Free Kit Black by Monica Danetiu-Pana Page A

many sheets and hung them out to dry; the ship must have looked more like a floating laundry. I took turns with Roger, placing the wet cloths over his back, now a mixture of turpentine and water. Wringing the cloths made our hands bleed, our muscles ache. It seemed a cool cloth would go on only to become hot and bloody a few seconds later.
    I didn’t see how he could live. Just the pain of the turpentine on his flesh was enough to kill him, I thought. At first, I had to straddle his hips just to get the cloths on him. He bucked and fought so much in his delirium, calling out things that must have had to do with the battle he’d fought with the English ship, calling after his men. He called out the name of his son a few times. And my name. After a time, he hadn’t the strength to move, to fight us. It was hell trying to get water into him. He would cough and sputter afterward. He looked at me once when we rolled him over to check his thigh and give him water, his jade green eyes glazed and unfocussed. His parched lips moved as if to tell me something, but I could not understand what he said. After that, he did not open his eyes or speak again. Nelson said he was too weak. He would die by morning.
    Yet, he did not die. He hung on to life all of the next day, too. Roger, Terry, and I kept up the endless task of keeping him cool. By nightfall, I could hardly see from exhaustion. My nostrils were full of the smell of blood and turpentine that permeated the small room. Even when I would go up on deck and swallow huge gulps of air into my lungs, the reek of illness and imminent death was there as if it had invaded my flesh as well.
    He continued to cough. It was agony for him to breathe and horrible to hear. I would count his breaths. I’d watch him take an agonizing breath that made his shoulders shudder and his chest suck in, then I would await the next. If it did not come, I would slap his cheek to get him started again. Soon, I began to pray that he would die so that he would not suffer like that any more.
    In the morning, Nelson was amazed that he had hung on another night despite the rattle in his lungs.
    â€œThe lad’s a fighter,” Roger smiled, his voice proud.
    The wounds on his back were oozing, but the blood seemed clear of infection. We began to apply alum to the wounds, to keep them clean and dry. Roger remarked that with the white powder all over him, he looked like something ready for the oven.
    That night I fell asleep on the floor beside his bed, my legs folded under me, my head on the mattress. I awoke at dawn to the strange sensation of fingers tangled in my hair, the sound of sea birds, and the men calling out on the decks. I could not hear the rumble of his congested lungs. I closed my eyes again. Don’t be dead, Armand. Don’t leave me. Not now.
    My hand inched over to touch his arm. The skin was cool and clammy. The muscles beneath his skin bunched and flexed beneath my fingers. I lifted my head. He was peering at me with one misty green eye. I smiled at him.
    â€œKita?” he said, or rather croaked like a frog.
    â€œYes. It’s me,” I pulled my hair out of the grasp of his fingers.
    â€œWhere am I?”
    I got up on my aching, trembling knees. “On my ship.”
    â€œ L’Esprit? ”
    â€œShe’s gone. We saved one of your men. Pierre.”
    He closed his eye. When he opened it again, a single tear escaped. “Don’t leave me,” he managed to say.
    â€œDon’t worry, Armand Etienne Dupuis, I will not leave you.” I placed my hand against his cheek. It was cooler. His beard prickled the palm of my hand. “Go back to sleep. I shall be right here.”
    ***
    His progress was slow, but steady after that day. By the time we were within days of Jean Laffite’s villa, he had improved to the point where he could take my arm and walk on the deck of the ship. Some of the color had come back into his face, but he was still