Sea Change (7 page)

"That is an extremely prudent attitude, Captain. My workload would be lessened considerably if that way of thinking infected the men."

Fletcher shrugged. "Life is short, Doctor. Most of these men would rather visit the school of Venus whenever they can than worry about the possibility of a disease. Odds are a fall from the yards or a piece of shot will finish them off sooner."

"Speaking of my workload--"

But Captain Fletcher wasn't paying attention to her, he was walking around the sick bay, looking at how she'd arranged her tools and her chest, the neatly rolled bandages, the texts she'd brought with her lined up on the small desk attached to the wall. Her journal where she kept daily records of the men she'd treated and problems she'd encountered was still open, the ink drying.

"You write a neat hand, Doctor," the captain said as he picked up her journal. She would have snatched it from him because it was private information about the men, but they were his crew. And there was no personal information in her journal that could give away her identity.

Nonetheless, she said, "I would appreciate it if you would not read my journal, Captain."

He looked at her, and seemed about to argue about what he could or couldn't do aboard his own ship, but instead he gave her a small nod, pulled out the chair from the desk and sat, then motioned her to take a seat on the bunk.

She almost smiled at how she'd gotten used to men sitting in her presence, taking her masculine status for granted, but composed her features and sat across from him, legs apart in the pose that was now second nature to her.

"What kind of game are you playing, pretending to be a pirate, Captain Fletcher?"

Captain Fletcher's expression made it clear he was not used to being addressed in such a fashion, but Charley would not allow herself to be intimidated by the brash American. She must establish herself as an equal player in this game or he would stomp all over her.

"I am perfectly within my rights to take prisoners, so do not take that high-handed approach with me, you insolent puppy! I had my reasons, and they are not your concern."

"I would say they are very much my concern!" she plowed ahead. "If I am a prisoner of a privateer, then I demand you take me to shore so my freedom can be negotiated!"

Fletcher just gave her a smile that sent a chill down her spine. "And if you are believed to be in the hands of pirates, then your freedom is not as negotiable, is it, Doctor?" he said softly. "Nor, might I add, are your status and safety as assured."

"You do not plan to release me, do you?" she said, stunned.

"Not until it suits my purposes to do so, and that depends on Henry's recovery. I took you off the
Lady Jane
for a reason, Doctor. I will not let you go until I am sure my brother is recovered. After that..."

"After that?"

Fletcher stood, and looked down at her, and he gave her a charming smile that disordered her thoughts, but she forced herself to focus on his words, not his exceptional looks.

"Who knows, Doctor, you might enjoy your time aboard a privateer. It might be 'a sea change, into something rich and strange.' I would consider having you sign on for a share, if your medical skills prove valuable." He grew serious. "You are a young man yet, with your life ahead of you. In America there are great opportunities for a man with drive and ambition, and plenty of communities looking for skilled doctors."

Charley rose. She couldn't look him in the eye without tilting her head back, but she could stand straight.

"I am British, Captain, not American. Our countries are at war and I will not be a traitor to my king by signing on with enemy privateers. Or pirates."

He looked at her thoughtfully, then gave a small nod.

"I respect that, Doctor. However, I expect you to give my men the same treatment you would give English sailors."

"You insult me by saying that, Captain."

"As long as we are clear. Now, in the meantime, if you give me your parole I have no problem with you having the run of the ship." He looked around the sick bay. "This is a good idea, having a sick bay and regular sick call for the men."

Charley crossed her arms over her chest, and said, with only a small amount of trepidation, "It is not enough, Captain."

"Oh?"

"You will assign someone to help clean in here, to free me to work. Also, I will make a survey of your ship. I will not work in an environment that only contributes to disease and disorder."

He waved his hand negligently. "You do what you need to, Doctor. Talk to Lewis, he will suggest someone to help you. In the meantime, I would like you to dine with me this evening, along with Mr. Bryant and Mr. Purcell. I take my luncheon alone, and you can join the men or dine in your cabin here during the day."

Charley thought about it, then shook her head. "Mr. Fletcher needs to be observed Captain, as fever is almost a given after a procedure of this type. If you will excuse me this evening, I will sit with him and dine with you another time."

"As you will, Dr. Alcott."

He gave her a nod and left, and Charley took the seat he'd vacated. She imagined she could smell a faint fragrance in the captain's wake, a scent that combined salt and shaving soap and something that she could whimsically term
eau de command.

It really was not fair. Someone that handsome should have some noticeable flaws--flatulence or rotting teeth or an annoying laugh. The damned pirate even had dimples.

Well, she could not let male beauty blind her to her goal of getting off this ship and to Dr. Wilson's home in Jamaica. Daydreaming about Black Davy Fletcher was unproductive.

And it was dangerous in too many ways to count.

The fever Charley feared hit Henry Fletcher that night. The rising warmth in his dry skin, the brightness in his eyes and his rapid pulse told an unmistakable and all too common tale.

"It is as I expected, Captain," she told a frowning David Fletcher. "Mr. Fletcher is reacting to the trauma of the surgery. His body's humors are out of balance, and that impedes the healing."

"What can you do for him?"

"I will take some blood, but I have found that oftentimes letting nature take its course and allowing the body to fight on its own without drastic interference gives the best outcome. Sweating through the fever will also help bring him back into balance, but he needs fluids to produce a good sweat."

She sighed and looked down at Henry, now sleeping fitfully in his bunk. "I will stay here with him, but when the watch changes I would appreciate it if you would have Miller or Lewis relieve me. I need to get supplies from sick bay and I will return shortly."

The expression on David Fletcher's face told its own tale, and Charley paused at the door. "He is young, and healthy before this, and his body is fighting to survive. Do not give up hope, Captain Fletcher, for I have not."

Captain Fletcher only looked at her, and then turned back to his brother's bedside, speaking in low tones to soothe the man tossing restlessly in his fevered sleep.

Charley walked the passageway to sick bay with a frown that discouraged the sailors from addressing her. She was worried about her patient's agitation jarring his stump, but she did not want to lash him to the bunk unless it became absolutely necessary.

Her medical supplies were somewhat depleted, and she paused, wondering how strong her willowbark would be after weeks at sea. Charley took it anyway, along with some chamomile, and her lancet and bloodletting bowl. She now followed Dr. Murray's custom of keeping a tourniquet or two dangling from her coat pocket, and saw the sailors eye them with approval, part of the medical paraphernalia that gave them confidence that she knew what she was doing.

Keeping up appearances was half the battle in getting patients to believe in their own recovery, a mental process that she was sure aided the physical process. At the very least, it did no harm.

The door to Mr. Fletcher's cabin was open, and Captain Fletcher was talking to Lewis.

"Excellent, just the person I need."

The men turned to look at her, Lewis with a worried expression when he saw the blood bowl.

"No, Mr. Lewis, it does not involve blood, but I need your assistance."

She looked at the medications in her hand and thought about the course of a fever in a strong man. "I need clean water and cloths, and weak tea with sugar, and coffee for me."

"Who is the tea for?" Captain Fletcher asked.

"Mr. Fletcher, if he awakens. The fever will give him a thirst, but he should avoid strong drink. The sugar in the tea will help him regain his strength. If his fever stays low, I will try to get him to take some beef tea or gruel tomorrow, but he may not have any appetite and I do not believe in forcing patients to eat. Usually their own bodies know what they need and respond accordingly. The water and cloths are to wipe his face."

Captain Fletcher nodded, and his shoulders straightened a fraction. He was a man of action, and any action would be better than nothing.

"Mr. Lewis, if you would see to that, Captain Fletcher will assist me in the bloodletting."

The relief on Lewis's face at not having to help with the bleeding would have been almost comical, but Charley had already slipped into the cabin. The space was so confined they were shoulder to shoulder, and Charley was aware of the man next to her as much as she was aware of the patient in his bunk. Black Davy Fletcher would dominate whatever space he occupied, whether it was a small cabin or a ballroom.

She adjusted the lantern and sat next to Mr. Fletcher, taking his good arm in hers. Captain Fletcher stood behind her and closed the door.

"Hold the bowl, Captain, this will not take long."

She unwrapped her fleam from the oiled rag that protected it from rust, and held it up to the light to inspect the edge. She set it aside and took her ligature, tied it around Henry Fletcher's arm and raised the vein.

"Steady the bowl now, Captain."

The lancet flashed in the light and the blood spurted into the bowl in a crimson stream. Charley watched the liquid rise, the marks inside the bowl telling her how much was being removed. Her father hadn't needed such an aid, but he said that came with years of experience, being able to tell at a glance how much blood was being let.

When she had enough to satisfy her, she closed the wound and bandaged it, then examined the blood in the bowl before setting it aside to be disposed of.

"Is that wise, bleeding a man when he's already lost so much blood?"

"I will make a bargain with you, Captain. I will practice the medicine and you will sail the ship. It works out to be far more satisfactory that way." She looked up from where she was holding Henry's wrist and measuring his pulse rate.

Captain Fletcher was scowling at her, again. Clearly the pirate was not used to people who talked back. Charley did not even know why she was being so antagonistic--she considered herself to normally be the most easy-going of persons, but there was something about Captain Fletcher, especially when he was so near to her that she could smell the soap on his skin, that raised her hackles and made her snap at him.

She couldn't concern herself with that now, and if Captain Fletcher's presence was going to distract her from what she needed to do, he'd have to leave. Fortunately he solved her dilemma himself by rising and looking down at his brother one more time, then at her.

"Do what you can, Doctor. Call me if you need me."

"Captain."

Fletcher stopped, his hand on the door latch, and looked over his shoulder.

"It would be better for Mr. Fletcher if he could recover ashore."

"That is no doubt true, Dr. Alcott, but with the British Navy controlling these waters, there are few ports where I could safely drop anchor, and none of them are nearby. Henry will stay here, and you will see to it that he recovers."

Or else.
..was the unspoken punctuation to that sentence, but Charley could not let Fletcher's threats distract her from the task at hand, any more than she could let his beauty distract her.

He threatened her in more ways than he could imagine.

She turned back to her patient, and prepared for a long night.

The next days passed in a blur for Charley. Trying to get fluids into Henry Fletcher, using her limited pharmacopeia to lower his fever, bathing his face and chest with cool water, and snapping at poor Mr. Lewis when he asked about a blistering plaster to draw the fever out.

After an especially tense night Mr. Fletcher's fever spiked, then broke, and his sleep now was the deep sleep of healing. Charley returned to sleeping in her own bunk, and thought David Fletcher looked at her with new respect, but that could have been the bad lighting belowdecks.

She prepared stimulating Peruvian bark tonics, and Henry Fletcher complained about the "swill" being forced on him--a good sign, to Charley's eyes. The swelling around his stump appeared to be normal for a wound of such severity, and there were no red streaks of infection or development of proud flesh around the site, for which she thanked whatever angel guided the hands of surgeons, especially unqualified ones.

It occurred to her one morning as she was preparing a sulphur ointment for Stern's scabies that she was oddly content. While she might question herself, and feel all too often that she wasn't up to this task, the crew of the
Fancy
had faith in her, and that strengthened her resolve.

When she wasn't tending to Mr. Fletcher, Charley tended the rest of the ship. She soon realized that the daily sick call could be a high form of entertainment for men stuck at sea with no vessels to rob. Her schedule kept her busy enough that she spent most of her time in sick bay either seeing to the men or writing up her notes, oftentimes taking her meals on a tray. The talented carpenter, Mr. Purcell adjusted her examining table for her so that it could be raised or lowered as she needed, and when it wasn't covered with a sailor's body it was a good workspace. While Charley could have wished for more windows and natural lighting, there were plenty of lanterns on hand to work by. She knew her situation, at least from a professional point of view, could have been much worse.