Rapture of the Deep: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, Soldier, Sailor, Mermaid, Spy (16 page)

As Davy starts his run with his pitiful burden, we hear a loud roiling of the water behind us.
What...?

"Good God, there's more of 'em!" I shout, as what looks to be dozens of the huge creatures come roaring out of the water. They gaze balefully at us and then begin to move forward. "Run!"

We run for all we're worth, through the mangroves and back to the boat. Whether the alligators are slower than we are, or they pause to devour their wounded comrade, I do not know. Or care. All I know is we make it back to the boat and push off, raise the sail, and head back to the
Nancy B.
as fast as we can go.

"Put her on the transom and let's have a look," orders Dr. Sebastian, and Davy puts her down on the thwart—where the rowers normally sit. I kneel down beside her on the left and the Doctor kneels down on the right. Joannie liesmotionless,unconscious ... or maybe...

"Is she dead, Doctor?"

He leans over and presses his ear to her chest.

"No. Not yet. I can hear her heart..."

Hang on, Joannie, hang on...

"...but her breathing is not right. I hear wheezing. I hope the lung was not punctured," he says, "because if it has been..."

He does not have to say it.

"Take off that halter," is what he does say, and I reach back and undo the buttons and pull it away from her. There are teeth marks all over her chest, and the right half of it looks sickeningly deflated.

"Yes, I see. The beast broke her ribs on that side. We've got to get more air into her."

Taking my cue, I lean over, suck in a deep breath, put my mouth on hers, and blow. But all that happens is the air comes pouring out her nose to brush against my cheek. I try again. This time I hook my thumb in the corner of her mouth to make a tighter seal with my lips, and hold her nostrils shut with my other thumb and forefinger. This time her chest rises.

"Good," says the Doctor. "Do it again."

I do it again ... and again ... and again.

"Let me listen. Everyone quiet."

A hush falls over the boat as Dr. Sebastian puts his ear over each of the chest wounds as I keep Joannie's chest inflated.

"Good," he says. "You can stop now. I hear no aspiration, no sucking wounds. The lung is sound, I think. Flip her over."

Davy and I turn her on her stomach. There are bleeding teeth marks on her back, but they do not appear deep, thank God.

"But wh-wh-why is she still not awake?" asks a very stricken Daniel from back on the tiller.

"Three possibilities, boy," says the Doctor. "One, the beast broke her back when he shook her. That is how many carnivores kill their prey, you know. Let us see." The Doctor splays out the fore and middle fingers of his right hand and, starting high on the back of Joannie's neck, runs those two fingers slowly down on either side of her spine all the way down to her tailbone. "Hmmm ... seems all right. Can't feel any break. But I can't be positive. Turn her over again."

We do it.

"Another possibility is that she fainted from terror, which would certainly be understandable. But knowing this girl, I do not think that is the case. Plus, she would have revived by now."

"Then what?" I ask. Now that she's face-up again, I give her another puff of air, but it seems that her own thin chest is now doing that job on its own.

"Her head could have been slammed against the ground in her struggle with the alligator, giving her a concussion of the brain and rendering the girl unconscious," says the Doctor. He runs his fingers up the side of Joannie's head, feeling for any wound.

"Ah," he says, "there is a swelling here. On her left temple. And it looks like it is starting to discolor. A good sign. But we can't be sure. There could still be internal bleeding. We don't know. Time will tell."

We have a kind, following wind on the way back, and soon the masts of the
Nancy B.
loom over us.

As we approach, we shout out the nature of our distress, and as we pull in next to the raft, John Thomas is there to gather up Joannie and hand her to Higgins on the deck.

"Put her on the mess table, Higgins, and bring up my medical kit, if you would."

I hop over the rail and head down to the mess deck, where I find Joannie already stretched out, with the Doctor beginning to thread his stitching needles.

Jemimah is there and lightly smoothes the hair away from Joannie's forehead, and, without being told, holds a cool compress to the bruise on the side of her face.

"Poor baby," she croons as she does it. "Poor little child, poor little thing."

Higgins, knowing my mind, has opened my medical kit and poured some of the pure alcohol into the shallow little basin. I thread my own needle and dip both needle and thread into the liquid.

"Doctor," I say, as I get ready to start sewing, "if you will humor me, please put your own surgical tools in the alcohol bath before you apply them to the patient. I have found that it decreases the chances of infection."

Dr. Sebastian shrugs. "It can't hurt, so why not?" He does it and we get to work sewing her up.

I start sewing up a nasty rip on her belly after pouring some pure alcohol on the wound. She jerks when I lay it on, which, I find, is a good sign—
hey, if it hurts, it's gotta be good
is what I figure.

"There are some cuts down below. Get the pants off her," orders the Doctor.

I pull off the suit and get to work on what I find down there.

"I worry about that one there," he says, pointing to one particularly deep puncture. "If it penetrated the peristaltic sac, then she's in serious trouble. We shall see. Let's get on with it."

Before he can sew the lips of the gaping wound shut, I pour some pure spirits of alcohol down on it, and Joannie's eyes fly open. She screams and starts to cry and struggle and twist about.

"Hold her down," orders Dr. Sebastian. "We're almost done."

"There, there, baby," says Jemimah softly. "Hush, now. You're gonna be all right. Jus' be still."

"Here, Joannie," I say, shoving a plug of leather between her teeth. "Bite down on this. Be brave. It'll all be over soon."

She subsides to an agonized groan and the Doctor finishes up his stitching.

He then takes a roll of wide bandage. "We've got to wrap those ribs. Sit her up," and he starts rolling the cloth around her thin chest. "All right, that's it. Time will tell. Clean her up and put her to bed."

The Doctor puts his tools away as Jemimah and I take wet cloths and begin cleaning the bloody smears from Joan-nie's body. When we are done, I ask of Higgins, who has been standing by, "Please take her up and put her in my bed. The air is better in there than down here, and it might do her some good."

He picks up the now quietly weeping girl and goes out the hatch, past a very distressed Daniel Prescott, who has been waiting anxiously there. Jemimah and I follow him out and into my cabin. I pull back the sheets from my bed and Joannie is placed upon it, while Jemimah sits down next to her and tries to calm the plainly still terrified girl. It's clear that I will not be the only one suffering from nightmares.

There's a bottle containing a special liquid in the cabinet where I keep my medical supplies. It's got lots of names—paregoric, laudanum, tincture of opium—but I call it Jacky's Little Helper 'cause it's gotten me out of many a scrape, and now it's going to help Joannie get through her horrors. I take up the bottle and pour a dollop into a small glass and then lift Joannie's head and hold it to her lips.

"Here, Joannie. Drink this. It will make you feel better."

She manages to swallow it, and I let her sink back into the pillow. Jemimah takes up her hand and says, "Now, child, you just rest now. Ain't nothin' can harm you here." Then she begins to sing a lullaby.

Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy, little baby.
When you wake, you'll have cake,
And all the pretty little horses.

Blacks and bays, dapples and grays,
All the pretty little horses.
Hush-a-bye, don't you cry,
Go to sleepy, little baby.

The terror in Joannie's eyes slowly fades, and she sleeps.

Later, before the fall of evening, I go out on deck. I take my long glass and look over at the key to see if I can locate the red scarf that I had tied to that mangrove. Yes, there it is, plain as day. I lower the glass.

Well, we got the bearing,
I think with a deep sigh, but if Joannie dies, we will have paid very dearly for it.

...By my reckoning we were about two miles from the shore, but I cannot be sure, as the storm was so fierce.

I thank the Good God for my deliverance and I pray daily for the souls of my lost comrades.

You were off by a good mile, Lieutenant Carlos Maria Santana Juarez, but that is understandable, given your circumstances, and so we forgive you.

Yesterday, using the newly acquired cross-bearing, we maneuvered to our new position and dropped the hook. We found ourselves in somewhat deeper water, about three miles offshore. Probably five fathoms down. Still, when I looked over the side of the raft, I could see clear to the bottom and should be able to reach it.

I went into my cabin to suit up and to get ready to dive.

And I did dive, and many times, too, but yesterday's diving yielded nothing except more sponges to decorate our rigging, which now sags with over a hundred of the things. However, today is bright with promise and, ever optimistic, especially when it comes to possible gold, I slip over the side and slide into the water. I know it's down there and I know we're getting close. I can just smell it.

I swim down, planning to explore a bit more to the west. We had moved the
Nancy B.
in that direction yesterday before securing for the day. A quick scan of the sandy, coral-dotted bottom shows nothing but the usual flora and fauna; and as I work my way down to the deeper depth, I reflect that I am using up too much of my air in just getting to the bottom, leaving very little time for looking around before I have to go up for a breath. I have an idea and kick back to the surface and hang on to the side of the raft.

After I've gulped in a lungful of air, I call out, "John Thomas, take the lifeboat's anchor and tie a long line to it. Put a knot in the rope every three feet. And then drop it over the side right there. Straight up and down. Nice and taut."

"Aye, Cap'n," says John Thomas as he goes to do it.

Since I know it'll take him a while to rig that up, I pull myself onto the raft. The Doctor, who has been looking through his glass-bottomed bucket, gives me a questioning look.

"I'll be able to climb down the rope hand over hand and so get to the bottom quicker. It's much deeper here, you know."

He nods as I stand and then go up the ladder and to the deck of the
Nancy B.
As always, Higgins is there with a towel to dry me. Then I pop down into my cabin to see how Joan-nie is doing.

Quite well, it seems, and she is chafing at being kept abed.

"I'm ready to get up now, I am," she declares.

"You'll get up when the Doctor says you're ready to get up," I say, "and not before." I go to my bookshelf and pull out a book. "Here, read this. Since you cannot perform your usual duties, you might as well study."

She sticks out her lower lip in a fine pout, then says, "Wasn't my fault that thing tried to eat me." She picks up the book and opens it. "Looks like it's for babies."

"It is
McFeeney's Eclectic Reader,
Volume One," I reply in my best schoolmarmish voice. "A very respected schoolbook, it is. It will teach you grammar and moral lessons on behavior. When you are done with it, I will test you, and if you pass, I shall give you some more grown-up things to read."

The lower lip comes out even further as I leave. Outside my door I see Daniel Prescott hunkered down beside the bulkhead. I heave a great sigh and say, "All right, you little rascal, get in there. But be good. She needs her rest."

He is in there in an instant. I don't know what good my warning will do, but, hey, I ain't their mother.

Going below and thinking to grab a bite, I hear Jemimah up forward, feeding the chickens, and I go to join her, where I hear the hens clucking and her singing.

Cluck old hen, cluck and sing,
Ain't laid an egg since way last spring.
Cluck old hen, cluck and squall,
Ain't laid an egg since way last fall.

I hear the seed corn hitting the deck as Jemimah scatters it, and I hear the hens scratching about. Higgins had brought several crates of chickens onboard back in Boston, but he didn't know quite what to do with them, 'cept to chop their heads off and have 'em for dinner. For the ones that managed to survive until she came onboard, Jemimah had a better idea. She set up an area forward, where they could get some sunlight, and made up some nests for them so they would be comfortable and maybe lay more eggs.

My old hen, she's a good old hen,
She lays eggs for the workin' men.
Sometimes two, sometimes ten,
That's enough for the workin' men.

I know that Jemimah likes her chickens, but I also know what happens to a hen what won't lay, as we have seen several of them on our plates on the mess deck, and very tasty they were, poor things.

Cluck old hen, cluck in the lot,

Next time you cackle, you'll cackle in the pot.

Ah, well, it's a hard life for both chicken and person, and what can you say about it all? I dunno.

Jemimah sees me watching her feed the chickens and says, "Come over here, girl, and learn somethin' that you don't know."

I obediently walk over, where I see a nest that a large brown hen has just left so she can eat some of the seeds that Jemimah has been spreading around.

"What we got here is a broody hen. See, the other girls let me take the eggs they lay, but this one, uh-uh, she means to hatch these ones out. Musta got with a rooster."