One step inside the cabin, though, I could see that the exercise of Murphy’s culinary skill was going to be once again in vain. In the usual fashion of a man feeling unwell, Jamie had managed to arrange his surroundings to be as depressing and uncomfortable as possible. The tiny cabin was dank and squalid, the cramped berth covered with a cloth so as to exclude both light and air, and half-piled with a tangle of clammy blankets and unwashed clothes.
“Rise and shine,” I said cheerfully. I set down the tray and pulled off the makeshift curtain, which appeared to be one of Fergus’s shirts. What light there was came from a large prism embedded in the deck overhead. It struck the berth, illuminating a countenance of ghastly pallor and baleful mien.
He opened one eye an eighth of an inch.
“Go away,” he said, and shut it again.
“I’ve brought you some breakfast,” I said firmly.
The eye opened again, coldly blue and gelid.
“Dinna mention the word ‘breakfast’ to me,” he said.
“Call it luncheon then,” I said. “It’s late enough.” I pulled up a stool next to him, picked a gherkin from the tray, and held it invitingly under his nose. “You’re supposed to suck on it,” I told him.
Slowly, the other eye opened. He said nothing, but the pair of blue orbs swiveled around, resting on me with an expression of such ferocious eloquence that I hastily withdrew the pickle.
The eyelids drooped slowly shut once more.
I surveyed the wreckage, frowning. He lay on his back, his knees drawn up. While the built-in berth provided more stability for the sleeper than the crews’ swinging hammocks, it was designed to accommodate the usual run of passengers, who—judging from the size of the berth—were assumed to be no more than a modest five feet three or so.
“You can’t be at all comfortable in there,” I said.
“I am not.”
“Would you like to try a hammock instead? At least you could stretch—”
“I would not.”
“The captain says he requires a list of the cargo from you—at your convenience.”
He made a brief and unrepeatable suggestion as to what Captain Raines might do with his list, not bothering to open his eyes.
I sighed, and picked up his unresisting hand. It was cold and damp, and his pulse was fast.
“Well,” I said after a pause. “Perhaps we could try something I used to do with surgical patients. It seemed to help sometimes.”
He gave a low groan, but didn’t object. I pulled up a stool and sat down, still holding his hand.
I had developed the habit of talking with the patients for a few minutes before they were taken to surgery. My presence seemed to reassure them, and I had found that if I could fix their attention on something beyond the impending ordeal, they seemed to do better—there was less bleeding, the postanesthetic nausea was less, and they seemed to heal better. I had seen it happen often enough to believe that it was not imagination; Jamie hadn’t been altogether wrong when assuring Fergus that the power of mind over flesh was possible.
“Let’s think of something pleasant,” I said, pitching my voice to be as low and soothing as possible. “Think of Lallybroch, of the hillside above the house. Think of the pine trees there—can you smell the needles? Think of the smoke coming up from the kitchen chimney on a clear day, and an apple in your hand. Think about how it feels in your hand, all hard and smooth, and then—”
“Sassenach?” Both Jamie’s eyes were open, and fixed on me in intense concentration. Sweat gleamed in the hollow of his temples.
“Yes?”
“Go away.”
“What?”
“Go away,” he repeated, very gently, “or I shall break your neck. Go away
I rose with dignity and went out.
Mr. Willoughby was leaning against an upright in the passage, peering thoughtfully into the cabin.
“Don’t have those stone balls with you, do you?” I asked.
“Yes,” he answered, looking surprised. “Wanting healthy balls for Tseimi?” He began to fumble in his sleeve, but I stopped him with a gesture.
“What I want to do is bash him on the head with them, but I suppose Hippocrates would frown on that.”
Mr. Willoughby smiled uncertainly and bobbed his head several times in an effort to express appreciation of whatever I thought I meant.
“Never mind,” I said. I glared back over my shoulder at the heap of reeking bedclothes. It stirred slightly, and a groping hand emerged, patting gingerly around the floor until it found the basin that stood there. Grasping this, the hand disappeared into the murky depths of the berth, from which presently emerged the sound of dry retching.
“Bloody man!” I said, exasperation mingled with pity—and a slight feeling of alarm. The ten hours of a Channel crossing were one thing; what would his state be like after two months of this?
“Head of pig,” Mr. Willoughby agreed, with a lugubrious nod. “He is rat, you think, or maybe dragon?”
“He smells like a whole zoo,” I said. “Why dragon, though?”
