Sea Change (30 page)

"No, Doctor, you're to go to the boats, Captain's orders."

A blur of gray shot across the tilting deck.

"Pirate!" Charley called out to the cat, but David wouldn't stop. He took her to the rail where Charley could see their enemy through the smoke, the marines in the rigging taking shots at the Americans. David pushed her aside and stood there in his torn white shirt. A manic grin spread on his blackened face as he presented himself, a perfect target. He raised the speaking trumpet Mr. Bryant shoved into his hands.

"Ahoy,
Caeneus
," he called across the water, and the lieutenant directing the action ordered the marines and gunners to hold their fire.

"Will you strike your colors, Captain Fletcher?"

He ignored the question and called back, "I am returning something that belongs to you British, Lieutenant."

He gestured to Mr. Bryant, who pulled Charley alongside David. She could smell the smoke and sweat on him and wanted to throw her arms around him and cling to him and never let go, but he took her by the arm and shoved her up to the rail.

"This is an English prisoner I took off of the
Lady Jane.
I am returning Miss Alcott to you, with my compliments."

Across the water the midshipmen who'd escorted her aboard the
Caeneus
so long ago said, "Sir! That is Dr. Alcott that came from the
Lady Jane
to assist Dr. Murray!"

The English officer looked at Charley, her cropped hair, her bloodied brown coat, and he frowned, but called back, "You say Doct--Miss--that person is your prisoner?"

"Aye. I took this woman by force off of her ship." David rounded on her and stared deep into her eyes, into her soul. "Would you deny that, Miss Alcott? Or would you swear an oath before God and the courts that I took you prisoner?"

His eyes pleaded with her to do as he said, and she understood that this was a last effort by David to protect her. If she had served willingly aboard the enemy privateer, she would be called a traitor, and could even be charged as a pirate. She wanted to protest with all of her heart that no matter what circumstances brought her aboard the
Fancy
, now it was where she wanted to be, alongside him.

He would not keep her at his side though, not in the midst of this battle. She could do this one thing for him. When he joined her aboard the
Caeneus
as a prisoner of the English, Charley would do all in her power to help him.

"No," she said strongly, looking into the golden eyes that reflected the flames of the burning schooner. "I cannot deny it. Captain Fletcher took me off the
Lady Jane
against my will and held me prisoner aboard his vessel."

"Thank you, Charley," he said for her ears alone. Then he raised his voice. "Take her to the boats, Mr. Bryant."

Charley thrust herself forward for one final kiss, a last embrace before they were separated, but Mr. Bryant had hold of her and was helping her down the ladder to the boat below. The air was loud with the sound of the fire and the shouts of men jumping into the water amidst the flaming debris that floated around them. More marines stood at the rail of the frigate, their weapons aimed on their new prisoners as they were hauled aboard.

Charley craned around in her seat to see David, but he was hidden in the smoke and the confusion. Surely he would grab a line and come over? If the Americans were sent to prison in England she would follow him there, she would wait for him, the war could not last forever, she would help him.

The thoughts raced through her head but still she didn't see him.

"Where's the captain?" she said, turning to Mr. Bryant as they made fast to the frigate.

"He will be the last to leave, making sure his men are safely off the ship."

"The
Fancy
is lost, isn't it?"

Mr. Bryant started to answer but the British seamen were hustling them up the ladder to the deck of the
Caeneus.
One of the sailors helped her aboard and marines waited there to take them into custody.

"Hold there," a young voice said. The midshipman, younger even than Charley, came to them.

"Miss Alcott, I'm to take you to Dr. Murray. He will have charge of you until we get to Jamaica."

But Charley wasn't listening to him as she scanned the deck of the ship across from her. The
Caeneus
was pulling away from the crippled American vessel.

"Why are we leaving? David isn't here yet!"

"It's the rum, Charley." Mr. Bryant's face was grim as he watched the
Fancy.
"Those barrels in the hold make the ship a floating bomb. That's why Captain Fletcher stayed behind, to be sure you and the men got off of it."

The smoke cleared and she saw David standing on deck, grinning at her like a madman as he waved.

"No!" she screamed, lunging forward as Mr. Bryant grabbed onto her shoulders to keep her from leaping over the side. "Jump, David!"

He blew her a kiss.

"Do not forget me, Charley!"

The explosion threw her off her feet. She scrambled back up as the
Fancy
flared into a fireball, turning the darkening sky into a vision of hell. Wood and red-hot metal rained down on the frigate as the English sailors yelled and ducked for cover. Charley stood like a pillar of salt as embers smoked around her like brimstone, watching for a movement in the water, a sign of life.

But there was nothing, nothing except wreckage floating on the ocean.

"Never," she whispered hoarsely. "I will never forget you, David Fletcher."

Mr. Bryant had hold of her arm, supporting her, but he released her when the marine tugged on his coat to take him away.

"Miss? Miss Alcott?"

The midshipman was speaking to her.

"I'm Andrews, miss, Daniel Andrews. Dr. Murray requests your assistance in the cock-pit."

"Yes, certainly," Charley said woodenly, turning away from the ashes of her dreams.

Charley followed Andrews down to the cock-pit, full of the injured of both nations. Dr. Murray barely glanced up from the patient on his table.

"Miss Alcott. Make yourself useful. These Yankees insist they want their doctor to treat them, which I suppose means you."

"Yes, Doctor," Charley said. She took a moment, only a moment, to press her hands over her eyes as if she could erase the image of the destroyed privateer, then sighed, put down her satchel and taking an apron off a peg, pushed up her sleeves.

The American injured came to her in an orderly fashion, some bitter, some dazed, none of them having much to say. They knew what awaited them. Detention in Jamaica, and then a transport to England. It was a new year, but they would spend 1815 at Dartmoor prison, far from home.

Some of the crew was missing, and the men confirmed her fears. She would not see Ives, or Stern, or Cook again in this world. She had no time to dwell on that now, not with the burns and the wounds and the limbs needing splinting or amputation.

Charley worked alongside Dr. Murray well into the night. Sometimes he assisted her with her Americans. He was still without his assistant surgeon, and the loblolly boy was glad to be relieved of duties beyond his ability and pass them onto the stranger.

Dr. Murray spoke little to her, but he watched everything she did, assessing her, correcting when necessary. It was good to be busy, to have to use all of her energies and skills on keeping the men alive. It kept her from having to think.

When the last of the men had been seen and either taken to sick bay or sent back to their hammocks, Dr. Murray looked at her for a long moment, then gestured to the basin and water waiting for them. Charley washed as best she could. She was red past her elbows.

Dr. Murray noted the condition of her blood-soaked clothing and said, "I should be able to cull some clothing from the midshipmen that will fit you."

He dried his own hands and cleared his throat.

"You will stay in my cabin, Miss Alcott, and I will share quarters with another officer."

Charley looked at him through the fog of her own senses and realized he was speaking to her.

"Pardon?"

"I said you will stay in my cabin. Come, I will take you to your quarters." She was glad he wasn't being compassionate and sympathetic. She couldn't handle that right now.

They stepped out of the cockpit into the gloom belowdecks.

"Where are the Americans being held, Doctor?"

"They are in the hold under guard. Are you hungry? You should eat something."

He was watching her, his old-young face grim. Dr. Murray had lost his share of patients today, and it told on him, despite his calm demeanor. She wondered how he dealt with it, day in, day out, and if he ever woke up, as she did, with tears on his face.

"No. I want nothing to eat."

"Eat anyway. You might be needed during the night."

"Yes, Doctor." It was easier than arguing with him. She was so drained that she would have fallen asleep on her feet if images of the exploding schooner didn't keep reverberating through her head.

Dr. Murray preceded her into his cabin to gather his gear. She wanted to tell him that she was grateful, for the berth and for him allowing her to assist him, but all she could do was lean against the bulkhead and stare down at her bloodied shoes.

"Miss?"

She was roused from her fog to look down at a midshipman even younger than Andrews, who was clutching a bundle of rags.

A squirming bundle of rags.

"The Yankees said this belongs to you, miss. We found him floating on a hatch."

The youngster put down his burden, and a disgruntled and wet cat came out of the bag.

"Pirate!" Charley cried.

The cat looked at her in disgust, as if his being wet and his fur even more ragged than before was somehow her fault, then sat to clean himself just as Dr. Murray emerged from his cabin.

"A prize, Mr. Higgins?"

"Not much of one, Doctor," George Higgins said, looking at the ragged tom as Charley swooped him up.

"I beg to differ, Dr. Murray," Charley said, with more life in her voice. "Pirate here is an excellent mouser and earns his keep."

"Then we will leave him with you, Miss Alcott."

"Send for me if you need me tonight," Charley said, and looked up to see Dr. Murray watching her. He seemed to be about to say something else, but instead just opened the door to his cabin and ushered her in.

"Good night, Miss Alcott."

"Good night, Doctor," Charley said as the door closed behind her. There was some ship's biscuit and a piece of cheese on the table, but she couldn't bring herself to eat. She stripped off her clothing and saw the clean nightshirt folded neatly on the bunk. It was Dr. Murray's and far too broad for her, but she put it on and crawled into the bunk. Pirate took advantage of her distraction to eat some of the cheese, then jumped in with her and curled up at her side.

The noises and the smells on the frigate were familiar and for a moment she could close her eyes and think herself back aboard the
Fancy
, but then she saw David again, his face alight as he waved good-bye to her.

Only the cat heard her sob into her pillow in the darkness.

It didn't matter that she'd been on her feet in surgery all of the night before, or that she'd cried herself to sleep. When she heard four bells of the morning watch Charley's eyes popped open, her body tuned to the beat of a working ship.

Charley sat up on the bunk and lit her lantern. She stared down at her hands, steady now that her night of weeping was behind her. Was this what an amputation was like? The pain, the knowing that a vital part of yourself was missing and you would never be whole again?

None of that made a difference, did it? She would carry on, because that was her duty, and because that is what David Fletcher would have asked of her. He could no longer help his men, but she could. This was the last gift she could give Davy, and she would give it with all of her strength.

"Yes?" she said in response to a knock at her door.

"'Mornin', miss," George Higgins said. "There are clothes for you, just outside the cabin. And Captain Doyle's compliments, ma'am, and would you join him in his cabin at eight bells--that is--"

"Thank you, Mr. Higgins, I know when eight bells is," Charley said with a smile to herself. "And thank your fellow officers for the clothing."

"Yes, ma'am. Dr. Murray said he expects you in sick bay this morning also," Higgins added, unnecessarily.

What did Murray think, that she would languish in her bunk weeping all day? Not that there wasn't a certain attraction to that, but it would never happen.

Pirate, too, was ready to get to work, and Charley released him from the cabin, scooping up the clothing there. She splashed cold water on her swollen eyes and brushed off her own coat as best she could, then donned the clean trousers, which fit rather well in the length, even if they were tight through the seat. The last thing she wanted to do was call attention to her anatomy, but her coat covered her enough to keep the men from staring. She hoped.

Charley took her journals from her satchel, because she knew if Dr. Murray was talking, she would be expected to take notes.

Her final act before heading to sick bay was to pause and look into the small mirror that was part of Dr. Murray's gear.

She looked no different, except for her red eyes. It is amazing that one could be so devastated and yet not show more signs of it. In primitive cultures women tore their hair and gashed themselves to show grief. Aboard ship, one picked up one's tools and got to work.

Charley took a deep breath, picked up her journal, and prepared to go to work.

The
Caeneus's
sick bay was located forward on the starboard side and Dr. Murray was writing in his own journals when she entered.

"Miss Alcott."

"Dr. Murray."

They kept their voices low so as to not disturb the handful of men remaining after surgery. Most had returned to their hammocks, the Americans to the hold, but a few needed more observation and round-the-clock care. Canvas panels separated the injured from the smaller area where Dr. Murray now sat, awaiting the morning's sick call. He did not rise when she entered the room, but he motioned her to the other chair crowding the small space. Charley sat, adjusting her trousers, an unconscious gesture. Dr. Murray studied her for a moment as if assessing her general condition.