plucked up the bottle. She didn’t set it down until she had drained it of the very last drop.
Chapter 4
T he surgeon on Jerome’s ship was David Stewart. Like most of his crew, David had been handpicked. He had received his medical degree at the same time as Jerome’s brother Brent, and so, in visiting Brent at school, Jerome had met David. David had come to the Everglades to study some of the practices of the Seminoles. He’d been especially interested in the fact that the Seminoles, like many other tribes across the continent, chose to strip down to war paint and breechclouts when fighting.
Jerome had long sinced learned from his father that the Indians knew—without organized studies or statistics—that bits and pieces of clothing caught in wounds could cause infection and death when a clean wound might heal well. Jerome had always been impressed with David’s ability to study knowledge from any available source. Because of Jerome’s naval successes, his superiors allowed him a choice of men. Naturally, it helped as well that he had his own ships to offer in Confederate service, but he also knew that he hadn’t a temperament suited for regular military duty. He answered to superior officers within the Confederate navy, but for the most part, he captained his own ship, his decisions were respected by others, and as he always produced results, he was left almost completely alone.
As he bathed deck side, first with salt water and a rinse of fresh, Jerome felt David studying him thoughtfully.
“Good stitches. Damned good stitches. Small and neat. You may even survive this one without a scar.”
Jerome shrugged, shaking his hair to lose the excess water. “One fierce, ugly Yank nearly managed to cut myheart out. And though Miss Magee may be a far more lovely enemy, I think she might desire every bit as fiercely to pierce my heart straight through. I think she made the stitches so perfectly small just to be able to stick into me as many times as was humanly possible.”
David grinned. “They’re still damned good stitches. Maybe she wouldn’t mind assisting while she’s aboard. Assuming we have another engagement while she remains our … guest.”
Jerome set down the bucket he’d just emptied over himself, and accepted a towel from Jeremiah Jones, their cabin boy. At sixteen, he was really no younger than many a young fellow who had managed to slip his way into the war, though the minimum age for fighting men, both sides, was supposedly eighteen. The crew kept him out of the hand-to-hand fighting, and he had only been allowed aboard last year because he’d been orphaned by a skirmish in north Florida.
“Has our guest been offered dinner?” Jerome asked Jeremiah.
“Brought her Evan’s best seafood stew just thirty minutes ago, sir.”
“And she didn’t attempt to throw it back at you?”
“She didn’t even rise, Captain, just thanked me as I set it on the desk.”
“You’ve removed all my papers?” Jerome asked.
“Indeed, Captain, the minute you came from the cabin, I did.”
“Go have your own dinner, then, seaman,” Jerome told him.
“Aye, aye, sir!” Jeremiah said, saluting, and disappearing toward the ladder for the lower deck.
“So you’re not going to sail north with her and let her free somewhere near St. Augustine?” David asked.
Industriously drying his hair, Jerome asked, “How can I possibly do that now? For one, my brother’s letter did have a reference on the back to the dates coming up in the next week when the supply of British bandages and Enfield rifles we purchased are supposed to be arriving at Nassau.”
“Yes, but do you think she read that information? From what you said, she seemed to believe that she hadfound nothing but personal correspondences in your desk,” David pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t read the information that Brent sent. If that one pathetically frightened Yank was right, there’s going to be an enemy
Chapter 4
T he surgeon on Jerome’s ship was David Stewart. Like most of his crew, David had been handpicked. He had received his medical degree at the same time as Jerome’s brother Brent, and so, in visiting Brent at school, Jerome had met David. David had come to the Everglades to study some of the practices of the Seminoles. He’d been especially interested in the fact that the Seminoles, like many other tribes across the continent, chose to strip down to war paint and breechclouts when fighting.
Jerome had long sinced learned from his father that the Indians knew—without organized studies or statistics—that bits and pieces of clothing caught in wounds could cause infection and death when a clean wound might heal well. Jerome had always been impressed with David’s ability to study knowledge from any available source. Because of Jerome’s naval successes, his superiors allowed him a choice of men. Naturally, it helped as well that he had his own ships to offer in Confederate service, but he also knew that he hadn’t a temperament suited for regular military duty. He answered to superior officers within the Confederate navy, but for the most part, he captained his own ship, his decisions were respected by others, and as he always produced results, he was left almost completely alone.
As he bathed deck side, first with salt water and a rinse of fresh, Jerome felt David studying him thoughtfully.
“Good stitches. Damned good stitches. Small and neat. You may even survive this one without a scar.”
Jerome shrugged, shaking his hair to lose the excess water. “One fierce, ugly Yank nearly managed to cut myheart out. And though Miss Magee may be a far more lovely enemy, I think she might desire every bit as fiercely to pierce my heart straight through. I think she made the stitches so perfectly small just to be able to stick into me as many times as was humanly possible.”
David grinned. “They’re still damned good stitches. Maybe she wouldn’t mind assisting while she’s aboard. Assuming we have another engagement while she remains our … guest.”
Jerome set down the bucket he’d just emptied over himself, and accepted a towel from Jeremiah Jones, their cabin boy. At sixteen, he was really no younger than many a young fellow who had managed to slip his way into the war, though the minimum age for fighting men, both sides, was supposedly eighteen. The crew kept him out of the hand-to-hand fighting, and he had only been allowed aboard last year because he’d been orphaned by a skirmish in north Florida.
“Has our guest been offered dinner?” Jerome asked Jeremiah.
“Brought her Evan’s best seafood stew just thirty minutes ago, sir.”
“And she didn’t attempt to throw it back at you?”
“She didn’t even rise, Captain, just thanked me as I set it on the desk.”
“You’ve removed all my papers?” Jerome asked.
“Indeed, Captain, the minute you came from the cabin, I did.”
“Go have your own dinner, then, seaman,” Jerome told him.
“Aye, aye, sir!” Jeremiah said, saluting, and disappearing toward the ladder for the lower deck.
“So you’re not going to sail north with her and let her free somewhere near St. Augustine?” David asked.
Industriously drying his hair, Jerome asked, “How can I possibly do that now? For one, my brother’s letter did have a reference on the back to the dates coming up in the next week when the supply of British bandages and Enfield rifles we purchased are supposed to be arriving at Nassau.”
“Yes, but do you think she read that information? From what you said, she seemed to believe that she hadfound nothing but personal correspondences in your desk,” David pointed out.
“It doesn’t matter if she did or didn’t read the information that Brent sent. If that one pathetically frightened Yank was right, there’s going to be an enemy
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