Octavius smirked while the sailors enjoyed a hearty laugh. I’ll deal with the devil before any of your kind get the pleasure of seeing me dangling from the yard, he swore to himself, scanning the blue-green seas for the sails of a Yankee warship.
Sooner or later, one was bound to find them.
10:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Four Bells)
FLY QUIT THE WARDROOM TABLE, where he had arranged for two senior officers to remain in his stead and continue the interrogation of the last few men taken from the Liberty while he went above deck for some air. But as he made his way to the nearest ladder, he slowed his step to listen in on the conversation between the captain of the marines and a man who had given his name as Silas Pegget, a man whose cheeks had a curious network of deep scars upon them.
“Your papers, please, Mr. Pegget.”
“I haven’t any, sir.”
“Tell me then … what is your place of birth?”
“New Bedford, Massachusetts, sir.”
“And that of your parents?”
“Wolverhampton … England.”
“How long have you been employed with the American navy?”
“Just over two years.”
“You look to be over thirty.”
“Aye, sir. I’m thirty-three.”
“New Bedford has for some time been an important trade port. Were you a whaler at any time?”
“No, sir.”
“Perhaps you were in the merchant trade?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what did you do before joining the navy?”
“I worked in the post office,” said Silas Pegget, adding, after a fit of sneezing and wiping his craggy face with a ragged bit of cloth, “from the time I was … fifteen, sir.”
While the captain of the marines continued his questioning, Fly shook his head in frustration. At times, it was an exercise in futility, trying to determine those who were legitimate citizens of America and those who most likely had – at some point in their career – sailed with the British Navy, regardless of whether or not the individual in question possessed papers.
Fly slowly ascended the ladder to the weather decks, which he found deserted at this late hour, save for the men who silently stood watch on the fo’c’sle deck and high in the masthead lookouts, keeping their eyes peeled for movement on the vast horizons, and Morgan Evans’s carpenters, who had forfeited sleep to continue toiling and mending wherever they could, using as little lantern light as possible. Spying Gus Walby crossing the quarterdeck, Fly asked him to check below for any lights left burning by the exhausted crew members who now slept, but who, only an hour before, had been entertaining themselves with song and dance and other forms of revelry. He then considered himself officially off duty, and made his way to the poop deck. There he stripped off his uniform coat and sat down next to Leander on the bench that was carved beneath the taffrail, in the fluttering presence of the British ensign.
“Imagine finding you here, old fellow,” Fly remarked. Noticing the mug in Leander’s right hand, he added, “Drinking grog no less. Are you drunk yet?”
Leander gave his friend a half-smile. “No, but I intend to be before long.”
“Let me join you then. Who is filling your mug?”
“Biscuit. He’s somewhere in the shadows, no doubt hiding a mug of his own.”
“Biscuit!” Fly called out.
Like a red squirrel peeking out of his tree hole to sniff about for predators, Biscuit’s flaming orange head appeared on the ladder between the poop and the quarterdeck. “Aye, Mr. Austen?”
“Come here with your grog can. I insist you fill up Dr. Braden’s mug and one for me as well.”
There was a slight sway in Biscuit’s stride as he crossed with his tray of refreshments to the back of the deck where the two men sat. His checkered shirt was unbuttoned lower than usual, exposing thick tufts of red chest hair, and in his reddish whiskers were bits of pastry, leftovers from the piece of pie he had just devoured.
“Your breath is foul,” said Fly while the cook poured their drinks.
“Ach, I kin explain, sir. Ya see, I was bakin’ some o’ me sea biscuits down below and as ya know, they taste well on account o’ thee rum I puts in ’em.”
“Ahh!” said Fly. “So then it was one shot in your bowl, one shot in your hole, was that it? And here I understood Captain Moreland was withholding your rum rations for your display in the mess with our lady guest a few days back.”
“He threatened to, Mr. Austen,” said Biscuit, balancing his tray with one hand and scratching his hairy chest with the other, “but luckily for we nefarious perpetrators, he didna follow through with it. Ya see, Morgan almost drowned and Magpie lost his eye, and since I’m thee indispensable cook, Jacko and thee boys did thee holystonin’ part o’ thee punishment. But not a one o’ us lost our grog.”
“You are most fortunate our captain lies low in his cabin. If it were up to me, I’d have you on your knees this instant, swabbing the decks. Now get to your hammock, man,” said Fly, wresting the pitcher of grog from Biscuit’s grasp, “for I’ll not tolerate a grumpy cook at the breakfast table.”
Detecting a twinkle in Mr. Austen’s eyes, Biscuit quipped, “And fer yer kindness, sir, I’ll be servin’ ya up some marmeelade with yer fresh sea biscuits in thee mornin’.”
Fly stared after Biscuit’s comical wavering shape until the night’s blackness had swallowed him whole. He then turned back to Leander.
“Did you check in on James this evening?”
“I did. His fever is gone, but he’s not recovering as fast as I would have hoped.”
“Will he recover?”
“If he could rest for a week without interruption, his health may be restored.”
Fly looked out upon the faint purpling shadow of low-lying land and the glimmer of light coming from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse a few miles south from where the Isabelle lay anchored. “Our lives on this ship are as uncertain as that beacon on Hatteras – never knowing from one day to the next when we may be shining or flickering or extinguished altogether.” His dark eyes flashed in the night as he glanced about to seek out any eavesdroppers. “We’ve been sitting here for five days now, adrift in enemy waters, as helpless as a wounded whale while we patch up our ship to make her seaworthy once more. Our captain is ill and our men tired. Moreover, we have forty-odd prisoners of questionable origins along for the ride, who, despite the fact that we feed them from our pitiable rations and have given a few of them some form of occupation, may rise up against us when next we meet a belligerent Yankee frigate.”
Leander searched the night sky until he had located the moon – a slice of pale orange drifting through silvery clouds – at his back. He set down his mug and sighed. “And you’re wondering, in all this, where our enemies are hiding?”
Fly nodded. “My guess is that when we cut the Liberty loose during the storm, she ran aground south of us, on these flat Carolina islands, or was dashed upon these shoals, and all hands were lost at sea. I expected someone to come looking for them and … for us.”
“Are you certain of our position?”
“I know of no other lighthouse in this vicinity, although one can hardly call it a lighthouse. Its light is so dim and unreliable, it does little good for those of us on the sea.”
“Then we are not far from Norfolk, Virginia.”
“Correct.”
“Is there not a large base there?”
“There is. We’ve spotted sloops and schooners, and, strangely enough, that odd privateer with its ostentatious red hull – the one that was anchored beside us in Bermuda – but, so far, no warring frigates.” Fly took a long draught from his mug. “I have an uneasy feeling.”
Leander slouched down on the bench and allowed his head to fall back agai
nst the railing. Fly followed suit, past caring for the officer-like behaviour necessary in front of those dark figures who stood dreaming on duty far above him on the gusty yards. As the bell tolled the late hour and the Isabelle rose and fell rhythmically, lulling Fly and Leander into a stupor, they grew melancholy, listening to the mysterious mutterings of the velvety sea.
“You know, old fellow, you are as easy to read as one of my sister’s stories.”
Leander roused himself. “How’s that?”
“I can see a change has come over you.” As Fly’s alert eyes bore into his blue ones, Leander felt the dreaded red creeping up his neck. “Why, back in my days on the Canopus, our doctor was a veritable cussing idler who left most of his work to his mates and loblolly boys. He never kept any notes on his treatments, and if anyone dared come down with a suspicious fever, he avoided the sick bay altogether.”
“Your point?” asked Leander, avoiding Fly’s bright stare.
“You, on the other hand, are always on duty, always at your desk, always in the hospital. When did you last lie about above deck wearing a sun hat to protect your fair, freckled face, reading your beloved Burns and Scott? Or join the officers in the wardroom for a drunken singsong after supper?”
“I am doing that very thing now.”
“No, tell me, when?”
“Between battles and lopping off arms and legs, there’s been little time for that kind of leisure.”
Fly craned his neck up into Leander’s face. “Mind you, the audacious Dr. Willen of the Canopus did not have a woman lying in one of his hospital hammocks, wearing his nightshirt, and depending on him for rehabilitation and amusements. If he had, he might have found reason to spend longer hours there.”
As Leander was at a loss for words, Fly’s voice softened. “I see it in your eyes, friend. I hear it in your words, and detect it in your actions and occupations. You are besotted with our gentlewoman.”
Under the controlling powers of grog, Leander could not hide the sheepish grin that took hold of his mouth. “I fear she has awakened emotions in me I never thought I would feel again.”
Fly’s features fell. “Ahhh! So there is no hope left for my sister Jane? You would have her remain a spinster in Chawton cottage and leave her with no other company than my other sister, Cassandra, and my poor old mother?”
“Must I humble myself to remind you, Fly, that I am no worthy suitor for any woman?”
“Pshaw! Hogwash!”
“I’m a lowly physician floating in the Atlantic on a wounded ship.”
“It’s well known you’re a common butcher, but a good one at that.”
Leander paid no attention to Fly’s remark and went on sullenly. “I have very little money to my name, and my permanent address is a dark corner on the Isabelle’s orlop deck.”
“Does your desperation spring from the fact that in your heart you know it’s me Emily desires and not you?”
Leander pulled a face and gave Fly an emphatic, “No.”
“And why not? She doesn’t know I’m happily married to my Mary, and have a daughter and three sons waiting for me on the Isle of Wight.”
“No, perhaps not, but if your marital status was otherwise, Emily would surely consider Mrs. Kettle the better companion for you.”
“Ha, ha. You can be very humorous when you are half-seas over, old fellow.”
“Old fellow? The last time we checked you were older than me by a good five years, Mr. Austen.”
“Maybe so, but one would never know it the way you’re conducting yourself, as mournful and out of sorts as if you already stand knee-high in the grave.”
Leander stared into his empty mug. “I – I know so little of her. She has dropped tantalizing hints here and there, but despite this, I find myself no closer to knowing whether she is actually a wealthy man’s daughter, destined to marry one of King George’s silly, aging sons, or a beautiful, intelligent dairy maiden who chooses to remain secretive so she would have us all believing she is well-born.”
Leander’s words jolted Fly into recollection, as if someone had just struck a match to a candle in his brain. He frowned, trying to remember something Bun Brodie had said in his interview in James’s cabin, three long days ago, after the battle with the Liberty – something about a woman named Mrs. Seaton who had been travelling with him on board the Amelia, bound for Upper Canada in the company of a serving woman and the arrogant Mr. Seaton, and who had suffered the misfortune of falling into the hands of Thomas Trevelyan. Was it possible – ? Could she be – ? Fly considered sharing this information with his friend, but upon studying his distraught countenance, decided against it. It could wait. He smiled and tried to be jovial.
“Would it matter to you where she came from? Shakespeare’s Juliet discovered her Romeo was from an opposing house, the son of her father’s sworn enemy. It made no difference to her.”
Leander regarded his friend sadly. “I should like it if my life were to turn out somewhat differently than Shakespeare’s young lovers.”
“It’s been too many years since you loved and were loved. Why, you’ve forgotten all joy in life. Come, now, you have much to offer.” Fly gave him a good looking-over. “You’re young, strong enough – perhaps a bit too thin – occasionally funny, and despite your aged mannerisms and bookishness, you have been labelled as being ‘well formed.’”
“Well formed? By whom?”
“None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”
Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here’s to Mrs. Kettle.”
“Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”
“You are truly filthy minded.”
“Aye. That I am.”
Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”
“Mr. Walby?”
“No lights burning down below, sir.”
“Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don’t want any enemy frigates learning our position.”
“Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.
“And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck’s been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”
“I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”
Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”
“Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.
“Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.
Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the Isabelle’s waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook’s assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”
“Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.
Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”
Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.
8
Monday, June 14
7:00 a.m.
>
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”
Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.
“Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”
“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”
Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed some abilities in the hospital.
“We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.
Emily’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”
“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the Isabelle.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.
“My clothes! They’re gone.”
“Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”
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