“Well, all right, but it’s Tyler you really need to be tendin’ to.”
“My nurse will begin preparing him for my examination. Now, if you’d just raise your shirt . . .”
Preacher lifted the buckskin shirt without pulling it all the way off. That was enough for Flynn to get a look at the wounds the cat-o’-nine-tails had left on his back.
The doctor murmured an oath and said, “Some of these wounds have been bleeding recently.”
“Yeah, earlier today,” Preacher admitted. “I tussled with a couple of varmints.”
“Whoever did this is an absolute brute!”
“Yeah, I can’t argue with that. He was one of the fellas I was tusslin’ with. And he beat that boy inside.”
“These injuries seem to be healing well. You must have the constitution of an ox, sir. But it would be better if they were cleaned, as well. My nurse can do that and then spread some salve on them that will help them even more. You’ll have numerous scars, however.”
“They won’t be the first ones,” Preacher said.
CHAPTER 37
Preacher told Chimney to go back to the docks and see that everything was squared away on the Calypso. Then he followed the doctor into the house, which, with its thick adobe walls, was shady and cool inside.
Flynn told him, “Take off your shirt.”
Preacher shook his head. “See to Tyler first. I can wait.”
Flynn shrugged. He had none of the typical briskness about him that Preacher associated with Englishmen. Life in the tropics had worked its magic—or its curse, depending on how you looked at it—on Roger Flynn, leaving him with a languid, unhurried attitude.
Preacher followed the doctor into another room where Tyler had been placed facedown on a narrow bed with a corn-husk mattress. Preacher heard the husks crackling and rustling as the young woman who perched on the edge of the bed shifted a little while she cleaned dried blood away from the wounds on Tyler’s back.
She glanced around as Preacher and Flynn came into the room. The mountain man saw a pretty, heart-shaped face with skin just a shade darker than honey, surrounded by thick hair blacker than midnight. Dark eyes flashed as she frowned at Preacher for a second, then she went back to work. He could tell how gently her fingers moved as she stroked the wet cloth over the young man’s skin.
“Muchas gracias, Estellita,” Flynn said. “Let me see how this looks.”
The girl stood up and moved aside so he could study the wounds. He bent over Tyler for a few moments, then turned to a small table beside the bed and picked up a sharp-bladed instrument he used to probe at the deep gashes. A stink came into the air in the room as the blade uncovered the putrefaction beneath the injuries.
“A clean cloth,” he told Estellita. “And a basin of hot water, por favor.”
She hurried past Preacher, who stepped aside to give her room to get through the doorway. As she did, she cast another glance at him and shied away as if he were some sort of wild animal she didn’t want to approach too closely.
Flynn must have caught that reaction on the girl’s part. He chuckled and said quietly, “You frighten her, Captain.”
“She’s got no reason to be scared of me,” the mountain man said. “And you don’t have to call me Cap’n, neither. Preacher will do just fine.”
“But you have a great deal of blood on your hands, isn’t that true?”
Preacher shrugged. “I’ve run into more than my share of trouble over the years, I reckon.”
“Estellita is a very sensitive girl. She can tell that about you, just by being in the same room with you. I’ve seen the reaction before. Jabez Sampson came here from time to time. She always hid from him.”
“Smart girl.”
“What happened to Sampson? Is he dead?”
“Not as far as I know.”
“But he’s no longer the master of the Calypso. He wouldn’t give that up willingly.”
“He didn’t have any choice in the matter,” Preacher admitted. “We put him and the other men who stayed loyal to him in a boat and set them adrift.”
“Isn’t that the same as condemning them to death?”
“We gave ’em food and water. They’ll have to take their chances from there. The Calypso’s done with bein’ a pirate ship, though.”
“Well, I wish you luck, whatever your plans are,” Flynn said as he turned back to Tyler. Without looking around, he added, “You probably should have killed Sampson when you had the chance, though.”
“That’s what folks keep tellin’ me,” Preacher said.
* * *
Flynn and Estellita worked together over Tyler for quite a while, draining the infected wounds and washing them with hot water. Without ever fully regaining consciousness, Tyler shifted around and made pained noises while Flynn and Estellita were tending to him, but by the time they’d finished, the young man appeared to have fallen into a deep sleep.
Flynn covered the wounds with clean cloths and straightened from the task. The doctor stepped back from the bed and wiped his hands with a clean cloth.
“When I was back in England,” Flynn said, “I read papers by all sorts of learned men speculating on what causes wounded flesh to decay the way it does, and most of them never even mentioned the fact that if kept clean, such wounds stand a much greater chance of healing properly. They blame an imbalance in the bodily fluids for disease and putrefaction, or in some cases, nebulous humors in the very air! What never seems to occur to any of them is that the typical hospital or surgery is a veritable pesthole, an ugly death just waiting to happen. There is a great deal of truth to the old saying about how cleanliness is next to godliness, my friend. But it took me coming here and experimenting on my own to confirm that truth.”
“Is that why you came to the islands, Doctor?” Preacher asked dryly, knowing the search for knowledge hadn’t been Flynn’s only reason for leaving England—if, in fact, it had entered into the decision at all.
“Well . . . no,” Flynn admitted. “Through no fault of my own . . . well, perhaps a bit of fault . . . I made some powerful enemies who arranged for me to appear to be a criminal. Unable to convince the authorities otherwise, I was forced to flee. At least for the present, this island is out of reach of English law, and Verdugo is isolated enough that it’s unlikely I’ll ever be found.”
Preacher didn’t know if there was any truth to Flynn’s story or if the doctor actually was a criminal, and as far as he could see, it didn’t matter one blasted bit to him, one way or the other. The important thing was that Flynn was tending to Tyler’s injuries and seemed to be doing a good job of it.
“We’ll let him rest for the time being,” Flynn went on. “Now if you’ll take your shirt off and go into the other room, you can sit at the table while Estellita sees to your injuries.”
The girl didn’t look too happy about that, but she didn’t argue. Preacher did as Flynn said and sat there while Estellita used clean cloths and hot water to wipe away the blood.
Flynn studied the wounds and frowned. “How long ago did this flogging take place?”
“A couple of days,” Preacher replied.
“And you’ve exhibited this much healing already? My word, man, you must be some sort of freak of nature. You should have been laid up for a week or more!”
“Fresh air and clean livin’,” Preacher said with a grin. “Besides, I had things to do, like gettin’ even with the fellas responsible for this.”
“I don’t believe I’d want to have you bearing a grudge against me,” Flynn murmured. “Estellita will apply some salve to these wounds, but other than that, I don’t think any treatment will be necessary as long as you keep them clean and don’t abuse them. And I don’t believe it would hurt for you to take it easy for a few days, if you can manage that.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Preacher said.
Flynn nodded and went back into the room where Tyler was resting. Estellita took a jar from a shelf and approached Preacher. When he
looked over his shoulder at her, he saw the wary expression on her face, as if she might bolt at any moment.
“Don’t worry,” he told her, not knowing if she understood English. “I don’t bite.”
“I am not worried, señor,” she said. She fingered the little gold cross that hung at her throat. “El Señor Dios protects me from demonios.”
Preacher laughed. “I’m no devil, girl, just a man.”
“Yes,” she said softly as she began spreading the salve from the jar on his wounds with a gentle touch. “I can tell that you are very much a man.”
He heard something in her voice warring with the apprehension she felt in his presence. He was considerably older than her and much too rugged-looking to be considered handsome, but most women responded to him and found him attractive. That seemed to be true of Estellita as well, even though he frightened her at the same time. There was a good chance the air of danger about him drew her to him that much more.
He hadn’t come to Verdugo looking for romance, just medical attention for Tyler and maybe a place to pick up some supplies before sailing back to New Orleans. He had already decided that was what he was going to do, and he thought Chimney and the other remaining members of the Calypso’s crew would be willing to go along with that course of action.
He had no desire to remain in Cuba or to become a pirate. The mountains were still waiting for him, once he had settled up with his enemies, recovered as much of Charlie’s money as he could, and gone back to St. Louis to check on his young friend and deliver that money.
Still, he didn’t want to leave until he knew that Tyler was going to be all right, and since he was going to be there for at least a few days, he supposed there was nothing wrong with finding a pleasant way to pass the time.
“Muchas gracias, señorita,” he said when Estellita had finished putting salve on his wounds. He was able to manage that much Spanish.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” she asked. Her tone was carefully neutral, but again he thought he heard a slight catch in her voice.
“Well, I could do with somethin’ to eat, and maybe if you’ve got somethin’ to drink handy—”
She shook her head, peered into his eyes, and said, “Not here. But if you would like to come with me to mi casa, I will prepare supper for you.”
She left unspoken what else she might do for him, but there was enough promise in her gaze for Preacher to smile, nod, and tell her, “I reckon I’d like that.”
CHAPTER 38
A fella could get used to living like this, Preacher thought as the hammock in which he was stretched out swayed slightly in the breeze. The trees to which the hammock was tied cast cooling shade over him, and that soothing breeze made him even more comfortable.
His eyes were closed and he was only about half awake as he listened to the sound of waves washing up gently on the sand about fifty yards away on the other side of the beach. But when he heard footsteps approaching him, he instantly became alert, and his hand drifted closer to the butt of the pistol tucked behind his belt.
“I have brought rum,” Estellita said, and Preacher relaxed. He opened his eyes, sat up, and swung his legs out of the hammock, but he didn’t get to his feet yet. He paused to look at Estellita.
She wore a low-cut white blouse that left her honey-brown shoulders and the upper slopes of her breasts bare, as well as a colorfully embroidered skirt that revealed her calves and sandal-shod feet. She wasn’t a classic beauty like Simone LeCarde, but she was still one of the most attractive women Preacher had seen in a long time, and spending several long, lazy days with her had made her seem even more so to him. They had talked enough for him to know that she was intelligent, too, and had been learning about medicine from Roger Flynn.
“He will not be here in Verdugo forever,” she had explained, “and when he is gone, someone should know how to care for my people. So he teaches me as much as he can.”
“I reckon you bein’ as pretty as you are don’t have anything to do with him wantin’ to teach you,” Preacher had said.
That prompted Estellita to wave a hand dismissively. “Señor Flynn does not care about women in that way.” She added hastily, “Do not misunderstand. He is not the sort that cares for men, either. His only interest is in knowledge.”
Preacher didn’t believe that for a second. He had never encountered a man who was that immune to the pleasures of the world and the flesh, in whatever form they took. But it was none of his business so he hadn’t pressed Estellita for any more information. All he really cared about was that he and Tyler were both recovering from their injuries.
In Preacher’s case, that recuperation was coming along fine. His back was still a little stiff and sore but gave him no real trouble. Tyler had been pretty sick for a couple of days before his fever finally broke. He was weak but slowly gaining strength, and his mind was clear again. Preacher and Chimney had explained to him where they were and how they had gotten there. Preacher had thanked him, as well, for helping him escape from almost certain death.
Estellita blushed under Preacher’s scrutiny and held out the earthenware cup she was holding. “Here. Drink your rum. Señor Flynn says it is good for you, that it balances the body and the spirit.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Preacher said as he took the cup and sipped the rich, dark rum. One thing he could say for this island, the folks sure could brew some fine liquor.
“The old bearded one is here to see you, as well,” Estellita added.
“Chimney?”
“Sí.”
“That’s fine,” Preacher said. “Send him on around.” He stood up and continued sipping from the cup.
A minute later, Chimney Matthews appeared, smoke billowing from the curved pipe clenched between his square yellow teeth.
The old-timer walked up, took the pipe from his mouth, and grinned. “I been by the doctor’s house just now to see the boy. Seems to be doin’ fine.” He looked over at Estellita, who had followed him out to the trees at the edge of the beach. “He asked if I was comin’ over here and said somethin’ about how he ain’t seen you today, señorita. I’d say he’s a mite smitten with you. Can’t blame him. Most fellas would feel that way if they woke up with a pretty gal like you takin’ care of them. When he was ravin’ with that fever, he prob’ly thought you was an angel who’d come down from heaven to claim him.”
“Tyler is a nice young man,” Estellita said stiffly. “I hope he recovers fully from his injuries.”
“Well, I told him I’d pass along his greetin’s and let you know he’s lookin’ forward to seein’ you again, and I done that.” Chimney turned back to Preacher and went on. “The boys have started talkin’ about where we go and what we do from here, Cap’n. They’d like to know what you’re thinkin’.”
Preacher took another drink of the rum and then said, “We’re goin’ back to New Orleans.”
Chimney made a face. “I figgered that’s what you’d say. I got to tell you, though, Cap’n, some of the fellers ’d be just as happy to stay here from now on. They’ve decided they sorta like the way things are goin’ here.”
“I can’t really blame ’em, I reckon,” Preacher replied with a shrug. “And I ain’t gonna force ’em to leave. Do you think enough of ’em are willin’ to go back that we can handle the ship?”
“Oh, aye, I expect so. We’d be shorthanded, but if everybody’s willin’ to work hard, we can make it. And there’s a chance I might be able to recruit some boys here in Verdugo who’d be willin’ to sign on with us for a chance to go to New Orleans.” Chimney puffed hard on the pipe a couple of times and frowned. “There’s somethin’ ye should know, though, Cap’n.”
Preacher had given up on getting the old-timer to stop calling him captain. “What is it, Chimney?”
“A lad I trust here in the village was headin’ to Havana yesterday to deliver a load of bananas. I asked him to have a look around the harbor and maybe ask, quietlike, you know, if a small boat with som
e men in it had drifted in. He brought back some news with him.”
Preacher’s jaw tightened. “I don’t much like the sound of this.”
“I don’t blame ye. Jabez Sampson is known in Havana. There’s a rumor that he showed up a couple of days ago, along with a big feller with a tattooed head and some other men . . . but they weren’t in no small boat. They was on a schooner flyin’ the French flag.”
Preacher’s forehead creased. “How in the world did they wind up on a ship like that?”
“Onliest thing I can think of is that the schooner come along and found Sampson and the others driftin’ in that boat we put ’em in. The Frenchies must’ve took the lot aboard, thinkin’ they was rescuin’ ’em . . . and then Sampson and the rest massacred the Frenchies.”
Preacher muttered an oath under his breath. He didn’t doubt for a second that Jabez Sampson, with Abner Rowland to help him, would be treacherous and ruthless enough to commit such an atrocity.
“They sailed on into Havana to pick up supplies,” Chimney continued, “and then they left again.”
“You think they’re comin’ here to look for us?” Preacher asked.
“I might’ve. Sampson’s put in to port here often enough to figger it might occur to us, too. But they would’ve been here by now. The boy I sent asked around in the waterfront taverns, and he found out that Sampson and Rowland were talkin’ about headin’ back to New Orleans.” Chimney raked a fingernail along his whiskery jaw. “That goes along with somethin’ else I overheard the two of ’em sayin’ once on board the Calypso, afore we mutinied against ’em. They was drinkin’ and schemin’ in Sampson’s cabin with the door ajar a mite, and I was right outside. I heard ’em sayin’ that after this voyage, there’d be nothin’ stoppin’ ’em from goin’ back and takin’ over the whole operation. The cap’n said he’d been waitin’ for the right man to come along and give him a hand with that, and he was convinced Rowland was just the feller to do it.”
Preacher stood there mulling over what the old-timer had just told him. The rest of the rum in his cup was forgotten.
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