Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the Isabelle. He called out to Captain Moreland.

  “Sir! You might find this of interest.”

  Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus’s glass from him.

  “At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it’s a woman.”

  Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a lady escaped our enemy ship.”

  “With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can still sail. Shouldn’t we at least try to make a run after that American frigate rather than stopping to pick up some laundress?”

  Captain Moreland’s eyes hardened. “You surprise me, Mr. Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, holding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”

  “Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”

  Gus saluted and ran off.

  “Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I’ll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”

  He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”

  With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.

  * * *

  THE CARPENTER’S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the Serendipity were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman’s favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the Isabelle, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.

  “Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”

  With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff’s wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman’s face

  “She’s lovely!” he gasped.

  “She ain’t no cookin’ woman.”

  “Look at her finery: blue velvet and silk. I’ve never met a woman who wore such clothes.”

  “Aye! Though she’s a bit ragged, she’s a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain’t never been in the company of a lady before.”

  “Oh, we’re in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat’s ribbed bottom.

  “Hey, yer gettin’ me clean pants all wet.”

  “Just row, Bailey. Yours may be wet, but mine are all bloody. I’ll have a fight on my hands with Mrs. Kettle to get her to launder them again for me.”

  Bailey winked as he picked up the oars. “Might as well enjoy the feel o’ that woman in yer arms. May be a while ’fore ya has another one.”

  By the time their boat was hoisted up to the Isabelle’s stern, word had spread that a woman had been found in the sea. Those men not on duty below deck, or in the hospital having their wounds tended by Dr. Braden, poured onto the deck to watch the spectacle. Gus was also there, having delivered his message to a grumbling Mrs. Kettle and returned in a flash.

  Octavius Lindsay stood alongside the starboard rail, watching the proceedings. He sniffed and swung around to address Commander Austen. “The Admiralty, with few exceptions, does not allow women on our war ships.”

  Commander Francis “Fly” Austen was an imposing man of nearly forty years who had been present at many of the celebrated navy battles, although, to his disappointment, not Trafalgar. He stared at the woman Morgan Evans cradled in his arms. “You forget, Mr. Lindsay, we have Mrs. Kettle on our ship.”

  “Is Mrs. Kettle a woman? I hadn’t noticed, sir.”

  “It appears this woman is not as wide in the beam as our Mrs. Kettle. It might be rather pleasant having her on board.”

  “With – with all respect, sir, we are fighting a war.”

  “Aye … that we are.”

  Octavius sniffed again. “Well, I will make sure she is put off at the first port.”

  Mr. Austen raised one eyebrow. “I don’t believe that will be your decision to make, Mr. Lindsay.”

  The moment Morgan Evans stepped out of the skiff and onto the poop deck, Emily opened her eyes to find hundreds of seamen lining the rails, craning their necks in her direction. In her weakened state, she could not discern individual faces; everything seemed a blur of blue frock coats, red uniforms, checked shirts and scarves, legs in white trousers, heads in bicornes and felt hats. She gazed skywards to find that even those perched on the rigging platforms and yardarms had paused in their tasks. It was so quiet on the ship that Emily heard nothing but the wind beating the sails. No one spoke. No orders were shouted. Each man seemed latched to his allotted space on the deck. And when her rescuer spoke, his voice was disembodied and distant, as if it came to her in a dream.

  “You’re on the Isabelle now, ma’am,” he whispered. “You should be safe here.”

  Emily looked up at him. He was a young man of nineteen, perhaps twenty years, with dark shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a funny woollen hat that resembled a large sock. With a nod of her head she thanked him, then she shivered and sank back against his chest.

  7:30 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

  CAPTAIN MORELAND took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the hospital. It stank of medicines, vomit, and coagulating blood. Every hammock held a wounded seaman, and crowded on the floor were a dozen more waiting to be seen by the doctor. The younger ones were snivelling, the older ones swearing, and some of those in between recited verses from the Bible.

  In the middle of the mess, Dr. Leander Braden, dressed in a soiled shirt that had been clean that morning at breakfast, quietly worked on those with the worst wounds. James Moreland hated entering this part of the ship after a battle. The wounded reminded him of his own seafaring sons, now grown up and sailing on separate, distant ships, on distant seas, and he could not bear witnessing the removal of the sailors’ shattered limbs or knowing that hideous scars would disfigure their youthful faces.

  Noticing James’s grave countenance, Dr. Braden wearily gave instruction to his assistant. “Brockley, continue stitching the man’s wounds – and for God’s sake, be gentle.” He left the operating table, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, and made his way over to where James stood.

  “How many did we lose, Doctor?”

  Leander wiped his hands on his black apron, then raised his arms to steady himself on the low ceiling. “Eighteen, including young Patrick and George.”

  James groaned. “And how many wounded?”

  “Seriously? Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had a chance to count.”

  James fell silent awhile. “I have great admiration for you, Lee. You handle this bloody business so calmly. I’m afraid it makes me quite insane. I suppose when I was younger I could bear it better. I’m just …”

  Leander looked at him over his round spectacles. “You have me all wrong. I don’t handle it well at all. I do know that given more skilled assistants and a decent supply of medicine we could save a lo
t more lives. Grog and a few instruments for amputating limbs are simply not enough.”

  James shook his head sadly. “Our men are fortunate to have you. Most of our ships are plying the seas without any kind of surgeon. We are overburdened. These wars have gone on far too long.” He glanced over at Leander’s inept assistant, Osmund Brockley. “I must let you get back at it, for I am guessing Brockley is quite lost without your guidance.”

  “The man has no skill whatsoever.”

  “Yes, I am sorry about that. Now, I’m off. I must discuss repairs with the carpenters.” James had just turned to leave when he remembered the main reason he had come to the hospital in the first place. “We pulled a young woman from the water. Young Walby spotted her. She must have jumped from the Yankee frigate. Well, Lee, when you have time … she requires medical attention.”

  “James, I can hardly tend to a woman in this space. She would have no privacy here.”

  “Morgan Evans has taken her to my quarters and Fly Austen is attending her there. She can come down here when your hospital has cleared.”

  “Any idea who she might be?”

  “No, but I can assure you she’s not a common prostitute,” James said, mounting the ladder that would take him to the fo’c’sle deck.

  Intrigued, Leander returned to his gruesome tasks. Several able seamen had lead in their legs, and the sailing master would have to have his foot amputated. As always, it would be arduous extracting lead and lopping off limbs with the ship tossing from side to side.

  8:00 p.m

  (Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)

  IN THE GATHERING GLOOM James Moreland, accompanied by the ship’s carpenters, Mr. Alexander and Morgan Evans, combed every square inch of the vessel to assess the damage. The mizzenmast was a broken stump, its top half lost at sea, the weather decks were littered with piles of splinters, and the figurehead below the bowsprit had been completely blasted away. The hull had suffered a few minor blows and the bilge had taken on a good deal of seawater.

  “Can we refit at sea, gentlemen, or should we return to Bermuda?”

  “I think it best we return to port, sir,” said Mr. Alexander. He was a man of fifty years, balding, with a gentle face. “We’ll need a few days to fix her up, and with these waters swarming with enemy ships, if one were to surprise us now…”

  “We’re only a day and a half from Bermuda, sir,” added Morgan, clasping his woollen hat in both hands.

  “Your call, gentlemen.” James called out to the coxswain at the helm. “Set a course, Mr. McGilp – south by southeast. Back to Bermuda it is.”

  Lewis McGilp nodded and began cranking the ship’s wheel about. “Aye, sir, south by sou’east.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Alexander, Mr. Evans. That’ll be all.” The carpenters saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Left alone, James wandered to the ship’s bow where he rubbed his eyes, unbuttoned his blue frock coat, and dreamed of the green meadows around his Yorkshire home. Eight years ago he had officially retired from the Royal Navy. At that time, having had enough of the seas to last his lifetime, he chose to move away from the coastal regions of England. Now he longed for those expanses of green in the north of his homeland.

  England had been at war with Napoleon and France on and off since 1793, and now they had become embroiled in yet another military conflict, this one with the United States. The American president, Mr. Madison, had declared war on Britain in June of 1812, citing grievances that included the British navy’s habit of seizing American seamen and forcing them into service on their ships. But as James saw it, his navy was guilty of nothing more than searching out British deserters who had taken employment on American vessels, or fellow countrymen who had actually been pressed into the American navy. Regardless of the reasons for the animosity between the two countries, it remained that the British navy was so seriously short of officers, seamen, ships, and supplies that it could not effectively fight this new, distant war. As a result, James, at the age of sixty, when he asked for nothing more than a few years to enjoy his family, his farm, and his books, had been ordered by the Admiralty to take command once again of his old ship, the Isabelle, and to sail the western Atlantic waters, halting all enemy ships to seek out deserters and fellow countrymen alike, and to prove to the world that the mighty British navy still ruled the seas.

  James stayed near the bowsprit for some time, staring out at the black waves, listening to the Isabelle crashing through the heavy waters. The intensifying winds slapped the fore topsail above him. He looked up to the men on the foreyard and called out to them in a booming voice that rivalled that of his bosun’s mate waking the crew in the morning. “Careful, lads. We don’t want anyone falling now. The doctor has his hands quite full at the moment.”

  He was greeted with laughter and salutes.

  The quartermaster turned over the sand glass and the bell was rung four times. In the shadowy darkness, James watched his men climb down the thin ratlines from their high posts while others climbed up to begin their four-hour watch. He took a deep breath of the briny air and slowly made his way to the wardroom.

  8:00 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)

  MEG KETTLE STOMPED into the captain’s quarters in a huff. She had seen the woman pulled from the water, seen the way the crew looked at her, and heard what they were saying about her. Meg was not happy.

  Fly Austen was waiting for her in a red-velvet wing chair. Behind a sheet of sailing canvas, the woman was asleep in the captain’s cot.

  “Ah, Mrs. Kettle. Thank you for coming.”

  “I see she rates thee captain’s bed,” Meg hissed.

  “There was no other place to put her. The hospital is overflowing.”

  “If ’twere me, I doubt ya’d be puttin’ me to bed in thee captain’s cot. In thee hold with thee shingle and barrels of grog would be more like it.”

  Fly glanced over the woman’s form. She had a massive bosom and hips as wide as the ship. Her greying hair was pulled severely from her meaty face and there wasn’t an ounce of charm in her thick features.

  His reply was not immediate. “Well now, Mrs. Kettle, the captain has ordered that a bath be prepared for our guest.”

  “A bath? We ain’t in a fancy London hotel.”

  “We can spare her a bit of our fresh water,” Fly said firmly.

  “Thee lads on this ship ’ave to wash in saltwater.”

  Feeling impatient with the woman, Fly stood up. “We replenished some of our stores of freshwater recently in Bermuda, Mrs. Kettle. Freshwater will do.”

  Mrs. Kettle grunted as she folded her arms over her breasts.

  “And then there’s the matter of clothes,” Fly continued, unable to meet her cold eyes. “She’ll need a nightdress. Could you find something for her?”

  “I only ’ave one and I ain’t givin’ it to her just ’cause she’s some fancy lady.”

  “Could you maybe sew something together for her?”

  “I cleans thee clothes, I don’t make ’em.”

  “Very well then. I’ll ask Magpie to take on the job.”

  “Magpie? He sews sails!”

  “Aye, and he’s very good with a needle. I’m sure he could sew together a bit of flannel for her.”

  Mrs. Kettle snorted like a hog.

  “Well, see to the bath, please.”

  “And will ya be hangin’ ’round while she bathes?”

  “The bath, if you please, Mrs. Kettle.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  Fly opened it, putting his finger to his lips.

  The officers’ cook tiptoed in with a tray. He had a shock of orange hair, and one eye that was askew as a result of a fall from a yardarm years ago. Although he did possess a proper Scottish name, no one could remember it, or ever bothered to ask; instead, he was s
imply addressed as Biscuit by officers and seamen alike.

  Upon seeing the tray, Mrs. Kettle rolled her eyes. “Oh, nice, and we’re served supper in bed as well.”

  “That will be all, Mrs. Kettle,” said Fly, showing her the door.

  She waddled out, muttering to herself.

  “I have a bit o’ porridge for thee dear lass, sir,” said Biscuit, setting down his tray and trying to steal a peek through the canvas. “And some of me best biscuits.”

  “They’re not full of maggots, are they?”

  “Not at all, sir. These are some of me finest … reserved only for thee captain and his officers, and for lovely lassies pulled from thee rollin’ waves.”

  Fly laughed. “I must admit, when they’re not full of maggots and weevils, your sea biscuits are very good, very good indeed.”

  “It’s thee pinch o’ sugar and shot o’ rum I puts in ’em, but don’t tell no one.” Biscuit tried for another look at their guest. “And I brought her a cup o’ grog. Should bring her round.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Biscuit.”

  “Oh, and sir, there won’t be no milk in thee coffee tonight.”

  “And why not?”

  “We lost our goat today. Poor Lizzie. Her legs were clean shorn away by Yankee grapeshot and I had to pitch her into thee drink.” Biscuit lingered, hoping Commander Austen was in a talkative mood.

  “She’s not going anywhere, Biscuit. You’ll see her soon enough.”

  “Right then, sir, let me know if she needs anythin’ else.”

  “Some of your best wine wouldn’t go amiss.”

  Biscuit saluted and slipped through the door.

  * * *

  AN HOUR LATER, Dr. Braden came to the captain’s cabin carrying his black medical chest. Fly, with a glass of wine in his hand, greeted him at the door with a bow.

  “Is that allowed when you’re on active duty, Mr. Austen?”

  “Probably not, but there’s been no sign of James for hours. It seems he’s turned his quarters over to our lady.”