Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  Emily gulped down more beer and confirmed the sailors’ remarks with a nod of her head.

  “But lads, ain’t Mr. George a pretty boy?” said Biscuit, raising his beer mug. “Maybe he could earn his silver buckles. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Jacko here’s fond o’ pretty boys such as yerself,” said a sailor with a swarthy complexion and bloodshot eyes.

  “Mind ya’d have to keep it quiet from thee cap’n,” said Biscuit. “Cap’n Moreland don’t stand fer no mischief. If he catches ya, he’ll have ya strung up on thee yardarm.”

  Morgan watched the colour drain from Emily’s face. “Pay them no heed, Mr. George.” He smacked her playfully on her right shoulder. An agony of pain tore through her body and she doubled over, but rather than cry out she hid in her beer mug and choked down the contents.

  “You there, boyo.” Biscuit snapped his fingers again at the servant boy who stood nearby. “More beer fer our friend here.”

  When Emily’s pain subsided and she’d caught her breath, she set down her drink and glanced up to find Dr. Braden standing over the mess table.

  “Doc, what brings ya to this part o’ thee world?” asked Biscuit, his bad eye rolling in his orange head.

  Dr. Braden slid his spectacles down his nose and gazed upon Emily with a look of incredulity. All eight of the sailors stared at her as she sank lower on the bench, trying to disappear behind Jacko’s mountain of flesh. “I’ve come to fetch an errant patient of mine,” he said coolly.

  “Ah, but as Mr. George here’s off duty, he was gonna have another beer with us,” said Biscuit.

  Dr. Braden frowned and looked around the table at each of the men. “Mr. George?”

  Jacko put his slippery arm around Emily. “I’m gonna make ’im a new pair o’ black leathers so he won’t look such a fop in them silk shoes.”

  Leander’s face relaxed. “Oh, I see. Mr. George. You threw me off, gentlemen, since I know Mr. George by another name.”

  Emily opened her mouth to explain herself and instead emitted a magnificent burp. The men crowded around her rocked with convulsive laughter.

  Morgan grinned. “We’ll have him toughened up in no time, Doc.” In disgrace, Emily pulled the rim of her straw hat down over her eyes.

  Above deck, the bell rang out and a shout was issued. “All hands, sails aloft.”

  The men swilled their drinks, gathered their cards, quit their benches, buckets, and sea chests, and hurried towards the nearest hatches. While Emily watched in remorse as they scattered, she noticed Mr. Lindsay, the young officer with the challenging stare, standing rigidly to one side of the door through which she had entered the mess, his beady black eyes locked on her. She shuddered.

  “We’ll be leaving Bermuda, sir,” said Morgan to Dr. Braden. Then to Emily, “Come have a beer with us lads again tomorrow, Mr. George, sir.” He put a fist to his woollen hat in salute. Emily sat there, red-faced, and said nothing.

  When the mess had almost cleared, Biscuit turned to Dr. Braden. “Seein’ as his ankle’s troublesome, shall I carry him back to thee hospital fer ya, Doc?”

  From under her hat Emily ventured a peek up at Leander and saw his jaw working. In her woozy state, she could not be sure whether it was a flash of anger or twinkle of enjoyment she detected in his sea-blue eyes. Pushing herself up from the bench with the aid of her walking stick, she answered for herself. “Certainly not, Biscuit. Just … just lead the way, if you please.”

  7:30 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

  “ARE YA AWAKE, MISS?”

  Against the dim light of the hospital lanterns, Emily could see the silhouette of Osmund Brockley, standing outside her curtain, holding her supper in his hands.

  “I am, Mr. Brockley. Come in.”

  He stooped low as he passed through the canvas, carefully cradling her bowl of jellied green soup. “Biscuit sends the pea soup with his compliments and wants ya to know he made a special pudding fer yer dessert.”

  “How kind of him,” Emily said, inching her body up against her pillow. “I didn’t hear the supper bell.”

  Osmund pulled a wooden spoon from his pocket, wiped it off on his apron, and dropped it into the bowl before handing it off to Emily. “Supper was over long ago, Miss. Ya been sleeping awhile.”

  “Where is Dr. Braden?”

  “Dining with Captain Moreland and his officers in the wardroom,” he said, rolling his thick tongue around his cracked lips.

  No doubt the men’s supper conversation was colourful, thought Emily. What she wouldn’t give to have been a fly on those walls! She suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of the ship. “We’re at sea, Mr. Brockley?”

  “Aye, we pulled anchor hours ago, Miss.” He pulled in his tongue to give her a grin. “Yer exercise above deck must have tuckered ya out.”

  “It did indeed,” she said, avoiding his bright eyes. “Thank you for the soup.”

  “Holler when ya want yer pudding.”

  Osmund gawked at her a moment, then left. Emily dipped the spoon into the thick green muck and slowly brought it to her mouth, banishing all thoughts of its cook and his crumby whiskers.

  Later on, as she finished the last of her pudding and contemplated a dull, restless evening, she heard tentative steps approaching. Gus Walby cleared his throat.

  “Come in. Please.”

  Gus slipped through the curtain into her corner and stood by her hammock holding Sense and Sensibility. Emily could see that his blue eyes were full of excitement.

  “Have you come to rescue me from my boredom?”

  “I promised to come and read to you before my watch.”

  “But the First Watch has already begun, has it not?”

  “My watch begins at midnight. I’ve never done the Middle Watch before. Captain Moreland must have confidence in me for we’ll soon be entering enemy waters again.”

  “May I watch with you? I’d give anything to be away from this bed.”

  Gus’s cheeks reddened. “You’d better not, Em. You caused quite a stir this afternoon.” He reached for the stool at the foot of her hammock and sat down upon it. “When you didn’t return to the hospital, Dr. Braden asked me to look for you, as he had his hands full stitching up the head of a sailor that’d fallen from the shrouds. But I couldn’t find you anywhere. I was mad at myself for leaving you, but I never thought Magpie would have led you to the mess.”

  “Magpie did no such thing! When it was time for him to return to his duties, I told him I was quite capable of finding my own way back to the hospital. I soon discovered I was quite lost and not capable at all.”

  “Is it true, Em? Were you really drinking beer with Biscuit and his mates?”

  “Did Dr. Braden tell you that?”

  “Oh, no.” Gus lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was invited to dine with the officers this evening and it was there that Mr. Lindsay announced he’d been informed you were drinking beer with a group of men that were saying lewd things to you. All Dr. Braden said was it was obvious the men had no idea they were in the presence of a lady; otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so vulgar.”

  Emily leaned closer to Gus. “Is this Mr. Lindsay the same man that teaches you writing?”

  “Aye, he’s a first lieutenant.”

  “Fascinating!” Emily said, more to herself than to Gus.

  “Were you quite offended by the men’s remarks?”

  “Not at all. I’ve had occasion to hear far worse. It’s not just men on the sea who misbehave.”

  Gus looked embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said anything at all …” His voice trailed off when Dr. Braden entered the hospital. In one brisk action, Gus opened Jane Austen’s novel and randomly began to read.

  In the lamplight, Emily could see Leander’s shadow stop next to his
desk, where he raised his head and stood unmoving as if listening to Gus’s reading. For a full chapter, he stayed in that position, and when it was complete, he called out, “It’s late, Mr. Walby.”

  “Good night, Em. Sleep well. I hope we can continue tomorrow.”

  Emily replied with a silent nod.

  When Gus was gone, she lay swinging in her hammock, listening to the wind howling through the tiny cracks in the ship’s timbers and the sea crashing as the Isabelle battled her way through the waves. Periodically, a bell sounded, an order was shouted, a whistle was blown in the distance, but the rest of the ship was eerily silent. There was no entertainment above deck this night. Near Emily’s head, the gunport was closed up, and her little corner was dark and lonely. She hoped Leander might check in on her, might be in the mood for some conversation, but the only sounds outside her canvas curtain were the moans and snores of the wounded men in their cots, and the scratch of a pen. Emily closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.

  The first crash of cannons sounded in the early morning before light. Emily sat upright in her hammock and blinked in the blackness of the lower deck. As yet, no lanterns had been lit in the room where they all slept. Through the cracks in the ship’s timbers, she could see flashes of light that were followed by thunderous outbursts of guns. The hits to the hull of their merchant ship rattled Emily’s teeth and landed her on her back as she scrambled out of her cot. There was confusion and chaos above her head as the crew raced to defend themselves with their guns. In the darkness of the large cabin the women started screaming and the children began to wail. Emily could not see a thing as she groped her way to the next hammock and, with trembling hands, felt around for the terrified child who lay there. She scooped up the youngster and shouted to the other women to grab their children and take them to the corners of the room. But no one answered her. No one seemed to hear her. All around the ship the explosions and ensuing battle cries were deafening.

  Before long, the American captain ordered his men to lash the ships together for boarding. As she crouched down in a gloomy corner, Emily could smell the stale stink of the enemy seamen as they crept through the decks with their pistols cocked and cutlasses in the ready position. She held her breath, hoping somehow they would not find her, and calmed herself by rocking the unknown child in her arms, feeling its soft hair against her cheek, wiping away its tears, but it was impossible, as the women and children sitting in the darkness next to her were hysterical. Voices – frantic voices – called out her name, over and over again. Suddenly, the silhouettes of three men came upon her and lifted a lantern to her face. The tallest one wore a cocked hat. He tore the child from her arms and held his pistol to her breast …

  Emily awoke and cried out. Her heart pumped madly in her tightened chest and she gasped for air, her dark thoughts dragging her into an abyss where there was only oppressive sadness. Feeling icy cold, she began to shudder.

  Within seconds a hospital lantern was lit and Leander stood next to her bed. “It was a dream … just a dream,” he said gently, pulling the blankets she had cast off in her fitful sleep up around her shoulders. “Breathe in deeply and exhale slowly through your mouth.”

  Emily closed her eyes and tried concentrating on her breathing. “It was so black,” she mumbled on her pillow.

  “Keep breathing – slowly and deeply. I’ll be right back.”

  Fighting the temptation to revisit her nightmare, Emily lay there alone, trying to restore her breathing and heart rate with pleasant memories of her childhood home in England. It had been such a lovely house: three storeys high, stucco and beam, full of cosy corners, secret cupboards, and happy people. And the surrounding gardens had been so fragrant, all riotous colour, humming with tiny creatures. Father was there, smiling and waving to her as she played near the pond under the willow trees …

  But it was no use. The haunting sounds of sobbing women and children, and the delirious voices of her unseen companions as they ran about, calling out to her in the shadows, kept interrupting her images of England … kept echoing through the corridors of her mind. Where were they now? Caught in the ship’s remains, their scattered bones lost in the ocean’s dark depths? Try as she might, Emily could not flee from her fear and her guilt that somehow … she had been responsible for their fate.

  Leander returned quietly with a lantern and cup of water for her. “There’s a tincture of laudanum in it. It will help you sleep.”

  Longing for nothingness, Emily greedily drank the contents.

  Leander hung the lantern on a hook by the head of her bed, then pulled up the footstool and sank down upon it, watching her as he did so. She wore his muslin nightshirt, which hid the curves of her breasts. Her pale hair was damp with sweat, and bits of it curled around her face. Her cheeks were flushed and tears clung to her lashes, making her look more like a frightened young child than the self-assured woman of eighteen years he had been used to seeing. A wave of intense feeling swept through him and he longed to hold her in his arms.

  When Emily’s heart had slowed, she opened her brown eyes and looked at Leander as if seeing him for the first time. He was dressed in a blue-striped, open-necked nightshirt; his rumpled hair stood up in small tufts on the crown of his head, and a shadow of auburn stubble was visible around his lips.

  “Would it help to talk about it?” he asked, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  Emily exhaled through her open lips. “Thank you, but no … not yet.”

  He nodded and gave her a half smile. “The sea is calmer now. Shall I open the gunport? A bit of fresh air might help.”

  “Please.”

  Emily’s eyes followed him as he stood up and walked around the foot of her bed – his head and shoulders sloped forward to avoid hitting the ceiling – then slowly they dropped below the hem of his nightshirt as he worked to unlatch the gunport. His calves and ankles were well turned out and she took pleasure in the bone structure of his feet. A breeze, making its way through the open gunport into Emily’s corner, ruffled his nightshirt, outlining his slim form. Her eyelids grew heavy as a surge of warmth spread throughout her body.

  Leander retraced his steps to the stool and sat patiently in the event she needed anything. For several minutes, with his head leaning on an upturned fist, he looked upon her quiet face and closed eyelids, and was therefore startled when her lips suddenly twisted into a grin and one of her eyes popped open.

  “Doctor Braden,” she whispered, “you have a lovely, fine nose.”

  Leander lifted his head and raised his eyebrows, uncertain that he had heard her correctly. He opened his mouth to question her remark, but her breathing had steadied and her features had relaxed. He knew she was sound asleep.

  5

  Monday, June 7

  11:30 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

  BEFORE NOON THE NEXT MORNING, Meg Kettle waddled through Emily’s curtains, balancing a washbasin on one hip. Her thick face was scarlet and there were enormous sweat stains in the armpits of her beige calico dress. “Git up, git up. It’s Monday. Wash day fer ya.” She dropped the basin next to Emily’s hammock and stood, hands on her hammy hips, huffing and puffing.

  Emily sat up in her bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes, unable to decipher Mrs. Kettle’s ensuing mumbled irritation as the woman headed towards the gunport, her backside swaying like a prodigious pendulum.

  “We’ll ’ave to close this up,” she said gruffly. “We’re hove to, so Captain Moreland and his men kin ’ave their wash in thee sea, and it wouldn’t do fer ya to have a peek at their bare behinds. Mind ya, Mr. Austen looks fine without his britches. What I wouldn’t give ta …”

  Emily’s hands shot up in surrender. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle. I’m up then.”

  With a bang, Mrs. Kettle shut the gunport. She wheeled about and with her squinty eyes sized up Emily in h
er crumpled nightshirt.

  “Well then, it’s wash day fer yer clothes as well. Gimme yer shirt and whatever’s underneath and that what Magpie made ya. I’ll ’ave ’em all back ’fore thee supper bell.”

  “The supper bell? And what shall I wear in the meantime?”

  Mrs. Kettle snorted. “A pair of thee doctor’s boots fer all I care.” She grabbed Emily’s jacket and trousers, which were hanging from a hook, ignoring Emily’s protests that her new clothes hardly needed cleaning at all, then trudged through the curtain, shouting over her plump shoulder, “Toss me what yer wearin’ now onto thee floor and ye can hide yerself under thee blankets for thee day.”

  Out in the hospital room Emily heard Leander’s warm voice. “Being your usual solicitous self, are you, Mrs. Kettle?”

  “I’m washin’ that woman’s clothes only on yer account, Doctor. If ya want me opinion, I would ’ave – ”

  “As a matter of fact,” said Leander, elevating his tone, “I do not.”

  With hands on her hips and a scowl between her eyes, Mrs. Kettle pounced upon Dr. Braden’s patients with a loud warning. “Ye lads keep yer trousers on whilst that woman’s walkin’ naked amongst ya.” Their heads bobbed obediently on their pillows. She waved a fat finger at Leander. “And you, Doctor – be sure to tie thee lads down in their beds while she’s ’avin’ her wash.”

  “I assure you I have rope ready for just such a purpose.”

  With a grunt, Mrs. Kettle bent over to scoop up Emily’s discarded clothes lying on the floor by the curtain. When she was done, she growled, “Fer all thee trouble that woman’s bin causin’, woulda bin plenty easier if we’d just pitched ’er overboard in Bermuda.”

  Leander laid his slim, freckled hands on her shoulders and steered her gently towards the exit. “Mrs. Kettle, with bated breath we shall await your return at suppertime with our clean clothes.”

  Sitting in her hammock with the blankets pulled up to her neck, Emily could hear not only the older woman’s cursing as she passed from the hospital into the galley, but the subsequent snickers from the men as well. Of them all, Osmund Brockley possessed the noisiest laughter, braying like a possessed animal, and when finally he had laughed himself dry, he asked of Leander, “May I take in her breakfast now, Doctor?”