Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “Right then, Doctor, she’s ready fer ya,” said Mrs. Kettle, coming from behind the canvas curtain.

  “Thank you for sharing your invaluable time.”

  “S’pose I didn’t ’ave a choice now, did I?” She opened the door. “Make sure ya check her female parts.”

  Dr. Braden raised his eyebrows.

  “If she’s been roamin’ thee seas with Yankee sailors she’s likely with child. And if she hurled herself overboard, she likely didn’t fancy thee father.”

  9:30 p.m.

  (First Watch, Three Bells)

  OCTAVIUS LINDSAY took his place at the mess table in the wardroom. “Biscuit, it’s terribly late and I’m starving. What have you cooked up for us tonight?”

  “Lobscouse, sir.” Biscuit plunked down a pot of unsavoury-looking stew in the middle of the table. “Ya’ll be lucky to get anythin’ tonight, Lord Lindsay. Think of yer buddies we gave up to thee sea this afternoon.”

  “It’s all part of the service,” Octavius retorted. “I wouldn’t be surprised we throw your old bones overboard before this war ends.”

  “And what would ya do without yer old cook to boil yer porridge for ya and serve up yer rations of grog, eh?”

  “Aye, you have a good point there, Biscuit,” said Fly Austen. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed as a result of his previous partaking of spirits in the captain’s cabin. “Do try to stay clear of enemy fire.”

  “If they come after old Biscuit, I’ll cut ’em up with me cutlass.”

  “That’s if you can see them coming,” snorted Mr. Spooner, the stout purser.

  “I’ll have me one eye lookin’ at ’im and me other lookin’ for ’im,” said Biscuit, dishing up the mixture of salted meat, potatoes, biscuit bits, onions, and pepper.

  The men laughed, then rushed to guzzle a glass of wine before having to taste Biscuit’s supper.

  James mentally counted his dinner guests. There were only six seated around the mess table; normally there were eight who dined together. “I know our sailing master, Mr. Harding, having lost his foot, is recuperating in the hospital, but where is our doctor? Still at work?”

  “Operating on our lady’s shoulder in your cabin, sir,” said Fly, passing the wine to Mr. Spooner.

  “You gentlemen begin without me.” James pushed back his chair and stood up. “Biscuit, while I’m gone, replenish the decanters.”

  He walked up one deck to his quarters, now a makeshift operating room, and quietly stepped inside. Osmund Brockley, whose large tongue hung out of his mouth as he beheld Emily’s bare shoulders, was pinning her arms to her sides. Leander swabbed the gaping hole in her right shoulder and picked up a large prong-like instrument.

  “James, would you mind giving Emily the rope?”

  “Have you given her anything to dull the pain, Lee?” James whispered, feeling very warm all of a sudden.

  “Laudanum and rum.”

  Emily readily accepted the piece of rope from James and bit down on it as hard as she could. Tears of agony streamed from her dark eyes as the doctor entered her wound in search of the lead. Her body tensed as she endured the pain. Osmund grunted as he tightened his hold on her.

  “There now, I’ve got it,” Leander said, triumphantly holding up the offending ball. “We’ll just clean and bandage you up and let you get back to sleep.”

  Emily smiled wanly before closing her eyes.

  James waited until Leander was done before motioning him into a corner of the room.

  “Now that you’ve looked her over, what’s the word?”

  “She has a broken left ankle, and severe cuts on both hands. She’s dehydrated and half starved. Her bullet wound, however, should heal up nicely.”

  James pursed his lips as he listened. “Well, dinner is on the table in the wardroom. It looks quite unpalatable, but you should take time for some refreshment.”

  “I don’t dare leave her alone with Osmund. He’s been making very strange sounds. There’s no telling what that man might do.”

  “Yes, quite. I don’t like the look of him.” James scratched his head. “Should we ask Mrs. Kettle to sit with her?

  “Heavens, no,” said Leander. “Given the chance, she’d toss our guest overboard.”

  “In that case, would you allow me to call up Gus Walby?”

  “By all means! Young Walby’s a most trustworthy fellow.”

  James hesitated a moment, then gave Leander a sheepish grin. “But first, let us have her removed at once to your hospital. I’m afraid I would not be setting a good example to the men if she were to stay alone with me in my cabin.”

  10:15 p.m.

  (First Watch)

  ON THE LOWER DECK, Bailey Beck and the two cook’s mates, the Jamaican brothers Maggot and Weevil, gathered the few belongings of the sailors who had lost their lives earlier in the day. Their clothing and possessions would be sold off at the mast on the following day to the highest bidder, and the raised money sent home to England to benefit their dependents. The men worked by lantern-light, humming sea shanties, and fortifying themselves with the extra ration of grog Captain Moreland had ordered for them to ease the burden of their unpleasant task.

  Above deck, despite the sadness of the day and the repair work that had to be done, James allowed those hands who hadn’t rushed to their beds in exhaustion to gather as usual for a bit of entertainment. Biscuit played his fiddle and the young sail maker, Magpie, his flute. The men clapped and cheered as Morgan Evans hopped up on an overturned crate to lead them in singing an ode to grog:

  While up the shrouds the sailor goes,

  Or ventures on the yard,

  The landsman, who no better knows

  Believes his lot is hard,

  But Jack with smiles each danger meets,

  Casts anchor, heaves the log,

  Trims all the sails, belays the sheets,

  And drinks his can of grog.

  * * *

  THE DIN ON THE WEATHER DECKS awakened Emily. For a few bewildering moments, she glanced about her tiny room – illumined by a lantern, which swung gently on a wooden peg by her feet – trying to remember how she came to be in this new place … on this new ship. Someone had placed her in a cot next to a sealed gunport, and closed off her corner with the aid of two lengths of canvas suspended over a rope affixed to the ceiling timbers. Despite the noise overhead, she could hear moaning and weeping beyond the canvas. One or two people were moving quietly about, speaking words of reassurance to those who wept. A foul stench assaulted Emily’s nose and made her stomach queasy, but she had no desire to investigate its source; she was too preoccupied with her own sorrows and discomforts. Her mouth was dry, her left ankle throbbed, and there was a vicious pain in her right shoulder. How she longed for a cool drink of water, and the luxury of a real bed and a fat pillow. How she longed to forget everything that had happened to her in the past few weeks. Unable to tolerate the pervading smells of her surroundings, she buried her nose in her blanket and prayed that sleep would soon return.

  To her surprise, a little yellow-haired fellow suddenly appeared between the canvas curtains. He wore tight white pantaloons, a dark-blue frock coat, and a big grin.

  “Are you feeling better, ma’am?” he asked cheerfully.

  “No, actually … my whole body hurts. And I feel ill, but perhaps that is a result of the horrendous smell about this place.”

  “I am sorry about that. Dr. Braden has opened all the gunports for you, with the exception of the one by your head, but I’m afraid, whether the ports are opened or not, most of the ship carries with it an awful odour.”

  “Could I ask you to open this port as well? It may alleviate some of my suffering.”

  Emily watched the boy closely as he worked to lift the heavy port into place. When he was done, the bracing air that instantly found her corner did much to improve her temperament.

  “Dr. Braden says you broke your ankle and that you were shot in the shoulder. I hope it wasn’t one of ou
r men that shot you.”

  “It was definitely not one of yours.” She smiled up at him. “And what is your name?”

  “Augustus Walby, but everyone calls me Gus. May I ask yours?”

  “It’s Emily, but I should like it if you called me Em.”

  “Should I not address you as Miss … something?” he asked, looking uneasy.

  “No, please, just plain Em. Now tell me what it is you have in your hands.”

  “A novel. Mr. Austen gave it to me. Have you been introduced to Commander Austen yet?”

  “I may have been. Does he go by the name of Fly?”

  “He does. Dr. Braden calls him that. I understand they have been friends for a long time; grew up in the same town in England. It was Mr. Austen that suggested you might like it if I read to you.”

  “And what is the title of your novel, Gus?”

  “Sense and Sensibility. It was written by Mr. Austen’s younger sister, Jane.”

  Emily’s eyes brightened. “I know it! I would be happy to have you read it to me.”

  “It would be my honour, ma’am.”

  “Remember, Mr. Walby, it is Em.”

  “I fear the captain would send me to the flogging post should he overhear me addressing you by your first name.”

  Emily narrowed her eyes. “He wouldn’t dare while there’s still breath in me.”

  Gus laughed, showing a line of perfect white teeth, a rare thing in the navy.

  “Who taught you to read?” she asked.

  “My mother did when I lived in England. Mr. Lindsay and Mr. Austen help me now when they have some free time. They help all we young midshipmen with our letter writing, too. Mr. Austen is a particularly good teacher, although this war keeps him awfully busy. I don’t really care for Mr. Lindsay. He has no patience when we make mistakes.”

  “Where in England does your family live?”

  “They lived in London.”

  “Lived?”

  “My parents are both dead.”

  Emily’s face softened. He was so young.

  “I live with my uncle. He’s a sea captain and expected me to enter the navy.”

  All at once, Emily felt fiercely tired. “I would love to have you read Jane Austen to me, Gus, as long as you’re not offended if I should drop off to sleep. But before you begin … could I trouble you for a cup of water?”

  “Right away … Em.”

  * * *

  “MAY I INQUIRE, SIR who this woman is?” asked Octavius after Captain Moreland had rejoined his men in the wardroom.

  “She’s a mystery, Mr. Lindsay,” said James, cutting into his meat. “From her speech, we have deduced that she is an Englishwoman, and from her manner of clothing, a gentlewoman. Whether she really was a prisoner of war on the Serendipity is yet to be confirmed. Regardless, it confounds me why any woman would be fool enough to be on the Atlantic with war raging all round.”

  “Might it seem likely her father has a large plantation in Jamaica, or Antigua, perhaps, and she was travelling there to meet him?” asked Leander.

  “Or, perhaps she was en route to Canada to be with relatives who have already settled there,” suggested Fly. “War and politics are driving many away from the United States as well as from our England.”

  James gave Leander and Fly a thoughtful nod.

  “Whatever the case may be, you will leave her in Bermuda, will you not, sir?” asked Octavius.

  “I have not yet made that decision,” said James.

  “But having a woman like her on board, sir …”

  Leander looked up quizzically from his supper. “Yes, Mr. Lindsay? The problem with that is … ?”

  “Why, the men will become unruly. They will fight over her.”

  Leander frowned. “But I understand they have Mrs. Kettle to look after their needs.”

  “Doctor, you may be older than thirty, but surely you can see through those spectacles of yours.”

  “Mr. Lindsay … the woman is injured. Removing her to shore would be unwise.”

  “Ah, our doctor does have eyes. More wine please, Biscuit.” Octavius waited until his goblet had been refilled. “And would she not receive better medical attention in a proper hospital?”

  “In Halifax, yes,” said Leander. “The conditions in Bermuda do not impress me.”

  “But we’re fighting a war, Doctor. She can only get in the way. Why not leave her in Bermuda and allow a merchant ship to carry her home to England?”

  Running a finger around the edge of his wine glass, James piped up. “She’s an attractive woman, Mr. Lindsay – that is evident to us all – but no man shall harm her or neglect his duties as a result of her presence on this ship; otherwise, they’ll be duly punished. No. She’ll remain with us until such time as we reach Halifax. In the meantime, we must find out who she is.”

  “What if she’s a spy?” Octavius ventured unhappily.

  There was a roar of laughter that rivalled the thunder of the sea beyond the windows, and the men unanimously agreed that the wine had gone to Octavius’s head.

  “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to discover if our guest has appetites to rival those of Mrs. Kettle’s,” quipped Fly. “And, should this be true, I daresay you’ll be parting with a good portion of your pay.”

  While his messmates snickered, Octavius rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re quite a boor, Mr. Austen.”

  “Tell me, Doctor, when might I be able to speak with her?” asked James. “She may have valuable information regarding the Serendipity.”

  “Ah, so my spy theory holds weight, does it?” cried Octavius, lifting his chin.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Lindsay,” James said patiently. “Either way, she may be able to tell us whether or not there were any Royal Navy deserters on board that American ship.” He looked over at Leander and repeated his question.

  Leander clasped his hands and regarded him over his spectacles. “The young woman is exhausted, James. I would suggest, at the very least, we give her a few days of rest.”

  “I will wait twenty-four hours, Doctor. No more.” James drained his wine goblet, then twisted his neck to face Biscuit, who stood behind his chair, awaiting orders. “I am wondering, Biscuit, if you could put more thought and effort into our supper tomorrow evening.”

  “Ah-hah, war rations and we’re complainin’, sir! I could pilfer all o’ yer rum rations and boil up sauces to hide thee poor quality o’ thee meat then, heh?”

  James smiled as he poured himself more wine and raised his glass. “Gentlemen! To our native land, to the health of our King George and to our indispensable cook.”

  “Our native land.”

  “King George’s health.”

  “Our cook.”

  The men lifted their goblets in toast and broke into mirthful laughter.

  2

  Wednesday, June 2

  7:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Six Bells)

  AT SIX BELLS the next morning, Leander Braden rose from his hammock to resume his duties in the small hospital in the forepeak of the Isabelle’s upper deck. He and his assistant, Osmund Brockley, had completed their operations on the battle-wounded the night before, having had to amputate three legs, two hands, and one foot, in addition to closing forever the eyes of many young men. But at this early hour, there were still six seamen with a multitude of injuries, in various states of consciousness, groaning and twitching in their troubled sleep, who required Leander’s care and attention.

  The hospital air was heavy with the putrid smell of medicines, blood, excrement, and festering wounds, despite Osmund having thrown open all of the nearby gunports. It aggravated Leander’s crushing exhaustion and the creeping stiffness he felt in his shoulders. With a sigh, he settled at his desk to begin making notes in his medical journal, but he could not concentrate. He gazed over at the old sails that Morgan Evans had rigged up at one end of the hospital for the comfort of Emily, his newest patient, and for several minutes he allowed himself to wonder who s
he was, and why it was she had jumped from the Serendipity.

  Leander had just managed to return his attention to his journal when Biscuit and his assistants, Maggot and Weevil (so named for their weekly task of drawing the maggots and weevils out of the biscuit barrel), entered the hospital ward from the galley next door, bearing bowls of porridge and plates of sea biscuits.

  “Biscuit,” Leander called out sternly as the cook tiptoed towards Emily’s corner, “you may leave the food here with me and I’ll make certain she gets it when she wakes up.”

  “Ah, but Doc, I got up real early to make fresh biscuits for thee lass. I’d likes to present ’em to her. There ain’t no weevils burrowin’ in ’em.”

  Leander held his gaze.

  “Ah, but Doc, I was below deck cookin’ up yer supper when Morgan brought her on board.”

  “We’re dyin’ for a wee peek,” said Maggot. Behind him, his brother, Weevil, nodded eagerly.

  “All in good time, men. Now I insist you all leave.”

  But the three interlopers stood rooted to the floor.

  Leander frowned. “You wouldn’t want to catch a contagious fever now, would you?”

  The possibility of catching something did the trick. Biscuit and the brothers, suddenly remembering urgent duties elsewhere, dropped Emily’s breakfast feast on top of Leander’s journal – spilling his inkwell – and shoved at one another as each tried to be the first to exit the hospital. No sooner had they fled, however, than Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, sauntered in from the galley.

  “Yes, Mr. McGilp?” asked Leander, still frowning at the annoyance of his spilled ink.

  “It’s my throat, sir. It’s mighty sore,” he said, looking sheepish.

  “Come in then and I’ll examine you.”

  Lewis hopped up on the operating table, opened his mouth, and said, “Ahhhh” just as Octavius Lindsay climbed through the hatch from the fo’c’sle deck, straightened his frock coat, and took off his bicorne hat.

  Looking over his round spectacles, Leander addressed him. “Let me guess, Mr. Lindsay: you are suffering from a stomach ailment, most likely caused by the poor quality of last night’s fare.”