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PART III

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MAY, 1780
THE ENGLISH CHANNEL

“OW!” SHE SCREECHED, coming to when her head banged against the bulkhead and instinctively began squirming against the shoulder over which she had been thrown.

“Cap’n,” sighed the surgeon’s mate, who was, it seemed, trying to get her to her cabin.

“Oh, put me down,” she snapped.

He reluctantly obeyed the order, but she immediately regretted it when she found herself walking through the very fires of hell. She stepped quickly but gingerly all the way to her cabin and threw herself on the bunk, groaning. “Lord, that hurts.”

Gasparo rolled his eyes at her and called for buckets of clean sea water. He knelt beside her and inspected her scorched soles. “You’ll live,” he muttered wryly.

Celia almost snickered, but then remembered—

“Judas?” she asked low.

“He, too, lives,” said the mate absently as he went to her table and unpacked his box of herbs, unguents, and spices. A boy entered bearing two buckets. “Put your feet in those, if you please.”

“God’s teeth, that’s cold!” she hissed, dipping a toe in.

The mate sent her a wry glance over his shoulder, watching her until she submersed her stinging feet and left them there. He then turned back to his box and continued, “Solomon and Orlando have successfully removed the plank and have been occupied with finding all the splinters in his belly. Then they will stitch him closed. He did awaken briefly when the wood was pulled, but then passed out again. Lady Camille is attending with compresses and rum.”

Celia remained silent, tears stinging her eyes, but whether it was out of relief or the lingering fear Elliott might, in fact, die, she could not say. Under Solomon’s tutelage, Orlando’s aborted medical training in Italy had blossomed and he was nearly as skilled a surgeon as Solomon now. With both of them working to save Elliott’s life …

She had to trust them. Nay, she did trust them. It was God she could not trust at the moment, she realized.

“‘He trusted in God that He would deliver Him,’” she sang quietly, but stopped when Gasparo spoke quietly.

“Perhaps you could find a more hopeful piece if it is your intent to beg grace. God did not deliver the Lord Jesus Christ, after all. Rameau, perhaps? You are familiar with him.”

Celia grasped the change of topic as if it were a tow line. “Intimate, rather.”

“Oh?” he said with a wicked grin, stirring a concoction as he approached her and sat on his haunches beside her. “He was a bit old even for you, no?”

“His works,” she said dryly. “I auditioned for him when I was seventeen. For eight bars. And only that much because he stopped me and declared I should not sing for a barnyard lest the hens cease to lay and the pigs rot where they stood. He sent me back to Coimbra with my tail ’twixt my legs and a libretto up my arse.”

Gasparo chuckled and began ministering to her burned and blistering soles. “Count yourself fortunate. He found my voice so enchanting he nearly wore it out.”

“And here you are singing countertenor on a privateer.”

“It is because the captain believes herself a prima donna and will not allow me to upstage her with my far better soprano. Vivaldi, then?”

Celia sniffed. “You know very well I cannot stand to sing in Italian.”

He smiled but said nothing. “These will heal in a day or so,” he murmured after a while once he had finished rubbing ointment into them and began to dress them. “You must rest and eat, Captain,” he said sternly, looking up at her. “And stay off your feet until tomorrow morning. Solomon bid me inform you he would tie you to the bunk if you left it, particularly if you think to bedevil anyone over Judas. News will be brought to you.”

Celia, annoyed and relieved at once, said nothing further as he finished and left. Soon enough George appeared with a feast from the galley, commanding what seemed an army of cabin boys and girls Celia did not know, barking orders at them as to the proper disposition of the dishes, then scurrying them out. The girl had been busy whilst Celia plodded her way through the ton.

“General George Mocksling, I presume?” Celia said dryly when the girl lingered after the boys were gone.

She flushed a bit but muttered hesitantly, “You are well, Captain?”

It was the same thing she had asked the morning after Elliott had plowed Celia to a fare-thee-well against the bulkhead. “Aye, George,” she said gently. “Go about your duties without worry for me. Spend your prayers on Judas, if you have any.”

“Aye, Cap’n.”

Then Celia was left alone to eat her own galley’s food, which she had missed so very desperately during her time in London. Now with time alone in her own cabin, surrounded by her own people, and halfway to Holland with no ships in pursuit, she could at last relax her guard.

Yet she could do nothing but remember those desperate moments when she had blown the Penance apart, unable to see if Elliott or his men had, in fact, escaped. Now he lay in surgery whilst she ate and struggled to stay awake, with her eyelids drifting closed and her head nodding over her plate until her chin touched her chest.

As she fell over on her bunk, she shamefully wondered how she could sleep when her lover—her love—struggled to stay alive.

She started when her door slammed open and a weary Solomon trudged in and sat down on the bunk beside her. Papadakos, Smitty, and Bataar followed, closing the door behind them. They all pulled chairs from the chart table.

A glance cast out her stern windows told her she had slept for at least two hours.

“Well?” she said low, her worry escalating in the face of Solomon’s unusual show of concern and the somber appearance of her three highest-ranking officers.

He sighed. “Provided we found and stitched all his holes and we can keep infection at bay, he should not only live, but be hale and hearty as ever.”

It was good news: Celia should rejoice but between so many ifs, her officers’ presence, and Solomon’s demeanor—

Celia reached up a hand and wrapped it in the front Solomon’s blood-soaked white tunic, pulling him down to her, close enough their noses touched. “Do not let him die,” she hissed.

He jerked away from her with a glare. “Orlando and his staff are fully capable of saving the father. I am more concerned with saving the son without killing the mother.”

Celia’s brow wrinkled, and she dropped her hand. So that was it. “How?”

He hesitated. “Years ago,” he began low, “when I was young and in the sultan’s employ, I heard of a procedure from an old physician who claimed to have successfully performed it twice. In Rotterdam these past weeks, Orlando and I overheard talk of the same. We traveled to the university in Amsterdam and sought out the surgeons to discuss and learn.”

She could feel the blood leach from her face and she felt a bit dizzy. “Surgeons?” she squeaked.

“I am a surgeon,” he sneered, “with intimate knowledge of female anatomy, and it will be far more involved than fishing splinters out of Judas’s belly, yes.”

She hesitated. “Will you think me a coward if I do not undergo this … surgery?”

Solomon rolled his eyes and heaved a frustrated sigh. “It is not a matter of cowardice and my opinion is irrelevant in any event. It is a matter of what you want, and the benefit versus cost of each choice. There is a better chance you will die from this procedure than by facing down a sea of Ottomans to extract Suniyya from the harem. Do you not want the child, it will be as it always is when your womb can no longer bear the babe’s weight—and it will continue to be that way for every child you carry. But if you do want this child, I believe this is the only way you can have a chance at keeping it. If this works, it will have to be done for any others you wish to bear, as well. Neither Orlando nor I have done such a thing on a living patient, but we believe it can be done and we have both practiced on cadavers in preparation. Only you can decide this matter.”

Celia glanced at the closed door, beyond which Orlando and his assistants were still fighting to save Elliott’s life.

“When does this need to happen?” Celia said low.

“Three weeks ago.”

She huffed.

“Not at this moment, at any rate. I cannot have you and Judas in the ship’s infirmary in enemy waters, particularly when both of you may die, and I need a stable floor. But here is what you must consider: Whatever may come of this child, there is no question that as soon as you can breed the man again, you will indeed be breeding. I have never met a woman whose body was so eager to give itself over to a child’s occupation—particularly when it seems your womb directs you to the most virile men on the planet. If you lose this child, there will be another and we can then attempt to repair the defect in a timely manner.”

That was true, but if Elliott did not live and she had waited too long, she would have neither the man nor his child. Celia did not know what to do and looked to Bataar—the only other person on this ship who would understand this choice—for guidance.

But her bo’sun looked away. “We make Rotterdam in three hours,” she murmured, “and hopefully by then we will know whether Judas will live or die. If not, we can await that sign. If he lives, you will not be so desperate to keep this part of him and able to await the next babe. If he dies … ”

Celia’s mouth tightened and she looked at Solomon. “We will do this thing regardless.”

“This is an experiment, Jack. For all of us, no matter how skilled. None of the surgeons and physicians we spoke with have seen it performed, much less know of a successful one. Your death is very possible.”

“But not assured. And if successful, I will have Elliott’s child whether he lives or not. Either way, I will have a part of him and he will have the immortality he craves.”

Solomon’s chin rose and he sniffed. “Well, then. You are nearing the time your womb will collapse despite your wishes. It is a matter of hours, not days or weeks, particularly because you have been abusing that part of you we must repair. Additionally, we must do this in Amsterdam, as I have gained access to the university’s surgical theatres. If all goes well, we then must wait until we have determined you will not die, and further, until you have healed and regained your strength. Do you understand?”

“Aye,” she whispered. “We make for Amsterdam, then. As soon as we drop anchor, you will take me to the university.”

“Now listen to me. In exchange for access to the theatre, I had to agree to host a full gallery and instruct the procedure. Are you willing to put yourself on display?”

Her mouth tightened. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want the child.”

“Then my only conditions are that I am not to be identified and no one but you and Orlando are allowed to do the repair.” Then she thought of something else. “What is the repair?”

“I will sew your cervix shut.”

“My what?”

“Your cervix. It is what you cap off with the lemon rinds to prevent a man’s seed from reaching the womb.”

Both Celia and Bataar whimpered.

Solomon ignored that. “As I observed in Sint Eustatius, yours wishes to open too soon, which is why you have not yet been able to bear any of the babes you’ve carried. If it works, we will then cut the threads when the time approaches for you to deliver.”

Celia’s head spun and her legs trembled. She pressed her fist into her chest and curled in upon herself until her nose touched her knees. “Oh my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ,” she croaked, crossing herself.

“If you have a scrap of faith left in your Messiah,” Solomon rumbled, “start praying.”

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Pirates!