Where the Blood Calls 6: The Doctor's Private War

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a doctor protecting her patients…

Author’s Note: Where the Blood Calls 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.

Previously. Plans were in motion but so were the pirates. Outnumbered three to one, calling it long odds seemed thin. While Doctor Thorne had deduced the possible toxin, and a repellent, to use with the Llamhigyn y Dŵr, it might not be enough. Caleb Rourke and his raiders had arrived in a screaming, bloodthirsty rush. Bullets looked for victims, but Rebekah kept her eyes on hope… and a wildly desperate gamble…

Medical Log. April 10, 1818. Portlethen Bay, Scotland. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned or a doctor protecting her patients…

I’ve never considered myself a hero. Certainly not one of those from the stories with a lantern-jaw, flashing eyes, and a roguish grin. Pure flummery! I’ve only thought of myself as a doctor. But I’d be thrice-damned if I let that confounded man and his foul bunch touch my patients; deciding who lives and who dies.

No. Not today.

The tower house door slammed shut behind me with a final sound, like punctuation on my damn fool idea. A pair of bullets tore past my ear, clipping a length of my hair as I tasted the raw smoke of burnt earth. Maddock had been right. It would be close. So close, I knew Caleb’s raiders would be on us with knives the moment we tried to push off.

We’d lose people. Good people.

Not. Today.

I raced for the nearest marine, who was a certain lieutenant I knew too well. Lieutenant Angwin nearly jumped out of his tattered uniform when I stumbled into him behind his makeshift shelter of crates.

“Doctor?” he sputtered.

I shoved the clay jar into his hands. A glance across the battlefield made my blood chill. Caleb was up and leading a batch of butchers our way.

“Throw the jug at the nearest fire.”

The lieutenant glanced at the jar, then at me. “What?”

Scowling, I jabbed a finger at the nearest fire between us and Caleb’s bunch.

“Jar! Fire! Now, Leftenant! It’s thick with tallow and used gear grease; that’ll throw smoke everywhere! Do it and run for the boat!”

By God’s teeth, the man actually cooperated. Black-gray smoke, like the devil’s breath, leaped into the air, blotting the battlefield from view. Obviously, Angwin thought I’d follow him when he ran off. A part of me wanted to, but we needed one last bit of bait to slow the rotten bastards down in the smoke.

Me.

“Flummery! I hate cheap heroics,” I muttered in a tight voice. “Now I’m doing them!”

After a deep breath, I clenched my fists, then stepped out from behind the stack of crates. A shot tugged the air next to me, as Caleb waved his pirates back. I brushed loose strands of my dirty brown hair behind my ears, holding my ground; a short, thin doctor in a splattered waistcoat who’d had enough. I was unarmed, but never helpless. Fortunately, I didn’t have to hold the line forever; only long enough. Caleb belted out a laugh.

“Run down her crew,” he snarled. “We’ll dig the villagers out later. This one?” His dark eyes burned with a lurid light that gave me chills. “I know her,” he said, words like a velvet lie. “She’s mine to handle.”

I planted my boots in the dirt, knowing the smoke fouled Caleb’s Gift slightly. If luck were with me, it’d be enough.

“Handle?” I said with a sweet smile, my native Irish lilt from home bleeding under my words. “Now, Caleb, seems I recall you couldn’t do that even if you had a lantern and a map every time you tried.”

Caleb’s face twisted into a portrait of ugly rage. Several of his cutthroats whooped and laughed as they chased after Captain Vane and the others. That ended the instant the lot of them ran into Lieutenant Angwin’s devilment with the fishing line tripwires. Yelps of alarm replaced laughter.

“Stow it!” Caleb snarled at his crew, then slowly stalked toward me. He was sweat-and-soot-stained with blood splattered over the front of his fancy long coat and white shirt. It wasn’t noble or romantic, just dirty and repulsive; a look showing his true nature.

“Get your men and leave, you bloody bastard. You won’t harvest the dead like you did at the wreck of the Lewis Ross.” I sucked a ragged breath against the smoke. “Like you nearly did to me.”

His smile was like oil.

“Now, Rebekah. Don’t be like that. The past is in the past. It was an honest mistake. But we can make it better… I can make it better.” His voice dropped with a subtle echo as his Gift purred to life. A dull heat, like tiny fires, burned in his dark eyes. “Come to me.”

I took a slow step toward him before I realized it.

God help me, the man was already in my mind, turning it; Gift working, words purring.

I took another step against my will.

Then I stopped as a soft song hummed in my ear. It came from Caleb. The blood I heard was his. I felt the purr fade from my mind, barely a ragged, unpleasant memory. A soft smile dared bloom over my face as a gout of tallow smoke blew in between us, blocking his view and his Gift. The last Mesmer effects vanished like dew before the sunrise.

“No,” I whispered, iron packed into the word.

“Rebekah?” Caleb’s brow pinched in confusion as he tried again.

“Banshee,” I sharply corrected him, “or Doctor Thorne, if you please. Also, you know your Gift doesn’t work when mine has heard your blood.”

Wide-eyed, Caleb reached for a bleeding cut half-hidden at the edge of his hairline, against his ear. Grinning, I sang an Irish shanty off-key. Caleb yelled in pain as his blood danced to my tune. The man collapsed to one knee, and I leaned into the song. The pirate blinked, locking eyes with me.

“Rebekah, stop!”

The words purred into my mind like velvet poison. I heard them, but I no longer cared. My Gift held firm. I remembered the pain he’d caused my family. The cries of the dying and the just-dead at the wreck of the Lewis Ross. Pain visited on me when we were engaged. All of which this man had caused. Every bit for greed; for himself. It was blood money at its worst.

“No!” I snapped between verses, then roared out the shanty about a highwayman getting his due.

Red-faced and twisted in pain, Caleb yanked a knife from his belt before shoving to his feet. Blood steamed from his cut as he squared his shoulders, then charged. He managed three steps before a boarding ax sliced the air in front of his nose. Caleb jerked back, wide-eyed and panting, as if he’d seen his misbegotten life flash before his eyes. I glanced to my right where the ax had come from.

Corporal Maddock stood there, skin as metal as could be, with another boarding ax held at the ready. He gave me a curt nod, jaw tight. Metal or not, I saw a glimmer of concern behind that resolute expression.

“Ma’am.”

Confound it, that man packed more into one phrase than I could process.

Heart tight, I flashed a feral smile at Caleb, releasing my hold on his blood.

“Did he?”

Nearby, fishing line twanged. Bone knitting needles flew like a swarm of retribution, followed by the shadow of a hooked fishing net. Caleb dove to the ground. Several of his raiders didn’t. Screams of pain were as thick as grease smoke.

“Run!” I ordered Maddock, grabbing his arm. He didn’t say a word but ran easily beside me as we headed for the jolly boat back to the Javelin. Screams from the injured needled my ears. It was nothing compared to the cries of the lost souls that haunted my heart.

“You’re Gifted. A doctor!” Caleb growled after me. I glanced back to see him pull a bone knitting needle out of his woolen long coat. “You should be here with me. Healing my crew!”

“I soothe people.” My words were razor sharp. “Not mad devils drunk on death. I’m a doctor, not a priest!”

Caleb was back on his feet as we reached the jolly boat. Maddock and I were the last to board. He climbed in first as I turned back to glare at the pirate.

“Rebekah!” Caleb yelled in a rage. “This isn’t over. I’ll take your crew, your ship… and you.”

For a moment I stood one boot in the jolly boat, the other on the pier. Llamhigyn y Dŵr shot out of the water on either side of us, then back down. They arced over the pier, the others, and me; touching none of us. I shot a look of righteous anger at Caleb.

“Do. Your. Worst!” I yelled back, fire throbbing in my veins. “As God is my witness… you’ll still fail,” I added in a low voice.

“Doctor!” Captain Vane called from behind me.

I gave the captain a curt nod, taking my seat aboard. A midshipman keyed the crank, which poured our small supply of sulfuric acid over the scrap iron in the chamber at the bottom of the boat. The gasbag’s silk expanded as the others rowed. Not quite halfway from the pier and the air, someone dropped our single, tiny sail.

The dinghy lurched into the air as I stared holes through torn smoke toward shore. I watched Caleb and his raiders grab the wounded, stumbling back to their own boats. Whipped by the loss and his own anger, they were coming after us. Portlethen Bay was safe for the moment, even if we weren’t.

I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. Turning to my right, I looked up into Maddock’s concerned gaze. With a ragged sigh, I shook my head.

“It’s not over,” I said, words torn.

“No,” he said, looking up. “Not by a bit.”

Beyond our tiny gasbag, the HMS Javelin loomed into view. The last of the pitch-smoke boiled around her, but was fast bleeding away. She’d taken several hits but had held her own. Coming about was Caleb’s ship; a dirigible schooner. Light. Fast. Designed for hit-and-run, before boarding for blood.

“We’ll take them down or run them off,” Maddock said with steel conviction.

I nodded, pursing my lips as I glanced between the Javelin and the village of Portlethen Bay below. Lives that depended on us, and every minute we bought them.

“We have to,” I replied softly. “There’s no other way but to sail right through.”

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.