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Alasdair
“If my head did’na hurt so damn bad, I’d throw that bloody doctor over the side of the ship.”
Nelson laughs, then tries to calm my ire. “Settle down, my friend. The poor fella didn’t know you can’t handle your laudanum.”
“I fell and hit my head. I did’na get a leg amputated.” I stop, realizing the slip of my tongue. “I’m sorry, Nelson. That was insensitive of me.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re right. When they amputated my arm, I had enough laudanum in me to keep me out for a week. But in the doctor’s defense, that musket ball left a nasty gash, you lost a lot of blood, and apparently, you weren’t making a damn bit of sense when you tried to talk. I suppose he was forcing you to rest so you could get your wits about you again.”
“Aye, well, it does’na change the fact that I don’t like being drugged, especially wi’ laudanum. Makes me sick to my stomach, and I feel trapped inside my own head. I’ve lost an entire week of my life that could have been spent accomplishing a long list of tasks and preferably making my way back home to my wife.”
I’ve been on edge for the past two days after realizing the doctor was dosing me with that godforsaken drug. I spit it out and wouldn’t let him give me more. It may have been painful as hell, but that would have been better than where I was. Now I’m dealing with not only the after-effects of a blow to the head, but my body is craving more medicine, making a bad situation worse. I’m weak and starving. My clothes are hanging on me, and a lingering fog clouds my every thought. But the one thing that has been clear this entire time is that I desperately want to get back to Ella.
“We leave tomorrow. The prisoners have all been dispersed amongst the ships, and we’ve captained anything that floats. The repairs toOrionshould be completed today,” Nelson assures me.
“Yes, Harris came by earlier with the updates. I was happy to hear Lieutenant Fernsby finally woke up, but it appears he may be blind in one eye.” Again, I look at Admiral Nelson and wonder if I’ve touched a nerve knowing he has suffered the same injury.
“We take a beating out there, and then we get up and fight again. It is our duty. No matter if you’re the king or a crofter, you stand for what is right and protect what you love, using your strength of mind and body as sword and shield.”
“Aye, ’tis true. Though what is right, and who or what ye love is subjective, else we would’na constantly be fighting these bloody wars,” I note through the persistent throbbing in my head.
“Indeed, you are correct. Makes you wonder if it will ever stop or if we will always be at war with someone, somewhere near or far.”
We both stay silent for a while, contemplating the notion of never-ending battles. Of life and death, the celebration of victory, and the pain, anger, and fear of defeat.
“You and I both know the answer to that. ’Tis why it is good to always appreciate the pleasures of life, be them big or small. Delicious food, expensive whisky, a full moon resting above the horizon, the bright sun of a cloudless day, and the woman ye love lying next to ye, warm and sated in yer bed.” My chest tightens at the thought of Ella’s skin touching mine.
“You have a love match, then?” Nelson asks with a smirk.
“Aye, I do.”
“What’s it like, being married to the woman you love?”
Though the question seems odd coming from Nelson, I answer without hesitation. “Indescribable. I’ve never known such happiness, never believed it was real. I am enthralled by every move she makes, every word she speaks, the way she smells and tastes. I did’na know the pleasures of the body could ever feel so good that they change who ye are from the inside out. I’ve loved this woman in another life, I know I have. I can feel it in my bones. That is why I pray the wind is hard at my back the entire way home.”
Nelson waits, taking in my words that are more than I’ve told any other man.
“Perhaps that is what has happened to me.”
“Oh?” I question, sensing that he is not referring to his wife, Fanny.
“There is another woman in my life, and I cannot sleep or eat or fight a bloody battle without her being in the forefront of my mind. I believe she served me a potion the first time I had dinner at her husband’s estate.” He shakes his head. “He’s an old man, and she is young, beautiful, quite sensual. She cannot be satisfied with him in the sheets.” He stares across the room for a moment. “From the moment I saw her, I knew something was there, an attraction I’ve never felt before. She charmed me all evening and wouldn’t allow my attention to be anywhere but with her. It was exciting. I was young again, a virgin taunted by the flirtations of a girl who knew her innate power over me. I read her signals clearly and made sure she and I found a moment to be alone. Once we kissed, I feared I would never be the same again.”
I am surprised by my friend’s confession, but more so, I am surprised by the sheen of tears that have glassed his pale blue eye. His feelings are true for this woman, but she is not his wife. Yet, I see something else in the layers of emotion he is not hiding on his face. Longing—not simply for this woman that has captured his heart, but maybe a life that is less dictated by duty and expectation, by life aboard ship, one that is shrouded in loneliness and monotony—where weeks and months of confinement with the same men and the same routines can play tricks on your sanity. But Horatio Nelson is a man of honor and integrity and extreme ambition, so no matter the depth of his longing, he will do what is right for King and country.
I feel a bit of sadness for him. “Perhaps it is the same for you and this woman, that you were meant to love one another. But you must handle it with care, for the reputations of many could be harmed by the actions of one. It is a slippery slope that needs to be navigated with extreme caution and the utmost consideration.”
“I appreciate your honesty, Alasdair. I have much to consider, for I fear I do not have the strength to stay away.”
“I understand. If I had wed another and happened upon Ella by chance, I would have a similar dilemma on my hands. Whether right or wrong, my soul will not let me be without her.”
We departed as the sun rose the following morning. Our progress was slow through most of the Mediterranean, but now that we have rounded the tip of Portugal at Cape St. Vincent, my prayer has been answered, and the wind is steady at our back.
I’ve been busy reviewing the ship’s log to get a clear understanding of what happened while I was down. Twenty-nine men were wounded, most of who are recovering well, but we lost thirteen. My eyes drift to the stack of letters I’ve written to their families, thirteen pages lined with words of sympathy, gratitude, and encouragement. I love to write, it is my passion, but I hate writing these letters to families. Their loved one is gone, and nothing I write can bring them back. The words seem empty, so I fill them with the security of knowing they will not starve and that a roof will always be over their heads.
I dip the quill again just as the boat sways, causing the black ink to drip down the side of the well and gather around the bottom, a pointless addition to the existing stain that darkens the surface of my desk. I stare at it for a moment, watching it slowly fill the tiny void between the glass and wood. That list should have been fourteen and the letters written by another hand. A musket ball grazed my head. The difference between life and death was likely determined by a fraction of an inch. I can’t help but wonder why. Did fate protect me, and did she do it because of Ella? It gives me chills to think about it, and it makes my yearning for Ella that much stronger.
I stare at the blank paper before me, then to the point of the quill saturated with ink. Words come to my mind as they flow from my soul. I sort them out, play with the verses, then set them free.
