by Téa Cooper
‘This is ludicrous! There must be somewhere else.’ Marcus turned to Cookie, his face a pale shade of beetroot. ‘Don’t you have a hospital cabin aboard the ship, Cookie? Call Henk. He can organise something. He thinks he is the captain of this sorry excuse for a ship.’
‘Nowhere else, mate.’ Cookie interrupted Marcus’ tirade. ‘We can’t put him in a hammock with those wounds and the captain’s cabin is the only place with a bunk.’ He shrugged his shoulders.
‘Henk!’ Bellowing at the top of his voice Marcus spun on his heel and stomped off across the deck.
‘Cookie, I can’t lift him.’ Charlotte sat back on her heels. ‘You do need to call one of the crew or maybe two.’
Cookie levered himself to his feet leaving Christian resting against Charlotte’s skirts. With her hand she cradled his forehead to stop his head lolling forward and gazed up and down the deck. Jinks perched in his usual place atop the mainmast and the remainder of the crew hung around on the deck making futile attempts to look busy.
‘Jinks, get down here, and bring Windy with you.’ Decisive Cookie sprang into action. ‘You go and sort out the cabin, Miss, and take this, you’ll need it to cut his shirt away.’ He held out Mina’s knife.
She slipped it into the pocket of her skirt.
‘We’ll bring the Captain down there. We’ll need plenty of hot water too and some clean cloths…’ He drummed his foot on the deck. ‘Jinks! Get a bloody move on!’
Charlotte ran her hand through Christian’s thick hair, searching for any lacerations or bumps. His eyes fluttered open once more.
‘Angel,’ he murmured before his eyes closed.
Rolling Christian gently onto his back she struggled to her feet. Engaged in some vociferous hand-waving Marcus paid no attention. Henk stood in his usual stance with his hands akimbo, shaking his head. Ignoring them she lifted her skirts and ran to the cabin. Pushing the door open she scoured the room then scooped up the bedclothes from the bunk and smoothed the mattress covering before returning to the door to peer out into the darkened passageway. The sight of Cookie edging backwards supporting Christian’s shoulders greeted her. The two boys carried a leg apiece. They eased their way through the door. ‘Put him down there and roll him onto his stomach.’ She pointed to the bunk. ‘Be careful you don’t hurt him.’
‘He ain’t going to feel nothing.’ Cookie lowered Christian’s upper body onto the bed, his gentle touch belying the nonchalance of his words. ‘Dead to the world as soon as we lifted him.’
Chapter 8
Christian forced one eyelid open and fixed his gaze on the shaft of sunlight streaming across the undulating water. Air bubbles, or maybe dust motes, danced in the distorted rays. He floated in the haze and tentatively drew in a breath through his open mouth, accepting he could no longer fight the inevitable. The foul taste of whale oil clung to his mouth, thick and putrid. He ran his tongue over his swollen lips and gasped again. Hot pokers of pain slashed his lungs and his throat burnt like the furnaces of hell, until cooling water damped his lips. Exhausted by the effort he surrendered knowing the ocean would claim him.
A swell higher than St Paul’s hit and tore the curl of canvas free from the mainmast. The screaming timber strained against the sodden ropes. A deep groan followed by an ear-splitting crack signalled the end of the tattered sails and timber.
Mesmerised by the inky writhing blackness below he failed to brace himself as he plummeted into the freezing water. It snatched him down into a whirlpool of fear. The cold numbed his brain and snaked to his guts. Claws gripped his chest, tightening their hold as he fought the seawater. Down, down into the all-encompassing hell, its sinuous grasp sucking the life from him, hauling him into its icy embrace.
Dragged into its cavernous depths he fought blindly until the ocean chucked him back to the surface. With his lungs bursting he snatched a single gasp of salty air. Glimpsed the glittering spray hanging against the night sky before another breaker, whipped and blown by the torrential storm, cascaded over his head and the writhing water claimed him once more.
The ocean twisted and sucked him down, swallowing him in its ravenous mouth. Burning firebrands stabbed at his chest. He lashed out, clawing at the silky darkness. As the last whisper of breath warmed his frozen lips her face floated before him. He closed his eyes and surrendered. She had kept her promise and waited.
Her face hovered beyond his grasp, a teasing smile lighting her rosebud lips, her storm-cloud eyes sparkling with promise. She reached around her neck and grasped the fine gold chain and held it out to him. Sunlight reflected from the tiny bottle sending dancing prisms into the sun-drenched air. She pulled the golden stopper free and the sweet scent of woodlands filled his nostrils, thrusting his memory back to the past: to a time locked away.
‘Lottie.’ His parched lips formed the word like a blessing, filling the crevices of his mind with warmth and comfort.
Her damp fingers reached out and traced the contours of his mouth bringing with them the cool touch of water. He sucked like a baby searching for more. Drip by drip the water soothed his parched throat. Breath by breath her warm scent enveloped him.
He lacked the strength to move. His numb limbs refused to respond to his commands yet he wanted for nothing. Misty fingers reached out and seized him in their tendril clasp. He had found his angel and he rested at peace.
Charlotte slid her fingers under Christian’s waistband; the bronze hair on his belly caught against her fingertips as she unbuttoned the placket of his sodden trousers and tugged the tattered shreds down over his lean hips and long legs. He groaned but didn’t move. She slipped them over his ankles and tossed them aside.
Where the sun hadn’t reached his pale flesh shone like alabaster, holding her spellbound. She traced the contours of his body with trembling fingers. The smooth, taut skin of his belly rippled at her touch. So different from the soft curves of her own. A man’s body. Wide muscled shoulders, a slim tapered waist and…oh goodness…she slammed her eyes closed as a delicious tremor shook her body.
Her pulse thundered and she flicked her eyes open and cast a surreptitious glance at the door and then back. Unable to resist her gaze travelled down, marvelling at the perfect symmetry of his body. He ought to look shattered, broken, injured; instead he resembled one of Elgin’s statues, alabaster, marble. With shaking fingers she pulled the cotton cover up over his legs and hips, fighting the desire to run her fingers over every inch of his glorious flesh.
His dark lashes fanned his cheeks and the slightest of smiles hovered on his lips, his breathing even, calm at last. His chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm, one arm, strong and muscular, flung aside.
When her breathing eased she turned to the ragged remains of his shirt. Each button caught as her hands shook and she struggled to release them. The damp cotton patterned with red splotches of blood clung to his skin. She eased the remains of one sleeve down his arm and a long low moan escaped his lips. Reaching into the pocket of her skirt she retrieved Mina’s knife and wiped the blade on her skirt. With her heart pounding in her ears she held the remnants of the collar and slit the material, then eased it from his mangled flesh.
She dunked the hard round sea sponge into the bowl of warmed water and kneaded it gently. It sucked up the liquid to become soft and malleable. With a final squeeze she lifted it from the bowl and swept it across his naked torso. Using gentle rhythmic strokes her fingers roamed across his chest, her gaze riveted on the droplets as they trickled over his sun-kissed skin. Unable to resist she traced the path of the water across his tight nipples, her trembling fingers thrilling as a tremor shook his body.
Even in repose his muscles rippled as he breathed and his burnished skin shimmered, the sheen of moisture captured in the swaying lamplight. Goosebumps played across his body in the wake of her touch.
Charlotte rose, satisfied she had done all she could alone. She’d accomplished only the easy part. Despite Cookie’s efforts on the deck Christian’s back would be torn and
the remains of the huge splinter from the hull had to be removed. She’d need help to turn him over.
As she reached the door it pushed open and Cookie stood with a hot kettle in one hand and a bucket containing a small ditty bag in the other.
‘Reckoned you’d need some help by now and I’ve got what little supplies we carry. Some sulphur, it’ll sting like shit but might help with the infection, and there’s a bottle of laudanum there too and if all else fails, some rum. It’ll ease the pain if he comes to.’
Charlotte tried to force a smile of thanks. The concern on Cookie’s face brought home the hopelessness of the situation. How Christian could survive this ordeal she had no idea. She might never know if he truly was Jamie. Ashamed at her selfishness she pushed away the thought. ‘Cookie, thank you, I’m going to need some help turning him over.’
‘That you are. I see you got his trousers orf.’
Cookie raised one eyebrow and the colour bloomed on Charlotte’s cheeks. She sucked in a breath, pushing aside her embarrassment. ‘I cut most of his shirt off but it’s still stuck to his back. I think if we can roll him onto his stomach he will be more comfortable and I can sponge the rest away.’
‘Let’s do it then.’ Cookie placed the steaming kettle on the floor away from the bunk. ‘You take his head and I’ll grab his hips. On the count of three.’
Charlotte cradled Christian’s head in one hand and slid the other under his shoulders.
‘One, Two, Three. Roll.’
In an instant Christian rested on his stomach. She turned his head to the room and smoothed his damp hair from his forehead, tutting in annoyance as her necklace swung against his face.
‘Cookie, thank you so much.’ She stood up. ‘I thought it would be far more difficult.’
‘Nah! After the number of whale corpses I’ve shifted, this one’s easy.’
A small squeak of horror escaped Charlotte’s lips and she tried not to dwell on Cookie’s explanation. ‘He’s still alive, he’s breathing,’ she assured Cookie in a strangled voice.
‘Sorry, love,’ Cookie snorted. ‘Forgetting you’re a lady here. No sensitivity. Beggin’ your pardon.’
Charlotte grimaced at the old man; he meant well but there would be no talk of corpses. Christian would survive this ordeal if she died trying. She had too many unanswered questions.
‘Now use the bucket here for the bloody stuff, I’ll send one of the boys down later to empty it. Don’t forget the sulphur, I’ve mixed it with a bit of whale grease, should be easy enough to use when you’ve finished cleanin’ him up.’ He peered closely at Christian’s back and gingerly lifted a torn piece of shirting. ‘Want to get this stuff orf his back as soon as possible. It’ll stick and then you’ll have your time cut out picking the rest of them splinters out.’
‘Thank you, Cookie.’ Charlotte stepped away from the door to allow him to leave the small cabin.
‘You’re a good girl.’ He nodded. ‘I’ll bring you some grub and tea when I’ve got the rest sorted. He won’t be wanting naught but water for a day or two.’
Charlotte watched the door as it swung closed then turned back and gasped. The lacerated skin on Christian’s back resembled a rag rug and in its centre the torturous shard of timber sat proud, blood seeping from the wound. Swallowing her squeamishness she bent, soaked the sponge in the warm water and dribbled it over his back until she’d saturated the remains of the linen. With infinite care she plucked the blood-soaked fabric free of his mangled flesh, thankful that he remained insensible.
When the putrid pile of rags lay in a heap at her feet she gathered them up and placed them in the bucket. The once-warm water was cold to the touch and the time had come to remove the splinters. Letting her breath out slowly she splayed her left hand over the largest splinter and pressed firmly down, then pinched the protruding piece between her thumb and forefinger…and pulled. Christian drew in his breath with a hiss and muttered into the pillow. Droplets of fresh blood oozed from the wounds and she wiped them away, ignoring his groans.
The sheer horror of the task left her hands shaking and her legs weak. She gritted her teeth and persevered, mopping the fresh blood from his back with gentle strokes and hoping the flow would cleanse the wound. Once his back was dry she reached for the whale grease. Cookie insisted the sulphur would assist the healing and with her stomach heaving she applied it, gagging at the stench.
With little else to do Charlotte collected the soiled rags and put them in the bucket, leaving it by the door. She pulled the light covering over Christian’s back and slumped down to wait until he regained his senses.
Through the cabin window the sun had all but disappeared, streaking the sky with a palette of crimsons, pinks and purples. It had been sunrise when Henk had fired his gun to send Christian into the briny depths — the day had almost ended. A fine strip of land marked the horizon but she had no idea where they were. They could be sailing to China; ensconced in the cabin with Christian time had lost all meaning.
Every bone in her body ached and her head pounded. She wanted to do nothing more than curl up and sleep somewhere, anywhere, and rebuild her resistance, yet she couldn’t leave Christian. His breathing was settling but periodically his body shuddered as if his lungs had forgotten their purpose. Pulling the stool closer to the edge of the bunk she studied his face.
Surely no man could survive torture like this. With a heavy heart she laid all hopes from the past to rest, and tried to accept that Christian might soon breathe his last. How she wished otherwise. He stirred not only her senses, but her imagination too, in the likeness he bore to Jamie when his face was in repose. The memory of him balanced on the deck rail this morning, poised to fly. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Years had passed since she last set eyes on Jamie. Since they’d been dragged apart in the courtroom beneath the bored gaze of the red-robed judge. Even if she hadn’t seen the ship’s log she could not believe this broken man was Jamie. Convict number 3546. Male, sixteen years. Lost overboard off coast of South Australia. He bore no resemblance to the boy who’d balanced precariously on the spire of St Martins. She examined his face — or did he?
Thousands of miles and a thousand memories — a swift vision of Jamie as she had last seen him, deathly pale as the judge proclaimed his sentence, yet defiant too. The corners of her mouth tugged in a smile. The way he had thrown his thin shoulders back, lifted his head and blown her a kiss across the courtroom, refusing to be intimidated.
She gazed down at the sleeping man. His eyes flashed open, clear as a gypsy’s crystal but seeing nothing. His breath rasped in his throat and his eyes fluttered closed again as he lapsed back into insensibility.
No longer seeing the bruises of his ordeal, only the boy she believed lost, she sank back into the past. His look of horror as he’d turned her sister’s body over; the knife wound across Elizabeth’s neck, the gaping scarlet line of blood marring her perfect skin, her breasts bared and her skirt hitched up around her waist. Paralysed by shock she’d stood helpless while Jamie tenderly wiped the blood from Elizabeth’s face and rearranged her clothing, covering her white breasts and her poor tortured limbs. And then the heavy hand of the Bobby signalling the end of the life they had known. All the memories she had tried so hard to push to the back of her mind since she’d arrived in Van Diemen’s Land. As she slumped exhausted beside the bunk the pictures continued to play behind her eyes.
The crash of the door brought her back, struggling through the confusion of her memories, and she hurtled off the stool. Marcus lurched into the cabin bringing with him a cloud of sweat, whale oil and alcohol.
‘What exactly do you imagine you are doing?’ He reached for the doorjamb to steady himself and emitted a belch that confirmed how he had spent the day. His glazed bloodshot eyes blinked owlishly.
‘I have been tending to the Captain’s injuries.’
‘Captain! No longer the captain. Never the captain. Nothing but an imposter. Henk’s told me the sordid story.’
Try as she may Charlotte failed to make any sense of Marcus’ slurred words. What sordid story did he refer to? Before she had the opportunity to frame a response Marcus threw himself down on the end of the berth. Christian’s agonised groan filled the small cabin.
‘Marcus. Be careful, you are hurting him.’
‘He deserves to be hurt. Punishment for his sins.’
‘No man deserves to be hauled beneath a ship and have the skin ripped from his body.’
‘No point wasting time nursing him. If he survives the kielhalen he’s up for a flogging.’ Marcus shuffled unsteadily back to his feet, smoothed his rumpled waistcoat and patted his pocket watch, then sucked in a deep breath. ‘Since you’ve commandeered my cabin and the patient,’ he rolled the word like a curse in his mouth, ‘is unable to be moved, go and prepare your cabin for me. I need the sleep you deprived me of this morning.’
Incapable of understanding Marcus’ uncharitable behaviour Charlotte tumbled through the door into her cabin, unhooked the hammock, slung it across the room, tucked in a blanket and a small pillow, then hurriedly tidied away her few possessions.
As she scurried around a thunderous clap ricocheted through the timbers and she rushed back next door in time to find Marcus collecting paperwork and lurching around the cabin. She flashed a look at Christian. His face was turned to the room his head resting on one arm tucked beneath his head. His eyes were open and had lost their lacklustre look.
‘Chr…’ She started to say his name then a look of intense warning flashed in his eyes.
‘Taking the Lord’s name in vain does not become you, my dear.’ Marcus grasped her elbow. ‘I simply stumbled.’ He propelled her back out of the cabin and along the darkened walkway. ‘Have you prepared my sleeping quarters?’
Swallowing, she inclined her head and entered the smaller cabin.
‘Put these papers down.’ He thrust a bundle of mismatched notes and his bible at her. ‘I may need them during the night.’ Marcus sank onto the chair and tipped his foot towards her. ‘Help me out of my boots.’