Worst of all, though Eliza and James had tried every cure and medicine at their disposal, nothing seemed to work. Tears blurred her vision as she glanced over the morbid assembly, faces filled with shock, despair, and, in some, contempt as they met her gaze. Nearly everyone on board had a loved one or friend sick or dying below in the hold. And now, these deaths stole any hope that they’d ever see their loved ones returned to health.
Frantic as any caring doctor could be, James had searched through all his medical books, staying up long into the night until his eyes were red and his face haggard. Now, as he stood reading the scriptures, even his voice bled frustration. Over his shoulder, Mr. Graves leaned casually on the foredeck railing, watching the proceedings with a detachment that sent unease slithering all the way to Eliza’s toes.
“O death, where is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory? The sting of death is sin; and the strength of sin is the law. But thanks be to God, which giveth us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
Eliza shifted her gaze away from Mr. Graves only to land on Blake, beside James, his face a mask of control that defied the outrage in his eyes. He would not look at her. Hadn’t looked at her all day.
James closed the Bible, said a quick prayer, and nodded to the sailors standing at the end of the plank. They lifted the wood. The bodies slid over the railing and plunged into the agitated sea with a resounding splash.
Lightning carved a jagged knife across the sky.
The crowd scuffled away, all save Mr. Flanders, who stood at the railing staring at the last remnants of his wife’s body before she sank to the bottom of the sea. Eliza longed to comfort him, but the hatred she’d seen earlier in his eyes kept her in place.
Hatred that now spewed toward her from the friends of the dead seaman.
“It’s her fault!” one of them shouted. “She’s bad luck!”
“Aye, she’s the cause of this,” another sailor said, darts of malice firing from eyes red with grief.
People turned to stare at her. Thunder rumbled.
James marched forward, Bible pressed to his chest. “Now, gentlemen. No one can cause an illness.”
“The devil can!” one of the passengers shouted.
Eliza glanced over the mob, seeking a friendly face—any friendly face. But she found none, save James. Wind blasted over them, whipping her hair onto her cheek. She brushed the strands aside. She was so tired. Tired of being hated. Tired of being threatened. Tired of tending the hopelessly sick. So tired in every way possible. A detached numbness overtook her.
Mr. Graves stared at her from the foredeck, his lips sliding into a grin. Blake, who had been gazing out to sea, finally turned toward the ruckus. A battlefield of emotions stormed across his face. He opened his mouth to say something when James continued, “This woman has been helping your loved ones get better. She’s been up for three days straight with no sleep and little food tending their every need.”
Lightning cast their faces in a deathly gray. Rain drops splattered on the deck. Women and children darted below. The men lowered their gazes and shuffled off, from the rain or from the doctor’s speech, Eliza couldn’t be sure. And she didn’t care. Wiping water from her face, she smiled at James and headed below deck. His footsteps followed her.
The sour stench of illness nearly sent her back above, but she pressed on, determined to do what she could to ease the suffering. She sat on the stool beside the first hammock and rubbed her aching legs, thankful for the temporary relief. Settling the swinging bed with one hand, she pressed a damp rag over the feverish face that sank deeper among the canvas folds with each passing day. Poor Mrs. Jenkins hadn’t woken in two days. Eliza had barely been able to get enough broth down her throat to keep her alive. Her husband looked up from the chair at the end of the hammock, their young daughter, Henrietta, in his lap. His brows teetered in anticipation of good news but quickly sank when Eliza shook her head.
Rising, she moved to the next patient. Raindrops tapped a death march on the deck above. Swaying lanterns cast undulating shadows across the sick—light and dark, light and dark—as if trying to decide which ones would live and which ones would die.
Eliza’s gaze met James’s across the way. He attempted a smile, but she could see from his face that hope was slipping away, replaced by a brewing frustration and anger. Beside him, Angeline held a cup of water to Hayden’s lips. At least he was still conscious and hadn’t slipped into delirium as some of the sick had done. Beyond her, Magnolia flitted from patient to patient like a hummingbird, hovering over each one long enough to offer a kind word or a sip of broth. She split her time between those below and her mother in their state cabin above. Still, the sight astounded Eliza. She never would have thought such charity existed in the self-absorbed woman.
The ship dove, and Eliza clung to a mast to keep from falling. Patients’ groans and grunts rose to join the creak of wood and pounding of water against the hull. Though the captain lay ailing in his cabin, with the first mate recovered from his injury and Blake’s assistance, the ship sped heartily on its way. She only prayed they wouldn’t arrive in Brazil a ghost ship, with not a living soul left on board.
Eliza shivered at the thought.
She lifted a mug of broth to a young ex-soldier and, once he’d taken a sip, wiped the dribbles from his chin. He mouthed a “thank you” before closing his eyes once again. In the next hammock, Sarah, with Lydia strapped to her chest, read the Bible to the blacksmith’s wife. Though Eliza had told her she should rest and avoid contact with the illness, she insisted on helping, stating that if it was God’s will for her to get sick, she’d get sick no matter what.
As Eliza made her way to a table to fetch a fresh rag and some more broth, Moses glanced at her from his spot beside his ailing sister, his eyes filled with anguish. Little Joseph and Mariah, one on each knee, stared at their mother with longing. Eliza looked away before tears spilled down her cheeks. So much agony. So much pain.
A man groaned and held out his hand to her. Stopping, she clasped it and offered him a smile.
“Am I going to die, Mrs. Crawford?”
Holding a hand to his nose, Blake hobbled down the ladder, deeper and deeper into the bowels of the ship, into the darkness and death that lurked below. With each inch of descent, his heart sank lower in his chest. Lower where no shreds of hope remained. At the bottom, hammocks swayed with the movement of the brig, looking more like a school of ghostly sardines than humans. He scanned the precious passengers who’d volunteered to care for the ill, and his traitorous eyes landed on Eliza—forever drawn to her like a ship to a lighthouse. She leaned over the blacksmith, one arm behind his shoulders, as she pressed a cup to his lips.
Blake inched closer.
“There, there, Mr. Murray. Get some rest now.” She smiled and lowered him to the hammock then wiped his mouth.
“But am I going to die?” Terror etched his pale face.
She dabbed the cloth over his forehead and took his hand in hers. “Of course not. You’re far too ornery to die.” She smiled, and the man’s chuckle turned into a cough. But it was the look in her eyes that set Blake aback. Concern and kindness. Not an ounce of resentment or malice for the man who, two weeks ago, had insisted she be fed to the sharks.
In fact, as Blake watched her move to the next patient, it occurred to him that most of the people she tended had demanded that she be left on Dominica to die. Each had said hateful, vile things to her. Yet here she was sacrificing sleep and her own health, wandering among the filth and stench, to bring them a modicum of comfort.
Tearing his gaze from her, he headed for James, the man he’d come down here to see in the first place. Blake had to know if any progress was being made in determining the cause or cure of the illness.
“Cure?” James rubbed the scar on his cheek and blew out a long sigh. “I have no idea.” I’ve studied every book I have, tried every medicine. Nothing.” He gestured toward someone over Blake’s shoulder and then turned to
call Sarah before facing Blake again. “Now as to the cause, I have my suspicions.”
Just then Eliza appeared beside them, followed by Sarah and baby Lydia.
Motioning them to follow, James led the group deeper into the shadows, away from patients’ ears. Blake ducked beneath a beam and took a spot as far from Eliza as he could.
Rubbing the sweat on his neck, James shifted his stance as if unsure how to proceed. Several seconds passed before he leaned toward the group and raised his brows. “I believe this is a demonic curse.”
Mrs. Swanson finally drifted off to sleep. Releasing a sigh, Angeline pressed a hand to the base of her aching back and stretched her shoulders. Even though she was accustomed to hard work and little sleep, caring for the sick and dying was taking its toll on her physically—and emotionally. She hated that there was nothing she could do but offer broth and comforting words. Words that, in truth, brought no comfort at all. They all knew they were dying. She could see the fear, the agony, in their eyes. Some took it well, almost submitting to the angel of death who lurked in the shadows of the hold. Others fought, thrashing in their hammocks and screaming in delirium. It was to those patients Angeline went. She’d had much experience with angry, maniacal men. She knew how to handle people who were out of their wits.
And besides, she deserved the worst they gave her.
Easing strands of hair from her face, she walked down the narrow path between rows of hammocks, looking for someone else in need and avoiding the one person she could never face, Mr. Dodd. Thank goodness, James didn’t seem to recognize her. It had been dark the night she’d met him a year ago, and he was … well, he was … a very different man back then.
Dodd was another story. As she passed him, one glance told her his fever had increased. Blond hair matted to a forehead and cheeks that were moist and red. Feeling a pinch of guilt, she stopped and slid beside him. What harm could he do to her now? In his delirium, he probably wouldn’t recognize his own mother, let alone Angeline.
Pulling a clean cloth from her apron pocket, she wiped his face and eased hair from his brow. Yes, she remembered that pointy chin and crooked nose. Too well, in fact. The sight of it so close brought back memories she’d sooner forget.
Music from a pianoforte drowned out the rush of the sea against the hull. Hammocks disappeared, replaced by tables laden with cards and mugs of ale all surrounded by patrons and doxies instead of those tending the sick. His puckered lips swooped down on hers. Angeline turned her face away as she forced a playful giggle.
“Come on, sweet pea, you shouldn’t tease ole Dodd.” He pinched her chin and forced her mouth to his. He tasted of sour fish and ale, and she struggled to be free. But he clamped his arms around her waist and shoved her against him. The other men surrounding the table chuckled and whistled their encouragement. Angeline pushed against his chest, but he only laughed and fell into a chair, drawing her onto his lap.
“Ah, ah, ah, miss. You’re far too comely a catch to toss back into the pond. Far too comely.” He took a long draught of ale and grinned her way, foam lacing his mustache.
“You best be obeying the man, miss,” one of his friends said. “He’s the law here in town.”
Angeline’s repulsion turned to terror. “Law.” She gulped.
He opened the flap of his coat, and candlelight flashed on a badge. A sheriff’s badge. “So, you see, you’re in good hands, miss.” He nibbled on her neck.
Angeline allowed him. Allowed him because she could barely breathe.
Mr. Dodd moaned, tearing her from the horrid memories. She dabbed his forehead again. He hadn’t recognized her back then. Perhaps he’d been too drunk. Perhaps he hadn’t seen the posters. Whatever the reason, she’d earned a reprieve that night.
That long, despicable night.
Now, with her unpainted face and more modest clothing, perhaps she’d earn another reprieve. Especially if he died. Oh sweet saints, shame on her! What a horrible thing to think. Truly she wished that fate on no one.
Dodd groaned again. He drew in a breath, and for a few long seconds, it seemed he stopped breathing. Angeline leaned her ear toward his mouth.
He clutched her wrist. Pain shot into her fingers.
Shrieking, she tried to pry her hand free, but his clamp on it was as strong as it’d been two years ago.
His eyes popped open and snapped toward her. “I know who you are,” he hissed. “I know who you are!”
“That’s absurd!” Blake huffed and turned to leave.
James grabbed his arm. “Hear me out. We all believe in God, right?”
The ladies nodded. Blake remained silent.
“Then we must also believe in the devil. The good Word says he roams around like a roaring lion, seeking to kill and destroy us.”
“Yes, that is true,” Eliza said.
Sarah nodded. “I see where you are heading, Doctor.”
But Blake did not. “What has this got to do with anything?”
“It has to do with healing these people and stopping this nonsense.” James’s voice grew determined. “I’ve never seen anything like that gray mist, have you?” Before Blake could answer, James continued. “There’s something evil about this sickness. I can feel it in my spirit.”
“All you feel is discouragement like the rest of us.” Blake snorted.
“Demonic or not, what can we do about it?” Eliza sounded as wilted as a lily in the desert.
“I propose we fast and pray. Gather whoever wishes to join us to fight this evil force.”
That was his plan? His great, marvelous plan? Blake couldn’t help the chortle of disbelief that tumbled from his lips. “Go ahead and pray. With the captain sick, I have a ship to run.” He turned to leave when Angeline screamed, tore her hand from one of the patients, and fled up the ladder.
Blake released a heavy sigh. “Now what?”
CHAPTER 22
Excusing herself from James and Sarah, Eliza hurried after Angeline. She glanced at Mr. Dodd in passing. He appeared to be sound asleep. Even if he wasn’t, what could he have done in his condition to upset her to the point of screaming and dashing from the hold?
Eliza found her in their cabin, sitting on the chair, head in her hands, sobbing. Stowy circled her feet and rubbed against her ankles, omitting a pathetic merow at being ignored.
At the intrusion, Angeline turned her face away and wiped her tears. “Forgive me, Eliza. I didn’t mean to alarm you.” Stowy leaped into her lap and plopped down as if he owned it, drawing a tiny smile from Angeline as she stroked his fur.
Sliding onto the trunk, Eliza handed her a handkerchief. “What happened?”
Two shimmering pools of violet swept her way. “It’s nothing.”
“Did Dodd say something to you?”
Was it Eliza’s imagination, or had the sound of his name sent a tremor through the lady? Angeline straightened her shoulders and glanced toward the porthole where gray skies spread a gloomy sheen through the cabin. Minutes passed with only Stowy’s purrs and the dash of water against the hull to tantalize their ears. Angeline blew her nose. “I thought I could escape my past. I thought I could start over.”
“Of course you can.” Eliza squeezed her hand. “We all can. That’s what this voyage is about.”
“It hasn’t turned out that way for you.” Sharp eyes assessed Eliza.
“No.” Eliza stared at the nicks and scratches marring the wooden floor.
Angeline sighed and eased a copper curl behind her ear. “I fear it won’t be a new start for me either.”
“I don’t see why not.” Eliza reached over to pet Stowy. “Unless you married a Yankee general we don’t know about.”
Angeline gave a sob-laden chuckle. “No.” She scratched Stowy beneath the chin, and the cat’s purrs rumbled through the cabin. “Far worse, I’m afraid.”
Eliza shivered at the look of despair on her friend’s face. “I don’t see what could be—”
“He knows me.” Angeline’s lip tremb
led. She gathered Stowy in her arms and stood. “He remembers me.”
“Mr. Dodd?” Rising, Eliza wrapped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close, desperate to comfort the lady but not knowing how.
But Angeline stiffened and pulled away. She batted tears from her cheeks as if they were rebellious imps.
“It’s okay to cry, you know,” Eliza said.
“I’ve cried too many tears already.” Angeline sniffed and drew the handkerchief to her nose as she took up a pace, her skirts swishing. Two steps forward. Two steps back. That’s all the space the tiny cabin afforded. “And a lot of good my tears have done me.” Her breathing steadied, and the next time she looked at Eliza, a shield covered her eyes. But a shield from what?
“So what if Dodd knows you? He can do nothing to you here.” Eliza said. “You have friends. You are protected.”
“What he knows about me would destroy those friendships.”
“Not with me.” What could this poor woman have done? “Whatever your past holds, you can start fresh in Brazil. It’s a new land with unlimited possibilities.”
“You don’t understand. Once my secret is known …” Angeline set Stowy down and hugged herself. “Let’s just say no one will want me around.”
Eliza sighed. “I certainly wouldn’t wish that pain on anyone.”
Stowy leaped into a hammock and reached a paw out to touch Angeline when she passed, but the lady was so deep in thought, she didn’t notice. Halting, she raised remorseful eyes to Eliza. “I’m so sorry, Eliza. I’m being insensitive to your predicament.”
Eliza shrugged. “What’s done is done. Your worst fears are my reality. But I’ve survived, and you will too.” She plucked Stowy from the hammock and nuzzled the feline against her neck. Though she longed to know what horrible thing Angeline had done, it wouldn’t be proper to ask. If she wished Eliza to know, she would tell her. “We’ve all made mistakes, done things we’ve regretted. People may not forgive us, but God does. He has taken care of me, and He will do the same for you.”
Forsaken Dreams Page 21