Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  “Perhaps he was tipped off,” suggested Fly. “Perhaps he had spies, someone watching her movements in England, especially once her father had died.”

  A lengthy silence fell between the two. Finally Leander said, “Emily knew nothing of Trevelyan’s desire for vengeance.”

  “How can you be certain of that?”

  “I just am.” He slipped his glasses back on his nose and bent down to gather up his chest. “We will speak again … as soon as it is possible,” he said with urgency in his voice, “but I must go.” With a half-hearted smile, he faced Fly and extended his right hand to him. Wordlessly, they shook hands, then Leander hurried away.

  He had only just disappeared from view when, from out of the corner of his eye, Fly saw him returning, walking slowly backwards towards the spot he had just departed. Wheeling about to question his friend, Fly discovered five men encircling Leander, dressed in the red, white, and blue uniforms of an American captain and marines. There were telltale signs on the faces and clothing of the four marines that they had recently seen action, but the scars on the captain’s face were old ones, and his clothes looked new: his breeches were still white, his epaulettes gleamed gold, and his uniform coat was freshly pressed. It looked as if he had just put them on before boarding the Isabelle. He barely glanced at Fly as he pushed past Leander into the shell of the great cabin, and said nothing while he kicked aside bits and pieces of Captain Moreland’s personal belongings with his boots and examined the room’s wreckage, pausing on the contents of the reddening cot. He stepped heavily towards it and stared at James’s silent form, his expression never changing even as, in one fluid motion, he grasped the ivory hilt of James’s sword, which lay across his dead body, and slipped it into the black leather scabbard at his left hip. When his lips at last moved it was to utter a single word. “Pity.”

  It was only then that Fly knew for certain the identity of the American captain standing before him; he was not from the second frigate, nor the Yankee brig, but the man who commanded the Serendipity.

  Leander, his brow furrowed with impatience, stepped towards Trevelyan. “I must take my leave, sir. There are dozens below in my hospital awaiting my attention.”

  Trevelyan swung around, the heels of his boots grinding shards of Captain Moreland’s broken crystal goblets into the floorboards as he did so. He gave Leander a prolonged stare. “Well, then, they will just have to wait. Your services, Dr. Braden, are now required on my ship.”

  6:00 p.m.

  (First Dog Watch, Four Bells)

  THE GUNS HAD STOPPED FIRING two hours ago. Emily had heard the ship’s bell ring out the half-hours, but she knew from the eerie hush on the Isabelle that the outcome had not been in their favour. She’d given up sipping Leander’s rum and re-reading his letter and rocking herself back and forth long ago. There was nothing left to feel now. If he could have, Leander would have returned to her long before, or at least sent Gus Walby or Magpie in his stead. But no one had come, and there had been no voices or footsteps outside the small cabin where she lay sprawled in a daze on the damp floor. She had heard what she guessed were small boats knocking up against the hull, had tried to convince herself they belonged to the Isabelle, but if she was wrong and they did not, how long would it be before … ?

  Emily lifted herself unwillingly from the floor, angled her head and listened; still nothing but a rhythmic beating sound against the hull and the occasional muffled voice in the distance. The lantern’s candle was waning, its flickering light projecting her huddled silhouette upon the sweating timbers of the room. Soon she would be left in utter, suffocating darkness. With this realization an image of faceless forbidding figures rose before her, causing her to shudder with such fear that she sprang to her feet and began pacing the cramped perimeter, alternately wringing her hands and pulling at her long hair.

  Was there another place to hide, then? In the Isabelle’s hold perhaps? But what if they sank the ship? What if Leander finally did come looking for her and she wasn’t there? Could she disguise herself with some of his clothes and wend her way above deck, there to run up the shrouds or blend in with the men and endure whatever punishments the Americans inflicted upon their lot? With whitened knuckles, Emily tore Leander’s frock coat and felt hat from the hanging pegs, pulled on the coat, fumbled with its two buttons, and shoved her hair up into the hat; all the while she was sadly aware of their evocative smell.

  Then she froze.

  There was a knock at the door. She spun round and stared at it in horror before calling out in a low voice, “Leander?”

  “Aye,” came a whispered voice, “it is me.”

  A warm wave of relief passed over her as she swiftly unlocked the door and threw it open. She blinked into the blackness, unable to see a thing besides the dying light in Leander’s cabin. A thick hand caught her around the wrist and jerked her forward with such roughness that her hat rolled off and she dropped her letter. Something cracked. She cried out as her arms were wrenched behind her and her hands tied tightly together with rope. The sound of her pounding heart was painfully amplified in her ears, as were the grunts of satisfaction muttered by whomever it was binding her wrists. There were others standing nearby – she could tell from the pervading stale air and shuffling steps on the wooden deck. As Emily fought to gather her wits, a light appeared from the spirits room and with it the bulky shape of Mrs. Kettle. She grinned at Emily and broke into a gale of laughter, and when she was done, dabbed at her eyes. “I knew ya was hidin’ in thee great doctor’s cabin all thee while.”

  Emily gazed at the laundress with cold resentment.

  “Ya see, prisoners ain’t left on the gun deck durin’ battle. They be tossed down here on thee orlop. It was him what saw Dr. Braden leadin’ ya here.” Mrs. Kettle cocked her head behind her, and Octavius Lindsay – no longer fettered in irons – stepped into the light of her lantern.

  6:30 p.m.

  Out at Sea

  AS HE ROWED FARTHER and farther away from the Isabelle, Magpie forced himself to keep his eyes glued to the little whirlpools created by his oars. He liked the way they gathered energy and took on a life of their own: swirling the sea-greens and blues together, then spinning away from his cutter, like miniature ships without sails. He could not bring himself to look at the three ships hovering in a semi-circle to the south of the Isabelle, nor could he look at the Isabelle herself, having already witnessed too much. The Yankee colours now flew in exultation above the British ones on the Isabelle’s broken masts, strangers in strange uniforms swarmed her decks, and gaping holes in her hull reminded him of hideous mouths opened in agony. It was a miracle she was still afloat.

  Magpie blinked at the June sun just beginning to climb down from her lookout in the sky and tried to take pleasure in the white gulls that squealed and frolicked high above his head. It had been easy enough leaving the Isabelle. All of her small boats had been lowered into the sea long before the battle began, to be towed astern as a precaution against their being blown to bits and becoming a hail of deadly splinters that would slice through the fighting crew. With all the confusion on the quarterdeck, no one had seen him scramble over the taffrail and shinny down the towrope that led to the skiff, the smallest of the three cutters – an easy task for someone who had once been a London climbing boy. Biscuit had seen him, though, not long after he had happily been relieved from the hospital. It was Biscuit who had hastily thrown together for him a small duffle bag that contained a blanket, bandages, a wineskin of water, and a day’s supply of sea biscuits, and had then released the towrope after Magpie was safely seated in the cutter and had picked up the oars.

  “If thee Yankees don’t capture ya and toss ya in thee supper stew, ya might wanna stay out there. Ya may be safer in thee sea than here on thee Isabelle,” Biscuit had said while giving him a lift over the taffrail. “Keep yer bandages dry if ya can; ya don’t want no infection setti
n’ in. And whatever ya does, don’t eat them biscuits all at once.” As Magpie had started down the rope, Biscuit saluted him.

  Handling the oars was not an easy task for Magpie. The cutter normally required four men to do the rowing, and his arms and back ached as they never had before, his hands were bleeding, his legs felt numb, and there was a bad pain in his head. As he set down the heavy oars to rest, he wished Biscuit had come along to share the work.

  Taking up the spyglass, he looked north again. The dark smudge on the horizon – the one he’d noticed when he had first set off – was definitely larger than before. Did he dare hope? Sighing, he picked up the oars. If the Yankees didn’t notice his boat out on the waves, if the winds and the sea stayed calm, and if his body held out, he would soon be there.

  6:30 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

  Aboard HMS Isabelle

  MORGAN EVANS WEARILY CLIMBED the ladder from the hospital onto the fo’c’sle deck, squinted into the golden evening light, and drew a long breath of sea air. He had waited a long time for Dr. Braden to come back after being summoned to Captain Moreland’s cabin, and while waiting, Morgan had occupied himself helping Osmund Brockley with the injured. But Dr. Braden never returned and there was little he could do for those who required an amputation or a bullet extraction. Morgan forced from his mind disturbing pictures, especially that of Bailey Beck’s old eyes as he breathed his last.

  The smoke of war had passed away now and the sun sparkled on the calm waters of the Atlantic as if mocking the fact that a violent event had just taken place. The weather decks and yardarms hummed with the activities commonly seen following an enemy encounter. Morgan could see Bun Brodie climbing the mainmast rigging with a roll of sail slung over his shoulder, while dozens of sailors were already aloft stripping the torn sails from their yards. A crew of men was hoisting the small boats from the sea to swing once again on their davits until they were next needed. The guns were being cleaned and stored, and everywhere repairs were underway. Along the larboard rail, Maggot and Weevil were sewing the dead into their hammock coffins, and weaving throughout their dismal part of the ship was Biscuit, carrying a tray and muttering oaths in between the times when he stopped to offer a mug of coffee to one of the American officers. Standing on the quarterdeck was a sober-looking Fly Austen, giving his men their orders, though not in his usual robust voice. If it hadn’t been for the pervasive horde of shouting American officers and marines, their hands poised on their muskets and swords, and the strange, muted quality that lingered amongst the men, Morgan could have believed all was right with the Isabelle. Unable to look upon the long line of bodies laid out on the larboard gangway, he inched his way instead along the crowded starboard rail towards the quarterdeck, where he overheard Midshipman Stewart reporting to Mr. Austen.

  “Sir, all the boats are up; however, it appears the skiff is unaccounted for.”

  Fly replied with a sideways glance. “Perhaps a casualty of war, Mr. Stewart.”

  Fly’s glance then shifted and fell on Morgan. There were lines on the commander’s face Morgan had never noticed before, and in his right hand he carried a book that Morgan supposed was a bible.

  “There you are, Mr. Evans! Collect your hammer and nails if you please. We’ve been instructed to patch up the ship and ready ourselves for sailing as soon as possible.” His tone was sarcastic.

  “Where are we sailing to, sir?”

  “To Hell’s harbour.”

  Morgan looked past Fly at the flag of stars and stripes that fluttered from the Isabelle’s stern and understood. “Aye, sir.” As an afterthought he added, “Captain Austen.”

  As there was no pleasure to be taken in the tribute, Fly looked away and, assuming exuberance, pointed aft of the Isabelle’s waist. “Perhaps, Mr. Evans, before you dash off, you might wish to witness the spectacle that is about to unfold on our fine decks.”

  Morgan turned his head in time to see Meg Kettle tramping up the ladder from the upper deck in the company of two American marines. She had a wide grin planted on her face as she swayed down the deck in a relaxed manner, swinging a bag of what Morgan figured must be her possessions, and chattering merrily away to her escorts even though they said nothing in return. As she passed by certain men she recognized, she winked or bobbed her head or, in some cases, blew them a kiss.

  “Why, sir, would they want the likes of her?”

  “Why? To do their laundry, of course, Mr. Evans,” Fly replied dryly.

  Following on the heels of Mrs. Kettle was Octavius Lindsay. He walked freely behind her, his dark eyes troubled by the sun’s strong glare, but he held his unshaven face high and the arrogant sneer of old was once again visible on his pale features. While the marines set about putting Mrs. Kettle and Mr. Lindsay into the small boats for transportation to the American frigates, there arose from amongst the onlookers a groan that sounded like the cries of a pod of wounded whales. Morgan craned his neck to view the object of their outpouring, but at first could only see the jackets of four marines. When he saw Emily – her eyes ablaze with fear – despair tugged on his heart. Unlike Meg Kettle and Mr. Lindsay, her hands were tied behind her back and she was being pushed along the deck with the point of a musket’s bayonet, often faltering and having to endure the guffaws of the enemy.

  In agitation, Morgan again addressed Fly. “Is there nothing we can do, sir?”

  “Not a thing, Mr. Evans.”

  Morgan couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He turned away sadly and fled below deck.

  7:00 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)

  “PICK IT UP. MOVE ALONG,” came the gruff command. It was followed by a sharp jab between Emily’s shoulder blades, hitting dangerously close to her healing bullet wound, and she cried out in pain. When the wave of agony had subsided, her swollen red eyes looked towards the Isabelle’s men. They had all paused in their chores to watch her as they had done that first night she came on board; only then, she had been carried, safe in the arms of Morgan Evans, and the expressions on the men’s faces had been curious and kind. Now she could only read guilt and compassion in them. She lifted her chin in defiance, avoiding glances at the destruction around her, at the dead sailors arranged in their hammocks at her feet, and at the figure of Trevelyan himself, lurking by the break in the larboard rail where, in a few moments, she would be lowered into a waiting boat and rowed away from the Isabelle forever. A solid line of armed, blue-jacketed marines kept the sailors back. Emily searched the faces that peeked out between arms and bayonets and the heads that bowed as she passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of those known to her.

  Before long, she was standing, weak-kneed, near the Isabelle’s open rail-edge, peering across at the anchored brig and frigates, feeling Trevelyan’s eyes boring into her back like the jabs of the Yankee bayonets.

  “Emily!”

  She swung her head in the direction of the cry, and found Morgan Evans, his face overspread with a deep red, looking at her with his hopeful eyes. He tried to draw closer, but was thrust back by two marines. He then shot his arm through a barrier of crossed muskets and with a bob of his head urged her to take the gift he held out in his hand. She gazed down at the black leather sailor’s shoes with the shiny silver buckles, and her eyes blurred with tears. She twisted her head to the marine at her back. “Please take them for me.” With a look and cluck of disgust, the marine snatched the shoes from Morgan’s hand and stuffed them into the pocket of her borrowed coat as if they were soiled handkerchiefs. When Emily again looked up at Morgan, he gave her a naval salute and with an audible catch in his throat said, “Mr. George, sir.” All too soon his face was lost in the jostling throng.

  “Prepare the chair,” shouted Trevelyan, referring to the contraption on a pulley that would be used to lower Emily to the boats.

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if you just tossed me o
verboard?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the American ships. “Or perhaps you – you could ask Mr. Clive to shoot me again?”

  She heard Trevelyan click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Madam, our Mr. Clive is neither a reliable nor steady marksman. I would not think to trouble him.”

  She moved away from him to watch in anguish as the chair was manoeuvred into place for her, acutely aware that an escape was impossible. In time, a gentle pressure on her shoulder roused her from her miserable reverie. It was Fly who stood next to her now, his face tired and troubled, holding out his sister’s well-thumbed volumes of Sense and Sensibility.

  “Perhaps it is worth a second reading,” he said quietly.

  “Most certainly it is,” she replied, giving him an encouraging smile as he slipped the slim books into the empty pocket of her coat. Despite Trevelyan’s nearness, she leaned in closer to Fly.

  “Mr. Austen, you have been most kind to me. For that I will always be grateful.” She fixed her eyes as steadily as she could on his. “Is the doctor – well?”

  A softening of Fly’s features told her he was.

  Her voice quivered. “Could I then impose on you once more to deliver a message to him for me?”

  Fly bent his head to hers. “You may be in a better position to deliver that message yourself, Emily,” he whispered.

  Her eyes narrowed in question, and she was about to ask, Whatever do you mean? when her arm was seized from behind and she was shoved towards the waiting chair.

  “For God’s sake!” Fly shouted at Trevelyan in restrained exasperation.“Could you not at least untie her hands?”

  As Emily was roughly hustled into the chair and another rope secured around her waist, Trevelyan gave his snide reply. “Mr. Austen, you should know that a good captain never gives those he cannot trust a second chance, even if that person is one’s intended wife.”