutter’s face. “I believe he will, yes. I must sew up the wound, but it appears no major arteries or organs were struck.” He tossed the bloody rag to the floor and grabbed the sponge. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  Relief surged through Isabel, restoring her strength. “Thank God.”

  “Yes, thank God.” Cutter gave Isabel a wink and proceeded to clean the wound. Then, after dousing it with rum again, he threaded a needle and began to suture the laceration.

  The pirate holding Hann’s feet released them. “I knews ye could do it, Doc—especially for this one.”

  Cutter snorted and continued to work. “I thank you for your help, gentlemen. You may go now.” Lifting his hands from Hann’s shoulders, the other pirate lumbered around Isabel and joined his companion. “Inform the captain, if you please,” Cutter called after them. Grunting, they shuffled off into the darkness.

  When he’d completed the stitching, Cutter took the lantern from Isabel and replaced it on its hook. “Would you help me remove the rest of his coat and shirt?” He clutched his knife and began cutting Hann’s waistcoat from her chest.

  Isabel gasped. “Nay.” She stayed his hand with her own. “You cannot.”

  “Of course I can.” Cutter gave a humorless laugh and flung her hand away. “I need to clean the boy and bandage him.” He continued peeling back layers. Finally reaching Hann’s shirt, he split it down the middle with one swipe of his blade. Underneath, frayed sailcloth coiled in a bundle of blood-stained ribbons.

  “No, please.” Isabel dashed around the table. “Allow me to do it.” She tripped over a stool and nearly fell. Should she tell him? She’d promised Hann she wouldn’t.

  “More sailcloth,” Cutter said curiously, lifting the ragged pieces from Hann’s chest.

  Isabel dashed around the corner of the table and reached out to stop him.

  But he’d already snatched the last threads away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  True and False L
ove

  Oh my.” Cutter’s hand froze in midair. “Egad.” He swerved his face away, his wide gaze landing on Isabel. “Oh my.” He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, then turned around again, his face blossoming scarlet.

  “Now will you allow me to do it?” Isabel placed both hands on her hips and gave him a lopsided smile.

  Cutter took a step toward the wall. He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees, and gasped for air.

  Sidestepping him, Isabel covered Hann with the other half of her waistcoat. “If you’re going to be sick, please leave,” she teased, but instantly her smile faded as her foot slipped in a puddle of blood—so much blood. Fear gripped her heart again. “Cutter, tell me what to do.”

  Cutter’s breathing settled, and he stood. “He’s a woman—all this time.”

  “Doctor?”

  “Yes, wash him—her. Wash away the blood and grime as best you can. I’ll get the bandages.” He knelt and dug in his satchel while Isabel removed the rest of Hann’s coat and shirt and eased the sponge over her pale skin.

  “The water is too bloody.” Isabel held a hand to her stomach and took a deep breath. Red streaks snaked across Hann’s stomach and side.

  “Do the best you can.” Cutter darted off into the darkness and returned within minutes with a shirt in hand. “Put this on her.” He handed it to Isabel while averting his gaze. “Then I will bandage the wound.”

  Tossing the sponge into the bucket, Isabel heard a frightening drip drop and glanced at Hann. Blood trickled from her wound onto the table, and then slid onto the floor. The room spun. Isabel raised one hand to her head. “She still bleeds.”

  “Not to worry, milady. It will stop presently.”

  Shoving Hann’s right arm into the sleeve of the shirt, Isabel grunted as she reached behind the girl’s shoulders and lifted her from the table long enough to push the shirt behind her. Then dashing around to the other side, Isabel placed Hann’s left arm into the other sleeve and buttoned up the shirt, leaving only the girl’s stomach and side exposed. “I’m finished.”