Ship of Fire (7 page)

William swept his cap from his head and gave a handsome demonstration of a courteous bow, and I was quick to follow his example. The ship's captain and William exchanged appropriate pleasantries, but I was aware of the captain's glance, weighing and testing us.

Captain Foxcroft was dressed much like my master, in a blue wool cloak and doublet, and high boots. “I am advised that our worthy naval surgeon Titus Cox is in need of our prayers.”

“I have emptied many a cup of sack-wine with my good friend Titus,” said my master. “In our university days we were rivals for a certain lady's affections,” he added. “A lady of quality—she presented me with a hart-bone manicure set, I am sorry to report, but to Titus she gave a pomander filled with cloves.”

Captain Foxcroft smiled at this. The clove was a spice celebrating love—it was used to flavor wine and to sweeten the air. “An old friend of Titus will be most welcome,” said the ship's master, sparing me not another glance but explaining to William where the surgeon's quarters could be found, and adding, “We have two hundred and fifty men aboard a ship that can be worked by a score or less.”

“We sail with a battalion!” said William.

Captain Foxcroft nodded, but he was already turning away, calling out orders in tart naval language.

Admiral Drake would not captain the ship himself, my master explained as we entered the shadowy interior of the vessel—those duties would be discharged by Samuel Foxcroft. The admiral would be free to contemplate military matters, and stay out of sight, no doubt with a chart and compass.

The interior of our ship was like the inside of a great wooden house, with many stories of pegged oak floors, ladders leading from one level to the other. Great cannon lined the gun deck, but wood-joints creaked all around, just like any city dwelling of timber. At times I could not stand upright below-decks—the ceilings were low and crossed with heavy wooden beams. But most of the sailors were short men, and scrambled easily through the badly illuminated living and storage places.

Our berth was a little chamber beneath the ship's aft castle, with shelves of medical supplies ordered some weeks past by Titus Cox. The surgeon's cabin was very small, but most dwelling rooms in London were little larger, a small room being easier to heat and keep tidy.

The ship's below-decks may have resembled a house, but they did not smell like one. Sulfur had been burned to fumigate rats out of the hold, and vinegar had been employed to cleanse the ballast—the stones in the ship's hold that kept her steady in the waves. And through the odor of new paint rose the permeating perfume of the salt sea.

My master examined his own bone saws before he hung them on hooks provided for just such items, the broad-toothed tools for large limbs, and the glittering whipsaw, the sort a chair maker might use—or a surgeon cutting a hand at the wrist. Titus's supplies included clay containers of spearmint syrup and others of dried mace, useful against lung diseases, and aqua vitae—distilled spirits—useful against pain. There was even a jug of opium-wine, my master noted approvingly. But he chuckled sadly when he took down an earthenware container and slipped off its wax-cloth lid.

A glistening, dark gray worm, as large as my fist, slowly felt its way along the mouth of the jug.

“Titus,” said my master, “would never sail without his leeches.”

Somewhere above there was a muffled crash. The ship shivered almost imperceptibly. A cry rose, an involuntary, wordless wail of pain.

From the hatchway came the scuffling, stumbling procession of feet as someone was helped, half-dragged, half-carried, down the steps.

Chapter 13

“Doctors, by your leave,” said a sailor, stiff with good manners. “If you please, sirs, a seaman has squashed his finger.”

I always braced myself before I took in the sight of an injury, and I became quietly apprehensive now at the sounds as they approached—stifled cries of agony. His fellows were reassuring him, “The two doctors will see you right, Davy.”

My master and I cleared a space on the pinewood table in our cramped cabin.

A young man, suntanned and bearded, gritted his teeth against the pain, blood flowing from a finger crushed flat. His fellows supported him, their weathered faces lined with concern. “Davy Wyott here suffered a great accident,” said a seaman formally, as though describing an event many weeks past. “A heavy barrel of beer, if it please you, sirs, fell down upon his hand.”

“I was helping to lower it into the hold,” said Davy, pale under his sun-browned complexion, “and the poxy rope slipped.”

My master shook his head sympathetically, and bid the gathered seamen a good day—there was no room for so many concerned faces in our tiny cabin. When we were alone with our patient, William made a low, airy whistle. “You managed to splinter the bone, Davy.”

The seaman laughed, through his pain, at his own bad judgment. “I thought I could carry the beer, but it carried me, all the way down, with only my hand between it and the planking.” He chattered anxiously, adding, with a frightened laugh, “I've seen a sailing man die of a mangled finger before.”

“So have we all,” said my master. “We've watched injuries like this sour and poison many a strong young man.”

“Before their time!” howled Davy.

“But we'll keep you in the world of the living, yet,” said my master kindly. “Hold the injury still,” said my master to me, moving the oil lamp closer to the bloody sight. The middle digit of Davy Wyott's left hand was flattened, blood bubbling.

To his patient my master said, “A quick blow with a keen edge, Davy, and you'll die an old and toothless mariner, many winters from now.” To me he added, “A cup of spirits of wine, if you please, Thomas, for our brave patient. And the chopper from the hook.”

The cleaver, he meant.

The blade gleaming on the wall.

Chapter 14

“Is there no way,” quailed our patient, “to save the poor, mashed thing?”

My master gave a gentle smile. “My dear Davy, it's only one wee finger.”

The patient drank down the amber-colored aqua vitae, a good quantity. I gave him a second serving, and he drank that straight down, too. “Merciful doctors, you are,” he gasped earnestly when he had quaffed the spirits, “both of you.”

I did my best to look kind and wise, but I never did like amputations. I had never performed one, nor did I want to—I had a particular horror of the sudden violence such operations demanded. My master spoke to me, partly in Latin to disguise our consultation, “The
sinistral ossa metacarpalia
as a whole is sound, Tom.” The hand, he meant, was uninjured, except for the crushed finger.

“
Bene, bene
,” I said, trying to sound breezy and unconcerned. Davy nodded at the sound of Latin words—medical novices had been known to utter Latin-sounding nonsense to impress and reassure patients.

“Ordinarily,” my master continued in slow-cadenced, calming Latin, “an operation would be carried out under the sky, where there is more space and light.”

I was ready to agree that it would be hard to envision a more cramped setting. In clear, gentle English, my master instructed Davy to pray, and the patient echoed the words, his voice ragged.

“Almighty and merciful God,” my master intoned, “extend your goodness to us, your servants, who are grieved and in great need of your love.” It was the prayer my master always used at such times, and Davy followed along, his words slurring as the distilled spirits dulled his tongue.

At the final phrase, “with Thee in life everlasting,” my master lifted the chopper.

“No, please, wait!” cried our patient, jerking his hand, my strength not enough to steady him.

“Fetch the mallet, Tom, if you will,” directed my master in a whisper.

Where it was necessary, a blow to the head would render a patient unconscious. Doctors provided themselves with a wooden mallet for just this purpose, and I had used it on a few patients before—the task required a judicious touch in order to stun but not to permanently injure. I retrieved this hammer from the place where it was suspended on the wall, and Davy began to beg, “No, don't batter my skull, worthy doctors, please leave my head whole.”

Distracted by the mere sight of the mallet in my hands, Davy was not watching the cleaver.

I never had to use the hammer. Davy screamed, half in pain and half in wonderment, at the suddenness of the chopper's blow. The poor wreck of a finger, no bigger than a chicken bone, fell with a chime into the basin.

Chapter 15

After this vivid adventure in medicine, I was surprised to see that we were still snugly in port, having voyaged nowhere.

I glanced around for a glimpse of our famous admiral. Everywhere I saw shipboard bustle, but no sign of the legendary Drake.

I had never seen any city except London, and had expected Plymouth to be a sleepy port, with peaked roofs in a row. But even from the wharf it was plain that this was a town with taverns of the rougher sort, dung heaps up and down the meandering streets, lean cats scrambling out of the way of staggering sailors.

The
Golden Lion
had arrived at last, nosing her way toward the wharf, and every seaman and officer knew that this was a night to drink and sport, because at the next ebb tide the fleet might take us to sea.

“Are you hungry, Thomas?” asked my master as I followed him. He surveyed the crowded, muddy by-ways of this port, wondering aloud which doubtful, smoky lane promised the best food. A dust-colored torn cat observed me from a coil of hemp rope, but when I reached to scratch his head the cat hissed.

We had left Davy Wyott at peace with the world because of the drink he had swallowed, a ship's boy in attendance, spirit-flask nearby. I was very hungry, and thirsty, too. But when I saw two seamen wrestling each other in a puddle, surrounded by cheering crewmates, I asked my master's leave. I hurried back to the ship, into our cabin for my sword, and my master's blade, too.

“Only a seaman dare sup or drink in Plymouth,” said Jack with a wink, sitting on the deck of the ship. He was pulling on his boots, and had put on a new cap, with a red feather. Such feathers are pretty, but dyed. A golden fighting cock's plume—a color ordained by nature—angled from my own hat.

“A gentleman like you,” said Jack with a laugh, “even with a sword, will be a fawn among lions, if you'll forgive me.”

I offered Jack our protection in return, with what I thought was a manly laugh. “So if you find yourself in rough company, we can save your skin.”

“A rapier is not a cleaver, by God,” said Jack. “Or a surgeon's mallet, either.”

I had noticed glances of interest and, I thought, respect from our shipmates. Talk of our capable treatment of Davy Wyott's injury had evidently spread.

My master and I found an inn called the Mitre and Parrot.

We dined there on mutton, hearty slices of it, hot and served on slabs of brown bread. We drank a thick, sweet beer, and were soon content.

We sat with our feet before the fire, and my master told me in detail of the mermaid again. It was a story I had come to love, if only for the mood that came over my master when he spun the tale. Sometimes called
meermaids
or
merewives
, these sea-sirens showed themselves as a special favor to men of character. To see one was a sign of great good luck, and to hear one speak a rare wonder.

“She had long, streaming tresses,” he reminisced, as often before, “and dazzling green skin.”

He paused, no doubt seeing her again in his mind. “She looked right at me, Tom, as sure as I'm a Christian. She parted her lips and she spoke.” He shook his head. “By the time I called to the boatswain—a good fellow, but slow-footed—she was gone.”

It was my part, now, to ask the question I always did at this point in the tale. “What did she say to you, my lord?”

He gave a thoughtful laugh.

My master's mind was a quilt, skepticism and critical reason stitched neatly within seemly faith and prayer. He had taught me that the representations of eyeballs and hearts in the expensively printed books were “fanciful, no more like real organs than a puppet is like a man.” The only way to learn, he had taught me, was to question. At the same time, he often surveyed the star charts before an important operation, believing that a retrograde Saturn or unlucky moon could slow a patient's recovery.

When men at a nearby tavern table rattled a dice cup and called out, “Who'll share a wager?” my master gave me a pained smile and shook his head.

“We are new men, now, aren't we, Tom?”

When we agreed that we could eat no more—and not, with any wisdom, drink any more beer—we stepped out into the street. It was dark, except for a few pitch lamps, and we made our way down toward the harbor.

“The mermaid said my name that morning,” said my master, continuing his tale much later, now that we were free of the tavern's din. This part of the story had great meaning for him, and he did not like to speak of it lightly. “She spoke my Christian name.
William
. Very clearly pronounced.”

“It was a powerful omen,” I said, as I always did.

Usually, the story having been told, my master entered into a happy discourse on such omens, and praised astrologers at the expense of mere magicians—men and women who read the future with the help of the mottles on a sheep's liver. Astrologers read the stars, and were quite respectable—every royal court had at least one.

But this night my master did not expand on the stars and their mysterious powers. He took my arm and said, “Listen!”

As we entered the domain of cats—the entire parish having an acrid, feline scent to it—we heard the grunt and gasping of a fight, booted feet striking a body.

A familiar voice cried out for help.

Chapter 16