Free Kit Black by Monica Danetiu-Pana

happen in the days to come later.
    For now, I needed all the strength I could muster. Looking at him injured and helpless like that was making my stomach heave.
    â€œHe’s near death, Kit.”
    â€œGet him to the ship.”
    â€œWhat’s to be done about that one?” Terry asked, pointing to Wardman.
    â€œWe’ll take him with us. Do we have a whip?”
    â€œNo. You said that’s barbaric, Kit.”
    â€œI’ve changed my mind. Let’s borrow his, shall we? Get it,” I nodded at another of my crew.
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    I looked over at Wardman. He was pissing himself. The coward.
    ***
    My men threw the body of the man I had killed overboard on the same night I waited for the man I loved to die.
    Nelson, the ship surgeon, a man I did not completely trust due to his penchant for rum and the bleeding cup, did little to assuage my fears. He was waiting for me outside my cabin where I’d had Armand taken.
    â€œHe’s been in this condition for a few days, Captain.” He recited off the list of Armand’s injuries: the damage to his back from the whip, a musket ball crease to his temple, a dislocated shoulder and a cut to his thigh, which had appeared bad at first because of the amount of blood that had soaked his breeches, but now seemed to be not so deep as feared. The threat of infection was there, but Nelson was most worried about Armand’s lungs. “He doesn’t sound good. I’m pretty certain he’ll not see the night through.”
    I closed my eyes and breathed deep. My vision seemed to blacken around the edges.
    â€œI think we should bleed him.”
    â€œYou bleed him, and I’ll have you thrown over board.”
    â€œI’m the doctor here.”
    â€œYou tell me what to do to treat his wounds and Roger and I will do it.”
    I had not seen Armand close up yet. Roger was still there, hovering over him. He lay face down in my bed, a sheet pulled up over his hips. I looked at his back, that beautiful back crossed now by cuts and bruised flesh, some of them black and puckered. I remembered the feel of his smooth, tanned flesh beneath my hands. I remembered how my fingers had splayed along the curve of his spine, the ridges of muscles that covered his ribs.
    â€œMy God, Roger,” I breathed.
    â€œI’ve seen things like this before, Kit. He’s a strong lad. He barely cried out when we set his shoulder.”
    I sat down beside him, leaning in to look at his face, gaunt and so pale beneath a heavy shadow of beard. A gasp of wonder caught in my throat as I saw the medallion he wore around his neck on a simple leather thong. My father’s grinning moon.
    â€œHe wouldn’t let us cut it off. Said he’d kill us. We thought it best for his peace of mind to leave it be. I recognize it, lass.”
    â€œYes.” Tears blurred my vision. “You can leave us now, Roger. I’ll stay with him.” I touched a strand of russet hair at the back of his neck. He’d cut it much shorter. The ends were matted with blood and sweat.
    â€œNelson says to keep putting the vinegar cloths over his back. He fights a bit when they go on. It burns something fierce.”
    â€œYou’ve had this done to you, Roger?”
    â€œAye, in the Navy, lass.”
    I took his hand which lay beside his head on the pillow. His fingers curled around mine, an involuntary gesture, I’m certain. “Set a course for Nice. We’ll take him to Jean’s villa.”
    His hand was gripping mine with extraordinary strength. I leaned in and kissed his fingers. It was hot and dry against my lips, the tiny creases of skin stained with his blood and dirt. “You’ll live, my love. I swear it.”
    I spent the night changing the bandages on his back, and listening to the rumble and rasp of his breathing become inexorably worse. The sheets clung to the sweaty contours of his buttocks and legs. Roger washed so