“Won’t thee cap’n be int’rested in knowin’ ya was tryin’ to escape again,” taunted Meg Kettle, grinning like a gargoyle.
Behind the elated washerwoman came a hoot of laughter. A shadowy bare-chested figure in dungarees hovered by the door. He dumped a ditty bag, a hammock, and heap of linen blankets upon the floor and smiled at Emily, who winced in pain beside the cannon.
“Can’t say I blame ya for tryin’ to escape, Miss. Ya must ’ave been informed in advance that ya was to share a bunk with Mrs. Kettle.” He placed his fist to his temple in a mock salute and slipped away, leaving the two women alone with one another.
11:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Six Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
LONG AFTER CAPTAIN PRICKETT, Lord Bridlington, and their senior officers had sought their beds, Fly Austen stayed behind in the Amethyst’s wardroom to write. Through the thin canvas screens that divided their small cabins and flanked the rectangular oak table at which he sat, Fly could hear the mumbles and snores of the men as they slept soundly, thanks in part to the hearty multi-course supper Biscuit had forced them to eat. Pushing back his chair, he stretched and wandered over to the galleried stern windows. Still there were no lights to be seen out there, save for the haunted moon that spilled its path of brilliance across the purring waves.
Fly felt in his breast pocket to make certain he still had the two letters James Moreland had given to him before his death. One of them he would post the first opportunity he got; the second he would have to safeguard at all costs. Fly searched the dark regions beyond the moon’s glow. It wouldn’t be long now before they raised Charleston.
“Sir?”
Fly swung round. Morgan Evans was standing in the wardroom doorway, looking somewhat bleary-eyed. At first, Fly had difficulty recognizing the younger man without his old familiar knitted hat pulled down upon his shaggy hair. “Mr. Evans! I apologize for summoning you this late and disturbing your rest.”
“Actually, sir, I was up playing cards with some of the lads, and losing, so I was quite relieved you wanted to see me.”
“I need you to do something for me,” Fly said gravely, offering Morgan a chair, “and unfortunately this might be the only chance we’ll have to talk without an audience in attendance.” He motioned towards the officers’ cabins.
Morgan sat down and watched Fly seat himself opposite the table from him.
“I have great respect for your judgement, Mr. Evans, and I value your honesty. As you happen to be my senior crewman on this ship, I would ask that you read over this statement.” He slid a sheaf of papers towards him. “When you are done, give me your pronouncement on its accuracy.”
Morgan shifted on his chair. “I’d be honoured to, sir, but I can’t read. I can’t read, nor can I write.”
Fly retrieved his papers, and without embarrassing Morgan further, said, “Well, then, lend me your ear awhile.” Pouring the last of the coffee from the silver pot into his cold cup, Fly gulped it down and in a subdued voice began reading his account of the events of June 15, 1813. As he listened, Morgan closed his eyes and relived all the excitement, fear, and horror of that dreadful day. A thousand poignant images flashed through his brain: carrying Bailey Beck down to Dr. Braden when already his life had drained from his old body; Magpie’s crumpling face when he learned Gus Walby had fallen from the mizzen at the start of the battle; the bloody ruins of Captain Moreland sprawled across the deck; the gaping, jagged hole in the hull where Emily had once lain; and her, bound and being dragged towards the exultant Trevelyan, like a condemned person about to meet the gallows’ executioner. He could clearly see the ghastly stumps of men stretched out in agony on the operating table, smell the inferno that obliterated his ship, and hear the roar and hiss of her wreckage slipping beneath the waves. And how he could still taste the cold! They were so cold that night, sitting beaten, dazed, and hungry in the small boats, the driving rain adding to their misery.
When at last Fly was done, he looked up to see Morgan’s eyes glistening, and, keeping his own eyes averted, patiently waited for the younger man to speak.
“Aye, sir, that’s pretty much how I – I recall it,” Morgan said, nodding his head. “There’s just one thing – with respect – you’ve mentioned how we signalled to the Amethyst for help once we realized our situation. It should have been quite easy for Captain Prickett to turn around at once. How do you account for him not answering us?”
“I cannot account for it at all,” Fly said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “But it is a detail I must include. Had they come back in time, we wouldn’t have been so badly outnumbered, and perhaps could have saved the ship. No doubt the Admiralty will have questions for Prickett and his officers.”
“But they’ve been so kind to us, sir.”
Fly felt his breast pocket again. His gaze fell absently upon his coffee cup, and when at last he spoke his voice was so disembodied, Morgan was not certain the question had been posed to him.
“Was there something more I could have done?”
Wishing to bestow words of comfort, Morgan blurted out, “The lads are itching for a crack at Trevelyan, sir, and hope we catch up to him soon.”
Fly’s brow darkened as he raised flinty eyes to Morgan. “We will, Mr. Evans, and rest assured, they’ll get their fight.”
Midnight
In Charleston
MAGPIE WAS MISERABLE. This was the fifth tavern Prosper had brazenly marched into since their little party from the Prosperous and Remarkable had landed in at the wharves a little over an hour ago. Without exception, the walls of every drinking establishment had hummed with boisterous chatter on the subject of Captain Thomas Trevelyan’s triumphant arrival in Charleston, and every Yankee sailor had lapped up the often-false details regarding HMS Isabelle’s demise. Magpie would have given his remaining eye to scream out, Lies! Trevelyan were a coward! Bringin’ down Cap’n Moreland’s brave crew like he were stalkin’ a fox, employin’ three ships to do the deed. Oh, to do so would have given him so much satisfaction. But every so often Prosper had shot him a warning glance, and while they strolled between taverns, he threatened to toss him into “that dank dungeon” beneath the imposing Exchange building if he so much as opened his mouth.
Magpie had grown weary of the women in their tight-fitting gowns, petting him on the head as if he were a puppy, or pushing him aside, and the strangers with purple noses and stale breath, shoving their queer faces into his, demanding to know how he’d come to lose an eye. More than anything, he wished to return to Prosper’s brig to check on Gus and crawl into the little cot beside his. The problem was, Prosper, having been intrigued by all the talk of the booty Trevelyan was alleged to have stolen from the Isabelle before setting her afire, insisted on getting a look at the man firsthand before making his way back to their cutter.
Magpie sat in the front window of a red-brick tavern off a cobblestone alley near the wharves, listening as Prosper talked with a woman whose breasts were more awe-inspiring than Mrs. Kettle’s. Their other crewmen had spread out to take their refreshments in opposite corners of the establishment so they could eavesdrop on the rum-soaked sailors who raised their tankards and voices in conversation and contention at their heavy square tables. Magpie’s tired eye wandered around the room. Candle and lantern light danced upon the sailors’ faces. Some played at cards, some drank sullenly, while others squealed with mirth as they pinched the bottoms of the female servers or pulled them down onto their laps for a kiss and a cuddle. The arched fireplaces that dominated the room lay empty. It was still so humid at this late hour that no additional warmth was required.The room reeked, filled with a pungent mixture of sweat, liquor, and brine, and Magpie was thankful for the open window next to him and the light rain that fell on the cobbled streets.
A server stopped at their table to refresh Prosper’s tankard.
; “Just warnin’ ya, sir, we won’t be servin’ much longer.”
“Fine!” Prosper smiled, lifting his ruddy face from his companion’s heaving bosom. “Then I won’t be drinkin’ much longer.” He flipped a silver coin at Magpie. “Get lost fer a bit, ya wee jackanapes. Go git me somethin’ worth eatin’.” Magpie was happy to leave, not wishing to know the nature of the pranks Prosper and the woman were playing at beneath the oak table.
It was a long time before anyone paid him any heed at the bar. He was about to give up when a young black girl, busy stirring something in a steaming copper pot on a stew stove, turned her dulled eyes upon his coin.
“Ya won’t git much fer that,” she said, wiping her damp brow before handing him a small loaf of bread. Magpie shrugged and stepped away from the bar with Prosper’s meal – only to find a giant of a man blocking his way. He seemed to tower up to the tavern’s ceiling. He was hatless, his hair the colour of harvested straw, and on his thin frame he wore a rain cloak that dripped streamlets upon the tavern’s flagstone floor. In his large, scarred hands he held a mug of ale, and sharing a drink with him was another man, dressed in white breeches and polished Hessian boots. The two men were engrossed in a conversation and had no idea they had pinned Magpie to the bar. Knowing Prosper would be impatient for his supper, Magpie made an attempt to skirt around the tall man, but the moment he glimpsed the face that belonged to those breeches and boots, his eye nearly popped out of his bandaged head. Thinking his knees would buckle beneath him, he cowered against the oak bar and quivered like a mouse cornered by a cat, with no alternative but to listen to their exchange.
“Sir, when your business is done here in Charleston, where will you go next? Have you been issued new orders?”
“No, I have not. But even if I had been, I would not heed them. I am setting my own course now.” He raised his mug. “After all, with my recent success, I do not expect my actions to be questioned by Secretary Jones.”
“In what direction shall we be sailing, sir?”
“North. I plan to seek out the Duke of Clarence. My spies tell me that the minute he received word his niece had been taken prisoner after the sinking of the Amelia, he asked permission from his brother, the regent, and Lord Liverpool to put to sea with a few escorts and undertake a mission to rescue her himself.” The tall man gave a low snigger. “How very admirable.”
“Will we head to Halifax then, sir?”
“Perhaps, or we just might be lucky and find the old boy patrolling the waters around Bermuda.”
“Sir, your prisoner … might I be so bold as to ask what you plan to do with her?”
The tall man gulped down his drink and wiped his mouth on the damp sleeve of his cloak. “You will know of my plans soon enough. For now, know this: so long as she is imprisoned upon the Serendipity, I have … insurance.”
“I am pleased for you, sir.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lindsay. You have served me well.”
“It was and is an honour to serve you, Captain Trevelyan.”
Captain Trevelyan?
Hearing the name, Magpie gasped as if he’d been struck with a ramrod. That was it! He could linger there no longer. Reaching out blindly, he pushed past the two men, but in a flash Trevelyan’s dark eyes were on him. He raised his arm and shoved Magpie backwards, causing him to lose his balance and trip over Mr. Lindsay’s feet.
“Damnable foundling,” said Octavius, inspecting his boots as if checking for scuffs.
The minute Mr. Lindsay’s eyes beheld Magpie, tremors of surprise ruffled his pimply countenance, but when he had quite recovered from shock, he seized Magpie by the shirt collar. “How the devil did you come to this place? Who brought you here?” His suspicious glance roamed the crowded room.
Trevelyan raised an eyebrow and hunched over to glower at Magpie, droplets from his cloak soaking into Prosper’s loaf of bread. Magpie was too terrified to answer, his mind now busy imagining that Mr. Lindsay would march him down a lonely back alleyway and fix thumbscrews to his private parts to make him talk. His only hope was that Prosper would pull his face out of that woman’s bosom long enough to see that he needed saving.
“This worthless mongrel was the Isabelle’s sail maker, sir,” said Mr. Lindsay, tightening his hold on Magpie’s shirt.
Magpie thought he was going to be ill.
Trevelyan was as serene as if he were greeting a friend. “Well, then, Mr. Lindsay, we must bring him back to the Serendipity. If we seize him up to the shrouds, he might have a few tales worth hearing.”
“Or we could treat him to a miscreant midshipman’s caning, sir.”
“Better still, we could feed his fingers to the local alligators.”
Up came Magpie’s stomach, his colourful, half-digested supper of oyster stew, corn pone, and plums spewed forth, splattering all over Captain Trevelyan’s cloak and Mr. Lindsay’s shiny boots. Both men jumped back in annoyance, knocking over a server and her liquor-laden tray. As tin and pewter connected with the floor’s flags, shrieks of surprise and dismay rent the tavern air. In the chaotic din that ensued, Magpie recognized Prosper’s provocative roar.
“Ya wee jackanapes, run fer it now!”
Dumping the sodden loaf of bread into the putrid puddle frothing on the floor, Magpie scratched and clawed his way through the smelly tangle of sailors and flew like grapeshot towards the tavern’s front door.
“Stop that foundling!” shouted Trevelyan behind him.
“Don’t let that mongrel escape!”
“There he is! Grab hold of him!”
As he fled for his life, his terror turned his mind to mush; still, up ahead, he was able to distinguish Prosper Burgo in the mob. As if it were commonplace for Magpie to have enemy soldiers upon his heels, Prosper sat sedately at his table, one arm draped around his companion’s voluptuous shoulders, his head wobbling about on his scrawny neck, his back teeth now well-afloat. Fearing he was on his own, Magpie fixed his eye on the opening tavern door as he dodged grasping hands and leapt over legs meant to trip him up. And as he bolted past Prosper, he was certain he heard him say, “I’ll follow ya when thee way be clear.”
14
Tuesday, June 22
1:00 a.m.
(Middle Watch, Two Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
GUS’S EYES FLEW OPEN, the sudden noise having awakened him. Pemberton Baker was still sitting near his cot, whittling away at a chunk of wood with a small knife, his features unremarkable and placid in that large face of his.
“Was that cannon-fire, Mr. Baker?”
“It were only a clap o’ thunder. And it’s Pemberton. We don’t much stand on formalities round here.”
“But are you quite certain? It was so loud!”
“Common thing in these parts … thunderclaps.”
“Is Magpie back?”
“Nay! Whisht now and go to sleep.”
Alarmed, Gus lifted his head from his pillow. “Shouldn’t he be back by now? What time is it?”
“Close to two bells in thee Middle Watch.”
“You don’t think anything has happened, do you?”
“Nay! Yer friend’s as safe with Prosper Burgo as with God.” Pemberton returned to his whittling. “Sleep now. Thee more sleepin’ ya do, thee sooner ya’ll be leavin’ yer cot.”
“Why aren’t you in bed, Mr. … Pemberton?”
Another rumble of thunder rattled the brig’s timbers. Pemberton studied his knife. “Not sleepy. But I’ll be goin’ soon; me bed’s over yonder. You whisht now.”
Gus closed his eyes and tried to summon slumber, but the thunder frightened him, booming all around as if the Prosperous and Remarkable were under siege. He turned his head to watch Pemberton work, digging and paring away at his chunk of wood, the tiny shavings falling like
crumbs onto the bent knees of his beige trousers. Then, raising his eyes to Pemberton’s wide, blank face, he whispered, “Would you stay awhile and talk to me? I should like to hear what became of the Isabelle.”
3:30 a.m.
(Middle Watch, Seven Bells)
Aboard the USS Serendipity
PULLING THE HOOD of his borrowed rain cloak over his head, Leander stepped onto the weather decks of the Serendipity. Instantly, the rain found his face, but he welcomed it after the heat and oppression of the ship’s bowels. The decks were empty except for the glum souls on watch and a handful of others who had earlier been celebrating a bit too heartily and had simply dropped before they could stumble off to their beds. On a discarded heap of canvas, he spotted a sleeping Meg Kettle, snuggled up with a snoring sailor, both of them oblivious to the pelting rain in the happiness of their makeshift bed. It was perhaps fortunate that Trevelyan and his new toady, Octavius Lindsay, had made plans to spend the night in Charleston.
With a pounding heart, Leander wandered to the part of the ship where Emily was housed. Flashes of lightning revealed the area around her cabin to be clear; no one stood guard there now. Nevertheless, in the event he was stopped and questioned, he had invented an excuse and, for insurance, brought his medical chest along. As he neared his destination, he strode past two sailors who were busy clearing the upper deck of the filth and clutter from the night’s carousing. Both of them nodded in his direction, nothing on their worn-out features indicating they thought it amiss that the British doctor should be wandering near the great cabin in the middle of the night.
Leander studied the closed doors before him. Rattling snores filled the air, though he could not pinpoint their origin, as the walls of the cabins were nothing more than flimsy sheets of canvas stretched upon frames of wood. Thanks to information provided by one of his patients, Leander now knew where it was that Emily lay, and twice now he had spied young Charlie Clive coming out of her cabin, carrying a tray. He moved towards her door and quietly set his medical chest on the floor by his feet. Then, reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the package of bread and meat that Joe Norlan had kindly brought back for him from town. He knocked once and took a step backwards to listen. Inside her cabin there was movement – of that he was certain – but to his dismay the snoring suddenly stopped. Had his knock awakened a nearby officer? Hardly daring to breathe, he waited, but when nothing happened, he grew restless.
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