Sea Change (11 page)

He reached over and refilled his cup, but she shook her head when he offered her more rum.

"I do not have a head for strong spirits, Captain, and if I'm needed during the night it is best I have my wits about me."

He grunted an assent, but went ahead and poured himself more rum. Her eye was caught by a glint of silver on the shelf next to him as she followed the movement of his arm.

"Is that your betrothed, Captain Fletcher?"

It was the framed miniature of the young woman, and Fletcher reached for it and passed it over to Charley.

"A swan," she murmured.

"Miss Sarah Dixon," Captain Fletcher added, frowning down at the portrait when Charley passed it back to him. He drank some more.

"When are you to be wed?

"We have not set a date. We are not officially betrothed, because Miss Dixon wished to wait until I returned from my voyages. I cannot fault her. She is a popular young miss, and no doubt is enjoying her flirtations and friendships."

Charley's eyebrows rose. This did not sound like a love match to her, but these two beautiful people appeared made for one another like matched bookends.

"But enough about my life," Fletcher said, and refilled his cup. "Tell me about Charley Alcott--who is he, and what does he want?"

"I want to go to Jamaica," Charley said briskly. The captain's eyes were brighter, his movements looser as the rum took hold of him, and she wondered if she should excuse herself. However, he was not being aggressive or loud, and he seemed genuinely interested in her--or rather, Mr. Charles Alcott.

"Now, Charley, you are not being open to all the possibilities. A young man such as yourself could do very well in the United States! There are fine physicians there you can apprentice to, and you could settle in a better climate than Jamaica. Has no one told you how unhealthy life in the West Indies can be?"

"Thank you, Captain, for your concern. Yes, I know the Indies can be dangerous--fevers and poisonous snakes are just two of the dangers I've been warned of--but it is where I wish to go. It is part of Britain, and that makes it part of my home. The United States is an interesting experiment, but it will not last. Even now you are facing the might of the world's finest navy. I would not bet money on America in this horse race."

"Really?" Captain Fletcher grew very still, and Charley wondered if she'd said too much, antagonizing her captor again. She needed to learn how to keep her opinions to herself or she might find herself clapped in irons. On the other hand, if he found her opinions obnoxious enough, he might let her go. Or kill her. At the moment both options seemed possible.

But he just smiled and took a drink.

"'Free trade and sailors' rights!' That is the rallying cry of America for a reason, Doctor. We will not bow to tyranny, and we have a navy that's vigorous and prepared to take on all enemies of freedom. We did not yield to Barbary pirates or the French when they encroached on us, and we will not yield to Britain."

"Nonetheless, Captain, England is my home and my country. Perhaps I will emigrate to Canada after I study with Dr. Wilson in Jamaica, if I seek a better climate."

Captain Fletcher shook his head.

"You have no idea what a frozen wasteland Canada can be, Doctor. You think you have experienced winters in England, but I assure you, they are nothing like the winters north of the United States! No, you would be far better off seeking a more moderate climate, like that of Maryland."

"Is that your home?"

"Aye. Baltimore, Maryland. Finest seaport in the United States and home of the best crabs you ever ate."

"You miss it, don't you?"

"It is an odd thing, Doctor. When I am at sea, I miss Baltimore. When I am in Baltimore, I miss being at sea." He shrugged, and grinned at her again.

He looked younger this evening. The rum combined with his relaxed attitude took some of the tension out of his frame, and his frequent smiles contributed to his attractiveness. It would be easy to stay here, looking at Handsome Davy, sharing this moment between shipmates. Too easy. Charley heard the ship's bell and sat up, listening. It took her a moment to do the calculation in her head, but she figured it out.

"Eight bells of the first watch!" she announced proudly.

"Very good, Doctor! Next we will have you box the compass and we will make a sailor of you yet."

"Perhaps," Charley said with a smile of her own as she rose to her feet. "But those bells tell me it's later than I thought, and should retire to my bunk."

"I hope you will join me again tomorrow evening for a game of chess," Captain Fletcher said.

It was a temptation, and one she knew she should reject, but Charley found herself agreeing to a chess match on the evening to come, and made her goodbyes.

As she washed in the privacy of her own space, Charley hummed to herself, softly. No, there was much about her new existence that was not prudent or even in her best interest, but at the same time there was a part of her that was glad she was not yet in Jamaica.

Charley sat straight up in her bunk, gasping for air in the dark. It was the same nightmare. The one where she was stark naked, standing on the deck of the
Fancy
, and the crew was pointing and laughing at her.

Except for Captain Fletcher. He was not laughing.

She ran her hand over the cold sweat covering her face. One didn't have to be a physician to know that keeping secrets, living a life of deception, could at the very least lead to troubled nights tossing and turning.

Charley drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around them, leaning her head against her knees.

Would she have it any other way? Each day aboard the
Fancy
brought new interests, new challenges. The men respected her, and addressed her as "Dr. Alcott."

She would never be Dr. Alcott in England or Jamaica.

She would never have David Fletcher as a companion in England or Jamaica either.

But she had him as a companion now. They talked, long into the evening hours, about politics and war, medicine and literature. They played chess together. Captain Fletcher was the superior player, but not so much that she couldn't give him a run for his money. She had been ready to dismiss him as a pretty pirate who cared only for booty, but there was much more to him than that, and she risked losing her heart to this American sea rover.

Who was she trying to fool? The privateer had stolen away her heart, all unbeknownst to him. Someday there would be a reckoning of some sort, or she finally would make her way to Jamaica, but for now she could enjoy his nearness, his laughter, his arguing with her and stimulating her mind.

She would study him from across the chessboard, through her lashes, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on his next move. His long fingers would hover over a chess piece, then return to rest on the table. She'd had to put her own hands beneath the table and grip them to keep from reaching across to stroke the tanned skin, the heavy bones at his wrists.

Sometimes, in the privacy of her bunk, she indulged herself in the fantasy of standing up before Davy Fletcher and disrobing, showing him who she really was. In her fantasy he would throw the table aside and pull her into his arms, and kiss her, and tell her she was all he'd ever dreamed of.

Ridiculous. He was more likely to rear back in disgust at her unfeminine form, or throw her in chains for pretending to be a man. Such a fantasy was dangerous to her peace of mind but she could not stop dwelling on what life could be like if it were not Dr. Alcott and Captain Fletcher sitting across from one another, but Charlotte and David.

He kept trying to convince her to throw in her lot with the Americans and abandon England. She knew he meant well, and genuinely had her best interests at heart. But he was inviting Dr. Charles Alcott to come to America. There was no place there, or in his life, for Charlotte Alcott.

Charley heard the ring of the first bell of the morning watch and she rose from her bunk, knowing she'd never get back to sleep. She smiled to herself, realizing she now automatically told time by the watches and bells, just as the sailors did.

Maybe she wasn't quite the "lubber" Captain Fletcher termed her.

At eight bells Charley finished up and washed her hands to go to breakfast, but when she exited the sick bay she stifled an all too girlish shriek.

There were bodies lined up before her door.

"I've been on some ships where we'd dredge those 'millers' up with flour and enjoy a feast!"

She looked up at Captain Fletcher, standing before her, admiring Pirate's trophies.

"Indeed." Charley cleared her throat. "I trust we will not be forced to substitute rats for salt pork on this voyage, Captain."

"Oh, I don't expect that to happen, but we do need to get more water. Later today we'll be dropping anchor and refilling our barrels."

"Really? Is there a town where I can get more supplies?"

"And look for rescue? Do not think you will be escaping any time soon, Dr. Alcott."

"That is not what I meant, Captain Fletcher!"

He was watching her steadily.

"No? My mistake, then, based on your rather persistent demands that we free you. Santa Rosa is a Spanish island whose chief claim to fame is a freshwater spring near the beach. We will spend the night there."

"Then if there's no British garrison within hailing distance may I have your permission to leave the ship?"

"Rank has its privileges, Doctor, and sarcasm is the captain's prerogative. However," he raised a hand, forestalling further arguments, "I don't see any reason why you cannot come ashore. I think it best that you stay near the beach and not go wandering off on your own, Doctor. For your own safety, of course."

"Thank you, Captain," Charley said with appropriate deference, which only made him frown at her. But she wouldn't let that spoil her mood. A day off of the ship sounded wonderful, and she intended to take full advantage of it.

"We'll be doing laundry ashore because of the fresh water. Leave yours bundled and it will be returned to you."

Now, that cheered her, the idea of clothes not laundered in saltwater! Speaking of saltwater, she looked back down at her gifts.

"Will Pirate be offended, do you think, if I drop these over the side rather than fry them up for breakfast?"

"One thing I have learned over the years, Doctor, is not to try to fathom how cats and women think."

She glanced at him quickly, but he was looking at the rats, so she only made a "Hmmm...." noise of what she hoped was masculine solidarity and agreement, then, since Captain Fletcher was still standing there, gritted her teeth and gathered the small corpses up for an informal burial at sea.

There was a festive mood aboard the
Fancy
that day, even in sick bay, as the men discussed the delights of Santa Rosa.

"We will go ashore in shifts, Doctor," Henry Fletcher said. She was seeing him now on a limited basis, and trying to help him deal with the pain from his phantom limb. His spirits were better as he resumed more of his duties, and that in and of itself was probably the best medicine for him. He'd started discussions with the carpenter on a wooden hand, the blacksmith said he could fashion a hook. Charley would not yet give permission for him to wear such devices and saw his impatience with her as a good sign--a sign he was trying to return to a normal life.

"You seem excited to be going ashore, Mr. Fletcher. Is there a particular attraction to Santa Rosa?"

"There's a small village, and a larger community on the other side of the island. Mr. Bryant will head over there and arrange to sell some of the goods in our hold."

His cheerful face dimmed as he said this last.

"Would that normally be your task?" Charley asked neutrally.

"Yes. But I'm not sure I can handle a horse and care for it with one hand on the ride across the island."

"You will. Eventually. After all, most of riding is in the legs, not the hands. But for now, it is best you continue the healing process without risking further damage to your limb. You have made excellent progress and a set-back now would not be worth it."

"Oh, I know that, but it is frustrating."

"Patience, Mr. Fletcher. I would be most angry if you undid all my good work through foolish risks, and the last person you want to anger is the doctor."

"Shows what you know about life aboard ship. The last person you want to anger is the captain, Doctor."

Charley could see the truth in that. The captain held the power of life and death aboard ship, sometimes in obvious ways, other times in less obvious. One British naval captain had gone so far as to maroon a sailor aboard the uninhabited island of Sombrero. David told her it was an incident the American press made much of in writing of the cruelty of life aboard the Royal Navy ships.

Would Captain Fletcher maroon her if he found out her ruse? She suppressed a shudder at the thought, and pushed it into the back of her mind. It was bad enough that nightmares disturbed her sleep, she couldn't afford to have them interfere with her duties during daylight.

"We're all done here, Mr. Fletcher," she said. "Continue to wear the sling for another week, and then see how you do."

"Thank you, Doctor," Henry's face split into a grin. "It makes me feel and look like an invalid, and I'll be glad to set it aside."

Mr. Fletcher was her last patient of the morning, so Charley went above to take the air. She stood at the rail and strained her eyes, but only saw a smudge of gray on the horizon that could be their destination.

"We should be able to see Santa Rosa in about an hour, Doctor."

Charley turned to the speaker.

"And how is your rash, Mr. Bryant?"

"Much better for that ointment you made up, Dr. Alcott. It worked like a treat and I sleep better at night, not waking up scratching at myself." He cocked his head to the side.

"Is that how you see us, Doctor, as a variety of ailments to be treated? One man has a rash, another has a flux?"

Charley looked at him, and felt a touch of warmth creep into her cheeks. A rueful smile turned up the corner of her mouth. "My father warned me not to let that happen, Mr. Bryant. It is too easy to fall into the habit of seeing patients as problems to be treated rather than as people."