"I'm sorry to hear that, Cony," Alan sighed, feeling a wave of sadness. "He had no business getting mixed up in the fighting like us. What a mess. And Captain Cashman?"
"Fine, sir, 'ceptin' a scrape here and there."
"Thank God for that, at least. Wait! Rabbit?"
"Missus Lewrie got away fine, sir," Cony assured him. "Mister McGilliveray took 'er back to 'is people, with your gifts an' all."
"Mrs. Lewrie?" Doctor Lewyss muttered, rolling his eyes. "My, you have been a busy lad!"
"'E said to tell ya, sir, that she'd be took good care of, 'e'd see to that."
"She was a sweet little thing at bottom." Alan nodded. He felt a pang of longing for her, but the idea of being a husband and father made him decide that as Anne Beauman told him, things work out for the best in the long run.
"You do get into the oddest scrapes, sir, if you'll pardon me for saying so," Dr. Lewyss chuckled. "I truly do believe you could turn up a willing tit amidst the agonies of Hell itself. It's not everyone has your success with the ladies, ha ha! Well, that should do you for now, sir. Tomorrow, should you feel up to it, and suppuration has not set in, I shall have you moved to the gun deck where you may get some fresh air and some sun. 'Tis my experience people heal the faster there."
"Thank you, Mister Lewyss, I'd appreciate that," Alan said, and took another deep draught of the brandy. The laudanum was taking effect and the pain was lessening to a manageable level now, and he felt the urge to yawn, perhaps close his eyes for a nap as long as he was flat on his back with no duties to attend to for the first time in years.
"Oh, Cony, did Rabbit receive all her presents when she left?"
"Yessir, she did." Cony nodded, looking as though something was on his mind, but reticent by class or position to mention it.
"Something else you want to tell me, Cony?" Alan prodded, knowing his man's moods by then.
"Well, sir, I didn't want ta mention it much, but…" Cony fumbled, turning red with embarrassment. "I know you was fond o' 'er, sir, but sometimes things work out best."
"Fond of her, yes, Cony, but not about to trot her back to London with me," Alan admitted. "She'd have been unhappy there. Probably been unhappy anywhere close to civilized."
"Well, that's it, sir," Cony said, summoning up his nerve. "When them Muskogee an' Seminolee was adone slaughterin', an' she'd finished puttin' some poultice on yer leg, she an' them other girls went out an'… Lord, sir… ever' man you killed, she took her knife to. Scalped 'em for ya, since you couldn't! Ears an' weddin' tackle an' all, and whoopin' fit ta bust, sir! Never seen the like, an' her a gentle little girl, too, sir, with a baby acomin'! Tried to give 'em ta me in a bag, an' I had ta take it'r shame ya, Mister McGilliveray said, but I put it over the side soon's we were a few mile offshore. Woulda took that poultice off, too, 'cept Mister McGilliveray said they was strong 'erbs in it, that'd draw the poison out, else you'd mortify an' die. Said 'e'd seen it work before, an' it was devilish good medicine."
"Must have worked," Alan agreed after another swig of brandy.
"Aye, sir, that wound wasn't half as angry t'day as it was when I saw ya bandaged there on the beach," Cony agreed heartily.
"Well, let that be a lesson to us, Cony," Alan finally said, smiling. "Never trust a woman with a knife, even the sweetest of 'em. They can be handsome as hell, but they've all got a mean streak when they're crossed. 'Specially after they become wives." He chuckled wearily.
"Yessir, I guess." Cony nodded.
"I think I'll sleep for a while, Cony," Alan said after draining the mug and licking his lips. "You're not harmed? Feeling alright?"
"Aye, sir, right as rain," Cony said, taking the mug from Alan's almost nerveless fingers as he closed his eyes. "You rest up, sir, an' you'll be back on yer feet an' runnin' this ship sooner'n you can say 'Jack-Sauce.'"
"Oh God, do I have to?" Alan murmured just before dropping off.
"Well, I'll say goodbye to you, Alan," Cashman grunted, picking up his weapons kit, now swollen with new items as souvenirs from their adventure. "Heal up and we'll hoist a few for old times soon, I hope."
"Somewhere quiet for a change, Kit," Alan agreed, hobbling to his feet and limping heavily to the rail by the entry-port with his crutch that Mr. Pebble the carpenter had made for him.
"You sound like you don't like excitement anymore. Once you've got two good legs to stand on, there's a world o' fun to be had out there." Cashman laughed.
"Give me a month or so, then I'll be ready for some amusements," Alan prophecied. "Though I'd like my excitement a little less neck-or-nothing than this last little bit. I'll suppose you'll be going back to Florida when we land troops there, since you know so much about the Indians now. Maybe Shrike will be involved in it. We'll see each other then."
"Bless me, Alan, there won't be any landing." Cashman frowned. "With Cowell dead, an' McGilliveray gone native, there's no one to say a good word for the idea, an' I doubt any officer in the West Indies'd spare a corporal's guard in a row-boat on the plan. Mind you, it could have worked, given half a chance."
"Damme, but I'm getting weary of seeing good men die for nothing, Kit," Alan spat, after a long moment to get over his sudden surprise. "Seems I've spent my whole time in the Navy taking part in ventures doomed from the start! Graves in The Chesapeake, Cornwallis at Yorktown, evacuating Wilmington… I could give you chapter and verse from now 'til supper and not repeat myself. Oh, we're good when it comes to the fighting, but witless when it comes to the planning for them."
"All the more reason for fellas like us to live long enough to be generals and admirals," Cashman barked, giving out with a short, bitter laugh. "We couldn't possibly be worse than the pack o' fools we have now. Too used to winnin' in the Seven Years' War, I guess, an' forgot all we learned from that one. McGilliveray was a hopeless stuffy bastard, but he had the right idea, I'll give him that. Least he's enough muskets to keep the Rebels from eatin' his people alive for a time, an' traders'll sell 'em anythin' they want, long's they come up with enough pelts an' hides to swap. Well, I'm off. Back to Lieutenant Colonel Peacock an' his shitten ways. All the best to you. Do write and let me know when you get 'married' again, and I'll be there to stand up for you one more time."
"Aye, I'll keep in touch, but I seriously doubt the marrying part." Alan smiled, taking Cashman's hand and feeling his sour depression lift for a while. He knew that half of it was being so incapacitated, that and the continuing pain of his wound. He truly liked Cashman, odd a bird as he was, and wished to give him a hearty send off. "Keep out of trouble. And should I get another girl in the family way, you'll have to stand up with me, else I'd run for the hills. Farewell, Kit."
"Hoist a Black Drink for me!" Cashman yelled from the boat after he had gotten himself and his dunnage settled, and then he was gone.
Alan waved once more and steeled himself to limp with the crutch aft to the steps to the quarterdeck, wincing with each pace. It would have been so easy to let the surgeons declare him unfit for duty, and he could be put ashore until he was fully healed. But Shrike was his world and he could not bear to leave her for another ship after settling in so comfortably. Better the devil he knew than to be relegated to some new pack of strangers and begin the process of mixing in once more, probably in a larger ship where he would have less authority as a second or third lieutenant. After gaining mastery of his duties well enough to serve as a first officer, he would be damned if he would give it up unless made to do so. So he had risen from his cot the day they had anchored in Kingston harbor, and sweated and suffered to appear fit enough to stay.