Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Once the Isabelle’s crew had been fed their breakfast, they fell to work on the repairs that could not be achieved at sea. For a few hours now, the sounds of hammering and good cheer had reverberated around the ship as it bobbed gently on the clear waters.

  “Sir, what about a new figurehead?” asked Mr. Alexander as Captain Moreland, in the company of Octavius Lindsay, surveyed the ongoing repairs to the ship’s waist. “Shall I ask Morgan Evans to carve you a new one?”

  “I think not, Mr. Alexander. There isn’t time for fixing a new one, and besides, I find them rather ostentatious and outdated. Just smooth out the sides where our figurehead once rested.”

  “What about painting, sir? The ship needs painting,” insisted Octavius.

  “I thought you were in a hurry to see Halifax, Mr. Lindsay. Painting will only further delay us.”

  “But, sir, we don’t want the Americans to think our navy is old and inferior.”

  “But, Mr. Lindsay, we are old and rapidly becoming inferior.”

  “With all respect, I never expected to hear you say such a thing.”

  “Mr. Lindsay, we’ve lost more sea battles and men in this new war than I care to count. Too many years of war are taking their toll. If we’re not quick and attentive, the Serendipity will come upon us again and this time there will be no retreating.”

  “What would Lord Nelson have said, sir, if he’d heard you utter such defeatist words?”

  “Young man,” said James, inspecting his new mizzenmast, “Nelson has been gone for eight years.”

  Octavius’s face fell as the older man brushed by him to look over the rails. A pinnace from the Amethyst, which was anchored nearby, was approaching the Isabelle carrying four officers.

  “Now come with me, Mr. Lindsay, to greet our guests,” shouted James. “Let us find out what news is about in the few days since we were last here. Prepare for their landing, lads. Down with the ladders.”

  * * *

  AT THE END of the forenoon watch, the bell sounded eight times. Leander and Fly sat on the poop deck bench by the stern and taffrail, drinking cups of black coffee as they observed the sailors climbing down from their four-hour watch on the new mizzenmast and topgallant. As the winds blowing from the south were warm and humid, both men had shed their jackets.

  “I much prefer my coffee with milk,” said Fly, grimacing before he gulped his hot drink.

  “I overheard Biscuit threatening to hang himself if he cannot find a goat in Bermuda.”

  Fly chuckled. “Let us hope he meets with success.”

  Leander set down his coffee cup to untie his cravat. “Is James in his cabin with his visitors from the Amethyst?”

  “He is. I am anxious to hear what news they bring.”

  “I hope it’s good news and will improve James’s humour. I fear he is wearying of war.”

  “We’re all weary,” said Fly, growing pensive. “I miss the days when we battled for the prize and sailed it back triumphantly into Portsmouth Harbour. I miss the pleasure of opening the enemy’s hold of riches and thrilling the crew with fistfuls of shillings at the end of their tour. This war’s a hard one and there’ve been precious few rewards. These American ships are smaller, they carry fewer guns, and there’s seldom any treasure to be gotten from them – when we do get them, that is. They’re very good, these Americans. Their crews are fresher and their ships have been built with the best timber from these new American forests. They fight differently, too. Not like the French. Of course, as so many of them hail from England, they understand our tactics and our motivations. We’ve been softened by our numerous victories over the French.” Fly held out his cup to be refilled by Weevil, who stood silently by with a silver coffee pot.

  “Last night, when you questioned Emily, the name Thomas Trevelyan seemed to startle James,” said Leander. “Am I right?”

  Fly nodded. “I too caught his reaction, but he’s a private person, our captain, and he’s not spoken of it since.”

  “Are you acquainted with the name Trevelyan?”

  Fly sipped on his second cup. “I am not, but our navy’s a large one, with thousands of men, thousands of officers. I did question Mr. Harding, as he has sailed with James before. He felt ‘Trevelyan’ had a familiar ring to it. In fact, Harding thought he might have had something to do with a bit of objectionable business – back in ’04 – involving James and the Isabelle.”

  “What sort of business? What do you mean by that?”

  “Why, the very torment of every last one of our sea captains – a mutiny.”

  Leander leaned back to regard Fly. “Captain Moreland? A mutiny? I cannot imagine his men rising up against him.”

  “My sentiments exactly. Unfortunately, Mr. Harding could provide me with few details of the affair. He said he’d once heard a rumour about it, but nothing more.”

  “But, a mutiny … would the details not have been made public?”

  “In this case … apparently not; otherwise, I am sure I would have heard tell of it.”

  “So, it is possible that there is some connection between Trevelyan and this affair of ’04?”

  “Aye, and if there is, I am certain we shall find out in time.”

  Fly handed his cup and saucer to Weevil, thanked him, and lifted his face to receive the warmth of the sun. Leander followed suit. For a few minutes they were silent, enjoying the working seamen’s chatter and the squawks of the seagulls circling the harbour.

  “Your lady patient … how does she fare?”

  “She still lies in my cot, sleeps a great deal, and is greatly troubled, I fear.”

  “During your examination …” Fly hesitated. “Did you find if she is carrying a child?”

  Leander grinned. “Although it was unnecessary to examine her that fully, I can tell you she is not.”

  “If she stays on this ship much longer that may change.”

  “Have you been away from your wife too long, Mr. Austen?”

  “I believe we’ve all been away from attractive women far too long, including you, Doctor.” Fly clapped him on the back.

  “We haven’t been that long away from England.”

  “Yes, but you, my friend, have been far too long without a wife.”

  Leander looked out to sea.

  “My sister, Jane, is still without a husband,” continued Fly. “Brother Charles and I think you would make her a splendid husband. I know she’s older and may not be able to provide you with ten children, which is what I intend to have, but you won’t find a more amiable, intelligent companion anywhere.”

  “I don’t believe Jane would be contented with a ship’s physician who earns a few shillings a day and prefers the sea to setting up shop in an English parish.”

  “Perhaps you’ll not always feel that way. Of course you know the Austen family would embrace you wholeheartedly.”

  “Maybe it’s time you look elsewhere for dear Jane.” Then, more cheerfully, Leander added, “But I am enjoying her Sense and Sensibility immensely. Although I do not possess his purse, I find myself sympathizing with her character Colonel Brandon. I must write to tell her so.”

  Fly’s brown eyes narrowed. “You’re reading a woman’s novel? Such a great departure from the poetry of Robbie Burns and the stories of Walter Scott you claim to enjoy! And here I thought I had loaned the volumes to Gus Walby for Emily.”

  “You did, but I often listen in when he is reading aloud to her. It is my hope your sister’s book will draw Emily out.”

  “You were saying she is troubled.”

  “Not being able to trust Osmund Brockley alone with her, I have spent my nights in the hospital. I have hung a cot near hers …”

  “Outside or inside the canvas?”

  Leander pulled a face. “For the past two nights she’s had nightmares and awakened with a cry.” He did not tell Fly he’d given her laudanum to return to sleep.

  “The ship she was on when the Serendipity attacked …”

  “She claims s
he cannot remember. I simply do not know.”

  “How is it Mr. Walby’s gained access to our guest?”

  “The boy is twelve and missing his mother. I’m hoping it will help him to be around such a woman, even if she is a troubled one. A bond is forming between them already. She’s freely told him how she jumped from the Serendipity’s broken windows to make her escape. Perhaps, between Mr. Walby and your sister’s book, we’ll gradually learn more about the mysterious Emily.”

  A sudden breeze tugged at Leander’s black felt hat, compelling him to push it down further onto his forehead. “Tell me, Fly, how is it your bicorne stays on your head in these winds? I’ve yet to witness an officer losing his hat to the sea.”

  Fly slapped his knees. “That’s my secret, my friend … Mr. Weevil, we’re done with coffee. Some red wine now, if you please.”

  12:30 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

  CAPTAIN PRICKETT of HMS Amethyst drank heartily of the wine Biscuit set before him upon the rectangular oak table in Captain Moreland’s private quarters. He was a heavy-set man of fifty, with three chins and a belly that could no longer be contained within his uniform coat. His first lieutenant, Lord Bridlington, was a fair-skinned, effeminate fellow with a long crooked nose, who preferred Biscuit’s beef and potatoes to the red wine. The two men had been escorted to the Isabelle by two of their marine officers, who now waited outside the closed door conversing with the Isabelle’s purser, Mr. Spooner. Once pleasantries had been dispensed with and the men were well into their dinner, Captain Moreland leaned back in his red-velvet wing chair with a glass of wine.

  “You say you have little news of the war, gentlemen?”

  “There is not much to report, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Prickett, eyeing the iced spice cake that Biscuit had baked from fresh provisions sent in from shore early that morning. “We’ve not been long from England.”

  “Aye, and we’ve yet to meet an enemy ship,” said Mr. Bridlington, addressing the ceiling of the cabin as he spoke, “which makes the sailors very restless indeed for some action.”

  “What brings you to Bermuda?”

  “We’re to escort those three East India merchant vessels you saw anchored in the harbour on a round trip from Portsmouth to Bermuda to Halifax and finally on to Quebec.” Captain Prickett snapped his fingers at a young servant boy standing quietly behind the first lieutenant’s chair. “You there … a piece of that cake wouldn’t go amiss.”

  The servant boy jumped to do his bidding.

  “What do the merchant vessels carry?” asked James.

  As Captain Prickett’s mouth was soon full of cake, Mr. Bridlington answered for him, his eyes, once again, turned to the ceiling. “Supplies of all kinds: livestock, tools, munitions, troops … they even carry passengers bound for Upper and Lower Canada. Hardy fools, I say, leaving England at a time like this.” He made a sucking sound with his red lips.

  “So you’ve seen no one on your travels?”

  “Aye, we did stop for a visit with the captain of the Expedition a few days out from Portsmouth. Captain Uptergrove was his name …”

  “William Uptergrove!” James’s tired features sprang to life. “I served with him at St. Vincent. And he’s still commanding the Expedition? Why, he’s as old a relic as I am! And where had old Uptergrove been?”

  “On a re-supplying mission to our interests in the Caribbean. He was able to provide us with the only war information gathered thus far.” Captain Prickett shovelled another bite of cake into his mouth. “According to Uptergrove, we’re not making much of an impact over here. Why, we’ve only eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates trying to accomplish a variety of tasks: protecting the St. Lawrence, blockading American ports, escorting British merchant ships, hunting down enemy frigates – to name a few.

  “Furthermore,” said Captain Prickett, spraying bits of cake onto the oak table, “it is believed that up to ten per cent of the United States Navy consists of men of British origin. The question is: are they deserters or were they pressed into the service by the Americans?”

  Mr. Bridlington clasped his delicate hands under his chin. “We’re not faring much better on land. The number of our regulars is very low indeed. We are forced to fight alongside Indians. Quite frightening, really!”

  Captain Prickett wiped his whiskered mouth with a napkin and examined the plates of unfinished food set before him. “We must soon finish our business with Old Boney; otherwise, this Yankee campaign will be our undoing.”

  Biscuit came into the cabin with the silver coffee pot.

  “Ah, coffee would be nice. And I’ll have more beef and potatoes. Your beans are quite good too, Moreland. We won’t be seeing fresh vegetables again for a time.”

  Amusement registered in James’s faded blue eyes.

  “The day before we met with Captain Uptergrove, his Expedition had come upon a most mournful scene,” said Mr. Bridlington. He dropped four teaspoonfuls of sugar into his coffee cup before casting his gaze upwards. “A British merchant ship robbed and its hull beaten to a pulp most dreadfully before being burned about fifty miles southeast of Halifax. It was sinking when the Expedition first spotted it in a telescope and Uptergrove said there was a terrible carnage drifting on the water.”

  James straightened in his chair. “And its crew? Were there any survivors?”

  “By the time Uptergrove arrived on the scene, a good number were floating lifelessly on the water,” said Prickett, his face now flushed with good food and wine. “He was, however, able to rescue a babbling old woman, a wounded young man whose injuries had rendered him unconscious, and a child.”

  “That’s all?” asked Captain Moreland. “Could the old woman provide Mr. Uptergrove with any information?”

  “Apparently she had quite lost her wits. Uptergrove could only glean that they’d been bound for Upper Canada and that it’d been an American ship that had struck them before dawn.”

  James became irate. “If she was a merchant ship, why the devil was she destroyed by an American warship? Stealing her crew and cargo I can understand, but such barbaric destruction I cannot.”

  “Quite a mystery, isn’t it?” said Mr. Bridlington, shaking his thin face.

  “How many weeks back did this occur, gentlemen?”

  “Four perhaps,” said Captain Prickett, just then discharging a tremendous fart. “Good Heavens, excuse me, gentlemen. It must have been that exquisite cut of beef.”

  Mr. Bridlington giggled. But James took no notice. He leaned back thoughtfully in his red-velvet chair and studied the rich colour of his wine.

  4

  Sunday, June 6

  9:00 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

  “‘… She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play with Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained …’”

  “Gus, could I ask you to stop your reading for now?” Emily pleaded from her bed.

  Beyond the canvas curtain, Leander paused in his letter writing.

  “Are you tired?” asked Gus.

  “Tired? How could I be? I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past several days. No, I am not tired, but this part in the novel is so sad.”

  “Shall I come back this evening before my watch?”

  “Please do. You read so well. I am sure I could not read that well when I was your age.”

  Gus reluctantly closed the book. “Who taught you to read, Em?”

  Emily thought a moment before answering. Crooking her finger, she invited Gus to come closer and whispered, “Am I correct in believing – nay, in hoping – that our conversations are just between you and me?”

  Gus was taken aback. “Of course they are!”

  “Well, then, I shall tell you. Would you believe a string of tutors and governesses taught me to read?�
��

  “Why so many? Were you a naughty child?”

  “No, it was my father. He had a cruel streak in him, and being a man of great wealth figured he could exercise it upon my poor teachers. They were all wonderful, but that didn’t stop him from dismissing them at will.”

  Gus angled his head. “Perhaps your father, being a man of great wealth, knew Lord Lindsay’s father, as he is the Duke of Belmont.”

  “I am sure he must have. My father travelled in many circles, Gus.” Suspicious that Leander would be straining to lend an ear to their quiet conversation, Emily called out to him. “Doctor? May I trouble you a moment?”

  She smiled at the scrape of his chair.

  His auburn head peeked around the canvas. Even behind his round spectacles, the doctor had striking eyes, Emily thought.

  “Doctor, I’ve been deteriorating in your cot far too long … not that I don’t appreciate you giving up your cot … but I wondered if I might walk above deck to air my lungs … and exercise my one good leg. It would be nice to see Bermuda before we leave.”

  “I’m afraid I’d have to consult with Captain Moreland.” Leander stepped farther into her little corner. “Women are not usually allowed to move freely above deck at sea.”

  “He may give his consent, Doctor, as we are anchored,” said Gus. He looked back at Emily and added, “Although the sight of you on the weather decks might cause the men to fall from their yardarms.”

  Emily laughed, but Gus was quite serious.

  “If I were fitted out with a walking stick and maybe a pair of Biscuit’s old trousers? A straw hat would hide my hair … then again, I do recall seeing men with hair longer than mine when first I came on board. Surely, if appropriately outfitted, no one would guess my identity.”

  While Gus regarded him anxiously, Leander tried to hide his amusement with one freckled hand.

  “As your doctor, I would strongly recommend fresh air and exercise; still, I must seek permission from the captain.”

  Emily was disheartened. “I recall being allowed to wander freely on the weather decks of ships when I was a child – ” She caught herself, and for a moment stared at Leander, praying he had taken no notice of her incautious words. Seeing him raise an inquisitive eyebrow, she looked away and said no more on the subject.