Page 14 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son (Brides of Chattan #3)

Chapter Thirteen

M aggie snapped to attention, straining her ears against the deafening silence. Had she heard a gunshot or dozed off and dreamt it? She tried to take one of Jory’s calming breaths, in through the nose and out through the mouth, but the air felt too close, and her lungs refused to expand.

Though her eyes had adjusted somewhat to the darkness, she could see nothing but walls—walls which seemed to be closing in. They’d soon crush her and she’d suffocate twice over. Where was Bash? How was Bash?

After he left, she had pictured him in her mind’s eye, leading Langley and the others stealing over the side of the Whale , then creeping through the ship searching for stolen treasure. Had they found it?

Her skin was crawling with the not knowing, and remaining locked away, deprived of every sense, for two more seconds was bound to drive her as mad as Captain MacLeod.

Custard scrambled off her lap as she struggled to her feet, legs numb with pins and needles.

“Mrow!” Custard grumped, but Maggie shushed the cat and listened .

How long had it been since Bash had left her down here? She wasn’t hungry, so it couldn’t have been a terribly long time. She tried hard to read the ship beneath her, and it felt… sedate. Not tossed about in a storm or the turbulent waters of war, but not moving either.

It was still, too still to be engaged in battle. Still was good. Still was fine. Probably. Promises be damned, she was going to see what was happening above.

But when she reached for the door, the wall before her felt smooth and solid. Swallowing her mounting panic, Maggie stamped her feet to stop the tingling and ran both hands along the wall, turning in a small circle. The only sound besides her ragged breath was Custard squalling when she accidentally stomped his tail.

Maggie bit back the urge to scream for help and pressed the wall a bit more firmly as she circled her tiny cupboard once more. At last, her fingers snagged on a vertical crack in the wood, and she was able to shove the door wide and stumble out into more darkness.

It would be impossible to get her bearings down here.

“Do you know the way out?” she whispered to Custard, but the feline had already fled, leaving her behind as punishment for his poor tail. “Right,” she whispered to herself. “This is fine. You’re a pirate, Magnus. Figure it out.”

Shoving her way forward, Maggie bumped into a stack of crates and barrel after barrel as she went, like the cattle who once got loose inside a London porcelain shop. Lucky the ship didn’t have much in the way of fragile cargo. Bruised knees and shins were nothing if it meant escaping this infernal darkness.

It felt as she imagined being buried alive might feel, and now it seemed she was wandering in circles. She’d be lost down here forever, and even if Bash came back, he wouldn’t find her. She laughed a little hysterically at the thought of his smug, annoyed face, turning in circles looking for her even as she faded into a specter, doomed to wander the sea for all eternity.

Just when she was ready to weep in despair, she heard muffled shouting, and dim rays of light began to infiltrate the hold. She finally reached a companionway as Dutch stumbled down backwards supporting someone’s shoulders while the barber-surgeon followed holding the legs.

Bash.

His face was ashy, beautiful eyes closed and hair matted down with blood. More blood was smeared across Dutch’s cheek and shirt—Bash’s blood. Everyone was sticky with it.

In that moment, Maggie’s heart stopped, and she wasn’t sure it would ever start beating again.

“To the infirmary,” the Butcher was saying. “Keep pressure on the wound.”

Dutch cursed, but Bash lay still and silent as stone.

Swallowing her tears and squinting against the daylight, Maggie fell into step behind them as though she belonged there. They picked up speed as they neared the infirmary, and Langley ran ahead to sweep a pile of odds and ends off the operating table and onto the floor so they could lay Bash out properly. None of them paid Maggie any mind.

“What happened?” the Butcher asked.

“Bastard was hiding all alone down there, innit? Came at us from the shadows,” Langley practically yelled, twisting up the front of his shirt in his nervous, fretful fists. “Cut Nav and pushed him over, then shot at the lot of us and ran off into the dark again, laughing like a fiend.”

The Butcher pushed Bash’s eyelids up with rough, meaty fingers, then scraped back his hair to see the bloody mess around one ear.

“Was he hit by the gun? Knocked out?”

“Couldn’t see,” Dutch said. “Walsh carried a blunderbuss in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Did he hit his head when he fell on you, Langley?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean?—”

“Quiet,” the Butcher snapped. “The ear’s not completely severed, but I’ll have to remove it and cauterize with powder. Hold him down, Dutch. If he’s anything but dead, this’ll wake him, mark me. Langley, fetch my powder bag.”

He meant to light gunpowder in Bash’s ear?

“No,” Maggie said, but no one heard her, as the men scrambled around, and though she forced herself to look, she couldn’t make out the extent of his wounds for all the blood.

The barber-surgeon rummaged through a pile of instruments and, finding his bistoury blade, inspected it, then spit on it and wiped it on his shirt before turning back to his patient.

How many times had Jory insisted that medical equipment be kept clean or that some learned men in Edinburgh tended to cut first and ask questions later?

He’s a frustrated barber who likes to hack off limbs , Bash had said in disgust. Maggie had to stop him.

“No,” she said again. When still nobody listened, she grunted, “Men!” to herself and, taking a deep breath, she stepped in between the Butcher and Bash. “Leave it,” she demanded as though she had any right.

The Butcher gave her a patronizing eye roll. “He loses the ear or he loses his life,” he said. “If he doesn’t bleed to death first, the tissue will become necrotic and kill him anyway. Slowly. That what you want, cabin boy?”

His words sounded educated and terrifying, but in her gut, Maggie knew they were wrong. She couldn’t have explained how she knew, only the idea of lacing Bash’s beautiful face with gunpowder and setting it alight sent a deep chill of dread to her very core. There had to be another way.

She racked her memory for anything Jory might have taught her. Vinegar and clay plasters and willow bark. Leeches. Jory had once shown Maggie the amazing healing properties of leeches, and, as though her cousin were with her now, every fiber of her being was telling her that leeches could help save Bash’s ear as she’d seen them do with the Mackintosh of Borlum’s necrotic toe.

“Have you any leeches, sir?” she asked the Butcher, but he ignored her, shoving her away and tilting Bash’s head into position.

Maggie glanced to Dutch for help but found him completely inscrutable. Desperate, she turned to Langley next, but he stared through her, yanking fistfuls of his own hair.

“Stop,” she said with all the authority she could summon, sliding her hand over Bash’s ear, cupping it protectively, her palm brushing his cheek. Had his eyes fluttered just then? Would he thank her for this or be angry at her interference? Would he get the chance for either?

“Do you wish to lose a finger, child?” the Butcher growled.

“I wish to know if you have any leeches.”

“Leeches,” Langley said at her elbow, offering a large stoneware jug full of the slimy creatures.

Maggie practically laughed with relief.

“Leeches will not—” the Butcher began.

“They’ll keep the ear alive until it can heal itself,” she said, channeling every ounce of Jory in every drop of their shared blood.

The barber-surgeon shifted uncomfortably. “ If such a thing were possible, it would take weeks.”

“Is it possible or isn’t it?” Dutch demanded, his eyes flicking to Maggie.

The Butcher’s face flashed like angry lightning. “You would question my expertise over the experimentation of a cabin boy?”

“Is. It. Possible?” Dutch repeated.

“Theoretically. But if it doesn’t work, he could lose more than the ear. Do you know how to read those star charts of his well enough to find your way back to Jamaica for MacLeod?”

“How long before the ear must be removed?” Dutch asked .

“Twenty-four hours. Maybe less. It’s already beginning to lose color.”

“Then we have time. Give the leeches one night.”

Tears sprang to Maggie’s eyes as she reached for the jug Langley offered.

The Butcher raised his hands in surrender, stepping back as if to say he’d have no part in this witchcraft. And let it be witchcraft, then. Maggie could use all the luck and magic in the world to see this right.

Tenderly, she brushed the soft brown curls away from Bash’s right ear, careful not to let any of the dry, sticky blood pull against his wound.

There was just so much of it, and more purple ooze filling the area all the time, seeping down his neck to soak his collar. The Butcher was surely right about the need to staunch the bleeding.

She took a steadying breath. “Is there any clean linen?” she asked, suddenly nervous about simply dropping a leech down his ear canal.

“Bandages,” Dutch said, fetching a roll. “How much do you need?”

“No more than an inch,” she guessed, and Dutch sliced off a bit with his knife.

Hoping the knife was cleaner than the Butcher’s blade, Maggie wadded it up and tamped it gently into the canal, careful not to disturb the ragged cartilage. Then she selected a leech from Langley’s jar, trying not to grimace, and placed the little worm in the curve of Bash’s ear.

Instantly the creature began to feed, but Maggie realized she’d have to keep the ear in place somehow while it healed.

“Will you stitch it up?” Langley asked, as though reading her mind.

“Suppose I should?” she asked, but both men simply stared at her, waiting for her to decide. “Suppose I should,” she repeated emphatically, and Langley rummaged in the cabinet until he found a needle and thread.

As she’d observed Jory do on more than one occasion, Maggie held the needle tip in the flame of a candle lantern for a moment. Then she leaned forward and ever so gently pinched the skin behind the ear and stuck the needle through. Bash didn’t so much as twitch, so she carefully pierced the soft, fleshy part of the upper helix and then brought the needle back down to where she started, making one quick knot. Just one tiny loop to hold the ear where it ought to be.

She released a shaky breath, and Dutch clapped her on the shoulder, nodding in approval when she dared look his way.

“Is it me eyes, or does it look less purple and puffed up already?” Langley asked.

Maggie couldn’t be certain it wasn’t wishful thinking, but Bash’s ear did look a little more normal than before.

“How long will it drink?” young Langley asked, leaning over to inspect the leech, his nose wrinkled in disgusted delight.

“Until it’s full,” she replied, desperately wishing Jory were there to guide her, but Langley nodded, apparently happy with the answer.

And though she’d probably go to hell, she prayed to Jory to be right. After all, if the Virgin Mary or even Jesus Himself had any experience with leeches, the men who wrote the Bible forgot to mention it.

“Now what?” Langley asked.

“I’ll stay with him,” Maggie said, as if anyone could have made her leave without carrying her bodily from the sickbay. “Before long that one’ll drop off and he’ll need another.” Then she pulled up a stool to sit a vigil at Bash’s side.

She didn’t notice when Dutch left. Only when Langley sneezed did she realize time had passed, because the candle had burned down so low. She glanced around, confused .

“Butcher says if he wakes up, he can smoke some hashish for the pain.”

“The Butcher?” she asked, scanning Bash in alarm. “Did he come back?”

“Couple hours ago,” Langley replied. “I didn’t like to wake you, and he seemed to prefer it that way.”

Maggie bit her lip. She’d fallen asleep when Bash needed her most. He never would’ve done such a thing if their positions were reversed.

“He didn’t try to cut him or anything. Honest. He looked sort of impressed with your stitching and the color of Nav’s ear.”

“If he returns—if anyone at all comes—will you promise to wake me no matter how tired I look?”

“On me mother’s grave,” he agreed solemnly, and Maggie’s heart broke just a little. Were all pirates deep down just a pack of lost, motherless boys trying to find their way home?

“D’you think them things’ll really work?” Langley asked her.

“Yes,” she said confidently, instead of the desperate I hope so she felt inside.

The leech in question, however, had swollen to about three times its original size and rolled itself onto Bash’s cheek. His ear was already beginning to swell with blood once more.

“That one’s done, I think,” she said, picking it up and dropping it into an empty jar before selecting a new one to continue draining away the awful mess.

“Always gave me the willies, leeches,” Langley said with a shiver. “But if they save Nav’s ear, I reckon they’re all right in my book. Even if it is a bit of witchy stuff.”

“It’s not sorcery, it’s science,” she said.

“You sound like him. How d’you know so much about doctoring anyway?” he asked, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“My cousin’s a physician and the smartest person I know.”

“Why not follow his footsteps, then? Be a prentice ’stead of running away to sea? ”

Maggie had never once in her life thought about trying to emulate Jory or imagined she’d be any good at it if she tried. After all, she hadn’t even been able to properly care for Jeremiah when he was well. Complaining about the leaky roof made him climb up on the fool thing in a lightning storm. And come to think of it, Bash wouldn’t need her help now if she hadn’t announced to God and everybody that she’d seen the damned ship, igniting the fervor of both captain and crew.

She’d opened her big mouth like always, and now she had to make it right.

“I don’t have the temperament for it,” she told Langley honestly. “And I wanted an adventure. To prove myself away from home.”

Langley shook his head. “Reckon you got more than you bargained for, then.”

And wasn’t that the truth?

“Did you at least find what you were after over there?” she asked, hardly daring to hope.

“Christ, no,” he almost laughed. “It were naught but pigeons and one crazy old man. The ship weren’t even in good enough shape for Dutch to claim it. Shame, too,” he said dreamily. “He’d make a good skipper, him. You saw how even the Butcher listened to him. There’s not many alive’d dare cross our Dutch.”

“How long have you sailed with them?” Maggie asked.

“Five years, since I were your age. I worked on a merchant ship they took, and they gived me the choice of stay and drown or join the crew. Easy choice.” He grinned.

Easy choice indeed.

“Ain’t been all bad. Nav’s been good to me. Food’s better, too, and the rum’s endless.” He shrugged. “Used to be endless.”

Maggie smiled.

“Speaking of, I’m a bit dry. D’you want some ale?” he asked, before disappearing to the galley for two tankards .

Maggie looked down at Bash and squeezed his hand. When he awoke, he’d be glad she was drinking at least.

And he would wake, because Maggie refused to live in a world in which he didn’t. Ridiculous though it may sound, he was the best friend she’d ever had, and even if it meant becoming a real pirate and spending the rest of her days in disguise, she wanted to do whatever it would take to be near him, to continue to know him.

Maybe she had always been destined to become a pirate, seeing as how she had no real skills to recommend her as a lady. She knew, theoretically, how to do a great many things, but she always managed to bungle the execution. And though he was a rough-and-tumble sailor—with a dark past and no real prospects for the future—somehow they fit, like two halves of a coin, like a sail and the wind, as though together they were enough to take on the whole world.

It would be madness to allow a friendship like that to sail away and become nothing more than a watermark upon her history.

So yes. He would get better, even if she had to drag the whole ship to Jory back in Edinburgh, rowing the oars herself the whole way home.

Bash was floating on a cloud of pain, disconnected from space and time, trying his hardest to sever awareness from his physical self as Dutch had once taught him to do. But each time his eyes fluttered open, nothing quite made sense—not where he was, not why the world sounded muffled and underwater, not the fire burning his head and down his spine.

The only right thing was the hand holding his, and the other hand occasionally mopping his sweaty brow and pressing an ale-soaked rag to his lips. And eyes like the watery sea.