Howel Davis (Post 2)

I awoke in pain, groaning. Alone in the cabin, I stumbled off the bunk to where my medicine chest and knapsack had been laid. I needed me some white willow bark. And some more alcohol. The harder the better, as far as I was concerned. I could easily see why pirates guzzled rum non-stop.

I used the piss-pot and freshened up by splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth. Until my arm healed, I would have to get used to doing things one-handed. God, what a dumb move that had been, jumping onto the Cadogan. If I had just stayed put, I would still be with England.

In my restless sleep, I’d dreamed of him. Of his unemotional slaying of the Cadogan captain, of those same cold pirate eyes warming to look at me in adoration. It disturbed me and, at the same time, thrilled me. I did not love England the way he seemed to love me, but losing his companionship, his strong and steady presence, was devastating.

The Cadogan had set sail. Where she was going, I hardly knew, hardly cared. What did it matter? I would never get home, I would never see my family again, and the only person who had meant anything to me in this God forsaken place had abandoned me. Edward England, who would die a drunkard and a beggar in Madagascar… I had never gotten the chance to tell him, to warn him. I wondered now: Would warning him make any difference? Could I change history? And if I could, would it be for the worse? Something about the butterfly effect… Oh Jesus, quantum physics again. I was in no mood for this. It hardly mattered now – who knew if I would ever see England again?

Moreover, now I had another challenge to deal with: I had to pretend to be a boy. Aside from Davis, these sailors were a shady lot, and I wasn’t sure being in their company was any better than hanging out with pirates. I mean, how old was I, for God’s sake? What was my story? Could I keep up the charade long enough to get back across the damn ocean? Didn’t the doctor know I was a chick? How would I keep him from telling everyone? Why on God’s green earth had England left me in this mess? I groaned, hanging my head. I didn’t want to worry about any of this.

“Feeling better, lad?” Howel Davis had come into the cabin, and now he crouched down beside me, trying to look into my face. “Whatever ails you, Will?” He grinned. “Other than your arm, I mean.”

I looked at him and couldn’t help but smile back. It had been a long while since I’d seen a genuine smile. The people of 1718 were not smilers. They were not happy people – unless they were intoxicated. Not that I blamed them. There wasn’t much to smile about. Life sucked, and then you died. But this guy… A common sailor in rags, who’d probably had little to be happy about in his miserable life, possessed one of the most contagious smiles I had ever seen. Jake had a pretty kick-ass smile, in my opinion. This Davis rivaled him, and that was without the dental hygiene of 2009.

He was in his late twenties, I guessed. It was hard to tell with these people, since they aged so quickly. He wasn’t exceptionally tall or built, but he was clearly lean and strong. His face was undeniably handsome. It was something that I noticed suddenly, finally looking beyond the dirty sweat and grime, the shabby clothes, and the half-grown beard. Hey, good genes are good genes, regardless of the time period you live in. He had a strong jaw, a straight nose, and thick black eyebrows over azure blue eyes that were fringed with long, dark eyelashes.

Stop staring, I told myself. A “lad” would certainly not admire a grown man like this. I looked away and frowned. “I’m just… I… I miss my home.” The truth tumbled out, and I decided it worked. I expected Davis to tell me to buck up, grow a pair, or something of the sort. I was a teenage boy, after all, who’d been with pirates.

But Davis just nodded, something wistful in his eyes. “Aye, ‘tis hard, especially for a young lad. I remember my first cruise, crying for me mum when I thought no one could hear me. But it gets better. Hell, it can’t get any worse! You’ve already sailed with the scum ‘o the earth.”

His accent had a pretty cadence. Occasionally I found it difficult to understand. This, however, I had understood, and I quickly said, “Edward England is a good man. He may be a pirate, but he’s honest, and brave, and… enlightened.”

Davis looked amused. “I didn’t mean to insult your uncle, lad. He gave me this ship, he did! He seems to have such a share of reason, as should have taught him better things.”

“I don’t think he had a choice in the matter,” I replied, defensive.

Davis contemplated this. “Choice is a funny thing, ain’t it? You think you have it, when truly it has you.” He stood, going over to Skinner’s chest and opening it. “See now, it would be so easy to just go on the account.  ‘Tis not an honest living, to be sure, but ’tis better than this punishment aboard a slaver, where the food and wages be poor and the fear ‘o death hangs over our heads in any case.”

I froze for a second, digesting what I’d just heard. “What did you just say?” I asked in a small voice. “Did you just say slaver?”

Davis, who was crouched before the big trunk, looked up at me in puzzlement. “Aye, the Cadogan is a slave-ship. Did you not know it?” He sighed heavily. “A wretched, cruel traffic.”

I shook my head, stunned. “You’re saying that there is human cargo in the hold of this ship?”

I could hardly tell what Davis was thinking, watching the horror dawn on my face. “Aye,” he replied soberly.

I couldn’t stay here! God, I was on a slave-ship! I felt the bile rise into my throat. Davis must have read the disgust on my face, because he said, “Many years back, when I fancied meself cunning enough to evade the artifices of the Guinea merchants, I fell in debt after brawling with one in a tavern.” Davis shrugged, sheepish. “I was young, you see? The merchant and the landlord were in on it together, getting drunken sailors in debt so they were forced to serve. Banged up the place good. The dogs knew they had me – the landlord made up some ghastly sum, and said I had to go aboard a slaver to settle me debts. I refused, but when I come to look for other employ, I find that no other ship’ll take me.” Davis sucked in a deep breath through his nostrils, clenching his jaw. The expression on his face was angry, spiteful. “A jail-bird, I was, and slaving was me only choice.”

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath. I opened them again to find Davis scowling. “Where are you from?” I asked, wanting to change the subject. I could do nothing about being on a slave-ship at this point. I also wondered about this sailor who’d suddenly been thrust into the position of slave-ship captain, who looked like a man who had never known any sort of luxury.

“Milford Haven, Pembrokeshire,” he replied. When I stared blankly, he added, “Wales. And yourself?”

Shit. “Um, Virginia,” I replied, caught off guard. I had to get my story straight, and fast. I quickly returned the questions to Davis. “Have you always been a sailor?”

“My people are cattle farmers,” he replied. “Herded cattle until I was twelve or thirteen. But I was not for that life. Meant for the sea, I was.” He pulled out a fine blue broadcloth coat from Skinner’s trunk and examined it, rubbed the fine material between his rough fingers. I could see the hunger on his face, the longing. Then he looked at me, a mischievous glint in his blue eyes, fighting a smile. “You’ll not rat on me if I try the coat on, will you?”

I blinked, surprised but amused. “I’m not a rat,” I replied.

Satisfied with my response, Davis slipped into the fine coat, buttoned it, then pulled a Chantilly lace cravat from the dead captain’s trunk and tied it about his neck. Finally, he donned a gold-trimmed tricorn hat and struck a pose. He put his heels together, toes pointing outward, laid one hand on an imaginary sword at his hip and tucked the other hand behind his back. He lifted his head so that he was looking down his nose at me, and raised an eyebrow in mild distaste. He spoke with a very proper English accent, his voice slightly nasal: “I am a gentleman, that is, a man of quality, and I do not kill my fleas or lice or other such vermin in the sight of others, nor do I bedew any man’s face with my spittle. I do not put my hands to any part of my person not usually discovered, and I do not shift myself in the sight of others.” Davis looked quickly around, as if checking to make sure no one was watching, and then grabbed at his crotch, “adjusting” himself.

In spite of it all – gunshot wound, abandonment by England, and the sudden horrific realization that I was aboard a slaver –  I laughed aloud. This Howel Davis was not just brave, he was playful and good-natured, even if he was first mate – no, captain – of a slave-ship. “That was very good,” I said. “You missed your calling as an actor.” Then I wrinkled my nose. “Doesn’t it bother you, wearing a dead man’s clothes?”

Davis cocked his head to the side, considering. “No. Someone must wear them. Or would you have them go to waste? Besides, Skinner was a cold-hearted bully. Treated the slaves like animals, and his sailors worse. Killed three ‘o his sailors just to keep the others in line, even made a few slaves whip ‘em for fun.” Davis got that look in his eye again, that angry, vengeful look. “I don’t know what that pirate quartermaster had against him, but it could’ve been anything – withheld wages, the killing of an innocent man, a beating for sport… No, the world’s a better place when he’s not in it, but he needn’t take his fine clothes with him, eh?” With that said, he removed the hat and made a sweeping bow, grinning as he came up. “All I need now is a powdered wig and a couple of heels to mince around in. What a fop I’d be!”

“Would you like that?” I asked, curious.

He shrugged, dropping the hat back into the trunk. “For a moment. But there’s too much of the rogue in me for it to last.” He winked at me, very nearly making me blush, and then his expression changed to one of concern. “There, now. You’ve soaked through your bandage, Will. You’ll be needing clean linen for that arm. I’ll call the surgeon.”

“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t do that. I’ll do it myself, if you’ll help me.” I reached for my medicine chest and lifted the lid. I had strips of clean linen for such an occasion, although I must admit, I hadn’t thought I’d be using the linen on myself.

Davis eyed my trunk full of bottles and tin boxes. “What’s this? Are you a physician as well?”

“No…” I started to sweat. “There was a surgeon aboard the pirate ship who… took me under his wing and taught me… some things. I want to be a doctor someday.”

Davis was trying not to smile as I carefully unwrapped my arm. “You’re a bad liar, Will.”

I feigned indignation. “I’m not lying! Really! I know a little bit about medicine and – ”

Davis cut me off. “It’s no matter to me, lad. I’ll not ask questions. My word was to the pirate England, to take you back to Barbados and be sure you’re safe.”

I was relieved. Silently, I cleaned my wound with alcohol and bound it again in linen. Davis watched with interest. I said, “Cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

Davis chuckled at that. “Indeed? Then I am a demon in the flesh!  I stink something foul.” He sniffed his armpits for emphasis.

Once again, I cracked a smile. “When was your last bath?” I asked.

His eyebrows shot up. “Bath! Why, it’s been a good many months. But a fortnight ago we were hit by a storm, and I was drenched.” He then looked at me strangely. “When was your last bath, lad?”

Careful, Sabrina. The man had the ability to loosen my tongue, to lower my defenses with his easy, honest manner. I turned away, pretending to be occupied with my medicine chest. “Oh, a very… long time ago. But I hear it can help… maintain one’s health.”

Davis sat in a chair and leaned back, crossing his legs at the ankles. “Ha! Well, it’s certainly not the fashion yet, especially not in the French Court. I hear they reek something fierce.”

There was a knock at the door, and a pale, thin-faced sailor entered. His dark eyes darted from me to Davis. “So you’re cosseting the lad for that rover, are you?” the sailor said curtly.

The smile left Davis’ eyes. “That rover left us our ship with the cargo intact,” he replied, his tone relaxed.  “He did not press any of us to join him.”

“Aye,” the sailor replied brusquely, “and he left you cap’n!”

“I was first mate,” Davis said evenly. “I’ll remind you that ’twas not me who condemned Skinner. Blaine did that, so mayhaps you should have words with him?”

The sailor grimaced. “We’ll be charged with mutiny when we get to Barbados.”

Davis seemed unconcerned. “We have a witness who will say otherwise.” He nodded at me, then crossed his arms on his chest and watched as the sailor left in a huff.

“What’s his problem?” I asked in a whisper.

Davis rolled his eyes. “Ned Taylor is a sneaking puppy. He kissed Skinner’s arsehole and only ever made second mate. Then there’s the small matter of a maid back in Bristol. He fancied her for a wife, but she fancied meself, as it were.”

Why did my mouth suddenly go dry? I managed to ask, “So you married her instead?”

Davis laughed. “Married! Egad! Nay. On my soul, the lass knew I’d not marry her, for I told her straight. I haven’t money for a dram of brandy, let alone a wife.” He stretched, stood, and said, “When you feel up to it, Will, I’ll give you some duties on deck. ‘Til then, take your rest.”

  Copyright protected by Digiprove © 2010

Next Post