Another storm had passed. It had struck hard and fast in the night, but now that morning had come it was swiftly being washed away by a fresh tide and strong winds that would chase it further north. Gulls called out their relief as they flew from their nests, filling the air with their chorus with the gentle lapping of waves washing upon the shore of the cove below. Achilles Davenport stood to observe such things as he did most mornings at dawn, to see the sun rise in the east where it met the horizon and cast its bright hue upon the water and into the sky to deliver another day of isolation and solitude. It was all that Achilles Davenport required. It was all that he deserved, this lonely seclusion. With a tap of his cane upon the rocks, the aging man began to turn away to return to his crumbling house, to continue such isolation in a manner that befitted an old man upon a hill, nestled in a corner of the world completely set apart from all others, when something caught his keen eye down below upon the pale shore of the cove.
It was enough to pull his attention, to focus upon it and try to glean what it was until he realised that it was pieces of wreckage from an unfortunate ship that must have lost its battle with the elements during the night. Now this was nothing unusual. Many ships were often wrecked against the cliffs or even out at sea for the journey to this New World was as perilous as it was long. Why, there was even a ship still abandoned within the cove of the homestead itself, The Aquila once being a proud and fleet vessel now little more than broken wood and sails. However, there was a certain feeling that Achilles Davenport could not shake this particular morning of no consequence. A prompting that urged him to go down into the cove to look upon the wreckage for himself. He toyed with the notion for a while, pondering over whether or not it would be worth the effort until eventually deciding that there may be something of value down below. At the very least, he could use the driftwood for the fires.
And so Achilles saddled up his horse, patting her neck affectionately before fixing her to the rickety cart that was nearly as broken and old as The Aquila before making his way all the way down to the shore. His mare stayed patiently in her spot after Achilles had pulled up on the reins to have her halt and busied herself with a sparse bit of grass to grind her teeth on, completely unaffected by the mass of wreckage that was steadily washing itself ashore. Achilles limped his way down onto the soft sandy beach, taking care to poke and prod with his cane at anything that looked of interest and began his efforts in dragging what might be useful out of the water and towards the cart, beginning a pile of sorts away from the reach of the water of high tide so that it would not be swept back out to sea once more.
There was plenty of wood to be had, some might even prove useful to fix up the stables where part of the wall had come down though Achilles had no hope in shifting the larger pieces by himself. Still, there were other items of interest. Barrels still containing food supplies, though a little salty and washed out, but remaining edible enough to constitute decent supplies for the coming winter, and numerous other treasures that Achilles had not expected to drop upon his doorstep. He laboured mostly in silence, only the sound of his heavy breathing joining the lapping of the waves as he worked, having his mare pull some of the heavier objects for him to force up onto the cart until he was finally nearing the end of the cove's stretch. It was here that he found a larger pile of debris from the ship, as well as part of what had been the ship's mizzen with some of the sail still attached. The fabric would be useful, though perhaps ruined by the saltwater, but useful for something, Achilles expected, and the rope definitely would be.
Reaching down, he gave a tug at the sail in order to then toss it out of the way only to cry out with a sharp cuss and a stagger, falling backwards onto his cane to recoil from the shock of what lay underneath the sail and tangled mess of ropes. A girl as small as a bird, nestled under the remains of the mizzen, lying upon the sand which dusted the one side of her face, soaked to the bone and a fearsome shade of blue. "Poor child, how unfortunate it is that you ended up like this." After recovering from his surprise, a flood of pity and sorrow for the child flooded Achilles as he approached the body once again, this time undeterred by her presence. His hand reached out and touched her head, lightly brushing away the black hair that had been clumped and matted from the salt drying upon it.
Achilles was just beginning to wonder where he should bury the pitiful thing when he noticed something moving in the sand. A finger. A single, tiny finger no longer than an inch, was twitching upon the child's hand. "I do not believe it…" Immediately Achilles sought out a pulse and for a few moments, he was left disappointed and beginning to wonder if he had but imagined the movement himself when faintly, just underneath the pads of his worn fingers, a minute pulse of life presented itself to him. It was so weak it felt as if it would go out at any moment, but if anything the pulse only grew stronger as Achilles remained there, as if it were calling out to him in desperation, fighting to live. In that moment Achilles forgot about the supplies and the remains of the ship that had floated ashore and focused instead upon the bird-like child that had somehow managed to survive the shipwreck and the ocean one after the other. His leg pained him as he forewent his cane in order to lift her up into his arms, struggling for a moment to gather his bearings before he managed to cradle her in the crook of his right arm, for her slight frame even whilst soaking wet was effortless to carry even for an old man such as he, allowing him to lean dependently upon his cane and move as swiftly as he was able back to his mare. Achilles unhooked the cart with swift fingers which had maintained their nimbleness even after all this time, and mounted up with the child still nestled in his arm. He flew back to the manor house in order to take the child inside and give what care he could offer her, doubting if she would live to see the evening twilight, but somehow she continued to cling to life.
Her breathing was scarce, so light and inaudible that it were as if she did not breathe at all. She was so still and unmoving that Achilles had soon made a habit of testing her pulse and placing his finger beneath her nose just to ensure that she was still alive and had not merely passed quietly without him realising. Having no time for modesty, he stripped her of the wet rags she wore and wrapped her in thick blankets in order to begin warming her, keeping his eyes closed all the while so that he could at least protect her dignity should she ever awaken and have cause to feel the humiliation of being undressed by a strange man in a place she did not know. He fed her broth by hand, kept a strong fire blazing at the hearth of his room which he had given over to his unexpected guest, and read aloud from his chair which he had pulled up alongside the bed in order to maintain a vigilant watch over the child. It was unknown whether or not the girl could hear him at all, but Achilles reasoned that perhaps the chance of her waking up might be better if she had something to cling onto, and so he continued this tender care towards this strange child that had washed upon his shore without warning or expectation. Perhaps in some small way, she made him think of his own lost son, and by taking care of her and fighting for her to live, he would regret less being unable to save his own son and wife that had been taken from him too soon. Just the fact that she was still alive was miracle enough, and it was all the encouragement Achilles needed to at least try to help her fight of death, even if it was just for a little while longer.
To pass the time he attempted to try and discern where the child might have come from. She was European, of that much he was certain, and clearly not form the colonies itself to be washed ashore alongside a shipwreck. She must have come on one of the ships bound for Boston, a frigate from Ireland, England or even France, perhaps. She could easily have been British, or perhaps from somewhere further afield. As he studied her features, Achilles decided to make a bet with himself. He would place his bet on an Irish settler, she had the look of the Irish about her with her darker than black hair, thin figure and features. At the very least, he hoped she spoke English, otherwise communicating with her should she ever awaken would prove…difficult, to say the least. Once again Achilles checked the child's pulse, which was light but steady, and ensured that she truly was breathing before carefully arranging her hair, which desperately needed some proper care and attention, before then rising to his feet so that he could seek out something for the girl to wear whilst he gave her a bath. She was warmer now, and with the broth now her belly, her core temperature should also have risen. It had taken some hours to fetch and heat the water himself, a task he had never minded to do before on account of his leg being what it was, but the child needed to be rid of the salt on her body before it rubbed her raw, so a bath she would have. It was strange to have company, especially the kind that could actually talk back if they were awake, but Achilles found that the day passed abnormally swiftly in comparison to the slow drudge of the hours before the child had fallen into his care. The diversion of his attention took up the entirety of his time, and he found that he welcomed this task and devoted himself to it fully, hoping that in the end, his endeavours would be rewarded with the child's astounding survival.
