Every Whispered Word (23 page)

How did anyone tolerate such relentless, torturous motion? he wondered furiously. And how was it physically possible that an enormous iron steamship could be rocked about as violently as if it were nothing more than a bloody cork?

If I ever manage to survive this sodding trip, I am never stepping onto a ship again.
He watched in misery as his metal washbasin and jug slid off the washstand and clattered noisily onto the floor.
Not until I build a ship that doesn't rock about like a goddamn child's toy.

He swallowed thickly and closed his eyes, which only seemed to make matters worse. He opened his eyes again and stared at his desk, trying to focus on the stack of books and drawings he had left there. Perhaps he should get up and try to work. That might help to take his mind off the movement. His books began to slowly slide from one end of the table to the other. He stared at them as they skittered back and forth, unable to decide whether it was worse to watch them and know how much the ship was shifting back and forth, or just close his eyes and feel the motion. Finally the books slipped right off the table, with his pen and inkwell following.

Right. That was definitely worse.

He closed his eyes, trying to block all sensation out. He considered going up onto the deck, thinking maybe the fresh air and the ocean spray would revive him a bit. There was also the fact that if he were going to be sick, it was much more convenient to just lean over the railing and spew right into the wretched ocean that was causing him so much grief. But the thought of dragging himself off the swaying bed, down the rocking corridor, and up a swinging flight of stairs was far more physical effort than he could possibly manage. So he simply lay where he was, holding fast to the mattress as he debated the consequences of taking yet another dose of Eunice's foul stomach elixir. If the ocean didn't kill him, Eunice's elixir surely would.

At that moment, that possibility was extremely appealing.

A sudden pounding on his door interrupted his misery.

“Mr. Kent! It is Zareb—please, you must come quickly!”

Somehow Simon managed to pull himself up off the bed, stagger to the door, and wrench it open.

Zareb stood in the corridor, his eyes wild with fear.

“She is dying, Mr. Kent, sir,” Zareb whispered, his voice breaking. “The dark wind has come, and I cannot send it away.”

Fear sliced through Simon, eradicating all thought of his discomfort. “What do you mean, she's dying?”

“The dark wind,” Zareb repeated, as if he thought Simon should know what he was talking about. “It has finally found her. I have tried to keep it from taking her, but it is too strong. Come!”

The aged African turned and flew down the corridor, his gaily colored robes fanning out behind him like the plumage of an exotic bird. Simon raced along behind him.

A thick, acrid cloud of smoke poured from Camelia's cabin as Zareb opened the door.

“Fire!”
Simon roared, his breath frozen in his chest as he tore into the smoke-filled cabin.
“Camelia!”

“No, no, not a fire,” Zareb quickly assured him, following. “I am trying to drive away the evil spirits.”

Simon blinked against the stinging haze. Camelia lay curled in a shivering heap upon the floor, dressed only in her nightgown, with Oscar, Harriet, and Rupert huddled protectively beside her. A caul of gray mist wafted thickly throughout the dimly lit cabin, enveloping all of them in its sickly sweet stench. A circle of sand had been drawn around her, and a half dozen smoldering containers were arranged by her head, arms, legs, and feet, each spewing a suffocating fog. Camelia weakly raised her head as Simon came in, barely managing to reach the chamber pot as her entire body was consumed with the most violent retching he had ever seen.

He rushed to her side and knelt down, gently moving her hair back and supporting her head as she was sick.

“Easy, Camelia.” His voice was low and taut as he tried to feign a calm he did not feel. When her retching had finally subsided, he cradled her in his arms, appalled by the ghostly paleness of her skin.

“I'm dying,” Camelia whimpered, the words barely a thread of sound against the groaning of the ship.

“No, you're not,” Simon countered firmly. “If I have to survive this goddamn torturous voyage, Camelia, then so do you.” He began to lift her into his arms.

“You must leave her where she is,” Zareb protested. “She needs to be protected from the curse!”

“She needs to be lying on her bed,” Simon countered, taking her over to it and gently laying her down.

“But the bed is fastened to the floor—I cannot make a protective circle around her if she lies there!”

“Your protective circle isn't doing anything, Zareb,” Simon argued, drawing the blankets over her. “Just look at her—she's freezing lying there on the floor!”

“Where's the fire, lad?” Oliver burst into the cabin, waving his skinny arms about and coughing. “Sweet Saint Columba, what's that filthy stink?”

“I am driving away the evil spirits.” Zareb moved his pots of smoldering herbs closer to Camelia.

“More like ye're drivin' away every last bit of air,” Oliver observed, hacking.

“Camelia!” Elliott raced into the room and stared in horror at Camelia lying limp and pale upon her bed. “My God, Zareb,” he managed, choking on the smoky haze, “what have you done to her?”

“It is the dark spirits.” Zareb's expression was tortured as he arranged his smoking vessels of herbs alongside Camelia's bed. “They have followed her across the ocean, and now they are going to take her.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Elliott watched in horror as Camelia rolled her head over to one side and vomited into the chamber pot Simon was holding for her. His face blanched. “Sweet Jesus—what's wrong with her?”

“It is the curse,” Zareb insisted, near tears. “The dark wind has found her.”

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded Jack, appearing at the doorway dressed only in his trousers. “Is there a fire?”

“We need a doctor!” Elliott told him. “Now!”

“There isn't a doctor on board.” Jack went over to where Camelia lay.

“That's outrageous—how the hell can a ship not have a doctor on board?”

“How long has she been like this?” Jack asked Simon, ignoring Elliott as he took in Camelia's shivering white lips and chalky skin.

“I don't know—I just arrived and found her like this.” Simon reached for a cloth from the washbasin and gently wiped her mouth. His voice was low and strained as he asked his brother, “Do you know what's wrong with her?”

“She probably caught some hideous disease from one of these filthy bloody animals.” Elliott glared furiously at Oscar, Harriet, and Rupert. “Maybe that bloody snake bit her—I've told her she shouldn't keep it around!”

Rupert raised himself higher and flicked his tongue at Elliott in warning.

“The dark spirits don't use animals to carry out their curses,” Zareb countered, carrying another burning pot over to Camelia's bed. “They have the power to enter the body on their own.”

“I'll take that, Zareb.” Jack took the smoldering pot, opened the window, and heaved it into the churning ocean. “Oliver, bring me those other burning containers, would you please?”

“No, Captain!” Zareb protectively grabbed hold of two pots. “We must fight the evil within this cabin!”

“The only evil within this cabin is the stench and smoke you have created,” Jack argued, hurling another vessel out the window. “I can barely breathe, and I'm not sick—I can scarcely imagine the effect this poisonous air is having on Lady Camelia.” He tossed another smoking container into the sea.

“You are fighting a dark power you do not understand,” Zareb protested. “The curse of Pumulani is very powerful!”

“I may not know much about dark powers, but I sure as hell know a bad case of seasickness when I see it,” Jack retaliated, grabbing another smoky container from Oliver and pitching it into the storm. “And I know you aren't helping her by forcing her to breathe that foul smoke when her entire body is trying to empty itself!”

Simon stared at him in confusion. “Seasickness?”

“Impossible.” Zareb emphatically shook his head. “Tisha never gets seasick.”

“Then I suppose there is a first time for everyone,” Jack retorted.

Oliver scratched his head, mystified. “How can the lass be seasick now, when she's been fine these past three days?”

“The sea has become much rougher in the last four hours. Haven't you noticed how much the ship is lurching?”

“I thought it was always like this,” Simon said ruefully.

“I thought 'twas the wee drop o' whiskey I'd had after supper,” Oliver reflected.

“I wouldn't drink any more if I were you, Oliver—it will only make the ship's movement seem worse,” Jack advised, handing Oliver the chamber pot. “Would you kindly rinse this out and have young Will, the cabin boy, fetch me two clean buckets, some fresh towels, a pitcher of drinking water, a spoon, and two more blankets. Zareb, you will need to stay by your mistress throughout the night, and keep a close watch on her. She will probably continue to be ill until she is so weak she can only sleep. Try to get a few small sips of water into her from a spoon—no more than one every ten minutes or so, or she will just throw it back up. If she gets worse or becomes feverish fetch me immediately. Do you understand?”

Zareb slowly nodded, struggling to focus on Jack's face as the cabin shifted and rolled.

And then he suddenly clapped his hand to his mouth and ran from the room, desperate not to be sick in front of everyone.

“I'll just make sure he's all right,” said Oliver, who was also suddenly feeling anxious to get up onto the deck. “I dinna think Mr. Zareb will be much use to the lass tonight.”

Jack sighed and turned his gaze expectantly to Elliott and Simon.

“I'll look after her,” Simon said.

“No,
I'll
look after her,” Elliott insisted. “I've known Camelia for years—I'm much closer to her than you are, Kent.”

“Fine,” said Jack. “As I was saying, Wickham, it's important to try to get a little water into her, but go slowly with it. Once the vomiting has subsided, you can try to get her to take some weak ginger tea. Tomorrow, if Camelia is feeling well enough to sit up, she can have a little plain soda biscuit, broken into small pieces, and if that goes down well, then she can have some—are you listening, Wickham?”

“Of course I'm listening,” Elliott asserted, fighting to keep his gaze focused on Jack as the cabin swayed back and forth. He braced his feet beneath him, struggling to find some degree of stability. “You were saying something about ginger biscuits and—” He reached out and grabbed the wall, trying to hold fast.

“Are you all right, Wickhip?” Simon frowned. “You look awfully pale—”

“I'm fine,” Elliott retorted, swallowing thickly. “So I'm to give her biscuits and tea and . . .” He stopped, his expression panicked.

Then he charged from the cabin, barely making it into the corridor before he threw up.

“Bloody hell.” Jack turned to look at Simon. “Are you all right, or are you about to boak as well?”

“I'm well enough to look after her,” Simon assured him.

“Good. The main thing is to keep her as warm and comfortable as possible, and try to get a little water into her. The air in here is cooler and clearer now, but I think these animals should be removed, so there is less commotion around her. I'll put them in your cabin.” He eyed Rupert warily. “On second thought, you pick up the snake. I'll get the other two.”

Harriet flew up onto Simon's shoulder and squawked noisily as Jack approached her. Jack turned toward Oscar, who scurried up Simon and planted himself firmly on his head. Rupert stayed where he was, his body raised and arched for striking.

Simon winced as Oscar gripped his hair. “Maybe the animals should just stay here.”

Jack regarded his brother curiously. “I never knew you were fond of animals.”

“I'm not,” Simon assured him, trying to stop Harriet from digging her claws into his shoulder. “But for some strange reason they don't seem to sense that.”

“Here are the things you asked for, Captain.” A sleepy-looking lad of about twelve years of age entered the cabin weighted down with an armful of blankets, towels, buckets, and water. “That Lord Wickham ain't lookin' so good—I just saw him tryin' to get to his cabin and he was green with—bugger it—there's a snake in here!”

“That's all right, Will,” said Jack. “That snake belongs to Lady Camelia. You can just put everything over there by that table.”

“Does he bite?” demanded Will suspiciously, not moving.

“I've not actually seen him bite anyone.” Having given up on moving Harriet, Simon was now trying to disengage a very stubborn Oscar from his head. “And even if he did, his bite isn't poisonous to humans.”

“Why don't her ladyship keep him in a cage?” wondered Will, keeping as far away from Rupert as possible as he inched toward the table.

“Lady Camelia doesn't believe in cages.”

“An admirable philosophy,” Jack mused. “I'm not much fond of them myself. Come on, Will—let's see how things are going on deck. If this storm picks up, we'll have more to worry about than just a few sick passengers.”

“What do you mean, ‘picks up'?” demanded Simon, grabbing the water pitcher as it was about to topple over. “Aren't we in the storm now?”

“What, this? This is nothing. Wait 'til the ship starts listing until it nearly rolls right over—that's when you'll really feel alive!”

Simon held the sloshing water pitcher to his chest and groaned. “Does Amelia know you have this bizarre side to you when it comes to the sea?” he asked, referring to Jack's wife.