The brig heaved forward, and Nathaniel braced himself on the bulkhead to keep from tumbling down the hallway. The muscles in his arms and back throbbed. He hadn’t worked so hard in years, not since he’d been a carpenter aboard old Captain Harley’s ship. Known for running his merchantman stricter than a ship of the line, Captain Harley had always had difficulty manning his voyages. But Nathaniel had been young, in desperate need of work, and eager to learn how to sail. In that latter regard, he owed old Harley a huge debt, for the man took him under his tutelage and taught him everything he knew.
Captain Conway was a different animal. His harsh and unyielding command served no discernable purpose other than to exasperate and demean the crew. And he harbored an extra measure of ill will toward Nathaniel. Perhaps he resented Nathaniel’s experience as a captain and feared he would attempt a mutiny. Ludicrous.
The brig canted, groaning like an old woman under the strain, and Nathaniel slammed into the bulkhead, careful not to drop his lantern. Thrusting it out before him, he followed the shifting circle of light through darkness as thick as molasses. He must make his way down to the hold, where he had heard Miss Sheldon was tending a patient.
Gripping the rough wood of the railing, he crept down the ladder as another wave jolted the brig and nearly sent him flying.
Outside the thick hull, the storm pummeled the merchantman with waves as high as a building and gusts of wind strong enough to blow a man overboard. The warning signs had been evident ever since they’d set sail from St. Kitts three days ago: the huge swells rolling in from the southeast, the calm winds interspersed with wild gusts from all directions. The signs of a hurricane—the most feared storm on the Caribbean. He had tried to warn the captain to seek shelter as soon as possible, but to no avail. The stubborn man kept insisting it was naught but a summer squall, that he’d encountered many a storm before in the North Atlantic, and that he’d be dead in his grave before he’d cower before the wind and waves. His eyes had taken on a wild glow as if some wicked force possessed him, and he kept shouting something about his wife and thrusting his fist in the air, cursing at the black clouds.
The man was clearly unsettled, which explained his brutal treatment of the crew but did naught to ease Nathaniel’s fears of what would happen should they enter the hurricane’s path.
At least Nathaniel had convinced the captain to sail south out of the storm’s path before the worst of it hit. And the captain, per Nathaniel’s request, had also brought down the topgallant yards and masts, strapped them to the deck, and secured storm lashings on the guns.
With these measures taken, they might well be out of danger by morning. But the ride throughout the long night would be tumultuous at best. Which was why Nathaniel must escort Miss Sheldon back to her quarters. Down in the hold, she could be crushed by cargo loosened by the storm. The sick crewman shouldn’t be down there, either, but Captain Conway had insisted he remain as far from the rest of the crew as possible so as not to spread whatever disease ailed him.
Thunder growled like a ravenous monster, shaking the brig from truck to keelson, and Nathaniel hurried downward. As he took the last step, the ship lurched, and he tripped. Tiny paws skittered over his bare feet, and he kicked the beast aside. The stench of moldy grain and human waste assaulted him. Bracing his feet over the wobbling deck, he turned left and followed the flicker of a small light in the distance.
“Miss Sheldon,” he bellowed, wending his way toward the light. “Miss Sheldon!”
“In here.” A female voice screeched through the roar of the storm.
Pushing the door aside, he entered a tiny room crammed full with crates, barrels, and sailcloth. A cot protruded from amidst the clutter in one corner. Upon it lay a gaunt man shriveled into a ball, his bony white face a sunken frame of death. Miss Sheldon sat on a crate beside him, lantern in one hand and wet cloth in the other. She turned and gave Nathaniel a weak smile, her eyes moist with tears. The man moaned, and she dabbed the cloth on his forehead.
Dousing his lantern, Nathaniel approached, feeling his own blood drain from his face. He recognized the stench of death, one he’d witnessed many times before—an ugly, cruel force that knew no mercy. An icy chill stabbed him, shoving away the suffocating heat that had enveloped him since he’d descended below deck. “Is there no one but you with medical knowledge aboard the ship?”
“Nay, the captain’s wife used to administer medicaments, but word is she remained behind in St. Kitts with some relations.” Miss Sheldon’s voice strained with sorrow.
“I don’t blame her. The captain probably ordered her to haul barrels all day, as well.”
She glanced his way, a glimmer of approval in her eyes. “You handle his harsh treatment well, Mr. Mason. With a humble spirit.”
He chuckled. “I do not feel very humble.”
The sailor moaned and smacked his lips together, and Miss Sheldon soaked her cloth in a bucket of water and squeezed droplets into his mouth.
The brig jerked to larboard. Miss Sheldon held on to the cot, and Nathaniel, still holding his lantern, threw his back against a stack of teetering crates to keep them from falling. “I’ve come to escort you back to your cabin, miss. ’Tis not safe here in the storm.” He steadied the boxes and nodded toward the sailor. “And regardless of what the captain says, we should take him along as well.”
The angry sea pounded against the hull with the roar of a broadside.
She shook her head. “The captain will not permit it, and I will not leave him.” Facing the sailor, she dabbed the cloth on his neck. “There, there. It will be fine.”
Nathaniel rubbed his eyes, stinging from salt, and squatted beside the bed. Admiration welled within him at the woman’s selflessness.
A few strands of brown hair had loosened from her pins and waved across the back of her neck with every movement of the ship. And though her figure was hidden beneath a plain cotton gown buttoned all the way to her neck, her modest attire did not distract from her beauty.
How different she was from Hope. He had enjoyed seeing the two of them conversing so easily two days ago. Complete opposites standing together on the deck, laughing and chatting as if they’d been friends forever. But then who wouldn’t want to bask in the joy and peace and acceptance flowing around Miss Sheldon like a morning breeze? Like her parents, she would no doubt make a great missionary. He sighed. But not him. Instead of drawing people to God’s love, Nathaniel seemed to push them away.
“I understand your concern for him, Miss Sheldon, but this is more than a summer storm, and we aren’t even in the thick of it yet. You risk your life by staying here.”
Where most people would have expressed some alarm at his statement, Miss Sheldon’s peaceful countenance remained as composed as if he’d just told her there was no sugar for her tea. “You are most kind to come down here for me, but I’m not leaving.”
Nathaniel grunted. If he so desired, he could hoist her over one shoulder and the sick man over the other and haul them wherever he wished.
The sea roared against the hull, threatening to chomp down on the sodden wood with its sharp waves and break through to grab them at any moment. The brig pitched by the bow and plunged downward, knocking Nathaniel to his knees and Miss Sheldon from her crate. Steadying the lantern that teetered precariously in her hand, he assisted her to her feet. “We should not have a lantern lit. I insist you come with me at once, or I’ll—”
A loud moan broke through the roar of the storm. The sailor’s eyelids flew open and his gaze shot around the cabin—surprisingly clear for one so ill—and finally locked upon Nathaniel. Terror screamed from his face. His pale lips quivered. “They are coming for me.”
Nathaniel knelt beside the man. “Who is coming for you?”
“The dark shadows. The dark shadows. Don’t let them take me.” His gaze flickered about the cabin again as if he could see monsters in the corners.
A chill slithered up Nathaniel’s spine. He glanced across the tiny room. Light from the lantern cast eerie, shifting shadows over the bulkheads. Perhaps in his delirium of death, the poor sailor thought they were real. Then why did the hair on the back of Nathaniel’s neck stiffen? And why did a chill envelop him where there should be only heat?
Miss Sheldon’s wide eyes met Nathaniel’s as she lowered herself back to her crate. She patted the sailor’s forehead with the cloth. “Shhh, Mr. Boden. You are merely feverish.”
The pungent smell of decay shrouded Nathaniel, and he grabbed the man’s trembling hand, hoping to offer him some comfort. Soft, icy flesh gripped his. “He has no fever.”
The brig lurched, and Nathaniel clung to the cot, which seemed to be the only thing not shifting in the room.
“He did a moment ago.” Miss Sheldon touched the man’s neck and frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Before Nathaniel could remove his hand, Mr. Boden squeezed it with more strength than Nathaniel would have thought possible from so feeble a man. “Are you the preacher?” he asked, his voice cracking with desperation.
“No. I’m not.” Nathaniel cringed as the truth of his own words twisted through him like a knife. How could the son of a harlot be a preacher?
Mr. Boden writhed on the straw cot, clenching Nathaniel’s hand in a viselike grip. “Don’t let them take me.”
“Shh, Mr. Boden. No one is going to take you anywhere.” Miss Sheldon pressed down on his shoulders, trying to calm him, but he bolted and bucked so violently, she stumbled backward.
Sweat streaked down Nathaniel’s back. An impossible blast of frigid wind whirled through the enclosed space, freezing his sodden shirt stiff. His heart thudded in achingly slow beats as if this ghostly breeze had the power to freeze a man solid. Evil was in this room—the same evil he had often felt as a child in his mother’s chamber.
And he knew exactly what he had to do.
Bowing his head, he prayed for God’s direction and His protection, then gripped Mr. Boden’s shoulders. “They won’t take you,” he said. “Look at me.”
Sweat poured off the man’s forehead, beading into icy crystals. His chest heaved, and his thin lips faded to a pale blue.
“Look at me, Mr. Boden.”
His desperate gaze fixed on Nathaniel. Labored breaths whistled in his throat as he settled back onto the cot. “Help me. Please.”
Nathaniel laid a steady hand on the man’s chest. “I cannot. You must put your trust in the Son of God. Call upon the name of Jesus.”
Mr. Boden began coughing, choking, gasping for breath. He thrashed over the cot. The brig vaulted, toppling Nathaniel and Miss Sheldon. A deep wail roared through the ship as if the sea screamed its fury that it could not breech the hull.
Mr. Boden calmed, his gaze focused on the deckhead above him.
Nathaniel placed two fingers on his neck. “His pulse is weak.”
“Jesus,” the sailor whispered through wet, trembling lips. He let go of Nathaniel’s hand. The terror in his gaze fled, replaced by a soothing peace. He released a long, heavy sigh, and his body stiffened.
Nathaniel held his breath, half expecting the fury of the unnatural cold to take them all in its grip. The icy chill that had consumed the room vanished. In its place, a sweet scent swirled past Nathaniel’s nose. “Thank You, God,” Nathaniel muttered, his voice raspy.
Tears pooled in Miss Sheldon’s eyes. “You did it.”
“I did nothing.”
Thunder boomed. The brig pitched forward. Nathaniel grabbed her arm to steady her and held the lantern with his other.
She glanced at Mr. Boden, a peaceful look on his face. Wiping his forehead, she placed a kiss upon it. “I’ve been speaking to him most of the day about heaven and hell and turning himself over to God, but he wouldn’t listen. Then you stomp in here and reach him in less than a minute.”
“’Twas God, not me.” Nathaniel still couldn’t believe ushering the man into heaven had been that simple.
Miss Sheldon swiped away a tear. “Perhaps I do not have my parents’ gift of spreading the gospel, after all. I wonder if I will be any use in Kingstown.”
If we make it to Kingstown. Nathaniel stood, bracing his feet, and wondered why the waves seemed to be growing in size and intensity instead of lessening. “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful missionary.” Truthfully, he hadn’t the time to discuss it at the moment. He must get on deck and determine their course. He held out his hand. “Will you come with me now?”
She gazed at Mr. Boden. “Should we leave him?”
“He is no longer here.”
“Of course.” She smiled.
Holding her lantern with one hand, she clung to Nathaniel’s arm with the other as he led the way out into the hold. Spotting a pile of ropes, he grabbed them from atop a crate and carried them up the ladder.
His heart squeezed in his chest as he approached the door to the forecabin. He’d managed to avoid Hope for two days, the storm having kept her below. But he couldn’t face her. Not yet. Anger still simmered within him over the way she had offered an open invitation to Mr. Keese to spend time with her whenever he wished. A most inappropriate thing for a lady to say to a man she’d just met.
“Here we are, Miss Sheldon.” Nathaniel halted, taking the lantern from her. “Tell the other women to tie themselves to their beds.” He plucked a knife from his belt and held it out to her, along with the ropes.
Nodding, she took them and disappeared within, not an ounce of fear on her face.
Nathaniel dashed up the companionway ladder. Why didn’t his heart jump when Miss Sheldon was near? Why did it leap only for Hope—a woman who reminded him too much of his mother? Yes, she had vowed to change, but his mother had made similar promises—none of which she had kept. And he doubted Hope would either.
But at the moment, he had more important things to worry about. From the way the ship lurched and vaulted beneath the growing waves, it appeared Captain Conway had changed his mind about heading south. If so, it would be too late to change course. Nathaniel must convince him to seek shelter before the full force of the hurricane struck. The merchantman would sail close to Puerto Rico, and with luck they could find a safe harbor among the bays on the south side of the island.
If they did not, and Captain Conway insisted on running before the wind, Nathaniel feared they all would die.