Leander, whose right hand had covered his mouth as he listened, spread his fingers to interrupt her. “Emily, in all this, you have brilliantly avoided my question.”
“Your question?” she asked innocently.
He angled his head, feigning impatience with her, but when she still didn’t answer him he grew solemn and looked troubled. “Who are you … really?”
Emily stared at the bucket of bandages on her recently vacated stool and summoned the courage to reply. She met his watchful gaze. “I have already told you that my father’s name was Henry. At one point in his career, he actually was a farmer. His last name, however, was not George. You see, Doctor, as my grandfather’s name is Geo …”
But Leander did not hear her subsequent words, for they were wrenched away, lost in a shocking hullabaloo of mirthful voices, pounding drums, and thumping noises that flooded the Isabelle like a tidal wave, causing the hanging lanterns to swing wildly on their hooks and the ship’s oaken timbers to shiver. No sooner had Leander leapt to his feet and Emily blinked at him in wonder when a succession of men blew into the hospital as if propelled by a gust of wind: Mr. Crump and another landsman (who had given the one-legged man assistance with the ladder), both full of chatter and a desire to tell the doctor what had just transpired; Emily’s marine sentry returning to his babysitting duties; a poor young sailor who had crushed his hand while his crew readied their gun for battle; and finally, a freckle-faced midshipman with a message for Dr. Braden: “Captain Moreland requests your presence for dinner in his cabin at the start of the First Watch, sir, and sends his apologies for the late hour, but says it will take Biscuit some time to fire up his stove in order to cook a proper meal.” Finally it all made sense when Gus Walby clambered down the ladder, calling out, “Dr. Braden! Dr. Braden, sir! You’ll never believe it! The Yankee ship … why, she’s not Yankee at all. She’s one of ours. She’s the Amethyst!”
Emily clutched at her chest and allowed a few tears of relief to fall, but as she looked from Gus back to Leander, she found the doctor’s attention fully engaged with the sailor and his crushed hand, and her heart sank to the floor. Their private moment had passed.
5:00 p.m.
(First Dog Watch, Two Bells)
MEG KETTLE GRUNTED AND CURSED her way down the ladder that led to the murky orlop deck, trying to lift her long skirt and find the ladder’s slippery rungs while balancing a lantern and bowl of stew. The Isabelle’s criminal, having been moved below when the gun deck was cleared for action, sat dejectedly in his new irons and raised his head as the blackness around him began to recede. Mrs. Kettle held the bowl high above him and took pleasure in watching him grab for it. “Ya looks like a mangy cur beggin’ fer a scrap o’ meat.”
Octavius’s sunken black eyes shone in the lantern-light. “I’m hungry.”
With a cluck of disgust, she handed him the stew. “And here ya used ta be so high and mighty, lookin’ down yer spotted nose at thee lot o’ us.”
He wolfed down half his portion of meat and onions before answering in his familiar pompous voice. “Naturally, Mrs. Kettle, for you are a harlot and reside in the lowest order of humankind.”
Her response was swift. She kicked the bowl from his hands, the chunks of stew flying across the damp floor planks like spinning bits of grapeshot. Octavius howled with anger and attempted to seize hold of her coarse linen skirt.
“Ha, ha,” she cried gleefully, dodging his fingers, but soon finding herself breathless, she sought out the comfort of a nearby crate.
Octavius folded his arms across his chest to quell his irritation. He waited for his own breathing to be restored before speaking. “The ship sighting …” He dared to hope. “ Is she American?”
Mrs. Kettle shook her scowling face in the shadows. “We would ’ave bin shootin’ at her by now, wouldn’t we ’ave?”
Octavius gazed upon his bound feet for several moments to hide his disappointment. “Are you still in possession of that miniature?”
“Aye!” She leaned forward eagerly. “What of it?”
He threw her a lingering look of contempt and his intended words died on his lips. It sickened him to have to grovel.
“Ah, be done with ya,” grunted Mrs. Kettle, heaving her bottom off the crate and mounting the ladder with her light. Halfway up, Octavius called out to her.
“Mrs. Kettle!”
She paused and lowered her lantern.
“If … if there should be a Yankee ship on the horizon, would you keep me informed?”
She considered his request for an eternity.
“Please?”
“And what’s in it fer me, Lord Lindsay?”
He tightened his fists and gulped. “A handful of silver.”
Cackling with satisfaction, Mrs. Kettle continued on her way. As darkness settled around him, Octavius flung his unfettered upper body down upon the floor and felt around for his scattered supper, hoping to find it before the rats did.
9:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Two Bells)
A RUMBLE OF LAUGHTER rattled the galleried windows of the great cabin and caused the crystal wine goblets and silver cutlery to jump upon the oak table around which sat James Moreland, Fly Austen, Mr. Harding, Leander Braden, and their honoured guests from the Amethyst, Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington. Sandwiched between Fly and Mr. Harding was an exalted Gus Walby. He sat with his back erect, marvelling at every word uttered by the important men around him. The atmosphere in the room was exceedingly jovial, and no one seemed to notice that the supper hour was much later than expected. Indeed, the feast before them was one well worth waiting for. Biscuit had insisted upon cooking a joint of beef in addition to the accompaniments of cold ham, roast potatoes, pickled salmon, devilled eggs, sea biscuits, and several boiled lobsters – the latter having been brought on board by Captain Prickett when the two ships finally came alongside one another and were lashed together, making possible a visit between officers and ordinary seamen alike. No amount of badgering on the part of the uneasy officers left in charge had prevailed upon Biscuit to expedite his feast.
“Through my spyglass, I could see your gunports closing up one by one. It was obvious you weren’t going to fight us,” said Fly to his Amethyst friends. “And then, to my astonishment, I saw the Yankee ensign lowered and the British colours raised in their stead.”
Mr. Harding wore a wide grin upon his florid face. “My fine Mr. Prickett, what tremendous relief we all felt to see a friend.”
“We all knew our chances for victory were slim, as we have hardly recovered from our battle with the Americans a week back,” James said, pushing the meat around his plate. Seated next to him, Leander could tell from James’s pasty complexion and beaded forehead that he was still feverish.
“Here we inadvertently played a nasty trick on you and still you reward us with a fine supper!” Captain Prickett laughed, his three chins and protruding stomach jiggling as he helped himself to another juicy slab of beef.
“Aye!” said Fly. “It was a battle in itself trying to convince our cantankerous cook to fire up his stove after he’d been ordered, not long before, to douse its flames as we prepared to engage, but a fine supper indeed.” He raised his wine glass to Biscuit, who stood behind Captain Moreland’s chair, thrilled to be centred out in such distinguished company.
The old cook bowed low before the table. “Me pleasure, gentlemen, me pleasure.”
Lord Bridlington clasped his girlish hands together. “We thought it best to fly the American colours until we knew for certain just who you were. It’s been quite frightening sailing about in enemy waters.”
“I am guessing you never made it to Halifax?” said James.
Captain Prickett swallowed a chunk of meat. “No, Mr. Moreland, we never did. We were maybe one hundred miles north of Bermuda when we were shot upon early one morning, in the darkness before dawn. We haven’t a clue who it was that attacked us in this most cowardly fashion, but their aim was clean and t
hey caught us completely unawares. We scrambled to fire up our guns, but strangely, whoever it was didn’t stick around to finish us off.”
“They crippled us for a time, they did, bringing down the tops of our main and mizzenmasts,” added Lord Bridlington, speaking to the ceiling as was his way.
“When last we met,” said James, “you were escorting three East India merchant vessels. What of them? Were they shot upon as well?”
“No! It was the Amethyst that sustained all the damage.” Captain Prickett spoke with such vehemence that he spewed bits of beef directly into Leander’s potatoes. “But their captains – a fearless lot if you ask me – had no interest in hanging about while we were refitting. They had their orders and their schedules to keep, so we wished them well and sent them on their way.”
“Bloody disrespectful it was,” said Lord Bridlington, “and here we’d protected them from being fired upon all the way from Portsmouth.”
“We hobbled back as far as Norfolk’s Gosport Yard,” Captain Prickett continued. “There we had the good fortune to find our British friends set up in blockade there. They’ve locked several Yankee ships into their Chesapeake harbours.”
“Ah! Perhaps that explains why we hadn’t seen any large sails before yours,” said Fly.
Lord Bridlington tapped his long, crooked nose. “There we were, near Gosport Yard, amongst our own and therefore able to safely repair our fallen masts. And there it was we met a friendly fisherman who passed the word you’d done battle with the Liberty and were refitting off the Carolina islands. Once the Amethyst was patched up, we were ordered to seek you out and, if possible, offer you aid.”
“We are truly grateful,” James said warmly.
With that, the men switched their attention to Biscuit’s banquet of beef and roast potatoes – with the exception of Gus Walby, who was far too excited to eat a mouthful, and who, throughout the conversation, had sat quite still, his hands folded in his lap, his blond head bobbing from officer to officer as they delivered their enthralling words. As they supped, the ensuing discussion covered a variety of topics from the health of King George III (he was as mad as ever), to the invigorating news of the recent victory HMS Shannon had achieved over the USS Chesapeake on June 1st beyond the capes of Boston Harbour (a glimmer of hope and pride after a bitter succession of naval defeats), and finally, to the science of war wounds. The men were most interested in drawing out Leander, whose mind was evidently hovering elsewhere, for he had not yet contributed a word to their spirited chatter. But as the doctor was in no frame of mind to discuss dissection and amputation and trepanning, the subject was soon spent. The meal came to an end and Biscuit and his Jamaican mates carried in five more bottles of French wine (from a store of several hundred bottles that, according to James, had been taken from the hold of a captured French frigate in ’07) for the diners’ after-dinner pleasure. The cook uncorked two of them, and poured the contents round – including a “wee taste” for Mr. Walby – before slipping out the door and affording the men some privacy.
James raised his glass. “To our ships at sea.”
“Our ships at sea,” the others repeated, raising their glasses as well, the rich red wine swirling about and reflecting candlelight as it was carried to their lips.
James held up his glass a second time. “To the health of our King George.”
“King George’s health.”
“Hear, hear.”
All fell quiet as they enjoyed the bouquet and flavour of the captain’s stolen wine.
“Oh, I just remembered something!” said Captain Prickett in a spray of words and spit, chewed bits of food this time striking the side of Leander’s face, forcing Gus to stifle his rising laughter. “I have some intriguing news from our comrades blockading Gosport Harbour!”
James looked up quickly from his untouched meal.
“You’ll remember, Captain Moreland, that at our last meeting in Bermuda, I told you the story of Captain William Uptergrove of the Expedition – an old friend of yours, as I recall – coming upon the debris of a burned merchant vessel some fifty miles southeast of Halifax?”
James, who had been rapidly wearying and was ready for his bed, hiked himself higher in his chair. “Aye, I do. Have you more information?” Seeing James’s sudden interest, Leander swivelled in his chair, hoping for a better view of the Amethyst’s captain, and some advance warning of more flying fragments of food.
“Well, as we heard it, the doomed vessel was known as the Amelia. And apparently, it was a Yankee frigate called the Serendipity that destroyed her.”
“My God!” cried James. Fly’s dark eyes brightened as he too leaned in closer.
“The captain’s name was Thomas Trevelyan.”
James mopped his brow. He and Fly exchanged a significant glance, which did not escape Leander’s notice.
“Now you’ll remember me telling you that Uptergrove reported there being only three survivors from the Amelia before she was robbed and burned. It turns out there were many more. Uptergrove himself picked up an elderly woman, a little child, and an unconscious young man, all of whom were found clinging precariously to a bit of debris in the water, and sailed them back to England.”
“And the others?” asked Fly and James together.
“Once back in London, the old woman had sufficiently collected her wits to carry herself – without delay – to the Board Room of the Admiralty in Whitehall where she insisted upon telling her tale directly to the Duke of Clarence. She subsequently informed Clarence that she’d seen, with her very own eyes, her young mistress, a strapping sailor named Bun Brodie, and several other men forced from the defeated Amelia and taken prisoner by Captain Trevelyan himself.”
Mr. Harding turned quickly to address Captain Moreland. “Isn’t Bun Brodie the name of the man now tending our sails, sir?”
“It is, Mr. Harding.” James took a moment to courteously explain to an astonished Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington how it was Mr. Brodie came to be on the Isabelle. He did not, however, divulge anything about the woman they had on board, and with a warning glance at his men – and another aimed especially at Gus, whose saucer eyes and quivering mouth gave the impression he was about to burst – discouraged them from volunteering this information. When James had finished his explanation, Leander spoke up. “Can you tell me, Captain Prickett, the old woman’s young mistress, what of her?”
Captain Prickett, his face flushed with fine food and spirits, looked very pleased with himself. “The Duke of Clarence is offering a handsome reward for her safe return to England, Doctor, as she is the only daughter of his now deceased brother, Henry, once known as the Duke of Wessex. She is called Emeline Louisa.”
There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the intriguing information, Captain Prickett, his eyes round and vivid with anticipation, enjoying each man’s reaction in turn.
Mr. Harding, whose mouth had fallen open, exclaimed, “She is the daughter of the Duke of Wessex and the niece of the Duke of Clarence? No wonder our Admiralty agreed to give the old woman a personal audience and take seriously her claim.” He shot a glance at James, who furtively raised a finger to his lips.
“She is therefore a granddaughter of our King George!” added Lord Bridlington.
Gus gasped. “That makes her a princess!”
“She is, young man.” Bridlington giggled. “Although there’s so much illegitimacy in our monarch’s family, it’s not clear whether the Duke of Wessex was actually married to Emeline’s mother. Most likely, they enjoyed the same kind of an arrangement as the Duke of Clarence and his Mrs. Jordan. How many illegitimate FitzClarences did they breed together?”
All of the men sniggered at Lord Bridlington’s remark, except for Leander, whose handsome face lost its colour as it dawned on him who had been sleeping behind the canvas curtain in his hospital all this time. “Captain Prickett?” he asked in a tight voice, “do you have any idea where this Emeline is now?”
Captain Prick
ett shrugged. “Still on the Serendipity, I’m supposing. Word is getting around briskly that there’s a reward for her safe passage home. All of our poor sailors are quite determined to find her, hoping to make up for the pathetic lack of prize money in this ridiculous war.”
“Do you have any understanding why Trevelyan would have taken her prisoner in the first place?” James asked, his faded blue eyes unnaturally bright. “Did he know who she was?”
Captain Prickett shook his head as he refilled his wine glass. “I regret I cannot say, but if he did, he would certainly have congratulated himself for having taken such a superb prisoner of war.” He gulped his wine and held up one of his sausage fingers to the men. “Oh, one more thing, gentlemen. Should it be your good fortune to again come upon the Serendipity, be forewarned that the lady in question is travelling under the name of Mrs. Seaton.”
Leander looked as if he had been dealt a physical blow. “She is … married then?”
“It would seem so, Doctor Braden,” said Lord Bridlington, eyes cast upwards. “The wounded man Captain Uptergrove found in the sea and carried back with him to England was a Frederick Seaton, and as he was travelling with Emeline Louisa, I daresay he was her husband.”
10:30 p.m.
(First Watch, Five Bells)
There was a gallant English ship
A-sailing on the sea,
Blow high, blow low,
And so say we:
And her Captain he was searching
For a pirate enemy,
Cruising down along the coast
Of the High Barbaree.
Emily could lie in her cot no longer. The music, clapping, thumping of dancing feet, and men’s voices raised in hilarity above her head was much too blaring and invigorating for sleep. Normally, the crew would have been abed in their hammocks long ago, but tonight they willingly relinquished a few extra hours of rest to revel with their mates from the visiting Amethyst.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 19
