A friend may well be reckoned the masterpiece of nature. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
Chapter 17
Buffy began to stir just as the sun rose across the water. She uncurled slowly and blinked several times, her face expressionless.
He wanted - no craved - to go to her, smooth her hair down and lay his hand upon her cheek. Instead, he remained slumped in the chair, uncertain of how to approach her.
Guilt, sorrow and a dozen unanswered questions had swarmed around his head throughout the long night. Sometime around three in the morning, he’d located a flask of whiskey and an hour after that he’d found another. They lay empty upon the table, false friends who had at no point allowed him the mercy of actual drunkenness.
She took a breath as though she was about to speak, then changed her mind, her lips thinning to a line. He took a breath of his own, preparing to say something, anything, to shatter the shroud of silence, but found himself wordless. He let his breath out in a sigh.
She climbed off the bed carefully, holding her injured hand in front of her. William stood hesitantly, unsure if he should go to her side or stand in the hall while she dressed for the day. Uncertain of his path, he chose to light the lamps to ease the early morning gloom.
“The ship is moving again,” Buffy said in a monotone.
“Yes, they started the engines several hours ago. They did not find … anyone in the water and have abandoned the search.”
She nodded and opened the wardrobe door with her uninjured hand, gathering a handful of underthings.
He walked to the cabin door, preparing to wait in the hall, when she stopped him with a soft, “William?”
“Yes?” He turned.
“My hand’s all messed up. I think I’m going to need your help with this.”
“Of course.”
He walked over to where she stood before the wardrobe, her back to him. Now that he was near her, he was overwhelmed with the need to hold her in his arms, to ease her, yes, but also to soothe the aching hole near his heart. He damned himself for being a selfish, weak man.
He clenched his fist, willing his hand not to touch her hair.
She slipped her dressing gown off easily enough, but her nightgown had a row of buttons that would be impossible to manage one-handed. She turned toward him, her eyes on the floor. “These buttons?” she asked.
He began to unbutton her nightdress in a very matter-of-fact manner. Hoping to dispel the awkwardness, he said, “Dr. and Mrs. Crowdner should be by shortly.”
“Why?”
“He wants to check on your hand.”
He continued working the buttons free. Once he’d unbuttoned half a dozen, he said “I believe we could slip this over your head at this point.”
She nodded and assisted him in sliding the gown down her arm, easing the sleeve of her right arm very carefully around her injured hand. Once he’d aided her with that, she slipped the nightgown over her head and let it fall to the floor.
Though she had a pair of ivory bloomers tied around her hips, she wasn’t wearing a chemise, and her breasts were bare to him. One short day ago the sight would have engulfed him with lust, but looking at her now filled him with a tenderness that made his eyes sting. She seemed so raw, so vulnerable.
He took the fresh chemise from her hand gently and slipped her injured hand through the arm opening. Once he’d accomplished that, she slipped her left arm into the garment and lifted it over her head to slide it down her body.
“Do I have anything black?” she asked.
“No, we … decided against black. Perhaps this?” He pulled a gray traveling gown from the back of the closet. She nodded in agreement, all business.
They worked it past her hand with a little difficulty. Once she had the gown on, William buttoned the tighter fastenings at her wrists, but she seemed set upon buttoning herself up where she was able.
He looked down at his own attire. He was still dressed in the nightshirt and suit coat combination he’d thrown on when he’d first been alerted by the screams in the hall.
As Buffy moved aside to sit at the small table, he wished that he could speak to her honestly and ask her one of the dozens of questions that had plagued his night. He simply didn’t know how to begin; he dreaded how she might respond and so remained silent.
He selected a dark grey suit. Once he’d put on his trousers, shirt and waistcoat, he rolled up his shirt sleeves and collected his shaving kit. After he placed the kit next to the wash basin, he ran the hot water and worked up a foamy lather in his shaving mug, then slathered the lather on his cheeks and neck.
Flipping out his straight edge razor, he brought the blade to his chin. His hands were shaking. The mirror’s reflection showed the razor tap-tap-tapping out a staccato beat against his throat. He closed his eyes.
Steady, my good man. Get a hold of yourself.
He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, commanding his hand not to shake, but the fool thing was shaking like a dog pulled from an icy river. When her small hand touched his shoulder gently, he nearly jumped.
“It’s okay, William,” she soothed, squeezing his arm.
“I should be able to manage shaving.”
“I should be able to manage dressing myself.”
He turned to look at her, his wife – though she wore her businesslike demeanor well, he could see the sorrow just hiding behind the edges of her mask.
“Combine the useful halves of us, and we’d almost make a complete person,” she said, reaching behind him to pick up a small towel with her left hand. She dabbed at his cheeks, wiping the shaving foam away. After she’d finished, she tilted his chin up and carefully wiped the foam from his neck before laying the towel in the sink.
She placed the palm of her hand upon his cheek. It was small but so warm, and it did not tremble.
“They have a barbershop down the hall. Maybe you could go there today.”
He nodded. “A good idea, yes. Thank you.”
He wanted to reach out to her, gather her in his arms, kiss the top of her head. It seemed so easy, so natural for her to touch him. He, on the other hand, was practically paralyzed when he was near her.
He couldn’t hold her, didn’t deserve to, not when he couldn’t even talk to her, couldn’t ask her the one question that he dreaded the most.
She was just turning away from him when he stopped her, unable to wait any longer.
“Buffy … I’ve something difficult to ask you. I would do anything to spare you this question, but I’m afraid you’re the only one who can answer it.” He nervously ran a hand through his hair.
She looked at him. “What?”
He inhaled deeply. “It’s George. You said that Dru had turned me into a creature like her. How do we know that she hasn’t done the same to George?”
Buffy’s mask slipped a little further, but she looked quickly at the floor, speaking in a carefully controlled voice. “When vampires kill humans, they usually do it to feed. If she’d wanted to turn George she wouldn’t have left a mark like that. She’d have been less … brutal.”
“I understand,” he replied.
She returned to the small table, awkwardly brushing her hair with her left hand. He remained by the wash basin, desperately trying to think of something to say to her, something comforting, something distracting, even. He could be such a bloody fool when it came to these things.
When a knock sounded at the door, he felt a wave of relief. He hoped the Crowdners might be able to ease her where he had failed. At least the doctor would be able to care for her injuries.
He opened the door to admit the couple, who exchanged quick greetings before the doctor joined Buffy at the small table. After some inquiries about how she’d slept, he unwound her bandages. Her right hand was shockingly swollen, her fingers resembled small sausages. Purple and blue bruises stained her knuckles, which were also puffy and distorted.
William swallowed hard and took an involuntary step towards his wife.
The doctor pressed against the knuckles gently, one by one. Buffy winced, but did not cry out.
“I still don’t believe you’ve broken any bones. The swelling should begin to subside today, but the bruising is most severe. You shall have limited use of your hand for several weeks.”
Buffy nodded.
Dr. Crowdner leaned over and sorted through his black bag for a moment before fishing out a small packet of white crystals. “I should like you to commence a therapeutic soak with Epsom salts. While we do that, perhaps William could attend his meeting with Captain Parsell?”
Oh. It had completely slipped William’s mind. He had a meeting with the captain about last night’s events. About George.
William took a steadying breath and rubbed his hand against his stubble-covered chin. “Yes, I should attend to that.”
He walked over to the small table where Dr. Crowdner was busily assembling ingredients for Buffy’s treatment and lay his hand on Buffy’s shoulder. “Darling, I need to see the Captain.”
“Well, I should come with you,” she responded.
And yes, he really should have expected that. Here he’d been worried about leaving her alone.
“If you’d like, I can wait,” he said. He felt the Crowdners’ shocked eyes upon him. “But I believe he wants to speak to me about what I saw of the creature before you arrived. I should like to meet with him and find out what he’s curious about. If you’d like to meet with him as well, we’ll arrange it once your hand is attended to.”
She nodded, then turned her gaze to Dr. Crowdner, watching skeptically as he continued to mix powders into a basin of warm water.
William shrugged into his suit coat and left the room, steeling himself for his meeting with the captain. As he walked down the hall, he looked over his shoulder. A small crowd had gathered near the doorway of the room in which George had died, like crows flocking to the dead.
~*~
“Mr. Pratt, come in. Thank you for meeting with me.” Captain Parsell’s eyes normally held a youthful spark that belied his age. That was not the case this morning. The captain looked old beyond his years. Weary. He gestured to a chair positioned across from his desk, and William took a seat.
“How is Mrs. Pratt? I understand she has sustained an injury?”
“Dr. Crowdner is seeing to her now. She’s suffered a bruised hand, but it appears there are no broken bones.”
“That’s a blessing, at least.” The captain nodded. “I’m certain that you want to return to your wife’s side, Mr. Pratt, so I shan’t waste your time with polite conversation. I’ll get straight to the point.”
Captain Parsell sat up in his chair, clasping his hands together and resting them on the nautical charts that were strewn about the desk.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. and Mrs. Lovell at length. They have provided a somewhat disjointed account of the events that took our George’s life. I’d like to hear your recounting of the events. What did you see?”
William had been bracing for this part. During his walk to the captain’s quarters he’d prepared to tell it all while keeping his emotions at a distance. Shockingly, it seemed to be working. He felt a level of detachment that was almost comforting.
He told the captain about hearing the screams and finding the Lovells in a state of panic. He described how George was already dead by the time William had arrived on the scene and how he’d followed the direction ‘the creature’ had taken. He hadn’t really seen her but for a moment, in the water and swimming away from the ship.
The captain stopped him there. “So it was a woman? Not a beast? The Lovells were quite confused in this regard.”
William nodded. “A woman turned into a beast, if such a thing makes sense.”
“Precious little in this makes sense, Mr. Pratt, but I thank you for your honesty.” The captain folded and refolded his hands nervously before continuing. “There were reports that your wife claimed guilt. She seemed to think George’s demise was her fault in some manner.”
William nodded, but found no clear path in how to describe Dru and the events leading up to last night. Silence spun out and the captain did not step in to fill it.
“My wife and I feel some responsibility as we were aware there was such a creature on the ship. We mistakenly thought the creature was contained.”
“You have encountered this creature before?”
William nodded.
“And that was why you’d wanted me to secure the hold. Yes, of course.”
William cast a guilty glance up to the captain. If he’d been honest with the man from the start, perhaps George would still be alive. If Buffy felt she had blood on her hands, how much more was on his own?
Captain Parsell looked down at his desk for a long moment before looking back up to William. “I suppose if you’d come to me with tales of a madwoman hiding in the hold, I’d have thought it preposterous and dismissed you entirely. So you came to me with a more believable tale – one that would spur me to action.”
Though the captain had a reputation for his intuition, William couldn’t help but be amazed at his uncanny ability to see through the heart of the matter.
“We thought it the wisest course of action at the time, Captain Parsell.”
“And I don’t suppose you’d be able to tell me any more about the creature, Mr. Pratt?”
“I know precious little beyond that.”
“The woman, the … creature – I’ve been told that she didn’t bite anyone but George. My men conducted a thorough search of the hold just before dawn. They found a few oddities, but no sign of remaining creatures, not even vermin. I cannot help but remain gravely concerned about the other passengers, however. Should there be a contagion such as rabies…”
“Oh, no,” William insisted. “Now that the creature is gone, the passengers are safe.”
The captain nodded, his hands forming a tepee just beneath his chin. “Then I suppose that is that. The harbormaster will have questions, naturally. I should like to supply him with honest answers. Should there be any remaining danger, I’d rather we endure a quarantine than put anyone else at risk.”
“The only threat to the ship swam away last night, Captain. I assure you.”
“That’s fine then, Mr. Pratt. I thank you for your time. I’m sure you wish to return to your wife’s side, so I won’t detain you any longer.”
The older man paused for a moment. When he continued his voice had lost the official sounding captain’s tone and he sounded so fatherly that William had to glance up at the man. “It’s not your fault. You and your wife, you’re not to blame for the actions of a beast.”
“I understand,” was all he could reply as he stood and walked toward the door.
William was about to turn the handle, when he stopped and, without turning around, asked, “What will become of George?”
“Since we’re only a day out of New York City, I shall arrange a burial upon docking.”
William bit his bottom lip. It really wasn’t his place to say anything.
“Is there … something that concerns you Mr. Pratt?”
William turned to face Captain Parsell. “It’s just that George was an adventurer. He was so proud of his life upon the sea. It seems a pity to leave him in a grave in a strange land where he will be unremembered, unmourned.”
The captain raised his brows, curious.
“It seems that a burial at sea would be fitting for the lad,” William suggested. “There would be a place for his shipmates to remember him. And a place for his family, back in Liverpool to go for their remembrances as well. In some way, I sense that George would have liked the idea of continuing his adventure.”
Shocked by his own boldness, William nodded and mumbled a quick, “Good day,” leaving the room before the captain could respond.
~*~
George’s service was held at four o’clock that afternoon.
Word had spread quickly among the passengers and the stern deck was overflowing with the tightly pressed crowd. The foremost portion of the stern was filled with crew and staff.
The moment the Pratts arrived on deck the first mate pulled them through the gathering crowd so they could stand beside Captain Parsell and the Crowdners. Just behind them stood the Lovells, both wearing somber expressions. Mr. Lovell sported a purpling jaw.
The captain stood next to a long board. One end rested upon the deck rail and the other was held up by four seamen. Upon that board lay a bundle just over five feet in length – George. His body was bound in sailcloth which had been carefully stitched. A set of heavy metal bars had been attached to the foot end of the body and a neatly folded Union Jack lay atop the white bundle.
Though the crowd was dense, there was very little jostling or chatter. The Adriatic was turned in a windward direction and the sails luffed lazily in the light breeze. Her flags had been lowered to half mast, but the wind was not strong enough to stir them. The ship’s silence was complete – her usual creaks and groans muted in solidarity with those grieving.
All in their world had stopped for this moment to honor George.
A bell rang out and First Mate Ellis intoned, “All hands to bury the dead."
Captain Parsell removed his hat, quickly followed by crewmen, sailors and passengers .
The captain opened a small, black book and began to read. “Foreasmuch as it hath pleased Almighty God, of his great mercy, to take unto himself the soul of our dear brother here departed, we commit his body to the deep, to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body, when the sea shall give up her dead, in sure and certain hope of the resurrection.”
Placing a fatherly hand upon the top of the cloth-bound figure, the captain gave two gentle pats, murmuring, “Rest peacefully, dear boy.” He removed the flag from atop the body and carefully folded it.
Looking to the crewmen holding the end of the plank, the captain gave a curt nod and said with a much louder voice, “Let go.”
As the men tilted the board up, George’s slight body slid from the plank and fell over the rail of the ship, falling into the sea with a splash.
The throng remained silent – the ceremony was over almost before it began - the brevity serving to emphasize the solemnity of the occasion. And it seemed fitting, especially for George, who would have blushed furiously at all the fuss made on his behalf.
The bell sounded again, and the passengers began to move toward the center of the ship, evidently eager to depart from an area that held such sorrow.
Once the crowd had thinned, William could see a clear path to the hallway leading toward their cabin. He was just about to take Buffy’s arm and guide them back to their room when the captain placed his hand on William’s shoulder.
“Mr. Pratt, I would urge you to stay for this final moment. The crew would welcome your presence.”
William nodded, puzzled.
Just at the captain’s feet stood a small wooden chest - a sailor’s kit, that small collection which held all of a seaman’s earthly belongings. George’s kit, William presumed.
The first mate began the proceedings. “I have here the kit of George Lewis. What am I to hear for an opening bid?”
Buffy looked at William, her expression a mix of disgust and confusion.
“Five pounds,” a deep voice said from somewhere behind them.
A sailor’s kit contained clothing, basic sailing gear and other necessities. Five pounds would easily be three or four times the value of George’s meager possessions.
“Six pounds,” said a tall officer standing to William’s left.
“Seven pounds,” Dr. Crowdner offered.
The bidding went on until it reached the princely sum of forty pounds, when it was sold to Captain Parsell himself. As soon as the captain had been declared the winner, he re-donated the kit, and the bidding began again.
“It’s a tradition amongst sailors,” Dr. Crowdner leaned over to explain, his voice barely audible above the auction. “The monies are forwarded to the family of the deceased. In this case, I believe that would be George’s mother.”
During the next round, William joined in. After placing a winning bid of twenty-five pounds, he donated the kit back to the ship and the process began again when Dr. Crowdner placed the final offer. It wasn’t until the kit had been resold a dozen times that the crew and staff finally began to drift away.
After having raised just over two hundred pounds, the honors of final bid had gone to the first mate, who gave George’s kit to a young cabin boy no older than fifteen. The lad had an eager look on his freckled face and William couldn’t help but feel that George would have been pleased. Looking over to his wife’s soft expression, he could see that she agreed.
The wind began to pick up, and Buffy glanced up at him. Her hair tangled in front of her eyes and it was at that moment that he noticed that she’d worn it down about her shoulders, in the style of her time and most improper for a funeral. Rubbing his hand on his unshaven cheek, he shook his head. They were terribly unfit for society, the pair of them.
He reached out and tucked a lock of her wind-tossed hair behind her ear. “To our cabin, love?”
Buffy put her arm in his without a word.
-----------------------------------------
Author’s note:
You have questions…
Yes, Buffy’s hand really would be that messed up for a few weeks. MsJane is my medical expert on that one.
Yes, that funeral was just how they did things. Lutamira (who kicks ass) found no fewer than twelve primary accounts of nineteenth century burials at sea. You know those old people who chuckle over the obituary pages when they find out who they’ve outlived? I was so delighted by the funeral details that I looked just like that. My husband described me as “creepily morbid.”
Yes, the person who stictched up the body in sailcloth was typically the sail maker and the final stitch went through the nose of the deceased(!!!). I didn’t include that detail because William and Buffy wouldn’t have been in a position to know this since the body was prepared before they got there. The nautical specialists believe this final step was to ensure the person was really dead.
Yes, they really did bid on the kits of departed crew members, although the practice was waning in 1880. The amount William bid would have been worth just about twelve hundred pounds in 2005 prices (thank you UK National Archives). The total amount of two hundred pounds raised for George’s mother would have been worth just about ten thousand (2005) pounds – a very nice sum indeed and indicative of the high regard in which he was held. The vast majority of the money was donated by officers and the more wealthy bidders and not average seamen.
Yes, I would have left out the bit about Dru not turning George – but two readers brought that up in reviews! So thanks!
No, I am not, in fact, creepily morbid – at all!
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Author's Chapter Notes:
Thanks to Science and Minx DeLovely for being my Writing Swap Buddies. Thanks to Lutamira, DK and Capella for the beta. In reviews for the previous chapter a reviewer went after my betas. Let me be very, very clear. Any mistakes are mine alone. You wanna vent invective about a dangling participle? Wig out on me alone. Miss Amy did the banner. Thanks to you for sharing your thoughts about this.