Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [330]
“Mr. MacKenzie, might the Captain gie us a wee rub wi’ his ring? Our Gibbie has a touch o’ sore eyes from bein’ in the dark sae long.”
Roger hesitated, but then ridiculed himself. He, like the rest of the crew, tended to steer clear of Bonnet, but there was no reason to refuse the woman’s request; the Captain had obliged before with a rub of his gold ring, this being a popular remedy for sore eyes and inflammations.
“Yeah, sure,” he said, forgetting himself for a moment. “Come on.” The woman blinked in surprise, but followed him obediently. The Captain was on his quarterdeck, engaged in close conversation with the mate; Roger motioned to the woman to wait for a bit, and she nodded, shrinking modestly behind him.
The Captain looked as tired as any of them, the lines of dissipation carved deeper in his face. Lucifer after a week of running Hell, and finding it no picnic, Roger thought, sourly amused.
“… damage to the tea chests?” Bonnet was saying to the mate.
“Only two, and not soaked through,” Dixon replied. “We can salvage a bit; maybe get rid of it upriver in Cross Creek.”
“Aye, they’re more particular in Edenton and New Bern. We’ll get the best prices there, though; we’ll get rid of what we can before we go to Wilmington.”
Bonnet turned slightly and caught sight of Roger. His expression hardened, but relaxed again when he heard the request. Without comment, he reached down and rubbed the gold ring he wore on his little finger gently over little Gilbert’s closed eyes. A plain wide band, Roger saw; it almost looked like a wedding ring, though smaller—a woman’s ring, maybe. The formidable Bonnet with a love token? Could be, Roger supposed; some women might find the Captain’s air of subdued violence attractive.
“The wean’s ailing,” Dixon remarked. He pointed, there was a prickle of red bumps behind the boy’s ears, and his pale cheeks bloomed with fever.
“No but milk fever,” the woman said, pulling her child defensively against her bosom. “He’s a new tooth coming, likely.”
The Captain nodded indifferently and turned away. Roger escorted the woman to the galley to beg a bit of hard biscuit for the child to gnaw on, then sent her back to the forward hold with the others.
He had little thought for Gilbert’s gums, though; as he climbed the ladderway to the deck, his mind was occupied by the conversation he had overheard.
Stops in New Bern and Edenton, before Wilmington. And plainly Bonnet was in no rush; he’d be looking for good prices for his cargo, and taking the time to broker the indentures of his passengers—Christ, it could be weeks before they made Wilmington!
It wouldn’t do, Roger thought. God knew where Brianna could get to—or what sort of thing happen to her. The Gloriana had made swift passage, in spite of the squall—God willing, they’d make North Carolina in only eight weeks, if the winds held. He didn’t want to sacrifice the valuable time so gained to lallygagging in the northern Carolina ports, mooching their way south.
He’d be off the Gloriana in the first port they touched, he resolved, and make his way south as best he could. True, he’d given his word to stay with the ship until the cargo was disposed of, but then, he wouldn’t be taking his wages, either, so the exchange seemed fair enough.
The fresh cold air above decks did a little bit to rouse him. His head still felt stuffed with damp cotton wool, though, and the back of his throat was raspy with salt. Three hours more to go on his watch; he made his way forward for another dipper of water, hoping it would help him stay on his feet.
Dixon had left the Captain, and was strolling through the clusters of passengers, nodding to the men, stopping to say something to a woman with children. Odd, Roger thought. The mate wasn’t a sociable man with the crew, let alone with the passengers, whom he regarded as nothing more