Free Fire on Dark Water by Wendy Perriman Page A

knees in a ball and lay there rocking and smarting. It was ages and ages and ages before help came. I watched the orange clouds part to let the sun rise, and my spirit melted into the planks every time some sleepy sailor stumbled by to use the head. Then Dr. Simpson appeared, tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of turnips, and carried me back to the only other cabin on board. Bristol was lying naked on his bed, the blanket screwed in a tight knot between his legs and chin. He was staring dumbly at the wall. He never stirred, even when I was dropped on the other bunk beside him, but I couldn’t block his whimpers from my ears—not that night nor any of the others. Poor, poor boy. I knew exactly what he was feeling.
    And there I stayed for the rest of the voyage, healing. First I had to be stitched up—you know, down there —and washed with warm salty water several times a day. After the catgut was removed I was allowed to move, but only round the cabin. Then I was stuffed with plugs of alum to make my insides shrink—and finally I was allowed to sit in the chair and sew. Bristol became Simpson’s shadow (under pretext of learning the surgeon’s role) and I didn’t get a chance to thank him properly because we weren’t never left alone now. Each day the air seemed thicker and warmer and I was grateful not to be bundled below with the others. I could only imagine the smell in the sweltering holds. The tears. The fear. The tensions. Then one day the lookout spotted some beautiful islands that tiptoed like stepping stones into the horizon and I perched myself at the tiny window to imagine and absorb their enchantment. Somewhere, out on this vast empty plane, the waters had turned from gray to dusky blue under a puffy white-cloud sky. And way, way out on the port side glimmered a mound of land trimmed with wavering green fronds. I was hoping this was our final destination—until the doctor told me it was called the Isle of Devils and the sailors didn’t dare land there. So I sighed as we sailed on by and watched in dismay as the quivering paradise faded to a tiny brown dot.
    But not long after came a bout of the bloody flux that showed no regard for rank or situation—crew and prisoners were equally infected (probably from tainted water we’d taken on board). Fortunately, me and Bristol were spared the runs but the putrid smell coming from the holds was enough to make you instantly gag and the groans that drifted from deck to deck were pitifully harrowing. The surgeon—give him his due—worked day and night snatching a few blinks of sleep when the need overwhelmed him. I was kept busy mixing blackberry syrup for the prisoners, and measuring the much more expensive Doctor Robert James’s Famous Fever Powder for the sailors. When the syrup failed we tried bark tea, then rhubarb elixir and tartar. Bristol assisted with the bloodletting and any able seaman still healthy enough was kept busy cleaning up slop. But several folks succumbed to dehydration and passed away in a delirious fever—their bodies were quietly disposed of under cover of dark. And the only spark keeping things active during that long desolate drag was the knowledge that we were almost there .
    When it was clear we would make landfall within the week the surgeon’s cabin turned into a barbershop and all day long I helped Simpson and his assistant steward get the valuable cargo ready for sale. The ship’s rats had bred a fresh batch of fleas so the first thing to be done was a thorough cleaning of the holds, followed by a good dousing with brimstone and vinegar for everyone on board. Then the prisoners came to visit us one at a time. Bristol and me washed and untangled their hair while Simpson checked for obvious signs of illness. Sores were disguised using a lunar caustic or powder. Gray hairs were dyed. The dried-out skin on the arms and legs was softened with palm oil. Nails were clipped and scrubbed, while teeth were brightened using sticks of