Cullen had just finished helping Mr. Parker apply a poultice to a deep cut on the leg of one of the topmen who had slashed his calf on a wayward nail on a fast descent of the main mast. He straightened from his task and gazed toward the quarterdeck, looking for Lieutenant Dalton.
The man had just re-appeared and from the frown on his face, he was not having a good day. Cullen could only hope Willa’s sharp, caustic tongue was lashing his rival for her affections as severely as she lashed her husband.
When had weakness ever stopped a Scotsman from pounding stronger men than the obnoxious Mr. Dalton? For even looking at a woman under said Scotsman’s protection?
He could sense himself getting stronger each day, thanks to his late-night walks with his cane around the deck surrounding the sick bay. But he still wasn’t comfortable navigating the hatchway steps to the level of their cabin, let alone contemplating pounding Mr. Dalton. He knew the captain was keeping a guard there in the evenings when Willa retired, but he didn’t trust Dalton.
And he hoped to God Willa hadn’t returned the man’s unhealthy regard. Hell, for all he knew, maybe the two of them had…well, whatever, when Willa was passing herself off as Wills. Of course, she’d spent the last ten years in close association with any number of men aboard two ships. Why only Dalton? Maybe there were others to whom she’d become even closer.
He scrubbed his hand hard across his eyes. He had to quit straining his brain with jealous meanderings. That way lay madness, not to mention the onset of a splitting headache, thanks to his slowly healing, damnable skull. And for some reason, his anxious heart kept swinging back toward Willa like the needle of a compass. She was his soul’s true north, regardless of whatever blathering twists and turns his obviously damaged mind might take.
His next patient abruptly ended his flights of conjecture. He’d opened his shirt to reveal a rash across most of the trunk of his body.
“Does it itch?” At the negative shake of the head from the gunner, Cullen gave Mr. Parker a pointed look. His surgeon’s mate had the sailor open his mouth and after a look down the man’s throat, nodded slowly.
“Calomel.” Cullen moved to the small medicine chest they’d brought with them to the top deck and gave the man one of the packets of pills Willa continually compounded from mercury salts for treatment of the pox. Since this man’s symptoms pointed to the second phase, he’d need to take the tablets indefinitely. “Take one every day, and when you’ve finished all of these, be sure to come back to sick bay for another packet.”
Cullen shook his head and shared a look with Parker before the next man in line moved forward. They lost more good men to the pox and simple shipboard accidents than all the bloody actions during wartime.
At that point, a shout of “Land ho—” came from one of the topmen. Cullen’s mind clicked to the obvious - Madeira. Captain Still had decided to stop at the Portuguese outpost to provision some of the island’s famous wine before the long haul south to St. Helena. Good man.
Willa leaned against the rail, breathing in the air of land again and watching the steep levels of terraced fields crawling above the houses crowded around the harbor of Funchal on Madeira. The top of an ancient volcano soared from the ocean’s floor to create the tiny island with forbidding mountain walls hemming in the port village.
Petrels swooped low near the Arethusa’s wake, screeching and fighting over scraps of garbage. The raucous calls of women on competing provisioning boats sounded across the water even as they were still sailing out to meet them. The topmen had shortened sails to slow the forward momentum, but the order to let go the anchor had not yet been given.
She felt rather than heard Cullen hobble up behind her. He’d gotten rather good at muffling the sound of the tapping of his cane. She’d have to bear that in mind. She spoke over her shoulder. “Would you like some fresh seafood for supper tonight?”
“The provisioners’ boats aren’t even here yet. How do you know they’ll have something you’d like?”
“Limpets,” she said simply. “I’ll claim some space on one of the grills on the galley stove tonight.”
“Are you that certain the provisioners will have them?”
“Yes. It’s October. They’re still in season.”
“What do you need from me, Mrs. MacCloud?”
“Money,” She turned toward him and held out one of her hands.
He dug into a pocket and retrieved a handful of coins. “Is this enough?”
She smiled and took the coins.
“Are you going to keep all of that?”
She widened her eyes and raised one brow.
“Of course. What was I thinking? Why wouldn’t you spend all of my money?” He chuckled and hobbled back toward Mr. Parker to return to the sick bay below.
When Lieutenant Dalton finally gave the order to douse the sails and let go the anchor, the wood timbers and rigging creaked as the ship rounded herself up into the wind.
Marine Sergeant Claridge passed her on his way to accompany the purser to stock Madeira’s fine wine for theArethusa’scaptain and officers. He paused and asked, “Would you like me to procure a few bottles for you and Dr. MacCloud?”
Willa gave him a broad smile without speaking and pressed some coins into his hand. He hurried on to the launch to join his men.
Cullen lit the lantern in their cabin while Mr. Parker, with the help of one of the ship’s carpenters, rigged one of the swinging cots from sick bay next to a canvas partition wall. He’d practiced all afternoon pulling himself up and down hatchway stairs while carrying his cane, which suited him fine now that he’d gotten the hang of it.
He wished his memory would come back as quickly as his strength had. He needed the cane mostly as a preventative against crashing down when a spell of dizziness hit him. The spells had become less frequent, but Mr. Parker had insisted he keep the cane with him until they were sure the vertigo aftermath of his head injuries had passed.
