by David Starr
Although I can’t see them, I almost feel sorry for the French sailors. Those who survived the battle will now be locked inside their own hold, sweating in the heat and darkness. They are all destined, no doubt, for the same prison hulks that now hold the Russians we captured in the Baltic. Those old ships are death traps. Few will ever breathe free air again.
I walk furtively down the beach, keeping low. The odds of my being spotted by anyone on the ships are low, the chances of being recognized even lower, but I am free of the Royal Navy and plan on remaining so.
When I approach the draw I pause to listen. Through both my adventures in Canada and my time aboard Cerberus, my senses have been heightened. I focus on the sounds around me. I hear the gentle lull of voices and dull thud of hammers from the ships. I hear the wind and the waves breaking upon the beach. I hear the gentle twitter of birds. Then I hear the sound I was praying for.
A slight babbling rises on the wind. Water to be sure. I hurry forward, ignoring the pain in my feet as I step on sharp stones. There it is! A small stream at the bottom of the draw. It tumbles out of the Sicilian hills, ending here in a gentle trickle into the sea.
I put my head into the water, drinking deeply, feeling instantly better as the cool fresh water washes over me. Full for now, I turn the sailcloth into a makeshift water skin, just as I did when I collected sea water for Bill. I hurry back to my friend.
“It tastes better than the finest wine in all of Creation!” he says when he has drunk his fill as well. There is a little water left in the canvas, and though it isn’t as waterproof as moose hide, and the water soaks through the sailcloth and drips onto the ground, it will hold it well enough for now. The creek is only a few minutes away and I can get as much as I need later.
“Do ye think ye can stomach a bit to eat?” I ask.
“You know where to find roast beef and carrots, Trap? Perhaps a nice apple pie?”
“Nae, though I’m sure I can scrounge up something.” When I searched for water I noticed a grove of trees with unfamiliar green fruit on them. I walk back to the trees and take a closer look. They are thick, ancient-looking things, their branches heavy with the fruit, about the size of grapes but of a different shape. I pick a few and return to Bill.
“Do ye ken these fruits?” I ask. “Are they guid to eat?”
“Olives,” Bill says weakly. “They’re a bit salty but edible enough. At least we won’t starve, not that I feel much like eating. Go ahead and have one.”
I pop one of the small green fruits into my mouth. It is salty, on the greasy side as well, but I don’t mind the taste. The hard pip in the middle comes as a bit of a surprise, however, as I bite down onto it.
“Sorry, Trap,” Bill says. “I forgot all about that. Mind your teeth.”
“Will ye be all right if I leave ye alone fer a bit?” The sun has started to dip on the horizon. It will be dark in a few hours and there are important things I need to do before that happens, including finding something a little more nourishing than olives.
“Go on. I’m fine.” But Bill doesn’t look fine to me. His words are slurred and he has broken out into a fierce sweat, his forehead and chest soaked with it.
“Let me look at yer leg.” I unwrap the bandage I made from sailcloth and feel sick at what I see. The wound is red, and clear fluid drips from it. I feared this would happen. He suffered an awful injury and it is beginning to fester.
The flap of flesh and skin that hangs down from Bill’s tattered leg looks dead and has begun to smell. It seems to me that it is the source of the infection that is taking hold of my friend. I know what I need to do, though I hate the thought of it.
“Hold on, Bill,” I say, taking my knife. “Ye’ve got a bit here that’s gone bad. I need to remove it. It may hurt a wee bit. Are ye ready?”
“Go on then,” he says. “Get it over with, but do it quickly.”
The knife I took from the dead sailor is sharp and will do the job, but do I have the stomach for what needs to be done? Gingerly I reach out my left hand and take the corrupted flesh. It feels slimy in my hand, and warm, full of poison.
“On three,” I say.
Bill nods. “On three.”
“One.” Steeling myself, I move the knife towards his leg.
“Two,” Bill says, taking up the count.
“Three.” We speak at the same time the knife flashes through his flesh. A second later the piece of what used to be part of Bill’s leg is in my hand, blood and pus flowing out of it.
Bill does not scream but his groan tells just how much it hurt him. “All done,” I say, throwing the rotten flesh away. “Let me get some more water to clean it, then I’ll patch ye up and ye’ll be right as rain.”
I hurry to the beach with my water skin, returning quickly to Bill. He is barely conscious now, and does little more than whimper as I wash his leg, then take a fresh strip of canvas sail and bandage him up again.
“How are ye bearing up?” I ask.
“I’ve felt better, Trap. Can’t say I haven’t.” There is no smile in his shaking voice. He is desperately sick, I know. I have removed most of the rotten flesh but there is more remaining on his leg. Cutting it away could make him bleed to death. I have one option to treat Bill. One I care not to think about, but one I know I must do. But not quite yet.
“Rest, Bill. I’ll be back in a bit.” I shake the thought of that horrible treatment from my mind and return to the beach. The sail is the first thing I retrieve, cutting it free from the spar with my knife.
Again and again I make the trip between the shore and our little camp, bringing back as much canvas, rope and fragments of wooden spars as I can carry.
I look as well for something I know I will need later tonight. I search through the broken wood for ten minutes until I see what I am looking for. A piece of a door or hatchway has washed up onshore along with the other flotsam. On it is a large iron hinge. It is exactly what I need.
I return to Bill, make another small bag from the sailcloth and hurry back to the sea. There are mussels, clams and small crabs in abundance on the rocks. I am no fisherman but I’ve eaten clams before with Simon Fraser on the river just before we reached the Pacific. They are not my favourite, but I am famished and need my strength.
“One more trip fer water then I’m in fer the night,” I tell Bill before I walk to the stream. He says nothing, a weak grunt his only response.
I make Bill drink a bit, then tie off the canvas bag and hang it from a tree branch. As the sun sinks in the west and the stars emerge in the darkening sky, the temperature drops as well. The breeze from the ocean has a bite I had not felt in the heat of the day.
I look to my friend. Bill shivers, though from cold or fever I cannot tell. I take a chunk of the canvas I’ve cut and place it over him as a blanket. I wish I had the buffalo robe Louise made me, the one that kept Luc Lapointe and me alive on the shores of Lake Superior, but I left that behind in Montreal in the care of Mr. McGillivray. It will serve Bill no good there.
With what little light remains I gather twigs, dry branches and dead moss. I need to make a fire both for light and for heat. In the day the smoke would have given us away to the men back on board Cerberus and Unicorn, but at night and with the headland between us and the ships, I believe I can light a small one and not have the flame seen.
It is simple enough to make a fire. Luc Lapointe taught me that not long out of Lachine. Steel and flint are all a voyageur needs. I have steel enough with my knife and flint pebbles are everywhere on the beach. I gather some small dead twigs and make a small tipi with them. A few quick strikes of the side of the knife on the rock and I soon have a nice fire.
I feed it branches until it crackles merrily, then I throw in several pieces of broken spar. The wood has dried in the sun and soon catches, thanks in large part to the pitch that covers the wood. Pungent smoke fills my nose, making me cough until the breeze blows it away.
“Dinner time fer me, Bill,” I say, getting the
mussels and clams I’d collected earlier. Bill is slipping in and out of consciousness. Food may not be a priority for him, but I must eat.
I put the shellfish and crabs on a flat rock I’d put in the fire for just this reason. Within minutes they pop and steam, their shells splitting open. I eat a dozen. They taste more like leather and sand than anything else, but having something hot in my belly is a treat.
Bill moans and thrashes around. I look to my friend worriedly. He is covered in a sheen of sweat that glows in the firelight. Time to do the only thing I can to try and save his life.
I had placed the hinge in the fire not long after I made it. Now it glows red-hot, hot enough to cauterize his leg, to burn the damaged flesh away and hopefully the infection with it.
I walk over to Bill. “I need to treat yer leg. The poison’s took hold and if I don’t ye’ll die. I have to burn it, Bill, do ye ken what I’m saying?”
Bill’s eyes flutter open. “Do it,” he breathes.
“Bite down on this, then.” I place my leather knife scabbard in his mouth then tie it down, wrapping canvas strips around his head to hold the thing in place. The leather will keep him from biting his own tongue off or screaming too loudly.
I return to the fire. I wrap my hand with thick wet canvas, draw a breath and take the hinge from the flames. Even through the damp sailcloth I can feel the heat of the thing, glowing red and yellow in front of me.
I return to Bill. “On three?” I ask.
He nods then shuts his eyes.
I sit on top of Bill. I’ll need my body weight to hold him down, to keep him as still as I can. Then I begin to count.
“One.” I feel the heat of the metal creep through the cloth.
“Two.” Sweat breaks out on my own forehead as I start to lower the hinge.
“Three.”
As I count three I press the red-hot metal firmly into the wound. I don’t know what is worse: the sickly sweet smell of cooking meat, the sound his flesh makes as it sizzles and pops, the thrashing of my friend underneath me or the muted howls of anguish that escape the canvas and leather in his lips.
I lift the metal then touch it down again on more dead flesh. Then again, then again until I am certain I have burned away the rot. Bill screams again then falls limp.
Suddenly my own hand feels as if it is on fire. I drop the metal and roll off Bill. I hurry to my feet and to the canvas water skin, sticking my burning hand into the cool water.
“Bill! Are ye alive?” I return to his side and place my head upon his chest. It is faint but his heart still beats, his chest rising and falling with every weak breath.
A great wave of exhaustion sweeps through me. I collapse again to the ground beside my unconscious friend. I have done everything I can to help him. I feel the cool ocean breeze blow across my body, bringing with it an old memory of my journey with Luc Lapointe to Fort William. We were far from civilization, entering a lake the size of the sea.
Old Lady Wind. La Vieille will sink us in a heartbeat if we anger her, so we give her gifts to keep her happy.
“Please, La Vieille,” I pray before drifting into sleep. “When we get back to England I’ll give ye whatever ye want if ye keep Bill alive.”
Chapter 31
The sun has long climbed over the eastern horizon when I awake. The day is warm, the air full of the chirring of insects and the cry of seabirds.
“Bill?” There is no answer. I turn to my friend in a panic, certain he is dead. He lies still beside me, not saying a word. But then I hear him breathe, see him gently stir. The sweat that poured from Bill’s body is gone, and though he is pale he looks better than he did yesterday.
The metal hinge lies cold on the sand beside Bill. His leg is a sight where I burned him, charred like a rabbit on a fire. The awful smell of charred flesh remains but there is no odour of rot.
I get to my feet and walk down to the beach with a sailcloth water skin. My own hand is red and blistered from the hinge. I grimace as I put my hand into the sea. The salt stings mightily but the water is cooling nevertheless.
I look around the beach. More debris has washed up, although nothing useful by the looks of things. The body of the sailor has gone, though. Eaten by crabs or carried away by the tide, I don’t know. Either way I am grateful for it. The sight of the dead man seemed a sinister omen for what may happen to Bill. I take it as a fortunate sign the body has gone.
I return to our camp with fresh sea water. I gently wash Bill’s charred leg. Even unconscious, he flinches as the water runs over the wound, but he does not cry out.
I’m not that hungry but I force myself to eat a few of the green olives. I have some work to do today, and the food will do me good. After I finish the olives, I get to business.
My feet are my first concern. While the beach is sandy and the path to our little campsite is easy enough to walk, the rest of the area around us is hard-packed and stony. We won’t stay here forever and I know what it is like to have my feet shredded by sharp rocks. Fortunately there is something I can do about it.
“I met a great chief of the Secwepemc People once,” I say, working a chunk of sail with the knife. Bill is still asleep and I know he won’t answer, but it makes me feel better talking while I go about my job.
“His name was Xlo’sem. His people showed us how to make moccasins when our own boots had fallen to pieces. I’d prefer deerskin but sailcloth will have to do.”
Xlo’sem would have laughed at my poor attempt at moccasin making. They are little more than canvas bags, lined with moss at the bottom, tied on with a strand of rope, but they are functional enough. Now I can walk at least without fear of cutting my feet.
“I’m no tailor but I ken how to make a shirt fer each of us as well.” I work the knife again on the sailcloth carefully, minding the blisters on my palm.
The people of the river wore deerskin breeches and tunics. They were skilfully made, decorated with the most wonderful beads and patterns. What I create has none of their art but will serve us well enough.
I cut a square of sail large enough to fit me. I slice a hole in the middle of it for my head to slip through. I fold it in half, poke holes in the sides of the canvas then stitch the two halves together with lengths of hemp I’ve peeled from a piece of rope. I leave enough space for my arms then slide my crudely made shirt over my head. I make another one for Bill, hopeful he will need it soon enough.
Job done, I return to the stream to collect more fresh water. I creep to the headland to see if the ships are still anchored offshore. I hope they have sailed off, but Unicorn, Cerberus and the Incorruptible, now flying the Naval Jack, are still there.
Bill sleeps for a full day and night and half a day more until he finally opens his eyes. “Water,” he gasps.
“As much as ye can take, Bill,” I say, putting a damp piece of canvas to his lips. I squeeze the water into his mouth and he gulps thirstily before drifting back to sleep.
* * *
“I don’t suppose you ever found that apple pie, Trap? I could do with a slice right now.” The sound of Bill’s voice wakes me instantly. It is late afternoon of the following day and I have been dozing in the sun in our little campsite.
“Bill!” My face breaks out into a wide smile. “I cannae believe it!”
Bill pulls himself up to rest against the trunk of a tree. He grimaces with the effort but manages nevertheless. “Awake and hungry, Trap. Please tell me you’ve managed to find something else to eat other than olives.”
“Let me see to yer leg first.” I unwrap the salt-soaked canvas bandage. The skin around his stump has scabbed something fierce. It is a nasty sight to behold, but there is no sign of infection, no red strips up his leg nor rotten flesh. Bill is very weak but he seems to be on the mend.
“Thank you, Trap,” Bill tells me as he inspects the leg. “You saved my life.”
I blush at the compliment. “A dinnae ken about that. How are ye feeling?”
“Strange to be honest,” h
e says. “I can hardly remember much of anything since our first day here. After that it all gets muddy. There are flashes, images really, more like dreams than anything else.” Bill shudders when sees the iron hinge in the sand. “That I do remember. How long have we been here?”
“Tonight will be our fifth night onshore.”
“Gracious! Five days! I’ve been out of it that long?”
“Aye. Dead asleep fer the most part. There were times I wasn’t sure ye were ever waking up.”
“And in all that time you didn’t find any apple pie? I don’t know what you’ve been doing with your time!”
I can’t help but grin. “Nae, there’s no apple pie but I think I can find ye something to eat.”
I walk down to the beach in our sheltered little cove to collect clams, but before I do I scramble over the headland. I start when, instead of the ships, I see naught but empty sea.
Incorruptible no doubt has sailed back to England with a skeleton crew and her prisoners, repaired enough to travel, a great prize for the Royal Navy. Cerberus and Unicorn on the other hand will have pulled anchor in search of Revanche. Capturing Incorruptible came at a terrible cost, but the job is only half done. Captains Whitby and Kerr, loyal to King and Empire, will scour the Mediterranean one bay at a time until they find the French.
I climb down to the beach to collect clams, feeling happier than I have in ages. My friend is alive and the ships have gone. Tomorrow I will try to find a way off Sicily, the first step in a journey that will take me back to England and, God willing, to Libby.
Chapter 32
“So what now?” I ask Bill.
“Well, Trap, I ain’t up to much walking just yet, so it seems to me that our best option is to sail to friendlier shores. We came here to save Malta so perhaps Malta can repay the favour. The island’s just a day’s sail from here to the south. If we can get there and avoid the Royal Navy we should be able to find passage on a merchant ship back to England.”