Ship of Fire by Michael Cadnum Page B

disordered fears. I would be accused of some felony, and spend the voyage in chains, my future among rats. I made no move to drink, although I kept my hand on the flagon to keep it from skittering off the table.
    I stood at once as Admiral Drake entered the cabin.
    His cheeks were ruddy, flecks of spray even now soaking into his brightly colored doublet. He unfastened the rapier from his waist, and set the weapon on the floor. He motioned for me to sit, but I would not.
    He poured cider from a silver pitcher and drank.
    â€œHe’s dead,” said Admiral Drake.
    My ears were still ringing somewhat, but I could make out his speech, and indeed the subtle sounds of the ship all round, clearly enough. The admiral’s words, however, carried no meaning that I wished to take in.
    The admiral continued, “We’ll have the prayer book service for burial at sea this evening, at the set of sun. It is a pity. He was a good doctor, and an honest man by every account, but now he’s gone to God.”
    I kept my mind a perfect blank.
    â€œYou understand me, don’t you?” said the admiral in a gentle but probing voice.
    â€œI need to go to him,” I heard myself manage to say.
    â€œYour master is killed,” he said, “as you must know. The gun burst into pieces. It’s rare but not unheard of. A fragment smote him, and you will not serve him anymore.”
    His accent was very much that of the Dartmoor neighbors of my boyhood. Yew-er mauster iss killt .
    â€œI know far more about medicine,” I said, forgetting every courtesy, “than any of this ship’s company.” I was immediately ashamed of myself for speaking so bluntly to this great man, and I silenced myself.
    â€œIt delights me to hear it,” said the admiral. “But your master is with Jesus.”
    Each heartbeat hammered this tidings into me. I looked away. I closed my eyes and opened them again, perhaps hoping that this ship’s cabin, the vessel, would prove a mere nightmare.
    â€œThen,” I rasped, “I must go back to England.”
    â€œHow?” he asked.
    â€œIn one of the ship’s boats,” I said. “A pinnace, perhaps.”
    He gave a gentle laugh. “Thomas, you will voyage with us.”
    â€œBut with no master to serve—” I faltered.
    I wept, then, wordless, a breaking of my soul that left me baying like a beast for a long while.
    When I could speak again, I heard the admiral’s gentle command, “Take a sip of good cider, Thomas. And sit down.”
    I did sit, and the admiral joined me, pouring himself another serving of golden brown cider. I could not keep from noticing that he handled both the pitcher and the flagon a little clumsily, using his gloved right hand sparingly.
    â€œSir, I will go home,” I insisted, taking a swallow of this strong, warming drink.
    â€œAnd leave my ship without a surgeon, Thomas?”
    â€œI am no surgeon, my Lord Admiral.” Despite my great grief I was clear-headed enough to employ proper courtesy.
    â€œIf I say you are a surgeon,” said Admiral Drake, “then you are one.”
    â€œI know too little of green bile,” I protested, “or the dangers of excess phlegm, or the right quantity of aniseed for curing fever—if that is what it’s for.”
    â€œA surgeon bleeds the feverish,” said the admiral, “cuts off the blasted limb that offends the body’s health, and gives strength to the uneasy soul.” He leaned forward. “We are two red-haired men with accents much alike, and I’ll wager you, too, have a preference for cider over beer.”
    â€œI like beer as well as cider—” But I recognized the truth in what the admiral was asserting. Our cider is a bracing fermented drink, and West Country apples are renowned.
    â€œYour family must have lived near mine, Thomas.”
    â€œI was a boy in Moreton.”
    â€œNot a day’s walk