Not only was the captain in agreement with his plans to leave the ship, but seemed urging him to take whatever time he needed.
“Once we leave, we’ll be gone for a year or two. We’ll be a long way from old England, the comforts of home.” He paused and then added, “And family.”
Cullen cocked his head for a moment trying to decipher whatever message the captain meant to relay, but finally shrugged it off. Maybe he imagined meaning where there was none.
When he made his way back below to the surgery, he nodded to young Morton before pulling a stool over to sit near him. His assistant continued to fill bottles with the essential compounds they would need over the months ahead to treat the diverse conditions the crew might suffer during the voyage, such as olive oil for burns and cinchona bark for fevers. Morton gave Cullen a quizzical look, but continued with his work.
“Has our patient had any signs of fever?”
“An hour ago, his brow was still cool to the touch.” Morton turned his head toward Cullen who noticed the young man had nary a sign of a beard even though it was late in the day. His hair, tied in a neat queue, was the deep black of a starless night, like a raven’s wings.
“How old are you, lad?”
“Old enough to serve on this ship.” He whipped his head away from Cullen in a signal clearly meant to end their conversation.
Cullen’s temper flared, but just as quickly he tamped it down. They had too much work ahead of them in the coming weeks of preparation for sailing all the way to St. Helena. There was no time to argue, or hash out any of Morton’s secrets.
“I’ll not check you on your impudent answer, because I know ye still grieve for yer da, but my patience will come to an end eventually.” Cullen clapped on his spectacles and moved beside Wills to help put together the medicines. “I’ll not tolerate a swab with secrets, Mr. Morton.”
Chapter Two
Cullen and his assistant, Morton, worked all afternoon into the evening making medicinal compounds for the long journey to St. Helena. At nightfall, both of them retreated to their shared cabin after checking on the solitary patient in the surgery.
Cullen lay on top of the blanket covering his bunk for at least an hour, rolling from side to side in agitation, before rising and donning his jacket. He left the cabin silently and gave the night watch on deck a salute before heading down the gangway, away from the Royal Navy docks, and into the streets of Portsmouth.
The best captain he’d ever served under was Arnaud Bellingham. He knew his friend would lend a wise ear to his litany of frustrations with his new posting. Captain Bellingham was temporarily living in a cottage near the naval harbor with his new wife, Sophie, while readying his prize ship, the Black Condor, for the return to the West African Squadron. Cullen tried to ignore a sudden pang of guilt. Newlyweds. They might not welcome his intrusion at this late hour. Belay that. He needed to get Arnaud’s counsel on what to do with his stubborn surgery assistant.
When Cullen finally strode up the Bellinghams’ street, the glow of candles shone through mullioned windows at the front of the cottage. At least his friends must still be awake and sitting in the front parlor. The welcoming glow made him feel a little better about intruding. He gave a sharp rap at the door.
Arnaud immediately appeared and beckoned him in. The broad smile on his former captain’s face reminded Cullen of how happy his old friend had been ever since he’d admitted he was cow-simple in love with Sophie and had made her his wife. For a while, Cullen had thought he might have to give the man a thumping to bring him around to what he and the rest of their crew had suspected all along.
When Cullen followed Arnaud into the parlor, Sophie joined them with a tea cart.
“Ginger biscuits?” Cullen groaned. “You’re going to spoil this swab.” He jabbed a finger at Arnaud. “And you’re making me homesick for the Howicks’ cook.”
Sophie’s dark eyes grew wide in the candlelight. “As a matter of fact, those are from their cook. Lydia keeps us well supplied.”
His mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Lydia uses the biscuits as an excuse to come down to Portsmouth as often as possible,” Arnaud said, and raised his brow. “She’s convinced her grandmother that Sophie is such a bad cook, we’ll starve to death if she doesn’t bring provisions every week.”
Sophie sniffed and wrinkled her nose. “I don’t care what she tells Lady Howick. We’re eating so well now, I’m getting fat.” She gave her husband a quick, teasing look, and Arnaud looked away, avoiding Cullen’s gaze.
“So that’s what Captain Neville is trying so hard to hide.” Cullen grinned at his friends in the candlelight.
“Please don’t say anything to either of them if you see them walking together. They don’t want anyone to know.” Sophie blew across her steaming cup of tea.
“Neville wants to make his way more in the service before he speaks to Howick.” Arnaud’s gaze remained on Cullen, but he moved his hand across to cover Sophie’s in her lap.
“Howick surely is aware of his daughter’s feelings for Neville,” Cullen observed. “Her father was always a hundred steps ahead of us when we were protecting Sophie.”
“Of course he knows,” Arnaud admitted. “But he’s staying quiet so the two of them can work out their feelings for each other. And of course, Sophie and I are the perfect chaperones.”
Cullen took in both of their faces, full of mischief. “And where might the young lovers be tonight since, obviously, their chaperones are otherwise occupied?” Cullen swept his arm to encompass their cozy, tiny parlor.
“Neville said they needed some restorative fresh air, so they’re taking a turn around the park.” Arnaud bit down on his lower lip.
“This late at night?” Cullen leaned forward, hands on knees, with a stern frown he suspected made him look like his father.
“You haven’t turned into a fusty old physician since you’ve been promoted to a fine frigate, have you, Dr. MacCloud?” There was a plea in Sophie’s huge, dark eyes.
“Nay, lass. Since Neville seems to be the only man who can make your friend listen instead of prattling on and on, maybe this is a match made above. Who am I to stand in their way? My lips are sealed.”
“What brings you out this late at night?” Arnaud tilted his head and gave his old surgeon a long look. “Something troubles your mind.”
Cullen swirled honey into his tea and took a long sip. “The Arethusa has the most well organized and ship-shape surgery I’ve ever seen, including my own.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Arnaud leaned closer to his old friend.
“It’s the surgeon’s assistant. He’s the son of the man whose place I took.”
“The dead surgeon?”
“Yes. But it’s a strange, havey-cavey set-up. He’s not regular navy. He’s the old man’s son who’s been sailing with the ship the last ten years and serving as his assistant.”
“That is odd. Is he competent?”
“He’s a hard worker, knows the job. He’s a dab helper, thorough, exacting. In fact, he should go to Edinburgh and get his degree, set up his own practice. God’s teeth, just this week we had some crew tumble from the tops, and he helped me sew up and save one of them.”
“Then what’s the problem? You and your father could give him references.”
“That’s just it. He doesn't want to go.” Cullen fell silent for a moment and then added, “The young cod is sullen as hell and refuses to go.”
Sophie put down her tea cup and gave Cullen an odd look. “What would cause a young man to remain on a ship where he doesn’t fit in and work with someone who doesn’t want him? If he could study to become a physician on his own, why stay?”
Cullen ran his fingers through his unruly ginger hair. “Why, he even tries to hide from me in the evening when he’s getting ready to climb into his bunk. As if he’s afraid I might stare at his bony feet and toes.”
Sophie’s mouth dropped open. “What did you say he looked like?�
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“Hair as dark as a crow, a tall, thin lad, rarely smiles, but his eyes are a puzzlement. They don’t seem to go with the rest of him.”
“What do you mean?” Sophie scooted to the edge of her chair.
“Well, I don’t know. His eyes are hazy gray with thick, heavy lashes that make you think there’s something, or someone in there he’s trying to hide. He’s a sly little swab, very evasive.”
Arnaud interrupted. “And you’re uncomfortable around him?”
“What kind of question is that?” Cullen raised his voice.
“I’m just wondering why you’re tip-toeing around the stripling. I’ve seen you lash plenty of young crew with your tongue when they’re not quick enough in the surgery.”
“The lad’s just lost his da. What kind of man would I be to make his life more miserable in the middle of his grief?”
“Of course, you’re still in port.” Sophie’s tone was soothing. “Perhaps he’ll change once the ship sets sail for the St. Helena station.” She stood and poured them more tea. “Both of you may be in better spirits once you’re under sail and occupied with the crew’s ailments.”
“Is that what you think of me, too, m’dear?” Arnaud touched Sophie’s arm while she poured another cup of tea for him. Cullen winced at the intimate gesture. He’d overstayed his welcome.
After saying his good-byes and apologizing for interrupting their evening, Cullen swung back along the waterfront toward the Arethusa. He still had no idea what he should do about young Morton, but felt better for having poured his misgivings into his friends’ sympathetic ears.
The night watchman walking Arnaud and Sophie’s short street tipped his hat to Cullen who nodded back. The breeze rolling in off the sea along the Royal Navy basin feathered raw against his neck above his rough woolen jacket collar. It was already late August. The wheel of seasons would soon turn toward fall and winter.
Sophie was right. He itched to return to sea. He would feel much better once he found the rolling deck of a sea-bound ship beneath his feet. He couldn’t speak for the Morton sprig, but he feared his young assistant would soon learn life would be much simpler if he learned to keep his ill regard to himself.
Arnaud snuffed out all the candles in their small parlor until only the lantern he carried lighted their way to the bedroom on the third floor. Lydia and her maid occupied a tiny room off the parlor on the second floor. Neville had found a convenient second lieutenant in the Marine barracks to entertain Lydia’s maid each evening while he and Lydia walked the small parks of Portsmouth. At the rate he was going, he’d wear holes in his boots before they set off to rejoin the squadron.
Arnaud put the glowing stub on the nightstand while he helped Sophie out of her dress. The one maid she allowed his mother to send to them went home to her family each night. Arnaud was secretly glad. This was his favorite time of the day. He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his boots before changing into a nightshirt.
“What do you make of Cullen’s description of his surgery assistant?” Sophie picked up a tortoise shell-backed brush and began to smooth the tangles from her hair.
“I don’t know. I’d have to meet him for myself to figure out what’s going on. Why do you ask? Do you think I should?”
“No. This is Cullen’s problem. It is going to be complicated, but only he can solve this riddle.”
“Wait a minute. You haven’t been reading those gypsy cards again, have you?”
“Of course not,” she said, an odd look in her eyes.
“Then how do you know…?”
She cut him short by placing a small, warm hand on his chest. “You have to trust me. I know things.”
She turned away and washed her face in the corner china basin before settling in front of the mirror to continue brushing her heavy, dark hair. He always joined her and took over the long strokes needed to finish off the back side of the curls that tumbled down below her waist.
The thin muslin night dress she wore revealed the outlines of the body beneath he’d come to know so well. When he finished brushing out the tangles, he reached around to the front of her gown to run his hand gently over the slight swell of her lower abdomen that had appeared just that week.
Thank the gods he’d made sure she’d agreed to be his wife the first time they’d made love. Sophie had been a very difficult woman to convince.
She turned in his arms and pulled his face down to hers for a long kiss. “Take me to bed, Captain Bellingham,” she ordered. And so he did, forgetting he was going to demand she tell him what she knew about Cullen and his stubborn surgeon’s mate.
Chapter Three
Cullen took the gangplank up to the deck of the Arethusa from the dock in long, easy strides. He’d been turning the puzzle of young Morton over and over during the short walk back to the ship. It was like one of the carved wooden puzzles he’d played with as a child. Just when two pieces looked as if they’d lock together, they didn’t quite fit.
After passing the night watch on deck, he made a side trip to the surgery to look in on his patient. He used the back of his hand to feel the man’s forehead. The hard callouses on his palms made it harder to detect rising heat on a patient.
No fever yet. Maybe he could chance leaving first thing in the morning to spend a fortnight finding out exactly what his aunt was up to in London. And just how serious an illness afflicted her.
In all the years he’d known Elspeth MacKenzie, he’d never seen her pass a sick day, or spend a minute more abed than absolutely necessary. She was the no-nonsense woman who had held his world together all these years. She was the one who had been there for all of his childhood illnesses: covering his chest with eucalyptus-soaked flannel, or making him swallow one of her many foul-tasting, special willow-bark teas.
And she was the one who had fearlessly nursed his grandfather’s tenants through many an outbreak of infectious illnesses, such as smallpox, or measles. When anyone for miles around their estate needed a midwife, his aunt responded to the call. Now, for the first time in his reckoning, she was ill, and she needed him.
Cullen threaded his way back in darkness to the tiny cabin he shared with Morton. He did not light a lantern so that he wouldn’t wake the young sprig’s sleep. Morton suddenly rolled over and moaned in his sleep. Cullen nearly dropped the stub of a candle he carried to his sea chest. He scraped a flint to light the wick, and when he straightened, he got a clear view of the young man’s face in sleep, with all the anger gone. The neat queue he affected during the day had loosened in his sleep, and his dark hair splayed across the pillow.
Cullen sucked in a breath. The logical part of his mind was working furiously. Something was not right… He refused to ponder this puzzle too closely. Instead, he quickly shed his clothes, pulled on a night shirt and pinched out the candle’s flame. Normally, he would have fallen onto his bunk without the shirt, but a niggling itch on his back between his shoulder blades made him pull the linen over his head and tuck the blanket up to his chin. He stared at the ship’s beams for a long time before drifting off into a fitful sleep.
Cullen cast a critical weather eye toward the skies when he headed toward the public mews in Portsmouth to hire a mount for the first leg of the long trip along the road to London. The cloud formations over the Channel were usually constant, but today, the edges of the clouds were tinged a light purple which could darken as the morning wore on. A brisk breeze freshened off the harbor snapping the many flags on ships in the Royal Navy basin.
The main west-east road to London remained in fairly good condition, depending on the weather, because of the constant need for traffic between the Royal Navy yard in Portsmouth and the Admiralty in London. Naval communications could be handled through a semaphore system from atop the Admiralty to Portsmouth, but men and goods still had to be shuttled back and forth between the two cities.
The worst part of the ride would be through the Devil’s Punchbowl where the many winding twists of the roadway were conduciv
e to attacks from highwaymen. He carried his Navy-issued pistol, but the club he always lashed to his saddle when taking a trip on land usually made thieves think twice before accosting a highlander of Cullen’s heft and height.
However, that very advantage made hiring a horse difficult. He needed a stout fellow he could ride hard until the next coaching inn at Peterfield. When the Portsmouth stable owner saw Cullen leaning against the wide opening, he’d sent one of the stable boys to a nearby farm to recruit a sturdy work horse. An hour later, when the boy led the beast through the stable doors, Cullen stood quickly, his blood up from having to delay his trip.
“He don’t much like being ridden,” the boy offered. The belligerent look on the youth’s face revealed the horse had probably given him a hard time while leading him into town.
“How did you persuade him to come along?” Cullen’s face quirked toward a grin.
“He do like his apples, and I keep a bit of oats in me back pocket.”
Cullen moved slowly toward the animal, wary to keep his eye on its face. He crooned some Gaelic he’d learned as a lad in the highlands from grooms in his aunt’s stables, and the great beast seemed to settle back a bit.
“Where could I find some of those apples?” Cullen moved softly toward a bag of oats and filled his coat pocket.
“Over ta Mrs. Taylor’s orchard. She don’t mind a pence or two if you want ta pick up a few off the ground.” The boy hitched a shoulder and turned his head in the direction of the nearby orchard.
“Oh, and what is this gentleman’s name?”
“Heracles.”
Cullen shook his head. “Does this beast live up to a title like that?”
Pride of Duty (Men of the Squadron Book 2) Page 2