She lay on her bed and gritted her teeth as the Calliope rode out the swell. Her headache grew worse as the weather roughened, tossing the ship with ever more violence. Her stomach felt hollow.
Thirty minutes later, a dreadful din filled the vessel. The hull itself shuddered. Laura whimpered, afraid the Calliope was sinking or under attack. No amount of reassurance would convince her otherwise. Then it stopped.
Sophia heard the rain, the surging sea and the sound of booted steps above her on deck. She opened the door and peeked out. The captain’s cabin door was closed, as was the stern gangway hatch. No doubt Kit was topside making sure the Calliope was kept out of harm’s way. To her right, in the officers’ dining room, the table and chairs where they had dined over the past four nights had disappeared.
In their place was a cannon, five times larger than the ones on deck.
She stared at it for a moment, then realized she could feel a damp chill in the air. Even the sounds on deck seemed louder than they ought to be.
Steadying herself against the rocking on the ship, she ventured a little closer to the big, bronze beast of a weapon. A series of huge knotted ropes covered the cannon. The hatch of glass skylights above was split open along its length, allowing wind to gust in from the lowering sky.
She could hear voices and the stomping feet of the men above.
“Cannon fire!”
The Calliope lurched, whether from the assault or from the wind, she could not tell. Sophia grabbed on to the rope securing the cannon to steady herself. Rain found its way through the aperture and wet her face. She shook her head and listened.
“Bring her about, Mr. Nash. Speed?”
“About eleven knots, Captain,” called another voice. “We’re beginning to pull away.”
“More distance. Expose more sail. We’ll risk it.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Around her, the Calliope groaned, as though the ship were a living thing, battling the waves and wind that buffeted her. The bow of the ship rose, tilting Sophia back on her feet. Then, for a moment, she was airborne.
Slam!
The hull had dropped beneath her feet and hit the water hard – as though it had run aground. Sophia clung on and bit her lip. How much more could the ship take before it broke apart?
They sailed through the heart of the storm and the last of the daylight. Below decks, the Calliope was in complete darkness. Sophia felt her way along the corridor and grasped the brass knob of Uncle Jonas’ cabin just as the floor tilted precipitously. Sophia’s feet almost slipped from beneath her.
When the ship righted itself, she tapped sharply and opened the door a crack.
“Uncle? Are you well?”
The smell of vomit hit her and she was nearly sick herself.
“No! Go away!” he yelled in a most uncharacteristic temper. She closed the door and reached for her own cabin door when the ship hurtled into another wave. This time, Sophia did lose her feet. She slammed bodily into the captain’s door and banged her head. She blinked a few times to steady herself and shook her head. Below decks was in utter darkness.
The ship rocked violently once more. At her right, the gangway hatch opened and two figures stumbled down the steps, huddled close together. Sophia gained her feet as one of them opened the door to the captain’s cabin.
Silhouetted in the wet, grey light that flooded through the mullion windows in the stern, Sophia could see one man half-carry another who writhed in pain.
“Arrrggggghhhhh!”
The injured man let out a cry of pain as he was dropped upon the bed.
“Easy does it. I’ll send Giorgio down to tend you.”
The tension Sophia held at her breast eased as she recognized Kit’s voice. It was not he who was injured, although why his welfare above the others should matter so much to her was a riddle she would ponder another day. She stepped across the cabin threshold and braced herself against a wall to keep her balance as the ship tossed once more.
“Captain! Now!” called a windswept voice from up on deck.
“Let me help,” she shouted over the noise.
“You should be in your cabin.” Kit’s reply came through gritted teeth. He kept his back turned to her.
“And you should be on deck,” she countered. “Where is the ship’s medical chest?”
This time, Kit did turn around. He was hardly the man she knew. He, who had been their civilized and charming host, was replaced by a man who, instinct told her, was dangerous.
The ship lurched violently and shuddered once more. The figure on the bed groaned in pain and another set of footfalls stumbled down the stairs, calling, “Captain! All hands!”
Kit launched himself toward a wall-mounted desk as the ship pitched once more. He opened a drawer, withdrew a key and opened a cabinet door. Behind it was a fitted medicine chest with a series of smaller drawers, sixteen in total.
“The injuries are not pretty, Sophia – final warning.”
Now anticipating the movement of the waves, she reached him with the next roll of the ship and clutched the back of his rain-sodden shirt for balance. His skin beneath the shirt was warm. The Calliope juddered. Sophia gripped the desk and looked up at him. Only in the eyes did she glimpse a portion of the man she had come to know.
“Marco’s leg is broken. Don’t try to do anything, just keep it straight; everything else is cuts and scrapes. I’ll send Giorgio down to set it when we have time. Give the boy brandy for shock, nothing stronger.”
Sophia looked over Kit’s shoulder, already planning her next move. She raised her eyes to his.
“Aye, Captain,” she said, and he gave a brief grin before he took off back up the gangway, and the hatch slammed shut.
In the grey-yellow half-light, Marco struggled to sit up. Sophia crossed to him and saw instantly what was “not pretty” – his right leg was bent where it should not be. The flesh bulged where a broken bone pressed outward, threatening to erupt.
“Keep still!” she ordered, and he collapsed back into the bed with a groan.
She found the brandy decanter and tumblers in a Tantalus, removed the bottle and poured a healthy measure.
“We need to keep your leg straight, will you help me?” Sophia kept her voice as soothing as she remembered Sister Maria doing when she treated the children in the orphanage infirmary. Marco was not like the orphanage children. Though only about twelve, he slammed down the proffered brandy like a hardened drinker, then nodded, teeth gritted.
She stumbled blindly until she got three wall lamps lit, then gathered a length of bandage and searched about for something to use as a splint. She lurched drunkenly with each roll of the ship, selecting a three foot long split fold ruler from a drawer in the table and then a walking stick she found in a cupboard.
Sophia splinted and bound Marco’s leg, ignoring his barely suppressed cries of pain. She looked to his other injuries. There were tears in his shirt and the skin on his arms was abraded. Nothing too serious, she suspected, just scrapes from tumbling down rigging and across the wet deck. They would sting, but wouldn’t be fatal. She set about cleaning them.
She was as gentle as she could be under the circumstances but the young man was still in pain.
“Shall I read to you?” she offered when she had finished.
The boy forced open his eyes, which had been screwed shut, to look at her skeptically.
“The worst of it is over now. You can close your eyes again and picture the story as I read. It will distract you from your pain.”
He nodded, his jaw clenched. She glanced, again, around the cabin, looking for something to read to the boy and happened on the ship’s Bible.
She opened the great volume and placed it in on her lap. With the lamps providing just enough light to see, she started to read out loud.
“‘Now the Philistines gathered together their armies to battle, and were gathered together at Shochoh, which belongeth to Judah, and pitched between Shochoh and Azekah, in Ephesdammi
m. And Saul and the men of Israel were gathered together, and pitched by the valley of Elah, and set the battle in array against the Philistines’.” Sophia glanced over at Marco and saw him close his eyes. She continued to read the story of David and Goliath aloud until her own eyelids lowered, heavy with fatigue.
*
“Awaken fair maiden. It’s time for you to dream of pleasant things in your own bed,” whispered the voice from the darkness.
Sophia struggled to the surface in a sea of sleep. With one mighty push, she broke through Morpheus’ lure. A hand on her shoulder steadied her.
“Kit?”
“Shhhh, you’re safe. We’re all safe.”
Sophia straightened herself where she had slumped in a chair. The ship was no longer pitching wildly. She found a hand under hers, which she held on to so she could stand, and looked for her patient, who was no longer on the bed.
“Marco’s in the forward infirmary. Fine work on his splint. Giorgio’s set the bone. The boy’s young and will recover, thanks to you.”
She heard the weariness in Kit’s voice and, in the light of the full moon through the window, she saw the dark circles under his eyes. Suddenly aware of his careful regard of her, she blinked and looked away from his face. There were injuries he carried. She, somehow, knew this – and knew equally well he would not tell her of them. It was extraordinary. It was as though she knew his thoughts and he, hers. He was the strangest pirate and smuggler she had ever met – not that she had made the acquaintance of any before. A tick at the corner of his mouth raised it in the semblance of a smile.
His hand squeezed hers once more.
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to think when you look at me like that, Miss Bluestocking. It’s just as well I’m beyond tired and you are certain of your undying affection for Cappleman.”
Sophia blinked rapidly. Perhaps she was wrong about being able to read his thoughts because nothing he said made sense. Still, with limbs heavy, she allowed him to lead her to the door of her own cabin. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it, allowing it to linger there for a moment.
“Sweet dreams, bella.”
*
Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
That sav’d a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.
’Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev’d;
How precious did that grace appear
The hour I first believ’d!
Thro’ many dangers, toils, and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The words of Newton’s hymn sang out across the deck, accompanied by Mr. Afua on the violin. The Calliope sat at anchor off the shore at the island of Formentera.
The Sunday service onboard the Calliope was a short but welcome respite for men already exhausted. They rested weary bodies in deck chairs or leaned up against the mainmast and railings. Sophia noted some were freshly-bandaged, others with minor cuts left exposed. Marco sat with his freshly-splinted leg outstretched and propped on a stool. And as she suspected, Kit had been injured; his hand and wrist were bound in white linen, a cut visible across his cheek.
The Calliope was bruised, too. Her masts were undamaged but some spars needed replacing. Rigging hung limp. A couple of sails were ripped. One even had a distinct hole punched through it. Was that the result of the cannon shot she heard?
Sophia pulled her attention back to Mr. Nash – “Preacher”, as she heard him referred to by the crew. He held the ship’s Bible from which she had read to Marco.
Today, he had chosen from the Book of Acts. It seemed appropriate considering everything that happened to them last night. Never had a passage of scripture been so vividly real to her.
For there stood by me this night the angel of God, whose I am, and whom I serve, saying, Fear not, Paul; thou must be brought before Caesar: and, lo, God hath given thee all them that sail with thee. Wherefore, sirs, be of good cheer: for I believe God, that it shall be even as it was told me.
After the service, the men went back to work, even Marco, who sat with a large needle and thread, mending tears in a small jib sail.
Sophia adjusted her parasol and strolled to the rail. Her offers to help were politely but emphatically rebuffed, and seeing the crew of the Calliope at work, their tasks seamlessly and efficiently applied, she knew she would only be in the way.
If last night had been a nightmare, this morning was a dream. Below, a large green turtle swam unhurriedly under the ship. The water was so clear she could see down to the blue-tinted sand. On the shore stretched out before them, it was a brilliant white.
There, a fisherman and his crew emerged from the dunes and paused at the unexpected sight of the Calliope.
They dragged a small boat into the water. One man hoisted sail, two more were at oars, propelling the craft into deeper water.
“Barco! Necesita ayuda?”
“What are they asking?” inquired Laura who had joined her.
The accent was unfamiliar to Sophia but the language was not. It was the one she spent the first ten years of her life speaking.
“They’re asking if we need assistance.”
Sophia looked for Kit. She found him dangling precariously off the bowsprit, so she hailed Mr. Nash instead and called him over.
The fishermen were much closer now and a yelled conversation was held between ship and boat, ending with Nash repeating his thanks in Spanish and with laughter on both sides. The fishing craft turned away.
“We’re invited to a feast,” said Mr. Nash.
“That’s extraordinarily generous of them,” said Laura.
“The catch is we’ll have to bring something worthwhile to drink.”
Chapter Twelve
Monte Pellegrino loomed large and green – a protector whose arms spread to embrace Palermo. Sophia watched it through the small porthole of her cabin, her room for the past eight days. Now having reached her destination, she was strangely reluctant to leave it.
Behind her, Laura was in a manic frenzy, packing her belongings which, if she had done as she was advised to do, she would have packed the night before.
“I can’t find my hair brush!”
“I put it in your toilet case,” Sophia answered, not bothering to look back at her cousin, “…along with the comb and a little bottle of ointment you left on the table.”
Sophia preferred to keep her eyes on the view before her while they sailed into the mouth of the harbor. At a sharp rap at the door, she left Laura to her panic.
“Laura, Sophia – are you nearly ready?” inquired Uncle Jonas. “The ship is getting ready to dock.”
Sophia double-checked the latches and locks on her own trunk before opening the door.
“We’re nearly ready, aren’t we, Laura?”
Behind her, she heard catches snap into place and the sound of a lock turned.
“Yes, yes, yes, I’m ready. Really, Sophia, there’s no need to fuss.”
Sophia offered a mere shake of her head and followed her uncle up on deck.
Warmth carried in the air, along with the tang of brine. Seagulls wheeled overhead, calling raucously. In answer to the barked commands issued by Mr. Afua, the crew deftly eased the Calliope past vessels at anchor and through the narrow passage into the U-shaped basin. All hands were on deck, even Marco with a small brass telescope to his eye and relaying instructions gestured by the men on shore. Beside him, with hands on the wheel, was Mr. Nash. Standing off his shoulder was Kit. Both men were focused on their task and did not offer even a nod of acknowledgement to their guests.
Six sailors, three fore and three aft, threw ropes as thick as Sophia’s wrist to the men on shore.
“Freshen hawse on forward breast line!”
Little by little, the Calliope was tamed. Six lines connected her to land
allowing her to bob docilely at dock. Sophia found herself stroking the rail as she might have quieted her mare after an exhilarating run.
Where London was filled with grey stone and red brick buildings, Palermo’s buildings were shades of yellow from the softest buttercup to richest ochre. The colors seemed brighter here – cobalt sky, verdant hills; even the sea in watercolor shades of teal through to the palest tint of blue imaginable.
An imposing fortress with arched crenellations like sharpened teeth sat high above the city and drew Sophia’s attention.
“More than two thousand years of history in that building,” said Uncle Jonas, his voice rich with admiration. “Remains of Punic settlements, the Musselmen invasions, the Normans – all wrote history here. Mark my words, history will be written here again.”
Sophia caught a movement from the corner of her eye and reacted a split second before the sound reached them.
Bang!
The impact of the timber gangplank dropping from the side of the ship onto the dock seemed much louder than it ought to be. Sailors moved past them carrying trunks – theirs –which meant they would be the first “cargo” to be offloaded.
“Be careful with that one,” Uncle Jonas called out before hurrying to follow them. Sophia looked about her. There was no sign of Kit in the bustle of activity. After the elaborate greeting at the start of their journey, she had half-expected some equally flamboyant farewell at the end of it. Disappointment weighed on her shoulders and a nudge from Laura started her forward.
As she was about to step onto the gangplank, a hand took hers to steady her. Kit’s hazel eyes met hers, and Sophia felt as though she could breathe again.
“Addio amica,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain,” she replied, her voice no louder than a whisper. Kit bowed his head over her hand. She hoped he would kiss it, but he did not. Instead, she found a card discreetly pressed into her palm.
“An address. Should you ever need a friend.”
Sophia tucked the card into her glove. She squeezed his hand once more and swallowed her sadness.
Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 146