Pirate's Wraith, The (12 page)

“Hooper hit one of the captain’s arteries. If I let go, the captain will bleed out in seconds.” Actually, she no idea how long it would take, but she could not risk it. There’s something she should have studied with more diligence. Maybe that’s why she couldn’t get into med school. Tears welled up in her eyes. Now, when she really needed the knowledge, she had no way to retrieve it. She could rattle off the names of the latest pills for heartburn, cholesterol, and depression—but
the ability to patch a severed artery would be a far better skill.

S
he should have learned how to sew. 

“
Tie those men up, Gilly. Then you can put in your blasted stitches.” The captain’s voice faded. 

The doctor found several lengths of rope and went right to work tying up the unconscious men. “Aloysius has been a troublemaker from the start. I hope you’ll be leaving him in New Providence.”

“Anybody who smells that bad should never be allowed on a ship.” Lesley noted.

The captain gave a weak chuckle. “I shall have you help me choose the men for the next voyage. Perhaps you will be a better judge of character than I.”

“I don’t know anything about fighting. I hit Hooper on the head in sheer desperation. I didn’t want to poke a hole in him with the end of the pike. That would be murder.” Of course, sometimes people died from a blow to the head, too. She bit her lip and hoped that Hooper would wake up—after the ropes had been knotted tightly.

“I never thought Hooper the kind of man who would start a mutiny,” the doctor commented.

“There are a bunch of greedy, perverted bastards on this ship. You should hang out with a better crowd, take up a different profession and rub shoulders with the right people.” Lesley pleaded. “I’m sure you could find something less—less dangerous. Less bloody. Less wicked. Pirating is a criminal offense.”

The captain directed a frown at her capable of putting a lesser woman, or cabin boy, in his or her place. However, Lesley had seen the same type of furrowed brow from some physicians. Yes, some doctors tried to put her in her place. She was, after all, merely a pharmaceutical rep—not a pharmacist, or a nurse. But when it came to selling drugs, she remained undaunted—and it took more than a fierce glare fro
m an arrogant doctor to discourage her. Despite her failure to get into med school, she had developed valuable skills being a pharmaceutical rep--dogged determination and sheer stubbornness.

“In fact, this pirating business has got to stop,” she insisted. “A pardon is going to be offered in a few years to all pirates to make the seas safer. The Golden Age of Pirates is almost over. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“How do you know this?” The captain hissed.

“Um ... Jim told me.” Naturally Jim had the benefit of three hundred years of history behind the statement.

The captain narrowed his eyes and she winced. Most likely, he would call her a witch again.

“All right, cap’
n, the men are trussed up good and tight. I’ll be needing to fix that stab wound.” The doctor wiped his hands on his breeches.

Bile rose in her throat as she envisioned all the germs crawling around on his skin. “Is there any soap on this boat?”

“Why would we need soap?” The captain grumbled in obvious pain and closed his eyes.

Fear twisted around her heart. What if he beca
me delirious? What if he died? Her uncertain existence in this backward century could take a turn for the worse at any moment. She struggled to project an outward appearance of calm. “A doctor should wash his hands thoroughly with soap before treating a patient. It prevents  infections.”

“I have a small bar of soap.” Dr. Gilroy admitted. “I use it to keep the vermin out of my clothing.”

She breathed a quick sigh of relief, delighted to discover soap existed in this primeval place. “There are very small bugs on your hands—so tiny you cannot see them, but they are there and if they get into your patient’s wound, the bugs can multiply inside the body and cause a grave infection. The patient’s skin needs to be cleaned, too, before any procedures are done because the patient has small bugs on his skin as well.”

“This is interesting.” The doctor nodded. “I will try it.”

“Get it done quickly, Gilly.” Though softer in tone, the captain’s voice retained the air of authority. “I must discover the others involved in this scheme.”

“Ah, my cap’n. This is a dangerous life as young Lesley has said. Better to stay on land and till the soil.”

“On land you must rely on God to send rain and when he doesn’t, you starve,” the captain whispered.

Would he need CPR? Lesley pressed harder on his wound and said a silent prayer.

The captain groaned. “We are a cursed lot. Our destiny is death.”

He passed out in Lesley’s arms. She closed her eyes to hold back the tears.

* * * *

Harlan
’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He needed a drink. Lying on the bunk in his cabin, he watched Lesley at his desk. Her breath came soft, deep, and even. She had fallen into the land of dreams with her head upon her arms.

Pain gnawed at him and rest eluded him. Gilly had bound his arm tightly and warned him not to remove the strips of cloth for the wound would bleed
again. At least it was his left arm. With his right he could still fight and keep records. Indeed, he must make a note in his log of the mutinous actions of Aloysius Meeker and Hooper. They had been banished to the hold for now, but their conspirators must be rooted out. Weariness washed over him. He did not want to think about what tomorrow would bring.

Suppressing a groan, he slid off the bunk. Though there seemed to be a fire in his arm, he could move it. 

With infinite care, he lifted Lesley from the desk. Against her chest, she clutched the small pony as if it brought her comfort. Could he believe she had found it in some shop in the far distant future?

Had her brain been rattled by Moody’s blow?

Had she lied to him deliberately?

He placed her gently in the bunk. She stirred little—only to mumble something he could not understand and then to smile. Her grin leaned crookedly to one side due to her battered face. Again the sight of the disfigurement fired up his anger. The porcelain of her once flawless features lay horribly marred and the need for retribution filled him with wrath far more scorching than the ache searing his wound.

Covering her with the blanket, he went back to the desk to pick up the soft cloth filled with herbs which Gilly insisted would help ease the bruising. As he placed it against her swollen face, she stirred once more and a tear eked out of the corner of her eye. He wiped it away and it fell from his finger to the pony.

The wooden object began to glow. Icy horror gripped him. What black sorcery took hold of the toy?

Intent on tossing the wicked object into the sea, he moved to snatch it from her grip, but it burned his hand with heat.

Could Elsbeth’s magic be strong enough even in de
ath to cause this? Or could did  magic come from Lesley’s own spell? He glared at the pony but it turned dark once more.

Chapter
Eight

Lesley woke with a start. How did she get into the bunk? She remembered yawning and laying her head on her arms on the desk. As she turned, the soft cloth packed with herbs and vinegar fell to the floor. She touched her swollen cheek but while it still hurt, she could see through her eye on that side so the swelling must have subsided.

The wooden horse nestled against her side. A well of emotion threatened as she clutched the small toy to her chest to try and stem the tide of loss. All she had left of her former life was this one pitiful object--a rudimentary plaything carved by a pirate. How had it passed through time with her? Could its association with the captain be responsible for bringing her to this particular place? Did that sound crazy?

Had she lost her mind? Was this hell or just a horrible dream? She held up her hand. It looked real and solid. She pinched herself. It hurt.

Bright sunlight filtered in through the stained glass in the stern windows. The
Lyrical
had been graced with a few lovely touches—and those windows with their fanciful flowers were worthy of the Smithsonian. Briefly, she wondered what had happened to them and if anyone in 2011 owned them. Or had they been blasted apart in some yet-to-be battle? A tingle of apprehension shimmered up her spine.

The captain swung in his hammock, the motion of the ship rocking him like a baby in a cradle. The little empty ache stabbed her in that soft spot of her heart. She would never go home, never have a baby or a normal life. She would die here in some horrible manner.

Maybe today.

She sighed. At least she didn’t have a headache. Modern medicine had not helped her at all, but a trip back in time had solved her problem. Maybe migraines hadn’t been invented yet.

She slid out of the bunk and tiptoed closer to the captain. The striking similarity between him and Jim mystified her. They could have been twins. However, the captain’s muscular sinews had the strength of steel bands. She had to be thankful Jim did not possess the same kind of power. Otherwise, he would have knocked her out.

Her gaze lowered to the bulge in the captain
’s britches. Her cheeks flamed at the memory of it. Damn. Jim’s main asset did not come close.

Still, being a pirate did not make for a good resume and after last night’s mutiny, she feared he would not remain a captain for long. Her future in the past as a cabin boy became more precarious than ever.

That strange tingle accompanied by a vibrating hum grew inside her. She considered whether a force field created the sensation. Maybe this backward time thing affected her in an abnormal way. Of course, the entire episode didn’t adhere to any logical explanations. It could be a bad, drug-induced trip. She had heard stories about people’s experiences with crystal-meth and other hallucinogens. Yet, she seemed fully in control of herself and her actions. She wasn’t sick. She did not have a migraine. She felt healthy—except for the bruise on the side of her face, but it could not be compared in any way to the throbbing, stabbing agony she had suffered in her head for months. Maybe she should be grateful for being transported out of 2011. Maybe she had been blessed.

Her stomach growled loud enough to make her believe it would wake up the captain, but he remained sound asleep as the hammock went back and forth like the pendulum of an old clock. The slight tug of the ropes against the hook created a rhythmic squeak that added a harmonic counterpoint to the rumble of her hunger.

She had to have some food—real food, not that unappetizing hardtack. She went to the door and drew the bolt as quietly as possible. Peering out into the corridor, she did not see a soul but she still feared meeting up with the malevolent Christopher Moody. She tucked a pistol into her waistband. It wasn’t loaded but nobody had to know that. Heavy and awkward, the weapon could hurt someone if she threw it.

Glancing at the mirror, she studied her bruised and swollen face, her ragged clothes, and the pistol.
If she donned a tricornered hat and put a patch over one eye she would be ready for a Halloween costume party.

She feared leaving the captain alone, but without some sustenance she would pass out. Tinkering with the simple latch on the door, she figured a way to pull down the latch from the outside by using a piece of string. She hurried toward the quarterdeck promising herself to be quick. The sound of men chanting a bawdy song indicated their involvement in some sort of chore. No digital tracks, but it got the work done.

When she opened the door to the deck, she found members of the crew crawling along on their knees in the process of holystoning. They looked up, gave her toothless grins, and kept right on singing.

Dental care in 1711 left a lot to be desired.

Stepping around the men, she searched for the galley while keeping a wary eye out for Mr. Moody. Above her in the rigging, sailors tarred the lines while the carpenter and his crew fixed the holes created by the cannonballs in the battle.

Helping with the chores on deck appealed to her. It would while away the time and keep her from thinking too much about her former life, but she needed to keep an eye on the captain. Obviously, she and the doctor were his only friends.

She located the galley where the stone-deaf cook stood over a huge vat of something gray. He did not notice her since she took care to stand behind him. He tossed a handful of salt into the vat and stirred the goo around. The sight and the smell of the unappetizing mixture made her gag. 

She spied a basket with a few eggs in it and smiled. Reaching for a slotted spoon, she put two eggs into it and then lowered them into a vat of boiling tea. She moved as quietly as possible, keeping out of the cook’s vision. He seemed to enjoy stirring his pot of gruel.

The slimy coating of grease and soot that covered everything in the galley grossed her out. If the men on the ship didn’t die in a battle, they had a good chance of succumbing to food poisoning. So did she for that matter. She should cook her own meals on the ship—and those of the captain, too. For all she knew, someone could try to poison him.

The image of the captain in all his naked magnificence flooded her mind. She did not want anything to ruin his incredible physique.