2:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)
“SAIL HO! SAIL HO!”
“Larboard bow ahoy!”
“It’s a man-o’-war all right!”
“A mighty big one at that!”
In his cabin, James struggled to raise himself up in his cot. “Dear God! There was a time I thrilled to hear those words. Now they only fill me with dread.”
“Stay where you are,” said Leander firmly, trying to take James’s pulse. “Fly has commanded many ships in his time.”
“Hand me my clothes, Lee.”
“Your fever has returned and your pulse is weak. Please … stay where you are.”
James paid him no heed. He stumbled out of his cot and staggered over to his clothing hook where, with trembling hands, he reached for his white breeches and his blue frock coat adorned with shoulder epaulettes and brass-buttoned cuffs.
“I cannot agree to you leaving your bed in your state.”
James mopped his brow. “I’ve been too long in my bed, Lee. And I am well aware that I may never regain my strength.”
“Have you no faith in the abilities of Fly and Mr. Harding?”
“That is not the point!” he replied, with an edge in his voice; then, more gently, he added, “My men need to see me. If we are to face another battle, it will put their minds at ease to have me walk with them above deck.”
“That is all well and noble,” said Leander, pulling off his spectacles, “but I believe your men would find greater comfort in knowing your health was being restored with rest. As your doctor, I simply cannot approve of you – ”
“I will not fight Trevelyan in my bedclothes!” James glared at the doctor for a while until his anger dissipated, then, wearing a look of remorse, he carried his clothes meekly to his desk chair, where he sat down to catch his breath. Slowly he pulled on his breeches, then his Hessian boots, which stood upright on the floor beside him, and finally, his uniform coat.
Leander tucked his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “What evidence do we have that it is Trevelyan’s ship that approaches?”
James fumbled with his coat buttons, but finding the task exhausting, he shifted his body round to look out through the galleried windows upon the billowing misty-white sea, and fell into a dream-like state. There was something in his aspect that led Leander to wonder if James’s thoughts had travelled home to England. He watched him closely for some time.
“James, why is it the name Trevelyan strikes such fear in you? Granted, two weeks back, his guns inflicted a fearful lot of damage on us, but surely no more than we inflicted upon him.”
Beads of sweat ran down James’s sunken cheeks, and his eyes never left the sea. “He has an old score to settle with me and has waited a very long time for his revenge. I feared he would resurface again one day; I just never imagined I’d meet him in the Atlantic and find him commanding, of all things, an American ship called the Serendipity.”
Leander hoped to hear more, but when James revealed nothing further, he set about collecting his medical chest and made his way to the cabin door. “I will go and question Mr. McGilp for you – see what news there is.” Throwing open the door, he found McGilp already standing there, his fist at his forehead in a salute to his captain.
“Mr. McGilp!” cried James, rising to his feet. “Can you tell me? Is she British or Yankee?”
“She’s coming from the nor’east, sir. Still hard to tell with the mists and all.”
“Bearing down on us?”
“No, at ease and a piece off yet, sir.”
“The very minute – the very minute – you can identify her colours, let me know.”
“Right, sir.”
Mr. McGilp hurried off just as the sailing master, Mr. Harding, appeared at the door, red-faced and breathless. “Your instructions, sir?” he rasped.
“Tell Mr. Austen to raise the anchors and unfurl the sails. We must try to harness what wind we can and get to deeper water as soon as possible. Are our repairs nearly complete?”
“Another day or two would have been preferred, sir, but I think we are sound enough to fight … if need be.”
“And time … how much time would you say we have, Mr. Harding?”
“A good two hours, I’d say, sir – that’s if we were to stay put.”
After James had shut the door on the sailing master’s retreating steps, Leander led him back to his desk chair. Within minutes they could hear the familiar whirl of activity above deck – the call for the hands to weigh anchor and the sound of a fifer piping them to their posts to the tune of “Heart of Oak.” Two hundred men alone were needed to raise the thick cables of the main anchor. Eighty-four men, mostly marines, were necessary to operate the twelve bars of the capstan on the fo’c’sle, and several dozen more would be stationed on the gun deck and orlop to handle and stow the incoming, fishy-smelling cable.
“While we wait it out, I must stay occupied,” said James, fumbling again with his coat buttons.
“You’ve eaten nothing today. Could I convince you to take some food?”
“Perhaps a bowl of soup,” James said. “I will swallow a bit of nourishment for you, Lee, if you would escort Emily here to my cabin.”
“Emily?”
“I would like to question her again.” Noticing a mixed expression of interest and alarm on Leander’s face, he added, “You may stay for the interview.”
“I should like that.”
“Shall we say … in half an hour?” When Leander nodded his agreement, James sighed. “Right then! Now help me fasten these damned buttons.”
2:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)
EMILY, GUS, AND MAGPIE sat cross-legged on the floor of Emily’s hospital corner reading Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility together. All three knew there had been a sighting, and their anxiety of the unknown was eased somewhat by listening to Austen’s fictional tale. Magpie sat with his back erect, his one almond-shaped eye shining in the shadows, his full youthful attention on the story of the sisters named Elinor and Marianne Dashwood. Gus read, his melodious voice loud enough so that Dr. Braden’s patients could hear his words as they lay in their cots, though it did not escape Emily’s notice that one of his legs was bouncing up and down.
Prior to their reading, Magpie had recounted in worried whispers the scene he had witnessed on the gun deck, and with this intelligence knocking around in her head, Emily sat nervously, one ear to the story, the other listening for the return of Mrs. Kettle with her laundry.
Before long, Leander crept into their corner and, with a nod of his head and an incline of his auburn eyebrows, sought permission to listen in. “I have a bit of time to spare before … before I tend to my next task,” he said, as if apologizing for his sudden appearance.
“Oh, please join us, Doctor,” Emily said, feeling at once safer with him on the wooden stool beside her.
Gus had barely managed to read a page when Magpie’s hand flew up in the air yet again as if he were a schoolboy sitting at his classroom desk and Gus his schoolmaster. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, but I need to know why Miss Marianne got so sick.”
“Magpie, you must stop asking so many questions or we’ll never get through this chapter,” admonished Gus. “We don’t have long, you know.”
“It’s fine to ask questions, Magpie,” Emily said, smiling at his literary enthusiasm.
“All right then,” Gus recanted, disliking the thought of displeasing Emily. “While Miss Marianne was staying at the Palmers’ home, she took to rambling around their damp grounds, and got her shoes and stockings all wet. The result was she caught a chill and came down with an infectious fever.”
Magpie meditated on Gus’s answer. “But I don’t understand, ’cause me shoes and stockins’ are wet all o’ the time a
nd I never gets a ’fectious fever.”
“What Gus said is true,” added Emily softly, “but you also need to understand that Marianne was spiritually exhausted and came close to dying of a broken heart. You see, she had fallen in love with the handsome Mr. Willoughby, and he in turn loved her dearly. In all ways, they were wonderfully suited for one another. But Willoughby had debts to pay, and under the threat of losing his large income, was forced to marry a wealthy woman for whom he did not care. It was his pocketbook he chose over Marianne’s love.”
Magpie looked upset. “Then who will be marryin’ Miss Marianne?”
“For certain it will be Colonel Brandon!” Gus spoke up eagerly this time. “It was him that rode to Barton to fetch Mrs. Dashwood when Miss Marianne was lying ill.”
“And although not as dashing or enticing a man as Willoughby,” Emily continued, “Colonel Brandon is far more honourable, and he adores her.”
From her cross-legged position on the floor, she glanced up and was heartened to find Leander smiling down upon her, adoration in his eyes. He started as if emerging from a reverie. “Jane writes well, does she not?” he said. “She always had a talent for writing …”
Realizing his thoughts had been with Miss Austen, Emily’s reply was cool. “She does. I have read no better work.”
There was an uneasy moment of silence, during which Leander cleared his throat and fixed his stare upon the front cover of Sense and Sensibility. Then, standing up, he turned to Gus. “Excuse me, Mr. Walby, before you continue your reading, I have come to inform Emily” – Leander looked right at her – “that her presence has been requested in the great cabin.”
An icy chill prickled Emily’s spine. Had Mrs. Kettle already shown the miniature to Captain Moreland? She wrinkled her forehead. “More interrogation? Why now? Surely the captain has far more grave concerns on his mind.”
“That he does; however, he would like to speak to you before that approaching ship gets too close for comfort.”
Gus shut the book, and all three of them pushed themselves up from the floor. Leander swept aside the curtain to let them pass into the hospital. To their surprise, standing amongst the hammocks, holding Emily’s cleaned checked shirt and trousers, was Meg Kettle. “Ahh, and what were yas all doin’ in there?” Mrs. Kettle asked in a tone that set Mr. Crump into a fit of giggles.
“We was readin’ a book!” said Magpie. “Somethin’ ya can’t and won’t never do.”
A hush descended upon the room as everyone present gaped at the little sail maker’s outburst. Emily placed her hands gently on his thin shoulders.
When she had quite recovered her shock, Mrs. Kettle glared at Emily. “I suppose yer teachin’ him yer fancy ways. Readin’ a book! Ya ’ave no use fer it, Magpie. Ya won’t never rise above yer station, especially now … lookin’ like a one-eyed serpent with ’alf a face.”
Feeling Magpie squirming beneath her hands, Emily squeezed his shoulders while Leander, standing next to her, looked like thunder. “Mrs. Kettle, your tongue has no place here. I must ask that you leave now.”
“And I see ya’ve fallen under ’er spell as well, Doctor.”
“Leave your laundry and turn about!”
Mrs. Kettle hurled the clean clothes at Emily. “There ya be, ya lofty camp follower.”
The room echoed with gasps and whistles. Heads rose from their pillows. Mr. Crump wiggled his stump about in raptures. He’d never witnessed such excitement! “Give ’er thee old toss, Doc.”
Osmund, none too gently, steered the laundress towards the exit.
“Wait!” said Emily. She stooped to collect her scattered clothes, past caring about the possible repercussions of what she was about to do. All eyes focused on her as she rifled through the pockets of her clean trousers, obviously in search of something, and came up empty-handed. “Mrs. Kettle,” she said with all the composure she could muster, “I believe you have something of mine.”
Mrs. Kettle shook off Osmund’s hold on her arm, her small eyes narrowing, almost disappearing into the folds of her facial fat. “And what would that be?”
Emily stood her battleground, holding onto Magpie again, this time for support. “It was in the pocket of these trousers.”
Mrs. Kettle looked uncertain. Several times she swallowed and her fists fiddled in the coarse material of her skirt. Her red face twitched as she cast nervously about, her eyes racing from face to face, her taut stance indicating a desire to bolt from the hospital. But when her eyes finally stopped on Leander, her hunted expression vanished. Giving the side of her head a playful smack, she haughtily exclaimed, “Ahhhh! How could I ’ave taken such leave o’ me senses. My sincere apologies to yer Highness. Right! In yer trousers pocket it was.”
Emily waited, holding her breath, while Mrs. Kettle leisurely reached into the pocket of her apron and jerked out a stained, crumpled piece of paper. Realizing what it was she held up in her fat hands, Emily watched in horror as a malicious grin appeared on the laundress’s lips.
“Ya think I know nothin’ of readin’, ya imp,” Mrs. Kettle spit at Magpie. “Well, hear this!” She shifted into her most amorous voice. “My Dearest Jane. It is too long since last I heard your joyful voice and walked with you in the gardens at Chawton. I often think of England and the time when we will next meet. More than ever I have need of your comfort and inspiration as already we have twice battled the Americans and our casualties have been too numerous for even this poor doctor to bear. Several of us in the hospital take solace in reading your novel. It has afforded us hours of pleasure. What delightful characters you have created in the Misses Dashwoods. I am particularly taken with Miss Marianne. Would you believe me if I told you that I have recently become acquainted with a true Marianne …”
Something in the way Mrs. Kettle read the letter suggested she had memorized its contents. With a dramatic flourish, she dabbed at her eyes and, shooting a meaningful glance at Leander, said, “Such pretty words! ’Tis a pity there ain’t more.”
Emily forced herself to look at Leander. Her heart sank to see his handsome face frozen in disbelief, his lips moving in silent inquiry, his blue eyes – brimming with devastation – staring back at her.
“Aye, imagine that! Right in ’er very pocket I found yer letter, Doctor!”
Magpie whirled about to face Emily. “What about the miniature, ma’am?”
Emily shook her head sadly.
Suddenly, a burst of cries and bellows came from the men above deck.
“She’s Yankee! She’s Yankee all right!”
“And a frigate!”
“Clear the decks for action!”
“Lively now, lads.”
“Lower the boats.”
The drums beat to quarters, instantly plunging the Isabelle and her crew into nervous activity. Urgent footsteps pounding overhead and the frantic orders of the unseen seamen sent Emily’s heart into her mouth.
“Dear, God, not again!” she whispered.
Gus took hold of her hand and dragged her back towards her canvas corner. “You’ll be safe in here, Em.”
Emily went in reluctantly, twisting her head around in a backwards glance only to learn that Mrs. Kettle had made her escape and Leander, his cheeks still flushed, was sharpening his surgical equipment for the grisly task that lay before him.
4:30 p.m.
(First Dog Watch, One Bell)
FLY AUSTEN REACHED THE QUARTERDECK and looked about the ship. He was dressed in his freshly pressed blue-and-gold uniform, his body erect, his dark eyes alert. Today his aspect was all business. Wherever his gaze fell, there wasn’t one man – from those clinging to the footropes and the tops, to those hugging the rails and manning the guns – whose eyes weren’t trained upon the approaching warship. Though she was still a few miles away and resembled a ghost ship emerging from the wispy mists
, Fly could plainly see her American colours at her stern. He found James alongside Mr. Harding, holding onto the starboard rail with one hand, watching the ship’s movements through his spyglass.
Coming up behind the two men, Fly saluted James and said, “Sir, the men are at their posts and stand ready round the guns.”
As he lowered his glass, James looked disheartened. “We haven’t had the time to fully repair. What’s more, we have neither adequate sea room in which to manoeuvre, nor the wind in our favour, Mr. Austen.”
Mr. Harding shifted his weight onto his one foot. “And this is a cursed place to do battle. With very little effort, she could force us back upon those damned shoals.”
“We’ll not do anything to provoke her,” said James determinedly. “We’ll wait and see if she fires the first shot.” In the company of Mr. Harding, he moved on down the starboard gangway to dispense words of encouragement to the gun crews and yell out final orders to the men and marines in the tops.
Fly pulled out his own spyglass, mumbling words of encouragement to himself, to stay buoyed before the men. Breathe out, Austen. Remember that Nelson succeeded by breaking with our rigid naval tactics. Perhaps, if we want to save our necks, we should follow suit and try putting our collective imaginations to task. Lifting the glass to his eye, he studied the looming ship that was still three or four miles away. He could see her cutting a good bow wave beneath her elaborately carved red-and-gold figurehead. Her hull was black with a stripe of ochre-yellow that followed her gunports. The squares of her foresails, plumped up by the strong northeast breeze, glowed in the sun’s rays that peeked through the clouds, and resembled large pillows in slipcovers of gold. He watched the tiny figures of the seamen bustling about the decks and climbing the standing rigging to the tops. Near the bowsprit, he was certain he could see the captain himself, a corpulent man in a cocked hat, standing amongst a group of officers. Aware that the whirling mists were finally receding, Fly kept the glass to his eye and made a mental note of the number of guns she possessed. All the while, along the corridors of his mind, there was a pricking sensation – something was familiar about this large ship.
Come Looking For Me Page 18
