8. Infernal distractions

Hansom had been very clear, very specific on where it was located, and Jack was a superb navigator. Yet the island appeared to elude the Surprise as if it was doing it on purpose. Three days worth of sailing and still Isla Fortuna had not been spotted from the mainmast top.

Jack opened his eyes and groaned; sleeping on the stern lockers was not nearly as comfortable as sleeping in his own hanging cot, never mind the Parisian brothel styled cushions. He cast a glance out of his beautifully sloping windows and sighed: another overcast day. No way to make noon exactly, and no way to find out if his dead reckoning was off. He could very well be miles from his intended destination if he had miscalculated, and he hadn’t seen the sun at all in the last three days. No stars, either. And here he was, creeping around the ocean in an unwieldy barky full of gold, three chests of precious stones he had to keep a secret from his crew, and a beautiful young woman named Cat in his bed.

He grimaced and sat up. That last thing would not nearly be so bad if he could but join her there, of course, but that was completely out of the question. Not that his mind hadn’t wandered in that direction; he had, in all honesty, a terrible time of it trying to make his mind wander in any direction other than Cat, and it seemed to be getting worse every day. And exactly that was what had him worried: he was so distracted, so infernally distracted that he was almost sure he had miscalculated.

Jack with his ardent temper was most strangely put about: here he was, a beautiful young strumpet within arm’s reach, his marriage all but in tatters, so any feelings of guilt he might have harboured before were certainly not playing up now… And he could not touch her. Not when LaSalle had so evidently abused her most cruelly, and she, clearly afraid of him, Jack Aubrey, and what he might represent; yet seeking his protection despite that… Jack felt a strong, a very strong moral obligation to show Cat that not all captains were like LaSalle, not all men in a position of leadership were corrupted by power. He could not explain why this was of such paramount importance, after all, she was only a little wench, but there it was, and he was bound by it.

Cat seemed to be doing a little better, though. In the last three days, Jack had fed her religiously; first soup, a lot more soup; then an egg, and when it turned out she liked it and it stayed in, another egg, and she was now eating him fast out of grilled cheese on toast. But she had a little more colour in her cheeks, and she’d stopped crying when he came into the sleeping cabin. She had seemed to acknowledge Stephen’s presence as well, yesterday evening, which for some strange reason Jack did not entirely like: he rejoiced at her progress but he’d also felt some sort of inexplicable pride at her singling him out, responding just to him, and no one else. It had made him feel very special and very needed; feelings which he had not had for a long time where women were concerned.

By now, the whole ship knew about Cat. No doubt Killick had disobeyed his order of silence on the subject, and no doubt he should be hanged from the damned yardarm for that, the infernal scrub. But to Jack’s surprise (here he smiled briefly and lopsidedly for the inherent pun) the men did not take it badly at all, in light of his strict rules of no women aboard. If anything, they appeared to think it was just another miraculous action of their fabulous sawbones, to find a girl in the cable-tiers, barely alive, and bring her back from the dead in the Captain’s sleeping cabin. The girl herself seemed to be acquiring almost mythical status, much like Britannica, the Surprise’s figurehead. Sailors were a superstitious lot, but if they saw Cat’s presence on board as good luck, Jack was not going to discourage that. He’d deal with his increasingly confusing emotions on the matter on his own.

Swinging his feet down and tucking his wayward yellow hair back into its ponytail, Jack prepared to start the day and attack the devilishly large heap of paperwork that was collecting on his writing table – log, stores, letters – and he was just about to call out for Killick when he heard a sound coming from his sleeping cabin. Something, or somebody, fell on the deck.

It took only three great strides for Jack to reach the foot of his cot, and another small step to end up next to Cat, lying in a shivering huddle on the floor. She was very small, very frail in one of Jack’s enormous night shirts, and she looked up at him through the tangled veil of her dark red hair with something between unpleasant surprise and embarrassment.

‘Cat,’ said Jack softly as he knelt beside her, ‘did you fall out? How are you feeling?’ He spoke to her all the time, as if he was speaking to a child, and he hoped it would comfort and reassure her in some way, but since she had never said anything in reply after that one time when she had told him her name, he did not expect her to answer now. So when she did speak to him, his wonder was all too apparent.

‘I need to go to… the… use the…’ she said, with some urgency behind it. Her voice was soft, quite low, and her words were precise and well articulated, even if they weren’t very coherent.

Jack looked at her as if she were an apparition, his hand softly smoothing her hair out of her face. ‘Eh?’ he murmured at her.

She attempted to sit up, but was still very shaky. Jack supported her with one strong hand, and she spoke again: ‘… I must use the… private…’ she said, a pained look on her face.

‘Oh!’ said Jack, as it dawned on him. ‘You mean the head. Let me…’ and he clambered to his feet and lifted Cat off the deck as easy as kiss my hand. He had his own facilities, in a little corner shot off from the main cabin, and he took her in there, lowered her on the bench and showed her how to make use of them.

‘There, now, you call me when you need me, and I will carry you back to the cot. You are too weak to walk yet; what were you thinking climbing out like that? Just call my name eh, Cat?’ he said to her good-naturedly, while his heart clenched at her rail-thin arms and her bird-like fragility. Jack liked his women plump, with a round bosom, a hearty appetite, a laugh on their lips and a lust for life and love. He would feed this little thing grilled cheese on toast until she was just that, all that and probably more, and maybe then, maybe then he could… but what was he thinking?  He shook his head at himself and sat at his writing table, sorting through his papers and trying to ignore the memory of carrying her in his arms.

‘Captain…’ it drifted through the cabin like a ghost of a word, low, ethereal and dreamlike. Jack jolted, and a nasty scratch of his quill marked his otherwise very tidy log. He dashed out of his chair and towards the sound, and surprise showed on his face when he saw her standing in the corner, by the stern windows, looking at her feet but managing to hold herself upright against the wall. She was not fashionably tall, like Sophie, he made a quiet mental note, she probably fitted right under his chin if he’d hold her in his arms…

‘Here, how are you feeling, little one? Tolerably spry, eh? Tolerably spry?’ he kindly said to her, and without further ado swept her up in his arms, with the intention of carrying her back to his cot. He had to admit to himself that he quite enjoyed picking her up and carrying her around like this.

‘Must wash… my hair…’she murmured, and she put a gentle hand against his cheek, right before he’d have put her back into his bed. It stopped him short, and he froze with her in his arms, hovering above the cot.

‘…hmm?’ came Jack’s low voice, very softly, distractedly; he was resisting the sudden impulse to turn his head and kiss her fingers.

‘My hair…’ she repeated, swallowing painfully, ‘it is dirty…’

Jack felt very hipped for a brief moment. What was he to do? But then he made up his mind, carried her back into the cabin and deposited her on the locker cushions. She seemed to cringe, to shy away from them, he noticed, and he quickly spread out the sheet he had slept under over the red velvet then helped her to sit there. ‘Is that better?’ he softly said, ‘I will pass the word for the Doctor, and Killick will bring a basin of water for washing…’

She shook her head with minute but determined movements, her eyes glued to the sailcloth squares that covered the deck; then she stretched out a hand, still without looking at him, and clutched his sleeve ruffles. ‘You…’ she softly said, sighing quietly.

Jack could not ignore a decidedly warm feeling spreading in his chest. She had acknowledged Stephen, it was true, but she was still… he was still… Oh hell and damnation, Jack did not know what to feel, and so he turned, opened his cabin door, roared for Killick, and simply went on with the task at hand. And wasn’t this what he had been thinking about when he’d first clapped eyes on her? Taking care of this lovely, lovely creature, run his hands through her hair…

Her thick tresses were smooth once they were washed and still damp, and Jack, sitting behind Cat on the locker, pulled the comb through them carefully. Her hair came all the way down to her waist, and it was the most magnificent dark red. The colour of heady claret, the colour of a late tropical sunset… Cat seemed to trust him completely now; she’d let him tip her head forward and rinse out the soap, she’d let him towel her face dry when he was done, and she let him comb and braid her hair now, without the slightest hesitation. Good thing that Jack had grown up at sea and had had his share of tie-for-tie; he was an excellent hand with a pigtail if the need arose.

Killick crept out of Jack’s sleeping cabin, a bundle of bedding under his arm, for once very quiet in the presence of the patient. He had brought in breakfast, and then Jack had given him instructions to change the sheets in his cot. That done, he was to fetch Stephen, who examined the patient every morning. And wouldn’t the Doctor be surprised to see her up and about, and talking no less, albeit haltingly. Jack chuckled. Now there wouldn’t be any more talk of sending her to the madhouse, he was sure; the idea of this frail but enchanting young woman amongst screaming idiots was just insupportable to him.

She was eating all by herself now as well; the grilled cheese on toast disappeared off her little plate quicker than he’d thought possible. And best of all, as he finished the thick braid and tied it off with a piece of string, the clouds were breaking, and perhaps at noon he would be able to see the sun and ascertain his position on the map.

‘There; all done,’ he said to her. ‘Shall I carry you back to bed?’ But her eyes had affixed themselves on something in his cabin, and she had a strange look on her face. She stretched out a hand and when Jack followed its direction with his gaze, he saw that she pointed at the harp that still stood in a corner of his cabin, taking up space. It was a magnificent instrument, but Jack had no idea how to play it and had given up after a quick try or two. He’d settle for anything with four strings and a bow, any day.

‘Do you want to play the harp?’ he asked with a smile, still speaking as if he was humouring a young child. He got up, good-natured as he was, and carried it over to her; surely she would not do it any harm if he kept a close watch, and perhaps it would give her joy, plucking a string or two.

Cat took hold of the harp and leaned it against her shoulder, and settled her fingers on the strings with startling familiarity. Jack watched as if mesmerized, and then the dulcet tones of a well known Boccherini piece filled his cabin. She played; she played exquisitely! And at that moment, after a barely perceptible knock, Stephen entered the cabin, only to halt where he stood, a baffled yet delighted look transforming his narrow features.

Chapter Nine

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