The old cook bowed low before the table. “Me pleasure, gentlemen, me pleasure.”
Lord Bridlington clasped his girlish hands together. “We thought it best to fly the American colours until we knew for certain just who you were. It’s been quite frightening sailing about in enemy waters.”
“I am guessing you never made it to Halifax?” said James.
Captain Prickett swallowed a chunk of meat. “No, Mr. Moreland, we never did. We were maybe one hundred miles north of Bermuda when we were shot upon early one morning, in the darkness before dawn. We haven’t a clue who it was that attacked us in this most cowardly fashion, but their aim was clean and they caught us completely unawares. We scrambled to fire up our guns, but strangely, whoever it was didn’t stick around to finish us off.”
“They crippled us for a time, they did, bringing down the tops of our main and mizzenmasts,” added Lord Bridlington, speaking to the ceiling as was his way.
“When last we met,” said James, “you were escorting three East India merchant vessels. What of them? Were they shot upon as well?”
“No! It was the Amethyst that sustained all the damage.” Captain Prickett spoke with such vehemence that he spewed bits of beef directly into Leander’s potatoes. “But their captains – a fearless lot if you ask me – had no interest in hanging about while we were refitting. They had their orders and their schedules to keep, so we wished them well and sent them on their way.”
“Bloody disrespectful it was,” said Lord Bridlington, “and here we’d protected them from being fired upon all the way from Portsmouth.”
“We hobbled back as far as Norfolk’s Gosport Yard,” Captain Prickett continued. “There we had the good fortune to find our British friends set up in blockade there. They’ve locked several Yankee ships into their Chesapeake harbours.”
“Ah! Perhaps that explains why we hadn’t seen any large sails before yours,” said Fly.
Lord Bridlington tapped his long, crooked nose. “There we were, near Gosport Yard, amongst our own and therefore able to safely repair our fallen masts. And there it was we met a friendly fisherman who passed the word you’d done battle with the Liberty and were refitting off the Carolina islands. Once the Amethyst was patched up, we were ordered to seek you out and, if possible, offer you aid.”
“We are truly grateful,” James said warmly.
With that, the men switched their attention to Biscuit’s banquet of beef and roast potatoes – with the exception of Gus Walby, who was far too excited to eat a mouthful, and who, throughout the conversation, had sat quite still, his hands folded in his lap, his blond head bobbing from officer to officer as they delivered their enthralling words. As they supped, the ensuing discussion covered a variety of topics from the health of King George III (he was as mad as ever), to the invigorating news of the recent victory HMS Shannon had achieved over the USS Chesapeake on June 1st beyond the capes of Boston Harbour (a glimmer of hope and pride after a bitter succession of naval defeats), and finally, to the science of war wounds. The men were most interested in drawing out Leander, whose mind was evidently hovering elsewhere, for he had not yet contributed a word to their spirited chatter. But as the doctor was in no frame of mind to discuss dissection and amputation and trepanning, the subject was soon spent. The meal came to an end and Biscuit and his Jamaican mates carried in five more bottles of French wine (from a store of several hundred bottles that, according to James, had been taken from the hold of a captured French frigate in ’07) for the diners’ after-dinner pleasure. The cook uncorked two of them, and poured the contents round – including a “wee taste” for Mr. Walby – before slipping out the door and affording the men some privacy.
James raised his glass. “To our ships at sea.”
“Our ships at sea,” the others repeated, raising their glasses as well, the rich red wine swirling about and reflecting candlelight as it was carried to their lips.
James held up his glass a second time. “To the health of our King George.”
“King George’s health.”
“Hear, hear.”
All fell quiet as they enjoyed the bouquet and flavour of the captain’s stolen wine.
“Oh, I just remembered something!” said Captain Prickett in a spray of words and spit, chewed bits of food this time striking the side of Leander’s face, forcing Gus to stifle his rising laughter. “I have some intriguing news from our comrades blockading Gosport Harbour!”
James looked up quickly from his untouched meal.
“You’ll remember, Captain Moreland, that at our last meeting in Bermuda, I told you the story of Captain William Uptergrove of the Expedition – an old friend of yours, as I recall – coming upon the debris of a burned merchant vessel some fifty miles southeast of Halifax?”
James, who had been rapidly wearying and was ready for his bed, hiked himself higher in his chair. “Aye, I do. Have you more information?” Seeing James’s sudden interest, Leander swivelled in his chair, hoping for a better view of the Amethyst’s captain, and some advance warning of more flying fragments of food.
“Well, as we heard it, the doomed vessel was known as the Amelia. And apparently, it was a Yankee frigate called the Serendipity that destroyed her.”
“My God!” cried James. Fly’s dark eyes brightened as he too leaned in closer.
“The captain’s name was Thomas Trevelyan.”
James mopped his brow. He and Fly exchanged a significant glance, which did not escape Leander’s notice.
“Now you’ll remember me telling you that Uptergrove reported there being only three survivors from the Amelia before she was robbed and burned. It turns out there were many more. Uptergrove himself picked up an elderly woman, a little child, and an unconscious young man, all of whom were found clinging precariously to a bit of debris in the water, and sailed them back to England.”
“And the others?” asked Fly and James together.
“Once back in London, the old woman had sufficiently collected her wits to carry herself – without delay – to the Board Room of the Admiralty in Whitehall where she insisted upon telling her tale directly to the Duke of Clarence. She subsequently informed Clarence that she’d seen, with her very own eyes, her young mistress, a strapping sailor named Bun Brodie, and several other men forced from the defeated Amelia and taken prisoner by Captain Trevelyan himself.”
Mr. Harding turned quickly to address Captain Moreland. “Isn’t Bun Brodie the name of the man now tending our sails, sir?”
“It is, Mr. Harding.” James took a moment to courteously explain to an astonished Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington how it was Mr. Brodie came to be on the Isabelle. He did not, however, divulge anything about the woman they had on board, and with a warning glance at his men – and another aimed especially at Gus, whose saucer eyes and quivering mouth gave the impression he was about to burst – discouraged them from volunteering this information. When James had finished his explanation, Leander spoke up. “Can you tell me, Captain Prickett, the old woman’s young mistress, what of her?”
Captain Prickett, his face flushed with fine food and spirits, looked very pleased with himself. “The Duke of Clarence is offering a handsome reward for her safe return to England, Doctor, as she is the only daughter of his now deceased brother, Henry, once known as the Duke of Wessex. She is called Emeline Louisa.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the intriguing information, Captain Prickett, his eyes round and vivid with anticipation, enjoying each man’s reaction in turn.
Mr. Harding, whose mouth had fallen open, exclaimed, “She is the daughter of the Duke of Wessex and the niece of the Duke of Clarence? No wonder our Admiralty agreed to give the old woman a personal audience and take seriously her claim.” He shot a glance at James, who furtively raised a finger to his lips.
“She is therefor
e a granddaughter of our King George!” added Lord Bridlington.
Gus gasped. “That makes her a princess!”
“She is, young man.” Bridlington giggled. “Although there’s so much illegitimacy in our monarch’s family, it’s not clear whether the Duke of Wessex was actually married to Emeline’s mother. Most likely, they enjoyed the same kind of an arrangement as the Duke of Clarence and his Mrs. Jordan. How many illegitimate FitzClarences did they breed together?”
All of the men sniggered at Lord Bridlington’s remark, except for Leander, whose handsome face lost its colour as it dawned on him who had been sleeping behind the canvas curtain in his hospital all this time. “Captain Prickett?” he asked in a tight voice, “do you have any idea where this Emeline is now?”
Captain Prickett shrugged. “Still on the Serendipity, I’m supposing. Word is getting around briskly that there’s a reward for her safe passage home. All of our poor sailors are quite determined to find her, hoping to make up for the pathetic lack of prize money in this ridiculous war.”
“Do you have any understanding why Trevelyan would have taken her prisoner in the first place?” James asked, his faded blue eyes unnaturally bright. “Did he know who she was?”
Captain Prickett shook his head as he refilled his wine glass. “I regret I cannot say, but if he did, he would certainly have congratulated himself for having taken such a superb prisoner of war.” He gulped his wine and held up one of his sausage fingers to the men. “Oh, one more thing, gentlemen. Should it be your good fortune to again come upon the Serendipity, be forewarned that the lady in question is travelling under the name of Mrs. Seaton.”
Leander looked as if he had been dealt a physical blow. “She is … married then?”
“It would seem so, Doctor Braden,” said Lord Bridlington, eyes cast upwards. “The wounded man Captain Uptergrove found in the sea and carried back with him to England was a Frederick Seaton, and as he was travelling with Emeline Louisa, I daresay he was her husband.”
10:30 p.m.
(First Watch, Five Bells)
There was a gallant English ship
A-sailing on the sea,
Blow high, blow low,
And so say we:
And her Captain he was searching
For a pirate enemy,
Cruising down along the coast
Of the High Barbaree.
Emily could lie in her cot no longer. The music, clapping, thumping of dancing feet, and men’s voices raised in hilarity above her head was much too blaring and invigorating for sleep. Normally, the crew would have been abed in their hammocks long ago, but tonight they willingly relinquished a few extra hours of rest to revel with their mates from the visiting Amethyst.
At the start of the First Watch, the hospital had emptied, Osmund, the loblolly boys, Mr. Crump, as well as the other dozen or so patients having either rushed or limped off to “drink like fish” while they could. Before leaving her alone (with not even her marine sentry, who in any case neither desired nor had been ordered to keep her company on such a night), Osmund informed her that “Dr. Braden would be carousing in Captain Moreland’s cabin until late” and that she’d have complete privacy to “seek amusement in bathing or in the officers’ toilet.” But as Emily found these options unappetizing, she was determined to join in the jollity above deck, figuring the men would be too intoxicated to recognize a woman in their social circle.
Emily threw on the white pants and sailor-blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her, tied on her red polka-dotted scarf, rolled her pale hair up into one of Leander’s felt hats, slipped on her silk shoes, then slipped them off again, preferring to go barefooted. Tingling from head to toe, she fled the hospital, savouring a freedom she had not tasted since setting off to the orlop a week ago, as excited as if she were en route to a soiree. She hurried through the empty galley as quickly as her sore ankle could manage, past Biscuit’s cold black patent stove and the silent guns that sat before their sealed gunports, and headed towards the aft ladderway near the wardroom, preferring to make her entrance on the less-populated quarterdeck.
Not a soul did she meet until the harsh light of a single lantern revealed the outline of the closed wardroom door ahead and up drifted the sound of two familiar voices, speaking in unfamiliar hostility. As noiselessly as possible, she ducked inside the pantry, where on oak shelves were stored the officers’ tableware, silverware, and crystal goblets. She dropped to her knees and crawled into a corner hole. With her heart pounding like the sailors’ drums overhead, she peeked around a stack of china bowls and saw Fly, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and Leander, leaning against the wardroom bulkheads, dressed in a short brown frock coat, his white cravat untied and hanging loosely upon its lapels.
“For God’s sake, Lee, I did not know,” Fly said emphatically to his friend, whose pale face was hauntingly desolate as if he’d received some bad news.
Leander raised his head. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you really expect me to believe that? I caught the knowing looks you shared with James at supper. It was quite evident you both knew more. Earlier, James told me he wished to speak to her again, but I never suspected that new information had come to light, and that you, my old friend, had been privy to it for some time.”
Fly exhaled heavily. “The morning after we fought the Liberty, we interviewed Bun Brodie. It was then he told us of his being on the Amelia when she was savagely attacked by Trevelyan, and him being taken prisoner along with a woman named Mrs. Seaton.”
Leander looked hurt. “That was a week ago! And knowing how I feel, you didn’t think this bit of intelligence important enough to tell me?”
“Even if I suspected that Emily may be the said Mrs. Seaton, I had no way of knowing for sure. James and I had hoped to hear as much from Emily’s own lips, we just didn’t get the chance to – ”
“You’re saying you knew nothing of Emeline Louisa, King George’s granddaughter, before hearing of her tonight from that insufferable Captain Prickett?”
“Nothing! And I believe Mr. Brodie himself knew her by no other name.”
“My God! She’s a married woman!” Leander’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Not only that, she is royalty. Royalty! With the entire British fleet, and perhaps the Yankee navy as well, searching for her so they can fill their filthy pockets with prize money!” Leander looked at him dejectedly. “All this time spent wondering!”
“War or no war, there must be hundreds of women sailing the Atlantic. We have no definitive proof that Emily is the same woman.”
“Think of it, Fly. The lady left hints for us along the way: calling herself Mr. George, telling us her father’s name was Henry, speaking of ships, and her nightmares. It’s no wonder she was plagued with nightmares – taken in the night, several crewmen killed, dozens of innocent children drowned. I believe she … she tried to tell me …” There was a crazed glint in his eyes as he pushed his body away from the bulkheads with one foot. “Now I know the truth.”
Fly put his right hand upon Leander’s slumped shoulder and thrust his face into his. “We do not have the full story yet, my friend. There are still many mysteries surrounding our Emily. Let us go and find her and give her a chance to refute our suspicions.”
Leander stood there wavering a moment, then massaged his weary face with his slim fingers and quietly said, “No! I’ve been a fool. It’s best I no longer concern myself.”
Emily withdrew into the crushing clutter of her hiding spot and hugged her knees tighter still to her chest. Her heart cried out to him. Rocking back and forth, despair and bile rising in her stomach, she started to shiver as waves of suffocating anguish passed over her again and again. She felt cold, miserable, numb, and lost. Before long, she heard Fly and Leander’s echoing footsteps, and realized they had parted in different directions, and as she listened to the
hollow sounds, it struck her – like the bullet from Trevelyan’s ship – that Leander was walking away from her.
9
Tuesday, June 15
6:30 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Five Bells)
THE SLOW, DELIBERATE FIVE BELLS of the Morning Watch shook Emily free of her troubled dreams. Opening her heavy eyes, she saw the thick column of a mast rising before her, and beyond its gently waving topsail, ghost-stars winked in the brightening sky. The red sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon and its striking rays spread a rich crimson colour onto the bit of sea it touched. Travelling in its midst as though through a fire, with all her sails set in the light breeze, was the Amethyst, far enough away now that the gold letters of her name, painted onto her stern, were no longer visible to the naked eye.
Shivering in the morning chill, Emily sat up to rub her frozen feet, suddenly remembering she was on the mizzenmast’s platform and recalling, too, the sad events that resulted in her having sought sanctuary there. She scanned the mizzen’s yards and rigging and couldn’t believe her good fortune in finding she was totally alone. Surely one of the sailors would have stumbled across her as he climbed to the yards in the night; but perhaps when the celebratory revelry of the evening before finally came to an end, no one was fit to climb the high ropes. Peering over the side of the platform, Emily spied the men far below, going about their business on the quarterdeck.
Mr. McGilp had both hands on the Isabelle’s wheel, his weathered face turned to the sea and one ear angled towards Mr. Harding, who seemed in a jolly mood despite having trouble balancing himself on his one foot as he spoke at length to the coxswain. Beyond them, on the larboard side of the ship, rows of barefooted seamen, their trousers rolled up to their knees, scrubbed the gritty quarterdeck with square holystones, and up through the crisp air came the grumpy voices of two sailors who Emily was certain were Morgan Evans and Bailey Beck.
“Me knees are aching. And, ooooo, me back!”
Come Looking For Me Page 20
