Merline Lovelace by The Tiger's Bride Page A

the lee of the cabin. It was well aft, asthe captain had ordered, but gave her full view of the deck and the sparkling sea beyond the bow.
    The crew continued to eye her askance as they went about their tasks. Sarah caught more than one comment about women being bad joss, even if they could stitch a man’s head as neat as any sailmaker. She endured their mumbling and disapproving glances the rest of that day, and the next.
    On the morning of the third day, Okunah approached her, dragging behind him the youngest member of the crew. The lad, whom Sarah later learned was all of eleven years old, had grown a boil the size of a giant sea turtle’s egg in his armpit.
    The African’s rich voice carried over the sound of the boy’s vociferous protests. “Would ye help me with the lancing, Miss Say-rah?”
    His captive twisted and plunged in Okunah’s hold like a tethered goat. “I don’t want no lancing.”
    “Aye, ye do.”
    When the African reinforced this statement by thumping his free fist against the boy’s head, Sarah scrambled up and accompanied them to the makeshift surgery. She chatted cheerfully to the boy, Henry Fulks by name, about her brothers’ escapades, trying to distract him from the evil-looking knife Okunah put to his armpit. She didn’t think he’d paid her the least heed until he took her hand in a bone-crushing grip.
    “Tell me again about your brother, Harry,” he pleaded. “Did he really set off strings of firecrackers in the chicken coop?”
    “He did. The hens laid no eggs for weeks afterward. That was what convinced Papa to send him back to England to school.”
    “I never went to no school. I…”
    He gave a startled yip. Sarah smiled reassuringly as an astonishing amount of liquid gushed from the boil into the bowl she held at the ready.
    “There, isn’t that better?”
    “Aye, ma’am, it is!”
    The painful pressure relieved, Henry hopped off the table. Another clout from Okunah’s big fist reminded him of his manners. He thanked Sarah with a lopsided grin and raced out of the mess. She could only shake her head at the resiliency of youth.
    Seeing the towheaded Henry rid of his pain put an end to most of the crew’s muttering. But it was Sarah’s unexpected talent as a smuggler that won her their unconditional acceptance.
    She certainly hadn’t intended to involve herself in illegal activity. It came about quite by accident when the Phoenix anchored off the island of Namoa, some three hundred miles north of Macao. Following the captain’s strict orders, Sarah tugged the brim of her borrowed canvas hat down low on her forehead and kept well out of sight. Perhaps she should have retreated below decks, but she found herself quite unable to pass up a firsthand glimpse of smugglers plying their trade.
    The crew had hardly furled the sails before a scow put out from the war junk patrolling Namoa harbor. As the shallow-bottomed scow approached, Sarah spotted an official wearing the red glass button of a mandarin on his black hat. He was seated comfortably in an armchair set amidships and shaded by a large embroidered silk umbrella. A full complement of scribes and attendants accompanied him.
    “Who is that?” she asked John Hardesty, whom the captain had sent to keep a close watch on her.
    The seaman squinted his one good eye at the approaching scow. “I don’t rightly know, miss, but I expect he’s the official in charge of the port.”
    “The official in charge?” Sarah gasped. “Is he coming to arrest us?”
    Hardesty gave a snort of laughter. “He’s a’comin’ for his squeegee.”
    Before he accepted his bribe, however, the mandarin participated in an elaborate ritual to save his face and satisfy his honor. Accompanied by his entourage, he came aboard and accepted the courteous greetings of the captain and the first mate. They seated him comfortably under an awning spread amidships for the occasion and offered wine and a box of cigars. The scent of rich tobacco