Voyage of Ice by Michele Torrey Read Free Book Online Page A

all the while explaining to Elizabeth what she was doing. “'Tis the chafing of the wet oilskins that causes the boils…. And of course, this be frostbite. Cape Horn fever, we call it.”
    They made their way round all the bunks, finally stopping at Dexter's bunk above me. Mrs. Thorndike was talking to Dexter, asking him how he was feeling, when Elizabeth leaned down to me and whispered, “You're staring.”
    I flushed, suddenly finding the underside of the upper bunk most interesting.
    “What's your name?” she whispered.
    But before I could answer, Mrs. Thorndike yanked Elizabeth upright. “Pay attention, young lady. This poor sailor's telling us all about his boils and all ye can do is lollygag. Time's a-wasting.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    “Now I want you to lance his boils, clean them, and bandage them just like I shown you.”
    “Yes, Mother.”
    Soon it was my turn.
    “Why, young man, it doesn't look as if you've set foot out of your quarters for days.”
    “Uh—yes'm.”
    “What's ailing you, then?”
    “I—uh—fell out of the rigging.”
    “Funny, I didn't hear of it. Usually Mr. Thorndike informs me of such occasions.”
    “He must've forgotten.”
    She asked me what I'd hurt in my fall, and I told her, aware that Elizabeth was watching and listening. After my explanation,Mrs. Thorndike began examining me. She was a stern-looking woman, narrow-faced, her faded yellow hair pulled back tightly. Tiny wrinkles played at the corners of her eyes. She looked to be in her mid-forties.
    I winced when she examined my ribs.
    “Does it still hurt?”
    “Yes'm.”
    “Take another week of rest, and then report for light duty.”
    “Yes'm.”
    “Well, Elizabeth, we've done our duty for today. Gather our things together, and mind ye hold on to the lifeline.”
    Elizabeth flashed a smile at me before following her mother out of the fo'c'sle.
    There was a brief silence after they left before Irish said, “Well now, Bones, I think the lass has taken a fancy to the cut of your jib, though why is a mystery!”
    “Must be the dashing air about him,” said another sailor; “you know, his elegance and ease.”
    “Must be all them muscles.”
    “Couldn't be his brains.”
    “Maybe she's just a wee bit seasick.”
    “She'd have to be.”
    “Poor lass.”
    “Ah, don't worry none. Ol' lover-boy Nick will cheer her right up. Ain't that right, Bones?”
    I didn't answer, grinning so hard my cheeks ached.
By fire, I think I'm cured.
    “Good girl, that's my good girl.” I patted Ninny's side as she nibbled my sleeve. Then, after rubbing my hands together, I began to milk the goat. “I know, girl, you miss your baby and my hands are cold, but hold still now. Eat your grain and let me do my job.”
    Goat duty.
    That's what everyone called it. The cook, the steward, everyone thought it was a tedious chore, but I loved it. Besides being a fine producer, giving upwards of a gallon a day, Ninny was a good goat. Friendly and sweet. From the time I first scratched behind her ears, behind her little horns, she bleated for me whenever I passed, straining against the rope round her neck. It was the beginning of February, and ever since being taken off the sick list the week before (not long after Ninny had given birth to a kid that ended up adorning the captain's table), I'd been given permanent goat duty. And though we were headed north now, toward the equator and the Sandwich Islands, it was still nippy.
    “Almost done, girl. Steady there.”
    Someone giggled beside me. “Do you always talk to animals?”
    Startled, I felt heat blaze up my neck. “I didn't know anyone was listening.”
    Elizabeth laughed again and moved closer, the orange tabby nestled in her arms. Her waist-length hair was tied back in a blue ribbon that matched her eyes and her bonnet. A faint scent of lilac caught the breeze. “What do they call you besides Bones?”
    I glanced round quickly. “Who, me?”
    “Of course you, silly.”
    “Nick—I