The Noble Pirates by Rima Jean

and I’ve no time to contemplate it.”
    “I’ve had to contemplate it,” I said. “You don’t think it’s mind-boggling for me? You don’t think I want to scream and cry and carry on every time I think about it?”
    “Ye’ve no choice, lass,” he replied. “I have.” He saw the desperate look on my face and softened. “Here now. Buck up. Survival is yer main concern now. And I’ll be damned if I ever understand why ye came with me, when ye could have stayed and tried to go back to yer home, or at the very least, had a chance at a civilized sort of life.” He shook his head. “As though ye have a death wish.”
    I sat up, crossing my arms, my voice several octaves higher than it should have been. “Why are you so against having me here?”
    “Because yer a walkin’ piece o’temptation, and he wants to sport with ye!” a voice called out, and several pirates howled with laughter.
    England shook his head, a crooked smile on his face, then met my eyes sheepishly, only a hint of a blush on his cheeks. “Oh, sod off, all of ye, filthy dogs,” he muttered, lying back down flat on his back and pulling his hat over his eyes. “G’night, Sabrina.”
    I lay down once more, curling on my side under my wool blanket, and sighed. “Good night, Eddie.”
    Chapter Twelve
      The days passed thus: my nausea pill supply dwindled and I became increasingly nervous. I hoped to God that I’d acquired my sea legs, since I didn’t know what I’d do if I hadn’t. I had some ginger in my chest for nausea, and I hoped it would give me some relief. It worked when I’d suffered from morning sickness while pregnant with Sophie… in another life, it seemed.
      My services as a “doctor” had been called on a few times: I’d used aloe and honey on a burn; basil on a rash; tea tree oil for lesions, fungus, and scabies; white willow bark for fevers, aches, and inflammations. While my remedies worked, in several instances I suspected I only eased the symptoms of a greater ill – syphilis. I lamented my lack of antibiotics, and wondered what kind of risk I’d be taking if I had the afflicted pirates eat moldy bread. I knew from my grandfather that it would be a pretty bad idea, as nasty stuff grew on the bread as well as penicillin. So I listened as several sailors described nasty chancres in places they would not reveal, and I could only sigh and tell them that my remedies could ease their discomfort, but would not cure them if it was the “great pox.”
    I dreaded the day when a sailor would come to me with a gory wound or a partially detached limb. I would direct him to the carpenter, I suppose, after loading him up with rum.
    As I tended to some of the men, I noticed that a few of them eyed me hungrily. Perhaps it was because I tended to their ailments in a gentle, motherly fashion. In any case, it made me nervous, and I could see that it made England nervous as well. He could punish a man for violating me, but short of staying with me at all times, he could not always prevent it from happening. He and Jameson had both warned the men of horrible punishments should one of them merely look at me askance, but there was no guarantee.
    As a result, England insisted I learn how to fire a pistol, and that I carry both pistol and knife on my person. He showed me how to load it with two balls and swan shot from a horn that hung, along with my pistol, on a ribbon that slung across my chest. He told me to fire at close range, when the aggressor was just a couple yards away, to ensure that “he’d not live to see a good day afterward.”
    He also had me try my hand with a cutlass, showing me some basic thrusts, cuts and parries. I was a sorry sight, holding my weapons “like a girl.” England was a patient, if highly amused, teacher, and everywhere I looked I saw a pirate grinning from ear to ear, watching as I accidentally dropped the cutlass no fewer than five times. God help me should I ever need to use it.
    “What do I