6. Weighed down

‘Vast that bloody hammering!’ Jack roared in his gale-force voice. Immediate silence on the other side of the bulkhead was the result, followed by the startled voice of Mr. Woodring: ‘Sir?’

Jack tore his eyes away from the young woman hiding behind his coat, her fiery hair cascading over the blue cloth, her face pure white in her anxiety. She was frightened to death, panting superficially like an animal in a trap...and the sole reason for her utter distress seemed to be... him!  Jack had never had the least opinion about his looks, but for some reason it did not now sit well with him that this young woman would be so appalled, just by looking at him. It made him distinctly unhappy, although he did not understand the nature of his feelings at all. He wondered: could he have turned into an ogre overnight? Did he have a great big gash on his face from the action, and he wasn’t aware? He touched his cheek, his forehead, and shook his head in confusion.

‘Sir?’ Woodring again, tentatively, from the other side of the bulkhead. Jack opened the door with more brusqueness than necessary, poked his head out and directed his ferocious blue stare at poor Mr. Woodring. ‘What in the Devil’s name is it? Speak up, man, I haven’t got all day!’

‘The bulkhead, sir... we can’t seem to move it. Not an inch. It’s wedged, or weighed down... I don’t understand yet, but it’s probably why it wasn’t cleared for action. If I can’t get it out, the Frog carpenter wouldn’t have been able to either.’

‘Well,’ said Jack. He frowned in his most commanding manner, and paused. Looked over his shoulder back into the cabin. Saw the young woman, her eyes still fixed upon him, big, glistening tears rolling down her beautiful face. He fought to continue. ‘Mr. Woodring, square away for now. At the next bell, we shall try anew, and with the help of some of the stronger hands. Awkward Davies, Black Hansom... I must...’ he glanced back again. Still that image of loveliness, frozen in fear. Stephen was sitting next to her, softly murmuring to her. She didn’t seem to respond. ‘I must... attend to matters in the cabin,’ he finally said to the baffled master carpenter and his crew, and withdrew his head.

As Jack closed the door behind him and turned to face the windows – and the young women – a fearful whimper escaped her. She bit her lip, still crying silently, and Jack wished he could do something, say something, to comfort and reassure her. He was not LaSalle; she did not have anything to fear from him. Beautiful as she may be, he would not dream of taking advantage of her. He wanted her pronounced healthy by Stephen and safely bundled ashore as soon as may be. That was all. That was all…

‘Jack, will you come here?’ Stephen said in an undertone. ‘She does not respond to me; she seems to be wholly concentrated on you. Perhaps you can talk to her, penetrate her confusion… Come, and sit on the other side of her.’

Jack slowly moved towards her, trying not to frighten her any more than necessary, and sat down beside her very, very carefully. ‘Dear girl,’ he softly said, hoping he’d sound friendly, not frightening, ‘do stop crying; you are quite safe here.’

She looked at him with her big eyes – they were the exact colour of the emerald Jack had been holding in his hand earlier, he noticed – and another tear spilled over and coursed down her cheek. She looked so infinitely sad, so scared; Jack felt it tear at his heart. ‘I beg your pardon if I frightened you, but it was unconsciously done, child, and…’

And then something unexpected happened. The young woman closed her eyes, sighed deeply as if she made up her mind and resigned herself to her lot, then she let Jack’s coat slip from her grasp and let herself fall right into Jack’s arms. He caught her just in time or she would have fallen off the locker altogether. She had her eyes squeezed closed and breathed shallowly through her nose, apparently dreading what would come next. Still, tears welled up and moistened her cheeks.

Jack looked up at Stephen, his unease apparent on his face, and he whispered, ‘What do I do now, Stephen?’ He held the naked young woman, who was all but in his lap, awkwardly but firmly – not too firmly, he hoped, although he’d suddenly imagined himself pulling her close to his chest, rocking her slowly and shushing in her hair until she stopped crying. He did nothing of the sort, however, and waited for his friend to answer.

‘I am baffled,’ Stephen murmured, ‘she appears conditioned to this behaviour… Perhaps LaSalle punished her until she gave herself to him voluntarily? The full extent of the human mind still is largely unmapped to science, and…’

‘Stephen! What do I do!?’ Jack interrupted him in an urgent whisper, clearly not in the mood for a philosophical exposé on scientific knowledge of the human mind. He hoisted her onto his lap a little better. She opened her eyes and stared into his, tears spilling out, yet showing a glimpse of defiance behind her fear and sadness.

Stephen suddenly sprung into action, poured half a glass of claret from the decanter and handed it to Jack. ‘Give her this, little sips only. She needs to drink. I will speak to Killick about food.’

‘Oh capital,’ said Jack, ‘I am a bit sharp set.’

‘Not for you, for all love; for her! She is dehydrated and starved half to death.’ Stephen exited the cabin and Jack, embarrassed and beet red, lifted the glass to the young woman’s lips.

‘There you go, my sweet, just a small sip… it is excellent claret… it will do you good… come on…’ he softly coaxed, until she fluttered her eyelids and accepted  the glass against her lips. Jack tilted it so that she could take a small sip, and he watched her swallow it. She suddenly seemed to remember her thirst because her hand came up, covered his holding the glass, and she lifted up her head, eager to drink more.

Jack felt a strange tingle in the pit of his stomach at the touch of her hand, but he withdrew the glass and kindly admonished: ‘No, no… the doctor said small sips…’ Then he tenderly put the glass back to her lips again and let her drink some more.

When all the wine had gone down, he bent over her to place the glass on a dark square of sailcloth and grab his coat, which had fallen off the locker, by the swab. His intention was to cover her up, but she whimpered pitifully and tensed in his arms as she felt him move.

‘For heaven’s sake, what is the matter, girl,’ he said to her, a little impatiently, as he pulled the coat across her. ‘You have absolutely nothing to fear from me, I am not LaSalle, I will not…’

At the mention of the French captain’s name, she moaned and squeezed her eyes shut, and hid her face against Jack’s chest.

He suddenly flooded with a warmth stronger than the finest claret could bring on. Perhaps she wasn’t as appalled by him as he’d at first thought, if she sought his protection after all? He quickly wrapped his coat around her and stood, lifting her up as if she had no weight to her at all. Just a few paces and he was at his sleeping cabin, and he gently, gently placed her in his hanging cot, pulling the blankets up to her chin.

‘There, now,’ he said, and a smile curled his lips as her two hands appeared on either side of her face and grabbed hold of the edge of the blanket. She had narrow, elegant hands, he noticed.

She still looked at him with that intense green stare, and every now and again a tear welled up from those shining pools, but she seemed a little less scared, a little less tense. Jack lifted his big hand and softly wiped a tear off her cheek with the pad of his thumb and at first, she seemed to stiffen again at his touch, but immediately after, she laid her cheek against the flat of his palm and closed her eyes, exhaling slowly.

‘You must try to sleep,’ Jack murmured in his deep voice, finding it amazingly hard to tear himself away from her. ‘Sleep is good for you. It always sets me up after an action, and I heal much faster if I get some sleep. So sleep, sleep...’ He stroked her cheek again and gazed at her thoughtfully. ‘What’s your name, girl? What should I call you?’ he muttered, more to himself than to her.

Her lips moved and she tried to make a sound, but nothing came.

Jack leaned in a little closer, murmuring, ‘...eh? What was that?’

‘C-cat,’ she managed at the second try. She nodded almost imperceptibly, and said it again, with more conviction. ‘Cat.’

‘Cat... is that your name?’ said Jack, smiling again, ‘how very appropriate, with the green eyes. Well, Cat...’

And then the hammering began again, outside the cabin. Mr. Woodring and his crew had returned, to have another go at unshipping the bulkhead. Jack sighed, took one last long look at Cat, and exited his sleeping cabin. He’d concern himself with the bulkhead first, and then turn his attention back upon his unwarranted guest.

Chapter Seven

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