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Shandy stood over him and wondered who the man really was. The Oxford don, author of A Vindication of Free Will? Beth's father? Husband of the unbearably dead Margaret? Ulysse Segundo the pirate? The bones were prominent in the open-mouthed face, and Shandy tried to imagine what Hurwood had looked like as a young man. He couldn't imagine it.
Shandy knelt down beside him and shook him by his good shoulder. "Mr. Hurwood. Wake up."
The pace of the breathing didn't change, the wrinkled eyelids didn't flutter.
"Mr. Hurwood. It's important. Please wake up."
There was no response.
Shandy knelt there, staring at the devastated old man and trying not to think, until Skank clumped in. New orange light contended weakly with the sunlight from outside.
"Water," Skank said, letting a sloshing bucket clank onto the deck, "and a lamp." After looking around uncertainly he set that too on the deck.
"Fine," Shandy whispered. "Thank you."
Skank left, closing the door, and the lamp's agitated flame became the room's illumination.
Shandy dipped up a handful of cold brine and tossed it across Hurwood's closed eyes. The old man frowned faintly, but that was all. "God damn it," Shandy burst out, almost sobbing, "don't force me!" He grabbed one of Hurwood's ears and twisted it savagely ... to no effect. In horror as much as rage Shandy stood up, pushing the lamp away with his foot, then lifted the bucket and flung the entire contents onto Hurwood's head. The weight of water turned the old man's face away and plastered the white hair out like a crown, but the breathing continued as steadily as before, without even any choking.
Genuinely sobbing now, Shandy turned away and reached for the lamp ... and then breathed a prayer of thanks when he heard spitting and groaning behind him.
He crouched beside Hurwood. "Wake up," he said urgently. "You'll never get better advice."
Hurwood's eyes opened. "I'm ... hurt," he said softly.
"Yes." Shandy brushed the tears out of his eyes to see the old man more clearly. "But you'll probably live. You survived it once. Where's Beth, Elizabeth, your daughter?"
"Oh ... it's all over, isn't it? All done now." His eyes met Shandy's. "You! You destroyed it ... Margaret's head ... I could feel her spirit go out of it. A mere sword!" His voice was gentle, as if he was discussing events in a play they'd both seen. "Not just because it was cold iron ... ?"
"And linked to my blood. Yes." Shandy tried to match Hurwood's quiet, conversational tone. "Where have you got your daughter hid?"
"Jamaica. In Spanish Town."
"Ah!" Shandy nodded and smiled. "Where in Spanish Town?"
"Nice house. She's restrained, of course. A prisoner. But in comfort."
"Whose house?"
"Uh ... Joshua Hicks." Hurwood seemed childishly proud of being able to remember the name.
Shandy's shoulders drooped with relief.
"Do you have any chocolates?" Hurwood asked politely. "I haven't any."
"Uh, no." Shandy stood up. "We can get you some in Jamaica."
"We're going to Jamaica?"
"You're damn right we are. As soon as we get this old hulk a little more seaworthy. We can afford to relax a little, now that I know where she is. Beth will keep for another day or two while we make some repairs."
"Oh, aye, Hicks will take very good care of her. I've given him the strictest instructions, and given him a nurse to make sure he does everything right."
A nurse? thought Shandy. I can't quite imagine a nurse ordering around a member of the landed gentry. "Well, fine. We'll - "
"In fact, what day is it today?"
"Christmas Eve." Can't you tell by everybody's festive manner? he thought.
