Sybrina Read Online Free PDF Page A

that is oozing blood. I intervene.  “Like this,” I say, showing the woman how to apply pressure to stop the wound from bleeding.  “You must stay like this until it stops.”
    “ Thank you,” she says and gives her attention back to her duty.
    “ Paul?  Are you hurt?” a voice calls from behind me.  It is my only friend down here, come to check on me.
    “ No. But we need alcohol and dry bandages,” I say matter-of-factly.  He agrees.
    I walk over to the ladder and climb.  The trap door is still shut.  No one has come by to open it.
    “What are you doing?” he asks in an exasperated tone.
    “ Getting what we need,” I say, resolved.
    “ You don’t want to get thrown in the brig!” He’s worried.  “Captain Stokes is a remorseless, harsh man.  He is as mean as the sea.”
    I scoff at the warning.  My mind is made up ; waiting for my expiration or not, I can at least help these people. I raise my hand above my head and pound my fist on the trapdoor.  Nothing happens.  I do it again.  No one comes.  Alarmed, I think that maybe all of the crew was lost in the storm when a click of the lock makes me look up.  The door is thrown open and crashes against the deck.  A surly-faced deckhand stares down at me, livid.
    “ You know Cap’n’s rules!  You stay down there!”  He reaches to slam the door again, and I reach my hand out to stop it.  It bends my wrist back painfully.
    “ We need clean bandages and some kind of alcohol for wounds and anesthetic.”
    He gives me a gruff, perplexed twist of lips . “Anesthetic?” he questions.
    I suck in a breath to accompany my explanation.   “Yes, it’s when you give someone something to make them unconscious or deaden their sensitivity.”  The dullness of the crew frightens me. 
    He stares at me like I am a character in a Dickens novel, possibly the ghost of Christmas past. I race around in my mind searching for how I can convince this poor ignorant soul to help me.  Our one-sided conversation is interrupted by Tinker, who crouches and sticks his head down to my level.
    “Paul?” he questions.
    “ Hello, Mr. Tinker.” I suck in a breath and voice my requests.  “We need bandages and alcohol.  Can you get it for me, or allow me to speak with someone who can?”
    “ I will see what I can do,” he rushes out genially.
    Mr. Tinker closes the lid on our tomb, and I scurry back down the steps of the ancient ladder.  The din is filled with concerned chatter and moans of uncertainty.  The floor sloshes with residual water from the ferocious storm.
    I assess the controlled chaos.  The best way is to start right where I stand and work my way around to everyone. I get to work, remembering esteemed colleagues and friends back in England and wishing silently that I could call upon their expertise. Joshua would be beneficial right now for help and guidance.
    I move methodically and professionally, checking each person, looking at bruises and cuts.  A few odd stares come my way.  Only one older man questions my credibility.
    “Ye can’t be more than fifteen! What you know about mendin’, boy?”
    I respectfully respond, “Only what the good Lord put in me, sir.”
    That spiritually acceptable response wins me a wrinkled smile and admittance to his person to check for wounds.  The man lies down for me, and I raise his lower leg.
    “ Ouch!” he cries.
    My eyes shoot to his face in surprise.
    “It’s the gout, boy.  Ain’t nothin’ to do for the gout,” he comments straightforwardly. “Them there feet are old.”  He points for good measure.
    I scan the room and see a trunk.  It is just the right height.  I reach for it, and pull the heavy wooden piece with all my might; it drags loudly and scratches the damp floor.
    “What, boy?  What you gonna do wit’ that?”
    “ Lift your leg, sir,” I direct.  He does it with effort, and I help him. I grasp underneath his calf.  He lets out a groan of discomfort, and I gently place it