Not a branch.
Wood, yes to be sure, but it was the splintered remains of a broken club, its shattered end darkly stained. William’s nostrils flared as the faint metallic scent wafted up from the dark patch of grass.
‘Heme’ they had called it in the slaughter shed. “It’s the heme ‘o the blood what gives the smell,” his father had once told the boys. Johnny had declared that he smelled only the pigs’ shit, but William had been blessed with a sense of smell more keen than most, and to him the warm blood smelled vaguely like the hot metal in the blacksmith’s shop.
“You’re part wolf, I swear,” his father had declared. “Ya’ see and smell things the rest of us can’t. Whatever use that will come to though, I can’t declare.”
William held the broken club to his nose and sniffed. It was the heme alright. Alarmed, he threw it down and it landed with a soft wet thud onto a saturated piece of cloth lying in the crushed grass. William bent closer and peered at the spot. His stomach lurched.
Da’s cap!
Wet with the heavy morning dew. Wet with blood. It laid in the grasses as though already part of the earth.
Oh Jesus! It can’t be! His heart hammered in his chest as cold panic washed over him. Oh God! Wha–what happened? His father was a large man. Determined. Stronger than most. What could possibly have gotten the best of him?
William dropped onto his hands and knees, oblivious to the shrieking pain in his knee. His stomach was heaving. The burn of the bile in his empty stomach filled his mouth and his shoulders hunched high under his ears as he heaved, choking and spitting.
Then suddenly, horribly, his eyes came to rest on a calloused pale hand protruding from the tangled roots of the hawthorn bush beside him, the broken wrist bent at an odd angle, the entire arm awash with blood.
Oh Christ Almighty!
William strangled a cry in his throat and his stomach heaved anew. The dry heaves tore at his insides and he gasped for breath. The curl of the fingers, the shape of the broad thumb, so much like his own–
Dear God! Let him be alive!
Jerking his head up from the sight of his grisly find, William scanned the area around him. His breath came in ragged gasps. Am I alone? Oh God! Lucas! I need you here, boy! Who did this? A club? It wasn’t an animal! Bandits? Are the attackers still around?
Self-preservation instincts took over. Seeing no one and hearing only his own blood roar in a frantic whoosh in his ears, William reached out for the protruding fingers.
“Da’?” he whispered in the semi-darkness. Clasping the cold finger, he shook it as though to wake its owner. The hand was already stiffening in death.
“Da’!” William’s silent scream was punctuated by the whoosh in his head. His breath came in burning gulps as he reached out and parted the bushes. His eyes travelled from the hand, up the bloodied forearm, to the body, then upward to the face. His vision blurred with hot tears. Oh Da’ –
The words died in his throat. The sightless blue eyes were not his father’s.
The roaring inside his head increased to a high pitched squeal. He felt his thoughts spinning, spinning, as he sank mercifully into blackness. The void sucked him down into nothingness, away from the terror of his discovery.
His head dropped with a soft thump onto the cold chest of his brother’s stiffening corpse.
~~~~
William never felt the rough hands that pulled him from the bush, nor felt the coils of rope splitting his skin as the strands were tightened, cutting into his wrists and ankles, binding them together.
~~~~
To the girl on the stool, the scream was at once both ear-shattering and guttural. The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end and her heart pounded furiously against her chest wall. The woman on the low bed beside her moaned and writhed in agony, gripped in a contraction beyond her control.
“Tess!” The woman hissed, the contraction slowly ebbing away. Her eyes clenched shut in fear and pain.
“I’m here,” Tess responded and shifted her weight forward on the stool, gently wiping the woman’s brow. In spite of the fire burning in the hearth, cold rivulets of her own sweat trickled down between Tess’s shoulder blades.
Being the daughter of the much sought after London physician, Dr. Charles Thomas Willoughby, Tess had heard similar cries of distress coming from the many pregnant patients her father attended to. She had, on several occasions, accompanied him into the bed chambers of these laboring women for their deliveries, handing him whatever linens, medical potions, and tools that he required. However, this time, the screams burst forth from her mother, and it was horrifyingly different.
Elizabeth Willoughby lay on the cot, her nightshift pasted with sweat to her chest. A thin sheet draped her lower body. As her eyes slowly opened, she fixed Tess in a glassy stare. She breathed a series of shallow gasps behind chattering teeth.
“C’mon, Mum,” Tess encouraged, in a voice that she hoped did not relay her own fear. “Squeeze my hand and bite down on this linen when the next pain comes–”
Another wrenching scream cut Tess off as her mother’s body tensed then arched with the fury of the contraction.
Something is very wrong!
Tess again mopped the sweat from her mother’s forehead, and wiped a sliver of drool which slid down from the corner of her mother’s mouth. She tried to keep her voice low and soothing.
“Cassie’s gone to find Father! Father went to tend to a mishap down on the docks but they’ll be back any minute.”
Cassie would be able to find Dr Willoughby as quickly as anyone, but being labeled a “nigger servant”, she might have been subject to interference by any number of London’s citizens. Tess fervently hoped that Cassie had been able to make her way to the waterfront unimpeded.
“Any minute now, they’ll be here–do you hear me? Elizabeth Willoughby, answer me!” she scolded, but her mother did not respond. Not even to the use of her formal name.
“Packing, Tess.” Her mother’s cracked whisper was barely audible.
What did she say?
“Packing? But you’ve not had the child yet, Mum–” Tess stopped short as her mother weakly pulled back the sheet covering her abdomen. Tess’s eyes widened in fright. A dark spreading stain was seeping along the bedding between her mother’s legs.
“Oh my God, Mum!” Tess shrieked and sprang to her feet. She raced across the room to the barrel that held the cleaned battings of raw cotton. Jamming an armful of the yellow fluff between her mother’s thighs she pressed with both hands.
“Father says steady pressure is the key to stopping any bleeding,” she gasped. “You’ll be alright, you’ll see, Mum!’
What is keeping Father? He should have been back by now! How long can bleeding like this continue? Tess sent up a silent prayer. Please, God, don’t let her die! Don’t let them die!
She felt stiff with building panic. She wasn’t sure if it was being fuelled by her mother’s impending doom or the thought of bearing the brunt of her father’s quick temper. She adjusted her pressure on the cotton wad and felt a small hard knob push back into the palm of her hand.
What is that?
Sweat dripped freely from the tip of Tess’s nose and chin now; droplets slid from her forehead and burned her eyes as she blinked fiercely to clear the sting.
It feels like a –it can’t be! Please, Dear God, don’t let it be!
Tess pulled the edge of the sodden cotton bundle back and quickly felt for the knob again.
There it is! A heel! Slippery with warm blood and birth fluids, it was definitely a tiny foot.
Dear Mary in Heaven, the baby is coming the wrong way!
A sanguineous effluence announced another contraction’s arrival, but this time her mother was silent.
“Mum?” Tess anxiously scanned her mother’s face. No reply.
“Mum!” It was Tess’s turn to scream. “Don’t you leave me! Father’s coming! This baby needs you! Stay with me!”
; What to do? What to do? Her thoughts crashed and collided with each other. Get the baby out! a voice inside her instructed. It sounded vaguely detached yet familiar and comforting.
Tess positioned herself with one hand on her mother’s swollen belly and began pushing towards her mother’s feet. With her other hand, she grabbed the baby’s foot and gently pulled. Another nub protruded from the birth canal, announcing the arrival of the second foot. Her mother’s swollen torso hardened again and again. Tess lost count of the contractions before the baby’s tiny body finally emerged with one horrible bloody gush.
A boy! I have a brother! Tess had not thought of the child in terms of a sibling until this moment.
“God, spare him!” she pleaded in audible prayer. As if in answer, the baby’s head emerged with the next contraction. The tiny boy laid ominously still in Tess’s hands, his face and body quickly deepening to a dusky purple.
Too long! It took too long!
Frantically Tess swiped the mucous from her new brother’s face then grasped and squeezed his rib cage with her hands.
“Breathe!” she screamed into the still blue face. The shock of her scream had its desired effect. At once, the curled up arms and legs flew open and the baby sucked in a gurgling breath, then emitted a high pitched squeal of indignant newborn rage. Tess had never heard a more beautiful sound. A sob of relief escaped from her chest. He’s alive!
“Tess!” a voice roared. “What in God’s name have you done?”
The angry words thundered from the doorway. Tess gasped, nearly dropping the infant in her panic. Reflexively clutching the screaming bundle to her chest, she whirled around to meet her accuser. Her father’s imposing frame charged into the room.
~~~~
A foul musky rot.
William’s semiconscious brain attempted to sort the two scents out. A soft sniffing sound and a quick brush of fur against his chin startled William into full wakefulness. Darkness engulfed him, his surroundings unfamiliar and threatening. He tried to remember where he was. Not on his own sleeping mat, tucked under his warm woolen bedding, that was for sure. How did I get here? He lay still for a few seconds, the sour taste of vomit still strong in his mouth. For a moment, his own blue eyes fluttered open but he could see only dim outlines in the lantern lit darkness.
Lanterns! At once all of his senses screamed high alert.
Many more strong odors filled his nostrils. Pitch. Rot. Animal dung. Shit and sweat. He closed his eyes to mere slits and took stock of his predicament. He was lying on his side, rough plank flooring beneath him, his wrists and ankles bound. My knee is aching like a sonofabitch. What–
A low rumble of voices cut his thought off short. The odor of unwashed flesh grew stronger with the approach of another lantern. He mentally separated it out from another, less prevalent stench, but one which seemed to lie in an invisible ribbon at floor level. Old rotted meat. Kerosene. Something fermenting.
He could hear the soft swoosh of his own blood in his ears again and nausea returned. His shoulders had begun to ache fiercely as well, though he could not feel his wrists or his hands.
How long have I been lying here, and where is here?
He could feel in his cheek, really, more than he could hear the vibration of the creaking floor planks that he was lying upon. Was that the faint calling of gulls? He couldn’t be sure. Am I near the shoreline then? Am I in a waterfront shop somewhere? He thought of the smell of rotting meat. A butcher shop? Or is it rotting fish? Definitely near the wharf then. As he slowly recalled his thoughts, panic and confusion rose again.
Johnny! Is Da’ dead too? They would have fought to the death to save one another. He struggled to hold back tears. And Mum –she’ll be worried out of her mind! All three of us gone; Da’ and Johnny aren’t ever comin’ back!
William had to get home, back to her. What will happen to her and Abbey? And Lucas. William couldn’t remember a single day in his life without his beloved dog.
The lantern light was moving closer. William fought to keep his breathing slow and even. The lantern hovered close, just above his face. A booted foot thudded him forcefully in his mid thigh. William did not move.
“Get this one loose and movin’ about, ‘afore he shits himself, too,” a gravelly voice commanded.
“Yessir!”
More voices. Younger than the gravelly one, William guessed. He strained his memory to recognize any of them as belonging to any of the merchants that his father had done business with. He could not place a single one.
William felt hands grab him and haul him to his feet. At least he thought he was standing on them. His feet were really too numb to tell. With eyes wide open now, he saw the glint of metal in the lantern light, as a dagger blade flashed in front of his face. With one quick slash from his captor, his wrists were cut free, and with a second, his feet.
“What’s yer name, lad?” the gravelly voice asked. William tried to speak but his tongue felt furry and thick.
“Answer me now, piss-pants,” Gravelly Voice commanded, “or I’ll flog it outta’ ya’!”
William was suddenly aware of a cool wetness in the crotch of his trousers. The pungent smell of urine rose above the cornucopia of so many other strange smells. For a moment his fear was squelched by a stab of hot shame in the realization that he had indeed pissed himself.
He licked his dry lips and croaked, “William.”
“William,eh? That’s a fine name fer a tar. Welcome aboard the HMS Argus, Piss-Pants William. Follow Mr. Smith, here. “He’ll get you something to eat and show you to yer work station and yer hammock, in that order. Yer duties start this evenin’ before tomorrow’s first light. Mr. Smith, Piss-Pants William is yer charge fer today. We’re doin’ one on one fer all the new recruits in case they get any frisky ideas.
“Wait! Duties? I don’t understand–” William began to protest, but Gravelly Voice had moved on, kicking at the next unfortunate body lying in bondage a few feet away.
Smith tugged at William’s sleeve. “C’mon,” he said quietly, “Ya’ wanna’ eat or not?” William stared at the one called Mr. Smith. Brown eyes stared back at him from a face that was laced with a network of fine scars over high cheekbones and forehead. The boy’s hair appeared to be a coppery brown in the dim light of the lanterns; it was tied back in a braided plait that reached just past his thin shoulders. Smith was a head taller and appeared to be somewhat older. William guessed Smith was probably around John’s age–Johnny! His mind filled with an unspeakable sorrow. He pushed the ache aside, trying to make sense of this living nightmare.
“Wha–what is this place? I don’t understand what’s happened–”
Smith turned and looked at him. “How old are ya’ anyway?” He peered closer. William could see a faint scar running across Smith’s cheek from his ear to the corner of his mouth. “You’ve not even many whiskers, do ya’?”
Pride forced the truth from William. “I’m sixteen. Nearly seventeen.”
“Sixteen? Hah!” Smith snorted, “Not a boy anymore, but a helluva’ long ways out from being the eighteen that the friggin’ Navy Proclamation states we must be before volunteerin’….”
The Navy? What the hell? “But I didn’t volunteer!” William protested, “I–”
“Ya’ did as far as the Navy‘s concerned.”
“But I didn’t! I’m not doing this!” William hissed, “I’ll leave–”
The sting of Smith’s sharp slap across William’s mouth caught him in mid sentence. “See here, now,” Smith whispered menacingly, “there is no leavin’ this hell hole, ‘cept overboard in a tarp with a stitch through yer nose. Ya’ hear? Leaving alive is not a choice ya’ have. We’re already near a day out to sea.”
William took in this new information in stunned silence. Feeling was beginning to return to his feet and he stumbled painfully along as though walking in oversize wooden clogs.
So I’m on a ship! And in its belly at that. He followed behind Smith, as they made their way
through a narrow pathway lined on each side with boxes and barrels of all sizes piled to shoulder height. By now William’s eyes had adjusted to the low light and he caught a brief glance of a small flash of movement at the base of a barrel. Rat! And judging from the smell, more than one. He shuddered to think that the sniff and brush of something soft against his face that had awoken him a few minutes earlier had likely been one of its cousins.
Filthy damn creatures.
A rat bite almost always brought on the fevers, William knew. Problem was, most rats snuck up on a lad when he was lying down, asleep. He had not suffered a bite from one himself, but had heard of the livery owner and all who worked there routinely getting bitten. One of the livery boys had even died of the fevers last winter. William had not known the boy personally, but he had seen him once, when William had accompanied his Da’ into town for supplies. He remembered the lad, a scrawny, shy boy, small even for his age of ten, forking old bedding out of the stalls into a wagon. Talk had been last winter that he had died a fitful death, his vision clouded with demons, such as the fevers often brought on, and him yelling out till his last hours.
Would the demons have followed the boy into the afterlife? William hoped that when it was his time, his death would be quick, and not drawn out in the unseen horrors that seemed to afflict all who died a feverish end.
Smith stopped at a long narrow wooden table. “Sit. Cook’ll get us some chowder.” He planted himself on a low wooden bench and motioned for William to do the same. “So, you’ll work as yer told, ya’ see,” he continued, “or you’ll die.” It was a simple statement. Smith shrugged as though to emphasize such inevitability.
William stared at Smith in frank astonishment. Has he been reading my thoughts?
William’s eyes, wide in surprise, did not escape Smith’s notice, and the corner of his scar-licked mouth pulled into a thin, sad smile. “Ya’ survived the pressin’, didn’cha? Many don’t.”