The Lady and the Captain (3 page)

“And this person has taken the opportunity and added poison to Captain Jackson’s food. I could not believe it at first myself, until I looked at his tongue. Even then I had to consult with my mother to be sure. The swollen tongue, the stomach cramps, the loss of sensation in the limps, as well as the fact that no one but himself is ill. Aye, they are all signs pointing to one disturbing truth . . . your captain is slowly being poisoned to death, Lieutenant.”

She glanced over at the slumbering man. He looked fragile and pale in the glow of the hearth fire. Sadly, she shook her head.

Why would anyone wish to do him harm? she wondered. What had brought about this hateful act? Who could want to purposefully hurt the commander?

“Any other gentleman with less than the strong constitution your captain here enjoys . . .” She left the rest unsaid, shrugging her slender shoulders.

What more could she add? It was evident what would have happened.

“He would have been dead by now,” he concluded. A burning anger raged inside his calm exterior. One of The Brunswick’s crew had done this. It was an act of mutiny.

He bit out, “What you’re saying is this was no random act. It was selective, meant to bring about his sudden demise.”

She silently nodded in agreement.

He fisted his hands in pent-up frustration, ready to fight. His mouth was set in a firm line of grim determination. He had a duty to Captain Jackson. At that moment he silently vowed to discover who’d poisoned one of the most able commanders and strategists in his majesty’s service. He would personally see to it that the assassin was drawn, quartered, and finally hanged from the highest yardarm for his crime.

“No one treats a commanding officer in his Majesty’s Royal Navy this way,” he declared. “And no one lays a finger against my commander without receiving retribution. Not while I live and breathe! This treasonous act will not go unpunished. I will ferret out the villainous snake and make him pay dearly for his treachery!”

Sarah sat down beside the commander, clasping and unclasping her hands. She looked over at the deathly ill sea captain. This healing was going to be more difficult than lancing a boil. All her expertise and skill with the sick and dying was about to be put to practice on the captain. She seldom gave much hope for the recovery of such a gravely ill man.

Aye, it’s going to take a miracle. And will this English officer trust me enough to let me try and heal his commander?

“He’s very ill, Lieutenant Smythe,” she said plainly. “I’m going to need your help if we are to save his life. He is in very grave danger.”

“I’ll do anything you ask, if you think you can save him.”

“Good.” She nodded approvingly. “Some of the requests I may ask of you will—well, they’ll be a wee bit unconventional for an Englishman.”

She looked him over carefully, trying to discern his thoughts about what she’d just said. He didn’t respond. His face remained emotionless, indecipherable.

“They may, however, save your commander’s life,” she added.

“Then I will follow your instructions to the letter, ma’am.”

He bowed in respect.

“Unquestioningly, Lieutenant?” she prodded. She wanted to make certain he would help her. She didn’t need some high-handed English officer getting in her way.

Even if he does have,
she had to silently admit to herself,
a form that the legendary Irish giant Finn Mac Cool himself would have appreciated.
Aye, the first mate standing before her was easy on the eye, with well-defined muscles and manly grace. He had an undercurrent of focused energy. It silently bespoke of his ease in giving commands and having them obeyed without question. He was clearly a very dangerous man. This was not someone who would tolerate being crossed.

She had to be cautious. For who knew what harm he might choose to do if his captain should suddenly die? Perhaps he would take all his frustrations out on her?

Warily, she eyed the muscles bulging up from his arms—aye, the outward form of a man never revealed the heart inside. He may be pleasing to the eye, but what of his character?

“I will do whatever you ask,” he said, as if reading her thoughts.

His tone of voice told her he would not accept any refusal on her part. He was determined. She would be the one to heal his comrade.

“As if they were orders given directly by him . . .” With a nod, he indicated the sleeping form of his superior officer.

“Then let us begin . . . I will have to leave ye and go to the
teach an alais
.”

He gave her a puzzled look.

She smiled and explained, “It is the sweat hut where we’ll try to remove the poison harming your captain. But first, I must fetch water and peat. We’ll take him when the gale has abated. In an hour’s time, it should be ready.”

He nodded, not looking at her.

She could tell he did not fully comprehend the enterprise they were about to undertake. She hoped he was a man of his word and would do what she asked. This was going to be complicated. The patient was already in a fragile state.

Aye,
this English officer has no choice but to obey me—that is if he truly wishes to save his commander’s life.

*    *    *

The harsh rain had diminished to a hazy mist. Cold mud seeped unpleasantly up through her wooden clogs. The wind had eased enough to let her walk unimpeded to the well. There she drew fresh water into a bucket.

She carried it into a small beehive-shaped stone building. It was built from island rock as the cottage was. The sweat hut was about seven feet high in a circular corbel shape with a small chimney hole in the top of the stone-slated roof.

She lit a fire in the center using dried peat. It would take a few hours to heat the hut sufficiently for its purpose. It would be used to sweat the poison out of the ailing seaman.

These stone huts were called
cathair
or
caiseal
. They’d been built by the corbelling process. It required placing one stone on top of another, bringing them closer and closer to one another as they were stacked. The huts were finished when they were finally roofed with long slabs of stone, filling in the remaining gaps on the curved top.

Spaces had been purposefully left between the stones for air ventilation. The hut was heated by the open turf fire located in the middle. No mortar or mud swaddle was used. The stones were placed in an outward manner to cause the rain to smoothly run down the structure. Despite its small size, it was a solid dwelling.

Three hours later, she gently woke the first mate. He was dozing by the hearth fire by his captain’s side. His dark head lay against his arm. She suspected that he was used to grabbing sleep whenever he could.

She shook his shoulder.

He sleepily opened his eyes, re-orienting himself to his surroundings. The wise woman stood next to him. The peat fire in the hearth, he noted, was now a pile of low burning embers.

“’Tis time,” she said. “You must undress yourself and Captain Jackson. Clothe him in this nightshirt. The hut will be very hot, much like a steaming lobster pot. You need not be afraid of catching lung fever.”

She went ahead of him and removed the burnt out peat from the sweat hut with a small shovel. She laid down sweet smelling dried rushes and placed them on the dirt floor to protect their feet. Refilling the bucket of water, she placed it by the open fire. All was now ready for the ailing sea captain.

Dressed only in his white naval breeches, Lieutenant Smythe hoisted Captain Jackson up to a standing position. He half-carried the ill man to the sweat hut. The captain had lost a great deal of weight since his sickness began.

The entryway to the building was small and tight. Robert had to crawl in on his hands and knees to enter. Muscles straining, he pulled the captain in after him.

It was tight and cramped inside. This was the first time he’d been in one of the caiseal. He eyed the walls in admiration at the symmetrical way the stones closely fit together. Carefully, he sat Captain Jackson on a low wood bench.

Sarah joined them. She wore a thin cotton camisole. A black wool shawl known as a comfy was wrapped protectively about her. She took the long garment off and seated herself.

He was about to question her attire, she could tell, but tactfully refrained.

The lieutenant kept to his promise not to question her peculiar decisions. She could not look at him directly in the eye. She lowered her eyelashes demurely, aware of his half-unclad state.

The intimacy of the situation was not one she was used to. Usually, she treated elderly patients, sick children, ailing mothers, and the occasional diseased seaman. Having a handsome, half-clad English officer seated next to her was not customary.

She’d been brought up in a household comprising only of women. She was keenly aware of his masculine presence. He was different, foreign to her senses. Like a male version of a siren, he was beautiful and completely enticing.

Although she was considered to be a bit of a flirt back in her home village, enjoying exchanges of friendly banter with the opposite sex, she nonetheless respected polite society’s strict conventions. She never did anything that would set the gossipmongers’ tongues clacking. She respected herself and her work as a wise woman too much to risk any negative talk.

Experience taught her that the villagers were suspicious of her, an outsider. She had to be above reproach around her patients’ watchful families. She never gave them any reason to doubt her motives, but she was also dedicated to saving lives and sometimes that meant overcoming any feelings of modesty on her part. She knew that allowing Lieutenant Smythe to see her barely clad figure in the thin cotton chemise was unusual and brazen. But she quickly shrugged off any thoughts of wrongdoing.
This is not the time to be timidly prudish or troubled by the conventional rules of polite society.
Hadn’t he asked for her help? Now she was going to provide it.

She was seated in this cramped hut, sweating with a patient on the brink of death. The good Lord help her, he had best get used to the idea of her breaking a few rules. They were not worth a half-shilling of good to his captain in here.

She glanced over at the first mate.

His body glistened from the rain and his own perspiration, dripping off his well-shaped chest. The first officer’s skin shone from the steam. His skin was the color of polished bronze in the light of the hut’s fire. Aye, he was too handsome by far . . .

Inwardly, she sighed.
Heaven help me . . . he is built like a veritable god, a young Adonis come to life.
For sure, Lieutenant Smythe had a powerful presence. One she was not accustomed to being around in a long time.

Three months ago she’d left her village when her mother was struck down by lung fever and returned home to care for her. Of late the young wise woman’s life had resembled that of a recluse. She had completely devoted herself to healing. She’d been cut-off from the rest of the healthy living world. The sight of the half-clad lieutenant was like seeing land after being a long time at sea. He was a refreshing and attractive presence.

Diverting herself from the sight of the half-clad officer, she rose to close up the small entrance with a few layers of sod bricks. The rain was drizzling lightly. Water splattered into small puddles outside the hut.

Returning, she checked on Captain Jackson’s condition. He appeared to be in a stable state. The deliriums had passed. Fervently, she hoped the sweating would rid him of the poison before any damage was done to his vital organs.

She forced herself not to be distracted by the handsome man next to her.

If you are not careful, you’ll end up making a complete cake of yourself. He’s given no indication he has noticed you, other than when he first laid eyes on you—nay, he would swim for his ship if he thought you had any interest in him as an unattached gentleman. An Irish wise woman does not have a wee bit of hope of attracting such a man. Aye, even if he is like whiskey for the eyes.

Secretly, although she would rather feed him her favorite goat than admit it, she wanted him to look at her. She wanted him to meet her steady gaze with one of his own. She could not help but wonder what would happen if he should do so.

At last he broke the silence between them.

“Tell me, how old is this sweat hut? Did you fashion it yourself or was it built by one of your ancestors?” he asked.

He was familiar with the old stone dwellings. The rocky green land of the southern coast contained the scattered relics of Ireland’s ancient past. Circle ruins, stone beehive-shaped huts, and sea-weathered stone pillars, whose original purposes were long forgotten, had become part of local legends and superstitions.

Many of the ruins dotting the verdant hills were now used as animal holding pens. Some of the sacred places, once built by early Celtic pagans, evangelizing Christians had turned into respected churches and monasteries. As for the smaller, less well-built huts and burial mounds, they were believed to be the cursed homes of the wee fairy folk, the
daoine sidhe
.

He was, while trying to find a neutral subject of conversation, genuinely interested. He knew that there weren’t many who looked kindly upon the ruins. The locals at the harbor tavern had warned him away from visiting them.

The wariness they felt towards the stone structures was evident in their eyes. They believed fairies and other magical creatures still practiced mischief upon unsuspecting mortals. The round stone
raths
were carefully avoided and due to superstitions, left undisturbed.

“I would not be going there if I were you, Commander,” declared a local fisherman in an ominous tone. “The wee ones haunt them, sir. It’s their fairy fort.”

“To be sure, even if ye were to pay me a whole pile o’ silver, I wouldn’t go near their rath,” warned the local bartender, passing him a dram of ale.

“Aye, stay away from them, Lieutenant,” cautioned another of the older fishermen standing next to him at the tavern bar. “They might put ye under a powerful
gessa,
one of their dreaded curses. They’ve been known to bewitch men down to their cavern homes below to dance with their master, the Devil. Aye, stay clear o’ the fairy rings, Lieutenant. There be terrible ancient magic about there.”