There was no sign of the Hoop. Whether it had sunk, or merely been driven far away by the tempest, David had no idea.
But there was work to be done. A lot of it. The storm sails, especially the fore staysail, were now somewhat the worse for wear. The fore staysail had so many eyes that Philip likened it to what he called “Swiss cheese.” One by one, the crew unbent the storm sails, and set reefed ordinary sails. They found that a stay had stranded, and replaced it, and generally put the ship back into order.
The wind abated further, and they were able to shake out the reefs. But while the ship now looked much as it had before the hurricane, the storm had exacted a toll.
“All hands, bury the dead,” David ordered. Here was a sailor who, weakened by some tropical disease, had died of exposure. There was one who had fallen from a spar while trying to put another reef into a sail. A third had been picked up by a rogue wave, and had his skull dashed against a mast. Their bodies were sewn up in their hammocks, and double shotted. The Reverend Rishworth conducted a memorial service. Then, three times, David said the words, “We commit his body to the deep.” Three times, a corpse was slid into the waters. There, according to the minister, “to be turned into corruption, looking for the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead.”
After a short but uncomfortable silence, the crew was sent back to work. “Hands to braces,” David ordered.
The next day, they found the Hoop. It had lost a mast, and was traveling under a jury rig. The flotilla headed for the Georgia coast, to take on fresh water and make those repairs best carried out at anchor. The local Indians didn’t attempt to trade, but at least they didn’t attack, either.
* * *
It was a beautiful day, the hurricane had moved on or fallen apart, the ships had resumed a northward course and were now happily ensconced in the Europe-seeking westerlies, and David was once again at peace with the world.
Philip’s navigation had been spot-on, and David invited him to dinner as a reward.
“You know, Philip, it would be bad for discipline for a captain to apologize for an error.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Like delaying a return trip until the hurricane season was upon him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s the schnapps?”
“Fine, sir.”
Late 1634
David and Philip stood in line, waiting for their turn to send radio messages to Grantville. They were at the USE military’s radio post in Hamburg. While most of the radio traffic was of an official nature, the post did send private messages on a “time available” basis.
“Philip, I know you expected to go into the army after you finished high school, but I think you’d make a fine navigator, if you’d like the job on a more permanent basis.”
“Thank you, Captain. Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“Like the Hindoos? Certainly not, I am a good Christian.”
“Well, then it’s a moot point. Because when I get back to Grantville, my parents are gonna kill me.”
Riding the Tiger
Late 1634 to February–March 1635
Marshall’s Creek, Suriname River,
Long Dry Season, 1634 (September–November 1634)
Maria Vorst sniffed the wound, and grimaced. “It’s infected.” Her patient shrugged stoically.
“How did it happen?”
Captain Marshall answered for her charge. “Not sure, but probably just a cut from razorgrass, or a spiny vine.”
Maria shook her head. “The men have got to get into the habit of inspecting themselves from head to toe, every day. We’re in a rainforest, for heaven’s sake; any break in the skin is bad news. If it doesn’t get infected, then maybe some fly decides it’s a dandy place to lay eggs.”
She sighed. “I’ll need to clean the wound, and put some antiseptic on it.”
“Antiseptic?”
“Yes, from the Latin, ‘against rottenness.’ You remember my lecture, don’t you? The one on the Germ Theory?”
“Indeed,” said Captain Marshall. “I had bad dreams several nights in a row. Little armored critters with sharp fangs and claws, hunting us in great packs.”
“Back in Grantville, Lolly showed me what they look like under a microscope. Pretty dull actually. Little balls or rods, mostly.” Maria, an artist whose family ran the Leiden botanical gardens, had received botanical and medical training in Grantville.
“Well, in my nightmare, they had fangs and claws.”
Maria had come upriver on the yacht Eikhoorn to visit Captain Marshall and his little tobacco growing colony of English Puritans. And the nearby Indian tribe, who were tapping rubber for Maria’s people.