Constantin, now that they had the girl in the crews quarters, was being no help at all. He simply stared, wide-eyed, from the captain to the unconscious boy on the bunk. Boy! Dear God… girl… “Mikhail,” he said, using the familiarity without thinking. “What are we…”
“Stop asking,” Nikilov snapped. “We will do… what we are doing.”
Though it was closed, the mate pulled the girl's shirt tighter as if he feared something might escape. He stared incredulously up at the captain, who stared incredulously down at him. Both were flabbergasted.
“Your deck boy…” The mate's mouth had gone dry, “is not a boy.”
The captain's blue eyes burned. “You mean… your deck boy? You signed him aboard my ship.” His voice became barely audible. “This is all we need. Can you imagine the pandemonium if the others discover there is a woman among the crew?”
“Yes. Especially from Popescu,” Constantin said. “Couple his superstitious nature with his indiscretion. He'll incite the others. We'll be damned lucky if they don't throw her overboard.”
“Not from my ship they won't.”
“I am saying, sir, it might be best if we continue the masquerade until we reach a port and get rid of her.”
Nikilov sighed. “We will consider that. In the meantime, what's the matter with… her?”
* * *
“Swales!” It was Constantin in the companionway. He stuck his head in the mess door, saw the cook up to his wrists in flour and bacon fat and, to his pleasure, the English scholar as well.
Harrington turned groggily from his first cup of coffee. “What's all the to-do?”
Seeing Harrington helped Constantin see other things as well, about their passenger, their so-called deck boy, and several unexplained night-time meetings between the two. It suddenly seemed a reasonable guess the secret he and the captain had just learned might not be a secret to all. Sent for the cook in his capacity as ship's doctor, the mate's theory seemed worth testing. “Swales,” he snapped. “You are needed in the crew's quarters. The, eh, deck boy has been injured.”
Harrington leapt from the table as if fired from a cannon. “What's happened?”
“It is not your business,” the mate replied. “Swales?”
“I'm comin',” the cook said, waving his hands to explain his sloth.
“I'm coming too,” Harrington insisted.
Constantin had no knowledge of what the pair were up to, but it was painfully obvious he was right; the bookworm and the girl had an alliance – perhaps more. “You are not needed.”
“Mr. Constantin, forgive me. I merely meant… I'm fond of the boy and… May I come? Eh, perhaps I can be of help.”
Swales, washed and toweling dry as he stepped from the galley, put in a word. “He has a medical book-learnin' I do no'. Mayhaps…?”
“Yes,” the mate said, eyeing the cook in a different light as well. Was Swales also being made a fool of? Or was he a third member of this conspiracy? Thinking it best to keep them together until he knew, he turned to Harrington with a smile. “Perhaps you should come.”
* * *
Constantin rapped on the door to the crew's quarters and opened it at the captain's word. Stepping in, he said, “Swales, sir, as you ordered.” He let the cook pass, then holding the Englishman at the door, added, “And… at his own insistance, Mr. Harrington.”
Nikilov glared a question at his first but said nothing. Instead, he laid a hand on Swales' chest to prevent his reaching the patient. “There is something you need to know, eh, before you treat the boy.” He looked to the door. “Iancu, have Herr Harrington wait in the companionway.”
“Your pardon, sir,” Constantin said with something up his sleeve. “Perhaps Mr. Harrington would prefer to tell him.”
The captain frowned, taking in the trio, mate, cook and passenger. “Mr. Constantin, what is this about?”
“Sir. It has been my observation that Mr. Harrington and…” He cleared his throat. “…Funar are more familiar with each other than we were led to believe. I have interrupted several late night meetings on deck and am convinced their relationship pre-dates our sailing. I believe our passenger is intimate enough with Funar he is aware of the fact you were about to relate to Mr. Swales.”
Nikilov turned to the passenger. “Herr Harrington? Do you know something that might assist the cook in treating Funar?”
Three sets of eyes bored into him; the captain's in question, Constantin's in triumph, and Swales' in resignation. Harrington stared back in embarrassed silence.
Nikilov's visage grew grim. The first's showed anticipation. The poor old Scotsman appeared trapped. Harrington could not have that. He and Ekaterina were nabbed, but there was no reason to drag Swales down. He pursed his lips and took a deep breath. He nodded respect to the captain, a curt acknowledgment to the mate, and told the cook, “Oliver, you don't know this but, the deck boy is not a boy. He, uh, she… is a young woman called Ekaterina Gabor.”
Swales' mind raced as he considered how to react. Finally, knowing he must, he followed Trevor's lead and feigned ignorance. “No! A lass? No! Ye don't say?”
“Captain,” Harrington said. “I'm sure you have questions. At least, before you pass judgment, I hope you do. I will answer as I can. But I beg you, allow Swales to care for her now.”
“Mr. Swales, you will quietly see to the girl's needs. The crew is not to know, understand?” The captain did not wait for the cook's answer. “Herr Harrington, you will accompany me. Mr. Constantin, you will join us.”
Chapter Seventeen
Captain Nikilov's quarters were as austere as the commander. A bunk with one thin bran pillow, three small shelves holding books, journals, and Holy Bibles in varied states of wear, aligned tall to short like soldiers at attention, an umbrella stand filled with rolled charts, a desk chair, a worn desk (big enough to roll out his charts) devoid of clutter save for a kerosene lamp and the room's only bow to the material; a sculptured, glittering, gold mantle clock. And, like Harrington's cabin, a lone porthole.
The captain entered, sat and stared at the clock. The first followed, directed Harrington to the middle of the room, and secured the door. When finally the captain spoke, he did so as if Harrington were not there. “It appears, Mr. Constantin, we've been made fools of.” The passenger moved to speak but the first raised a finger, signaling him to hold his tongue.
The captain resumed. “Am I correct, Herr Harrington? Are we your fools?”
“Absolutely not, I assure you!”
“You knew that our deck boy was… no such thing?”
Harrington nodded, feeling a little foolish himself.
“I don't like this cruise,” the captain said. “While it is not exactly sealed orders, it is special orders. To have my hands tied is one thing, but to sail by the bidding of an unnamed client, as we're telling secrets, I'll tell you, I don't like it. Now to add insult I find there are secrets kept from me. At considerable risk, I afforded you passage. You have repaid my benefaction with deceit.”
“Captain Nikilov, I deny complicity in any ruse to hoodwink you. This is not what you think.”
“You do not know what I think, Herr Harrington. Even I do not know what I think, because I do not know what is happening on my ship! Now, you will explain.”
“When I bought passage on your vessel, I had no idea Katya was… That Ekaterina was in Varna. I certainly had no clue she was trying to sign herself aboard your vessel. I thought I left her behind in Romania. The whole point was to leave her safely behind in Romania.”
“You have already admitted knowing she was aboard.”
“Sir, I was not aware when we left Varna. Ekaterina is… impulsive. I did not learn of her presence until our seventh day at sea when we sailed through the Dardanelles. I discovered her by accident in the hold during the inspection. Until then, I too thought her just Funar, the deck boy.”
The captain studied the young scholar and, inexplicably, believed what he saw. “Very well. It is n
ot your fault, perhaps, she is here. But you cannot deny a conspiracy to deceive since that discovery. How many men before the mast know of this?”
“Sir?”
“I am asking you who else knows she is aboard?”
Harrington hesitated. His eyes fell to the floor as if searching for the answer.
“Perhaps you do not recognize the gravity of your position, Herr Harrington. Nothing will satisfy me but your complete candor. Now, who else on the Demeter knows this girl is aboard?”
* * *
For a creature nearly five hundred years old, weeks passed like seconds. True as that was, he'd been in that box, in abeyance, without feeding, for weeks. Too long!
He'd fed the previous night, for the first time in all that time, and Dracula was strong and vibrant again. Young again. Now he was back in his box, supine, glutted but far from satisfied. He'd given in to temptation, fulfilled his desire. He had tasted of the girl but in so doing had only stoked his hunger. He had spared her life, left her still aboard. The bloodlust – and the lust – remained and was intensified.
Count Dracula would have her again.
* * *
“Swales!” The captain was livid, biting his tongue. “Swales joined you in this deceit?”
“He didn't. He knew before I. There was never a question of deceit. Swales kept Ekaterina's secret to maintain calm on the ship. The crew were on edge. He was concerned they'd react negatively, dangerously, if they found her out. If you ask me, sir, he was trying to make your job easier.”
“That was not his place, or yours. So far as I am concerned you've abetted a stowaway in the commission of her crime.” The captain pushed his cap back. “And, for now, we will do the same.”
Constantin started. “Sir?”
“My complaint is in this secret being kept from me. I cannot argue with keeping it from the crew. We are short men and experience. The crew have already borne witness to a number of strange occurrences. They do not need more surprises.”
“Aye, captain.”
“Fraulein Gabor will retain her identity as Rada Funar. The boy has a severe concussion requiring rest and solitude.”
“There will be rumors, sir. How do I stifle them?”
“You don't. The subject should be changed and the rumors ignored, but not suppressed. As long as sailors are talking, they're not thinking. It is a head injury requiring rest, nothing more. There will be no talk of illness or an injury – and no mention of today's discovery.” He growled at Harrington. “I do not like it. But that's as is. For now the secret remains and is not to be told to the parrot.”
“The parrot?” Harrington asked.
“He's telling you not to blab,” Constantin barked, annoyed at his ignorance.
Nikilov's eyes dug a hole in the Englishman. “Funar will be moved to your quarters. You will bunk with the crew for the remainder of the voyage.” Harrington's response was cut off by Nikilov's raised palm. “There will be no discussion. The girl's condition will be Swales concern. Beyond that, you will be entirely responsible for her. Am I understood?”
“Yes, captain.”
“Then you may go and see to your responsibilities.”
“I shall not fail you, captain.”
“I recommend you do not,” Nikilov said with menace. “So long as they are properly weighted, the ocean keeps all secrets thrown to her.”
* * *
The crew were kept busy on deck while the transition was made. The girl was carried to the passenger's cabin and laid unconscious on the lower of the two bunk beds. Funar's kit followed. Harrington's kit was piled in the corner for him to deal with when he would. The Englishman became her custodian. Swales was made her doctor and, taking the assignment seriously, barreled in with a pile of books and a quickly collected bag of medical tricks.
“You are treating him for a severe concussion,” the mate insisted. “Nothing more will be said. Anxieties are already too high.” Constantin added a muted growl, and his assurance their deceit would not be forgotten, then left, washing his hands of the matter.
“I don't think he likes us,” Harrington said, when the first was gone.
“'e liked me well enuff, 'efore you come along.”
“We joined the ship at the same time.”
“If ye've nowt but facts ye'll lose this argument.” Done with Harrington, Swales turned to his patient. Her heart was racing, her breathing shallow and rapid, her pale skin cold and clammy.
Over his shoulder, Harrington asked about the bandage on her throat.
“It's nowt; two wee punctures. The mate said there were no blood to speak o' on deck. She has no other wounds, an' she's no' injured. Cleaned an' bandaged `em as a matter o' course.”
“What caused them?”
“I don't know, lad. And I do no' care. Her problem is no' her throat. She's sick, sufferin' an illness, an' I'll need follow her symptoms to gawm why.”
“What illnesses strike so suddenly?”
Swales grunted derisively. “There's no end; especially at sea.” He wetted a cloth in the basin and laid it over the girl's sweating forehead. “Was in the Comore Islands once, the Mozambique Channel, fer ten days. Within three or four days o' sailin' half the crew sickened an' died. It was thought a terrible pestilence had come aboard. But it struck me only those what slept on shore suffered; those what returned to the ship e'ery night escaped the plague. That's when I said t'was malaria.”
“Malaria! You don't imagine she has malaria, do you?”
Swales shrugged. “That's what I am doin', imaginin'. It's all I can do. Malarial poison infects at night an' incubates for nigh on a fortnight. Yer lass was struck at night. But if it's malaria, we'll discover that, no' by askin' where she was last night, but by askin' where she slept two weeks ago.”
“It's ridiculous, Oliver. She spent the last eighteen years in her father's too-comfortable home.”
“Ye need put yer bias away. The girl is here, so she was on the road from Bukovina to Varna.”
“Six days before we sailed, she was home. I saw her before her brothers started shooting.”
“We've been at sea for nine. Add yer six, sleepin' in the open, Gog knows where?”
“She hasn't been within forty miles of a mosquito-infested swamp. I assure you, she does not have malaria, yellow fever, or marsh fever of the tropics.” Exasperated, Harrington added, “Ekaterina has not been bitten by anything!”
Swales slipped his pipe between his teeth. “Hold yer horse, lad. I'm thinkin' out loud, to make room in me head, an' malaria isn't me only thought. There's thousands o' things it might be. Jings, there are a hundred influenzas. Add typhus, cholera, scurvy.”
“Scurvy? What is that?”
“A desease Gog made just fer sailors. Some blame bad tinned meat, but I say bosh.” He grabbed an old book, A Treatise of the Scurvy, and waved it as if he held the fabled touchstone. “Says here…”
“What is that?”
Swales screwed up his lips. “James Lind; a Scottish surgeon in the British Royal Navy. I keep it w' me cook books. They neither accepted his findin's nor implemented his treatments but, if ye ask me, they were fools. He proved scurvy was a lack o' necessary acids.”
“You think Ekaterina has… scurvy?”
“Jings, lad, I do no' know. Ageean, it's a possibility. Mind ye, she hasn't all the symptoms. She hasn't the skin spots; par-ticularly the legs. Nor that we noticed, the immobility. But she's been avoidin' descent food since comin' aboard! If it's scurvy, I've no idee how far 'long she is.”
Harrington grimaced at the cook's choice of words. How far along! He thought of the silly lie Ekaterina told in her effort to secure him as a husband. Cor blimey, what that had wrought. But thinking of it was pointless.
“It's early days,” Swales continued. “She has the lethargy, the pale look, open wounds, an' abnormal bleedin'. None of her teeth have fallen out yet.”
“Christ!” Harrington exclaimed. “Are you serious?”
“Coul
d no' be more. Scurvy is fatal if untreated.”
“Then treat her! Can you treat her?”
Swales slapped the book shut. “Citrus; lemon juice, lime juice. The right acids, that's the answer. Biscuits, dry grains, salted meats only speed the desease. I've limes and casks o' lime juice. We'll tap one for the lass tonight an', startin' tomorrow, for the whole crew. If it's scurvy, we'll soon have our deck boy on the route to recoov-ry.”
“I can't believe this. If only I'd known she was here from the start.”
“Ye' should o' known, lad.”
“I don't deny that. But she did a fair job of staying wherever I was not. With help.”
Swales wouldn't budge. “She needed help.”
“Yes. And I'm grateful.”
“Grateful,” the old sailor spit the word like bad food. “Ye' left her alone in Romania.”
“Her father and brothers were shooting at me!” The old man did not ease his stare. “I left a lot of things in Romania. You don't know the whole story, Oliver.”
“I gawm more than ye', lad. Who do ye' think she's been talkin' to on this voyage. I'm aware what ye left an' why. But if her family is crazy, ye were leavin' her to `em. I do no' say ye're the devil but ye're damned dumb, an' self-important, an' a bit o' a coward – aren't ye?”
“Yes,” he said. “I suppose I am a coward.”
* * *
Ekaterina tossed, sleeping fitfully through the day.
She wore a button-down, carded-wool flannel nightshirt Swales found in his kit and dedicated to her. (He'd changed her himself using a fatherly, averted eye.) It was yards too big, the girl swam in it, but offered more comfort than the work clothes she'd been wearing and made it easier to monitor her vital processes.
Swales tended to her with Harrington looking on like a mother hen or, give him his due, a worried lover. The Englishman, in turn, watched her while Swales tended his galley. A bowl of beef broth and bread were carried in on a tray but Ekaterina refused all entreaties insisting, in a rare moment of wakefulness, she was not hungry. With the exception of lime juice, which Swales forced upon her, she also refused drink. Everything made her sick to her stomach. Her conversations were always brusque, and followed by fitful sleep.
Dracula's Demeter: The Vampire King's Stunning Sea Voyage Page 13