Sinclair stepped to the ladder leading to the storerooms below. The rungs were coated with frost, and as he descended them the oil in the lamp sloshed from one side to the other; wild shadows flickered across the vats of salted pork, dried cod, and hard tack—all nearly empty—and the Chilean rum that the crew had broken into. His own cargo lay just beyond, in a large chest secured with heavy padlocks and chains. At first glance, it looked unsullied.
But when Sinclair bent lower and the feeble glow from the lamp fanned across the top of the trunk, he could see scratch marks and subtle indentations, as if someone had tried to pick the lock or even pry it loose. It came as no surprise. In fact, he could think of only one reason his belongings had not been rifled: The crew not only hated, but feared, him. He knew that they looked on him—a hardened cavalry veteran of the Crimean campaign, and an acknowledged master with pistol, lance, and saber—as someone to be reckoned with. He pulled the collar of his army tunic higher around his neck, then drew from its vest pocket the keys to the chest.
After glancing behind him to make quite sure he was alone and unobserved, he opened the padlock, slipped the wet chain loose, and lifted the lid. Inside, beneath a layer of riding tackle, uniforms, and several books—the works of Coleridge, Chatterton, and George Gordon, Lord Byron—he found what he had come for. Two dozen bottles, bearing the label MADEIRA—CASA DEL SOL, SAN CRISTOBAL, carefully wrapped and packed. He wiped one clean with a pair of riding breeches, tucked it under his arm, and secured the chest again.
Climbing back up the ladder, while juggling the lantern and the bottle, was a tricky proposition, made worse by the sight of Burton lurking at the top.
“Find what you were looking for, Lieutenant?”
Sinclair made no reply.
“Give you a hand there?” Burton went on, extending one mittened hand.
“No need.”
But Burton had seen the bottle by now. “Spirits, is it? Well, couldn’t we all use a warming cup.”
“You’ve been warmed enough already.”
Sinclair stepped away from the ladder and brushed past Burton, then Farrow—who was beating himself with both arms to stimulate the circulation—and once out of their sight, ducked into the galley. He held the bottle near the stove, where a low coal fire still smoldered, to thaw its contents, then returned to his cabin, praying that he would find Eleanor no worse.
As it happened, she was not alone. A guttering light shone from beneath the door, and within Sinclair discovered the ship’s physician, Dr. Ludlow, hovering over her. Ludlow was a revolting specimen of a man, baggy and hunched, with a manner at once obsequious and arrogant; Sinclair wouldn’t have trusted him to cut his hair (another of the good doctor’s shipboard duties), and he especially mistrusted him around Eleanor, in whom he had shown an unseemly interest ever since they had come aboard. At the moment, he was holding her limp wrist in one hand and shaking his head. “The pulse is very low, Lieutenant, very low indeed. I fear for the poor girl’s life.”
“And I do not,” Sinclair declared, as much for Eleanor’s benefit as the wretched doctor’s. He removed her hand from Ludlow’s damp grasp and slipped it under the blankets. Eleanor did not stir.
“Even my leeches are frozen, I’m afraid.”
That at least was good news. The one thing Sinclair knew Eleanor did not need was any further loss of blood. “A pity,” Sinclair said, knowing full well that it was the application of the creatures to Eleanor’s bosom and legs that the doctor most enjoyed. “If you will leave us alone, I can manage quite well on my own.”
Dr. Ludlow gave a cursory bow, then said, “I came with word from the captain. He wishes to speak with you on deck.”
“I’ll be there when I can.”
“I’m so sorry, Lieutenant, but he was rather insistent.”
“The sooner you leave, the sooner I shall speak to the captain.”
Ludlow paused, as if to prove that he had not been dismissed, then left the cabin. The moment he was gone, Sinclair braced a stool against the door and used the dirk sheathed beneath his tunic to open the bottle. “Wait,” he said to Eleanor, though he was not sure if she was beyond hearing, “wait for me.”
With one arm, he raised her head from the makeshift pillow—a bundle of rags stuffed into a burlap sack—and put the bottle to her mouth. “Drink,” he said, but she still didn’t respond. He tilted the bottle until the liquid met her lips, turning them pink, giving them a semblance of life again. “Drink.”
He felt her breath on the back of his hand. He tilted the bottle more, until a rosy trickle ran down her chin and spotted the ivory brooch she wore at her collar. The tip of her tongue appeared, as if chasing the errant drops, and Sinclair smiled. “Yes, that’s it,” he encouraged her. “Take more. More.”