As always, much love to my reviewers and readers. Knowing that you guys are eager to read new chapters makes me feel guilty when I'm being lazy. So, no long waits for this one.
Chapter Nine
October 2, 1934
The first sense that returned to her was smell, and it disoriented her. She smelled hay and excrement and the anxious odor of caged animals. Any moment, she expected to hear Libby's raspy southern voice yelling at Togo to cut the crap and jump through the goddamn hoop or she'd give him something to growl about.
But Laura wasn't in the Schultz & Yarrow menagerie, and that fact hit her full force when she turned her head to the side and felt a weight slam across her forehead in the form of a chloroform hangover. Her shoulder ached, but she considered herself lucky that her attacker hadn't managed to dislocate it. Now that she had a chance to think about it, she was sure that man had been Beaufort.
She tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea kept her from getting too far. Gulping, she realized she was going to vomit, and she leaned over to the side. A pair of arms reached under her armpits and remembering Beaufort, Laura struggled weakly against them. But they supported her rather than trapped her, and she relaxed as they turned her so her stomach could purge itself without making a mess in her lap. Her forehead pressed against cold metal bars; the arms tried to position her so that most of the sick fell on the other side of the cage.
When she was done, she groaned and leaned back against the arms, which she now recognized as John's. Her stomach settled, but the nausea remained, and her head pounded. Each beat of her heart sounded like thunder in her ears.
"Easy," John said. "It's the chloroform does that."
"Where are we?" Her voice sounded fuzzy and hoarse.
"Locked up tight in the hold. I always wondered what it was like on the other side of the bars, but I really wasn't this interested."
She grimaced, partly because of him and partly because of the pain in her arm. "What happened?"
"I guess you could say that Beaufort and Kendrie won. Keep still; let it pass. We came out alright, at least."
She made herself still and quiet, and she lost track of how long they sat like that, mostly because the pounding in her head distracted her from thinking too hard.
The light overhead was dim, which she took to mean that day had passed into night during her induced sleep. When she felt strong enough, she lifted her wrist and stared at her watch; she had to focus to keep the numbers from swimming around on the dial. It read half past seven, meaning that she had slept deeply for almost six hours. She couldn't remember the last time she'd slept that long without some sort of disturbance.
As the chloroform stupor faded, she became more aware of their surroundings, and her eyes adjusted in the muted light. From where she sat, she could see the cell across from them, which contained three sailors: the shantyman Starke, a man called Fisher, and a Swede whose name Laura didn't know. None of them looked injured, but neither did they look particularly pleased about their situation. To their right, on the stairs leading to the deck, sat a guard playing a game of solitaire and mostly ignoring the prisoners.
Laura sat up and looked past John to gauge the full size of their cage: almost four meters long and about three meters wide, making it one of the larger cages in the hold, probably made for containing the bigger mammals. In the middle of the cell stood a short stack of crates, and Captain Englehorn sat on one of them, his back to John and Laura. Across his left shoulder was a gash in his shirt, and dried blood caked the fabric.
"We didn't all come out alright," she said, pushing away from John.
Englehorn said, "The bleeding's stopped. I'll survive."
Sure, Laura thought, until you get tetanus. Her fingers itched to take care of it – an open wound in these surroundings was an invitation to infection of some kind. For now, though, she'd let him brood.
Turning to the other cage, she asked, "Are you men over there okay? Any injuries?"
"Only to our egos, love," replied Starke. "Fisher's got a right pretty shiner, but that's only because Hardy don't like it when anyone's got a nicer face than him." Fisher glared at him sullenly, which only prompted the Cockney man to chuckle.
"Starke," Englehorn said sharply.
The sailor immediately lost his mirth. "Sorry, skipper."
"Just so long as you're all in one piece," said Laura. She sat up on her knees and grabbed John by the shoulders, pushing him so that he faced away from her. "Let me take a look at your head."
He ran his fingers through his hair. "I'm okay. Look after Englehorn, will you?"
"He can wait a few more minutes. I want to make sure your damage is only superficial."
"Laura –"
"Don't argue," she replied and pulled his hand away from his head. "How's the pain?"
He shrugged. "Not so bad now."
She located the bump easily and felt around it to test for softness. He winced but didn't jerk away from her. "Any dizziness? Vomiting?"
"No."
"What's your birthdate?"
"What's that got to do with anything?"
"Just answer the question, John."
"December 23, 1898."
"How about Alice's?"
He paused. "April, 1914. I've never been sure of the day."
Satisfied that she couldn't feel any liquid under the skin around the bump, she turned him around again to examine his pupils. Finding nothing out of the ordinary, she hoped the damage wasn't any worse than it appeared to be. Just to tease him, she said, "Recite Hamlet's soliloquy from Act II, scene ii."
"Stop it," he said, pushing her hands away from him. "Now you're just showing off." Not one to ignore a challenge, though, he added, "'Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave I am,' indeed."
She leaned back from him and shook her head. "That's gratitude. Well, I don't think you've any blood on the brain. There's no way to tell for sure, unless you start acting funny."
"How will you know the difference?" Starke called.
Managing a small smile, Laura held one hand out to John and gathered a handful of skirt in the other. "Help me up, will you?"
He held on to her hand, supplying support as she got to her feet. She wobbled a bit before finding her equilibrium then brushed herself off.
Moving toward Englehorn, she said, "Your turn, Captain. Let me help you with your shirt."
He glanced back at her over his uninjured shoulder, a swift move that made him grimace. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"That's going to get infected if it isn't dressed."
"I'll take care of it."
"It'll be easier if you just let me do it."
"Best to do as she says, skipper," said John as he leaned back against the bars. "Live to fight another day and all that."
Englishman scowled at the Englishman then glanced at Laura's hands. He said, "If you insist."
"I do," Laura replied, and he began to unbutton his shirt.
He winced as he slid his right arm out of the shirt, and she helped him with the left side, slipping it off his arm as he held still. The undershirt was stiff with all the blood it had soaked up, and it took a bit of effort for them to manipulate it over his head. As the undershirt came off, a chain fell down around his neck, pulled by something heavy on the end of it. Laura didn't get a chance to identify it; Englehorn grabbed it, removed it, and stuffed it into a pocket, all the while avoiding eye contact with her. She pretended she hadn't even noticed.
The wound had not fully clotted, and the movements of his arm started the bleeding again. It gaped at her, an eight-inch cut running diagonal along his shoulder blade. It wept blood as she inspected it; fortunately, it was not too deep and had not hit any arteries or main veins. He'd heal well enough and without much permanent damage. Starke's warning had likely saved his life.
She set out the shirt across another crate to let it air; the undershirt she gripped by the bloody hole and ripped it down the center. The back was rather useless, but the front would do for cleaning the injury. What she would do for a bandage she hadn't quite decided on yet.
John seemed to understand what she was thinking. "We sent Miss Elmund up for water and the emergency kit," John said. "She was down here apologizing and wanted to be of help."
"Then I can clean the wound properly," Laura said. She looked at Englehorn's back, crusted with blood that had run down from the wound. "And I can wash away all this blood."
"I don't need you to bathe me, Miss Ashfield," Englehorn said.
"And leave you with a bloody back? I should think not. Damned unsanitary. I'm offended you even suggested such a thing."
"I can –"
"I'm sure you can. But I won't let you, and that's that."
She had just finished tearing the undershirt into strips when she heard footsteps on the stairs. Bridget descended into the hold, cradling a stack of grayish rags in one arm and carrying a jug of water in her other hand. With her load, she stumbled a bit, but the sailor on guard offered her no assistance. Taking care to avoid contact with him, she made it down without dropping anything.
"Oh, Miss Ashfield," she said as she approached the cage, "I'm so pleased to see that you're well. I –" She stopped in both speech and action as she noticed the captain. The girl's face turned bright red, and she averted her eyes, looking everywhere but at Englehorn. Laura doubted she'd ever seen a man's bare chest before; she could only imagine what the reaction would be if she saw his bloody back.
Laura excused her for it, given her age and upbringing. The fact of the matter for Laura was that nothing about the human body could embarrass or discomfort her, not after all that she had seen and done. Even well bred British girls had to get over that kind of thing when they worked in a field hospital.
Laying aside the strips she'd made, Laura moved to the bars and said, "Come over here and give me what I need."
Bridget obeyed, staring at the floor the entire time.
"Where's the emergency kit?" Laura asked.
"Mr. Kendrie wouldn't let me have it. Vijay gave me the rags, so long as I promised not to tell on him."
"They'll do," Laura said as she took them from the girl. From the feel of the fabric, she guessed they had once been used as sheets; some of them were cut into long strips, and they'd serve as fine wraps for Englehorn's shoulder. She suddenly had much more respect for the cook.
Bridget leaned closer to the bars and said, "I don't like him."
"Who, Vijay? Why not?"
"No, I mean Mr. Kendrie. He says everyone should call him Captain now."
Laura only frowned and asked, "What about an antiseptic?"
Bridget pulled a little glass bottle from her pocket, and Laura recognized it as the carbolic acid she kept in her hunting pack. "Robert told me where to find it."
"He actually did something right for once," said Laura as she took the bottle.
"I brought this too," said Bridget, holding out a roll of adhesive tape, also taken from Laura's pack. "I thought it might help with the bandages."
"Excellent work," Laura replied, and the girl flushed at the praise. "Give the men over there a drink and then bring the water back to me."
Again, Bridget obeyed, and she looked relieved to turn away from Englehorn. She pulled a tin cup from the jug and filled it before handing it to Starke.
"Vijay said he'd make some porridge for you," she said as Starke drank, "after he feeds the rest of the crew."
"He's not a bad sort, that Hindoo," Starke said as he passed the cup back to her.
Laura, carrying the bundle of rags over to Englehorn, agreed. She was pleased with what the cook had sent down; there would be enough not only for one but several dressings. She'd have to leave the bandages on longer than she liked, but it was a concession she was willing to make.
She set aside the rags she would use later, selecting one of the longer strips to use for the first bandage. One of the smaller one she chose to use to clean the wound, and another two she would used to wash and dry Englehorn's back. She wondered if it was too much to hope that Beaufort and Kendrie would allow him a clean shirt.
Bridget returned with the water jug, and Laura insisted that the two men have a cup of water before she drank. She hadn't realized how thirsty she was until the water slid down her throat, flushing away the cottony feeling that had developed in her mouth.
The jug would not fit through the bars, so Laura had Bridget pour another cupful for her. Taking it over to Englehorn, she used it to clean the wound, a perfunctory washing to flush out any dirt and the excess blood. When the cut was pink and clean and no longer seeping liquid, she emptied the cup through the bars at the far end of the cage and returned to Bridget for another fill-up.
To this cup, she added a few drops of the carbolic acid, just enough to make it a viable antiseptic solution. Bridget watched her attentively, and to her credit, she asked no questions.
Taking up her fresh cleaning rag, Laura used her finger to make a dent in the fabric and wound the rest of the rag around her hand to keep it tight. Dipping her finger into the solution, she gave it a stir to mix in the acid. When she removed her finger, she wiped off the excess liquid so that it wouldn't drip.
"Well," she said, placing her left hand above the cut on Englehorn's shoulder.
He drew in a deep breath, his muscles contracting and bunching under her fingers. Then he let out the air slowly, the tension releasing, and his arms went slack as his shoulders slumped. His breathing fell into an easy, relaxed rhythm, which Laura took to mean he was ready for her to begin.
She knew how painful it would be; she'd undergone the procedure herself several times. It didn't do much for preventing scars, but she doubted Englehorn had the vanity to care about something so trivial. He already had a number of scars, mostly on his arms, and one running horizontal along his right side looked like it came from a gunshot wound. One more wouldn't make much of a difference.
It was a long process, and she drew it out to make sure the wound was as clean as she could get it. The last thing she wanted to do was treat an infection, particularly when she had nothing with which to properly treat it. She'd seen men die of smaller wounds and in more sanitary conditions.
That's how frail human life is, she thought, unwrapping the rag from her hand when she was satisfied with the job she'd done. One little organism is all it takes.
"I'll bandage it now," she said.
He grunted his assent.
"It's not too deep, but it'll leave a scar."
Again, he merely grunted.
She wrapped the long strip of rag into a neat rectangle and placed it over the wound, pushing down on it to make sure it put on enough pressure to help with the clotting. Englehorn made no noise, but the muscles in his jaw tightened as she pressed.
John tore off the strips of adhesive for her and taped the make-shift bandage to Englehorn's back. The brownish tape wasn't particularly strong and would have to be replaced before the rag, but it would hold long enough to let the healing begin.
With a fresh cup of water, she cleaned Englehorn's back, scrubbing some to get rid of the caked-on blood. After drying him off, she stepped back, gave a curt nod, and said, "And that will have to do."
"It's not bad work," he said, rubbing the bandage with his right hand. She pushed it away, giving him a reproving look.
"It should be good work," she replied. She picked up his shirt and offered it to him. "I served as a nurse in the War."
"I know. You have the hands of a War nurse." He slipped on the shirt, adding, "You must have been very young."
"I was. But I was still old enough to watch people die."
He lowered his head, pretending to concentrate on doing his buttons up right. "So was I."
So were they all. She looked at John, but she thought of two young men who had also been old enough to die for their countries.
She took the cup back to Bridget, who stared at her with renewed wonder.
"Were you really a War nurse?" she asked in a hushed voice.
"For two years," Laura replied. Now that she was done with Englehorn, fatigue had settled into her, and she sat down, pulling her knees up to her chest and resting her head on them.
"Does that mean I can call you Sister Laura?" Bridget teased.
Laura told herself that Bridget did not understand their situation and therefore did not understand that her humor, innocent as it was, went unappreciated. In a toneless voice, she said, "I was a volunteer, not a Sister. Do they say what they're going to do with us, Bridget? Have you heard anything?"
"We're still stopping in Hong Kong as planned," Bridget said, "and then we're going to turn back west. Robert and Mr. Denham are going to have Uncle Henry put you off at port, so at least you won't have to stay down here much longer."
"He's agreed to do that?" Laura asked doubtfully.
Bridget hesitated, answer enough for Laura. "Mr. Denham said they'd convince him it's the best course of action. I'm sure Uncle Henry will agree."
Not for the first time since meeting the girl, Laura fought with the urge to grab her and shake her, to knock some sense into her. She had the feeling that would not be enough to fully open Bridget's eyes. Something deep down in her – perhaps a long forgotten trace of maternal tenderness – did not want to see Bridget's innocence smashed, and it kept her from lashing out at the poor girl in frustration.
"Go back up to the deck," Laura said in a quiet voice.
"Oh, please don't be upset, Miss Ashfield," said Bridget, clinging to the bars. "Uncle Henry's sorry for what he did, he really is. He just didn't know what else to do. He'll make up for it, I know he will. And he wouldn't have thrown you over, not really."
John groaned. "You had to mention that didn't you?"
Laura lifted her head, narrowing her eyes. "Mention what?"
"I –," Bridget said, but she couldn't find the words she wanted. She looked at the two men helplessly.
Softly, Englehorn said, "It's time you left, Miss Elmund. You've done enough for us tonight."
Bridget gave them a last forlorn look before turning and running up the stairs to the deck.
Facing John, Laura said, "What did she mean?"
Before John could make up something, Englehorn said, "Tell her, Ashfield. No sense in keeping it from her."
"Keeping what from me?" Laura demanded.
"When Beaufort knocked you out," John said, all the while looking at Laura's feet and no where else, "he threatened to throw you overboard if we didn't surrender the boat to him."
Laura absorbed this information before saying, "You shouldn't have given in to him."
John's head shot up. "And what would you have me tell Mum? That I allowed Beaufort to chuck you over just so her two useless sons could come home to her? You honestly think I could live with myself if I let something like that happen to you?"
"It was a bluff," she said, though she didn't sound like she believed it. "He manipulated you to get what he wanted."
"It wasn't his decision to make, Miss Ashfield," said Englehorn. "It's my ship, after all. It may be all I have, but it's not worth the loss of human life, even if it was only a bluff."
"One life, Captain. How many more lives will be lost when Beaufort makes landfall on that Island? You, more than anyone, are in the best position to make that estimate."
"At least we'll be able to get there. If he hadn't had you to bargain with, he might have let Kendrie kill us all. We were outnumbered anyway; even without Beaufort's threat, we would have lost the ship. Maybe you saved our lives."
Laura frowned and rested her forehead against her knees. "But for how long?"
"I'd have thought you'd know that even one day of life is a blessing to a man who knows that death can come at any moment." With a wry smile, he added, "Perhaps Miss Elmund is right and Beaufort will deign to show mercy on us a second time."
No one said anything more after that, not even when Bridget and Danny came down with bowls of lukewarm porridge for them. Later, while resting her head on John's shoulder as she drifted into sleep, Laura thought of her father, and when she fell asleep, she dreamed of her childhood – of jungles and wild animals, of her parents young and smiling, of John with his dreaming eyes and carefree laugh, of a lightness in her head and chest that she could only describe as happiness.
In the morning, it had faded, so that its images were little more than distant memories. It was the sweetest dream she'd had since 1916, and yet it hurt more than any other.
I'm beginning to wonder if it's written law that Englehorn has to appear shirtless at least once in a fic where he's playing a main part. I resisted, but my will was just not strong enough.