Must have hurt like hell, he thought, rubbing at his own head in absent-minded sympathy.
Then he frowned, turning her head back and forth. There were slight dark traces on the sides of her neck and the tops of her shoulders. It was evident that not only had someone held her hard, but had also tried to strangle her.
He swore under his breath, adding, “Who could do such a thing to a flower like you?”
She turned by herself, clutching the captain's pillow. Her face burrowed into the softness as she started murmuring. The surgeon grinned. He decided not to mention this part to Sir Edward. The captain might throw the pillow overboard to prove some kind of point.
The lantern caught the glimmer of gold on her hand. He gently tried to pull it off her finger. It didn't budge, so he used a bit of slippery salve. The thick gold band gave way. He held it up to the lantern to check for an engraved inscription, a clue to her identity perhaps. Her husband might be looking for her.
“If he is the one who beat you like this, then he can wait a bit longer.”
There were initials inside: “K St J” and “S M S”, along with a date—too long ago to be her wedding date. She didn't look almost fifty years old, though she might be feeling it at present. Probably her mother's, he decided. The surgeon slipped the ring back on her finger, not noticing that he put it on a different hand than where he got it.
Dr. Llewellyn draped a blanket over her, and then started searching her clothes. He found a large pocket in her petticoat, a sturdy garment where many women of wealth preferred lace and plenty of it. He put his hand in and pulled out a sticky piece of licorice, encrusted with seeds and crumbling dried leaves. He also found a small rock and some rose hips, and something larger that seemed to be caught on some threads.
He turned the petticoat pocket upside-down and shook. Something heavy dropped to the floor and rolled under the table. He stooped to pick it up. It was an old piccolo, but it looked well tended. He put it in his pocket and began to examine the other contents.
There was a half-thumb-sized something covered in lint, perhaps a lozenge or candy. And such seeds and leaves as these could make a soothing tea, he understood, but what of the strips of bark? He smelled them and rubbed them between his fingers. Poplar or alder, he wondered, willow perhaps? He wasn't sure. He set them in a bowl and went back to the search.
Then he found the paper.
Suddenly, she started thrashing, muttering. He could only make out some of the words. He lifted her shoulders and forced Brandy down her throat. She sputtered, and then limply fell away. He studied her for a moment before he opened the cabin door. The captain was near at hand and entered without being called. The woman was still now, and her breathing was easy and deep.
"She is sleeping," the surgeon said quietly. “I should give you this, before I forget and keep it for my own.”
He held out the piccolo. The captain eyed it a moment before he took it. He slipped it into his own pocket without a word.
Dr. Llewellyn said, "What happened to her, sir?"
"That would be hard to explain."
"Plain enough, I expect. You wonder what a woman would know that would make them want to treat her that way. But what would you expect from a people who would kill their own king?"
"What are you saying?" Sir Edward said. It came out too loud.
The woman moaned and rolled to the side. Her blanket slipped too far, and the surgeon reached to cover her. He then pointed to the door. They walked outside.
"She will be all right, I think. Most of the wounds are days old and healing. She spoke a few words in delirium, something about a nunnery and a prison. And family papers, or family and papers, I could not quite make it all out. Some in French, some too muffled to tell. I found this in her things."
He held out the folded paper. She must have given it great care, but it had been folded and unfolded many times. The captain didn’t take it.
"She is exhausted and should rest for now," the surgeon continued, "but I think we should get her to proper care on shore, sir."
The captain was thinking and didn't seem to hear.
"Sir?"
"Yes, of course, Dr. Llewellyn. Proper care, you say?"
"Perhaps she has a family nearby? Or some friends?"
"Really, I have no idea."
The surgeon said nothing more, but he studied his captain.
Eventually, Sir Edward said, "Leave her to sleep for now. We can deal with it in the morning. Say nothing to anyone."
"And this?"
The surgeon again held out the paper. The captain frowned.
"What is it?"
"I am no legal mind, sir, but it looks to be some sort of French deed-map or property tract. Perhaps even some sort of royal grant, I would wager."
"From French King Louis? Well, it is not worth much now, is it? It is probably not even real if she was carrying it around like a laundress’s list. Here, give it to me."
"Even so, it looks legal to me, sir, even if written in dire straits: a last will and testament, perhaps done in some haste. And something else— You better have a closer look, captain."
Sir Edward unfolded the paper. It was thick, which meant expensive, probably stolen from some former-government office. He glanced through the writing and studied the drawing. Then he turned it over to the printed side.
It was a flyer, like those published in mass quantities with little care for quality or source. He had seen the like on French ships they had taken. The Republicans took great pride in using expensive Royalist belongings for common purpose. He had heard tales of great paintings being burned in cooking stoves.
The printing on the parchment proclaimed the greatness of the revolution of the people, the new French Republic and their latest round of trials and executions. The Royalists had been fighting back, but with no lasting results. It only led to more unrest in the country.
He grunted in disgust and turned the flyer over again. He didn't read French very well, and this writing was ornate and faded, as if old. He looked more closely.
Not French, Latin. He read a little Latin, but not much since his days on the long seas voyages between continents early in his career, and before, as a school boy at his father’s insistence. What he read here didn't seem to make sense. He put it down to his own lack of remembering. He stepped toward a lantern to see more detail. The letters were not faded, but written with a brownish stain rather than with regular ink.
He mumbled, "Is this old and obscure or just French and confusing?"
The surgeon's mouth went tight as he shook his head. "I only saw the like once before when I was a boy in the West Indies. It was evil business then, but the last of its kind, praise the Lord and the ships of the good Kings of England."
"What are you rambling about?"
"It was when they made the sailors sign on or die. The pirates, I mean."
The captain could see the surgeon's brow furrow, though the man tried to hide it as he rubbed at his forehead. Sir Edward knew the look of nervous remembrance well enough. Fear came and went, but the memory of such things stayed in your mind and was harder to shake free.
"Come now, man, tell me what you mean."
He put a hand to the surgeon's shoulder in encouragement. Dr. Llewellyn swallowed hard before he spoke. "When pirates took a ship, they gave the crew a choice to sign the articles or die."
"The articles for the ship, do you mean? Join the crew, become a pirate too?"
"Right, sir, but the ink that was used to make their mark . . . Well, this is the same as then, I am sure."
"Not of quality, you mean. Some plant extract probably and used when no other—"
"It was not ink they used to seal the bargain, sir, it was blood. You had to sign onto the ship in your own blood."
The captain stared at him a moment. "Are you saying this was drawn up in blood?”
The” surgeon was grinding his teeth. A bead of sweat formed at his temple. They both turned to look at the woman.
>
He said lowly, "I have a bad feeling about this, sir. She must have come from the French. That is part of the French coast there, near Spain, I will wager. And look at this. It may be a password, a code perhaps. I will wager that even more and then I will be a rich man."
"A password, as in spies, you mean. That word, Charlemagne, he was a French king, of sorts, Charles the Great. This looks like France, true, but in the park she spoke in proper English, colonial, but clear."
"But the words do not make sense, even given that my Latin is not as good as it used to be," the surgeon continued. "It may be a code or maybe not, but you mark my words, it is trouble."
“You are suggesting we turn her over to the Admiralty? Maybe the civil authorities?”
“No, sir, I didn’t mean that, I don’t know what I meant, I just . . .”
The captain rubbed his chin in thought. Finally, he said, "His Majesty’s Navy will not sink or swim due to the papers found in the underpinnings of a woman, Dr. Llewellyn. Not my ship, at least. Go now, get some rest and say nothing of this for now."
Sir Edward went back into his cabin. The air smelled of flowers and Brandy. He used to enjoy nights like this. The calm air meant you could hear any enemy approach, even the splash of the softest rowing. You could hear the wings of gulls as they flew by too, the fish jumping, and the creak of the ship’s timbers. All was comforting, and the only time he could sleep well at night.
He could also swear he heard her heart beat in the quiet of this evening. She turned in the bunk and muttered something. He stepped closer. Her legs started thrashing, then her arms. Her eyes flew open, and she started up stiffly from the bunk.
She cried out, "Mama must run!"
The words sounded small and far away, like the voice of a child. The next words were in French, which he barely understood on a good day. She spoke with urgency, and he could tell by the wild look in her unseeing eyes that she was both terrified and still sleeping.
In an instant, she collapsed and did not move again. He knew, because he watched her for a long time. Eventually, he put the paper on the table and stretched out his hammock from one hook to the other.
He had been a captain for years and was supposed to relax in more comfort. But he never gave up sleeping on a hammock on occasion. Sometimes it was necessary in stormy seas. Neptune could toss you from your bunk whenever he pleased, and the only good rest was in a hammock.
He rolled in with a blanket; it was all that he needed. Time enough until the morning, he thought, and then he could get a proper look at her, and try to ask her questions again. He fell asleep with a smile on his face.
* * * * *
CHAPTER 04 - Kate
The first things she noticed when she woke were the smells: the sea, lingering tobacco, the mustiness of old books and wet woolen blankets. It was like being home again with her father, and it had her near tears.
Kate opened her eyes. She was in a ship’s cabin; the captain was sleeping soundly in the hammock. He didn't stir as she rose and slipped into her clothes. Obviously he was a gentleman, almost. Otherwise he wouldn’t be sleeping next to her. Now she no longer worried about him taking indecent liberties, but she didn't put it past him to ask her more foolish questions. Men always did things like that.
Something wasn’t right. She felt her head, it still ached, but not so bad as before. Then Kate noticed that her mother's ring was on the wrong hand. She pulled and twisted to take it off. For a moment, she stared at it in the palm of her hand, wondering how small it seemed, yet how strangely naked she felt without it.
The captain had called her Madam, she recalled. Madam, not Miss, as one called a single lady. Perhaps he called her that because he saw the wedding ring, though not that it was on the wrong hand. She whispered, “Perhaps that’s why you acted properly. You thought I was some other man’s property?”
It might have advantages, being a Madam instead of a Miss, she decided. Kate put the ring back on her left hand, as she found it. Men might be more accommodating if they assumed there was a husband to answer to.
As she brushed the hair from her face, she glanced around the captain's cabin, which was dimly lit from a candle still sputtering down to its last.
The cabin was finely furnished, with polished woods and tapestries. There were piles of books scattered about. One sideboard was lined with wide-bottom bottles of liquor. The rest of the cabin was cluttered with a myriad of souvenirs from a life obviously long spent at sea. It was not unlike her cabin aboard the Wilde.
She smiled, but it faded when she saw her map. Instinctively, she felt the pocket in her petticoat. It was empty; her goodies were all gone. She pressed her mouth shut tight to pinch back the swear word that threatened to come, and loudly too.
She had spent the better part of the afternoon in that park trying to discretely collect items she needed for her medicine pouch. And now they had probably tossed them over the side like they were just a bunch of weeds.
It was difficult to forage like an Iroquois while local society conducted itself nearby. The leaves of a particularly lush ornamental plant just happened to make a calming tea. And there were a few rose hips still scattered on the soon-budding rose bushes. It took real skill to pick rose hips quickly and discretely without getting scratched. Her mother’s rhyme came to mind:
“Make tea and jam, and jelly with quince.
Use the rose petals, and chop the rose hips.
Roses smell sweet, but the thorns make you flinch.
Nice on the nose, but better on lips.”
The rose hips were from last season, but still good, she figured. They worked as well as lemons for keeping scurvy at bay. Once you got them down a sailor's throat, that is. Jam with sugar or honey worked best that way. The rose hips were also useful to fend off fevers and colds. They were smaller and lasted longer on the voyage than fresh lemons and limes. When preserved properly, anyway, which was hard to do on a ship with sea birds diving down to steal them when they were drying on the deck in the sun.
Kate preferred white pine needles, which gulls did not like at all and were easier to store anyway—though they tended to poke just a bit. She had used them to stuff a mattress or two. It was a fine experiment, though others concerned had convinced her that it had failed quite badly. Still, the philosophy still held:
“Pine needle tea is really quite foul,
but the biting-clean taste makes a lazy wolf howl.
Lemon, not honey, to flavor the tongue,
which is best to go down in the ailing one.”
Most crewmen didn’t like the taste of white pine needle tea, and those who did drink the brew, she suspected, were just trying to spare her feelings. In a pinch, with a pinch, just a pinch, as her mother used to say.
Kate regretted the loss of the seeds and stems and the old flower heads too, but it was the strips of bark that she would be missing the most. She was aching still, and if you boiled the bark and drank the foul brew, it could ease headaches and muscle pains too. Of course, a good dose of honey or Brandy was needed to help force it down.
“Good bark though,” she whispered.
That is, if it was the kind of tree she thought it should be. Kate blew out her breath in frustration, but that turned into a thankful grin as she saw the goodies in a small bowl on the table. She poured them back into her pocket, shaking her petticoat to carry them down to the bottom. The bark strips looked shriveled, but she knew they were fresh enough to still be potent, even if not dried as instructed in her mother's journal.
But the notion of the taste made her shudder, and she couldn’t help the sound of disgust. She looked quickly to the captain. He didn’t move, so she crept over to his sideboard and grabbed a bottle of liquor. He stirred at the clinking of glass and said something in his sleep. She slowly walked over to the hammock, the bottle still in her hand.
His face didn't look so haggard now. He wasn't handsome, exactly. She thought he could be, if he would only smile or laugh a bit more. She reach
ed to touch the strand of brown hair that fell across his forehead, but her stomach lurched at the recognition. Her hand stayed, and she just watched for a moment.
He rolled slightly, with his arms wrapped across his chest.
She knew for sure then, she had seen him before.
When? Where? Friend or foe?
The ship's bell sounded, one, two bells. Middle watch, an hour past midnight. But he didn't move again. She didn't move either—she couldn't at first. Her hand hovered above him until a gull called from outside. It was a lonely sound in the peaceful night. She suddenly felt so very tired, and her hand dropped heavily to her side.
It had been peaceful here only a moment before, but it now it felt somehow . . . disturbed.
She took the stopper from the bottle and pulled a long swallow. It was wine. She flinched, but gagged it down. Too sweet, she didn't like wine. You had to work too hard to get drunk on wine. She had only been drunk a couple of times: once when her father died, and once just recently in honor of her mother’s cousin, Louis. But then she had a definite goal in mind, and wine just didn't live up to the task.
She took the bottle back to the sideboard and began lifting stoppers on the others to sniff. After a few tries, she found the Scotch whiskey. She closed her eyes and took a sip. The liquor was smooth, but it burned going down, like drinking warm, fine ash. Nothing like single malt, it got the best price, and rightly so. Kate wiped her nose, then went back to look at the captain.
He didn’t move, but his eyes opened. Kate couldn’t help it—she smiled. He was still more asleep than awake and probably thought she was a dream. He smiled back. Then his eyes closed, and he started breathing deeply again. Kate leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, just a slight brush against it.
The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series) Page 3