Sea Change (31 page)

"You will attend me in the mornings, Miss Alcott, and during the day as needed. We will be in Jamaica soon, but until then you can be of use here."

"Thank you, Dr. Murray," Charley said. "I appreciate the opportunity to broaden my knowledge and skills."

"I cannot imagine why," Murray calmly said, wiping his pen. "You will not be allowed to practice medicine in Jamaica. But you might be able to assist Dr. Wilson, so I feel obliged to see that you are as prepared as possible."

He looked at his notes. "You have been busy with the Americans."

"Here?"

"Here and aboard their ship." He folded his hands together across his stomach and studied her from beneath heavy brows. His skin was rough and weathered, browned from years of exposure to the harsh sunlight on the ocean.

"I had heard you were taken off the
Lady Jane
," he said. "We looked for the privateer, but had to move on with the rest of the convoy."

"You did not tell anyone my secret?"

"It was not my secret to tell."

Charley digested this in silence. What it would have meant if the
Caeneus
had pursued them when she was first taken? Henry Fletcher would be dead, and she would never have had the joy and the sorrow of knowing Black Davy Fletcher. She would not have been the
Fancy's
surgeon.

"Were you..." he hesitated, as if wondering the most delicate way to phrase his question. "Were you treated with courtesy by the Americans?"

Charley almost smiled. She wondered what the brusque surgeon would say if she responded that the Americans treated her so well they took her to a brothel to be entertained.

"The Americans treated me with all due courtesy. They were pleased to have someone aboard with medical skills, even as lacking as mine were. Because of that, I do have one request, Dr. Murray."

He raised his brows and waited. Charley cleared her throat.

"I feel responsible for my--the Americans, since I was their doctor. I would like to request that they be brought up out of the hold for regular exercise until we reach Jamaica. Staying down there in that miasmic atmosphere around the clock will contribute to disease, and create more work for both of us."

"I do not know what wild tales they may have told aboard that privateer, Miss Alcott, but we are not barbarians in the Royal Navy. Of course we will take care of our prisoners and safeguard their health. Now, we have a busy day ahead of us. Show me how you have been keeping records of your patients. Do you use the Clifton method?"

"Yes, Doctor," Charley said, leaning forward and placing her journals on the desk. While on one hand she was feeling demoted after being the surgeon aboard the
Fancy
--with all of the respect and approbation that status carried--she appreciated this opportunity to talk with someone who wouldn't look at her in horror as she enthusiastically waxed on about suppurating wounds.

"See, here is the record on Henry Fletcher..." and Charley showed Dr. Murray the daily log of each patient, including the climate and season where the disease occurred, urine output, pulse, respiration, localized symptoms and more.

He made no complaint but pointed out some areas where she might improve her notes, and offered his own insights into some of her more troubling cases.

"Cook will not be in need of that care now, Dr. Murray. He died aboard the
Fancy
during the fight."

"Did you kill many aboard the
Fancy
?"

Charley dropped her journal. He was looking at her as if he'd just asked her to pass the milk for tea.

"Do not stare at me like that, Miss Alcott. If you practice medicine you will kill some patients. We all do."

"I had men die because I could not save them," Charley whispered, and in her mind she saw Purcell, smiling at one of Mr. Bryant's quips.

"You are not God, Miss Alcott. It would be lovely if I woke up tomorrow morning able to cure pox and give every kitten in the world a good home. I cannot do that either. All we humans can do is stave off the inevitable for some men, but not for others."

His matter-of-fact voice and direct gaze was more bracing than all of the homilies and rationalizations Charley could have found on her own, and she felt a featherweight of tension ease out of her spine. She needed this, the company of someone who understood her, or at least understood what she was trying to accomplish, whether or not he approved of her as a person.

The ship's bell chimed eight times and Charley shook herself.

"Captain Doyle asked to see me, Dr. Murray."

"Return here when you are done. We have much to do today."

"Yes, Doctor."

There were marines posted outside Captain Doyle's cabin and Charley wondered if they were a standard feature, or if they were there because of all the American prisoners. They kept their eyes forward and didn't boldly examine her in her breeches, as she had seen the Cannies do when she walked through the ship.

Captain Doyle started to rise as she entered the cabin, then hesitated, confused by her attire and status, then stood awkwardly and gestured to a chair in front of his desk.

"You are Miss Alcott?"

"Yes, Captain, I am Charlotte Alcott of Little Abbot, in Devon.

Captain Doyle's voice was raspy, and Charley saw scar tissue above the collar of his shirt. She guessed he'd been wounded in the throat at some point in his career. Certainly the rest of him that she could see bore testimony to years of service at sea. His face was browned to the shade of weathered mahogany and a scar creased his shiny scalp, running down past a battered ear.

The captain's cabin was more commodious than Captain Fletcher's, but there were some similarities. Both had a compass mounted overhead and stern lights aft. Captain Doyle's frigate boasted a cot suspended on chains for sleeping, rather than the bunk aboard the
Fancy.
The room had charts and logs and personal items, but Captain Doyle's cabin looked more lived-in, as if he had no other place to call home, where in David Fletcher's cabin there were reminders that home was ashore in Baltimore.

"Miss Alcott, I must ask you some questions about your time aboard the American ship to determine your"--he hesitated--"status aboard the
Caeneus.
"

"I understand, Captain," Charley said, swallowing. If the captain thought her a traitor or a whore or an insane woman who harbored delusions she could be a doctor, it would affect her treatment here, in Jamaica, and maybe even back in England.

Captain Doyle made no pretense of not staring at her, and Charley realized it was part of what was making her uncomfortable aboard the
Caeneus.
When everyone thought her a man, there were no second glances. Even when the Americans knew her sex they accepted her and treated her as one of them.

To her fellow Englishmen, she was a freak. Rather than huddle in her chair, Charley straightened her shoulders and looked Captain Doyle in the eye. She'd faced down American privateers, she would not cower before her own countryman.

Black Davy Fletcher would have expected no less from the
Fancy's
doctor.

"I am prepared to answer your questions, Captain Doyle."

Captain Doyle looked startled at her firm tone of voice, but he cleared his throat and looked down at his notes.

"I spoke with Dr. Murray and also with the mate of the American vessel, Mr. Bryant. They confirmed that you were disguised as a man aboard the
Lady Jane
, acting as their surgeon, and were taken when the
Fancy
raided the merchantman. Is that correct?"

"Yes," Charley said, "I was making my way to Jamaica to join my godfather, Dr. Curtis Wilson."

"Dr. Murray spoke well of you, Miss Alcott, as did Mr. Bryant. Based on my conversations with them I see no reason to detain you once we get to Jamaica. In the meantime, you can continue to assist Dr. Murray." He looked down at his notes again, then at her. "I regret that we do not have women's clothing for you aboard the
Caeneus.
"

"I am comfortable in these clothes, Captain."

"It is unnatural for a woman to wear men's clothing, Miss Alcott, but this is a warship and we have no other option." He frowned at her. "Let me be perfectly clear on one point--regardless of how you comported yourself aboard that Yankee vessel, there will be no untoward behavior on my ship!"

Charley felt her lips thin into an angry line, but she gripped her temper and the chair arms. "For most of my time aboard the American vessel they were unaware of my true identity. I assure you, Captain Fletcher would not have kept me aboard had he thought me anything other than a competent surgeon forced into doctoring his crew. I will give you no cause for complaint, Captain Doyle."

"See that you don't, miss."

Charley shut her mouth, afraid she would say something to antagonize the man. Maybe something sarcastic. Though she was beginning to wonder if sarcasm could be the captain's prerogative if the man wasn't bright enough to use it.

Then she was afraid she'd break down and cry in front of him, because the captain in this cabin wasn't her captain.

But Captain Doyle only harumphed and rose, and Charley got to her feet as well.

"I will release you to Dr. Murray then, Miss Alcott. And one final thing--I will not have any fraternization with the Americans. If you need to see them, do so under Dr. Murray's supervision."

"Yes, Captain," Charley said through gritted teeth. As she exited his cabin she wanted to do something extremely childish, like stick out her tongue at the closed door.

David would have been amused.

That almost did bring the tears gushing out again, but she'd be damned if she would cry in front of the marines, so she went quickly to her cabin, noted the rat carcasses lined up there, and scooped Pirate up into her arms so that she could sob all over his furry back in the privacy of her quarters.

Pirate bore this damp assault with stoic endurance.

But even tears run out, eventually, and Charley washed her face, noted someone else had disposed of Pirate's offerings--would they be on the midshipmen's menu this evening?--and returned to the sick bay. Dr. Murray was examining one of her Americans, Perry, who gave her a small wave and a smile.

"There is some burgoo and tea left for you," Murray said.

"Thank you, I am not hungry."

"Miss Alcott, I have neither the time nor the patience for your maidenish vapors. You will eat and keep your strength up or you will be no use to me at all."

Charley sighed, but sat at the desk and began to eat. To her surprise, when she looked down at the bowl it was scraped clean. If she could look at herself dispassionately, as a doctor, she would acknowledge that she was young, and healthy, and life goes on even when all you care about is lying at the bottom of the ocean.

When she finished eating, Dr. Murray discussed with her Perry's burns and whether he was best treated with olive oil or simple ointment. Perry looked on with great interest as the two medicos debated. Charley knew the entire conversation would be repeated later in the hold, for discussing their individual ailments and treatments was high entertainment amongst the sailors.

Eventually Perry was sent back under guard, passing a Cannie in the passageway who was holding a reddened cloth against his forearm.

"What happened to you, Turner?" Dr. Murray looked up from his notes.

"Knife slipped while I was splicin' a line."

"Miss Alcott, will you see to it, please?"

Turner reared back and clutched the cloth to his arm, looking wide-eyed at Charley.

"Oi! That's that she-doctor the Yankees were braggin' about! I don't want her touching me! It ain't natural!"

There was complete silence as Dr. Murray looked at Turner for a long, drawn-out moment.

"Are you questioning my decisions, Turner, in my own sick bay?"

His voice was low and calm, but there was something in it that sent a chill down Charley's back.

Turner wisely said nothing.

"You will let Dr. Alcott treat you, Turner, and I will hear no more dissent."

He didn't have to ask if his instructions were clear and understood. Pirate the cat would have known better than to question it.

"Come over into the light, Turner, and let me have a look at your arm," Charley finally said.

Turner looked at her with apprehension, but there must have been something reassuring in her nondescript appearance and her smile. She could only imagine how the Americans' tales had turned her into a combination of Hippocrates and Athena.

Charley washed and stitched Turner's arm, distracting him with conversation about his home in Yorkshire. When she was done he examined it, and allowed that the stitches were neat, which wasn't a surprise seeing as how she was a woman and used to stitchery.

Charley held her tongue and sent him off with the usual admonitions not to strain the arm and to try and keep it clean.

"Something amuses you, Miss Alcott?" Dr. Murray said as the door closed.

"You referred to me as 'Dr. Alcott' when you were talking to Turner."

The ship's surgeon dismissed this with a grunt. "That was purely a slip of the tongue. Do not let it go to your head, Miss Alcott."

But Charley's step was just a little lighter when she left the sick bay. Just as she'd scolded Henry Fletcher, life did go on, after all, even when you were missing part of yourself and knew you would never be whole again.

It took the
Caeneus
a week to reach Port Royal, but in that week Charley learned a great deal more about medicine, and about herself, as she accompanied Dr. Murray on his twice daily rounds. The ship's medical man was surgeon, physician and apothecary for the crew, and Charley appreciated that it was a rare opportunity to study with the taciturn Scotsman. She assisted him in the sick bay, but there was no further naval action to bring her into the cock-pit.

This was a relief. Any enemy ship they encountered at this point would be an American, with France cleared out by earlier action, and Spain an ally. Charley always considered herself a loyal Englishwoman, but it was harder to see the "Jonathans" as the enemy.