The Affectionate Adversary (4 page)

Determined that the dead must all lie at the bottom of the sea before the blistering equatorial sun rose the following morning, the captain stepped forward and spoke quickly. “‘Dear God, we commit these bodies to the deep,’” he read from his book of prayers, “‘to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give up her dead, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ; who at His coming shall change our vile body, that it may be like His glorious body, according to the mighty working, whereby He is able to subdue all things to himself. Amen.’”

He then motioned the ladies to gather up the shrouds and follow him. By now, Sarah retained no distinction as a baroness. Grateful to be regarded as an equal by the other passengers, she took an armful of canvas and joined the women at their labors.

Recruited to record information that might assist in contacting the families of the deceased, the boatswain accompanied the captain as he began his walk down the row.

“No identification papers,” the captain stated. “Red hair. Scar on left cheek. No jewelry or personal effects. Death by injury to the head. Lord, have mercy upon the soul of this poor man; amen. Ladies, the corpse may be shrouded. Gentlemen, assign the earthly remains to the benevolent arms of the sea.”

Her gown wet with seawater and blood, Sarah bit her lower lip in a futile effort to hold back tears as two women knelt to hastily stitch the canvas into place. In all her travels, she had never witnessed a sight so gruesome, so sad, so utterly grim as this.

The pirates’ actions astounded her. Such inhumanity! Such wickedness! Such barbarity! And why? All for the ill-gotten gain of riches.

The Lord’s message to her was again made clear, Sarah realized as she followed the captain down the row. She must do all in her power to rid herself of the evil of material wealth. Not only must she become as poor, humble, and reliant upon God as the birds of the sky and the flowers of the field, but she must teach others to do the same. Christ had stressed this truth again and again, yet few were those who heeded His teachings.

“Black hair. Beard. No teeth.” The captain spoke in a low rumble. “Tattoo of an anchor on the right forearm. No personal effects. Death by … I am uncertain of the cause. Lord, have mercy upon the soul of this poor man; amen. Ladies, the corpse may be shrouded. Gentlemen, assign his earthly remains to the benevolent arms of the sea.”

As the sailors tipped a table set up at the entry port on the starboard gangway, each body slid into the sea. One. Two. Three. Four.

“Brown hair,” the captain said. “No scars. No tattoos.”

“There’s a neck chain, sir. With a key.” The boatswain handed him the small gold trinket.

The captain motioned that this be recorded. “No other personal effects,” he continued. “Death by … hmm … he has several wounds.”

“This one were pulled from the water, sir. Drownin’, I would guess.”

“Drowning then.” The captain nodded. “Lord, have mercy upon the soul of this poor man; amen. Ladies, the corpse may be shrouded. Gentlemen, assign his earthly remains to the benevolent arms of the sea.”

Touched by the gentle expression on the dead man’s face, Sarah started to kneel. But another woman fell to her knees to begin the shrouding. Offering up a prayer that God might comfort and bless the family of the dead man, Sarah stepped to the next body.

“Brown hair,” the captain said, then amended, “curly brown hair. Scar on the left shoulder. Tattoo of a mermaid on the chest. Death by—”

A cry pierced the evening pall. “He is alive! Captain, the man moved! I swear it!”

The lady who had been stitching the shroud of the kind-faced man now stood back and clutched her skirts tightly around her legs. As the captain and others crowded around the still form on the deck, she babbled on.

“My needle, sir. I was putting in the last stitch, and I felt his breath! And he moved his lips! He yet lives!”

As Sarah stepped to the captain’s side, she could hear the men grousing about addlepated women and their wild fancies. Kneeling near the boatswain, who had laid his cheek near the man’s nose, Sarah picked up the cold arm, set it upon her lap and began to stroke it up and down as if somehow she might bring him back to life with her touch.

“I feel no breath,” the boatswain announced. “I fear ’twas just the lady’s imaginin’. He is drowned.”

“Allow me to test him,” Sarah whispered.

Taking her needle, she pricked the soft skin inside the man’s forearm. He made no move. Praying for some response, she touched the sharp steel tip to the inside of the man’s nostril. Nothing. At last, she opened her chatelaine bag and slipped a tiny mirror from it. When she held the glass beneath his nose, a pale white fog clouded it for the briefest instant.

“Alive!” she proclaimed. “Captain, this man indeed lives.”

Instantly, the seamen burst into action. One ran for the physician while two fell to their knees and began to push upon the man’s chest in an effort to expel water from his lungs. Yet another began to pray loudly as the captain gave orders to retrieve blankets and a pallet. Sarah drew back and continued rubbing the chilled arm as she silently pleaded with God to spare this life. Two of the attending ladies tugged off the man’s boots just as the physician appeared.

Determined to accompany the pallet belowdecks, Sarah was gathering her skirts when the captain touched her shoulder. “Lady Delacroix,” he said “you have done more than enough here. I beg you to retire and attend to yourself. I shall order the first mate to see that water is heated and a bath drawn for you. I insist you take nourishment and rest.”

“Sir, you must do no such thing!” she replied, rather more forcefully than she intended. Calming herself with a deep breath, she continued. “I am honored to serve my Lord and my fellow man in this way. Please permit me to assist the physician. There is nothing I should rather undertake at this moment.”

“Then I shall not stop you. But please, may I ask you to take this man’s neck chain into your safekeeping? Clearly, he was a passenger aboard the
Tintagel
, for his attire attests to some measure of standing above that of the common sailor.”

“Certainly, Captain.” Sarah accepted the gold chain with its attached key and slipped it into her chatelaine bag. “And now, if you will excuse me …”

“Thank you, my lady. I assure you, your kindness aboard my ship will never be forgotten.”

Sarah picked up her skirts, gave a brief curtsy, and hurried away. She had done nothing more arduous than any of the female passengers aboard the
Queen Elinor
, and it pained her to be distinguished from them. Once there was a time when Sarah had accepted the solicitous compliments of others, for she had believed the admiration of her rank and person to be sincere. No more. She now saw through such falseness, and she could not abide it. Though her title as the dowager Lady Delacroix must linger, she would do all in her power to dispel its effect.

With some difficulty, Sarah negotiated the steps leading to the galley below. Her wet petticoats felt as though their hems were lined with bags of sand, and the delicate stitching of her slippers’ seams had given out earlier. Never mind if her toes were wet and her ankles cold, she thought as she hurried down the lamplit corridor. She was warmer and better clad than many aboard this ship, and she had no cause to complain.

By the time she arrived at the long room in which the sailors took their meals—now the makeshift hospital—the rescued man had been laid out on a table and covered with blankets. A quantity of water had been expelled from his lungs, the doctor informed Sarah, and he now breathed more easily.

“Speak freely with me, Dr. Winslow,” she addressed the physician. “As far as I am able, I mean to assist these men in their recovery.” She held up a hand. “Do not protest, sir. I shall not be denied.”

“If you insist. But you will see things here that are not meant for a lady’s eyes. These men are all gravely ill. I do not expect many to live.”

“Nevertheless, I shall do my part. Now tell me what you know of this man. I must know the extent of his injuries.”

“I fear he cannot survive,” the physician confided. “There is much danger from his intake of water. Pneumonia, fevers, and ague all lurk in wait to attack the lungs of one who has nearly drowned. As for his other injuries, they are most severe. It appears the gentleman was wounded by more than one ball. His leg is fractured here below the knee. Such grave damage may necessitate amputation, though I shall do all in my power to save the limb. And here, a ball passed through the shoulder. Another has lodged near the elbow, and it must be removed if he is to retain mobility. Finally—though certainly not the least of my concerns—is the injury from an explosion of langrage or perhaps a granado. He will be much scarred from this, and the danger of suppuration is great.”

Sarah’s heart ached as she absorbed the full extent of the man’s unhappy condition. As the physician began to work over him, washing and probing wounds, she wondered how such a one had come to be aboard an English clipper in the Indian Ocean. What had led him so far from home and safety?

Taking a rag, she dipped it into a pail of water and began to wash his pale face. Such a noble nose and fine square chin he had. He was recently shaved, and his hair had been cut into a style common among well-to-do men. Perhaps he was an aristocrat. Or a merchant. Or maybe he was a missionary, like those wonderful gentlemen Sarah had met on her journey. Perhaps eager to spread the gospel of Christ, had this man been sailing to some foreign land where he would reside for many years? What would he think when he learned that the ship in which he now reposed was returning him to England?

She glanced down at the myriad injuries that mottled and marred his broad chest and well-muscled arms. Had he fought valiantly when the pirates attacked? Or had he cringed and hidden? Had he battled until the moment he was thrown overboard? Or had he leapt into the sea in desperation?

When the physician and an assistant began to move the broken bones of the man’s leg in order to set them into place, the poor fellow cried out. As though he were emerging from a nightmare, his eyes flew open, unblinking and filled with terror. He stared at Sarah; then he clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut again.

“There, there, sir,” she said softly, running her palm over his forehead. “You are safe aboard the
Queen Elinor
. Dr. Winslow tends your wounds. Pray, my dear man. Pray that God may heal you.”

Again the man’s lids slid open, this time more slowly. His gaze fastened on Sarah. “My father,” he gasped. “Tell him …”

“You will see your father again,” Sarah whispered. “You must rest now. Take in breath and refresh your lungs.”

“Tell my father …” He grimaced in pain. For a moment, she believed he had fallen unconscious again. Then he groped for her hand, found it, and carried it to his chest. “Tell him I tried.”

“Of course, sir. What is your father’s name?”

“James Locke. London.”

“Yes, James Locke. I shall not forget it.”

“I tried. Tell him that.”

“He will know. I promise you.”

As he swallowed, the tendons in his neck stood out. “Is Danny dead?” he rasped.

Sarah glanced at Dr. Winslow.

He shrugged. “The injured often speak nonsense. I advise you to make no promises, madam. Nor must you take seriously his ramblings.”

She took a small ivory comb from her bag and ran it through the injured man’s wet locks. So dark brown it was nearly black, his hair formed a shocking contrast to the blue of his eyes. Sarah watched the salty water fall in droplets onto the table. This was a fine man, she thought. God could use such a creature—once so hale and handsome—to His own glory. If he had intelligence, education, humor, and curiosity, he would make a godly tool for the Lord’s work. She must pray in that direction.

“Danny?” he mumbled. “Danny?”

“Rest yourself,” she cooed as she finished combing out his hair. “The future of all men lies with God. Whether alive or dead, Danny is in the presence of the Lord.”

The blue eyes opened wide again, shimmering like sapphires in the lamplight. “Is the lad dead then?”

“I cannot say, Mr. Locke. I have never met Danny.”

His brow furrowed, as if he would begin to weep. “Dead.

A boy of twelve.”

Sarah glanced at Dr. Winslow. “Was such a youth brought aboard, sir?”

The doctor shook his head. “More to the point now, madam, I must see to my other patients. Will you not retire to your cabin and allow my assistants to aid in treating the survivors? You are very pale, and I urge you to refresh yourself with food and rest.”

“But you have not removed the ball from this poor man’s elbow. I shall stay here during the surgery, sir.”

“That must wait until later. I have more urgent wounds to attend first. The leg is set, and God willing, it may begin to mend. Salt water, though painful, has a curative effect, and we must rely upon its powers for the minor injuries while we use our medical skills upon the serious ones.”

Sarah let out a breath of frustration as the physician moved away. What hope had these poor men aboard such a dank and ill-fitted ship? In London, the world’s finest medical care could be found—and it was rarely good enough. In the countryside, doctors were scarce, and so apothecaries plied their trade in various liniments and tinctures that hardly ever worked. Those few practitioners of medicine who chose to spend years away from home and family as ships’ doctors must be considered the least successful of the lot. Their aim, it was rumored, too often involved the pleasures to be found at ports of call rather than upholding the Hippocratic oath.