Pirate's Wraith, The (14 page)

“I will tell him to bring all his vinegar.” Against all common sense, he bent to kiss her forehead and then her cheek and at last he found the warmth of her lips. There he lingered for a moment until frantic shouts from above distracted him. “I must go.”

She nodded. 

With his resolve flagging, he left. As he stepped out onto the quarterdeck, Gilroy appeared.

The old man carried a jug of vinegar and his ancient bag of physician’s implements. “Do not worry, cap’n. Lesley lives. Many did not hold on long enough.”

Harlan could not respond for the tightness in his throat. The physician quickly disappeared leaving Harlan to stare upward at the ruined sails. He silently cursed his life as the tattered sails fluttered uselessly in the wind. In truth, after his son’s death, whatever bright expectations he had held for the future departed. Becoming a pirate had not seemed a loathsome thing, for he had not cared a whit for his own life.

Yet, now he did. Now he wanted to believe there could be more happiness for him and not the kind of happiness that came from wealth and privilege. He longed for something simpler--ordinary.

But as a pirate, he could be hung.

He shoved that disturbing thought to the back of his mind and dashed up to the poop deck where Moody strutted back and forth calling out orders. 

“Did the wave knock you senseless?” Moody’s full jowls quivered with wrath and his eyes narrowed.

“A long draught of rum has revived me.” How easy he found lying. He had once been his parents’ pride—the good son who excelled in learning. His face grew hot with shame.

“Why were you carrying the lad? We are pirates. There is no mollycoddling here. Send him back to his mother if he is a milksop
.”

“His blows felled you.” Harlan muttered so only Moody could hear.

The first mate almost choked as his face bloomed into a livid purple. After a few minutes, he recovered his composure and went on to give an accounting of how many men had been washed overboard by the freak sea. Then he continued with the damage the ship had suffered. “There is not enough spare canvas for all the sails.”

“We must sail with whatever we have.” He fingered Moody’s fine jacket. “We could piece together a quilted sail using this exquisite cloth and some of your other fine jackets.”

Moody yanked the cloth out of his hands. “We will do without the topgallants, the spanker, and one of the jibs.”

Harlan laughed. “Do we have a choice, Mr. Moody?”

“If we find a ship to plunder, we can take their sails.”

“It will be impossible to maneuver without enough sail and we have lost many of our best fighting men.”

“Yes,” the first mate admitted. “Due to our current circumstances we must engage an easier target.”

“On the sea, who will we find far weaker than we are at the moment?” Harlan asked. “Any Spaniards will attack us on sight.”

“We need not strike our colors.”

“Excellent, Mr. Moody, then we will be as neutral as possible and limp into port.” Harlan took out his glass and surveyed the horizon. He did not see another freak wave, or anything else out of the ordinary. “We must get to New Providence, as quickly as possible.”

“We cannot race without more sails.”

“I have already offered you a suggestion to alleviate the problem.”

“You are being facetious.”

“Am I?” Harlan smiled broadly. “You are quite large, Mr. Moody. I daresay there’s enough fabric in a dozen of your jackets to piece together a mighty fine jib.”

* * * *

Lesley bit down on the leather wad Dr. Gilroy gave her. It did not surprise her that the old physician knew a bit about anatomy. After all, he had sliced off plenty of body parts.

In his calm way, he assured her she had a bad sprain, not a fracture. Some sharp object had slammed into her and caused the cut on her skin. He stitched the wound together and wrapped her ankle in a cloth to keep it stable. While her knowledge of biology far exceeded his, the reassurance he offered meant a lot to her. She had automatically assumed the worst when she saw the blood. 

“You must keep it elevated until the swelling goes down,” he said.

“When can I put weight on it?”

“That may take some time.”

“Can I use crutches?”

“I’
ve some in orlop deck as might be the right size.”

“
If you acquire more spoons in New Providence, can you send me home?”

“I have been giving the matter some thought, child, but for now, you cannot travel far. You must rest and heal.”

After he left, her lower lip quivered and tears welled in her eyes, but she refused to give in to a bout of self-pity. She lay on the damp blanket with its musty wool smell and distracted herself by envisioning the softness of the fine percale sheets and fluffy comforter on her bed at home. She visualized herself eating from her fine china plates, and sipping coffee from her favorite mug. She closed her eyes and tried to remember all the delightful flavors of her favorite foods—and even the simple ones like fresh oranges. However, dreaming of all the wonderful things she no longer had could not take her mind off her pain and her miserable circumstances.

She opened her eyes and tried to pound out the lumps in the straw-fil
led mattress. Shifting around, her arm bumped into something warm and her fingers closed upon the small wooden horse. Comfort settled upon her heart.

“I wondered what had happened to you.” She brought the toy up to her chest. “I’m glad you’re still here. I saw my whole life flash before my eyes—and you were a part of it. I wonder why. You’ve come a long way with me, my little friend.”

The horse stayed warm, which helped her to ignore the pain in her leg. She did not imagine the heat, it was real and she decided to ignore the fact that such a phenomena would normally be impossible. The toy remained the one peculiar and surreal detail in her very gritty experience on the
Lyrical.

She thought of all the stories she had read and movies she had seen about time travel. People seemed intrigued with the idea of going either backward or forward in time, but logically it could not happen. 

A trip to the moon involved an enormous amount of expense plus years of planning and training. Sometimes, the astronauts died when the mission failed. Though the rockets reached incredible speeds, they did not travel into another time. Man-made rockets could never reach the speed of light, somewhere around 186,000 miles per second.

Why did she recall that fact but not get a stellar grade on the MCATs?

“Time moves slower in outer space,” she whispered to the toy. “But I didn’t leave the earth. In fact, as far as I know I stayed in the very same spot—relatively speaking.”

She continued musing to herself. There were three dimensions, height, width, and depth. Wasn’t time the fourth dimension? Weren’t there wrinkles in time? Or was that just another story she had read?

How could anyone go back in time and survive? She stared at her sprained ankle. The human body had many limitations. Why had the wooden toy had come through time with her when nothing else had--not her clothes, her car, or even her earrings—just this horse—a toy carved by the captain for his son? Coincidence? It did not seem likely.

The migraines, which had sapped her strength and taken all the joy out of life, had started
after
she had bought the cradle at that antique store. The saleswoman seemed so anxious to make the sale. Would she have charged more if she had known about the horse? Lesley had not known about the horse until she had gotten back home and taken the quilt out of the cradle to have it professionally cleaned. The horse had lain beneath the quilt.

Could the horse be a figment of her imagination? Could she have acquired a sort of madness in which the horse became the actual manifestation of her illness?

She had taken two psychology courses and she had hated them. Now when she could use some help in figuring out her own psyche, psychology did not exist. Freud had not been born. She couldn’t type in her problem on a search engine and look it up.

“Alright, if mental illness hasn’t been invented yet, I’m really okay.” She whispered. That thought gave her downcast spirit a slight boost. She had grown cynical as a pharmaceutical rep after her migraines continued despite all the pills she took. She had wondered if some of the new diseases were given labels merely so that the pharmaceutical companies could sell pill
s for the newly labeled illness. What if those medicines consisted of nothing more than some inert ingredients—a sugar pill?

Didn’t the placebo
effect work in something like thirty-two percent of all cases?

Why did she remember that now? How come she didn’t do better on the MCATs? Today, lying on a horribly uncomfortable mattress with a fat, painful ankle, she had all sorts of useless information swirling around in her head. Maybe she could become a doctor in this century. It should be a lot easier.

Unfortunately, women didn’t get to do anything in 1711 except have babies, sew, cook, do laundry, and die. They had sex, too—and got married but that’s when all their trials started. The lucky ones didn’t die after the first baby. They had no means to limit their pregnancies other than trying several disgusting methods. She had read an article about the use of dates, honey, lemon, vinegar, and even animal dung.
Eew.

If she could continue to act the part of a lad she might be able to become a doctor. It was a long shot, but worth a try. She would ask Dr. Gilroy how to go about it.

Nevertheless, the cannon the captain had in his britches still intrigued her. Sex with him could not fail to be a mind-boggling event. Her hormones acted up the moment he got close to her. She wanted to glue her body to his. Having him pressed against her was delightful for all of a second until the gigantic wave ruined the experience. She would like to try it again without the water.

The little wooden horse in her hands grew warmer.

As if on cue, the captain entered the cabin and the heat in her body zoomed upward. The flush on her cheeks was bad enough, but the unsatisfied longing at her core proved far more disturbing.

She needed a very cold shower. 

“Gilly gave me these.” The captain held out three rudimentary crutches. “One should be the proper size for you.”

She took a deep breath and tried to calm herself. It didn’t work. Her pulse raced and dampness spread between her legs. She decided to put on her perky cheerleader persona. “Yep, I’m out of commission for a while—at least when it comes to climbing the rigging. Not that I mind being excused from that job.”

He gave her a melting look with those liquid blue eyes of his. “I am sorry.”

The eyes got to her. She wanted to drown in them. She sat up. Her leg hurt like hell, but she moved to ease it off the bunk and down to the floor. “Okay.” She winced. “Hand me a crutch.
”

The moment her foot touched the floor, she found herself biting back a cry of pain. The heat of a moment ago vanished and a cold sweat broke out on her brow. All her blood seemed to take a fast elevator ride downward and her head spun dizzily.

She held onto the edge of the bunk and managed not to pass out.

He stood the crutches up beside her and measured them against her side. “This one will do.” He handed it to her.

She put the support under her arm. It was a miserable excuse for a mobility aid. For one thing, it had no padding. Still, she would be able to hobble along with it, if the pain and swelling in her ankle ever went away.

“Would you help me into the bunk?” she asked in a breathy tone.

He obliged by lifting her and placing her gently on the lumpy, scratchy mattress. The ease with which he did it impressed her—as if she weighed as much as a pound of spaghetti. Once she lay in a horizontal position, the blood moved back to her brain and her lightheadedness passed, though her ankle continued to ache.

“Do you have anything for pain?” she asked through clenched teeth. “I’ll take a hit on the solar
plexus, at this point. Go ahead, knock me out.”

He went to a small cabinet, took out a jug, and poured amber liquid into a mug. He handed it to her. “Whiskey. Drink it all.”

She took the mug and sniffed. “Damn. This is potent. I could get blasted from inhaling it.”

“It’s good, from a farmer back home.”

“Where would that be?”

He shook his head. “I came from Connecticut, along the coastline in a town called Lyme. My father had a business making barrel staves. Our family was prosperous, but my older brother took to gambling. After my father’s death, my brother sold everything, but that did not help settle the accounts he had with his creditors. I took to the sea at the age of fourteen for nothing remained of my father’s fortune.”

“Is that why you became a pirate?”

His face hardened and she regretted asking the question. “I will regain my fortune.”

“But ... you could get killed ... or hung.”

“Would it matter?”

“Well, yes.” She wanted to tell him that maybe he could find love again and maybe he could have another son. Or maybe he could just have one incredible roll in the hay with her.