I could hear the waves slap hard against the creaking ship, then harder still. Large waves, getting larger by the sound of them. I felt their low roar deep in my belly. That familiar warning vibrated through me, sending ripples of excitement and fear through me; sending another reaction all together through my fellow passengers below deck. All around me, huddled people groaned. They were damp, miserable, listless even though this clipper had more room than the usual. Poor things. Mal de mer.I had no such affliction. I was a sailor's daughter, and the sea's roar had been my lullaby, every port - my home. Every port until recently, that is.

I'd just spent four years dry-docked in Paris, the city of lights and l'amour.But not for me. To me, Paris was where I pursued my dream - to be a real physician: providing comfort, doing no harm. What was so strange about that? After all, it was 1862. Practically the twentieth century already! But it seemed I was ahead of my time. The world hadn't caught up with me or my colleagues. Doctors like Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, Marie Zakrzewska, my friend Madeline Bres ... these were my heroines, and I had joined their ranks at last. I had done it - finally done it. Lived on dates and old bread. Studied by oil lamps until the smoky fumes, fatigue and dimness made my eyes ache. I'd swum through the backwash opinions about unnatural females, the catty asides about my split-skirts. And now, it was done. I felt like a spanky new ship, trim and yar, ready to be put to sea, just itching for the next adventure. My brand new diploma from L'Ecole de Medicinand my Laënnec stethoscope were wrapped tight in oilskin and stowed away in my battered gear. I had bid au revoirto Paris. I was headed west, reluctant or not. Every day, duty warred with my common sense. Duty won every damn time.

Idiot.Too soft-hearted. A real cardiomyopathy - that was my problem. Why couldn't I say "no" for once? Scowling at my foolishness, I walked to the hatch. Had to bend my tall frame over to avoid the ceiling, the grimy hem of my skirts swishing between my legs and catching on the rough floor planks. Glanced over at Mrs. Lefevre, who sounded piteous and ill. Seven months along. God willing, we'd land before she delivered. Meanwhile she needed more water. Maybe if I dribbled it into her mouth with a damp rag. But no, this long at sea, there were no clean cloths to be found. Germs, then the purulent fever. Dehydration, infection. All risks on the long voyage around the Horn. Worrying, I walked faster, carelessly. Bumped my head on a beam.

Judas. That hurt.Were the ceilings always this low? Everything seemed smaller than I remembered. I swear this was easier when I was a kid. Rubbing my head, I ducked this time. Just missed the net bags, swinging like maces from the ceiling. Clambered up the ladder. Reached overhead and pushed up the hatch.

Cold air immediately blasted my face. I could almost taste it. Rain coming. A storm. Tilted my chin, felt the my hair whip, whip, whip against my cheek like a flag. Yes, a strong one all right. A nor'wester. A real screamer.

The outside world seemed flat and piercingly white, overly bright. Too bright compared to the hold below. Squinting, I climbed up the last rung. Looked around me. Dark gray clouds had swallowed the rising sun, but here and there, dawn had outlined their ominous shapes in gold. And the sky ... crimson red, the color of fresh blood. Hadn't seen one like that in years. Had hoped never to see the likes of it again. My blood started to pound with excitement.

I was about to climb on to the deck when I heard the soft scrape of boots behind me. I glanced around, then slowly upwards: Shiny Wellington boots, flaps down. Long muscled legs clad in neat buckskins, a black wool frock coat whose shoulders required no padding. No effete Nancy-boy here. This was an athlete's body (strictly from a medical view point, mind you) in a gentleman's clothes. And above those plain well-tailored clothes was a chiseled jaw, an unsmiling mouth, and eyes like green ice. Sin and sadness, a bleakness frozen twice over, and under that ... something underneath that I felt but couldn't quite name. The sense of it touched me, made my breath catch. And I shivered inside as if I'd fallen headfirst into the Aleutian Sea. Suddenly the cold wind seemed hot compared to those icy eyes that looked me over slowly, almost insolently, then stabbed right through me. We stared at each other for a long, long time.

"Women ... below," he said finally in a quiet commanding voice that somehow carried even over the wind. I couldn't place his accent. French? Spanish? Continental for sure. I searched his face for a clue: faint weathered lines around his eyes, tanned skin, and his brown hair sun-streaked to auburn. A man used to the outdoors, then. But who was he? He seemed familiar. His face tugged at my memory. But I didn't have any more time to speculate, because he repeated his command.

"Women? Why women but not men?" I stepped on to the deck, put my hands on my hips as I instinctively broadened my stance to keep my balance. Watched his eyes widen a fraction as he saw my split skirt. What's the matter? Too much ankle for you to handle? I felt strangely disappointed. Men. They were all the same.

"No," was all he said, this time in a lower tone. Final. Definite like the first surgical cut. He turned his back on me and was already walking away. Clearly I had been dismissed. Not again. It rankled, reminding me of all the wards; the lectures I'd been barred from; the times I'd dressed up in breeches and coat just to sneak into places where I could learn. Even libraries, for God's sake. What was this? I was a woman, not a leper. Be a good girl. Go home.I could almost hear him say that out loud. Made me mad enough to spit.

I cupped my hands around my mouth. "What about you? You're up here. Well, if you can, I can. I can be on deck too. We're nearing Cape Horn. I want to see it. It's been a long time."

He stopped, turned, saw me still on the deck by the open hold. His thick brown eyebrows tilted upwards as if he was puzzled. Why was I still here, disobeying his command? How could this be? He pointed to the hatch. "Now," he said.

I watched him frown briefly, then look impassive once again. Oh, I see. Now I understand. I diagnosed him in a second: the silent stubborn type. He reminded me of a malodorous tumor - deep-seeded, completely inoperable. Some people's opinions are like that too. Terminal and to the death. No point in fighting it. Why should I? He meant nothing to me. Just a green-eyed stranger.

I wrapped my cloak tighter around me, and paraded right past him. I walked steadily despite the growing pitch and roll of the ship, thankful that my old sea legs didn't shame me in front of him. I stopped at the prow, one hand resting against the rail. Beyond the bottom lip of the clouds was a dark line of land, curving towards us.

"Patagonia," said the same voice behind me.

I knew that already. Didn't need to be told. Annoyance ruffled through me, my heart pounding a little faster. Must be the excitement, I told myself. The voyage, seeing Patagonia again. My brother Monte and I were ten when we'd last been here: arid plains as far as you could see, then cliffs dropping into the sea; and Dolores - the first woman to make my father smile again after my mother had died. Was Dolores still there? I waved to the memory of her living in that tip of land. A wild rough town. What was it called? Bit my lip, thinking harder. Memories flashed like stereoscope pictures before my eyes. There was Doc Calhoun - he always gave us candy; that nasty red parrot; Ti - something ... I'll get it; and oh, Major Wolfe with the gray snake-eyes, his smile like knife-thrust. Always hurt to see it. Scared Monte, scared me double all the time. I never knew why he and Pop were friends. They spent so much time together: drinking, talking quiet like grown-ups do when they don't want kids to hear. Dolores hadn't liked him either. You could tell by the way she always thumped the bottle on the table before she left them alone for another one of their conversations. He'd been here. Ti ....something. Ti-er... Then it came to me.

"Tierra del Fuelgo," I said aloud. I laughed, pleased that I still remembered.

"Good accent. Habla Español, señorita?"

"Si. Un poco.Just a little." Lost in my memories, I'd almost forgotten about the man standing next to me. Why was he still here? I wished him away. Anywhere but here. His nearness disturbed me. Kind of like a morbid rash. Maybe if I ignored him - didn't scratch - he'd go away. If only I had a salve or something that easy. I reached into my skirt pocket for the next best thing: my talisman, the water-stained letter from Monte. I'd read it a hundred times already. An invitation, my brother said. An invitation to Frisco, where the golden opportunities were like ripe apples just falling from the tree into your hands if you were smart and quick enough. Well, he was quick all right. But smart? Too smart for his own good. And way too smart for mine. He'd sent me this ticket for the Casam clipper to San Francisco, but it felt different than that - a different destination all together. It felt like a ticket to disaster. I could feel it, sure as I felt the storm brewing around me and the dominant presence of the man standing next to me.

"The sea ... Rough crossing ahead. Señorita, allow me." It was a command, not a request. His large hand closed over my elbow, and pulled me away from the prow. We were moving too fast. He was spoiling everything. I'd miss it. I tugged experimentally, but he was stronger than what I'd expected. A real surprise given his gentlemanly clothes. Well, he wasn't the only one. I knew a few surprises too. I pulled backwards, throwing my whole weight into it. I dug in my heels; managed to slow down his inexorable progress back to the hold. Pitiful results. It was the best I could do without injuring the man. After all, I'd taken a vow to do no harm. But for the first time, I was tempted - really tempted - to break my promise.

"No. We're almost there. See?" Gesturing wildly, I pointed to the land's end, not caring if I accidentally knocked his chin. Stumbled into him. Heard him grunt. "Over there. Where the sea's ruffling all white. There's the Cape. Cape Horn. Magellan discovered it."

"No. Cabrillo. Cabrillo was the first," murmured the man as if he were talking to himself.

As the ship rounded the corner of the continent, we stood together, our tug-of-war momentarily forgotten while we watched the Atlantic meet the Pacific. Underneath us, the turbulent oceans pushed and pulled, mixing into mighty waves that marched like roaring rows of great gray elephants. Spray hissed, heavy as rain. My cloak flapped backwards, against him, then partially around him. He didn't move away, his hand still on me. Firm, steady, almost strangely protective.

"I'm not afraid," I said out loud.

"No. I do not think you are, señorita. But perhaps ... you should be. No fear is not the same as courage." He looked at me consideringly. "How young you are."

"Old enough," I shot back, straightening up, suddenly feeling insulted.

He didn't reply at first. Only looked down at me, the corner of his mouth tugging upwards. The wind shrieked between us, around us, the sails snapping overhead with each wild gust. Then the man finally said, "Perhaps."

"Not perhaps. Definitely. I'm twenty-two."

His eyes widened a little. Firm lips twitched as if he was holding something back.

Did he think I was funny? Pitiful? I couldn't tell, and that bothered me more than I wanted to admit. "I'm no schoolroom chit. I'm quite on the shelf."

"Ancient," he agreed solemnly. He opened his mouth to continue but I never heard what he was going to say because there was a terrible Pop,then the flap-flapping of a loose sail. The deck lurched.

"Fo'sheet." By the time I said it, he had already crossed the deck and was climbing up the rigging. Easy, sure-footed, as if the wind wasn't batting him back and forth. He caught the loose rope, hoisted it, looked down. The closest sailor was running towards us but still yards away.

I held up my hands, shouting, "To me. Come on. No time to waste." The whole ship was tilting portside. It groaned with each terrible second upward as wood and rope stretched, each joint tested, about to spring. Waves splashed over the rails, and ran like a river down the deck. Soon we'd be taking on water. Too soon. Slipping, I staggered. Bent my knees deep, flung my arms wide. Caught my balance again. "Come on!"

He hesitated for a second longer, then threw the rope to me. I grabbed it, heaved to and hard, pulling with all my strength even as the rope burned across my palms. I felt rough hemp, slick with my blood. Grit my teeth, pulled harder. It was like reining in wild stallions, angrily fighting the bit with all their strength. I could feel the storm, alive and under my hands. My arms ached. Was I losing ground? Then I felt his weight added to mine, then the sailor's. Together we slowly, painfully pulled the foresail back into position. I lashed the rope to the spar. When I straightened up again, I could feel my hands cramping and the rain pelting down on my face for the first time. The storm had finally hit. Hadn't noticed before. Too busy. I watched him check my knots, which thoroughly annoyed me. Reasonable, I suppose, but still, it bugged me. Nothing wrong with my knots, nautical or surgical.

He exchanged a glance with the little pear-shaped sailor.

The sailor let loose a torrent of Spanish. It sounded apologetic, a little fearful. "Capitán ..."

Captain? What was this? Well, that explained the orders, the expected obedience, his erect shoulders-back posture. The man held up one hand. "Bien. Esta bien."And with those quiet words, the sailor ended his effusive apologies. The little man looked more cheerful, bowed, then ran off to check the other rigging.

Finally the captain turned to me. He took my hands without asking, turning them palms up to survey the damage. My one glove had ripped at the seams. He slowly peeled it away. The soft kid leather slid against my abused skin; soothing and stinging my palms, fingers, the dells between them. How many nerves in one hand? I felt them all as his finger traced the swollen bruises on my palm. Then he looked at my other hand. It was scraped raw and still oozing.

"You lost your glove."

"No, I didn't. I mean, not here. I lost it in Paris. Awhile ago. On the docks. Before we left. I always lose things. Have one of everything. Maybe some day I'll make a pair again with all the mismatches. Maybe." Judas.Now I was babbling like an idiot. An anencephalic. No brain. I snapped my mouth shut before I said anything else stupid.

He didn't seem to mind this time. The captain was examining my hand. He made a soft sound of regret, then reached inside his pocket and produced for a snowy white square of linen. I had never seen such fine cloth so close up.

I pulled back. "No. Are you crazy? I'll ruin your handkerchief."

He pulled me closer. Gently he wrapped it around my injured hand. "See the ship's surgeon."

Another order. Forget that. I jerked my hands away. "The surgeon? That barber! Are you kidding? No thanks. He doesn't know a canker from a crowbar. Might chop something of mine off. I'll take care of it myself. It's nothing. See? No big deal. No vapors. No hartshorn. I'm not missish, you know."

His brows lifted.

I tucked my hands behind my back. Shrugged. "It's all over now. Taken care of. Finished."

"No," he said softly. "Just ... beginning."

###

The storm lasted for a week. We were tossed like knucklebones: topsy-turvy, here and there by the whim of weather, perhaps by the anger of the Almighty. Whatever the cause, the men were kept busy above deck, and I below stairs with my fellow suffering passengers. Rum no longer helped them, so I used my precious stores of poppy extract to soothe the worst cases. Mrs. Lefevre delivered early - a frail baby girl. Her head was the size of a pippin apple, fitting neatly into my waiting hands. And there were three cases of broken arms, easily reset; and one broken mast until we limped into a Chilean harbor for repairs.

Two weeks went by before we sailed again, then a third passed at sea. And in all that time, I still hadn't seen the captain again. Maybe he'd put ashore and stayed there. Or maybe he was too busy trying to make up for lost time. I'd noticed we'd been trimming tighter than before, the sea rushing like liquid glass beneath us. The men seemed grimmer, a little more tired from the longer shifts. No more hornpipes on the ocarina, just the sounds of terse commands and terser replies.

I admit it. I listened for his voice, but didn't hear it. I even walked the decks at all hours, hoping for a glimpse of the captain. You see, I needed to know, needed to prove to myself that if I saw him again, I would be all right. Act normal. Be fine. Maybe that one moment had been a fluke, an attack of apoplexy. Yes, that could account for my uncharacteristic reaction. I still felt unsettled, full of restless energy all of a sudden. Even my work didn't satisfy me any more, and every night I lay swinging in my hammock, wide-eyed and strangely unfulfilled. I had never felt this way before, and I wasn't sure if I liked it. Maybe it was the café con chocolatéI'd taken a liking to during this trip. The cinnamon richness, the cocâo ... yes, the drink could be stimulating ill-humors. But somehow, I knew it wasn't as simple as all that. It never was. The etiology was far more complicated, the implications more disturbing. Thoughts churned through my brain like a steamboat. The paddlewheels turned and turned. They chuffed through my peace of mind; whipping it into rough white froth; then finally driving me from my bed and on to the deck again.

Now it was four bells. The sky was purple-black like a new bruise, and the stars hung low over the horizon. The cold night seemed almost unnaturally still now that we had finally passed the storm front. The night, the sea - everything felt heavy and calm. Everything, that is, except me. I paced back and forth along the stern as if trying to out-race my thoughts. But they seemed to follow me everywhere like a dog's tail, persistently wagging behind me. What was wrong with me? For awhile I listened to the slap and pause of the waves, but even the sea couldn't lull me to sleep tonight. I tried to find something - anything to distract me. Finally I leaned my elbows on the rail, peered over and watched the wake vee out into two gleaming silver lines that gradually faded into the darkness. Where were the dolphins? I searched for their arching shapes, but didn't see any. Maybe it was too early even for them to play.

I was still looking for them when I felt something light and airy brush against my cheek. It was like a breeze, faintly ticklish, but it wasn't that. Couldn't be. The air was calm, hardly more than a good so'wester. Baby winds, mild as milk. Still, whatever it was, it made me turn and look up. And then I saw a tall shadow up on the bridge. It was him. Had to be. That stark profile, the broad shoulders and slim hips could belong to no one else. The captain seemed very remote, so high in his solitary perch above the rest of the crew, the entire ocean. He looked as if he belonged there, and the thought made me a little sad as I watched him. Holding a spyglass to one eye, he moved gracefully like a big cat. He surveyed the sea before him: one slow arc, then beginning a second equally thorough one. He paused just before he completed the final sweep, lowered his spyglass, and turned deliberately around to the stern. He looked straight at me.

Caught.What was I expecting? I fought my impulse to hide behind some barrels. All of a sudden, I felt foolish like a schoolgirl. I was grateful that the night hid my blushing cheeks. Unmoving, he watched me for a long time, so long that winter melted into spring, spring to summer, summer to fall, and then the seasons seemed to turn around again as we looked at each other. I felt his gaze as if he touched me, heating places that I knew but had never really known before. Strange places. Dark places. It was ... unbearable, and yet I couldn't bring myself to leave. I just stood there, stock still and stupid, as if my feet had been tarred to the spot. I had to move, had to do something, but I didn't know what. For all my education, I was ignorant in this. Completely ignorant. At last, I raised my hand, waved a little. I don't know why, but I did. He waited for a few minutes before he barely lifted his chin in acknowledgement. A slight movement. Perhaps I'd imagined it.

###

As the weeks passed, I became more convinced that I'd only imagined that whole encounter. Except for that one time, I never saw the captain again. He was nowhere, irritating man. It was embarrassing to admit it, lowering to be afflicted this way. I'd never felt like a silly-headed lah-de-dah before. Wasn't there some nostrum I could take to cure me? For heart cramps, there was tincture of salvia, three drops nightly. But for this, I hadn't a clue. I didn't know what to do. By the time we reached San Francisco, I promised myself I would forget those green eyes.

Yes. Push them out of my mind. That would be the sensible thing to do. After all, wasn't I the sensible one, the one who always looked after Pop and Monte? But sometimes, sensibility blinds your senses. It can make you the biggest fool of all; a fool ready for the fall.

Continued in Sailor, Take Warning

All non-LFN characters copyright (c) Bonnie Bo 2000. The right of Bonnie Bo to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her. All rights reserved.

Author's Note

Elizabeth and Emily Blackwell, Marie Zakrzewska, and Madeline Bres were all real physicians. Elizabeth Blackwell was the first woman granted an M.D. degree in the United States. Her admission was a prank the students played on the faculty. Much to their surprise, she actually showed up, persisted, and finished. The Blackwells and Dr. Zakrzewska ran the New York Infirmary for Women and Children, as well as founded the first American medical school for women (which later joined with Cornell Medical School). Dr. Bres was the first French woman to be granted an M.D. degree. European medical schools in France, Germany and Switzerland admitted women long before their American counterparts. Of course, the history of women healers and practitioners began long before the nineteenth century ...

Laënnec was a French physician who invented the stethoscope while working at the Necker Hospital in Paris (1819). The first model was a wooden cone: one end placed on the patient's chest, the other to the physician's ear.

The Capitán's ship was inspired by the Balclutha.Here's a panorama clip you can view (requires Quicktime):

http://virtualguidebooks.com/CentralCalif/SanFrancisco/SFNorthShore/BalcluthaQuarterdeckL.html

What makes a story grow? And when? I'm not exactly sure, but I do know that the seed of this story was planted many years ago. I love history. I look for it wherever I go. I work in a hospital, and once upon a time, its founder bankrolled his family (and the hospital) with his shipping investments during the 1800's. There's a model of one of his schooners near the intensive care unit. One long weekend, I sat with one of my patients by that model. She told me the stories of her family and the San Francisco waterfront, because, you see, those stories were really the same story for her: from the wild Barbary Coast to Rosie the Riveter (which she was). Thank you to M. for talkin' story with me; and to J.G. and J.P. who not only taught me the Art of Medicine but also pointed out the long long lineage of doctor-writers and always encouraged me to do the same. May the wind always be at your back!

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