Suddenly, a rough hand took my wrist and pulled me away. Balthazar. He led me to the sheepdog’s cage, where we could watch from a distance, sheltering us from the coming rain with a canvas cloth.
“Thank you,” I muttered, hugging my arms, though I still wanted to be watching from up close.
“Montgomery says a lady must be protected.”
I looked at him askance. If Montgomery and Balthazar thought I’d never seen a gruesome image before, they were mistaken. I wasn’t that kind of lady. I started to say as much, but Balthazar seemed proud, as if he was protecting a proper young woman, so I kept my mouth shut.
A murmur spread through the men like spring rain, and I strained to hear. I caught only one word, but it was enough.
Alive.
I itched to move closer, but knew I should stay with Balthazar. Another sailor climbed over the side. The line jerked wildly, held fast by the second mate and his watch crew. At Montgomery’s signal, they pulled. Several feet of line came up. The sailors hoisted up Larsen along with the castaway. The unconscious body fell upon the deck, dripping with seawater. The crew swarmed closer.
Unable to resist, I tore away from Balthazar. He called after me not to look, but I felt compelled to, dragged forward by an invisible hand. I slipped quietly among the sailors, catching glimpses between their swarthy frames.
Montgomery rolled the body carefully to its back. It was a young man, a little older than me, unconscious and so battered and beaten by the sea that I couldn’t believe he had survived. His hand clutched a tattered photograph as though, in his last hours of consciousness, the image was all he’d had left to cling to.
I blinked, paralyzed by the image of that bruised hand holding a photograph. A coldness stole my breath. I had been drawn by morbid curiosity like a vulture to carnage. But this wasn’t some lifeless corpse—it was a person, with a heart and a hope. Alive.
I drifted along the outskirts, keeping my distance, almost afraid that if I stepped closer, my curiosity would once again take control of my limbs. I glimpsed a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his leg. I imagined him alone and desperate in the dinghy, tending to his wound and wondering if he was going to die out there.
Montgomery’s lips silently counted the young man’s pulse. “Fetch some water!” he called.
A sailor shifted, giving me a clear look at the castaway’s face. I’d never been one to turn away from blood, but my heart twisted at the sight. A crusted and seeping gash ran down one side of his face, just below his eye. Sun blisters covered his cheeks and forehead. His salt-stained dark hair tangled like the seaweed that washed up at low tide in Brighton. His eyes were closed.
It struck me he was almost a ghost, straddling the fine line between the living and the dead. I wanted him to live, to see again whatever was so important in that photograph, as if it would make up for my morbid fascination.
The rain came harder now. A sailor pushed past me with a flask. Montgomery held it to the castaway’s lips, but he didn’t wake, so Montgomery poured the water over his face instead. A slight moan. A cough. And then the castaway jerked awake, blinking, rain streaking down his face. His wild eyes darted back and forth.
“We found you at sea,” Montgomery said. “Can you speak? What’s your name?”
But the castaway shook his head, muttering something I couldn’t make out, clutching the photograph so hard it crumpled. He grew more agitated with each breath, kicking and tearing at some invisible demon. The gash on his face reopened, and a line of dark blood rolled down his neck.
“Calm yourself!” Montgomery threw his weight on him. The castaway was no match for his size, but delirium made him fierce, and Montgomery had to struggle to hold him down.
“Sea madness,” Montgomery said. “Balthazar, get the chloroform.”
The castaway clawed at the deck, nearly grabbing my foot. Montgomery jerked his chin at me. “Get back, Juliet!” he yelled.
But all I could do was shuffle back a few inches, wondering what was happening in the young man’s mind. He seemed to think he was in some other place. But then his eyes found mine and he stopped struggling, like the mad fog had lifted. Like he remembered something—no, recognized something. An odd sensation tickled the back of my neck. Did he recognize me? I’d never seen him before in my life. His desperation was familiar—I had only to look in a mirror to recognize that—but he was still a stranger. His lips formed a few voiceless words that drew me closer, fascinated, wanting to hear, wanting to know who he was.
“Juliet, I said stay back! He might be dangerous.”