Shanna by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
“Fetch the surgeon!” Trahern’s voice rang out in command. “Then make sail for Mare’s Head.”
Shanna gathered Ruark’s head into her lap and brushed his tumbled hair from his forehead. As Pitney bent to straighten Ruark out more comfortably on the deck, he heard Shanna croon very low.
“It’s all right now, my darling. It’s all right.”
Ruark closed his eyes and sank into merciful oblivion.
By midmorning of the next day, Ruark was able to stand with Trahern on the quarterdeck of the Hampstead. He leaned on the merchant’s grotesque black thorn quarterstaff which had been loaned to him—somewhat reluctantly—in lieu of a crutch. Shanna stood between them, clutching her father’s arm while she kept a careful eye on her man. The surgeon had removed several small splinters and threads of cloth from his leg, dressed the ugly wound with pungent salves and herbs, then wrapped it with fresh bandages. Though slightly feverish and a trifle lightheaded, Ruark refused to lie abed. He welcomed the refreshing breeze that swept the quarterdeck and savored the anticipation of sighting Mare’s Head. On the main deck, the crewmen had already checked the long steel sackers, and when the Hampstead dropped anchor just outside the reef of the pirates’ island, the dull silvery gray barrels were loaded and primed.
When all was in readiness, the Hampstead entered the cove beyond the reef.
The scene that greeted them was one of chaos. Boats began setting out to the ships in the harbor. The mulatto had retrieved his ship from the tangle of the swamp, and it now lay close beside the dock. There was feverish activity aboard the sloop and at the shed which hid the guns. Even before the Hampstead was in range, a flash and a cloud of smoke appeared from the sloop, and a column of water rose abruptly a good two hundred yards short of the bow. It was a poor warning shot, for it marked the maximum range of the pirates’ aged guns.
The sound of the cannon was hidden beneath a sharp bark of one of the Hampstead’s sackers, and, a split second later, the other. Thus the battle was begun. A geyser showed short of the sloop, and a huge roll of dust formed on the hill above the town.
In the village there was an abrupt halt to all activity as the guns sounded, for all suddenly realized that the island was not safe, as they had supposed. Suddenly there was a frantic rush of people running to and fro between the houses as they snatched their most precious belongings and tried to carry them to safety.
The sackers barked their staccato duet again, and this time plumes of timber and debris rose above the town. Ruark had an unpleasant vision of the innocents cowering beneath the barrage that descended with merciless indiscrimination upon them. The Hampstead’s gun crews were not skilled in the use of fine pieces; they knew, instead, the haphazard ranging of the older iron and brass cannon. Ruark mouthed a single silent curse and painfully began to make his way to where the gun crews labored. The sackers barked again, and again pointless showers of dust and splintered timbers rose to scatter down on the people. Meanwhile, the mulatto’s sloop was being winched out on her anchor cable, and sails were rising along her mast.
Ruark used Trahern’s staff to brush aside the captains of the gun crews and, seizing a handspike from one of them, aimed the guns himself. Standing back, he raised his arm, and two men stood ready at the touchholes. Ruark dropped his hand, and the deck jumped beneath him as both guns fired in unison. The deck of the sloop became a shambles as the twin shot crashed upon it and brought down masses of rigging and the foremast. Ruark urged the gun crews to reload with all due haste and aimed the pieces again. At his signal they spoke together. This time the pirate ship’s mainmast fell, and she heeled heavily as a long gash opened in her starboard side at the waterline. Men dived overboard as she swung astern against the pier and began to settle in the shallow harbor.
Ruark shifted the direction, and two of the smaller ships bucked in the water as the shots smashed through their sides. Smoke began to pour from one, and the other rammed hard ashore, her crew fleeing into the swamp. More shots were fired until the small fleet was a smoking mass of floating wreckage. Now Ruark set the aim. more carefully, but it still took three rounds before the blockhouse dissolved in an explosion. Again the direction shifted, and Mother’s inn took the brunt of the attack. Nearly twenty rounds had been fired before the facade slowly began to crumble, leaving the interior agape.
Once more Ruark bade the crews reload, and, sighting carefully, he adjusted the barrels. His hand dropped and Shanna stared as the eastern wall and the room wherein they had resided dissolved in a cloud of dust.
From the main deck Ruark called to Trahern, “Unless you wish to slay innocents, the most damage is done. It will be months before a ship sets sail from here. Those responsible for your daughter’s capture are either dead or fled. I await your decision, sir.”
Trahern waved an arm and turned to Captain Dundas. “Secure the guns. Set sail for Los Camellos. We have seen enough of this place. God willing, we’ll see no more.”
The exertion had cost Ruark his strength. He hung his head and sagged weakly against the handspike. One of the gun captains handed him the squire’s staff, and, taking it, he moved a step aft toward the quarterdeck, toward Shanna. His mouth was strangely parched, and his face and arms felt hot while the sun began to make dizzying loops around the masts above him. He saw Shanna running toward him, then the rough deck was beneath his cheek, and the smell of gunpowder was strong in his nostrils. The day grew dark and faded further still. Cool hands were under his neck, and a strange wetness fell on his face. He thought he heard his name called from afar, but he was so tired, so tired. The blackest of nights closed in around him.
Chapter 20
THE SURGEON MUTTERED AND SWORE as he tried to steady the wounded man’s legs against the lurch of the barouche.
“Have patience, Herr Schauman.” Shanna Beauchamp’s voice was soft and sure. “ ‘Tis only a bit further.”
She held Ruark’s head upon her lap and placed a cool, wet cloth against his brow. Trahern sat on the other side of her and studied his daughter in some bemusement. He noticed a new self-confidence and a quiet reserve that he was sure had not been there before. She had made much of keeping a silver dirk. It and a pistol so small as to be almost useless were wrapped carefully in the leather jerkin at her feet. With a single-minded purpose and a tenderness she had shown no other man, she tended this bondslave whom she had once hated.
“The leg festers.” The surgeon’s voice broke into his musings.
Trahern brought himself to awareness and listened to the doctor.
“It should be removed. Now! Before he awakens. The longer we wait, the more difficult the task will be.”
Shanna gazed silently at the doctor and her mind was filled with the terrible vision of Ruark struggling to mount a horse with his left leg gone at the hip.
“Will it save him?” she asked quietly.
“Only time will tell that,” Herr Schauman answered brusquely. “There is every chance he will survive.”
For a long moment Shanna looked down at Ruark. His face held a deathly pallor, and she could find no courage in herself; yet, when she spoke, her voice was both soft and firm.
“Nay, I think our Mister Ruark will fight for his leg as well. Perhaps between the two of us we’ll save it for him.”
Both men recognized her statement as final and said nothing more.
The carriage rattled to a halt in front of the manor and before the horses had stopped their prancing, Pitney, who had ridden ahead, was reaching to take Ruark carefully in his huge arms. Immediately Shanna stood beside him.
“To the chambers next to mine, Pitney, if you will.”
Her father’s eyebrows rose sharply. She had been anxious to see Sir Billingsham quartered completely across the house from her, and now she took the bondslave into her own wing.
Sir Gaylord meekly held the door ajar for the returning party. As Trahern passed through, last in the procession, he paused to consider the knight’s bandaged foot.
“Of course,” the man replied heartily. “Dreadfully sorry I couldn’t go with you, but the bloody animal stepped away just as I— Well, he banged me up, you see, then trod all over it. But it’s mending rapidly.” Gaylord lifted his cane and then winced as he bravely tried the foot.
With a snort Trahern brushed by, struggling with the sneer that threatened to conquer his face.
“The fate of the courageous, I suppose,” Trahern said over his shoulder as he brushed by.
“Aye,” the reply came quickly. “Rightly so. Would have come anyway if it hadn’t happened in the last moment there, but didn’t know how bad it was, or what good I’d be in a fight. There was one, I see.” He gave a nod toward the wounded man being carried up the stairs. “I see you’ve captured that chap, Ruark. Dastardly thing he did, running off like that and kidnapping your daughter. A foul man, to be sure. Get him well enough to stand a hanging.”
It was Gaylord’s good fortune that Shanna was arguing her point with the doctor and completely missed his words. Trahern’s answering grunt was noncommittal; he rather savored the idea of letting his daughter set good Gaylord right in his thinking. He had no doubt that the event would occur soon enough without any urging on his part.
“Join me in a rum while they get Mister Ruark to bed,” Trahern invited and mounted the stairs after the group. “ ‘Twill be interesting to see what they must do to keep him alive for the hanging.”
The knight hobbled up after his portly host as best he could, since no one paused to give assistance. When at the head of the stairs Pitney bore the bondslave off in the direction of Shanna’s chambers, Gaylord managed to disguise some degree of his concern. Still, he hurried to catch up with the squire to bring the matter to the elder’s attention.
“Do you think it wise to have that renegade so close to your daughter’s rooms? I mean, if the chap hasn’t done his worst by now, he’s likely to, eh? The sly one that he is, a lady should take precautions or be reminded of the dangers when she cannot see them for herself.”
Trahern replied with a touch of humor. “I think it wise of me not to deny my daughter anything at the present moment.”
“Still, sir!” Gaylord became adamant. “A gentleman’s future wife can hardly be quartered in the same wing with a knave without some wagging tongue claiming that the good man’s being cuckolded.”
Squire Trahern halted abruptly in his tracks and faced the man, and as the humor faded, a glint of anger shown piercingly in his green eyes.
“I do not question my daughter’s virtue, nor would I believe rumors put to the fore by some rejected suitor or mewling bitch. My daughter has a mind and will of her own and a good sense of what is decent. Do not strain my hospitality by indicating differently.”
A shout from Pitney had sent Berta and Hergus running ahead to the chambers Shanna had indicated, and by the time he came through the door with his burden, they had folded back the linens and placed a double layer as a rest for Ruark’s wounded leg.
The room became a place of activity. Pitney was followed closely by the surgeon who stepped aside to allow Shanna to enter before him. Trahern joined them with Gaylord directly behind him, and the two of them observed the proceedings from just inside the door. Shanna urged their care as Ruark was stretched on the bed. The linen shirt and his stockings were stripped from him. The surgeon directed that a small table be set near for his knives and instruments. Hergus hied to slide one close, glancing anxiously toward Shanna, who had dipped a cloth into a basin of water and had begun to lightly bathe Ruark’s face and chest. The breeches had been split up the one leg to the hip, and as Herr Schauman yanked away the sticky bandage, the maid caught a glimpse of the blood-caked, oozing wound. Unaccustomed to the sight of gaping flesh, Hergus whirled and fled the room, her hand clutched tightly over her mouth. Shanna stared after the woman in amazement. Hergus had always seemed so stalwart and unruffled, not at all inclined to be squeamish.
“Females!” the doctor muttered. He gestured irritably to Ruark’s stained breeches, which were blackened with gunpowder and bore the same acrid scent. “Unless you find your delicate nature abused, girl, I suggest you rid him of those.”
A gasp of astonishment came from the shocked Berta at such a bidding, but Shanna did not hesitate. With her small dirk she reached out to rip the seam of the breeches and had made only a frayed spot at the knee when Pitney brushed her hands away and took out his huge, broad-bladed knife. He separated the garment to the waist with a single stroke and then finished parting the other leg of the garment.
Shanna turned in exasperation as Berta plucked for the third time at her sleeve. Pitney was easing the breeches from Ruark’s slim hips, and the housekeeper raised a trembling hand to carefully shield her eyes from the bed. Her cherubic face was crimson as she cautiously held her gaze upon Shanna’s face.
“Come, child,” she whispered urgently. “Ay tank dis is no place for you. Ve leave dis to the menfolk.”
“Aye, Madam Beauchamp,” Gaylord agreed, stepping forward then wincing and leaning heavily on his cane. “Let me escort you away. ‘Tis certainly no place for a lady.”
“Oh, don’t be an ass!” Shanna snapped. “I am needed here, and I can help.”
Gaylord’s jaw slackened, and he beat a hasty retreat, colliding with Trahern, who had possessed the good sense to leave his daughter alone. But Berta tried again, though her comment dwindled into a confused stutter as, from the comer of her eye, she caught Pitney flinging the breeches to the floor. Seeing the woman’s distress, Shanna laid a comforting hand on the plump shoulder and spoke gently.
“Berta, I’m—I have been married.” Shanna paled slightly as she realized what she had almost blurted out and continued more carefully. “I am not ignorant of men. Now, please, stay out of my way.”
Berta felt herself dismissed and fled to soothe her abused modesty in the fresh air outside the chamber. Shanna leaned across the bed and held the oil lamp high for the doctor who was again probing into the wound.
The leg was propped on a pillow so the doctor could better do his work. He drew out more splinters and, carefully, a coin-sized piece of cloth. Ruark groaned and twisted. He was still deep in his unconscious state, but not immune to the stabbing reality of pain. Shanna cringed; she could almost feel the agony he suffered. She helped swab the fresh flow of blood, aware that her father studied her intently, puzzled over her concern. She could not hide it, nor did she even try. If he guessed there was more to her anxiety than seemed proper, she’d answer to that later. Right now, all that mattered was Ruark and getting him well.
Some of the poisons were washed away with the blood, and Herr Schauman cleaned the ragged flesh and spread his unguents and balms liberally. Then he bandaged the leg with wide strips until it was held almost immobile.
“ ‘Tis the best I can do,” he sighed. “But if the rot should set in, we’ll have to remove the leg. There will be no question then. ‘Tis infected enough already. You can tell by the purplish color and the red which spreads away from the wound. I shall have to bleed the man, of course.” He laid Ruark’s arm so that it projected over the side of the bed and began to set out his knives and bowls.
“Nay!” The word burst sharp from Pitney’s lips. “He has bled enough, and I have seen too many die with their life in a barber’s bowl.”
The German drew back in righteous anger but held his tongue as Trahern spoke in agreement with Pitney. “There will be no bleeding here. I, too, have watched a loved one die beneath a knife, and I do not think it wise to further weaken an ailing soul.”
The surgeon’s lips were white and tightly pressed as he threw his scalpels back into the bag and snapped it shut. “Then I can do nothing more here,” he retorted sharply. “I shall be in the village if you need me.”
Shanna stretched a cool linen sheet over Ruark and touched her hand to his fevered brow. His lips were moving, and his head
“Leave now,” she commanded. “Let him sleep. He will need every ounce of strength. I will sit with him for a spell.”
As Pitney and Trahern went off down the hall, Gaylord paused in the doorway. Though Shanna tried to close the portal, he was not daunted by her eagerness to be rid of him. Taking out a lace handkerchief and daintily touching a pinch of snuff to each nostril, he stepped back into the room and glanced about him imperiously.
“Terribly decent thing you’re doing here, madam, after all this fellow, Ruark, put you through.”
Shanna shrugged in annoyance and tried again to usher him to the door.
“I know you must have suffered hideous atrocities at the hands of the pirates.” Another bit of snuff, a sneeze, and the handkerchief delicately dabbed against his nose. “But I wish to assure you, madam, that my proposal of marriage still stands. And in fact, I would advise the nuptials be spoken with all due haste to quiet the rumors that will no doubt spread of your ravishment and shame. Perhaps you even know of a woman on the island who can be of benefit to us should you carry the proof of your ill use.”
Shanna was aghast and for a moment accepted the affront in stunned disbelief.
“Yet I would not speak of your—ah—adventure to my family. Twill be difficult enough to convince them of your rather questionable heritage.”
Shanna became stiff with fury.
“ ‘Tis charitable of you, sir, but whatever seeds I might have gathered in my—ah—adventure,”—her smile was grittingly sweet—“I will carry through to their fruition!”
Sir Gaylord dusted his cuff as he continued to demonstrate his magnanimity. Surely this common wench would be impressed. “Still, my dear, we should get into marriage before you are disgraced. Should you be found with child, we will deny all rumors, and I shall stand forth as its father.”