Patriot's Pride

by Penelope Marzec

  “At home, I arise before the sun to begin my baking. Without chores, I am restless and anxious.” Often she thought of him and struggled to distract herself from this strange obsession.

  His expression turned somber and he released her hands. A chill went right to her heart.

  “Continue assisting the other women. You need not concern yourself with Anthony’s foot. The carpenter is as good with a saw as I am.”

  Her stomach churned uneasily at the mention of the saw. “It may be he does not need an amputation.”

  “I must remove his boot and determine the sort of damage which has been done.”

  “I will join you in a moment after I beg Miss Boulton to refrain from taking your bandages.” She rushed off to her cabin. While she did not wish to view an amputation, she hoped to dissuade the doctor. After all, a wagon wheel had crushed Uncle Fitz’s foot last year. Though it took time to mend, he regained the use of it. He limped only if he did too much walking.

  Cecelia laughed at the idea of Louisa padding herself with bandages. Louisa hid underneath a blanket and whimpered. Margaret offered salve for the rash Louisa claimed had caused her suffering.

  When Margaret arrived at the infirmary in the orlop deck, she watched Anthony quaff down a large tumbler of whiskey.

  “It doesn’t hurt much anymore, doc,” Anthony stated.

  “Most likely due to the swelling, which makes it numb.” The doctor carefully slit Anthony’s leather boot.

  Anthony glared at Margaret. “What are you doing here?”

  “I thought I might be of assistance,” she explained.

  “You’re a woman.” Anthony drained the glass.

  “You are indeed a perceptive man,” she stated without a hint of sarcasm.

  Oliver, who stood by with his saw, snickered.

  After removing the boot, the doctor studied the foot beneath it with a frown.

  Meanwhile, Anthony continued to direct a glare at Margaret. “Are you going to wash my foot?”

  “Probably not, though it does need a good scrubbing,” Margaret answered. “I’m well-known as a baker at home. I thought I might be of assistance in kneading your foot, for it looks quite like a lump of dough.”

  Oliver laughed aloud, but Derrick remained somber.

  “No broken skin,” he muttered as he began to press and squeeze the bones.

  “What does that mean?” Anthony asked. “Hey, stop! You’re hurting me.” He tried to move his foot, but the carpenter grabbed his leg and pinned it down in order for Derrick to continue with his examination.

  “He’s checking for crushed bones,” Margaret offered.

  Anthony skin paled in the light of the lantern overhead. “What happens if they’re crushed?”

  Oliver held up his saw. “I use this.”

  A strangled sound of horror gurgled from Anthony’s throat.

  “Would you like more whiskey?” Margaret asked.

  Anthony nodded. She filled his glass and handed it to him.

  “Looks badly sprained with a few broken toes, but they are not of much consequence,” the doctor stated. “We’ll fashion a splint to keep the ankle stable and tape the toes together.”

  “No cutting?” Anthony’s voice sounded hoarse.

  “Only wood.” Oliver sighed with regret.

  “No amputation today.” Derrick shook his head.

  Anthony let out a sob.

  Startled by the dandy’s show of emotion, Margaret patted his hand. “My, my. Everything is going to be fine, you see. Though you won’t be able to walk on your foot for quite some time.”

  “Will you cool his foot with your witch hazel?” Derrick asked.

  “I’ve used up most of it on Mrs. Ulery.” Margaret wished she had brought more, but she never imagined the journey would involve a series of constant accidents. Initially, the sinking of the ship was her greatest fear, but as she became aware of all the other problems, she wondered how the captain was able to maintain a cheerful countenance after crossing the ocean again and again.

  “In that case, I’ll be applying the leeches.” Derrick stated with proud belligerence.

  “You know what’s best for Anthony.” She smiled, turned, and left the infirmary. Her hands shook. She had prayed on the way to the infirmary, and now she offered her thanks to the Lord. What a dreadful night they all endured, but they were safe—for now.

  She went on deck for a little walk to breathe fresh air and to watch the sunrise in the east. The wind had picked up, and while the ship had lost its jibs, it continued gliding through the water, though at a slower pace. Several small icebergs lingered in the distance, but none appeared to be ahead of the Prosperity.

  As the huge, rosy orb of the sun rose, the glow changed the color of the deep ocean to a violet hue. The transformation was breathtaking.

  “God granted us another day,” the captain’s voice rumbled at her elbow.

  “Yes, and I am thanking him for it, but I’m praying all is well at home, too.”

  “What would you be doing this time in the morning on land?” he asked.

  “Baking bread and sweet buns.” The memory of the wonderful, yeasty odor had her smiling. “I supply many of the local inns with my baked goods, along with a few grocers as well.”

  “I’ll warrant your bread is a far cry from hard tack.” He chuckled.

  “Someday, you must visit Leedsville, which is near a deep river and safe harbor. If you stay at the inn, you can enjoy my sweet buns every morning—while they are still warm.”

  The captain patted his belly. “I have eaten far too many sweets in my life.”

  “I dare say none of them were as good as mine.” Pride goeth before a fall. Her brother-in-law’s words as he quoted from the Bible troubled her conscience.

  “Are you saying I’ve wasted my appetite on plain fare?”

  “Mine are light and fluffy, but not too sweet. I put egg yolks in the batter, and they are as yellow as sunshine.” She ached as she remembered the sight of the glorious result of her handiwork when it came from the oven. She hoped the woman Aunt Sally hired followed all her instructions.

  “Our doctor could use your baking skills,” the captain suggested.

  “I daresay he’s put on weight this week,” she noted.

  “The sea has healing powers for some.” He pulled out his pocket watch and studied it as if it was of major importance to know the precise minute of the day.

  She wondered what Derrick’s affliction was, but the captain did not appear inclined to tell her. She glanced out over the water again to watch the waves roll in the bright dawn.

  “Doctor Fortune spared Anthony’s foot,” she informed him.

  “Good,” he muttered. “Well, it is time—”

  “Is that a fish?” she interrupted when she saw a dazzling flash upon a wave. “Perhaps more of those dolphins who skim along beside the ship.” The playful sea creatures fascinated her.

  “Where?” The captain pulled out his telescope and opened it.

  Narrowing her eyes, she studied the undulating surface. The flare glinted briefly in the morning before another wave hid it from sight.

  “It was in that direction—but now it’s hidden.” She pointed out over the water.

  The captain slowly scanned the area.

  She narrowed her eyes against the light until the object caught the rays of the sun once more.

  “It’s a boat,” he stated. “There are men in it. God help them.”

  Margaret touched the wound behind her ear. “Are they British?”

  “Whether they be English or Spanish, we’re bound to pick ‘em up. The good Lord told us so.” He hurried away, and soon the bell rang again for all hands.

  Margaret stood frozen at the rail.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “The fever has left him.” Margaret breathed a sigh of relief as she laid her hand on the man’s forehead. She had worked alongside Derrick for the past week, tending to the men who had been in the boat she’d spotted.
Of the four men lifted from the sea, one was an Englishman. Three of the sailors were members of the Prosperity’s crew taken by the British. One of the Prosperity’s sailors died the next day. Another succumbed to his injuries three days later. After one week, only two remained—the English sailor and one of their own.

  With hands chapped and strained from twisting cloths in cool water, she tilted her head against the wall and sighed. The muscles in her back and shoulders ached from her constant attendance on the patient. If she had not spotted the bright flash in the rolling waves, he would have died.

  Though he was an English sailor, he was not the one who had threatened her. That’s what Derrick said, and she had no reason to doubt him.

  The young sailor did not appear much older than her brother-in-law, who had been born in England, too. Her grandfather and her mother were both British. For the time being, she put away her concerns about marauding English sailors—or at least this one. After all, she still could not recall the event, though the other passengers discussed it endlessly, which disturbed her. They called the British sailors wicked monsters inspired by the Devil, enemies of all that was right and just.

  Love your enemies. What if your foes hurt you? Turn the other cheek. She touched the tender spot on her head.

  “With the fever gone, he may be able to tell us what happened in a more logical manner,” Derrick said as he changed the bandages on the leg and arm of the other survivor.

  Judging from their wounds and their ravings, someone had attacked and sunk the British ship. However, it was difficult to tell who was responsible for the assault. The men had been unable to say whether other sailors had escaped the enemy.

  “I’ll coax him to take a little broth.” Margaret picked up a bowl and spoon and sat beside the sailor’s hammock, but he would not wake with her gentle prodding.

  “He needs rest as much as nourishment,” Derrick suggested. “You should go back to your cabin and get some sleep.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disturb Miss Boulton.” Margaret twisted her hands. Her misgivings about the young woman multiplied daily. “She was sleeping soundly when I left the cabin.”

  “Are her delusions worse?” he questioned in his stern and exacting tone. He continued to insist upon other methods to manage Miss Boulton’s mania.

  “Miss Cavendish believes her cousin’s odd behavior is a result of the confinement on the ship. She claims Miss Boulton is quite sociable in a normal atmosphere.”

  “Do you believe that?” His mouth set in annoyance.

  Margaret sighed. “Miss Boulton sees things I cannot see and hears things I cannot hear.”

  “She has stolen another roll of bandages.” His vexation was evident.

  “She believes the bandages will protect her. At least, I think she does. Much of the time, I do not understand what she is saying. Her words are spoken in English, but they come out all jumbled, as if she had tossed every one of them up in the air and proceeded to read them as they fell down in a nonsensical order.” Louisa’s behavior baffled Margaret.

  “She is thoroughly consumed by her strange illusion, and most likely will never find her way out,” Derrick commented. “Bleeding would calm her.”

  She was tired of wasting her energy trying to convince him of the error of his method. Perhaps, in certain situations, it did appear to help, although it failed to do any good for those with consumption, and she seriously doubted its use in Louisa’s case. “Of course, she would be too weak to do anything afterwards.”

  He turned to give her a scathing look, but she had become accustomed to his glare and merely raised her eyebrows.

  “I’ve seen the results. The mind is at once more serene and tranquil. Dr. Rush advocated mercury as well. You might urge Miss Cavendish to put some into her cousin’s porridge. Opium is an effective calming agent as well.”

  “Miss Boulton is quite suspicious of her food. Miss Cavendish must eat it first. Otherwise, Louisa will refuse it.” Margaret returned the bowl and spoon to the counter. It had been an exhausting day, and weariness weighed on her as much as a yoke upon an ox. In addition, the mustiness of the infirmary worsened her headache. “I need fresh air and a bit of a walk. I long to listen to the songs of birds again, but I suppose the wind singing in the rigging will have to do.”

  She didn’t doubt Louisa heard birds along with hundreds of other sounds in her tortured mind.

  “The captain showed me the map last night. We’ve been most fortunate and are making excellent speed, despite our trials. You’ll hear birds soon.”

  Margaret massaged her neck and shoulders in an attempt to loosen the tense muscles. “Soon is not now.” She realized she sounded peevish, but in her weariness, her tongue grew loose with a mind of its own.

  Derrick finished binding the other sailor’s wounds. “This salve of yours appears to possess some efficacious qualities.”

  His remark surprised her, especially since he had been hesitant to use it in the first place. He only agreed to try it when his supplies ran low.

  “You ought to write down the ingredients. If an apothecary mixes up several jars for me, I shall test it on other patients as well.” For him to say such a thing was high praise indeed. She straightened her drooping shoulders.

  “You’re welcome to the receipt.” She wrapped her shawl about her. “Have you been allowing Mrs. Ulery to imbibe your whiskey again?”

  “No, I keep it in a locked cabinet.” He remained aloof, despite admitting her salve’s useful properties. An invisible wall stood between them, and she didn’t appreciate it. What had happened to the friendship he had offered? Clearly, she had become an assistant and nothing more.

  “If you aren’t giving her liquor, who is? She’s telling everyone a giant sea monster swallowed the British ship in one bite. She said it was God’s punishment for they had stolen our men.”

  “Does she smell of strong spirits?” he questioned.

  “Yes. Sometimes, she slurs her words, too.”

  “It is not my whiskey.” He dipped his hands in the basin and dried them. The deep scar he bore appeared to be healing well.

  Margaret admired his long, narrow, but strong hands. Though he had stitched the wound on her head with such care, now he stood aloof and distant. Why couldn’t they have an easy friendship like the one she had with Frances?

  “As for the sea monsters,” he went on. “The captain intends to dispel any such nonsense for some high-strung passengers take it to heart, especially since Mrs. Ulery tells her stories with such utter conviction and detail.”

  “Yes, she certainly has a way with words. I hardly knew her when she agreed to accompany me on this journey.” She refrained from telling him he was far superior to Mrs. Ulery at rhetoric. If he had not coaxed the male passengers into action, she might be back home in Leedsville baking her bread and sweet buns. A twinge of homesickness pricked at her heart. Life in her small town now seemed a distant, idyllic dream.

  “Mrs. Ulery has a thoroughly indomitable spirit, but apparently she also has a rare thirst as well.” He rubbed his soulful eyes, which were red-rimmed.

  Her conscience stabbed her. No doubt, fatigue weighed on him as much as it did on her. With his myriad duties, he had little time to sleep.

  “Her husband was a bookbinder.” Margaret thought of the small book of verse she had intended to commit to memory. She had not touched it yet. She’d thought the voyage would provide her with boundless leisure, but that had not proven the case. “Mrs. Ulery is undoubtedly repeating old stories she has read and embellished.”

  “Do you have any books?” he asked.

  Startled, since his question mirrored her thoughts, she stuttered. “A-a book of verse.”

  “A wise choice for a voyage.”

  “I own no other volumes, save one on receipts for baking which I left with my aunt who is to continue providing baked goods to my customers.” She prayed all would go well under Aunt Sally’s management, for though her aunt could bake, she lacked the or
ganization needed to keep accounts.

  “I brought several novels with me, though I’ve had little time to read them, but you are more than welcome to borrow them.” He opened one of his cabinets and she viewed his collection. Five fat tomes of medical knowledge filled the small space. However, there were five smaller works of fiction, too. One particularly intriguing title, Gulliver’s Travels, caught her interest.

  She reached for it. “My brother-in-law read this as a boy. He often regales the twins with tales he claimed came from this same story.” She ran her hand over the leather cover and smiled at the thought of the tiny people from Lilliput.

  “Twins?” A wry tilt lifted one corner of his mouth. She found this a most endearing expressional, since he rarely displayed any humor at all.

  “Yes, I mentioned them previously when I stitched your hand. Ryan and Lewis are my cousins. At nine years of age, they are boisterous and find endless delight in horseplay. Edwin calls them Lilliputians.”

  “The book was written as a political satire.” The line of his mouth tightened, lending him a stern appearance. Once more, she sensed an unfortunate tendency of his to remind her how learned he was, while her paltry education counted for naught.

  “Meeting up with an island full of little people does not sound like politics. It’s funny.” She clutched the volume close to her breast and smiled, thinking of the twins’ antics. Even sweet Harriet joined in the fun.

  “If you read it without any perception, it might be amusing.” He said it with an unmistakable note of disdain.

  Her anger ignited. From the first, he’d considered her poor, unrefined, and uneducated. Though she appeared to be no more than a farmer’s daughter with her plain clothing and simple ways, her success as a baker of some local renown was her joy. The Lord had bestowed her with a useful talent, and she thanked Him for it daily.

  Obviously, to Derrick, her work did not matter. He prided himself on being a learned gentleman. Simple pleasure from silliness was beneath him.

  She put the book down. “Perhaps those who label this a political satire are devoid of a sense of humor. You may keep it. I will read my verse.”