Quintspinner

by Dianne Greenlay

  “I can only assume that this is either a trinket given to you by whomever you had arranged to meet, or worse yet, you have stolen it from its rightful owner. Remove it at once and give it to me. I shall do what I can to redeem your reputation and prevent you from being hauled off to the public jail on charges of theft!”

  “What? Stolen? How could you even consider that to be possible? It was given to me!”

  “Remove it! Or I shall pull it from your hand!” he shouted, the fury building in his voice.

  “I won’t!” Tess shouted back, stamping her foot in defiance.

  The slap to her cheek arrived so hard and fast that Tess had no time to brace herself. It sent her reeling to the floor, where she landed on her outstretched hand. She screamed as her finger bearing the ring crumpled under the full weight of her body.

  “What on earth is happenin’ here? Sir! What are ya’ doin’?” Mrs. Hanley cried in bewilderment from the study’s doorway. She rushed to Tess and crouched beside her in an instant.

  “Have you forgotten your position, Mrs. Hanley?” the doctor roared at her. “May I ask you, what it is that you are doing?”

  Mrs. Hanley looked up from where she held a sobbing Tess. “The Missus sent me to find ya’. She said it’s urgent. Wee Charles is gripped by the fits again.”

  Upon hearing this, the doctor bolted from the room and charged up the stairs towards his wife’s room, leaving the two of them clutching one another in a dazed heap upon the floor. Mrs. Hanley cradled Tess in her arms and rocked her as though she were a small child.

  “There, there,” she soothed, “Let’s have a look at ya’. Are ya’ hurt?”

  Tess’s cheek was already beginning to swell in a raised fiery red hand print. “It’s my hand!” she sobbed. “I think my finger’s broken!” Indeed, the finger was visibly swollen and had immediately turned a dusky purple at the knuckle just above the ring.

  “Come then, me darlin’,” Mrs. Hanley encouraged as she helped Tess to her feet. “Let’s get a poultice on that, an’ yer cheek too. I’ve just the thing fer that back in the kitchen.”

  “I don’t understand why he’s so angry,” Tess sobbed. “And I would never lie to him!” She walked alongside Mrs. Hanley, the woman’s comforting warm arm across her shoulders offering a measure of safety.

  “He hit me,” Tess continued sniffling. “His own daughter ….”

  Mrs. Hanley’s mouth hardened in a scowl. “Yes, he did.”

  “I hate him!” Tess snapped.

  Mrs. Hanley stopped in her tracks and looked at Tess for a moment. “Tess, darlin’ you’ve a right to feel hurt, but anger that turns to hate often takes up too much space in our heads. No room fer real thinkin’ then.” She was silent for a moment, then gently cupping Tess’s chin in her hand she lifted Tess’s tear stained face upwards. “This has happened fer a reason, me darlin’ doncha’ see? There’s always somethin’ what comes from somethin’ ….

  “An’ there is somethin’ that I am goin’ to tell ya’. Somethin’ that I was sworn not ever to say, but I believe it’s needin’ to be said now. Ya’ needs to know.” Tess looked at Mrs. Hanley’s kind face and recognized a deep sadness etched in the lines there.

  “I can poultice yer body’s bruises, but poultice alone canna’ treat the wounds of yer heart.” The housekeeper sighed and then gently added, “Heartache’s our payment what must be offered up in exchange fer the gift of love.”

  Tess sat at the familiar oak table in the kitchen, with a poultice of comfrey leaves held softly against her cheek. Already her cheek felt stiff and achy, and the swelling was making it difficult to see out of her eye. Her left hand lay on the table, wrapped in a second poultice. Mrs. Hanley poured a cup of tea for each of them and then settled herself on the bench across the table from Tess.

  “Ya’ see, Tess, Dr. Willoughby is made distressed by the wee babe’s condition. He and the Missus have waited for so long to have a child of their own, an’ now that he’s here an’ less than perfect, it’s breakin’ their hearts, it is.”

  A child of their own? What does she mean? I’m their child, too! Just because he’s a boy doesn’t mean that he’s more valuable!

  Tess snapped, “And they think I’m less than perfect, too, don’t they? Because I have this!” Tess flung her thick plait back off the side of her neck to reveal her birthmark. Mrs. Hanley seemed to hesitate.

  “That’s alright, you don’t have to say anything,” Tess continued. “I already overheard them talking about me. I know what you are trying to tell me. I’ve been their less-than-perfect daughter since I was born with this, this thing on my neck!”

  “No, child, there’s more.” Mrs. Hanley took in a big breath of air and slowly exhaled it, as though using the time to decide what to say next. “Ya’ are a perfect daughter. No one could ask fer one more beautiful an’ smarter than you. But yer not … yer not … a child of their blood.”

  Tess sat completely still, not comprehending what she had just heard. Mrs. Hanley reached for Tess’s right hand before continuing.

  “Many years ago, I had a daughter, too. An’ she meant the world to me. She was comin’ up near twelve years old when one day she went along with me husband on an errand to the village. They was attacked by men wearin’ the colors from the court of London but havin’ the godless souls no better than highwaymen, and there was a struggle.” Her voice choked as she recalled the painful memory.

  “Me husband tried to defend our daughter, but he was outnumbered. He said afterwards they tied him to a tree an’ made him watch as they each satisfied themselves with our baby girl.” Mrs. Hanley paused and wiped the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “They all raped her … an’ my poor Bennett couldna’ do nothin’ to stop them.” Her voice cracked with pain. “It destroyed him, seein’ that ….”

  Tess gasped sharply as she imagined the horror of such a scene. Now it was her turn to hold Mrs. Hanley’s hand, as she waited for the housekeeper to regain her composure.

  “When they finished with her, they left them both, with him tied to the tree screamin’ at them, an’ her lying all curled up, torn an’ bleedin’ on the ground.”

  “What happened to them?” Tess asked softly. “Your daughter and husband, I mean.” She had never heard Mrs. Hanley talk about a husband or child before.

  Mrs. Hanley stared out the kitchen window, tears slowly rolling down her cheeks and disappearing into the high stiff collar of her frayed work dress.

  “Me Bennett, he was a broken man. He couldna’ live with that memory inside his head, so one evenin’, he went out to the barn after the supper meal an’ dinna’ come back to the house. I found him out there … he’d hung himself from the barn rafter.” Her voice was hoarse and barely a whisper.

  “An’ me Annabelle, my poor little darlin’, some months after that, she birthed a child, a beautiful perfect baby girl with a head-ful of hair that blazed like the sun shinin’ on a copper kettle. But her not being much more than a baby herself, she died on that birthin’ bed, an’ there was nothin’ even Dr. Willoughby could do to save her ….” Mrs. Hanley’s tears rolled down freely now, and she made no effort to staunch their flow.

  “They both left me behind in this wicked world, with that perfect wee one that I’d no way of supportin’. Dr. Willoughby and his Missus agreed to take us both in, me an’ the babe, which they took on as their own.” She looked at Tess and smiled through her tears. “They even let me choose the wee girl’s name.”

  “Tess. My perfect granddaughter.”

  William was still stunned at the casual tossing of the diseased sailor overboard.

  “Maybe he was poxed, an’ maybe he weren’t” Smith reasoned. “If the Surgeon thought it was the real pox, then God have mercy on us all, we owe him our lives fer stoppin’ it right then and there. See these?” He pointed at the pock mark scars on his own hands. “T’was only the cowpox when I was a wee mite, but it near killed me just the same. There’s them what sa
y ya’ can only get one kind of the pox an’ if ya’ survives, ya’ won’t be gettin’ any of the others.” Smith laughed out loud. “I’d probably be the only one what survived the real pox, an’ have to try sailin’ this beauty all by myself, an’ I’d end up dyin’ anyways ‘cause even a ship this size needs a crew, she does, an’ I know bugger all about the steerin’ an’ map readin’. I’m a lander, just like you.”

  “But that man was still alive!” William argued. “They killed him. They drowned him!”

  “Better one man dies than the whole crew, doncha’ think?” Smith countered reasonably. “Besides, a drownin’ is only uncomfortable fer a few breaths, it seems, an’ the real pox has a man gaspin’ an’ fightin’ fer every breath fer hours, sometimes days. It was out of kindness to him, what they done.”

  William shuddered at the thought of the cold waves sucking the man under, closing over his face, and wondered how long it would take to die that way. He had learned to swim a little bit in the river back home, but he doubted that anyone could stay afloat for long in the ocean. Besides he had heard that sailors mostly couldn’t swim a single stroke. And from the smell of these men, most had not submerged their bodies in water anywhere in recent memory.

  “C’mon, I’ll show ya’ more of the decks below,” Smith offered. “Unless you’ve a hankerin’ to mix with the blue jackets on the riggings up there, or these here marines an’ their sorry gun drills?”

  Going back into the dark belly of the ship was not something that William found desirous, but neither was staying topside with the crew full of hostile strangers. He followed Smith back down the companionway and shuffled past the table where they had eaten a short time ago.

  “This here’s the lower deck. We’ll be eatin’ with the other landers, mostly. There’s a handful of us aboard, an’ another what’s still in sick bay, if he makes it. Apparently didn’t come out of the pressin’ as topnotch as the other lads, includin’ yerself. Took a bad blow to the noggin. Surgeon says he’ll be gimped if he does recover.” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Says he’ll be good enough fer the shitpots anyhow.”

  “And they would be–?” William let his question hang in the air.

  Smith grinned. “Not ours. That’s what the pissdales alongside the railings is fer. The shitpots is fer the sick ones what can’t haul their sorry asses up an’ over the railings, or out onto the bowsprit fer a piss, an’ them pots is also somethin’ to shovel into when yer cleanin’ up after the animals.”

  “Animals?” William felt trapped in this floating world that was getting stranger by the minute. “What animals?”

  “Back here.” Smith pointed up ahead. “There’s a couple of goats fer milk an’ breedin’ an’ some crates of birds what’ll keep us in cacklefruit fer the journey. They’re normally kept topside, but Cap’n is a stickler fer his marines’ drills–wants the top deck space fer that–an’ this sail’s got enough room here. You’ll be in charge of their care, I ‘spect. You’ve had some experience with livestock?”

  William heard the chickens’ busy clucking and could already smell the acrid droppings which formed moderate sized mounds of gooey white and black excrement on the planks below the crates. Beyond the crates a small area was corralled off and inside the makeshift corral were three goats, bleating in unhappy protest. William stared in open amazement.

  Two of the animals were suspended in hammocks which ran under their bellies and then attached to the overhead beam by ropes and hooks. Their hooves barely touched the flooring. The third was a small black kid. Laying in the straw bed at its nanny’s feet, it was nearly invisible in the below-deck darkness.

  “What the hell?” William could not hide his confusion.

  “Hmm?” Smith followed William’s gaze. “Oh, that’s so’s they won’t be breakin’ their legs in the rough seas, rollin’ over an’ fallin’ down an’ such. They’ll be let down, I ‘spect, fer some of the time during calm sailin’.” He continued on, pointing at a floor to ceiling wall of hay held in place by an expanse of fish net strung along the ship’s side. “There’s their grub an’ the birds’ is in them barrels over there.” He bent over and picked up a foul smelling bucket by its handle, holding it out at arm’s length. “Here’s yer shitpot,” he grinned. “There’s a scoop hangin’ on the nail there so’s ya’ won’t have to use yer hands to do the collectin’.” His grin widened. “Ya’ see, the Navy’s real civilized.”

  They continued on Smith’s tour, stopping to meet Cook. He was a scowly fellow, bare-chested with his skin glistening in sweat, its sheen reflected in the dull orange glow of a single lantern. He wielded a large curved blade, and hacked furiously at a partial carcass on the thick wooden table in front of him. He could use a lesson from John. William caught himself silently judging Cook’s sloppy technique. The man’s arms were massively muscled, and as William’s eyes travelled over his physique, he was surprised to see that Cook had only one full length leg. He rested the stump of his right thigh on a stool that looked as though it had been made with that specific purpose in mind.

  “This here’s William Taylor, Cook, Sir.” Smith made the simple introduction. Cook glanced at the two of them for a split second in between his attacking slashes on the meaty slab on the table. From the looks of the deeply stained scars in its wooden surface, William guessed that this was a common occurrence. Cook at first grunted acknowledgement without changing his blade’s rhythm, then spoke.

  “The seas be calm enough today. Stir the embers a bit, Mr. Smith, won’cha? And let nary a spark fly.”

  Grabbing a poker, Smith reached into the midst of a small pile of embers which were barely glowing as they lay on the iron plate of the cooking hearth. He leaned forward and gently blew at their base, exciting them back into a fiery red dance.

  “That’ll do Mr. Smith. You an’ Mr. Taylor bring us a couple armfuls of taters and turnips from the stores, an’ a bit of the greens too. It’s a lamb stew we’ll be havin’ that’ll make the lads’ eyes bug an’ their maws water with the thought of it, it will. They’ll not forget this one!”

  “They’re still talking ‘bout the last one,” Smith nodded in agreement before commenting under his breath. “An’ none too kindly, if ya’ take my meanin’.” He grabbed William by the shoulder and tugged him out of earshot. “An’ speakin’ of butchery,” he smiled, “we’re off to see the Surgeon’s workin’ quarters.”

  Sick bay was an area that contained four hammocks and two low wide tables. Only one hammock was occupied. William supposed that its occupant was the unfortunate pressing victim, as the man’s skull and forehead were obscured in a thick blood-matted turban.

  The fellow is still alive anyway. He watched as the injured man moaned and thrashed his arms about, the movements threatening to tip the poor fellow completely out of the narrow hammock. The patient appeared to be unattended at the moment, as the Surgeon was nowhere in sight.

  “Who looks after the ones in sick bay?” William inquired, his nose wrinkling with the onslaught of the repelling mixed odor of human waste, urine, sweat, and blood.

  “You’ll be the one, I ‘spect. Seein’ as how the last lander helpin’ out here had a short sail with us,” Smith explained. “He was the poor sod what took sick himself. The one with the pox.”

  Just then the man in the hammock flailed his arms in a wildly contorted circle, and the meager sling swung sharply back and forth, rocking high to one side, spilling the man’s torso towards the floor. William lunged forward and grabbed for him, cushioning the fellow’s bloodied head. The two of them landed with a hard crash, tangled together on the floor. William found himself cradling the man’s skull and then realized that the foul crusted bandage had come off in his hands. Dropping it in disgust, he gaped at the disclosed wound. A skull depression high over the left ear was still fresh with splinters of bone protruding from a thick bed of clotted blood. William felt the man’s gaze on him and he sucked a sharp intake of breath as his own eyes shifted down from the wound and locked in sh
ock onto the familiar deep blue eyes staring back at him.

  “Naaaagh–,” the man pleaded, his tongue rattling in the back of his throat.

  William’s own throat had spasmed so tightly he thought he would choke. He managed to squeeze out only a ragged whisper.

  “Da’….”

  “Nice catch, fer a lander,” Smith said, and extended a hand towards William. “C’mon. Back on yer feet.”

  William looked up at Smith, then back down at his father’s face. “Help me get him up.”

  “Just leave him where he lies,” Smith countered. “If’n he can’t get up on his own, he’s of no use to this crew an’ they’ll send him on.”

  “Send him–” William looked up in alarm. “They’re not going to toss him overboard! I’ll fight to my last breath before I let that happen!”

  “Easy now!” Smith warned, “It’s not me what decides an’ makes the rules in this hell hole! Just like the one with the pox, it’d be a favor. A quick death is the best a man can hope fer, instead of lingerin’ on, trapped inside a body what’s ill or not listenin’ to his own commandin’ any more. I don’ believe anyone would choose that over the other. Now c’mon, I tell ya’, leave that useless–”

  “I’m not leaving him!” William took a deep steadying breath before softly continuing. He stared up at Smith. “This is John Robert Taylor. My father.”

  It was Smith’s turn to gape in astonishment. “Eh? What’s that? What didcha’ just say?”

  “My Da’. I thought he’d been killed! By the pressors!” William rushed on with the details. “I found his cap and they killed my brother, John–”

  “Naaagh–,” his father uttered a high pitched moan. William suddenly realized with some relief that his father understood what was being said, even if he couldn’t form words himself. He also felt suddenly sick to realize that his father had not known until this moment that Johnny was dead.

  “Hush, Da’!” William scolded, and then turned to face Smith, fearful that his father’s incapacitation would bring on the wrath of the crew. “Here! Help me get him up!”