Tales From the Outposts, Vol. 1 - Travels in the Forbidden Lands

On the Mend

The doctor started making regular visits to my cabin every day while we were docked. We would meet in my cabin or sit out on the upper deck in the afternoon sun passing a bottle back and forth and smoking a pipe. He was happy to have someone who shared his weaknesses and I was relieved after the long periods of solitude to have someone I could talk to. My mornings were taken up with his nurse as she put me through my paces physically. She had me stretching and exercising to help my wounds heal and to keep the strength and tone in my muscles. We were starting out slowly due to the severity of my wounds and I did my best to put it off altogether, but as the nurse observed, if I was well enough to bend the elbow with the doctor, I was well enough to start physical therapy. This woman was really getting under my skin.

I tried to get back in her good graces by apologizing for my religious remarks and trying to make small talk with her, but it was all to no avail. Her manner with me wasn't just chilly, it was downright glacial and try as I might, she refused to favor me with even a smile. I decided to try talking to the good doctor about her. Although he knew quite a bit about her, he would only reveal to me little dribs and drabs that told me nothing, but served to tantalize me. Whenever he had decided he had blabbed enough, the doctor would change the subject and would pretend to have gone deaf whenever I tried to revisit the topic of his nurse. One afternoon we were kicked back by the prow of the boat with our feet up on the railing watching the crowds below.

"You know, we sail in seven days," the doctor said to me looking sadly at his bottle.

"Where are we going?" I asked.

"Oh we'll have several ports of call scattered around in different countries," he said. "Unfortunately, the Captain likes to run a dry ship, so after this week, we'll have to forego some of the nicer pleasures of life."

"Too bad you can't keep some of that around for "medicinal" purposes," I said, tossing back a huge swallow.

The doctor laughed. "I tried that once and I thought the Captain was going to throw me overboard in the middle of the ocean. When we're docked, it's one thing to take the occasional sip from a bottle, but out on the open seas, he expects everyone to be stone cold sober so they can perform their duties, including attending church services on Sundays."

I laughed too as we passed the bottle back and forth some more. We sat there quietly, each of us deep in thought. After a while, I spoke up. "I don't suppose I can get off the ship for a little while," I said innocently, "you know, get out, walk around, stretch my legs."

The doctor measured me with his stare as he tipped the bottle up. "This is the only place that you're safe," he said. "You'd have to be an Initiate of the Church in order to move around the city and still be protected by us."

"What dangers are there for me now?" I asked.

"That's what we don't know," replied the doctor. "It's better that you remain on board so that nothing does happen to you. You're still healing and have a ways to go in your physical therapy."

"So there's no way off this ship?"

"None that I could honestly recommend," the doctor hiccupped.

I sat back and thought for a moment. "You know," I said, "it's just a thought, but I'm almost the same size as that porter who brings my breakfast in the mornings. . ."

The doctor waved his hands at me, almost spilling the contents of the bottle. "I don't want to know about it. If you're planning on smuggling something aboard, I can't be a party to it. I can't help you in any way because that would be against Captains orders. It would be a major breach, for instance, for me to suggest that you go to the grog shop one Beale Street and the tobacconist three doors down from there because the Captain would have my head."