Chapter Two – In which Molly finds herself imprisoned.

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Pusen, growled in agreement and lightened his grip of her arms as he shoved her past several jeering knots of sailors. Hands reached out to touch her, but were sternly dealt with by shouts from her jailor.

"Keep yer bloody paws off the Captain's woman, ye scurvy dogs! If I see any one of ye even breathin' too heavy, I'll have yer hides tacked to the wall!" Pulsen roared as he shoved Molly forward.

"What does the likes of him want with a woman?" One large bulky pirate growled. "Tis a waste of a wench I say, even if she be a plain one and long in the tooth."

"Ye shut yer bloody trap, Withers or I'll see ye whipped within the last inch of yer worthless hide. If Capt'n hears ye, you'll swim with the fishes fer sure. He's got a yearnin for this one I reckon, or maybe he's plannin' on usin' her in one of his experiments. Whatever his wants are, it's no bloody concern of yers, so keep yer bloomin' cake hole shut!"

The man reluctantly stepped back with growling angrily, but he didn't try to touch her again and Molly was grateful.

They came to a large door and Pulsen shoved it open to reveal the Captain's quarters. He pushed Molly roughly inside.

"Make sure you do please the Captain well," he said as he ran his dirty fingers down Molly's cheek. He leered as she shrank back from him. "I hear his tastes do be peculiar. Rest assured, when he tires of ye, there are those of us that know how to please a wench. 'Till then me beauty, I wish ye well." Pulsen laughed and slammed the door shut, locking it from the outside.

Molly swayed as she gazed about. In a matter of hours she had gone from a respectable gentlewoman to the prisoner of a foul pirate. She held no illusions as to her fate. She knew her ordeal was only beginning. She looked down at her hands and saw that they were trembling. She watched with strange detachment as the shaking moved to the rest of her body. She became light headed and sank to the surprisingly clean floor…or deck she supposed it was called. A sense of hopelessness crept over her, enveloping her in a grey numbness. What on earth was she to do? There was nowhere to run, no escape.

After a few minutes Molly shook herself, she was no high society gal with simpering ways. She was Margaret Ann Hooper, a practical woman, a spinster, 27 years old and proud of it. She could almost hear her father's voice gently chiding her; "Hoopers are made of tough stuff lass, chin up! Keep your wits about you!" Tears still streaked down her face, but she stood up with new resolve.

For the first time since his death from ship's fever, Molly was glad her father was not with her. She was fiercely thankful that he did not have to witness his daughter's fate.

Walter Hooper, a botanist, had planned this journey for years. With Molly as his ever present assistant, he had hoped to add new specimens to his collection of plants of the new world. The father and daughter had saved and planned and it was with a sense of euphoria, they had finally embarked on the journey of a life time two years ago. The journey had gone well. Once on the shores of Brazil, the pair had set about collecting and sending back specimens to Walter's colleague, Martin Wells, while the father-daughter team continued happily exploring. Everything had changed when Walter decided to sail to the islands of the Caribbean. There was a hint of an illusive native plant he wished to research. Ignoring the concerns of friends about the unstable conditions of the island's government and the threat of piracy, the Hoopers had booked passage on her Majesty's ship, Cornwall. All had gone well, until the onset of ship's fever. The cabin boy, Will Button, had died first. By the time the sickness had run its course the ship had been decimated. Even several weeks later, as the pirate ship approached, the crew was in no shape to properly defend itself. They had been easy prey. Molly hoped fiercely that disease somehow found its way onto this ship. She hoped they all died the agonizing death her father had. They deserved it.

Molly looked about the small room. She expected the quarters of a pirate to be filthy, but the cabin was surprisingly tidy. The bunk secured against one side of the ship was neatly made up. There were several chests, secured with straps to the walls. In the center of the room, under a lantern swinging from a gimbal, was a small table which was bolted to the floor. About the table were two odd looking chairs. Molly walked over and saw that they too were bolted to the floor and had hinged arms which could be lifted, then locked into place once you were seated.

On the table was a shallow tray with some sort of sea creature spread open and tacked down. Her nose wrinkled at the slight odor of decay. Molly gazed with curious eyes at the partially dissected thing. A shallow box next to the creature contained a scalpel and various other tools. A parchment and pen lay nearby with scribbled notes and a precise drawing. Part of Molly was surprised at the Captain's level of intelligence, as evidenced in the scientific methods he had used examining the creature, but most of her attention centered about the small box and the scalpel. She grabbed the sharp instrument and quickly dropped it in a pocket hanging at her waist. She now had a weapon of sorts to defend herself.

It didn't take long to finish exploring her prison. The only other area of interest was a small almost invisible wooden door to the right of the Captain's bunk. She crossed the room and pulled it open to reveal a tiny room, not much larger than a closet. Light streamed in from a single porthole and highlighted the boxes and crates of various sizes and shapes that cluttered the space, but the thing that caught Molly's attention most was the rope hammock swaying slightly with the roll of the ship. She hadn't slept in two days and exhaustion came crashing down as he stared at it. She needed to rest while the Captain was busy elsewhere. She glanced back over her shoulder. There was no way she was willingly going to lie on his bed. She closed the small door, shoved a heavy crate in front of it and rolled into the hammock. She clutched the scalpel through the layers of protective cloth for comfort as she drifted off into oblivion.

Xxx

Captain Sherlock Holmes grimaced as he descended the ladder to below decks and made his way to where the new ship's doctor had set up shop. He stood in the background watching as John Watson worked on a sword cut on a sailors leg.

"Peevy! I need more water!" Doctor Watson called to the sailor assigned to guard him. The man mumbled something under his breath, but obediently got up to fetch the water. He returned with a half filled bucket.

"Cook says that's the last of it," Peevy said as he handed the bucket to the doctor.

Well, go back and tell him I want more water boiled immediately. I can't do my job without clean sterile water!"

Peevy turned and mumbled. "That's what I told cook, but he won't listen to the likes of me."

Sherlock stepped up to where the men could see him.

"Peevy, you tell cook that if the doctor needs boiled water, he had better make sure he gets boiled water. Capt'n's orders. Now step lively me lad, time's a wastin."

"Yes ser!" Peevy hurried off to carry out his orders.

John Watson looked up from his patient. "Where were you two hours ago when I needed supplies? It's a good thing I found my medical kit among the items your men stole from the Cornwall. I shudder to think of having to use the rusty implements of my predecessor."

"Perkins be a good carpenter, but not so much when it comes to tendin' the sick. He had a strong arm though and was good at cuttin off legs when it be necessary," Sherlock commented.

Watson shook his head, he knew that most non-military ships could not afford a doctor and instead relied on the ships carpenter to double in that capacity.

"It's a wonder any of his patients survived his tender care," he said.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders, then winced with pain.

Watson's eyes narrowed as he looked at the captain carefully. "You are wounded," he said. "Let me take a look."

"Tend to me men first," Sherlock growled. "Carry on."

Sherlock looked curiously at the new doctor. He wasn't used to being treated so informally. He decided not to reprimand him at this time and chose instead to watch him perform his duties.

The most serious wounds, necessary amputations and those unfortunate enough to be wounded beyond John's capabilities had already been seen to. Sherlock watched as the doctor cleaned and stitched a myriad of gashes and cuts. He winced as he watched the doctor use an excellent brandy to sterilize the wounds.

"Where did ye come by the brandy?" he demanded.

"From the Quarter Master, of course. Mr. Moriarty was most helpful once he understood the reason," John explained.

"Tis a damned shame to waste the drink so," Sherlock commented.

"If it cuts down on infection and gets your men back on their feet sooner, you will be thanking me," John answered back.

Sherlock nodded. He wasn't feeling well. In fact, he was distinctly light headed. He made a move to lean against a post, missed and collapsed to the floor unconscious.

"What the hell?" John exclaimed. He rushed over and knelt beside the captain. He carefully pulled back Sherlock's coat to reveal wadded rags soaked with blood. "Bloody hell, when did this happen?" He gently pulled at the makeshift bandages and uncovered a nasty gunshot wound.

"He got that boardin the ship," the boatswain, who was one of the wounded waiting to be stitched up, explained. "It didn't even slow him down!" He added with a voice of awe.

"Well, he's bloody well going to die, if I don't get that musket ball out of him now," John said with a worried grimace. "Quick lads, pick him up and put him under the light so I can see what needs to be done. This should have been tended to hours ago!"

Xxx

Much later, Molly awoke to the sounds of the door to the captain's cabin being unlocked. She quickly swung out of the hammock, clutched the scalpel in her hand and waited almost afraid to breathe. Maybe, if she were lucky, he would forget she was here.

She listened as curious scuffling sounds came through the wooden door of her hideaway. There was the sound of something heavy thumping down and she identified John Watson's scolding voice saying, "Careful there man! You don't want to start the wound bleeding again!"

"John Watson?" Molly called out. "Why are you here? Am I being rescued?"

"Molly? Where are you?" John called out. He heard the sound of something heavy being moved, then a small almost invisible door opened up and Molly stepped out. "What's happening? Are we being rescued?"

"No, I'm afraid not," John said. The captain has been wounded and I will need your help. He is running a fever."

"Why should I help him?" Molly demanded. "You know what he will do to me when he is better."

"You should do it because it is the right thing to do, Molly Hooper. I know you, you are not the type of woman to refuse aid to a helpless man," John said, "even if he is your enemy."

Molly stood silently and stared at the unconscious man on the bunk. He didn't look as threatening as before. Without his shirt, she could see he was terribly thin. The bandages the doctor had put on him were already soaked through with blood. She could see that his cheeks were flushed and it was obvious he was carrying a high fever. She bit her lip. She didn't want to help this man, but she knew it was her duty, so she nodded.

"Thank you!" John Watson smiled. "I would see to him myself, but I have dozens of patients that need tending for the next few days and I know I can rely on your skills to help the captain."

"The wench may kill him in his bed!" one of the pirates who had helped carry the captain said angrily. Tis best if we slit her throat and set one of the men to tend his needs."

"I trust Molly Hooper with my life," John Watson said. "There is none aboard who is more skilled with tending the sick. You may rest assured that she will do all in her power to bring your captain back to good health."

The angry sailor stared at Molly and John for a few moments, then looked at Molly and said; "Make sure he recovers lass, for if he doesn't it will be yer neck and that of John Watson that hangs from the yardarm."