If anyone asked, he had heard a bumping noise, and thought perhaps the load had shifted. Close enough to the truth, at that.
He hung from the edge of the hatch by his hands; less chance of being followed if he didn’t put down the ladder. He dropped into the dark and landed hard, jarring his bones. Anyone down here would have heard that—and by the same token, if anyone followed him, he would be warned.
He took a moment to recover from the shock of landing, then began to move cautiously through the looming dim bulks of the stacked cargo. Everything seemed blurred round the edges. It wasn’t only the faint light, he thought; everything in the hold was vibrating very slightly, thrumming to the shiver of the hull beneath. He could hear it, if he listened closely; the lowest note in the ship’s song.
Through the narrow aisles between the ranks of crates, past the huge bellies of the serried water casks. He breathed in; the air was full of the smell of wet wood, overlaid by the faint perfume of tea. There were rustlings and creakings, plenty of odd noises—but no sign of any human presence. Still, he was sure that someone was here.
And why are you here, mate? he thought. What if one of the steerage passengers had taken refuge here? If someone lay hidden here, chances were good that they had the pox; Roger could do nothing for them—why bother to look?
Because he couldn’t not look, was the answer. He didn’t reproach himself for failing to save the pox-stricken passengers; nothing could have helped them in any case, and perhaps a quick death by drowning was not in fact more terrible than the slow agony of the disease. He’d like to believe that.
But he hadn’t slept; the events of the night filled him with such a sense of horror and sick futility that he could find no rest. Whether he could do anything now, or not, he must do something. He had to look.
Something small moved in the deep shadows of the hold. Rat, he thought, and turned reflexively to stamp on it. The movement saved him; a heavy object whizzed past his head and landed with a splash in the bilges below.
He put his head down and lunged in the direction of the movement, shoulders hunched against an expected blow. There was nowhere to run, and not much place to hide. He saw it again, lunged, and grabbed cloth. Jerked hard, and got flesh. A quick scuffle in the dark, and a cry of alarm, and he found himself pressing a body hard against a bulkhead, clutching the skinny wrist of Morag MacKenzie.
“What the hell?” She kicked at him, and tried to bite, but he ignored this. He got a good grip on the scruff of her neck and hauled her out of the shadows, into the dim brown light of the hold. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing! Let go! Let me go, please! Please, I beg ye, sir—” Force not availing to free herself—she weighed perhaps half what he did—she turned to pleading, words pouring out in a half-whispered stream of desperation. “For the sake of your own mother, sir! Ye canna do it, please ye cannot let them kill him please!”
“I’m not going to kill anyone. For God’s sake, hush yourself!” he said, and gave her a small shake.
From the blackest shadows behind the anchor chain came the high, thin wail of a fretful baby.
She gave a small gasp and looked up at him, frantic.
“They’ll hear him! God, man, let me go to him!” Such was her desperation that she succeeded in wrenching herself free, and fled toward the sound, clambering over the great rusted links of the anchor chain, heedless of filth.
He followed, more slowly; she couldn’t get away—there was nowhere for her to go. He found them in the darkest spot, crouched against one of the ship’s knees, the huge angled timbers that framed the hull. There was barely a foot of clearance between the rough wood of the hull and the piled mass of the anchor chain; she was no more than a darker blot on the stygian blackness.
“I will not hurt you,” he said softly. The shadow seemed to shrink away from him, but she didn’t answer.
His eyes were slowly growing accustomed to the dark; even back here, a faint light seeped through from the distant hatch. A patch of white—her breast was bared, giving suck to the child. He could hear the small wet noises as it fed.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, though he knew well enough. His stomach clenched tight, and not just because of the foul smell of the bilges. He squatted next to her, barely able to fit in the tiny space.
“I’m hiding!” she said fiercely. “Surely to goodness ye see that?”
“Is the child sick?”
“No!” She hunched herself over the baby, squirming as far away from him as she could get.
“Then—”
“It’s no but a wee rash! All bairns get them, my mither said so!” He could hear the fear in her voice, underneath the furious denial.
“Are you sure?” he said, as gently as he could. He reached a tentative hand toward the dark blotch she held.
She struck at him, awkwardly one-handed, and he jerked back with a hiss of pain.
“Jesus! Ye stabbed me!”
“Stay back! I’ve my husband’s dirk,” she warned. “I won’t let ye take him, I’ll kill ye first, I swear I will!”
He believed her. Hand to his mouth, he could taste his own blood, sweet and salt on his tongue. It was no more than a scratch, but he believed her. She’d kill him—or die herself, which was a great deal more likely if one of the crew found her.
But no, he thought. She was worth money. Bonnet wouldn’t kill her—only have her dragged on deck and forced to watch as her child was torn out of her arms and thrown into the sea. He remembered the dark shadows that dogged the ship, and shuddered with a cold that had nothing to do with the dank surroundings.
“I won’t take him. But if it’s the pox—”
“It’s not! I swear to Bride, it’s not!” A small hand shot out of the shadows and gripped him by the sleeve. “It’s as I tell ye, it’s no but a milk rash, I’ve seen it, man—a hundred times before! I’m the eldest o’ nine, I ken weel enough when a bairn’s sick and when he’s but teething!”
He hesitated, then made up his mind abruptly. If she was wrong, and the child had smallpox, she was likely already infected; to return her to the hold would be only to spread the disease. And if she was right—he knew as well as she that it didn’t matter; any rash would condemn the child on sight.
He could feel her quivering, on the brink of hysteria. He wanted to touch her in reassurance, but thought better of it. She wouldn’t trust him, and no wonder.
“I won’t give you away,” he whispered.
He was met by suspicious silence.
“You need food, don’t you? And fresh water. You’ll have no milk soon, without it, and then what of the bairn?”
He could hear her breathing, ragged and phlegmy. She was ill, but it needn’t be pox; all the hold passengers coughed and wheezed—the damp had got into their lungs early on.
“Show him to me.”
“No!” Her eyes shone in the dark, fearful as a cornered rat’s, and the edge of her lip lifted over small white teeth.
“I swear I will not take him from you. I need to see, though.”
“What will ye swear on?”
He groped his memory for a suitable Celtic oath, then gave up and said what was in his mind.