Miss Whittier Makes a List (6 page)

“
Dreadful man!
”
she exclaimed, and hauled herself into a sitting position. She groaned and rubbed her hip, wondering at this new pain.
“
What
is
that?
”

The captain paused at the door, his hand on the knob.
“
You have a bruise of eno
rm
ous proportions on your bum
,”
he said, his face breaking into the smile he had obviously been struggling against.
“
I suggest you lie down, Miss
Whittier
. I only very seldom prey on the infirm
,
but I would be happy to make an exception in your case, if you continue biting the hand that fished you from the briny deep. As you were, Andrew. Have a little countenance.
”

He closed the door quietly behind him and she sank back onto the mattress.
“
I am mortified,
”
she said out loud, her eyes boring into the compass, which continued its maddening east northeast course. If she could have closed her eyes and willed herself dead, she would have.

The surgeon, his face perfectly composed now, shook his head.
“
No need to be embarrassed, my dear, no need at all. The only ones who saw you were the entire crew, assembled for a reading of the Articles of War and one of Captain Spark
’
s inimitable sermons. It is the Sabbath, after all. That can
’
t number over one hundred and ninety. We lost some crew to the French recently, so I may be off in my calculations.
”

He looked at the horror that spread across her face, and took her hand again, sitting beside her in the chair the captain had vacated.
“
What I am trying to say, Miss Whittier
,
is that it
’
s better to be alive on a crowded deck, even if a bit sparsely clad, than burned black, swollen beyond recognition, and drifting away.
”

“
But ...
.
”
she began.

“
I can
guarantee
that not one man on this ship saw anything he
’
s never seen before, with the possible exception of that young one ... Adam Winslow? Is that his name? Now sit up again. I want to spread some more of this salve on your back. Captain Spark ordered me to have you shipshape and
Bristol
fashion as soon as possible, so he can have his cabin back.
”

She considered the matter, decided the surgeon was right, and sat up again, her back to him as she primly raised the shi
rttails
and leaned forward.

“
Excellent, my dear! I knew you were a reasonable female,
”
the surgeon murmured as he dabbed on the salve, spreading it across her back with gentle fingers. He paused when she flinched, and then continued, his touch light.

Hannah closed her eyes in relief, as the salve sank into her tormented skin. Suddenly she was more thirsty than she had ever been in her life. As the surgeon gently rubbed the ointment into her raw flesh, she thought of the pond at Isaiah Qualm
’
s gristmill at home, where the wheel turned and turned, tossing the water into a fine spray when the wind was blowing. She longed to be there, turning around and around herself in that spray, her mouth open.

“
Please, sir, I
am so thirsty,
”
she said finally, when he finished.

“
In a moment, my dear,
”
he replied. He wiped his hands on his surgeon
’
s apron, then poured her a cup of water from a battered silver c
ara
fe.
“
Drink it slowly. The water
’
s only been in the casks for a month, so it
’
s practically fresh.
”

She did as he said, relishing the coolness down her throat, and overlooking the taste of wood well tempered with mold.

“
I am going to leave this pitcher beside the berth. Drink as much as you can,
”
h
e said. He returned to a small t
able and spooned another dollop of
ointment
into the jar he held.
“
When I leave, I want you to smear this on the rest of your body. If you need help, I
’
ll help
,
but I think you would rather do this yourself.
”

She took the ointment from him, avoiding his eyes, but managing a little smile.
“
I suppose you will tell me that you
’
ve already done that, so I needn
’
t feel embarrassed.
”

“
I wasn
’
t going to say that, but I could.
”
He grinned and tugged at her hair, which was neatly braided.
“
Don
’
t be a ninnyhammer, Miss Whittier! I am, after all, a surgeon.
”

“
Yes, but on board a ship with nothing but men about
,
”
she grumbled as she began gingerly to apply the salve
to
her poor knees.
“
I hardly think it is the same.
”

He watched her a moment in silence, until she looked up, a question in her eyes.
“
I have not always been a surgeon in the company of men,
”
he said, his voice quiet.

She thought for a moment that he would say something else, but he did not.
“
Everywhere, mind you,
”
he reminded her.
“
I can always make up more salve.
”

Hannah nodded, her eyes on her legs again. She dribbled a line of salve from her ankle bone to her knee.
“
Sir, do you think the captain will allow me to speak to Adam Winslow?
”
she asked.
“
I should tell him
of his
fatherme.>
”

“
I am sure he will allow
that, but it can wait, Hannah Wh
ittier.
”
He opened the door.
“
Bad news can always wait.
”

He closed the door behind him. When she heard his footsteps receding down the companionway, she raised Captain Spark
’
s
shirt
for a good look at her hip. The captain was right, she admitted. It was a bruise of enormous proportions
,
probably a result of her tumble onto the deck of the
Molly Claridge
at the first broadside from the French.

Hannah unbuttoned the shi
rt
, choosing not to think who had buttoned her into it
,
and stared down at her body. She had been wearing only a chemise when Captain Winslow threw her into the ocean, and she could see the contrast of white on her breasts and stomach, where she had not been burned by the sun. She touched her stomach, thankful that there was one
part
of her anatomy that did not hurt.
“
I will be a wretched specimen when I sta
rt
to peel,
”
she said out loud as she gritted her teeth and slathered on the ointment.

When she was finished, H
ann
ah could not bring herself to put on the shirt again. She tugged the sheet up to her chin and lay down again, pulling her long braid away from the
ointment
and draping it across the pillow. She regarded it for a moment, wondering who had braided her hair
so neatly. She remembered the tang
le it had b
e
en in after her days of seasickness, and her own perfunctory attempt at reducing chaos to order. Someone more patient than I, she thought, remembering the gentleness of the surgeon
’
s fingers. He had told her his name, but she could not remember it
.

She lay as still as she could, shivering now and then as her
bod
y protested its cavalier treatment She took another drink, spilling most of it on the pillow, but not minding the cool wetness on her shoulders. She thought of Adam, and dreaded telling him of his father.
“
And now we are both impressed,
”
she
murmured
and looked up at the compass again.

When she woke,
it was morning again. The sun strea
med through
the porthole as she lay quietly,
wondering how painful it would be to move.
“
Thee is not dying, Hannah Whittier,
”
she said out loud finally, and sat up.

While the pain still made the hairs rise on her back, she knew she could endure it. She draped the captain
’
s shirt around her bare shoulders and tugged the sheet to her waist. Feeling old and rheumatoid, she managed to pour herself another drink of water from the carafe that must have been refilled during the night. The jar of ointment had been replenished as well. Thoughtfully, she began to apply it to her
arms
as she looked around the room.

It was a sleeping cabin, spare and lacking in any creature comforts beyond the berth and a truly comfortable pillow. There was a chai
r of uncompromising proportions,
and a small writing desk with a pull-down lid. A battered sea chest with
SPARK
painted in black letters adorned the opposite bulkhead from where she sat
.
Above it was the only incongruous item in the room, a cross-stitched sampler which read,
“
England expects every man to do his duty
”
in flowing script. The threads looked as battered as the trunk below and reminded her of similar efforts at home in the parlor on
Orange Street
. She wondered who thought enough of Captain Sir Daniel Spark to create such a sampler. Surely no woman would ever get close enough to the captain to produce female offspring. It must be a sister. Her own experience with samplers reminded her that samplers were always a good present for brothers, who generally deserved nothing better.