Page 54 of Maggie and the Pirate’s Son

Swallowing her tears and squinting against the daylight, Maggie fell into step behind them as though she belonged there. They picked up speed as they neared the infirmary, and Langley ran ahead to sweep a pile of odds and ends off the operating table and onto the floor so they could lay Bash out properly. None of them paid Maggie any mind.

“What happened?” the Butcher asked.

“Bastard was hiding all alone down there, innit? Came at us from the shadows,” Langley practically yelled, twisting up the front of his shirt in his nervous, fretful fists. “Cut Nav and pushed him over, then shot at the lot of us and ran off into the dark again, laughing like a fiend.”

The Butcher pushed Bash’s eyelids up with rough, meaty fingers, then scraped back his hair to see the bloody mess around one ear.

“Was he hit by the gun? Knocked out?”

“Couldn’t see,” Dutch said. “Walsh carried a blunderbuss in one hand and a cutlass in the other. Did he hit his head when he fell on you, Langley?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean⁠—”

“Quiet,” the Butcher snapped. “The ear’s not completely severed, but I’ll have to remove it and cauterize with powder. Hold him down, Dutch. If he’s anything but dead, this’ll wake him, mark me. Langley, fetch my powder bag.”

He meant to light gunpowder in Bash’s ear?

“No,” Maggie said, but no one heard her, as the men scrambled around, and though she forced herself to look, she couldn’t make out the extent of his wounds for all the blood.

The barber-surgeon rummaged through a pile of instruments and, finding his bistoury blade, inspected it, then spit on it and wiped it on his shirt before turning back to his patient.

How many times had Jory insisted that medical equipment be kept clean or that some learned men in Edinburgh tended to cut first and ask questions later?

He’s a frustrated barber who likes to hack off limbs, Bash had said in disgust. Maggie had to stop him.

“No,” she said again. When still nobody listened, she grunted, “Men!” to herself and, taking a deep breath, she stepped in between the Butcher and Bash. “Leave it,” she demanded as though she had any right.

The Butcher gave her a patronizing eye roll. “He loses the ear or he loses his life,” he said. “If he doesn’t bleed to death first, the tissue will become necrotic and kill him anyway. Slowly. That what you want, cabin boy?”

His words sounded educated and terrifying, but in her gut, Maggie knew they were wrong. She couldn’t have explained how she knew, only the idea of lacing Bash’s beautiful face with gunpowder and setting it alight sent a deep chill of dread to her very core. There had to be another way.

She racked her memory for anything Jory might have taught her. Vinegar and clay plasters and willow bark. Leeches. Jory had once shown Maggie the amazing healing properties of leeches, and, as though her cousin were with her now, every fiber of her being was telling her that leeches could help save Bash’s ear as she’d seen them do with the Mackintosh of Borlum’s necrotic toe.

“Have you any leeches, sir?” she asked the Butcher, but he ignored her, shoving her away and tilting Bash’s head into position.

Maggie glanced to Dutch for help but found him completely inscrutable. Desperate, she turned to Langley next, but he stared through her, yanking fistfuls of his own hair.

“Stop,” she said with all the authority she could summon, sliding her hand over Bash’s ear, cupping it protectively, her palm brushing his cheek. Had his eyes fluttered just then? Would he thank her for this or be angry at her interference? Would he get the chance for either?

“Do you wish to lose a finger, child?” the Butcher growled.

“I wish to know if you have any leeches.”

“Leeches,” Langley said at her elbow, offering a large stoneware jug full of the slimy creatures.

Maggie practically laughed with relief.

“Leeches will not—” the Butcher began.

“They’ll keep the ear alive until it can heal itself,” she said, channeling every ounce of Jory in every drop of their shared blood.

The barber-surgeon shifted uncomfortably. “If such a thing were possible, it would take weeks.”

“Is it possible or isn’t it?” Dutch demanded, his eyes flicking to Maggie.

The Butcher’s face flashed like angry lightning. “You would question my expertise over the experimentation of a cabin boy?”

“Is. It. Possible?” Dutch repeated.