Heart's Safe Passage (25 page)

Or death.

A shudder ran through Rafe as he lifted the trepanning saw out of its nest of silk. If he turned the handle a fraction too hard, if the saw blade guard slipped, he could kill his daughter in an instant. He would destroy her brain more profoundly than the blow possibly already had. Yet he must try. He knew the signs better than Phoebe, and her diagnosis demonstrated a measure of medical training beyond that of most midwives he’d met, a testimony to Dominick Cherrett’s wife.

If Mel didn’t wake up by morning, she was likely to not wake up at all. Already her breathing was shallow, her heartbeats thready. The water, tea, and broth they’d spooned into her mouth ran out again. She was too deep into her coma to so much as swallow involuntarily. A bad sign. A terrible sign. No one could survive long if she didn’t swallow water at the least.

“God, how could You take my daughter too?” He murmured the query, though he wanted to shout it at the sky. “She’s all I have left. I’d rather You killed me for punishment than her. Regardless of what I’ve done, please don’t take my daughter.”

He held the trepanning saw up to the light of the lantern swinging from a deck beam. A few spots of rust marred the gleaming Toledo steel of the teeth. He must scrub those off. The blade must be spotlessly clean, sharp enough to nearly cut glass.

He removed a whetstone from the instrument case and began to polish. He polished until the blade shone like pure silver. He then rinsed the blade in fresh seawater to remove any lingering flakes of rust and wrapped it in a fresh square of silk. Then he removed it again and tested the lock on the blade guard. No matter how much pressure he placed on the handle, the guard held.

Knowing this was the only preparation he could make, he returned the trepanning saw to its nest and left his cabin. He should sleep, but he wouldn’t, not the night before he drilled a hole into his daughter’s skull.

He opened the stern cabin door to see if Mel had made any change in the hour he’d been gone. Belinda sat beside her again reading in her sweet, rather childlike voice. Reading Psalms. Rafe hadn’t opened a Bible in years, but he recognized the words for what they were.

“He shall cry unto me, Thou art my father, my God, and the rock of my salvation.” Belinda continued to read as though he didn’t stand in the doorway, until she concluded the chapter. “Remember, Lord, the reproach of Thy servants; how I do bear in my bosom the reproach of all the mighty people; wherewith Thine enemies have reproached, O Lord; wherewith they have reproached the footsteps of Thine anointed. Blessed be the Lord for evermore. Amen, and amen.”

Mel didn’t move. Rafe didn’t move.

Belinda closed the Bible and smiled up at him. “The eighty-ninth Psalm. It always brings me comfort.”

“Thank you for your care of my lass.” Rafe swallowed against a tightness in his throat. “She thinks a great deal of you.”

The only person on the brig who did. But then, Belinda Chapman treated Mel differently, as lovingly as a fond older sister or even a mother. That Belinda loved Mel lay in no doubt. Her devotion to his daughter since the accident brought a constriction to Rafe’s chest, a lump to his throat.

“I’ve been praying for her and reading the Psalms to her for hours.” Belinda rose and rubbed her lower back. “I don’t mind in the least if it helps.”

Rafe stiffened. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Last I saw her she was leaning on the rail like she might be sick or something. Shall I go look for her?”

“It’s not necessary. I’ll be here.” Rafe stepped aside so Belinda could pass.

She started to, then paused and laid her hand on his arm. “Is it true you’re a doctor, Captain?”

“Aye, I was. I trained with my father and attended the University of Edinburgh. But I have not practiced for years.”

“Aboard a ship that goes into battle?” She arched her winged brows.

He gave her a grudging half smile. “Aye, weel, you have me there. But I’ve done naught aboard this privateer that would not have been performed by a mere surgeon aboard a naval vessel or East Indiaman.”

“But you can save Mel?” Her grip tightened, her eyes reflected eagerness. “A physician can help her, yes?”

“Perhaps. ’Tis a dangerous procedure.” He held up his hand. “Do not ask. You do not wish to ken the details.”

“But I want to help.”

“You already have.” He patted her hand and removed it from his arm. “Good night then, Mrs. Chapman.”

“Good night, Captain. I will pray for Mel.” She stepped over the coaming and turned back. “And for the day you call the Lord your rock and your salvation.”

Rafe held off his snort until she closed the door behind herself. The only rock he was likely to receive from the Lord was the stone that marked his grave. As for salvation, he’d turned his back on that nine years earlier.

And was now paying for it with his daughter’s life?

Not even God could be that cruel. Surely.

At the moment, he was the cruel one, the man to blame for Mel’s condition. He should have climbed the shrouds. The slice was meant for him, not her. A traitor in his midst.

“Who are you?” he asked the plain teakwood bulkhead behind the bunk. “Which one of you should I not trust?”

Sam Riggs and Tommy Jones were the obvious ones, as they had urged the men to revolt, but they had been in irons when the line had to have been cut—the middle of the night. Besides, Riggs never went up top. He’d signed aboard simply to fight, not to man the ship. He was a landlubber.

Someone else wanted rid of Rafe. So they could be free to go back fighting for French prizes, even American prizes, or just to be rid of him?

“Whoever you are, you go on the list with James Brock.”

He feared he knew who, one of the three men aboard he couldn’t destroy even if he wanted to.

He smoothed back Mel’s hair. “But I will be finding a way to bring you down. Especially if she dies.”

Curled up beside Mel, Fiona lifted her head and looked straight at him with beady black eyes as though she concurred.

“I’ll do my best to save her, you useless cur.” He stroked the dog’s head.

As he ran his fingers over Mel’s skull, his mind slipped back to his training, to the words of the instructors at university, and to his father.
In cases of head injury, we have found that blood pools beneath the dura and presses on the brain . . .

Only one method released that pressure, a technique used as long as anyone knew. Ancient medical texts talked about the practice. People survived. More survived than didn’t.

“My dear, dear lass, I should have found a place that would lock you up rather than bring you aboard.”

“Would she have not managed to escape even a locked door or gate to be with you?”

Rafe started. “Phoebe, I didn’t hear you enter.”

“The door wasn’t latched.” She slipped her arm around his waist and rested her head against his arm. “Jordy said you brought up your medical instruments.”

“Aye, I did.”

“And you have a trepanning saw?”

“I do. ’Tis ready.”

“Then sleep so you are. I’ll stay with her tonight.”

“Nay, I’m staying too.” He pressed his cheek to the top of Phoebe’s head. “I will not complain about your company.”

“Then let me at least make you comfortable.”

“I do not need—”

She waved him to silence and set about producing pillows and quilts from a chest. She wedged two sea chests against the window seat so he could sit beside the bunk yet lean back against the trunks with pillows for comfort, blankets for warmth against the chill of the night.

“Now rest,” she commanded.

He looked at her, a question on his lips he wouldn’t ask—for her to curl up beside him. As though she knew, she shook her head and retreated to the window seat behind him. “Shall I read? Belinda has left behind her copy of
Charlotte Temple
. She declares it’s the best book she’s ever read.”

“Then is it safe to assume ’tis the worst I’ll ever hear?”

“Probably. I believe the heroine dies in the end.”

“Sounds like that book Davina liked so much.” She’d been reading the seven-volume tome on the voyage to Naples—for the third time since he’d met her. “
Clarissa Harlowe
. Tedious and dull stuff to me.”

“Then I’ll read it so you go to sleep.” Paper rustled behind him, then her creamy, honey voice began to intone the words, gliding over his senses like a soothing balm. “For the perusal of the young and thoughtless of the fair sex, this Tale of Truth is designed; and I could wish my fair readers to consider it as not merely the effusion of Fancy . . .”

Before the preface concluded, Rafe fell asleep. He remained asleep until daylight streamed through the stern windows.

Phoebe, her eyes rimmed by dark shadows, touched his shoulder. “It’s time, Rafe. We dare not wait longer.”

One glance at his daughter and Rafe understood. Her skin was drying before his eyes, as though she were a mere husk of who she’d been merely a day ago. Her lips were cracked, and her eyes stared into nothing when he lifted the lids.

“What all do you need?” Phoebe asked.

“Some coffee, but not too much. Clean clothes. A wash.”

“Food,” Phoebe added.

“Aye, that will not go amiss.” He struggled to his feet. “Did you stay awake all the night?”

“I did. Someone had to watch over you both.”

“Thank you.” He headed to the door, then turned back. “What sustains you? What keeps you going on when you must be worn to a thread?”

“My faith.” She gripped her hands together in front of her and raised her chin, as though she were defying an argument. “I’d never have come this far without my faith.”

“I thought you might be saying that. I cannot believe ’tis true.” Before she argued with him, he left the cabin.

After changing his clothes and taking a little extra time to shave and wash, he made a circuit of the brig. Dying daughter or not, with a desperate attempt to save her in the offing, he still needed to remember that this was his brig, his responsibility along with the safety of every man and woman aboard. He inspected the course they were on, the barometer for signs of an approaching storm, the trim of the sails. He also looked into the eyes of every man he encountered, hoping for and fearing what he might see, searching for the one man who looked away.

He didn’t. Even those he suspected specifically met his gaze without a flicker. Yet one of them wanted their captain dead, or at the least injured seriously enough to keep him from running the brig.

Rounds complete, Rafe gave orders to Jordy and Derrick and returned to the stern cabin. Phoebe had tidied away his makeshift bed and found time to pin up her hair and wash her face. Though the shadows remained around her eyes, the whites looked clear, as though she’d managed to sleep.

Mel hadn’t changed.

“Jordy and Derrick are coming down to help.” Rafe gripped the back of a chair, though the sea was as smooth as glass. Too smooth, as the wind was nearly calm. “You needn’t stay.”

“Of course I must.”

“This could be gruesome at best.” He took a deep breath to ease the pain in his chest. “She could die before I finish.”

“I have more medical training than anyone else aboard, Rafe. I won’t faint at the sight of blood.”

“There could be a great deal.”

“Do you know what happens to some women after childbirth? They—” She stopped with her hand over her mouth.

But he knew—they hemorrhaged and died.

The same could happen to Mel if he made one error, one fraction of an inch miscalculation.

“I can’t do this to my child,” he wanted to shout.

But he wanted her to slip away from him even less. At least with the surgery he would know he’d tried. He wouldn’t betray Davina by letting her daughter go without a fight.

He took a deep breath and issued the first directions. As gently as though returning a fallen egg to its nest, Derrick lifted Mel onto a sheet of canvas with her head at the open end of the bunk. Phoebe produced a pair of silver shears and clipped Mel’s hair close to her scalp. Rafe cringed at the strands of deep red hair falling onto the carpet. He’d chided her for cutting it off. Now it would be even shorter than she wanted.

“Where should I shave her?” Phoebe asked.

“That’s always the difficulty—where to make the cut.” Rafe ran his hands over Mel’s shorn scalp again. Near the swelling on the side seemed most logical. But if the pressure lay elsewhere . . .

“Here.” He must be decisive.

Phoebe nodded and applied a razor to Mel’s head above and behind her temple. Then she bathed the area with vinegar.

Rafe gave her a quick glance, one eyebrow raised. “Why the vinegar?”

“Midwives are known for our cleanliness. This is part of it. When we use vinegar, strong soap, or even spirits to bathe a woman before and after childbirth, we have fewer incidents of puerperal fever.”

“Hmm. I wonder why.” He lifted the trepanning saw from its nest of silk and examined the blade yet again. “I like my instruments clean because I do not like the look of rust or blood.”

“And did you not lose many patients?” Phoebe’s gaze flicked to the saw, then darted away.

Rafe’s lips turned up in a grim smile. “Not to the infection. And we can hope this proves true with—with Mel.” He barely managed to speak her name.

“We can pray, sir,” Derrick said in his rich baritone. “I’ve been praying since I saw her come down.”

“A pity you didn’t see who made her come down,” Rafe muttered.

“Aye, sir, that it is. But that don’t stop me from praying hard for our girl.” Derrick laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “Or you. May the Lord provide you with a steady hand and calm seas.”

“Amen.” Phoebe also reached out and laid her hand on him.

A shiver ran through Rafe, partly a thrill, partly revulsion. His breathing slowed. His heart beat a tattoo against his ribs, but no longer one too fast for any kind of march. He would never be more clearheaded than he was at that moment.

“Let us begin.” Rafe picked up a scalpel and cut to the bone. Blood spurted. “Forgive me, lass,” he murmured.

Phoebe stood beside him, sponging up the blood. “She will, my . . . friend. She will.”