CHAPTER ELEVEN
FIRE
FIRE
“Put out the fire!” Harold screamed at Wesley. The young man looked like he was in shock, staring at the captain's limp body at the bottom of the hold. Harold had his arms wrapped around Aaron's convulsing body. Normally, he would let him seize, and just make sure he was safe. However, there were so many things around that he could be hurt on that he needed to restrain him. “Wesley!”
“The captain,” Wesley said.
“Leave the captain!” Harold cried. Aaron's flailing arms hit him in the jaw and he felt blood flood into his mouth. “PUT OUT THE FIRES, Wesley, NOW!”
“Yes sir,” Wesley scrambled up. Harold tried to restrain Aaron while looking around frantically assessing the situation.
“SIR!” Doren was suddenly on the scene. His eyes were in shock. “The captain!”
“Yes, Doren,” Harold gritted his teeth. “We're all in a situation, at the moment. Tend to the captain, I cannot let go of Lord Bamber at the moment.”
Doren scrambled down the ladder into the hold. Harold didn't care whether the captain was dead, alive, or half way in between. He was rapidly becoming aware of wetness on his hands. He looked down, expecting vomit. It wasn't uncommon for Aaron to have vomited during his seizures or froth at the mouth.
He did not expect slick red blood.
“Oh no,” Harold realized. The blood was everywhere, flooding his white shirt. It was dark, and it would not stop.
Willcock had a knife, Harold remembered. He had a knife, and he had pulled Aaron towards him. He was going to kill him, had Harold not intervened.
The blood was darkest at his side, and Harold pulled the shirt up, to reveal the wound.
It was a long swipe, across his side. It wasn't as deep as Harold had been expecting. It almost looked like an accident, a long swipe rather than a short deep stab wound. Still, it was bleeding profusely, and it didn't help that Aaron was still seizing.
Harold had nothing but his own hands. He pressed them against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding as the seizing stopped.
In the distance, he could hear cheering. Some part of his brain registered the fact that the ship was calmer. The frantic rocking had stopped, the fires were out, and the gunshots were over. They had won. Somehow, outnumbered and outgunned, Wesley had brought them to victory.
The man in question practically crawled back to Harold. His fingers were black, and his cheek was licked by flames.
“Fire out, sir,” he said, his energy gone. Aaron was quiet, and it was silence, for one moment. “Oh, no.”
“It's alright, Earl Rippon,” Harold said. “It's alright. We're alright.”
He looked at Aaron, who was deathly still.
“Is he...?”
“He's alright,” Harold lied. In truth, he had no idea. “He's breathing, at least. I can feel it. He'll need a surgeon.”
“The captain---” Wesley said. “He---”
“Not now, Earl Rippon,” Harold glanced down to the hold, where Doren was. He raised his voice. “Mr. Doren, does the captain need the doctor?”
“Yes, sir,” Doren said, sounding broken. Harold turned to Wesley, but he shook his head.
“Sir,” he said, closing his eyes. “I can't.”
Harold nodded, and shifted, angling his body so that if Wesley slumped forward, he wouldn't hit the debris on the ground, at least.
Harold rarely considered himself a strong man. He was in love with his work, and he went from one moment to the next, doing his job the best he could. He held it together, and then his mind kept him awake at night with all the possibilities and problems. He barely considered himself strong enough for himself, let alone for two others. However, at the moment, Aaron's life bleeding out underneath his hands, and Wesley's trembling body against him, he had to hold himself up.
“PASS THE WORD FOR THE DOCTOR!” He screamed, as loudly as he could. “THE DOCTOR!”
“PASS THE WORD FOR THE DOCTOR!” he heard the cry echo through the ship. He breathed a sigh of relief, his shoulders slumping slightly.
The next few moments seemed to be an eternity. He had no idea what situation the captain was in. Doren was incredibly quiet, waiting in the hold. Wesley was trying to catch his breath, and Aaron had yet to regain consciousness.
Eventually, Dr. Morin skidded onto the scene. He saw the blood, but Harold knew he had a duty to the captain.
“I've got him,” he said, nodding into the hold. “For the moment.”
“Is he breathing still?” Morin asked, and Harold double checked.
“Yes.”
“Good, keep it that way,” Morin climbed the ladder into the hold.
“Wesley,” Harold shifted his shoulder so that he nudged Wesley, who was slumping. “Stay with me.”
“I'm with you, sir,” Wesley muttered, but he sounded foggy.
Matheson had always acted like a father to the bunch of them, and Harold had never felt gladder to see him than in that moment as he entered the room.
Only at Matheson's presence did Harold's shoulders slump. He let go of the tension in his head, and lowered his eyes, taking shaking breaths.
“Corrigan,” he said, his eyes blurring. “Please, check on the ladies, in my wardroom.”
“I just came from there, sir,” Corrigan said. “They are fine, sir. Very shaken and would be glad of your presence”
“I know,” Harold replied. “But I---”
Matheson crouched down, calm. The sight must have been shocking, but he kept his voice steady.
“Corrigan, help Earl Rippon up please,” he said. “He needs to be away from here.”
“I want to stay---” Wesley said, but Matheson hushed him.
“It's over, Earl Rippon,” he said. “You are no help sitting slumped here. Besides, I think that Mr. Harper's arm may be falling asleep. Isn't that right, sir?”
Harold winced and nodded.
Corrigan crouched down, and lifted with his knees, Wesley's arm slung around his shoulder. Corrigan was burly and strong, and he had no problem lifting up Wesley's weight.
Once he was gone, Matheson took a seat on floor. He checked briefly on Aaron, who was breathing a bit easier now. It was an unnatural silence on the ship.
“How many are dead?” Harold asked Matheson.
“A few, sir,” Matheson replied. “But we are damaged, so the rest of the day has to be devoted towards that before we stitch them a coffin.”
“God rest their souls,” Harold said, his voice heavy.
“But not as many as you think,” Matheson said. “Thanks to your quick thinking.”
“My quick thinking?” Harold kept his voice low. “Matheson, if Wesley had not come on scene, we would be sunk. I couldn't---”
“You were in charge, sir,” Matheson said. “And you did well. Because of you, so many of us are alive,” he looked down at Aaron, and a small smile came on his face. “I wonder, if we added up all the times we've sat here with him like this, would it come to a year.”
“It certainly seems like it,” Harold said, smiling sadly. “I know it's odd, and I do not want Aaron to suffer...but sometimes, his moments of recovery are my only calm in a storm. The only time I can justify sitting still.”
“There's always a silver lining,” Matheson replied, softly.
They sat quietly for a long time, their breath slowly, and their bodies feeling the ache of battle.
Finally, Dr. Morin climbed out from the hold.
“Sir,” Harold said. “How is the captain?”
“Unclear,” Dr. Morin said. Although he may be a friend to the captain, he was a doctor first, before a loyal friend. At the moment, his focus turned to Aaron. “Let me see.”
“He---” Harold removed his hand. There was blood everywhere, but it was no longer gushing. Morin nodded.
“He'll need stitches,” he said. “You did well, Mr. Harper. Without you, he would have bled out.”
Harold said nothing to that. Morin reached hi
s hand forward, turning Aaron's face. Evidence of frothing was clear, and Morin raised his eyebrow.
“Was he well?” Morin asked. “He's unconscious, and if there is this evidence...”
Harold knew he had to take a risk, here and now. If Morin assumed this was a one off, his choice of treatment could be different, and end up putting Aaron in more danger.
“This is a regular occurrence,” Harold said, softly. “Since he was a boy.”
“What?” Morin looked up in shock. Matheson spoke up.
“It's true,” he said. “Lord Bamber has always suffered as such.”
“But this renders him unfit---”
“Yes,” Harold met his eyes. “He is retiring in five days, Dr. Morin. Five days and he will be Lord Bamber, enjoying his wife and child. Could you do him that honor? Can he retire in peace?”
Morin clenched his jaw.
“I have to put in my report...” he said.
“No, you don't,” Harold replied. “And that's an order.”
Morin held his gaze for a very long time. Eventually, it dropped.
“As you wish,” he said, standing up. “Keep your hand on the wound until then. I will get help to bring both of them to sick bay.”
“Thank you,” Harold replied. Morin vanished down the hallway, and Harold looked back to Matheson.
“I can stay with him, sir,” Matheson said. “Go to your sweetheart.”
“But---” Harold protested. Matheson shifted over, giving him no choice.
“It's been a rough day, for all of us, sir,” he said. “Enjoy the moments you have.”
Harold stood, shifting Aaron's limp head over to Matheson' lap.
He felt like he was walking underwater as he went towards the wardroom. When he pushed open the door, he thought the momentum would pull him onto the ground.
“Annabelle?” he said, softly.
She was in his arms in an instant, gasping and crying.
“Harold, Harold, oh God,” she said, pulling him tight. “I thought you were dead. I thought...are you hurt?”
“I'm alright,” he said.
“But—the blood---whose blood is that?” she asked. Harold steeled himself.
“It's your brother's blood,” he said.
Annabelle put her hand to her mouth, gasping.
Lola emerged then, having barricaded herself into one of the rooms. Her face was pale, as she approached.
“Is he---”
“He's alright,” Harold said, although he didn't know for certain. “Wesley is alright too.”
“Is it true?” Lola asked. “Did the captain have him whipped again?”
“The captain---” Harold chose his words carefully. “May not live to tell that tale.”
Everyone fell silent, watching Harold.
“Who would be in charge, then?” Annabelle asked. Harold met her eyes.
“I would,” he said.
“Of course,” Annabelle said. There was silence all around the wardroom, as the other ladies emerged.
“Are any of you injured?” Harold asked, as the shakily sat at the table.
“Everyone is fine,” Annabelle said. “We were quite safe in here, actually.”
“It is the safest place,” Harold said. “The Lieutenants are the most protected men on the ship. The captain is one man, and can ...go down easier. But with lieutenants able to take command, they have several options for command and second in command if they are kept safe.”
“Like now,” Annabelle said, and Harold took a deep breath.
“Yes.”
“Can I see Wesley?” Lola asked. Harold nodded.
“I imagine so. Annabelle, you'll want to be with your brother?”
“And with you,” she answered. Harold agreed, reaching to take her hand. As soon as she was touching him, he felt like crying. This was what he had fought for. This was what he lived for, her love, her touch. He was so glad that she was safe, no matter what else was happening.
The walk to sick bay was the most unnerving of his life. He had no idea what he was going to find.
CHAPTER TWELVE
SICK BAY
SICK BAY
For some reason, Harold had not expected chaos in sick bay. However, as soon as they set foot in the hallway, his brain snapped back into battle mode. Men had died, others were injured, and it was no place for ladies.
Annabelle, however, was no ordinary lady, and Lola had never been bothered by blood, whether fake or real. The ladies joined hands, their chins raised. Harold had a strange feeling that he was more affected by the blood than they were.
Dr. Morin's assistants were moving to and fro, trying to help everyone at once. Harold scanned the room, trying to find the men they were looking for.
He found Aaron first, on a bed near the back. The sick bay beds were different from the hammocks they slept in. Built into the wall, offering sturdy support for an injured man, they had wooden railings on either side to protect from the rolling seas.
Aaron was on his uninjured side, his body rising and falling in a fast rhythm. Matheson was still standing over him, a hand gripped in Aaron's, just in case his superior officer would need him. Harold could see that Aaron was tensed in pain, his eyes open but wild.
Matheson was not thinking in terms of rank, though. He was thinking of his own boys, sailing somewhere on the high seas. He hoped that if either of them were in such a state, someone would be there for them.
“Sir,” he nodded to Harold. “Dr. Morin hasn't made him a priority, which I suppose is a good thing. He thinks he will be alright.”
“Aaron,” Annabelle pushed forward, her face pale as she searched her twin's face. There was an unbreakable bond between the two of them that would be there no matter what situation they were in. “Oh, God, help him.”
Aaron's flank rose and fell, and while he seemed to acknowledge Annabelle, he couldn't manage words yet. His eyes fluttered, but he shifted his hand to Annabelle's.
“You're burning up,” she said, empathy playing across her face. “Is there water?”
“I can get water, Miss,” Matheson said, now that Aaron was in supportive hands. “Miss Lola, are you alright?”
“Wesley?” she asked, in soft voice. She was almost afraid, given the scent of death in the room.
“Here, Miss, I'll show you,” Matheson said. “He's not injured...at least, not more than he started with. But Corrigan and I thought it best that he was close to the med bay, just in case.”
“Please,” Lola said, and Matheson took her gently by the arm. There was a small side hallway that led to a medical supply room, just off sickbay.
There, sitting on the floor of the hallway, was Wesley and Corrigan. Corrigan wasn't quite as compassionate and comforting as Matheson, but he was close by, watching Wesley for any sides of trouble.
Wesley had never looked so young, and so frightened, Matheson thought. His knees drawn up to his chest, and his back arched to not put pressure on it, he was staring at the opposite wall, catatonic.
“Wesley,” Lola said, getting down to his level. She put her arms around his neck, her face against his ear. It seemed he moved without thinking, putting an arm around her, and ducking his head down.
“Corrigan,” Matheson said, beckoning him away from the couple.
Lola had never felt so grateful to be with someone. She knew that Wesley faced danger every day on the seas, but she never internalized it until now. In the heat of the battle, she thought she would die worrying about him. The idea of never seeing him again was far too great to bear.
“I'm here,” she said. “I'm here, we're together, all is well.”
“Lola,” he managed, taking strength from her touch. “I couldn't...they needed...and I couldn't...”
“Hush,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “You did far above what others would do, given what you had just been through.”
“I should have been stronger,” he said. “I should have...my job, my skill, is exactly in that situation. Outgu
nned, outnumbered, that is my specialty. And I couldn't get my brain to move fast enough. Oh,” his eyes fluttered, and she tightened her grip on him. “I'm alright. I'm just---”
“Recovering from two beatings while drinking your weight last night?” she supplied. He paused.
“Yes.”
“So long as you're not bleeding your weight onto the floor,” she sank beside him, leaning her head against the hallway.
“Is Lord Bamber....?”
“I don't know,” she said. “I've seen him have a thousand fits, and he's never looked that bad after. I saw his wound but...”
“This is my fault,” Wesley said.
“This is not your fault,” Lola assured him, taking his hand. “He is alive because of you.”
“The captain may not be alive,” Wesley said, and she leaned her head on his shoulder.
“I know,” she said. “Just stay alive, that's enough for me, alright?”
“Mmm,” he played with her hair, grateful for the small distraction. “Don't leave me.”
“Where would I go?” she asked. “I'm never leaving your side again.”
“I wish you meant that,” he said, softly. “Sometimes, Lola, the way my mind works...the world seems too difficult, too different than my thoughts to navigate. Being with you brings it all back into focus.”
“Maybe I do mean it,” she whispered. “Let's just get through today. All we need to do is to get through today.”
“Just today,” he echoed, closing his eyes. Today seemed like an impossible task to get through. He listened to the sounds of chaos behind him, and the sounds of terror, and wondered how they would even get through the next moment.
Lola squeezed his hand, content to just sit. However, Wesley's mind was moving through the possibilities. Would the captain live or die? Would Aaron survive? In addition, would they face a court martial for what had just happened?
In sick bay, no one was able to think beyond the next moment. Each second was about stopping the blood, giving someone mercy, assessing the chance of survival. Those able to lend a hand, but there were other duties to be done. They were on a skeleton crew and yet the ship needed to be repaired. They were taking on water, the sails were torn almost beyond repair, and there were holes in the top deck that made walking around difficult.
Saving The Lord’s Title (The Regency Renegades - Beauty and Titles) (A Regency Romance Story) Page 8