Octavius shuffled his feet in his Hessian boots, striking his greasy head on a hanging lantern. “That’s it, Doctor, and I’m feeling so poorly I cannot attend to my duties.”
“I’ve a tonic that should help if you’ll just wait until I’ve seen to Mr. McGilp.”
Octavius dropped down on a stool and fixed his black eyes on the canvas curtain.
Morgan Evans was the next to appear. He stood beside Octavius and tugged the woollen sock from his head.
“What afflicts you, Morgan?” asked Osmund Brockley, coming towards him with a reeking chamber pot that required dumping into the ocean.
“I missed the mark doing my repairs and smashed my left hand with my hammer,” he responded in a muted tone, studying the cracks in the floorboards.
“Mr. Evans,” said Leander without turning around, “I have never known you to injure yourself with your hammer before. Is this nonsense?”
“No, sir,” said Morgan quickly, holding up the swollen fingers of his left hand.
“Fine. I will attend to you after Mr. Lindsay. Take a seat where you can find one.”
Morgan sank to the floor while Leander completed his examination of the coxswain. “Mr. McGilp, there is no evidence of swollen glands. May I suggest you wear a jacket and extra scarf while standing at the helm, especially during the night when there is much dew on deck.”
Lewis jumped down from the table. “Aye, sir, thank you, sir.”
Leander cleaned away the pool of ink on his desk then made a brief note in his journal. When at last he wheeled about to signal to Mr. Lindsay to come forward, he discovered a crowd of sailors standing in the hospital doorway, all waiting their turn, their wide eyes fixed on the private corner where Emily lay.
Osmund rolled his oversized tongue about. “They say they’ve either taken in some bad water or ingested too many weevils, sir.”
Leander folded his arms across his slender frame. “Gentlemen, unless you have fallen from the shrouds, broken your neck, or are bleeding profusely, I would ask that you come back later when there is sufficient air in here for us all to breathe.”
The men, excluding Octavius Lindsay and Morgan Evans, all shuffled out grumbling to themselves. Osmund broke into a succession of guffaws that sounded like the brays of a donkey, while Mr. Harding, the sailing master, keenly watched their departure from his hammock, his footless leg propped up at a forty-five-degree angle.
“Doctor,” he said with a grin, “I fear it’s not your services that brought them down here.”
“That is abundantly obvious,” replied Leander, uncrossing his arms. “Now, Mr. Lindsay, about that tonic …”
* * *
AT EIGHT BELLS, when his morning watch had ended, Gus Walby wandered into the hospital holding the first volume of Sense and Sensibility.
“May I read to Miss Emily, Doctor?”
Leander laid a long finger to his lips. “I just scared a dozen men away. If they learn you have been allowed to stay, I’ll be walking the plank at midnight. She’s only now awakened, Mr. Walby, and hasn’t yet taken breakfast.” He reached for the bowl and plate on his desk. “Her porridge is cold, but she may like some biscuits.”
Gus tucked his book under one arm and took the food from Leander. He walked carefully to Emily’s canvas corner, cleared his throat, and awaited her invitation to enter.
A landsman named Mr. Crump, who had just lost a leg to Leander’s blade the previous day, looked up from his nearby cot.
“Doctor, why would ya be turnin’ away all those sailors and allowin’ the likes of Mr. Walby a chance ta see her?”
“For the simple reason that Mr. Walby has only good intentions and I fear the other men do not.”
Leander, who was now moving from cot to cot, re-dressing wounds and checking for signs of infection, listened with great interest to the conversation behind the canvas.
“Good morning,” Gus chirped, setting Emily’s breakfast down on a shelf near the gunport.
“Good morning, Gus.” Emily tried raising herself in her cot, an action that sent a shot of pain down her arm. She gritted her teeth. “Better stay where I am,” she admitted finally. She lay back on her pillows and looked up at Gus. The sight of his youthful, innocent face warmed her heart.
“Did you have a good rest, Em?”
“I did, but only once the doctor gave me some laudanum. I recall hearing your mates above deck singing tunes about reckless sailors and cans of grog. And I suspect the doctor gave me some of that as well.” Emily noticed she was wearing a nightshirt and quietly wondered when and how she had been placed in it.
“The men dance and sing on deck every night they can unless the weather is poor.”
“Even when they’ve lost friends in battle?”
“That’s when they need it most, Em. Takes their minds off sad things.”
“I see.”
“Are you hungry?”
“I’ll take breakfast later, thanks.” She did not want to tell him that the hospital smells had quite put her off eating.
Gus stepped closer to her cot. “May I ask how you broke your ankle?”
“I was fleeing a monster who stank like a manure patch.”
Gus’s eyes widened. “Was it the captain of the Serendipity?”
“No. It was his toady, Lind.”
“And did you jump overboard?”
“I did.”
“You were very brave to do so,” said Gus, looking quite impressed.
Emily lowered her voice. “Thanks to your gunners’ accuracy, an explosion of grapeshot tore through the stern windows, striking Lind down just as he was about to tie me up in the captain’s privy. I jumped out the broken windows and landed on something … a fallen mast, I believe.”
“Why was that man, Lind, going to tie you up in the privy?”
From within the dark hospital came the doctor’s insistent voice. “Mr. Walby, I understood you came by to read to Miss Emily.”
Gus’s face registered a look of guilt. “Oh! Would you like me to begin reading now?”
“Please.” Emily relaxed in the cot, a small smile on her lips, and listened to Gus’s sweet voice as he read Jane Austen’s book. She turned her head towards the opened gunport. The ocean waves of green, blue, and turquoise were strangely calming this morning. She watched them rise and fall, thankful for the light and a view to the outside world.
When she turned back to Gus, she found Dr. Braden’s sea-blue eyes gazing upon her through the crack in the canvas.
7:00 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)
BEFORE NIGHTFALL, as those members of the Isabelle’s crew not on watch began making their way to the weather decks with their flutes and fiddles for a bit of entertainment, James Moreland and Fly Austen entered the hospital with the purpose of speaking to Emily. With the help of Osmund Brockley, Leander had moved his remaining patients so that their hammocks hung as far from the canvas curtain as possible, affording the captain and his commander some privacy during their interview. Fly came bearing a can of grog and handed it to Emily, saying, “Compliments of our cook, who, I might add, was crestfallen he couldn’t deliver it to you personally.”
Sitting up in her cot with several extra pillows at her back, Emily quipped, “Is this to loosen my tongue before the interrogation?”
“Aye, we had thought it might help,” Fly confessed.
James stepped towards her cot, his arm extended. “James Moreland, ma’am. We did meet last night, but it was … well, you were …”
“A bit disoriented?” said Emily, shaking his hand. “I am sorry for that. How do you do, sir?”
Leander slipped through the curtain and stood quietly next to Fly just as James asked, “And how are your injuries tonight?”
“Much as they were last night, sir.”
“Leander assures me you will make a full recovery.”
“I am very thankful to Dr. Braden,” she said, keeping her eyes on the captain, who pulled up a nearby stool and d
ropped down heavily upon it.
“You were on the American frigate, the Serendipity.”
“I was.”
“How long were you their … guest?”
Emily gave a wry smile. “I was their prisoner, sir.”
James cleared his throat. “Their prisoner, then.”
“I cannot say for certain … three weeks, maybe four.”
“Were you mistreated?”
Emily’s voice went icy. “Yes. Every day.”
Avoiding her eyes, James pressed on. “How was it you managed to escape?”
“I jumped out the stern windows, which you conveniently blew out with your cannon fire.”
Emily saw a flicker of amusement cross Fly’s face. Her eyes drifted to Leander, who stood watching her, one fist held to his lips. For a moment his blue eyes locked with hers.
“Were you shot before or after you jumped?”
“After, sir.”
“Any idea who was it that pulled the trigger?”
“I believe his name was Mr. Clive.”
James shifted on his stool. “You are a British subject?”
“I am.”
“And your home?”
“Dorset, sir.”
“Your father’s name?”
“My father died three years ago.”
“His name?”
Emily was slow in answering. “Henry … Henry George, sir.”
James paused in his questioning, his eyes narrowing as if he were running the name Henry George through his mind. Finally, he asked, “His occupation?”
“He was a farmer.”
“A farmer,” echoed James flatly. He took a deep breath. “And your mother?”
Emily’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “She died when I was very young. I do not remember her at all.”
“But you do remember her name?”
“Yes, of course. It was Louisa.”
“Do you have any other family?”
“No … sir.”
James studied her, a small frown playing between his brows. “How old are you, young lady?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Did you ever hear tell of any Englishmen on the Serendipity?”
“I was locked in the captain’s quarters and never once allowed beyond their confines. I was neither acquainted with the crew, nor those that Captain Trevelyan kept in his gaol.”
James glanced up sharply. “Trevelyan?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colour drained from James’s face and there was a slight waver in his voice. “Captain Thomas Trevelyan?”
“That was his name.”
“Did you … did you … at any time overhear the extent and nature of his war orders?”
“No, but I suspect they were comparable to yours, Captain Moreland: to sink or take a prize all enemy ships along the Atlantic coast.”
The men exchanged glances, then regarded Emily with expressions of curiosity.
James’s left leg bounced up and down as he resumed his questioning. “How was it you came to be Trevelyan’s prisoner?”
Emily hesitated. She lowered her glance, and stared at the bandages on her hands.
“I would appreciate your answer before sunrise.”
“Sir … please … I do not want … I do not wish to speak of that morning.”
“Very well, then,” James said unhappily. “Was there anyone else, besides yourself, taken prisoner?”
Emily’s lips quivered, her eyes still on her hands.
James inhaled in exasperation.
“May I, sir?” asked Fly. James settled back on his stool and gave Fly his assent with a wave of his hand. Quietly, Fly tried a different tack. “I assume it was Trevelyan who attacked your ship, Emily.”
She nodded.
“What kind of ship were you on?”
“I’m not certain.”
“A large ship-of-the-line? A frigate? A merchant vessel, perhaps?”
“I am guessing … it was most likely a merchant ship, Mr. Austen.”
“Bound for … ?”
Emily looked up suddenly, and tossed her head, as if trying to recapture her previous confidence. “Upper Canada.”
“What was this merchantman carrying?”
“Besides human beings? I do not know.”
“Guns … soldiers … food supplies?”
Emily shrugged helplessly.
“With whom were you travelling?”
“Companions.”
“Companions? And did your companions have names?”
“Does it really matter, Mr. Austen?” challenged Emily. “Surely their names are of no consequence to you.”
Angered, James rose from his stool. “That is for me to decide.” He studied her a moment. “Was this merchantman of yours conducting some sort of reconnaissance mission?”
“How would I know?” Emily snapped, adding with sarcasm, “Perhaps her hold was crammed with crates of gold.”
James’s voice rose in response to her impertinence. “There must have been some reason why Trevelyan attacked your ship?”
“My guess is … he attacked it for no other reason than the British colours flew from her topgallants.”
“What was the name of your ship?”
Emily turned towards the darkening sea beyond the open gunport. “I – I don’t remember.”
“That I find hard to believe,” muttered James harshly.
“Sir, as passage was booked for me, I did not concern myself with the ship’s name.”
James drew nearer to her cot. “Would you perhaps remember the name of this unknown ship’s captain? Surely you were acquainted with him. If you could provide me with this detail, I may then be able to deduce – ”
At that moment, Leander placed his hand gently on James’s shoulder and said, “Sir, I think we best allow Emily more rest.”
James rubbed his eyes, causing the baggy bits to redden. “For God’s sake, might we at least know who you really are and why you were on a British merchant vessel?”
“Sir, I have told you,” Emily said in a tone that pushed the boundaries of civility. “I am from Dorset. My parents’ names were Henry and Louisa George. They are now both deceased. My father was once a farmer. I was on – what I believe was – a merchant ship. We were bound for Upper Canada. If I have displeased you, I am sorry, but I do not know Trevelyan’s reasons for attacking my ship, or why I was taken prisoner.”
James gave Emily a cold stare. “I find it hard to believe, young lady, that you are the daughter of a Dorset farmer.” He threw aside the curtain and stalked out.
With frustration etched on his face, Fly followed, shooting a glance at Leander and mumbling, “We have learned nothing at all of importance.”
From their hammocks, the sailors – those who were conscious – followed with interest the captain and the commander as the two of them marched across the hospital room and stomped up the ladder.
“Doctor,” Mr. Crump called out, “I swear this be more excitin’ than doin’ battle with thee French. It does wonders to ease thee pain of losin’ me leg.”
“Aye,” said the sailor swinging next to him, “a bit o’ melodrama makes me not mind missin’ out on me can o’ grog, bein’ in here.”
The wounded sailors craned their necks in an effort to see the patient lying in the cot beyond the canvas. Leander studied the two of them over his spectacles with consternation and heard them grumble their disappointment when he yanked shut the crack in the curtain.
* * *
EMILY SENSED LEANDER standing next to her cot long before he spoke. “I would like to re-dress your wound when you’re feeling up to it.”
“Now is as good a time as any,” she said despondently, turning over so he could reach her bandages. Slowly, his skilled hands removed her soiled dressings and cleaned away the blood and ooze. She closed her eyes to the warmth of his freckled hands on her skin and listened to the Isabelle as she cut through the roiling waves, almost forgetting the sea
ring pain where the ball had entered her body.
“If I’d been left in the sea yesterday, Doctor, I would not have minded.”
Leander gazed at her long hair, the golden waves spread across the white blankets of her bed reminding him of a field of wheat.
“Well, perhaps you have a great deal more living to do.”
She said nothing more until he had finished applying fresh bandages.
“May I speak plainly … as patient to doctor?” She rolled over to look up at him. Leander peeled off his spectacles and placed them in the top pocket of his black apron. “Is there any reason … any reason at all why I must tell you every last detail about myself?”
Surprise registered on his handsome face. He lowered himself upon the stool that the captain had earlier occupied and pulled it closer to her cot.
“Not unless you’re a spy for President Madison or you’re working for Napoleon himself.”
“I assure you I am neither, Doctor.”
“And your presence on the Isabelle will, in no way, harm the crew.”
“I cannot think how it could.”
“If you could recall the name of your ship or its captain, it would certainly assist Captain Moreland.”
She met his gaze steadily.
“Otherwise, you may keep your history to yourself.” He rose to leave, then paused by the curtain. “But you should know this: Captain Moreland plans to put you ashore the moment we arrive in Halifax harbour. And if that is not agreeable to you, you must decide how you will answer him.”
3
Thursday, June 3
11:00 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)
ALMOST TWO DAYS after her encounter with the USS Serendipity, the Isabelle dropped anchor in the deep waters off Ireland Island, Bermuda, alongside a privateer with a blood-red hull, three merchant ships, and one British ship-of-the-line called the Amethyst. The winds and tides had been in Captain Moreland’s favour, and his crew had easily steered clear of the dangerous reefs that surrounded the Bermuda Islands. In the past, many ships had not been as lucky; they had been ripped open on the shoals and sunk in the turquoise waters. Under the sunny Bermudian sky, their wooden skeletons could be seen rotting in the sand, constant reminders to passing sailors of their fate should their course not be accurate.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 4
