"A cedar plantation."
Daphne looked at him, an eyebrow raised.
"We might be in the Bermuda Islands, and someone is here harvesting cedar."
"Are they on the island with us?"
"Not likely. More often the owner will send over a crew once or twice a year to chop down the trees and haul them down to the beach. That hut is where the overseer sleeps at night."
"Do you think the owner will mind if we use his cottage?"
"I am not overly concerned with that, Miss Farnham."
The cedars had thick brown trunks, rising up into the air and awaiting their date with the axe. There had been some near the beach, their trunks twisted from exposure to the constant sea winds.
Miss Farnham walked around the empty cabin, lifting plants that trailed on the ground and examining them. Morning glories crept along the back wall of the hut, their bright blue bold against the verdant ferns and vines.
"There was a kitchen garden here, Doctor. It's mostly gone wild now, but there are peas and corn, beans, and I think those are pumpkins."
"How do you know that?"
"Hah! I am not as ignorant as you think I am!"
"You have no idea how ignorant I think you are, Miss Farnham."
She looked at him sharply, no doubt wondering if she'd been insulted.
"I am the one who explored and found us shelter. I located the food and water. Perhaps I should be in charge, Dr. Murray, not you! After all, it was different when you were elderly. I was willing to listen to you then. Now, maybe you should listen to me."
"That statement is so ridiculous as to not deserve a response."
Alex left her fuming at his back and went to the hut. It was dusty inside and looked like mice had nested in one corner of the dirt floor. Ideally the dog would earn his keep by keeping the rodent population at bay. There was a table, and one chair. A scattering of cheap pottery dishes and metal implements sat on a shelf, candle stubs alongside them. There was also an earthenware pot sitting on a trivet.
No bed, no lamps, no other amenities. Only rough shelter from the elements.
It seemed like a castle after days in an open boat.
He went back outside and looked around. There was a line of sight down to the beach through the trees, no doubt cleared that way to help the caretaker keep an eye open for returning supply ships.
Or ships that did not belong on the island.
"I am going down to the beach to fetch my chest, Miss Farnham."
Daphne Farnham stood there, barefoot and ragged, her face red from the sun with no hat to shield her. He made a mental note to bring some of the aloe he'd spotted growing down near the shore, and try his hand at weaving palmetto hats for them. A seaman had demonstrated the craft when Alexander first shipped to the Indies, and he hoped he remembered how it was done.
But for all of that she looked approachable, in a way she had not when she was dressed up and properly turned out from head to toe. Now she looked like a woman, a woman whose lush, nubile body was exposed by her torn clothing, even her bare feet giving his head--and other parts of his body--new things to ponder.
A distraction was what Alexander needed right now, and he knew what he had to do.
"Miss Farnham, after I check on my instruments I will see about finding us some supper."
"Will we have to eat raw fish again?"
"I hope not. I should be able to start a fire. You check the garden for other food."
"Oooh, that sounds heavenly." She clapped her hands together and strolled over to him, her dog following behind. Pompom paused at the sight of a blue-tailed skink sunning itself on a rock, his entire body stiffening. The two humans watched the dog, who was totally focused on the lizard.
"If he was only a little larger, Pompom could hunt for us, Dr. Murray."
Alexander started to say something snide about the animal, then stopped himself.
"Would he bring us a deer, do you think?"
Daphne giggled, the soft breathy sound soothing to Alexander's nerves, because it meant she was happy, and not despairing about their situation.
"A deer? Do not be ridiculous, Doctor."
"Well, perhaps some mice then," Alexander said with a small smile of remembrance that Miss Farnham did not see, because she was watching her animal.
"You will be all right here, by yourself?"
She looked at him, her head tilted to the side.
"I am not alone, Doctor. I have Pompom. And you."
"It is good to know where I rank. If you need me, Miss Farnham, yell loudly. I should be able to hear you."
But Daphne wasn't watching him, her eyes caught by a bird flying overhead.
"Oh look, how pretty he is with his red head. Is that a woodpecker?"
The bird landed on a nearby tree and commenced hammering with its beak, searching out its own supper.
Alexander watched her, her face alight at the sight of the bird. He'd come to realize that Miss Farnham was not simple, yet she had an almost childlike ability to seize enjoyment from the moment.
He couldn't understand it at all. If he had been asked during the first few days aboard the Magpie to describe what Miss Farnham might be like in this situation, he would have said she'd be crying hysterically, and whining about how unfair it all was, and demanding he take care of her.
Daphne Farnham was doing none of those things. She was cheerful and cooperative and helpful, and it suddenly struck him how lonely it would have been in that boat without her, and how close he could have come to despair.
He might even go so far as to say he owed Daphne Farnham his life.
"I believe it is a woodpecker, yes."
"I'm glad someone's having supper today."
At the word "supper" the dog barked and wagged its tail, and Daphne looked down at him ruefully.
"Oh dear, I should know better than to say that word around Pompom."
"If you will check on items growing around the cabin, I will see what I can do."
Daphne smiled at him and said, "Come, Pompom, let's go dig in the garden," and Alexander watched them as they walked off, her bare feet placed carefully to avoid stones and stickers.
Down at the beach he took a moment to scan the horizon, hoping against hope that there might be a sail. But there was nothing. However, the beach itself held unexpected treasures. In addition to his chest, there was driftwood from their boat, one piece of which had Daphne's valise snagged to it.
He opened his surgical chest, wincing. The velvet indentations holding his instruments were darkened by saltwater. More importantly the instruments themselves were wet and would rust if not cared for properly. It was a lesson he'd learned from his very first days of cleaning up after his teachers, assisting them at their post-mortems and the dissections performed on the corpses stolen and smuggled into the schools--a surgeon's tools were an extension of his arm and must be always ready for use.
The rags of his shirt served to dry the instruments, followed by an oiling with the sealed bottle in the bottom of the case. He examined each item, giving the saw particular attention. While he hated to use it for this purpose, it was a tool of a different sort on the island.
He found a sapling of the right thickness and cut through its base, sharpening the end into a point. He set it aside. Once he had a fire going he could harden the tip in the coals. If necessary he could lash one of his knives to the spear, but the very idea of treating his instruments in that manner made him wince. Maybe the clasp knife, which had survived in his pocket as they tumbled through the waters.
"Fire first," Alexander said to himself. He was about to raise his voice and call for Daphne when she came through the brush, the dog at her heels.
"Just the person I need. Your valise is here, Miss Farnham, but it's half-empty. It must have come unlatched in the surf. If you can leave it sit to dry, I could use your assistance gathering wood for the firepit in front of the hut."
He paused and looked around the beach. Some holes in the sand
gave him a clue as to their supper possibilities.
Daphne trotted off with her dog, and Alex took his case and some of the aloe spikes and went back to the cabin. From the bottom of his case he drew out his pistol. It was a necessary evil, especially during wartime. The ports of call of the Royal Navy were not populated by sterling characters. If it came down to his life or that of a brigand, Alexander was willing to shoot first and heal later.
Today the pistol would bring welcome heat and light.
He stepped outside as Daphne unloaded some dry wood. She'd pulled her skirt up to make an apron to hold more, and he carefully kept his eyes up on her face. He could hardly help but note, however, that her lower limbs were as shapely as the rest of her.
"Whew!" She wiped her hand across her forehead. "Is that enough, Doctor?"
"No, I'm afraid not, Miss Farnham," he said gently. "We will need a goodly amount of fuel to keep the fire going long enough to cook our supper. Then we will bank it so there are coals in the morning."
"Oh." She looked dismayed for a moment, but then her usual sunny disposition asserted itself. "I will look for more then."
"As soon as I am sure the fire is going strong, I will help you."
She flashed him a smile and turned back to the beach for more sticks. Alexander watched her go, then cleared the firepit of debris and prepared some kindling. He took his pistol and the tinder, and angling the pistol pulled the trigger, striking the flint against the steel and throwing a spark. After a few strikes, a wisp of smoke rose from the tinder, and he patiently nursed it into a flame.
Daphne returned with another load of wood, her face red from exertion.
"Drink some water, Miss Farnham. You do not want to become overheated."
"My arms are sore," Daphne said. "Do people work like this every day?"
Alexander looked up from the fire he was tending, but he did not give her a sarcastic answer. He could not expect Miss Daphne Farnham to understand how most of the world earned its daily bread. That would be like expecting the dog to start spouting Shakespeare.
"Yes, Miss Farnham, some people do have to work like this. Every day."
"I am glad I am not one of them," she said with complete honesty.
"I can understand why you feel that way. However, while we are here we must imitate the working classes."
"I am being useful, then?"
The fire seemed to be going on its own, so he stood and joined her in gathering firewood.
"Yes, Miss Farnham. You are being most useful. If I were here alone on the island I would need to work twice as hard to fetch enough wood to keep the fire going."
"Imagine that," Daphne murmured. "I am useful."
The thought put a spring in her step. After two more trips, Alexander pronounced himself satisfied.
"Tomorrow we will build that lean-to, a shelter for firewood. As the seasons change it will turn cooler and there will be rainstorms, so having a dry wood supply becomes more important than ever."
"But what about supper?" Daphne said, her hand pressed over her stomach.
"Were you able to find anything useful in the garden?"
"Corn, and some yams and beans. Tomorrow I will look again."
"Tomorrow we will also search out fruit and other plants growing here. Palms contain an edible core we can extract. Tonight we will put the yams in the fire to roast, and save the other vegetables for later."
He showed her how to cover the yams and put them at the edge of the firepit. Then hoisting the earthenware kettle onto his shoulder, he followed her down to the ocean. Alexander filled the kettle about a third full of seawater and carried it back to the fire, Daphne trailing behind.
"How do you know all these things, Doctor? How to build a fire and how to cook?"
"I was raised on a farm, Miss Farnham, and we did not have servants to do things for us."
"Us? You had a large family?"
"No. Just my mother and myself."
"But what about your father?"
"I had no father, Miss Farnham."
She sat back on her heels and looked at him. "That is sad, Dr. Murray."
"I learned to live with it, Miss Farnham. Now, we need to heat this water."
The pot sat atop the trivet, and when he was satisfied it would not tip into the fire, he rose to his feet. Daphne was quiet, and when she stood she was weaving on her feet.
"Hunger is making you light-headed, Miss Farnham. You sit here and--"
"Can you use my assistance?"
She was watching him steadily, and while he could have brushed her off, she deserved an honest answer.
"Yes. I could use your assistance. And I will need your valise."
He took his sharpened stick and the valise and they walked back down to the beach. The sun was closer to the horizon. He needed to move quickly so they wouldn't be stumbling around in the dark. The last thing he needed was for one of them to twist an ankle or break a leg.
"See those holes?" He pointed to the sand. "Those are crab holes. Just as the fish are more active at sunrise and sunset, the crabs will come out looking for food. We will catch our supper here."
"We will?"
"Do not worry, you won't have to eat them raw. That's what the boiling water is for. Your task is to hold the valise."
"You are putting live crabs in my valise?"
"How hungry are you, Miss Farnham?"
"That is a good point, Dr. Murray," she acknowledged, and dutifully followed behind him.
The blue crabs were wily, but they were no match for two hungry and determined humans. There was some inevitable shrieking when one of the crabs made a dash for freedom from the open valise, but Daphne grabbed it with a fierce expression on her face and tossed it back in with its sisters. Hunger could spur people to amazing feats.
He carried the bag back up to the fire, and while Daphne winced and looked away when he dumped the live crabs in the pot, she did not protest.
"Please keep an eye on them, Miss Farnham. I'm going down to the beach for more water."
"What if they try to escape?"
He handed her his stick.
"Bash their little heads, Miss Farnham. They'll behave."
She looked at him skeptically, but took the stick. Pompom sniffed all around the valise, then flopped down next to her, eyeing the pot with his head on his paws.
Alex returned and added water to the pot, careful not to let it fall below a boil. Eventually, after some whining (the dog) and grumbling (Miss Farnham), he pronounced the crabs ready for consumption. He extracted the crabs by using his stick to flip them into the air.
"Catch them, Daphne! Quick, before the dog grabs them!"
Holding the valise open, Miss Farnham dashed about, catching the manna as it fell from the heavens. The dog barked and she laughed and Alexander felt almost lighthearted.
He put it down to hunger.
Daphne gave one more weak laugh and flopped down in the sand next to him.
Alexander passed her one of the cheap dishes from the cabin, using a broad leaf as his own plate. The dog tried to climb into his lap when he sat, but Daphne grabbed him and held him 'round his shoulders.
"Very soon now, Pompom," she assured him, giving him a kiss atop his head.
Alexander laid a crab out on the leaf, cracking it open. It wasn't the most efficient method, but it did expose the succulent white flesh, steaming in the dusk. He piled hot pieces atop her plate, and then cracked some open for himself.
"This could use some melted butter," she said wistfully, passing a bite to Pompom. "But it's tasty, Doctor. And the yams are sweet. This is an excellent supper."
"Better than raw fish?"
"Isn't everything?" She shuddered. "I hope I never, ever eat raw fish again."
"But now that you have, Miss Farnham, do you not feel better for it?" He sucked some crab meat out of a claw while she looked at him quizzically. "You survived a shipwreck at sea and learned to adapt to changing circumstances. I daresay there are few you
ng ladies of your acquaintance who would be able to claim such a breadth of experience."
"Oh! I am having an adventure! Maybe when I return home I will write a book about it."
"You would not be the first castaway to use the experience for gain. My own countryman, Alexander Selkirk, was one such individual. Some say he was the true Robinson Crusoe."
"You don't think it is a silly notion, someone like me wanting to write a book?"
"I admit, I would be astounded if you wrote a treatise on the circulatory system, Miss Farnham, but you could write a book about something you know about--fashion, hats? Maybe the care and feeding of small yapping dogs?"
"You are being harsh on poor Pompom, Doctor. He, too, is part of our adventure."
"Exactly. You could write a book about a young lady and her brave little dog, castaway on an island."
"Is there a surgeon full of gravitas in this book?"
"That would add nothing to the story. Fierce savages threatening to cook and eat the lady and her doggy might be a better way to go."
The sun was gone now, only the diffused light of dusk lingering. Daphne looked over her shoulder and inched closer to Alexander. Her eyes were large in the reflected firelight.
"Do you think there are cannibals here, Doctor?" she whispered.
Alexander lowered his own voice and said, "If there are, Miss Farnham, I have no doubt your dog will dispatch them."
She looked at him a moment, blinked her lushly lashed eyes, then looked at Pompom.
"I wish I had your faith, Dr. Murray."
He was tempted to string her along further, but did not want to have to deal with the consequences if Miss Farnham heard a noise during the night and became hysterical.
"No, Miss Farnham, there are no savages on these islands. However," and he looked at her to make sure she was paying attention, "there are dangers. These scattered islands are used by all sorts of desperadoes. Some are simple smugglers trying to avoid tariffs, but others can be of a much nastier sort."
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