Sea Change (26 page)

"I told you, there is nothing formal between Miss Dixon and me."

"Does she know that?"

He started to speak, then had the grace to close his mouth and look uncomfortable.

"I can fool everyone but myself, Capt--David. We both know there is a strong attraction between us. And nothing can come of it. Nothing permanent. But for the moment I am willing to follow your piratical advice and seize the day."

David put out his hand, but did not stop her as she exited his cabin. Charley turned and nearly bumped into Mr. Bryant, who nodded and said, "Doctor," then knocked on the Captain's door.

"Lookout's spotted running lights, Captain."

"I will be right there, Mr. Bryant," she heard David say before she entered her dark sick bay.

Charley tossed and turned in her cold bunk, her conversation with Davy Fletcher running through her mind. She finally gave up on sleep and went up on deck. The men were bustling about with quiet excitement, taking their stations with conversations brought to a whisper and much dousing of lights.

Captain Fletcher stood with his nightglass, training it on something in the distance that to Charley looked like a glimmer of light on the water. The
Fancy
was running dark, all visible lights doused to hide them from their prey.

Pirate wound himself around her ankles and Charley picked the cat up, holding him close.

"What is it?"

"Quietly, Doctor. Sound carries across the water." He didn't take his eye away from his glass, and spoke in low tones to the officer at his side. "Stay with her, Mr. Bryant. We'll know more with the dawn."

He turned to Charley and added, "You should get rest while you can, Doctor. Your services may be needed."

He was focused on his ship, and his potential prey, and was already turning away from her and talking to Jenkins. Charley wanted to stay above, but knew she would only be in the way and an unnecessary distraction to the crew, so she went below and dozed in her bunk, her dreams troubled and full of bloody images.

The dawn brought more noise from the crew as the light grew, and when Charley came back up on deck the excitement was palpable. She took some of the food hastily thrown together by Cook before he doused his fire. Charley savored her coffee, knowing it might be the last of the day.

Her eyes tracked the
Fancy
's commander while Jenkins filled her in on the details.

"It could be a merchantman, riding low as it is, Doctor. Whatever, that ship's hold is full of something, and Black Davy aims to check it out for himself!"

"Are you expecting a fight?"

Jenkins looked at her oddly. "We always expect a fight, Doctor. Being prepared is what keeps us alive, and successful."

"He's running, Captain!" Mr. Bryant shouted.

"Then let the chase begin, Mr. Bryant! Show them our true colors!"

The men cheered as the United States' colors were run up, the need for deception over now that the privateer was in full hunting mode. They hurried to their stations with the absorption of men who'd done this many times before as weapons lockers were opened and blades and guns distributed.

When they drew closer Charley saw the ship flew Spanish colors. The merchantman gamely attempted to out sail the schooner, but the Americans were not about to let their prize slip away.

Charley knew from previous encounters and tales told that most merchants gave up without a fight, but the
San Christoval
was coming about, and its guns were hauled out and readied.

Charley looked up at David, but the smiling companion of the evening before was gone, replaced by a privateer stripped down to his nankeen trousers and white shirt, his feet bare on the deck as he wrapped a bandana around his head to keep his hair out of his eyes. The sunlight glinted off the cutlass by his side and she couldn't tear her eyes away from that blade and what could happen in the next few hours.

"Doctor, I need to see you below."

Charley followed him down to sick bay and saw his eyes take it in at a glance--the brazier, the covered instruments, the bandages neatly rolled and ready, the sand on the floor for traction. Everyone aboard the
Fancy
had a job to do, and Charley was ready to do hers.

"What is it, Captain?"

He didn't say a word, but put his hands on her upper arms and stared down into her eyes. He didn't have to speak, for Charley could read what was there--in the hours to follow, he could die. She could die.

Or he might find himself on the table beneath her saw.

All that mattered now, in this moment, was that they were together and whole, and he pulled her against him as Charley threw her hands around his neck. David's mouth came down on hers seeking, and she gave him what he sought--the passion of the moment, a future neither of them could promise, but both were willing to fight for, and from Charley, all the love she knew she had for this rough man and his privateer ways.

She could only dream that Black Davy would be hers forever, but until then there was the reality of this kiss, and their shared longing, and a hope for tomorrow. When he pulled back, an eternity later, he looked down at her and smoothed his hand over her short cap of hair.

"Stay here, Charley. It will be dangerous up above." He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face up for a final, quick kiss.

"Wish me luck, Doctor."

"Always, Captain Pirate."

He grinned down at her, then turned to leave, and she could tell he was already thinking ahead to the coming battle, the excitement evident in his eagerness to find victory once again.

He was humming as he closed the door behind him, and it took Charley a moment to recognize the tune, and then it came to her, and she smiled to herself.

Black Davy was humming "Charlie is my Darling" as he went off to battle.

Charley paced the sick bay, nerves strained as she heard the shouting from above and the commands of the officers. But the first shot that shook the
Fancy
came not from the guns over her head, but from the Spanish ship. She heard the crash of wood above her, and then in a bubble of stillness, Captain Fletcher's firm command.

"Fire."

The force of the
Fancy
's starboard guns rocked her and she grabbed onto the table for support. The sick bay door slammed open and Jenkins and Mr. Bryant entered, carrying an unconscious Purcell, the lower half of his body covered in blood.

"Put him on the table and send Mr. Lewis to me to assist," Charley said, grabbing her shears.

"We cannot stay," Jenkins said, but they carefully put the carpenter on the table and helped Charley strap him down, then they rushed back to their posts.

Purcell didn't regain consciousness as Charley's hands flew over him, cutting off his clothing to expose the wound.

She sucked in her breath in dismay. A shard of splintered wood the thickness of three fingers jutted out from his thigh. Another burst shuddered through the ship, and Charley leaned over the wounded privateer to keep the dust and debris from filtering down onto him. She coughed and wiped her arm across her face to clear her vision. Mr. Purcell was still unconscious, most likely having suffered a blow to the head as well when he was wounded, but that would have to wait until she dealt with the most immediate injury. Charley reached for her forceps as another burst struck the
Fancy
, jarring the table and shifting the wood impaling Purcell's leg.

It happened in an eyeblink.

The nick at the femoral artery widened into a tear, and Purcell's life blood fountained out from his body, sluicing over Charley in a red tide. The gore spurted up to the deck above, and washed over the deck below. She cursed and brought all the strength in her arms and body to bear, but the pressure she applied couldn't stop the inevitable as he exsanguinated beneath her hands.

Charley blinked blood out of her eyes and stared at the corpse on the table, so vibrantly alive only minutes past. Her mind was an abyss through which one thought kept circling--a real doctor could have saved him.

The door slammed open again and Lewis stood there propping up a sailor with a gashed arm.

"Jesus Christ, what happened?"

Charley shook herself. Grabbing a cloth, she wiped her face and moved over to take the wounded man into the light.

"Mr. Purcell is dead. Clear him off the table, Mr. Lewis!"

Lewis stood frozen, glassy-eyed as he looked down at Purcell's corpse.

"I don't have time for this!" Charley snapped, and hauling back her bloodied hand slapped Lewis hard enough across the jaw to rock him on his feet.

"Mr. Lewis, help or get the hell out of my way!"

Lewis gulped. "Yes, sir!"

She was already reaching for her knives and needles to tend the wounded privateer's gashed arm. She tended the next man, and the next, and the one after that who came in with a badly burned face, and the one with his foot hanging by shreds, and the one who had splinters sticking out of his arm like a hedgehog.

Above her was the sound of hell, and she blinked smoke and dust out of her eyes from the blows that rocked the schooner, but she kept her focus on the task at hand, the task she'd trained for all of her life. As the shadows lengthened she moved efficiently, competently, no one knowing that in the back of her own mind she was screaming at herself, knowing she was a fraud.

When the endless day was over, and the injured were in their quarters, and the dead were taken away for burial, Charley looked around the cozy little sick bay where she'd played at being doctor. It was splattered with blood and vomit, and reeked of the feces and urine of men voiding themselves in fear and shock. She leaned back against a bulkhead and slid down to the deck, staring at her hands and arms, blood covering her up to her neck. Mr. Lewis said something to her, but she didn't respond, and he left.

It was pleasantly quiet after that.

The door opened one more time.

"Charley?"

David crouched down before her, his face grimed with powder and sweat, a nick below his ear oozing a thin line.

"You should have a doctor see to that," Charley whispered, then started to giggle, and couldn't stop, not even when it turned to deep, choking sobs.

David pulled her bloody body into his arms and sat on the deck with her, holding her as sobs wracked her. When she stilled, he laid her down on the filthy deck and went to the cabin door. Charley heard him say something to a sailor in the passageway, but she ignored it, because it was soothing to just lie there, in the gore and the red, wet sand, not thinking about anything.

David picked Charley up in his arms. When he'd walked in and seen her covered in blood, her eyebrows and hair crusted with it, he'd stopped breathing until he realized it wasn't her blood. It was Mr. Purcell's, and Larkin's, and Stern's, and all the others she'd cared for so competently while the guns roared overhead.

He knew few men who had the nerve to do what Charley Alcott did that day.

Small tremors wracked her body as David carried her to his cabin and he held her closer, like a baby bird trembling after a fall from the nest. His orders had been followed and hot water waited alongside the narrow hip bath.

He placed her on her feet in his cabin, and held onto her shoulder to ensure she would not crumple to the deck.

"Can you stand?" he asked her gently.

She nodded, and he moved back from her, watching her, but she just looked at the deck. He poured her a glass of rum and pulling up his shirt tail to find a clean piece of cloth, dabbed at the blood at her mouth until it was clean enough for her to drink. She followed his instructions, choking on the rough liquor, then swallowing more until he pulled the glass away. He undressed her and Charley stood docilely as a child, her eyes staring straight ahead at something only she saw. When she was nude, and her blood-soaked clothes pushed outside the cabin door to be cleaned, she finally looked at him, as solemn as a statue of a medieval saint.

"Step into the water, Charley."

She obeyed, pulling her knees up to fit into the narrow container. He dipped a cloth in a bucket of water and soaped it, scrubbing the blood and fluids off of her white body, getting the gore out of her hair, and calling for fresh water when the tub became red as an island sunset from his task. She never said a word while he was doing this, allowing him to manipulate her, and rinse her, and dry her off and tuck her into his bunk while he washed himself in seawater.

"Was it a great victory then, Captain Fletcher?"

He paused from drying himself, hearing the thread of steel in her whispery voice. Anger was good. He could deal with anger. He could not deal with hopelessness and numbness. David turned and looked at her.

"Yes, Dr. Alcott, it was indeed a great victory. The
San Christoval
was full of rum. We will be wealthy men when we sell this cargo."

"Then it was all worth it, wasn't it, Captain Fletcher? But tell me one thing."

Charley was propped up on her elbow, the bed cover slipping down her arms, her face as hard and set as bone.

"Is this why men thrust themselves into danger? For money? For glory? For the 'rockets' red glare'?"

He wrapped the towel around his hips and stalked over to her. Anger radiated off of her, but she was hale and whole, and that was all that mattered. He leaned over, his arms alongside hers, holding her there in the bunk. David's own voice was hoarse from shouting commands on the deck. When he spoke it was barely above a whisper in the quiet cabin.

"We thrust ourselves into danger for all of those things. I knew Asher Purcell all of my life. If he was standing with us now he would agree with me. Yes. It was a good haul. Yes, I am glad we did it. We are men, Charley, this is what men do."

"That may be what men do, but I will tell you what men are, Captain. Men are bags of blood and bone, easily punctured and hard to put back together. And you, you throw them away. For gold. For glory. What a waste," she sneered.

His own temper began rising, fire skittering along his nerve endings. Did she think he did not care? That each man's injury and loss did not eat at his soul?