The Delirium Passage Read online

  Neville was partially aware of the rough treatment that followed – being carried down the companion and another deck into the darkness of the ‘tween decks, and his arrival in sick bay.

  Whether immediately or sometime later, Miller’s face appeared above him again. “Doctor has removed the splinter and dressed your wound.”

  “Splinter – where?”

  “Right arm, Sir. Doctor says you have no broken ribs, but you’ll have big bruises.”

  “From what?”

  “Mizzen course yard fell across you.”

  “Why am I alive, then?”

  “You were in the middle. The binnacle held one end – the wheel and compass are smashed, Sir – and t’other landed upon the hog pen. The huge one smoothed the fall of the yard, Sir.”

  “The battle’s not over, but as you are now moving, can you come on deck, do you think?”

  “I can’t believe I am here now.”

  “I understand, Sir – a close call, indeed.”

  “No, not that. A dream? The whole thing, perhaps? Uuugh! My chest feels like an elephant sat on it; and my head – oooh.”

  On Miller’s arm, Neville struggled to the deck. La Desirée fired another broadside to larboard.

  “aaaahrgh – the sound of cannon does not help my head any, nor does the smoke.”

  Neville looked skyward, where he saw a missing main topgallant mast – and a space where the mizzen course should have been. Fore and main courses were furled. Topsails and jibs still flew – or rather, hung limply.

  Cannon continued to roar all around them, with smoke so thick the ships downwind were only seen intermittently. La Desirée was of no value as signals relay for Victory if she could not be seen for the cloud of smoke.

  I will not be able to stand here much longer. He reached for the larboard rail, but his hand missed. His knees buckled, and he dropped to the deck. Where did Marion and Ellen go…?

  * * * * *

  “He’s been babbling like this for twenty minutes or so, Ellen. I’m having a hard time sorting it out. He definitely thinks he is somewhere else – maybe aboard his ship at the Battle of Trafalgar. I know he suffered an injury in the battle, so his experience certainly may have something to do with it. He raises his hands, like he’s reaching for something, and then acts like he’s tying a rope. When he talks, his eyes roll back or look up to the side, and he’s not talking to me, but someone else. Then, he talks to me, and asks, ‘Do you see? That sloop, there? She signals!’ or some such nonsense.”

  “I’ll fetch the doctor again. He might possibly have some different potion for the incoherence.”

  Ellen returned shortly with Dr. Stortford, who stood listening to Neville babble for a few minutes before he apparently came to some conclusion. “Keep him as calm as you can,” he said at length, “and continue with the cool cloth on his forehead. I will return shortly with a poultice that should make a great difference.”

  Marion found holding his hand helped him to calm. “The battle is over, Neville. You’re home now.”

  As Ellen entered with another damp cloth, Neville mumbled, “Thank you, Mary…”

  “Did he say Marion or Mary, Ellen?”

  “It sounded like ‘Mary’, but that’s the first part of your name of course, and he’s fallen off to sleep in the middle of it – without babbling, it appears. Let’s not wake him.”

  They left him snoring peacefully. Marion’s hand trembled slightly as she closed the canvas-and-frame door.

  Ellen must have noticed. “Do you need a strong drink?”

  Marion’s trembling increased slightly. “Yes, it might help, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  Ellen put her arm around Marion’s shoulder, and Marion let out a single desperate sob, before regaining composure. Her facial expression changed from despairing to resolute. Marion looked at Ellen with damp eyes, and said, “I can’t simply sit by and watch, Ellen. I must do something. I’m going up to see Master Carstens.”

  “What can he…?” asked Ellen, but Marion had gone.

  Marion found Master Carstens on deck, pacing the lee side of the deck by the helm. The weather had been fair and much warmer when she had been on deck in the morning, and certainly warmer than it had been when they left Baltimore, but it looked as if it might be worsening. The serious look on Master Carsten’s face gave Marion to suspect he had some concern about the change. The south-westerly breeze still carried the chill of snow on land a couple hundred miles west of their position, and clouds had begun to clutter a previously clear sky. The seas, also, were more boisterous than before. Marion moved cautiously across the deck, seeking handholds wherever available.

  “Hello, Master Carstens, may I have a word?”

  “Certainly, Miss. May I ask your concern?”

  “Concern?”

  “Why, yes. You seem… distressed. I know Captain Burton is ill, and I am sorry for it.”

  “Yes, and I have checked with Doctor Stortford about Mister Barron. It appears he is not improving, either.”

  “Excuse me, Master Carstens,” said a voice behind her.

  She turned to see a stout fellow only slightly taller than she, holding his hat in two hands. “I have a message from the doctor for Miss Stillwater.”

  “Deliver it, please.”

  “Doctor asks if you will step below, Miss, as Captain Burton has taken a tumble.”

  “A tumble?” Marion blurted. “He’s supposed to be in bed!” She raised her skirts and ran for the main hatch stair.

  “What’s happened here?” she asked the doctor when she found a small gaggle of men attempting to slide Neville out from under a table in the general mess.

  “Apparently, Capt. Burton got out of bed and proceeded to the mess. We don’t know why he did so, but he was obviously unsteady on his feet. The ship’s motion undoubtedly upset him and he has fallen to the floor and slid beneath this table here. We’ll have him out in a minute.”

  “He’s had a good thump on the head, Doctor,” said one of the men. Neville had now been pulled from under the table onto the open deck. A thin stream of blood ran down his cheek and trailed along the floor.

  “Let’s have a look,” said Dr. Stortford. He bent over and examined Neville’s scalp. “He’s taken quite a thump. The cut is small, but he’s got a serious lump. Let’s return him to his berth, if you please, men.”

  “Will he be worse, Doctor?” asked Marion. Her unsteady, despairing voice had returned.

  “I’ll be honest, Miss Stillwater. He may be. We’ll have to wait to see. I believe I have some laudanum which might be helpful in this situation, and I still need to get the poultice onto him. The motion of the ship seems worse now, as well. I think we should tie him into his berth for his own safety.

  “Yes, I talked with Master Carstens on deck just now, and I think he is worried about the weather. I believe I shall go above again and implore him to change course for some port where we might find more help for our two sick passengers.”

  “While I might take offense that you think my care unsatisfactory, I agree with your decision. They might both be better off without the rough motion of the ship. Mister Barron does not seem to be responding to the slime draught I gave him a couple hours ago.”

  Marion returned topside to find Master Carstens, standing still athwartships, with his hands behind his back. The clouds to the south of them now looked darker than they had before and the color of the sea had turned from deep blue to steel gray. The wind had increased, too, hardening the sails and holding the ship’s flag stiff and flat, with only the trailing edge of it snapping constantly.

  Master Carstens watched her come up the companion stair and politely approached her. “You shouldn’t be here now, Miss Stillwater. You can see the weather is worsening, and we’ll surely soon have rain, as well. How is the Captain faring?”

  “Master Carstens, I have come to beseech you to change course for some American port before it is too late. Both Mister Barron and Capt. Burton are i
ll, and as you heard, my fiancé took a tumble, giving him a lump on the head. His condition may suffer further. Doctor does not disagree that the two of them might be better in unmoving beds.”

  “I have been thinking the same, Miss Stillwater, while studying the weather before us. As it looks worse further south, I am inclined to agree with you and turn west. Nay, you have convinced me. We shall change course shortly. I caution you, however; we should still expect angry seas as we cross the Great Stream again, which lies between us and the shore.”

  After seeing the weather above, Marion happily went below, and proceeded to Neville’s cabin. As she arrived, the doctor finished smearing a poultice on Neville’s chest with something smelling strongly of fish oil. Neville also had a bandage tied ‘round his head with more of the same potion smeared where Marion had seen the lump.

  “Hello, Miss Stillwater. It smells bad, I know, but I believe this should help considerably. I believe he almost regained consciousness, although he didn’t speak. It may help to talk to him as he lies there. I’ll leave you to it for now, and you may still wish to keep his forehead cool.” To Neville he said, “We’ve tied you into your bunk, because we expect there may be a storm. You’ll be fine – bruised and dazed, sure, but you’ll live. We don’t see any cuts or broken bones.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Marion said as he departed. Marion sat with Neville for a few minutes, telling him of her love for him and her expectation of a quick recovery and gave him a summary of the master’s expectation of the weather and intention to change course for shore. She mopped his forehead a few times with a damp cloth, although it didn’t seem terribly hot. She soon retreated from the extremely odiferous cabin. Neville appeared to be in a deep sleep when she left.

  5: Relapse

  Neville awoke to the sound of water swooshing along the hull and the ship’s motion – rising on following seas and sliding steadily down their backs. He did not instantly wake but slowly became more aware of his surroundings, which included the bed he was in – his berth presumably – though he did not recognize it. The room was neither the captain’s cabin of his frigate, La Desirée, nor his passenger cabin aboard Speedwell.

  The motion was considerably less than he remembered when he last perceived Dr. Stortford at his side. He called, “Halloo!” and in doing so, realized a great pain across his chest. An unfamiliar man walked into the cabin when Neville moaned, “Oh, my chest hurts!”

  The man looked down at him and asked, “Anything else?”

  Feeling great pressure in his chest, Neville answered weakly, “I… I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you’ve had a nasty knock on the head, too. You don’t feel it?”

  Neville raised his hand to his head and immediately felt a large lump. “Oohh, I do now, thank you. Who are you?”

  “I’m what passes for a doctor on this ship. You should know. You signed me on. You should live, though. We worried for a few hours and have changed course for Charles Town.”

  “Why Charleston?”

  “They say Charles Town. My apologies, Master. I shouldn’t think to criticize at all in this situation. Because it’s the last port north of Spanish Florida, Master Burton. But, as you may be with us now, maybe we’ll not go in. You have a few hours to decide.”

  I have to decide? I am the master of the ship? And he said “Spanish Florida” I haven’t heard that description in years. “Doctor, what ship is this? Whither do we sail?”

  “What ship? Yours – or your father’s, really. You don’t remember much, do you? Here, take a tot of brandy. Night’s coming on now. You’ll feel better come sunlight, and we will look for your decision on Charles Town… and I’m not really a fully qualified doctor, Master.”

  Despite the rather shocking statements of the ship’s doctor, Neville couldn’t keep his eyes open for more than a few minutes. The iron brandy cup fell to the floor after his second sip. He awoke to a less active motion of the ship and moved himself to sitting position on his berth. What did the doctor say? My ship? My father’s ship? Ooh, my head hurts, and my chest hurts, but I must find someone to ask where I am. And perhaps coffee and collops.

  He struggled to sitting and then to the floor, and from there found his way forward to the main salon wearing nothing but his night shirt. The salon was vacant. All seamen were either aloft changing sails or asleep in their hammocks. He heard the cooks cleaning up after breakfast. He forced his way to the main hatch stair and put his foot on the first step, which went well, but the effort needed to move the other foot to the second step surprised him. His head throbbed. Someone behind him called.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Master Burton? You’re supposed to be in your berth.”

  “Looking for information. Who might you be?”

  “First mate Arnwell. Meaning no disrespect, Sir, but if you’re not well, you ought be in bed.”

  Neville paused a minute to study the man who claimed to be his First Mate. Arnwell was a tall, stringy fellow, maybe two inches more than Neville’s six feet, but thinner. He gave the impression of having great strength, though Neville wasn’t sure why such a thought came to him – perhaps the firm but gentle voice and calm gray eyes. Other than rather long, puffy sideburns, he was clean shaven. His plain gray dress gave Neville to believe he might of some American religious order, although Neville knew such sects not a whit. In short, the man seemed a bit of an enigma, except for his standing there in the flesh.

  “I may not be well, but I need to know what ship this is, and where we are bound. The doctor said this ship is mine, and we’re bound for Jamaica.”

  “He told no lie, Master Burton. Neville’s Return is yours.

  Neville’s Return? Father named this ship after me?

  “We stood from Boston these eight days past with a load of lumber for Jamaica and a purpose to return to Norfolk with molasses and sugar. We were delayed a week by a snowstorm, yet we still ran into a rough storm afterwards, and you took a serious tumble down the main hatch, if you remember. Even with all this, our passage should end close on schedule. You’ve had quite a knocking about, Sir, but we still need to know your pleasure on the course. Shall we put into Charles Town for your health, or return to our course for Jamaica?”

  He stood for a moment trying to decide whether to return to his berth or climb the stair.

  “The date. What is it?” He asked, at length.

  “You haven’t been unconscious long, Master Burton. It’s only Tuesday. The storm seems to have blown over. We’re off Charles Town now; less than a day away.”

  “Fine, fine, but what’s the date… year and all?”

  “April 12, 1717”

  Feeling a sudden flush, Neville sat on the stair and groaned. Not again! How could it be 1717?... am I forever here? I have lost Maria. I am meant to be with Marion. Does father not know?

  “Back to bed with you, Master. Him what passes for your doctor will bring you something. Do you… do you have any decision?”

  “Set course for Jamaica. I have no interest in Charleston.”

  In the cabin, Neville dropped into his chair, feeling like a dog kicked by a horse. He heard the sounds of the course being changed within minutes: the tramping of feet – but no marines’ boots stomping about – the creaking of hemp through blocks, a bit of chanting forward. The ship’s attitude changed as well. She stood taller as the wind moved abaft, rather than forward, of the beam, and the motion smoothed somewhat, despite the patter of raindrops growing loud enough to be audible even below decks

  Neville awoke a full day later – and obviously in the early morning. He smelled breakfast. He pushed himself to rise, and even found clothes to fit him in a locker which looked as if it belonged to the ship’s master. He put something on without much thought to proper appearance, ignored his hair except for tying it away from his face, and completely forgot to shave. He did feel better this morning, and hungry. As far as he knew, no doctor had come. He found no bandages or plasters, even on his bruised head.
A few men wished him a good morning, and he responded as cheerily as he could muster, although they were strangers to him. The coffee tasted good. He brooded over it for a few minutes and then ate the collops set before him. The food gave him a small rush of energy, so he decided he should investigate the ship he now commanded.

  The First Mate he had met the previous night stood at the windward rail near the ship’s binnacle. His appearance brightened when he saw Neville. “Good morning, Master Burton. I’m pleased to see you up and about. How do you feel?”

  “I’m not at my best, Mister…?”

  “Arnwell, Sir. First mate. I see you don’t remember everything yet.”

  “I feel rather blank about this whole thing, Mister Arnwell. I’ll need you to fill me in on much of it but keep it between us as best we can. I don’t need the men thinking I’m in my dotage. What’s our situation?”

  “Bound for Jamaica, as I said, but we’ve come in close ashore thinking to put in at Charles Town for your health. We came about last night, but still need to cross the Great Stream again, eastward-like. If I might suggest, Master…”

  “Yes, please do.”

  “I recommend we sail in haste. We’ve seen a ship we think might be following us, but she seems to have left us once we got close in to Charles Town. This area is thick with pirates, so we should run south as fast as ever we can.”

  “Is this ship reasonably fast, Mister Arnwell?”

  “Fair, Sir.”

  “Please allow me to think on it for an hour or so. I shall be in my cabin.”

  6: Return to Speedwell

  “He’s in a delirium now, Ellen, babbling more than ever,” Marion said. “I don’t think I can take much more of this.”

  “You’ll make it.” She moved to the bedside and gave her friend a hug. “Shall I fetch the doctor?”

  “No. He’s just left to find something else to try. What’s Neville saying now?”

  “I can’t sort it out, Ellen. He thinks he is somewhere else, for sure, but now I can’t tell if he thinks he’s aboard his ship at the Battle of Trafalgar – where he hurt his chest – or on some other ship which he thinks belongs to his father. I’ve not heard him speak of his father at all before this, nor any ship his father might own. Now he’s moaning ‘not again’, and stuff like ‘how can it be 1717? Am I forever here? And then, Ellen, he cries out that he has lost Maria – not Mary this time, but Maria. Who are these women? He’s never spoken of anyone else. Does his money come from family? Is he the son of a shipping tycoon? This is just getting worse. I’ll certainly have to ask Father if he knows anything.”