Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum Page A

my ears.
    My master’s unseeing eyes were unmoving, his limbs slack where he sprawled on the deck. His pupils were fixed and wide. A fragment of dark bronze was fixed in the center of his forehead, a ragged star shape of metal, a fine trickle of blood threading down, across his temple, to the wooden planks.
    Ross Bagot put a hand out to me. I was beginning to be able to make out sounds as Captain Foxcroft joined him, his steps causing subtle vibrations in the deck. The captain addressed me solicitously, words I still could not hear clearly. The smoke had been driven clear by the wind now, and I wondered which of these men to send for medicines, vinegar to splash on my master’s face, spirits of wine to awaken his tongue.
    I caught the eye of a ship’s boy, a wide-eyed lad with hair the color of straw. My voice was heavy, my words sluggish, as I directed the lad. “Bring me the doctor’s satchel from the shelf.”
    The boy stared. The captain murmured something to the child, and he scampered off. I leaned over my master and slapped his cheeks. I told him we’d see him right, and very soon, too, imitating the manner and speech William himself had employed during similar crises.
    The ship’s boy hurried back with my master’s satchel, and I found the lancet and bleeding cup within. I would open a vein and drain a cup of blood—a sure remedy for a host of emergencies.
    Like many fighting ships, our vessel had a man of God on board, a straw-haired man with a wispy yellow beard, with no ornament to show that he was a cleric. With every show of prayerfulness this man knelt beside me. I was grateful at the sound of Our Father, in straight-forward prayer-book English. Christ Jesus would aid my master’s recovery.
    I was confused, too. More than confused—the prayer awakened me to a feeling of inexpressible uncertainty. The chaplain offered a prayer for “our departed shipmate,” and I felt an unsteady surge of anger.
    My master was not dead, I wanted to protest, and it was unseemly in the extreme to pretend that he was. I put out a hand to silence the chaplain, and Jack Flagg put his arm around me, despite my protest, saying, “Come away, Tom.”
    I struggled.
    The chaplain and my friend the gunner’s mate were both misguided. My master could look to me for good judgment. I would open a vein, release the dark humors that had captured my master’s senses, and he would be sitting up and asking for a cup of rhenish wine in no time at all.
    â€œOn deck there,” sounded a clear, commanding voice that cut through the ringing in my ears.
    The captain, the gunner, and all the present ship’s company on the main deck straightened immediately.
    Admiral Drake leaned over the quarterdeck rail and gave the order, “Take the surgeon’s mate into my cabin.”
    Firm hands seized my arms.
    â€œAnd Captain Foxcroft,” the admiral added crisply, “look to the ship.”

Chapter 20
    I sat in an oak-paneled cabin.
    Pewter flagons perched on a shelf, held in place by a restraining rail against the movement of the ship. Rolled-up charts peeked out of leather sleeves, sepia coastlines marked with dark brown writing. A compass was fastened to the tabletop, set within a box and kept steady by gimbals, brass pivots that secured the compasss against the motion of the swells.
    A ship’s boy brought a pitcher and poured cider into one of the flagons, a large drinking vessel with a hinged lid, and set it before me.
    â€œAdmiral Drake sends his best compliments,” said the lad, my hearing improving with each heartbeat, “and begs you await him with good cheer.”
    Despite my numb senses, the fact that I was about to have an interview with the great sea fighter made me apprehensive. Was I going to be blamed for the accident with the gun, and its consequence? William would be very angry with me, when he recovered.
    The lad left me alone with my