Free Run Afoul by Joan Druett Page A

what?”
    â€œWhy are you looking after me and Festin?”
    Forsythe looked astounded. “Because you’re my men,” he stated as if it were obvious. “My crew!”
    Wiki blinked. “What crew?”
    â€œOf the bloody cutter, of course.”
    It was then that Wiki learned, to his complete stupefaction, that the horrible five-day passage in the cutter from Shark Island to the fleet had been positively enjoyed by Lieutenant Forsythe—that it had been a challenge he had relished. While for Wiki it had been an uncomfortable ordeal, for the southerner it had not just been a chance to demonstrate his remarkable seamanship and gifted navigation skills, but a triumph of camaraderie, as well.
    Festin, Forsythe readily allowed, had been nothing but a confounded encumbrance, while Wiki was one of the best bloody helmsmen he had ever known. However, their various skills and talents made no difference, because now he felt a fierce loyalty to all the men who had shared the experience.
    â€œWell, I never,” marveled Wiki.
    â€œAs I said, there is only so much I can do for you, though,” Forsythe warned. “You and Festin can live in here with me—in the meantime. But you better hope like the devil that Grimes don’t drop dead, because if he does all bloody hell is going to break loose, and I’ll have to stand by and watch Festin swing, and see you sent back to the States in irons.”
    Which, in the light of the instrumentmaker’s mad accusations, was probably very true, Wiki grimly thought.

Seven
    â€œDid you find another berth?” Dr. Olliver inquired.
    â€œOn the gun deck,” Wiki replied. He had the comfortable sense of telling nothing but the truth, because Forsythe’s cabin was indeed on the gun deck, a few doors forward of the officers’ wardroom. However, when he asked about Assistant Astronomer Grimes, the answer was not encouraging.
    â€œHis lungs are clogged with pus and full of fluid,” Dr. Olliver pronounced, and drank wine as if he needed it. “Listen to his breathing,” he said—and Wiki could indeed hear the harsh, stertorous rasping from where he sat at the table.
    To make matters even worse, the meal was horrible. The beef was burned and the potatoes almost raw, which was a worrying indication of Robert Festin’s state of mind, and maybe even the battered state of his brain. However, a night spent sleeping soundly on Lieutenant Forsythe’s sofa improved the Acadian’s outlook considerably, with the result that the following day the provender was vastly improved.
    Not so the state of Grimes’s health, which continued to get worse. At dinnertime on the third day, as Dr. Olliver consumed forkfuls of pâté à la râpure, washing down ambrosial mouthfuls of chicken and grated potato with a great deal of gulped wine, he confessed that matters looked very bad, indeed.
    â€œIf it wasn’t for the nourishing soup that Festin sends up from the galley,” he grimly ruminated, “I fear he’d be dead by now.”
    Wiki frowned, thinking that this boded even more badly for Festin if Grimes did indeed die, and said cautiously, “Does Grimes know that it’s Festin who cooks the soup?”
    The surgeon laughed. “He still vows he was poisoned by either the fish or that pudding, and I wouldn’t get a single drop of the stuff down his throat if he had the slightest notion that Festin was the cook.”
    Wiki silenced, feeling very worried, indeed. He wanted to suggest that it would be a good idea if someone else prepared the invalid food, but realized it was impossible to do without making it look as if he, too, suspected that Festin laced his cooking with poison.
    â€œI’ll consult with Dr. Gilchrist this afternoon, and see if he has any better ideas,” Dr. Olliver heavily went on.
    â€œSo what did Dr. Gilchrist say?” Wiki asked at supper.
    â€œThat we should