Knowing their captain and his state of mind, Fly and Biscuit said not a word. Fly sipped his wine pensively while the room grew quiet, with only the occasional tinkling sound as Biscuit finished laying the silverware. Not five minutes later, young Walby appeared breathless outside the wardroom and snatched his navy-blue cocked hat from his blond head.
“What’s yer business here?” demanded Biscuit, going to the door. “The cap’n and Mr. Austen is busy.”
Gus looked watery-eyed past Biscuit to the men standing by the windows. “Captain, sir, Dr. Braden asked me to come for you. There’s been a … a commotion in the sail room, sir.”
James came towards Gus. “What sort of commotion?”
“A fight, I mean … an assault. Emily’s hurt.”
“Emily?” James’s eyes grew large. “What the devil was she doing in the sail room?”
“I don’t know, sir, but Magpie’s crying, saying it’s all his fault. And … and he’s been taken to the master-at-arms.”
“Magpie?” cried James. “With the master-at-arms? You’re telling me Magpie assaulted Emily?”
“No, not Magpie, sir. Him. He hurt her badly.”
“Speak plainly, Mr. Walby. We cannot follow your ramble,” said Fly kindly, extending an arm towards a chair. “Here, sit a while and begin again.”
“I’ll stand, thank you, Mr. Austen,” said Gus, trying to gather himself together. “The thing is, sir, that while we were on deck for the burial, Emily was attacked in the sail room.”
James’s faded blue eyes hardened and he took a step closer to the small midshipman. “And who was it that attacked her?”
Gus took a deep breath. “Mr. Lindsay. Octavius Lindsay, sir.”
12:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)
AFT ON THE LOWER DECK near the gunroom, Octavius Lindsay languished on the floor, his feet bound in shackles that were fitted to the deck and to an iron bar. Behind him stood a scarlet-jacketed marine sentry, concentrating on the nothingness in front of him. As most of the crew were still at their dinner, there was no one else about, except Meg Kettle, who sat curiously in the shadows, mending shirts. Hearing determined approaching footsteps, Octavius looked up, his eyes swollen and watery, to find Captain Moreland, Mr. Austen, and Gus Walby standing over him, wearing stern expressions.
“Kindly wait by the fish room hatch, Mr. Walby,” said Mr. Austen. The young midshipman nodded and chirped “sir” but did not move as far along the deck as he’d been instructed.
James hardly recognized the miserable heap of humanity on the floor before him as his haughty first lieutenant. There was a bleeding gash on the side of Octavius’s head, and his features were twisted in anguish and fear. He resembled a young boy who’d been tormenting his younger sister and was about to face a severe reprimand from his intimidating father. James felt a muscle twitching in his cheek as he said sharply, “I am truly disillusioned, Mr. Lindsay. I can find nothing of the senior officer in you.”
“Captain, please, show mercy, sir. Please don’t send me to my death.” Octavius dropped his head between his knees and began blubbering incoherently.
“I don’t know whether to despise you or to pity you.”
Octavius began rocking back and forth on the floor, and in a voice choked with terror sobbed, “Please, sir, don’t hang me. Give … give me fifty lashes, flog me around the fleet when we return to England, just please … I don’t want to hang.”
James’s blue-veined hands flew to his mouth and he shut his eyes as if in pain. A moment later he cried out, “For God’s sake, man, what were you thinking? What could you possibly have been thinking?”
“You are a friend of my father’s,” Octavius beseeched him. “He can make you a rich man when this war is done. I’ll see to it. I’ll personally see to it. Just don’t put me to death.”
“Mr. Lindsay, you are familiar with the Articles of War by now,” James said, reaching out to steady himself against the nearest post. “I may have no choice.”
“I didn’t know it was her. I swear I didn’t know it was her.”
James straightened himself. “What nonsense! You’ve despised that woman from the moment she came on board.”
“I wouldn’t have harmed her. I thought … I thought – ”
“You thought what?” snapped Fly.
Octavius hid his humiliation with his hands. A wrenching silence followed, broken only by the prisoner’s guttural sobs. Captain and commander turned their backs to him and moved away while Gus Walby braved a few steps towards them, still keeping a respectable distance.
“What will you do with him, sir?” Fly asked in a steely voice.
“I don’t know,” said James wearily. “Given the seriousness of his offence and the fact that he is an officer, his punishment will have to be decided by a court-martial. We have no choice but to wait until we reach Halifax. Only there will we find enough captains and perhaps a few admirals willing to sit and determine his fate.”
“Shall we leave him here in the bilboes with the marine?”
“Aye, for now. It’ll be sufficient punishment keeping him here for all to see and taunt. Would you go ask Osmund Brockley to see to his head wound? I need time to think.” James placed his right hand on Fly’s shoulder.
“Are you well, sir?” asked Fly, alarmed by the ashen colour of James’s face.
“I am in desperate need of some fresh air.” Together they left the gun deck, leaving behind the forgotten Mr. Walby.
Meg Kettle, who had been silently mending her shirts in the shadows, waited until the captain and Mr. Austen were long gone. She then perked up and laughed at the young midshipman, who stood gaping down at the prisoner as if he were a spectacle at St. Bartholomew’s Fair.
“’Ave ya bin able ta figure it all out, Mr. Walby?”
Gus looked surprised, as if he’d only then just noticed her sitting there. His lips parted, indicating to Meg that he might speak. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, turned suddenly on his heels, and hurried away. Meg stood up to address the pathetic prisoner on the floor and made a sucking sound with her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Thee men, if they didna despise ya before, will be despisin’ ya now. Why ya just put a nail inta yer own coffin.”
1:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)
ACCOMPANIED BY A MARINE SENTRY, Fly climbed down the ladder from the foc’s’le deck and into the hospital. The room was as quiet as a crypt. Osmund tiptoed around with his chamber pots and bandages. Mr. Crump had nothing amusing to say. Along with Biscuit and several seamen who were crowded round the galley entrance, he kept a silent watch on the thin sheet of canvas that separated them from Emily, as faithfully as if he were above deck combing the seas for an enemy sighting. On a stool next to a slumbering Magpie, who was now in his new hammock, Gus Walby sat clutching Fly’s sister’s novel, Sense and Sensibility, evidently hopeful that he would soon be invited to enter Emily’s sacred corner. Near Gus sat Morgan Evans, who respectfully pulled his knitted hat from his shaggy-haired head and saluted the moment Fly glanced in his direction. The wounded sailors – those who could – sat upright in their beds and saluted him in turn, though immediately afterwards their focus darted back to the canvas.
“Where’s Dr. Braden?” Fly asked the cook when his boot-clad feet were firmly planted on the hospital floor.
“In with thee wee lass, sir.”
“You are rather subdued, Biscuit.”
Biscuit hung his orange head. “Outta respect for thee lass, sir.”
Fly waved his arms in a dismissive gesture at the men lingering round the galley entrance, and in a muted voice ordered them away. “Back to work, back to work, all of you vagabonds. The last thing the doctor needs is to have you all underfoot.”
“Mr. Austen, you’ll let us all know how she fares?” pleaded an old sailor.
“I will. Now out you go.”
Fly waited for the “vagabonds” to clear out before making his way to the canvas curtai
n where Leander, having heard him come in, stood ready to greet him. It did not escape Fly’s notice that his friend appeared haggard and uncharacteristically dishevelled, that his brow was furrowed in worry, and that his lips were set in a grim line. “Come in,” said Leander quietly. “It’s all right. She’s in a deep sleep.”
Fly stared down at the quiet form in the cot. There was a hideous blue-black bruise on her face and the reddened imprint of fingers on her neck. “Does she have similar injuries elsewhere on her body?” he asked, finding himself unable to cease blinking.
Leander, his fist held to his mouth, turned his gaze from Emily and glanced up at Fly over his spectacles and nodded. Neither man spoke for a while. Beyond the open gunport, the wind had picked up and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Above their heads, the bell sounded three times. Fly stepped closer to Leander and spoke as softly as he could so that the vigilant sailors lying in the hospital could not hear his words.
“You must know, my friend … she was not Lindsay’s intended victim.”
“What?” Leander gave Fly a bewildered stare.
“Evidently, he had not been informed that our little sail maker was wounded and lying here … in the protection of your hospital. He all but made an outright confession. Perhaps it was his distraught mind speaking … perhaps he figured his punishment would be more lenient if James and I knew the truth.”
Leander seethed with revulsion. “I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll kill him!”
“Most every man on this ship will harbour the same sentiments once they have heard of Mr. Lindsay’s exploits. But I believe it best we tell no one else of this sordid intelligence, leastwise Emily. For now, I need you to put down your fighting scabbard and come with me to the captain’s cabin.”
“Can it not wait until later? I cannot leave here just now.”
“I have brought with me a marine sentry to guard Emily in your absence.”
Detecting Fly’s concerned expression, Leander asked, “Has something else happened?”
“James has come down with a fever.”
4:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)
WITH AN AIR OF IMPORTANCE, Biscuit dished up bowls of mutton stew for his mates seated around his mess table on the upper deck.
“I tell ya, it was Octavius Lindsay that done it. I was there in thee wardroom when Gus told thee cap’n, and I heared it from Morgan, him havin’ seen thee mischief with his own eyes.”
“And what did the cap’n ’ave to say?” asked Bailey Beck.
“Not a word,” replied Biscuit. “Went pale as a white whale and stormed from thee wardroom with Mr. Austen in tow.”
“They’ll be stringin’ Mr. Lindsay up on the yard for his crime. That I’ll be wantin’ to see,” said Jacko, rubbing his mountainous naked belly in anticipation of his meal.
Bailey let out a snort. “No way the cap’n will give ’im death what with his aristocratic connections.”
“A floggin’ with a cat o’ nine tails would be too lenient,” Biscuit growled.
“It’ll come to court-martial,” said another of their mates.
“Nay! No time for court-martiallin’ out here,” said Jacko. “Stranded in enemy waters, in a broken-down ship? And where would we be findin’ enough British captains and admirals to do the court-martiallin’? Nay, we’ll be days fixin’ up the Isabelle just to git her sailin’ agin.”
“Morgan says Lord Lindsay didna succeed in his intentions, if ya catch me meanin’,” snickered Biscuit, handing Jacko his bowl. “And here I thought he fancied thee lads.”
“Oh, aye!” laughed his mates.
“Our Emily,” Biscuit continued, “she fought him off like a true seasoned sailor, though he knocked her about somethin’ fierce. Word is her head was bleedin’ all over thee sails and her face has an awful mean wound on it.”
Jacko punched his right fist into his left palm. “I’d like to git me hands on the bastard. I’d kill ’im with one snap o’ the neck.”
“Not before I would roast him in me galley stove,” said Biscuit, his bad eye rolling about in excitement.
“If justice ain’t dished up, why we’ll dish it up ourselves,” said Bailey. “We’ll wait til Mr. Lindsay’s on the night watch and we’ll give ’im a Jonah’s lift into the sea.”
“Or a ball o’ lead durin’ the next battle with them Yankees.”
The men raised their mugs of grog and said, “Hear, hear.”
“Who’s Emily?” asked their newest messmate. The men all turned to gape at him – a giant of a man with muscular arms and a long copper-coloured ponytail that fell a long way down his back. Biscuit cackled and placed his puny arm around the man’s thick neck. “Lads, meet Bun Brodie. Off thee Yankee Liberty, but don’t ya be holdin’ it against ’im, ’cause he’s a Scotsman. And with young Magpie losin’ half his face, he’s gonna fill in fer maker o’ thee sails.”
The men nodded politely in Bun Brodie’s direction. “Pleased to meet all o’ yas,” he said before asking again about Emily.
“She’s thee fair lass we plucked from thee sea a week or so ago,” Biscuit explained. “She’d jumped off a Yankee frigate that went by thee name o’ Serendipity whilst we was doin’ battle with her.”
“Thee Serendipity, ya say? Ya mean Captain Trevelyan’s frigate?” asked Bun before shovelling a hunk of stew into his mouth.
“One ’n’ thee same.”
Jacko smiled. “Our Emily, she’s a right spirited girl. Why, two days ago she joined us at this very table for a cup o’ beer.”
Biscuit laughed suddenly, spewing bits of stew about. “And you, Jacko, thought she was a man. Mr. George, hah!”
Red colour flooded Jacko’s squashed-nosed face. “Aye! I did think it a bit queer him wearin’ them blue silk shoes.”
“She fooled the lot o’ us,” said the sailor with the swarthy complexion and bloodshot eyes.
“Well, not me, and I don’t s’pose she fooled young Morgan either,” said Biscuit gleefully.
“Where is Morgan?” Bailey asked Biscuit. “It was him that was s’posed ta be on mess duty.”
“Probably back in Dr. Braden’s hospital, still pretendin’ to be needin’ medical attention so’s he can keep an eye on Emily.”
Bun Brodie spoke up while the men laughed. “And would ya be knowin’ this Emily’s last name?”
Jacko angled his big head and squinted at his new mate. “How come yer so curious ’bout Emily? Ya won’t get far with her, man. Mr. Lindsay already tried.” The table of men broke into grog-laced peals of laughter. “But … but we do ’ave Meggie Kettle fer ya. She’ll look after ya real nice-like in yer cot.”
“I was on thee Serendipity,” said Bun solemnly. The men quit chuckling and lowered their mugs to stare at him. “I was on thee Serendipity whilst ya was battlin’ it out.”
“Oh, nice,” said Biscuit. “So ya was takin’ shots at we Isabelles, killin’ thee lads, was ya now?”
“Ach, no, I was chained up in her hold doin’ some prayin’.”
Biscuit glanced around at his mates before settling his good eye upon Bun Brodie. “So, what d’ya know ’bout our Emily?”
“I was told there was only one lass on thee Serendipity. Her name was Mrs. Seaton. She was Trevelyan’s prisoner on account he didna fancy her father.”
“Who might her father be?”
“And what was his crime?”
Bun looked around placidly at his attentive messmates as he chewed away on his mutton stew. “I ’aven’t a goddamn clue.”
7
Friday, June 11
1:00 a.m.
(Middle Watch, Two Bells)
IT WAS SOME TIME LATER that Leander found an opportunity to speak to Emily alone. He had attended to her injuries and periodically given her tinctures of laudanum to ease her pain and help her to sleep, but few private words had passed between them. On the day of her attack in the sail room, Captain Moreland had fallen ill with a fever and much of Lean
der’s time had been spent making sure he was comfortable, as well as assuring the men that their leader had not contracted typhus or yellow fever or some such sickness that would most likely result in half the ship coming down with it. Many of Leander’s patients still required plenty of attention, being in grave danger as a result of their wounds. Moreover, with the crew working around the watch to repair the Isabelle while her anchor was dropped off the coast of Cape Hatteras, several minor injuries – from cuts to falls to hernias – required his professional services.
At two bells in the middle watch, Leander was writing notes in his medical journal when an ensemble of stentorian snores finally resounded around his hospital. Long before midnight, he had sent Osmund and the loblolly boys to their beds on the orlop, and the marine who had been ordered to stand watch by Emily’s bit of canvas whenever the doctor was not present in the hospital was not due back until Leander left again for his breakfast in the wardroom in roughly six hours’ time. As he peeled off his spectacles to rub his tired eyes, a familiar voice called out softly to him.
He found Emily in distress, sitting up in her hammock with one hand clutched to her chest. Her long hair fell forward in damp waves upon her muslin nightshirt, and her troubled face was flushed, partially concealing the purple wound on her cheek.
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