Quintspinner

by Dianne Greenlay

  “Just a wish, me boy, just a wish.” Smith feigned looking at the horizon again.

  “Didn’t you hear? She’s engaged.”

  Smith lowered the backstaff and cocked a questioning eyebrow. “Just who are ya’ talkin’ about?”

  “Well, Tess, of course. She’s beautiful alright but above anything either of us will ever amount to in life. On shore, the likes of us would never even be allowed in the same room as her.”

  “’Taint the engaged one what stirs me,” Smith asserted and raised the backstaff again. “An’ I’ll look all I like. Just ‘cause I’m poor don’t mean I’m blind.”

  “Mr. Smith!” Captain Crowell’s unmistakable voice rang out.

  Smith snapped to attention. “Sir!”

  “It is impressive to see you so diligently studying new found navigational skills. But perhaps it is time to change duties for awhile, lest you … strain your eyes.” Captain Crowell allowed a small smile to show. “And Mr. Taylor, I feel it would be in the best interest of all aboard to release some building tensions between the two crews. What think you if we were to have some song and dance tonight?”

  “Yessir!” William replied stiffly.

  “You have retained possession of your instrument?”

  “I have, Sir!”

  “Gather any who have musical abilities. From both sides. I shall have the event announced.” The captain was about to turn away, when he added, “I myself am fond of the way the sun looks as it sets upon the horizon. But it is best not to stare too long at any one spot, lest one were to get burned.”

  No crew member from the Mary Jane would respond to William’s inquiry as to the availability of a fiddler among them, the Argus’s man having been one of the casualties. Their superstitious fear of his webbed digits was obvious. Few even acknowledged him.

  Fine. It’ll be just me and the drum then. And there’ll be all the more rum for those of us having a bit of fun. The crew’s apparent resentment of their new brethren from the Argus frustrated William. He stomped away from the men manning the afternoon watch. Don’t you realize we were along to offer protection to you, you useless buggering arse-lickin’ sods? He stopped in his tracks. We? Gawd. I’m even thinking like a tar now.

  Edward Graham was not a patient man. There had been no event in his life so far for which he had been content to sit back and wait for it to happen. It was best to aggressively pursue what a man wanted in life. Waiting was a tactic of the cowardly, a tactic of those who were unsure of their goals, uncertain of themselves.

  Edward was none of those. His ambitions were strong, scarcely hidden. He was a royal courtier to the Prince of Wales, who was, in turn, the man next in line to be King of the British Empire! And Edward intended to be First Advisor and the most valued consult to the royal position when that happened.

  His plans had been coming along nicely, almost too good to be true, when Prince George had heard tell of a seer. Men of Parliament and of the court spoke of her. An old woman with powers of uncanny prophesy. Edward had been instructed to seek her out; and he had dutifully, if reluctantly, done so, armed with a list of inquiries from the Prince. Edward had been sent on such visits more and more frequently, and on several occasions the Prince had even acted on the old bat’s advice, taking it over Edward’s. Jealousy did not befit him, he knew–she was a commoner after all, a mere beggar–but he could not tame the rising urge to rid his world of the Crone each time her advice proved worthy and true.

  However, her reassurances to the Prince on the appointment of Lord Chamberlain as godfather to the Prince’s son had gone badly. Being banished by the King from the royal residence and forbidden to take the children–their own children!–with them to Leicester House was nearly unbearable to Prince George and his wife, Catherine. An intolerable outcome to them perhaps, but to Edward it was a stroke of extremely good luck.

  He had nearly pissed himself in giddy anticipation when the Prince had ordered Edward to sever all ties with the Crone. It had been Edward’s own idea to return to her miserable abode to exact retribution. The blame, after all, fell squarely on her shoulders. And besides, he had, by then, noticed her ring.

  If she, upon hearing about her great misjudgment, could have been bullied into handing it over to him, well then, he would have had no intention of delivering it to anyone. He had been passed over on several occasions, his own council having been shamefully ignored in favor of that ragamuffin’s, his ego sorely wounded each time.

  The ring should have been his. It was the least he was owed. Who could have known the old hag would have been willing to put up such a fight to prevent him from having it? And then to have been attacked from behind and to have had to leave empty-handed with nothing but a serious head wound to show for his visit! He should have known that such unsavory quarters might be harboring thugs.

  Thank God Charles Willoughby was a skilled doctor who also knew the value of discretion, especially within royal circles. He had asked only a minimal amount of questions regarding Edward’s acquisition of the wound, and had not pressed for any further details. It had been the result of Edward’s well-placed suggestion that the doctor had been offered the tempting position as the chief physician in the West Indies. The placement would seem like a gift from Edward, and yet it would relocate the doctor, along with his knowledge of the few details of Edward’s attack, far from the ears of any court spies. Edward considered it to be a prudent suggestion. Just in case.

  He had despaired of ever seeing the ring again. There had been a slight chance that it would surface again sometime in the future, a bobble on the hand of somebody’s mistress or adorning the finger of an imported, politically-placed wife perhaps, but he doubted it. He had thought it was lost to him. And then! To have been assigned by the King himself to sail upon this wretched vessel, chosen to be the royal representative overseeing the ongoing rebuilding of Port Royal in Jamaica–why, it was as though he too, were being banished. The fact that Prince George had given his word to Edward that he would be sent for and returned to England just as soon as possible, had done nothing to lessen his despondency.

  The night he had taken supper with the captain and the officers, however, was the night that he was catapulted back up to the very top of his world. He could not believe his eyes. The doctor’s daughter. She wore the ring. The very one!

  And now she was officially going to be his. She was young, well-educated, lovely to look at, and, her father had confidentially assured him, a virgin. Edward was delighted. She was the perfect package. She was his. Along with her ring. Soon to be his ring.

  Edward paced impatiently on the open deck. The damned sun was getting hot and he longed to retreat into the shade of his cabin, but dared not, in case Tess should emerge from hers and he would miss her appearance. Prickly sweat tickled him along his hairline before rolling down his neck and soaking into his fine ruffled shirt.

  How long is it going to take for her to wake up this time? He’d begun to look forward to their daily strolls around the deck together. And she was keeping him waiting longer than usual this time.

  He’d kept his annoyance hidden from the doctor, that his betrothed had been drugged with an obviously large dose of laudanum in her celebratory glass of brandy, and that her daily drinks had continued to be laced with more of the same. Edward had wanted Tess to be awake, alert. The doctor had explained that in view of the fact that Tess and Edward had not met prior to the engagement, and had not had a chance to exchange even polite conversation, she would be understandably caught off guard by her engagement to him. The doctor had wanted her to receive and accept the news with a tranquil state of mind, easily produced by the tonic.

  Edward had given some thought to this. Perhaps the doctor was right. Perhaps, if she were not so anxious, she would agree to marry him on the ship. He saw no advantage to waiting for a wedding blessing on land. Besides, he was keen to bed his new wife. To explore her lithe body with his own. To teach her things of pleasure. To feel her warm, firm flesh
yielding under his hands…. He felt his own flesh firming as he thought of her.

  His impatience was growing. In fact he was sure that the captain could and would perform the ceremony on board that very day, if the doctor were willing to have it so. Edward would do what he could to make it so.

  He was so engrossed in his plans that he did not heed the sailing master’s call for more sail, did not look to see where he stepped. A length of cable of woven hemp whipped by his head, snapping the tip of his ear as it was sucked up from its neat coil upon the deck by the newly freed canvas which boldly inflated in the tropical breezes high overhead.

  Surprised by such movement in close proximity to his head, Edward instinctively ducked and whirled around, tripping over a crew member. The sailor had been one of many crouched down on hands and knees, all of them either scrubbing the decks with the abrasive surface of a holystone, or using a caulking mallet and iron to stuff the deck seams anew with oakum and tar. He fell heavily onto his back, pinning the sailor’s arm and caulking iron beneath him.

  Shock slammed into him and a fierce stab of pain tore through his flesh as the pointed tip of the caulking iron gored his flank. He laid on the deck, struggling to breathe, his body deeply impaled on the sharp edge of the fan-shaped tool. Its handle protruded just below his rib cage.

  Horrified that their royal passenger had been injured on their shift–and likely mortally at that–the men on deck rushed to transport Edward into Dr. Willoughby’s care.

  “Leave the blade where it rests!” Dr. Willoughby ordered, tearing Edward’s fine shirt from his body in order to examine the punctured area. “Bring packing and wet tobacco. And I need a lamp. Immediately!” He squinted in the low light and palpated the area, but even without the clarity of a lantern, he knew that he needed to look no further.

  Edward Graham was a dead man.

  Or would be soon. It was only a choice of timing.

  If the iron were to be removed, Edward would bleed out in a matter of a few heartbeats. His abdomen had already begun to swell from the bleeding within. If the iron were to be left in place until the bleeding clotted, his body cavity would most likely fill with putrification over the next couple of days, slowly poisoning all of his systems, painfully leading to a confused state of mind, then a coma, and then death. Which way to go to arrive at the same destination? It should be Edward’s choice, he felt.

  Bending close to Edward’s face he saw that his patient was still conscious. Damn it! It was such an unpleasant thing, offering a man a choice of deaths. It would have been a much simpler thing to have withdrawn the iron if he had been unconscious and not capable of making that one last decision for himself. However, here they were, with Edward’s dark eyes fixing on his own as he began to explain to Edward his options.

  When he was through, Edward simply grunted, “Bring Tess to me.”

  Tess arrived at her father’s side looking bewildered and frightened. Her eyes widened when she saw Edward lying on his side upon the surgical table. Edward beckoned weakly to her.

  “Come here.” His voice was faint and she bent her face close enough to hear him. “Go to my cabin. Under the bed there is a small box that will be unlocked by this key I wear around my neck. Take it and open the box. Inside you will find a bronzed item shaped in the form of a small jeweled bird. Open the bird and place the ring you find within it on your fourth finger on your left hand and come back to me.” He coughed weakly and his breathing became more labored.

  “I will not wear your engagement ring!” Tess hissed into his ear, low enough that her father would not hear.

  Sweat glistened on Edward’s brow and he began to shake. Tess recognized the early signs of impending death. She had seen shock set in before, in other patients of her father’s. Edward attempted to moisten his lips with his tongue.

  “It is not … not an engagement ring. Tess. I plead with you for my life. Take the key and get the ring. Put it on and return here.”

  “And why should I do that? Why do you want to have it here?”

  Edward’s eyes were as dark as sweet pools of molasses. He was pleading with her. He did not look threatening, did not look anything but resigned and sad and in need. Why have I not noticed that about him before? She was startled at her sudden feelings of compassion for him. His eyes searched hers, desperately raw with his need.

  “Tess. The ring. It is the emerald spinner. Wear it next to your ring of blue tourmalines and the powers of both will be magnified.” He hesitated in his explanation and took several quick shallow breaths, grimacing in pain with each one before continuing. “With their combined strength, you can save my life if you so choose. Spin the rings together and use your mind to will the bleeding to stop. Use your thoughts to keep the wound clean. But you must hurry.” His next words were mere whispers.

  “I will not survive without your help.”

  A strange compulsion to do as Edward pleaded washed over Tess, although she could not identify even one logical reason as to why she should do anything to assist with the man’s survival. It had been still early evening when, following Edward’s instructions, Tess found the ring nestled within the belly of the palm-sized bronze bird, just as he had described.

  She slipped it onto her fourth finger, barely registering its magnificent design and ran back to where Edward lay ominously still. As she watched, his chest had risen slightly with a shallow breath, and without opening his eyes, he addressed her.

  “Spin them,” he softly whispered the instruction. “The rings. Do you feel the attraction they have for each other?”

  She did. There was an invisible pull, a surge of warm pulsing energy in her hand. Edward reached out, his own hand feebly grasping her wrist. “Spin them again!” he commanded, the desperation in his voice coming through even in his throaty whisper. Tess didn’t move, confused and embarrassed that she was being drawn into such childish beliefs in magic.

  “The decision is yours,” he acknowledged when Tess hesitated, “but I have made mine.” He looked at her, his voice as soft as velvet.

  “I wish to live.”

  Dr. Willoughby wiped the sweat from his own brow. Although the medical cabin was always uncomfortably warm, only he knew that he had been perspiring more in nervous anticipation of removal of the iron from Edward’s back than from the stifling air. In spite of the doctor’s explanation of the outcome, Edward had decided to have the iron withdrawn.

  Edward had also insisted in having a few private whispered exchanges of words with Tess before the removal. That is to be expected. She was, after all, the man’s fiancée. The doctor had seen the ring from Edward that Tess had returned with and was impressed by so gracious and honorable a gesture.

  Even if it is to be the man’s last action of his life.

  Tess had allowed Edward to hold her hand for a few moments and she had then gently placed both of her hands on the site of his wound, one of them directly around the blade handle, and the other, now adorned with the two rings on her outstretched fingers, slowly circled and hovered over the wound site. Her eyes were closed and her lips moved silently. Her father looked on in surprise.

  I had no idea that she was so taken to prayer. I suppose her words would be as good as any for a Christian send-off.

  The extra time Tess had spent ministering to Edward in this fashion had allowed the doctor to position an empty cask on the deck floor just below the table where Edward laid. It looked to be just large enough to hold the entire blood supply from an adult male. Dr. Willoughby supposed that there would have been some clotting by then but not enough to have made a real difference in the expected volume of an impending ex-sanguination.

  It was time.

  Dr. Willoughby sighed. There was no further reason to put off the inevitable. His daughter’s secured future was about to literally bleed away before their very eyes.

  He braced one hand against the lower edge of the back of Edward’s chest, and pulled firmly on the iron’s handle, withdrawing its blade slowly from the
wound. It made a wet, sucking noise as it exited the wound’s entrance. As had been expected, a burst of warm blood exploded from the puncture site, gushing over his hands, spilling down onto the table and splashing loudly into the empty cask below. And then, just as suddenly, it slowed to a trickle. The doctor stood dumbfounded, his eyebrows arched high in surprise.

  What is happening? Where is the blood?

  The wound still bled but no more than as if from a superficial slash of a knife. He checked the wound entrance carefully.

  He must have bled out internally

  But no, Edward Graham moaned, then sighed deeply, and stretched out both of his legs. Hardly the posturing of a dead man!

  “Packing!” the doctor roared, recovering his wits. “I may be able to save this man’s life yet!”

  He flushed the wound with dark rum, and packed it with steamed tobacco and cotton. As a final administration to his patient, he dispensed a strong tincture of henbane for pain, pleased that Edward’s breathing seemed to have become less labored. Throughout it all, Tess stayed, never taking her eyes off of Edward, except for brief glances during which she appeared to be studying the ring she had received from him. And then, as strains of a flute and fiddle had filtered into the room from the open deck, the doctor touched his daughter on her shoulder.

  “Let him sleep for now, Tess. In the days ahead he may fester or he may heal. But he’ll not die tonight. Let us get Cassie and Mrs. Hanley, and join the festivities. I’ll have another stay on watch with him for now.”

  And with that, they had left Edward and joined the reverie of the night’s music and dance.

  William and Smith opened the evening with a foot-stomping jig. Smith kept time on makeshift hand drums–the side of a cask and an over turned bucket–while William led with the melody of his choice. It was a moderately bawdy song and before long several voices rose in chorus, and hands clapped along to the beat. The flute made only thin notes however, and just a few songs into the revelry, William realized the strains of a fiddle had arrived to fill in. An officer from the Mary Jane stepped forward with the instrument tucked under his chin and a bow in hand.