Reaching the main deck, they discovered Joe and Mrs. Kettle were no longer with them. Certain that Joe could take care of himself and his objectionable charge, Leander insisted they press onward. Swiftly he scanned the smoke-shrouded deck, as if assessing the best escape route. A small brig was lashed to the starboard rail of the listing Serendipity, and a gang of men was labouring furiously to cut the ropes of the grappling hooks that held the brig up on a precarious angle. Off the Serendipity’s larboard bow, Emily sighted a collection of boats plucking men from the sea, and in the dreary distance, a waiting ship. “Doctor,” she said, pointing, but Leander had already seen them and was pulling her in their direction. They scrambled over the bulwark and were steadying themselves on the slender ledge of the fore chains on the exterior of the hull, holding tightly to the railing – enemy shot had razed the standing rigging – when Emily suddenly lifted her head to listen. There was no mistaking the eager young voice that called out to her.
“Emily! Em! Em!”
Ignoring Leander’s protests, she spun around and searched the knot of men locked in hand-to-hand combat in and around the splintered remains of the foremast. There was Magpie, his felt hat pushed down upon his dark curls, his lost eye hidden behind a black patch. He was hopping about on the broken bowsprit as if it were scorching hot, waving two impossibly long dirks. No more than four feet from him, standing taller than the others, was Trevelyan, his face a grimace of indomitability as the blade of his sabre crashed down again and again upon his enemies. Around the imposing captain, four of his officers and marines were locked in a clash of swords with, among others, a sure-footed, florrid-faced man with fox-like features, and – Emily could hardly believe her eyes – Fly Austen.
“Good God!” gasped Leander when he too recognized his old friend.
Emily’s hands were riveted to the rail. Though each jab and slash of the men’s steely weapons pierced her heart, she could not tear her eyes away. Leander let go of the rail and drew Emily to him, his hands on her arms hurting her now, his eyes burning into hers.
“That ship out there is the Amethyst; the boats below are theirs.” He dropped his voice and spoke fervently. “This is the one thing I can do for you.”
Emily wavered in the fore chains, the water roiling at her feet, and sadly turned to the ghastly scenes that played with a strange clarity on the sloping deck. Faces of men she remembered from the Isabelle were fighting alongside Fly and Magpie. There was Leander’s loblolly boy, Osmund Brockley, his bulky frame moving slowly, awkwardly, but fending off sabre strikes quite expertly with his pike, and the coxswain, Lewis McGilp, baring his teeth as his cutlass thrust upwards into the trunk of a Yankee marine. And there was Biscuit, spitting out the bone-chilling battle cries of his Scottish ancestors as he cut a path to Trevelyan.
Leander, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, eased his grip on her arms and waited for her to jump to her freedom. Death and destruction closed in on them like the choking smoke of the battle. Stifling a sob, she laid her weary head against his heaving chest.
“I – I need to know what will become of you, Doctor.”
With a quick indrawn breath, he gazed down at her. “I will be right behind you.”
Emily shook her head, knowing he would first see to her safety, then steal a sword from a dead sailor to join his childhood friend in battle and perhaps in death. Behind them, the engagement raged on, Emily finding it sickeningly hypnotic despite her fear that, when she looked up again, she might find Magpie’s small body drawn and quartered upon the bowsprit. Rolling her head around on Leander’s breast, she found Magpie still jumping around and thankfully intact. It was Mr. Austen who was in trouble. In numbed horror, she watched as Trevelyan raised his sword and struck Fly with the side of its cold blade, and with his boot shoved him sprawling upon the deck. Trevelyan set his bloodless lips in a determined line and aimed his pistol at his victim, limp with resignation at his feet, as powerless as his namesake caught in a spiderweb. Then suddenly, as if reconsidering his options, Trevelyan swivelled his head and hooked his haunting eyes onto Emily’s, his morbid grin an indication he was savouring his advantage over her compatriot. He did not carry out Fly’s execution; instead, he swung his long arm around in a sweeping semi-circle and pointed the gun in her direction.
Then he fired.
Emily sensed time grinding to a halt, as it did in her nightmares, the ones in which she tried desperately to flee dark, sinister, unnamed shapes. Dazed, she could not immediately comprehend why Leander, having made no sound at all, had collapsed against her, nor why his shirt, already soiled with the dried blood of his patients, now had a patch of bright red creeping across the left shoulder. Clasping him gently to her, Emily stood still by the rail and watched helplessly as Trevelyan again raised his pistol.
Magpie flew from the broken bowsprit, landing on all fours behind Trevelyan like a tiger about to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. The scream that now burst from his chest was otherworldly, a plaintive yet bloodcurdling snarl that sprang from deep inside him. In one sprightly motion, he plunged his dirks deep into Trevelyan’s thighs, sending the stupefied captain stumbling and staggering along the littered gangway. As Trevelyan’s legs buckled beneath him and he dropped to the deck, something dislodged from the breast pocket of his uniform coat and shot across the red, weathered planks towards Emily, like a messenger frantic to deliver its final message. Although her glimpse of it was a brief one, she could see it was the gold-framed miniature of the young lad that Trevelyan had set next to her own painted portrait on his desk. It was the last thing Emily saw on the Serendipity.
Groaning and twisting in its death throes, the frigate slipped farther into the Atlantic, throwing Emily and Leander, their arms loosely entwined, from the fore chains and into the swells that tried, like cold, grey hands, to pull them down into a watery grave. As the men had fought on the deck, so Emily fought to prevent Leander from disappearing beneath the punishing surface. Ignoring her exhaustion and the pains that tortured her ankle and shoulder, she tightened one arm around his waist and kicked towards the nearest boat, which was now rowing towards them, the men in it having raised a shout when they spotted her. Recollection of another time when Trevelyan’s pistol had been accurately aimed at her back fuelled her desperate strokes.
“Hold on, Doctor, please hold on,” she spluttered, the waves crashing over her head. “This I can do for you.” Leander gave her one long look of admiration, then shut his sea-blue eyes.
It was only after Morgan Evans had pulled them from the sea and given his oars over to another so that he could cloak Leander in a relatively dry blanket and hold on to him – as he had once held on to her – that Emily turned her back to the silent, staring men, covered her face with her hands, and allowed herself to cry.
7:00 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
EMILY SET ASIDE THE LETTER that Fly Austen had handed her while she waited in the sanctuary of Captain Prickett’s great cabin. She had neither the desire nor the composure to assimilate the details of what Fly had described as Trevelyan’s private war – not now, when her thoughts belonged exclusively to another, much more worthy subject. Mentally and physically exhausted, she was thankful to be alone, thankful for the clean change of clothes, and thankful to be surrounded by the healthy timbers of a friendly ship.
Swinging her trousered legs up onto the cushions of the bench below the cabin’s stern windows, she hugged her knees to her chest and gazed upon the place where, hours before, the Atlantic had swallowed the battered Serendipity, and where its tiny nemesis, the red-hulled Prosperous and Remarkable, still rocked triumphantly in the tranquil waves. The sky had cleared and the clouds that now sailed overhead were white and cottony and had blown together to form dreaming castles and majestic mountains. In the west, an evening sun spread beams of scarlet and gold upon the waves, enabling the
boats belonging to the Amethyst and to the small brig to continue their task of picking up survivors. Emily had been relieved to learn that there were a great many.
As she watched the victorious and the vanquished sitting side-by-side in the boats below the windows, Emily’s eyes misted. She could see the Amethysts and the Remarkables offering biscuits, meat, water, and even the rarity of cigars to the appreciative Serendipities, and she knew that once on board, they would be further provided with clothes, medical attention, and, eventually, camaraderie. She tried to recall what grievances had provoked their animosity – nay, their war – in the first place, and wondered if the men below, should they be questioned, could even name them.
Viciously they had fought against one another, had been only too happy to lop off limbs, mutilate young faces, and even snuff out lives, but when it was all over, the victorious treated the vanquished with an unspoken regard, as their own. It was as if their minds had cleared when the smoke of battle had cleared away, and they realized that, though a wide sea stood between them, they really were just the same: men of flesh and blood who shared the same language and sheltered the same dreams within their breasts.
There was a quiet tap on the door and Fly Austen entered, sending Emily’s thoughts crashing back to the present. She rose to meet him, her eyes round with apprehension.
“They are still operating on him,” Fly said softly. “I wondered if you might like some company while you are waiting.”
Emily exhaled a nervous sigh and began wringing her hands. “Thank you, Mr. Austen. What I should really like is to be with him.”
“I understand, but this man, Prosper Burgo, insisted he could not be distracted by a princess of England while he worked on ‘thee esteemed Doctor Braden.’” Fly attempted to smile. “Mr. Burgo’s quite a character, really. Apparently he’s taken a shine to our old laundress.”
Emily gave Fly an incredulous stare. “Not Meg Kettle?”
“One and the same. Apparently, he found her in the waves, her ample skirts keeping her afloat, and was quite proud of himself for ‘rescuin’ such an affable lady.’”
Emily sniggered. “He’ll soon find there’s nothing affable or ladylike about Mrs. Kettle. If it weren’t for the growing babe in her womb, I …” But what did it matter now? Why bother telling Mr. Austen the real reason Meg Kettle had been invited to join Trevelyan’s crew before he burned the Isabelle? Perhaps he already knew why.
Fly studied the floor at his feet. “I wonder what became of Octavius Lindsay? He has not been brought in on any of the boats.”
Incapable of reliving his last moments, Emily relegated his lonely death to the farthest corridors of her mind. “Let us not speak of Lord Lindsay at the present, Mr. Austen. I am much more interested in knowing if you are quite well.”
“I have sustained a few wounds, but I am told I will live.” His smile faded as he peered out the stern windows. “Trevelyan could so easily have run his sabre through me or finished me off with his pistol. I am guessing it was his hastiness to get to you … that saved my life.”
Overcome by a chill, Emily began rubbing her arms. “And tell me, Mr. Austen, will Leander live?”
Fly gently steered her to one of Captain Prickett’s armchairs before answering. “They are doing what they can. The Amethyst’s surgeon is with him, and so is a young assistant named Joe Norlan, with whom I believe you are already acquainted. And I have it, on very good authority, that Prosper Burgo is more than competent.”
Emily bit her lip and nodded her head, but his words did little to ease her suffering.
Fly blinked and turned his head away, and began studying the contents of Captain Prickett’s cabin. “Did you look at the letter?” he asked after a time, not meeting her stare, but in a tone that suggested he was relieved to set aside the sorrowful subject of his friend.
“No. Not yet. I’m afraid I am quite distracted.”
“Read it when you can. I believe – I believe it will afford you some answers.”
Emily glanced up at him with wan interest.
“Captain Moreland wrote that letter in the hours before he died so that I would have an understanding of Trevelyan’s thirst for revenge, of the hatred he harboured for both James and your father, Henry.”
Emily thought of the gold-framed miniature and a mystifying shiver passed through her worn body. “Did the root of his hatred have something to do with a young lad with … sandy hair and merry eyes?” she asked, enunciating the words of description.
Fly’s eyebrows jumped up. “It did indeed! Trevelyan’s younger brother, Harry… he blamed them both for his death.”
“Dear Captain Moreland,” said Emily wistfully. “I remember the doctor telling me – when I would not divulge my full name – that I could keep my secrets as long as I was in no way endangering the lives of the Isabelles.” Her voice broke. “I did not know.”
“Read the letter and I will be here to discuss it with you.”
Emily drew a deep breath. “And where is Trevelyan now?”
“Below, surrounded by ten of Captain Prickett’s men and their muskets. You will never again have to fear him.”
Leaning back in her chair, Emily gave a sardonic laugh. “I would rather Magpie’s dirks had killed him rather than disabled him, Mr. Austen. You see, I never wanted the title of princess, I never was Mrs. Seaton, but now – in the days since we last met – I have become … Mrs. Trevelyan.”
Fly stood unmoving, his mouth open in surprise.
“It was never my ambition to become so, Mr. Austen. I endured it for the sake of the men that Trevelyan claimed he had taken from the Isabelle and locked in his gaol, and for that dear soul now fighting for his life.”
A look of compassion crossed Fly’s face. “Evidently, there is much we need to catch up on, much we need to share, but there will be time to do so, later.”
“Thank you, Mr. Austen. You have always been so kind to me.”
As they sat silently, both gazing out the bright windows, a ray of scarlet sunlight found Emily. She closed her eyes and basked in its rosy warmth as it played upon her upturned face. The sounds of life on board the ship that until now had seemed strangely muted suddenly intruded upon her thoughts. Calls were made requesting food and hammocks and the bosun’s chair to help those onto the ship who could not climb the rope ladders. Emily could hear someone – perhaps it was Captain Prickett – gruffly questioning the whereabouts of Biscuit, as his presence was required immediately in the galley. It was Morgan Evans who replied, saying something about Biscuit being delayed as he was occupied at the present with a special task. Hearing Morgan’s voice and knowing the young man had safely come through the tragic events of the past weeks gave Emily’s weary spirits a lift.
Perhaps encouraged by the slight curling of her lips, Fly pressed his fingertips together and wrinkled his brow. “I wonder, Emily, are you feeling up to greeting a few visitors?”
“You are now going to tell me who lives so that I shall know who we have lost? Will I be able to bear it?” she whispered, gripping the arms of her chair.
Fly closed and opened his eyes in an exaggerated nod. “I believe so.” He called out to those apparently waiting behind the cabin’s door. Given the signal, they burst open the door, wreaking havoc on its fragile hinges. In sauntered Biscuit, carrying a large tray. He had cleaned up nicely since Emily had last seen him; his thatch of orange hair was combed off his forehead and his prominent chest hair buttoned up respectably inside a smart muslin shirt.
“Wee lass,” he cried out, one eye looking at her, one eye looking for her, “I brung ya a pot o’ tea and a pile o’ fresh biscuits to celebrate yer safe return.”
Emily laughed. “Baked with a pinch o’ sugar and a shot o’ rum, I hope?”
“Ach, ’tis thee only way.” Biscuit set the tray upon Captain Prickett’s polished ta
ble and stepped aside to make way for the next visitor, who swooped down upon Emily like a ghost in the trailing tails and balloon-sleeves of a shirt that had obviously not been tailored to fit him. He moved so swiftly towards her chair that her brain could not make a positive identification until he was in her welcoming arms and hugging her fiercely.
“Magpie!” she cried, embracing him in return, her cheek pressed against his thick dark curls. “My little Magpie,” she cooed, rocking him gently, as the men looked on, visibly moved by their joyful reunion, Biscuit dashing away a few stray tears.
When at last Magpie lifted his head to look up at her, his young face was fluttering with excitement like topgallant sails in a fresh breeze. “Do ya like me eye patch, Em? Do I looks like a pirate?”
Emily caressed the reddened, puckered skin beneath the black patch. “Not at all. You look like the hero of an epic tale … my hero.”
Magpie beamed from ear to ear, his smile warming Emily like the descending sunlight that poured into the cabin, and he threw himself into her arms for another embrace, holding on to her for such a long while that Fly had to clear his throat. Magpie’s curly head shot up again, his face overspread with a blush. “Oh, Em,” he said, jumping back, “we got another surprise fer ya.”
“What is it?” she asked, excited by the boy’s infectious enthusiasm.
Together Fly, Biscuit, and Magpie all turned on their heels and shot broad smiles at the open door. Emily’s brilliant eyes followed theirs. A gurgle of emotion erupted from her lips as she slowly rose from her chair. Standing before her in the doorway was a stocky, pudding-faced man she had never seen before. But in his arms he carried Gus Walby.
10:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Four Bells)
EMILY HESITATED before stepping into the Amethyst’s narrowing forepeak, where Leander was lying in a low cot next to the open gunport.The space was a poignant reminder of the corresponding forepeak on the Isabelle where he had once had his hospital, and where she had once been his patient. At his bedside stood Fly Austen, Joe Norlan, and two other men she did not know – though one looked familiar – conversing with one another in hushed, reverent voices.
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