Death's Compass 1: Frippery Most Foul

Medical Log. April 24, 1818. Portsmouth Dockyard. Between blood, thunder, and cannons, God save me from the nobility…

Author’s Note: Death’s Compass is a serialized fiction story in Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies, which is a fantastic collaborative corner of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles by the ever talented Leanne Shawler! It’s a world of change and industrialization where magic has been set loose on the world of the 1800s. Here, in this corner, we’ll follow the escapades of one Dr. Rebekah Verity Thorne with her work and adventures about the new, hospital Aetheric Dirigible, the HMS Dawn Javelin.

New installments or chapters will materialize every other Wednesday as long as the story allows!

Missed a chapter? You can find the full list here.

Medical Log. April 24, 1818. Portsmouth Dockyard. Between blood, thunder, and cannons, God save me from the nobility…

A ship is a dangerous place at the best of times. It’s often the surgeon’s battlefield, fighting injury, illness, or death. None are ever truly conquered, just held at bay until the next patient. Which I used to think was worse once the crew put to sea or air.

How little did I know.

I braced my hips against the battered oak table in the medical station aboard the Javelin, Seaman Evan Riley’s arm locked with mine. He squinted through a welter of sweat in the hot room, bruised jaw set, as if ready to swallow a bad scone out of spite. Riley cut his eyes over to me and nodded.

“Ready, Doct—”

I pulled and rotated his arm until a sharp pop cut his words to a sputter. His boots scrabbled against the deck, but my grip was like iron. Riley was a bull of a man, but I had leverage and stubbornness on my side. I let go with a tired sigh as his eyes crossed.

“That’ll take care of the shoulder.” I wiped my hands on a nearby towel, then flicked the nearest brass gaslamp brighter.

“You didn’t sing over it…” he groaned, slowly testing his arm.

“Pfft. I’m a Bloodsinger, Riley. My Gift is singing to blood, not joints. Be still,” I replied dryly.

“Doesn’t even smart,” he croaked.

“Liar,” I countered. “It’ll double ache tomorrow if you lift anything heavier than a spoon. Now, let’s mend the rest of you…”

I closed my eyes and listened to his blood. Like all the times before, Seaman Riley’s blood was sure and sound. A soft, warm sea-shanty in its own right. I hummed along, letting my Gift guide me to the proper melody.

It’d only been three years since the first Gifts appeared, and mine was more unsettling than most. A fact that felt like a needle to the heart every time a patient flinched away from me. Fortunately, Seaman Evan Riley had gotten used to it.

“Three lacerations,” I decided, gingerly pulling open the rent in his dirt-stained shirt sleeve. “Two on the arm, where’s the third?”

Riley’s cheeks turned the color of sunset.

“Back left shoulder, Doctor Thorne.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Back left…?” I blinked, studied the wounds, then noticed the bruised knuckles. Pursing my lips, I pinned him with a flat stare. He frowned and abruptly found his boots utterly fascinating.

I leaned in to check a long cut across his forearm, humming in tune with his blood. Seawater and cheap rum scented the gash. The man’s blood swayed like a drunken lout on a bender.

“Seaman…”

Riley grimaced. “Ma’am? You should’ve seen the other bloke! Looked like he took a broadside to the jaw.”

I rolled my eyes.

“God’s teeth.” I groaned, snatching the amber bottle of vinegar from the shelf. “Blake!” I bellowed. “Bandages and straps!”

Blake McLaren stampeded in with the supplies. The Scotsman gave Riley a knowing grin, set the box down, and pulled out the leather strap. Riley nodded.

“I know, I have to be strapped down so I don’t wiggle.”

Blake’s grin widened. “Spoken like an expert.”

I grunted, eyeing them both with a flinty glare. “Personally, I’d appreciate fewer visits. Now, Riley, you’re the third to stagger in here in under an hour, and we’re in confounded drydock.” I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, despite the scents of vinegar and old blood sharp on my skin. “Which pub?”

Blake chuckled, strapping the seaman’s wounded arm to the worn wooden chair. Riley examined his boots again.

“Well…” He licked his lips, grimacing as I dabbed vinegar with a cloth over the first cut. “The Greyhound, ma’am.” He gave me a pleading look. “But it wasn’t just a brawl; it was a matter of pride!”

I shot him a glance as I hummed, brushing my fingers over his cut, soft as a spring breeze. The seaman’s blood stirred as I quietly sang, pulling the wound closed by inches. It was done in a moment.

“Fine. Out with it.” I sliced open the next hole in his shirt. “What started it?”

“Best story I’ve heard in days,” Blake grinned at me. “Wait until you hear this.”

I paused before I sang again, arching an eyebrow. Riley cleared his throat, then winced, feeling the bruise on his jaw.

“Um… you see, some of us lads went to the Greyhound to blow off steam. With the Javelin trussed up for repairs, it’s been dull work. Then we ran into a bunch from the HMS Royal Oak.”

Brushing off my trousers, I stood and tugged my waistcoat straight. Then I crossed my arms.

“…and?” I nudged.

Riley’s cheeks flamed. “We got a bit into our cups. They did, too. Ah, some of them hurled a few insults. You know, at us. The captain, then over you.”

“That’s when the brawl broke out?” I asked, trying not to smile.

Blake practically choked with laughter. I glared, and he found something to shelve.

“Oh, no!” Riley protested, bruised face angelic. “We followed the captain’s orders. Personal insults are unbecoming!”

I blinked.

“Seaman. Do not make me drag this out of you.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He scuffed a boot idly against the deck. “It started when they insulted the Javelin! Doctor… they called her a flying coal scuttle! You just can’t let a thing like that go!”

Across the room, Blake sounded like he’d caught consumption from laughter.

Riley’s face brightened, as if he’d won a prize. “Ma’am? The lads and I really showed them what for!”

Coughing fit mostly under control, Blake wiped his eyes, a grin still plastered across his face. “Doctor, I showed up at the end. Riley and the lads gave that bunch from the Oak a sound bashing. Got to hand it to them on that.”

I shot a chilly look at my Surgeon’s Mate. “You’re a vile influence.”

Blake tipped an invisible cap to me. “At every chance I have, Doctor. It’s good for the soul.”

“Bandages, Mr. McLaren,” I replied in a withering tone. “Bandages.”

I closed the last two cuts with another song, leaving behind angry red lines. Riley, bruises and all, pushed to his feet. He paused at the door, looking back at us.

“Doctor? Mr. McLaren? You both could come ashore with us next time we go to the Greyhound. A night off to relax? If I may, Doctor Thorne, you’ve been looking a bit tense since that mess at Portlethen Bay.”

I closed my eyes, the memory of Portlethen Bay barely a week old and raw. Water leapers and pirates had been bloody bad enough. Watching my little sister help the pirate Caleb Rourke escape sliced open my soul.

The doctor in me said I needed rest, but the horrible patient in me didn’t want to hear it.

I pulled on a thin smile. “Thank you, Riley. I can’t speak for Mr. McLaren, but… I’ll think about it.”

The young man smiled, bright as day. “We’ll let you know… er… once we’re not confined to the ship.” Another blush, and he was gone, limping out the door.

“You’ve made an impression,” Blake said, tossing me a clean rag. “The crew is warming to you.”

I snorted as I caught it. Together we set to the usual task of scrubbing down the medical station. It was familiar and routine, helping me settle my thoughts.

“Flummery,” I said without any steel as I scrubbed a stubborn spot of blood on the chair. “We faced down air pirates together, that’s all. Give it a week. I’ll be back to being ‘the banshee’ and ‘that odd lady doctor who sings to blood.’”

Blake scoffed as he stored the bandages in a tiny linen cabinet. He shook his head.

“Your Gift doesn’t make you a monster, Rebekah. From what I’ve seen, people don’t need a Gift to be a monster. Most can set about being a monster just fine on their own.”

I thought about Caleb again, my former fiancé who tried to kill me. Monster fit the memory.

“True.”

We conquered the last stains in record time; the air layered with the sharp scent of vinegar. That was when we heard a brisk staccato of footsteps along the passageway outside. Petty Officer Amina Sengupta ducked in with a grin already on her face.

Compact and muscular as a coiled spring, she was wearing her formal blue tunic, waistcoat, and trousers. The petty officer carried herself with an easy stride, not eager to start a fight but sure she’d finish one.

Raising my eyebrows, I looked her up and down, suddenly feeling underdressed. “Petty officer? You’re looking rather formal today.”

I knew her more by reputation than personally. A gunner’s mate, she was a dead shot with anything that fired. Some thought it was a Gift, but she claimed it simply honed spite.

“Mr. McLaren. Doctor Thorne.” She nodded, carefully appraising me. “So the captain was right. You’re not ready. Absolutely a bit of powder, maybe the coat brushed…” She squinted at the room. “If… we can find your dress coat.”

I glanced at Blake for help, but he just shrugged.

“Pardon?” I asked, scrubbing my hands on the used rag. “What?”

Amina clasped her hands behind her back. “The gala, Doctor. Hosted by Lord Kingsley Barrett? Where the Admiralty’s awarding medals and commendations for what happened at Portlethen Bay?” She paused, shaking her head. “You can’t go like this to supper with His Lordship.”

I clutched the rag in a chokehold. The gala. Tonight. It wasn’t that I forgot; I hoped it would’ve forgotten me. My imagination conjured shallow smiles, hollow conversation, and judgmental looks stabbing me like scalpels.

“Now wait…” I sputtered.

Amina smiled a little too quickly, as if armed and ready.

“Captain Vane told me you hated these things, and might need some encouragement to get ready.” She studied the room again. “Once we find your formals, I’ll get you ship-shape.”

The rag in my hands continued to die a twisted death as my knuckles turned white.

“I… have an ailment!” I declared. “A sudden affliction.”

“Captain said to ask what symptoms,” she countered.

Blake, for all the good he was, leaned against a nearby counter, smiling like a Cheshire cat. His eyes darted between Amina and me as if watching a duel. I knifed a look at him. He raised his hands in defense.

“Now, don’t go looking at me. I’m supposed to be there, too. Once I leave here, I’ll be getting my own fineries on.”

I grunted, squaring my shoulders.

“Well…” I started, but Amina held up a hand, cutting off my verbal parry at the knees.

“No wrapping a hand in bandages stained with oil, either. Captain Vane said he hadn’t forgotten that trick.”

“Confound it!” I snapped. Throwing my hands in the air, I turned my back on both of them. “Dress uniform and all. It itches! Wait…” I glanced back. “Do I have to wear all the damn frippery?”

Amina folded her arms in front of her. “Yes, you do. I’ll have my rank and medals just like Blake, myself, and the others there.”

Blake, never outdone, jerked a thumb at me. “Don’t let her fool you, Amina. She’s likely planning mutiny to hide as a deckhand if you don’t keep an eye on her.”

The petty officer snorted with a half-smile. “Won’t do. They’ll see right through the disguise. Everyone knows what you look like, Doctor.”

I sighed at the ceiling. “Then I need to try harder. At least there won’t be any frippery.”

Amina shook her head. “Doctor. You out of anyone know the Admiralty and the nobility like to see ‘frippery’. Especially on those they’re planning to medal and fawn over. Nobles more so. It soothes them like a tonic for a toothache.”

I slapped my half-dead rag against a tin basin, giving them a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“Cogswaddle!” I scowled. “They can bloody well look down at their own frippery instead of mine if they want to feel happy.”

Blake flashed a grin at Amina. “Good luck.”

She sighed. “I’ve wrangled tougher cannons. Now, where’s your uniform, Doctor? The gala’s tonight, and we’ll need the time for powder, coat-dusting…” she narrowed her eyes, and I suddenly felt like a skittish horse “…your hair. We’ll do something about that, too.”

“My hair?” I sputtered, instinctively reaching for the mostly intact bun I often trapped my hair into. “What’s wrong with my hair?”

Blake eased away from the counter, gesturing to the far corner of the station. “The doctor hides her uniform in the back of the linen locker. She thinks no one knows.”

“Traitor,” I snapped.

“A moment ago you just said you’d think about getting off the ship,” he said, producing my formal uniform for Amina with a devilish grin.

My mouth opened twice before I formed words. “That’s… oh… God’s teeth! This isn’t what I meant!”

Amina nodded as Blake handed over my uniform. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse us, Mr. McLaren.” Then she turned a soft, sympathetic smile on me. “As for you, Doctor, you won’t be alone. We’ll all be there. Myself and Blake. Captain Vane. First Leftenant Harrow. Leftenant Angwin. Even Corporal Maddock. You won’t be alone.”

I blinked, suddenly fascinated by the bloody rag in my hands I just murdered. A warmth touched my cheeks.

“Well…” I drew a long breath, letting it out slow. “Fine. Maybe a little frippery isn’t so bad. All right, let’s get on with it. For King, country, and apparently decorative sleeves… confound it.”

I followed Amina away from my medical station and over the deck to a questionably more private space aboard the Javelin. The idea still struck me as fanciful horror lying in wait, but all I could do was take it chin up and eyes forward.

The whole affair had me so engrossed that I nearly missed the world around me. Then a prickle of unease whispered to look dockside off starboard. I glanced over the knots of carpenters and the rest of the small army of craftsfolk it took to repair and refit a dirigible.

In the middle of the mob, one dockworker caught my eye. Dressed all in forgettable browns and grays, the blonde, bearded man studied the Javelin, eyes tracing her hull. Then he caught me watching him.

Our eyes locked with a chilly snap. Then, with a smooth motion, he tugged his tweed cap low and vanished among the crowd.

“Hm,” I grunted, then hurried after Amina for my date with an itchy uniform, nosy nobles, and… frippery.

This story is part of the Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies collaboration of stories, poetry and art set in the universe of The Môrdreigiau Chronicles. If you’d like to participate, follow this link for details and lore. You will be able to read all of the submissions here.

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Where the Blood Calls of Upon Our Seas, In Our Skies is a work of pure, unashamed fiction. In truth, when its not fending off pirates, problems, and perils, it’s rather thoughtful and contemplative. Often, it enjoys a good book by a fireplace with a fresh cup of tea. Names of characters, places, events, organizations and locations are all creations of the author’s imagination for this fictitious setting. So the blame really lies at his feet.

In fact, it could be said any resemblance to persons living, dead, or washed ashore is coincidental—if not pure flummery. The opinions expressed are those of the characters and should not be confused with the author’s, since the characters and the author are apt to argue like cats fighting over cream. Often.