The Following Sea (The Pirate Wolf series) (6 page)

"Hail,
Eliza Jane
! This is the captain of the
Endurance
. How many survivors are there aboard your ship?"

The woman tried twice to answer but her throat was too dry, the ships were too far apart, and the rasped words were snatched away on the breeze. In the end, she held up a hand showing only one finger, then pointed that finger to her chest.

"Are you saying you are alone on the ship?"

The girl replied with an exaggerated nod and Dante blew out a breath before raising the trumpet to his mouth again. "How long?"

The girl looked down and he could see her staring at her fingers, counting them off slowly as she uncurled them from a fist. When she held her hand up again, there were four slender fingers showing.

Gabriel rubbed the scabbing off his wounded eye and forced it to stay open. "Where is the rest of the crew? Where is the Captain?"

The girl's arm came down and paused halfway to point into the belly of the main deck. Her fingers curled into a tight fist again as she shook her head.

Dante felt the hairs on his neck prickle again, for if he was interpreting her correctly, she was telling him that she was alone on the deck of a plague ship which was littered with the bodies of the dead.

He relayed the order to the helmsman, Rowly, who took it with a mutinous set to his mouth. He hesitated long enough that Gabriel turned his head and glared a further threat, one that came with a hand going not-so-casually to the stock of the pistol he wore at his waist.

~~

By the time the
Endurance
had maneuvered into position, the entire crew was on deck. Gabriel had taken the precaution of ordering men to stand by the rails with long grappling poles... not to pull the ships closer, but to keep them purposefully apart. He had also ordered sharpshooters up into the yards in case the woman and the flag had both been used as a ruse to get the galleon close enough for English pirates to swarm over the side and board the
Endurance.

The crew watched in absolute silence as Dante stepped up to the rail again and hailed the
Eliza Jane
through his cupped hands.

The girl rose from the rubble and looked solemnly out over the gap between the two ships. This close, her features were clearer and another low murmur rippled through the crew with opinions divided between beautiful sirens and ghostly apparitions of angels.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dante asked.

The girl cleared enough of the rust out of her voice to make herself heard. "We landed in Fox Town a fortnight ago to take on fresh water. One of the men came down with a fever. It took only a few days to infect the rest of the crew."

Like a school of fish veering from danger, the crewmen who had been crowding the rails backed away, putting more space between themselves and any foul vapors the ship might be expelling.

"And you?" Dante asked. "Were you infected?"

The woman bowed her head a moment and shook it. "No. I was spared. God only knows why, but I had neither the fever nor the spots."

They both looked back toward the
Eliza Jane
.

"You say you have been four days on your own?"

"On deck, yes. I was locked away in my cabin for several days before that, so I cannot be sure exactly how long I have been alone."

"What have you done for food and water?"

"I have caught a little rain in the sails. But I have not dared to go back below."

Gabriel beckoned his cabin boy, Eduardo. "Fetch a skin of fresh water, another of wine, and a pouch of wheatcakes, cheese and cold meat. And be quick about it."

The boy scampered off and Gabriel expelled a long slow breath. He could not simply bring the woman on board. The pox was a virulent and deadly disease and no one knew how it spread. Some said by touch, others said by rats, others suggested that merely breathing the same air was fatal. The fact the girl had been spared was a puzzlement but did not mean she was free of the disease.

On the other hand, he could not just sail away. She was on a death ship and it was his moral duty to destroy the vessel. While he had been implemental in sinking ships full of screaming Spaniards, he was not comfortable with the thought of sending an unarmed, helpless woman to a watery grave.

"Please, Captain." Her voice wavered again as it came across the gap between the two ships. "I understand your dilemma. It was one of the reasons I did not search for food to keep myself alive. I hoped that if I ate nothing and slept in the open... the end would come swifter. I am afraid I am too much of a coward to throw myself overboard but I will accept the fate delivered by your guns."

Gabriel blew out a breath that carried an oath with it. That was surely the last thing he had wanted to hear, for now it all but obligated him to find a way to save her.

He turned to Douglas Podd, the barber and sailmaker who was the closest thing to a doctor they had on board.

"Suggestions?"

Podd scratched his chin. "I've heard tell o' people who've survived the pox. Some say how they don't catch it a second time. Might help to know if she had sum'mit like that when she were a weanling. Could explain why she were spared."

"Assuming that to be the reason," Gabriel said, "how can we be sure she isn't carrying the disease on her skin or her clothes?"

Stubs' jaw dropped. "Ye're not thinkin' of bringin' her on board?"

"We're thinking a pistol shot would be quick and merciful," one of the men nearby growled.

Dante glared from under an arched eyebrow and the crewman shrank back out of sight. He looked back at Podd. "She claims she's been a week with no signs of fever. What say you to that?"

Podd pursed his lips and glanced around, weighing his answer carefully before he delivered it. "She 'd have to strip down to her bare arse and scrub herself head to toe with lye soap until the skin near comes off. Otherwise—" he hooked a thumb over his shoulder— "ye'd have a deal o' trouble keepin' the men from throwin’ her overboard. That's assumin’ they don't mutiny outright."

Gabriel nodded grimly. "I'll talk to the crew."

Podd scratched his graying hair. "I'm of a mind they might believe me over you, Cap’n. Mainly because I draw their teeth and set their bones an' they know I'd as soon drown a kitten as save it... something they can't say about you, especially when the kitten is a pretty female."

~~

While heated debates were taking place on board the
Endurance
, a jolly boat was rowed across to the
Eliza Jane
. Eva followed instructions and dropped a line over the side, pulling up a basket that contained food and water. She also pulled up a grappling hook bound to a long length of rope which she secured to a solid section of the gunwale.

Despite unresolved fears, she was too hungry to ignore the sight and smell of biscuits and cheese. She sat in the midst of broken rails and torn rigging, eating and drinking, and watching the huge galleon while a crew of strangers on board decided her fate.

She had all but given up hope of any manner of rescue. Eva knew full well the yellow flag would keep other ships away and she had resigned herself to a lonely, painfully slow death.

Her first thought upon seeing the galleon was that the Spaniards would simply sink the
Eliza Jane
and bring about a quick end to her misery. She certainly had not expected to see Englishmen in command of the vessel and she had yet to decide if it made her feel better or worse that her own countrymen were deciding her fate.

Not entirely certain what to think when the captain sent across food and drink, she nonetheless refused to let herself have any hope that it was anything more than a temporary reprieve. A charitable last supper, perhaps? A final kindness? The only prayer she did allow was that death would come swiftly when the barrage resumed to sink the plague ship
.
To that end, she drank the wine freely, inviting the numbness she hoped would come at the bottom of the bottle.

"Hail
Eliza Jane
!"

She stood, clutching the half-empty bottle. The man who had identified himself to be captain was standing on the high deck in the stern. He was hardly the handsome, dashing vision of the sea-faring adventurers she had read about in penny sheets. His face was mishapen and battered, his jaw heavily bearded. One eye was a bulbous, bruised mess of old scabbing. The other eye examined her like a hawk might inspect a mouse before deigning to eat it. His hair was dark and fell in greasy strings to his shoulders, which were admittedly broad and packed with muscle. Long legs were encased in black moleskin, the tall boots laced high to the knee.

"We are sending over further supplies,” he said. “We need you to strip out of all your clothing and discard it, then scour yourself top to bottom with soap, after which, douse your skin and hair with the camphor oil. When you have done this thoroughly, we will tow you behind the
Endurance
in a jolly boat rigged with a canvas sail for shelter. Do you understand these instructions? A refusal or a deviation will remove any possibility of you leaving that ship alive."

Eva swayed slightly and thought it must be the wine making her light-headed. Surely she had heard wrong. He could not possibly be saying she could leave this doomed hulk.

"Repeat the instructions if you please," the captain ordered through cupped hands.

"S-soap head to toe, then camphor."

"My apologies, Madam, but we must keep you quarantined until there is no possible chance you are tainted by the fever. I would not risk it were you the Queen of England. Do you agree to the terms?"

"Yes." She felt the first real flicker of hope shiver alive in her belly. "
Yes
, I do agree sir!"

"Very well. We shall send across the necessaries."

He turned to pass along orders to the man beside him and moments later a basket came sliding across on the line she had rigged earlier. In it was a brick-like bar of harsh lye soap used to scour the ship’s timbers, a jar of camphor oil, a scrub brush, and a striped wool blanket. At the bottom was a pair of sailor's canvas trousers and a large white shirt.

The portion of deck where she had been staying was littered with smoking debris from the broadside but she managed to clear a small patch, lower a canvas bucket over the side and fill it with sea water.

The larboard side of the
Endurance
was dotted with heads; the yards and rigging were filled with crewmen, all of them staring and silent. She could well imagine their reservations and their resentment. Even with such extreme precautions there was no guarantee she was free of whatever pestilence had killed the
Eliza Jane
.

The captain’s orders had been specific. Strip out of all clothing and scrub her naked flesh. The hope that had kept her heart pounding now sent a flush of dismay into her cheeks.

Did they all intend to just stand there and watch?

Her gaze sought the captain but he appeared to be distracted, leaning over some charts and conversing with the helmsman.

Eva set her jaw and looked for a way to suspend the blanket from the rigging to form a curtain. It was not a very large blanket and would not protect her from every pair of probing eyes, but it would have to do.

Foregoing modesty for the sake of survival, she pulled the shapeless white sheath over her head and discarded it along with her cloak. Naked and shivering, she took up the scrub brush and started washing with the awful soap. It stung her skin and reddened it instantly. She doused her hair and worked the stinking lye into her scalp, rinsing and rinsing and rinsing again with tears of pain and mortification burning in her eyes along with the harsh fumes. There was no towelling to dry herself so she stood, arms crossed over her chest while the breeze tightened her skin and the residue of salt water caused even fiercer burning.

She poured some of the camphor in her hands and began rubbing it over her body. It eased some of the stinging and tightness, briefly, but the odor was so strong it nearly brought the recently enjoyed contents of her belly up into her throat. She choked back sobs as she worked the oil through her damp hair and when every inch that she could reach was coated and slick, she donned the rough canvas breeches and shirt, then snatched the blanket and rolled herself into it, finally turning and facing the
Endurance
again.

The jolly boat that had ferried over the first basket of food was now rigged with a canvas sail stretched across the stern and tented in the middle. A long cable was being attached to a ring in the bow and men were lowering baskets filled with more supplies. It was a sturdy little boat, but bobbed in the shadow of the galleon like an apple in a barrel, and the thought of spending days on board, being dragged in the wake of the Spanish ship, made her belly threaten to rebel again.

"You're alive," she told herself. "You're alive and that is all that matters. You have been around boats and ships all your life. You can do this, Evangeline Chandler. You can do this... for yourself... and for Father."

For all she knew, it might even be safer than being taken on board the galleon itself. Surely they must be pirates, so there was no telling how they would have treated her if the circumstances were different. She might well have been condemned to a fate worse than dying with the
Eliza Jane
. She was reminded of Lawrence Ross's warning of how women captives were passed from man to man until they had been raped to death.