"We were all dead men," Alvar said tonelessly. "How could anyone possibly cure something like that? By the time the blisters appeared, coma wasn't far behind. The fever cooked their brains, destroyed whatever had made them individuals. There was nothing left at that point but pain. They suffered so horribly, Aggie. The blasted illness took everything from them, and then didn't even let them die in dignity."
Agnessa thought of the other three in the tent: the infected men Silence had healed. They were speaking now, faltering and stuttering with their words, but they were getting better. They remembered their names, where they had come from, what they had been doing before everything had gone hot and black. If what Alvar said was true, they should only be empty shells now. Puppets. The fever should have destroyed everything. But they weren't babbling or blank or stupid.
Because of Silence? Could a siren heal even a damaged brain? Agnessa's already-high estimation of her rose further.
"But you didn't get sick?" she said.
Looking bewildered and guilty, Alvar replied, "No, I didn't. I kept waiting for the cough, the fever, and the blisters. Days went by and they didn't come. I tended the dying, tried to make them as comfortable as possible, tried to keep them clean and gave them water. And then one of the men threw himself into the water tank—because he was so feverish or because he preferred drowning to lingering any further, I don't know. And that was the end of the water. The food ran out two days later, and I decided there was no point in fighting the inevitable any longer.
"I managed to haul myself out of the hold, went to the tiller, and wished there was a way I could warn anyone who found us. I thought of prying up a board and painting a warning on it with some pitch, but I didn't have the strength to use the pry bar. I just sat by the tiller and stared at the sky. I thought of you, and the stories I'd heard of Captain Roberts, and I wondered if the ship would disappear and become a ghost ship like The Flying Dutchman. If we'd just become a story people would tell, or if we'd be forgotten completely."
He turned to face her. "It was pure, impossible luck that you found us, Aggie."
"Perhaps Hope is right, then," his sister said, squeezing his hand. "Lady Luck favors us."
*~*~*
"I can't believe we all just let a lizard lick us," Marcella said. She wasn't fond of Tazu—she wasn't fond of anything that had scales and double-lidded eyes. As a child, she'd been greatly affected by a painting of the serpent tempting Eve; she'd had screaming nightmares for two weeks, and afterwards had the deepest, most abiding mistrust of reptiles.
"A small price to pay for peace of mind," Jo said. "If Tazu and Silence both say we're free of infection, I'm willing to believe them."
"Tazu, how did you know what to look for?" Wil asked.
"The Clan has many gifts," he said. He shifted slightly, clicking his claws together: a sure sign that he was hiding something.
"Tazu, Wil won't tell your secret. I swear on all the pearls in the world."
"Very well—the Clan can touch a person and See."
"See?"
"Behind their eyes. I touched the siren and Saw what she knew."
Wil absorbed this. If she was understanding him properly, Tazu was confessing that he could read someone's thoughts. That sounded awfully unbelievable—on the other hand, Tazu belonged to an intelligent, hitherto unrecorded lizard species. If mermaids could see auras and sirens could heal with a touch, why couldn't an iguana read minds?
Well, that would certainly explain how he understood English, even if the structure of his mouth and throat didn't allow him to speak it. One small, lingering question answered.
"...that the men we took off that boat are out of the woods and we've all been given a clean bill of health, our next task is to take care of the dead," Harry was saying. "To that end, Miss Euphemia has been going through her books and she's pretty sure she's found a list of ingredients to make Greek fire. The only problem there is that it doesn't seem we have enough whale oil or sulfur. Some of us may have to take The Sappho to the nearest port—"
"Actually, Captain," Agnessa interrupted, holding up a small scrap of parchment. "We may not have to do that. The Corinthian Curse should be here within the next day or so. I've just gotten word from Hugh. They may have what we need. In any case, we should wait until they arrive."
Harry was visibly relieved. "Oh, brilliant! But we'll have to keep a weather eye out for them, and make sure they don't stop to examine the Ilsa before heading in. Kai, can you keep watch tonight?"
"Of course."
"Excellent. Well, let's eat, then. And Hope, no more incense on the fire. There's no need for it anymore, and I'd like to actually taste the fish tonight."
*~*~*
Agnessa woke just as dawn broke. Alvar had rolled over in his sleep and was nestled against her, his hand clinging to her shirt. She was painfully reminded of their childhood, when he had crept into her bed every night against the express wishes of their father and nanny. He did it because he was terrified of the dark and because he had absolute faith in her ability to protect him from whatever may lurk in it; for that, he was willing to risk their father's ire. It was one of the only ways he had ever challenged that man's absolute rule. Even as a child, Alvar had always been one to follow orders. Agnessa had been the wayward and headstrong one, forthright when he was hesitant, obstinate when he yielded, unforgiving when he was tolerant.
What a shame for her father: to finally have his perfect heir with Alvar, but to be saddled with Agnessa in the bargain.
She wondered now, as she carefully unhooked his fingers from her clothing, if Alvar had curled against her in such a way in the womb. If the position was so comforting to him because it was his oldest memory, on a level that was deeper than memory. Before she stood, she tucked a curl behind his ear—his hair was longer than it had ever been; she should offer to cut it for him—and kissed his warm, bearded cheek. He made no sound and didn't move as she pushed back the tent flap and stepped out into the cool morning air.
The contrast of the pink light of dawn against the black sand of the beach was beautiful. For several minutes, she simply stood and stared, thankful that she was alive—that her brother was alive—that her crew had taken no harm in their selfless act of rescue. Then she stretched the kinks and knots from her back and arms and went down to the water to splash her face.
She was straightening and gathering up her hair when there was a flurry of white wings and a harsh squawk. Socrates the albatross wanted breakfast. The bird had perched himself on a tent pole after supper the night before, far out of Tazu's reach, and promptly gone to sleep with his head tucked under one immense wing.
Now he was strutting across the wet sand towards Agnessa, whom he associated with both pieces of paper and pieces of fish. One was a responsibility, the other a reward, and as he had accomplished the first last night he fully expected the second—repeated often—until another piece of paper was strapped to his leg.
The pair walked to the pit where the coals from the night before still glowed dully and smoked fitfully. Agnessa took the lid off a small bucket filled with water—there was a flash of darting silver within—and stood back. With another squawk, Socrates sidled up and dipped his sharp beak inside, scooping up the tiny fish and swallowing them whole. Kai had collected them the night before; even without Socrates, there were some nights and early mornings when Silence or Tazu craved a light snack.
The messenger appeased, Agnessa sat down and picked up a stick to poke the fire back into life. After a moment's pause for careful preening, and with a wary look around for Tazu, Socrates strutted over and sat down by her knee, settling his massive wings against his back. She debated reaching over and scratching his head, and then thought better of it. That beak was awfully sharp, and the bird's wingspan was nearly six feet. An angry albatross could inflict a lot of damage.
Hugh's ship should arrive today. She felt in her pocket for his last letter, just a torn scrap of paper with a handful of words. But it was stil
l a reassuring talisman. For a moment, she thought about the tall, golden Hugh Dawkins.
Then, feeling somewhat discomfited and restless, she set to work building up the fire and started making breakfast for those who didn't have feathers and a taste for live fish.
*~*~*
The morning passed uneventfully. Dishes were washed, more wood was gathered, sand was shaken from blankets. Miss Euphemia and Franky started cracking coconuts, one armed with a machete (Euphemia) and the other wielding a mallet and a wedge (Franky). The old woman poured the milk into a large jug for future use in a lotion recipe, something to prevent sunburns and rashes. Hope was sitting in a trance—probably communing with the spirits and thanking them for driving away the pestilence—and Kai was scrubbing a burbling Tazu with a strip of sharkskin; the lizard was going through an uncomfortable molt, and there were large patches of itchy skin on his back that he had trouble reaching.
With Franky occupied and the woodpile large enough to last them a week, Maddie was sitting on one of the taller rocks and keeping watch. She absentmindedly suckled on stinging fingers; she had tried to catch some of the periwinkle crabs scuttling about the swirling foam, but the crustaceans were in a snippy mood and had shown no mercy. She was examining a particularly painful welt when a flash of movement caught her eye. A ship had just rounded the point from the east: a ship with yellow sails and a huge, black flag emblazoned with the traditional skull-and-crossbones over a rising sun motif.
"The Corinthian, Cap!" Maddie shouted, scrambling to her feet. "Ship ahoy!"
Harry threw aside the piece of wood she'd been half-heartedly whittling and sheathed her knife at her belt. "Sound the welcome!"
There was no doubt that The Corinthian Curse had sighted them; it honed in on the small beach like a bird to a nest. There was a magnificent splash as the anchor was dropped a safe distance from the tethered Sappho and, in the space between blinks, a landing craft packed with men was lowered. The little boat positively flew across the water, propelled by four rowers who were enthusiastically putting their backs into it.
Captain Thomas "Thommo" Grey himself stood at the prow. A good-looking, well-built man in an unbuttoned black coat, he had his shoulder-length brown hair pulled back in a tight tail and a smile already fixed on his tanned face. The red-gold of his beard was a striking contrast with his darker hair and blue eyes. "Hullo, Harry!" he called as soon as they were within hailing distance.
"Hullo, Grey!"
"Can't wait to hear what the commotion's all about! We've all of us been frettin' for you!"
But Captain Grey wasn't the first ashore—before the landing craft had even been pulled out of the waves, Hugh Dawkins had dropped his oars and was bounding through the surf, his long legs carrying him out of the water in four great strides. "Agnessa?" he demanded breathlessly of a bemused Harry.
"Went to fetch water, I—"
She didn't bother to finish the sentence; his gaze had sharpened on a point over her shoulder and she knew he must have caught sight of her. He rushed past the captain as she turned.
Agnessa had just stepped out of the trees, a laden bucket hanging from each hand, when she was suddenly caught up in a pair of wet arms as firm as iron. The buckets clattered unheeded to the ground. The water splashed over the sand. And for the first time in her life, she found herself being kissed—and with an astonishing amount of passion.
She was so surprised, she was kissing him back before her brain caught up to what was even happening.
"Dawkins!" Captain Grey bellowed. "You've got to let the poor lass breathe, son!"
"Apologies," he gasped when they'd parted. "I'm sorry—I should've asked permission first—"
"Yes, you should've," she agreed, cupping his face. He was trembling! Hugh Dawkins, the tall and shining paragon of moral virtue and physical brawn, the Oxford intellectual, the noble son and nobler pirate, was trembling! "And you should put me down, you ox."
She hoped her feet would be steady enough to support her when he did.
"Well, I'm glad he got that out of his system," Captain Grey told Harry, shaking his head. "Boy's been as wound-up as a clock since he got that letter. He paced the deck and brooded the whole three days it took us to get here. Still, you've got to make allowances for youth."
"And first love," Harry said with a snort. "I can practically see the stars in Nessa's eyes from here."
"Alright, Harry, tell me what's going on. Does it have something to do with that ship?" he asked shrewdly, pointing to the horizon.
"It does—I'm relieved you tacked in from the east; we were somewhat worried you'd stop there first."
"With Hugh practically chewing the lines and pining for his lass? Nay," Thommo said with a chuckle. "We were coming straight for this beach like an arrow from a bow."
"Let's have a seat by the fire and I'll tell you the whole sad affair. Have your men eaten yet?"
"Nay."
"Then we'll see to feeding them—after our story. Better to lose an appetite than a good breakfast..."
*~*~*
"A sobering tale, to be sure," announced Thommo when it was over. His men nodded grimly. It hadn't been that long ago when influenza had burned through their own ship, taking two men's lives before it was finally conquered. They'd been lucky—the Ilsa's fate could very well have been theirs. "And we should have plenty of oil and tallow in the hold. Jays!"
"Aye, Cap?" the trio looked up sharply from their conversation with Katherine.
"I want you three to go back to the ship and bring back three casks of the whale oil and one of the tallow. And we should still have the barrel of sulfur we liberated from the Portuguese man-o-war, stored with the gunpowder, so bring that as well. Report to Miss Euphemia and Miss Wil and do exactly as they say, understood?"
"Clear as crystal, Cap," said John, sketching a salute and climbing to his feet, offering a hand down to Jim.
"Now, while yours and mine are busy cooking up Greek fire," Thommo said to Harry. "What was it you wished to talk about at Breaker's Ridge?"
"I've learned something about Drew that may prove useful," she said, unsurprised by the reaction her words caused. Thommo's face had hardened with purpose, his jaw tightened, and his usually-laughing, pale eyes had gone cold and hungry.
When Harry had first been properly introduced to Thomas Grey, after years of hearing tales about him, she had liked how the real man measured up to the legends. He was strong both physically and mentally, with a code of honor that paralleled her own. He had an iron control over his hand-picked crew and treated them with the respect a good captain should. Under his sharp eye, there would be no raping, no torturing, and no mistreatment—but he was also a brutal fighter and would kill without qualms. He didn't favor any one style of combat, wielding sword, pistol, and bare fists in equal measure, using whatever method would get the job done the quickest. He had a particular grudge against the Portuguese for undisclosed reasons—the only figure he hated more was Wrath Drew.
That night in Bogo, with a dozen empty cups between them, Harry had listened as Thommo spoke of his son. He had been illegitimate: the result of a youthful week's carousing in Trinidad with a wench named Rita. Thommo hadn't learned of his existence until two years later, when he crossed paths with the woman again purely by chance. She had shown him his son—a laughing boy with a healthy pair of lungs—and he had given her enough gold to set them both up in a decent house. There could be no doubt that Paul was his son: the boy had his eyes. But even if he'd been unsure, he would've done the same. Rita had left quite a mark on him, and he knew how difficult life could be for a wench who chose to deliver a child rather than abort it.
He went back to visit as often as he could. He looked after them, made sure they were eating well and kept in good clothes. When the boy was twelve, he begged Thommo to take him with him. The sea was calling to him, he said. He would work hard and be a good cabin boy. And he longed to have adventures like his father.
But Thommo didn't want his son to
follow in his footsteps. His gold had bought Paul and Rita respectability—no one remembered that Rita had once been a wench: she was known as 'Mrs. Grey', though she had no legal claim to that name, and no one openly called the boy a bastard. Paul could be an apprentice in the proper way. He could become a chandler or a blacksmith or perhaps even a doctor. Better any of those options than to turn pirate like his old man.
When Thommo visited next, almost a year later, it was to find only a somber Rita waiting for him. Paul had run away, she said. He had hopped aboard a ship four months ago and disappeared. She had no idea where he was, what condition he was in, or if she would ever see him again. She didn't even know the name of the ship.
And a year after that, Thommo returned for a funeral.
There had been an incident in a bar. Paul had been beaten badly, stabbed twice, and left for dead. But he had held on just long enough to tell the barmaid holding him that his father was Captain Thomas Grey.
"What happened?" Thommo had asked, dry-eyed and stony faced, when the news reached him through a network of gossip.
"The boy tripped and spilled his beer on a man," the barmaid told him as she shrunk away, afraid not of him, but of the rage she could feel he was barely holding in check. "A man all in black, with a jeweled eyepatch. The others called him Wrath, I think. And the man grabbed him. Beat him. Called him a mongrel cur and stabbed him. My old man pointed a pistol at him and chased him out, but there was nothing we could do for the lad. I'm sorry."
"Where did they bury him?"
"Pauper's field, two streets over. Under the cross that says 'Black Boy'."
So Thomas Grey dug up his son, who had been buried in a flimsy wooden box, and took him home to his mother. He told her, as Paul was lowered back into the ground in a proper cemetery, that he would not see her again—but that he would find the man responsible and carve his heart out.
"Ever since the day he killed my son," Thommo had said to Harry, "that bastard has been living on borrowed time."
The Search for Aveline Page 17