David smiled. He enjoyed sparring with the lad. The boy made up for his lack of years with a quick wit and intelligence that made him a welcome addition to the small community of a privateer. As the captain, David had to keep a distance from his men, and having someone new to joust with was good for him as well.
"I hope this voyage will be educational for you in many ways, Doctor," David went on, sounding rather ponderous even to his own ears. "A young man of your limited experience could learn a great deal from the men of the
Fancy.
Going to sea was the making of most of them, and it will be the making of you also, Doctor. By the time this voyage is finished you will be a new man!"
"Too true," Alcott murmured. "But as to the duration of this voyage..."
Whatever he was going to say was interrupted by a call from aloft.
"Captain, a sail!"
David and Henry both looked up at the sailor aloft.
"Off the starboard bow, sir!"
David opened his spyglass to get a better look. Dr. Alcott shaded his eyes, trying to make the vessel out.
"Is it a British ship?"
David ignored him, focusing on the vessel coming into view.
"Mr. Fletcher!"
"Sir!"
"Call the men to quarters."
"Aye, sir!" Henry said briskly, and it warmed David to hear the excitement in his brother's voice.
"Is it a British vessel? Send me over to her, Captain!"
"Get below, Doctor. Your station is in sick bay to prepare for any wounded."
"But--"
"If you poke your head abovedecks while we are in contact with that vessel, or question my orders again, I will shoot you myself."
David took a moment to glance at the man next to him. The doctor appeared stunned at the threat, but there was no time to deal with his bruised sensibilities.
"Do I make myself clear, Dr. Alcott?" David said softly.
"Aye, Captain Fletcher," the man gritted out, and turned to go below. David watched his stiff back leave the deck, then turned to more important matters.
Charley almost slammed a bottle of olive oil down on her table, but pulled her hand just in time. She would not let her temper get the better of her, and she would not, by God, allow that insufferable American pirate to cause her to damage her limited supplies!
If they were engaging another ship injuries would be likely, and her first duty was to care for the injured, not to save her own skin by escaping from this enemy vessel.
But the arrogance of that man, discussing fashion one minute, threatening her life the next, it was not to be borne.
And the alternative is...?
She sighed, and ran her hand through her hair, brushing it back from her forehead. There was no alternative. She was a prisoner here, but more importantly, right now she was needed. Even though she knew her blades were freshly sharpened, she checked them again. She took out her saws, and probes, and covered them so the injured men wouldn't see them when they were brought in. She arranged bandages and ointments, and reviewed her notes from Dr. Murray, and her Woodall, and strained her ears to hear what was happening above her head. She thought about risking that head by poking it abovedecks, but trusted Captain Fletcher to be a man of his word.
Charley was unprepared for the roar of the twelve-pounder as it fired on the other ship and she nearly lost her footing, but recovered in time to hear the answering fire from the ship being attacked by the
Fancy
, and feel the blow to the schooner as one of the missiles struck, followed by yells from above. Moments later the door to sick bay burst open and Reynolds staggered in, supported by Lewis. A piece of wood protruded from Reynolds's thigh.
"Hit by a splinter, Doctor."
"I can see that, Lewis. Help him over to the table."
A whiff of gunpowder and sulphur entered with the men, and Lewis left as soon as Reynolds was settled.
"Take it out quickly, Doctor. They need me above."
"Reynolds, do not tell me how to do my business," Charley said absently as she cut through the blood soaked trouser leg.
Reynolds gripped the table and swore, then apologized.
"Not necessary, Mr. Reynolds, though I assure you I have never had relations with a goat," Charley said. "Now, I suggest you look away and try to think of something else. Is that a British ship you are fighting?"
"Naw, some Spaniard. He must have a good cargo for him to be firing back at us. Usually they just surrender. Easier that way."
Charley's attention was all on the gaping gash in Reynolds's leg, but much as she deplored the idea of robbing some innocent Spaniard, part of her was glad it wasn't a British ship engaged with the Americans. She removed the shards of wood from Reynolds's bloody thigh, and when she was satisfied she'd gotten them all, cleaned and bandaged the battered leg.
"Do your best to keep the bandage clean, Mr. Reynolds, and I will check on you tomorrow. For now you should stay off that leg."
Reynolds's grin split his smoke-blackened face.
"Naw, a little scratch like this can't keep me out of the fray, Doctor. I've got to get above so I can get my share!"
And with that he hobbled out, one trouser leg flapping after him like a crimson flag.
Charley shook her head but had no time to mull over Reynolds's folly as more men came in, presenting a variety of wounds, none of them overly serious. One man had a burned hand from mishandling the match (he came in for some ribbing for that), another had a gash on his head from a bad fall, and she set a sailor's broken arm.
The din above had been a constant noise, and she still jumped at the sound of the guns from both ships. She could also smell a great deal of smoke, and the sick bay was hazy with it, but the injured men assured her the
Fancy
was sound and had not taken any serious damage.
Finally the wounded ceased trickling in, and Charley realized how exhausted she was, and how stiff and sore. She was straightening up and wincing when the door opened again, but this time it was Captain Fletcher who stood framed there. His face was blackened from soot and he had a thread of blood oozing down his arm from beneath the sleeve rolled up to his bicep, but his grin was white and wide beneath the grime.
"It was a rout, Doctor! The damned Spanish thought they could outfight my men, but we showed them right and proper!"
"Let me tend to that wound on your arm, Captain."
He looked down and seemed to notice for the first time he that he was wounded. "Huh. I don't even remember getting that."
"Sit," Charley directed him, and Captain Fletcher took the chair, holding out his arm. "Are there wounded aboard the Spanish ship?"
"If there are, that's their problem. Do not look at me that way, Doctor, you are the
Fancy
's medical man, and I'm not about to risk you by putting you aboard their tub."
Charley didn't want to get into an argument. "Was it a good haul for you?"
That amazing smile split his face again, and Charley paused from where she was cleaning the dirt and blood off of his arm. When he smiled like that, something twisted inside her and it almost hurt.
Who was she fooling? It did hurt. It hurt because she could not respond to that smile as a woman would, and it hurt because she suspected that even if she could respond, she wouldn't be the woman he wanted.
And now she'd learned he was to be married.
She needed to get over this...this obsession she was developing regarding this man. For her own health and safety, he must never suspect that she was hoodwinking him. She lowered her gaze back down to his arm. He was talking animatedly and hadn't noticed her pause.
"...and while I would vastly have preferred a specie ship outbound for Spain, there's nothing wrong with a ship carrying fine Madeira and silks and linens for the markets of Havana! The ladies in New York and Baltimore and Boston will like them just as well, and Yankees will toast the war efforts over the wine in our hold."
He frowned. "Almost too good a haul. I need to get some of this to market myself before there's not room to turn around in the hold. Oh, and that reminds me. Are you finished there?"
"In a moment," she said, tying the bandage securely. "There, you're done."
He rose and walked to the door, then stepped outside and returned carrying a covered basket. "Here, this is for you."
She took the basket from him and the weight shifted, causing her nearly to drop it. But she got the lid open and a bewhiskered head poked out, looking at her gravely.
"I brought you a kitty. But he only speaks Spanish," Fletcher said straight-faced.
The cat pushed himself out of his confinement and jumped to the deck.
"I hope 'Rat!' is a universal call to action for felines, Captain," Charley said, studying her share of loot from the Spanish prize. The cat was a gray tom who looked like he'd seen his share of action at sea. One ear was nearly chewed off and she suspected there might be a need to dust him for fleas--did she have any pennyroyal in her chest? But he seemed to take his new surroundings in stride as he strolled through sick bay, checking into the crevices and crannies, then sat on the deck to lick one paw.
"I don't suppose you bothered to find out if the cat has a name?"
"I would not be at all surprised if they referred to him as 'cat' or more likely, '
gato.
' But if you feel it is necessary, by all means give him a name, Doctor."
"Hmmm...Hippocrates is too much of a mouthful, and doesn't seem to suit his demeanor. I believe I shall call him...Pirate. Since he was stolen at sea," she finished with a bland smile.
"A most appropriate choice," Fletcher said, rolling his sleeve down over his wounded arm. He frowned again. "You are moving stiffly, Dr. Alcott."
"It is a long afternoon in sick bay, Captain. I am not used to working under such tense conditions. Remember, I am not a trained sea surgeon."
"You are at least as good as most of the ones I've known. Drunks and derelicts, the lot of them!"
"I am glad that I am in such illustrious company," Charley said.
"That is my point, Dr. Alcott. You are not like most of the men who go to sea to practice medicine."
"No, I dare say I am not," Charley said dryly.
"You are younger than most, but I hope you never lose your enthusiasm and commitment to your patients," Captain Fletcher said, looking at her with sincerity shining out of those eyes like warm topazes.
Charley's breath caught, and she had to clear her throat before speaking.
"Thank you, Captain Fletcher. Your regard means more to me than I can say."
"I am a plain-speaking man, Doctor, but I mean what I say. Would you like me to massage your neck for you, to ease some of that stiffness? A Chinaman gunner showed me some tricks that would relax your muscles in a trice."
"No! I mean, thank you for your offer, Captain, but I must set the sick bay to rights."
"Will we see you at supper?"
"Please ask Mr. Lewis to bring me a tray, Captain. I have to write up my observations of today's events while they are still fresh in my mind. While I hope this will be the last action at sea for me, I cannot count on that."
Fletcher only nodded at this. "Is there anything I need to know about the wounded?"
"No, none of the cases are serious, assuming they don't do further injury to themselves. I do want to check on Henry though. Please send him to me."
"Then I will see you later, Dr. Alcott. Thank you for patching me up."
He opened the cabin door and Pirate scooted out to earn his keep patrolling the hold. Captain Fletcher turned in the doorway as she spoke.
"No need to thank me, Captain, it is my job."
"Nonetheless, you are skilled at your job, and I appreciate that."
He left and she watched the empty space where he'd been standing moments before, filling her cabin with his vitality and
joie de vivre.
Then she sighed and began to put her sick bay to rights.
"...and the fighting was fierce, and Dav--Captain Fletcher was in the midst of it, his cutlass in hand, looking for all the world like he was enjoying a day in the park. I wish you could have seen it, Doctor!"
"I have no doubt the captain fought bravely, Mr. Fletcher, but if you recall, I am the person responsible for patching up the wounded. I would just as soon as not have to deal with men injured through violence in addition to those who come to me for accident or illness. Now, hold still, I do not want to jar your arm."
"Well, it is no wonder you feel that way, Doctor. But I imagine if you were a man you would feel differently."
Time stood still as the blood froze in Charley's veins. Her ears were ringing and for one mercifully brief moment thought she might swoon. Then common sense asserted itself. Surely Henry Fletcher's remark was only a reflection of her perceived youth, not her sex.
But when she looked up into his eyes he was watching her carefully.
"Are you ever going to tell him?"
"Tell whom what?" she bluffed.
"Tell my brother that you are a woman."
She continued wrapping the bandage, knowing that he was watching her. When she finished, she swallowed and looked into those eyes, so similar to his brother's, but a warmer shade of brown.
"No. I am not going to tell him. Are you going to tell Captain Fletcher?"
"What, and ruin all this fine entertainment?" Henry joked, but then he got serious. "If he does find out, it will not go well for you. If you need help, Dr. Alcott, you can turn to me."
Charley looked away, blinking the unmasculine moisture out of her eyes.
"Thank you, Mr. Fletcher."
"You do not need to thank me. I owe you my life, Dr. Alcott. What kind of man would I be if I repaid you with betrayal?" He smiled a gentle smile, and Charley thought again on how while Mr. Fletcher may not have his brother's breathtaking good looks, he would not have difficulty attracting his own butterflies.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked curiously.
She turned away and washed her hands, and he waited patiently for her to continue.