At the start of the First Watch, the hospital had emptied, Osmund, the loblolly boys, Mr. Crump, as well as the other dozen or so patients having either rushed or limped off to “drink like fish” while they could. Before leaving her alone (with not even her marine sentry, who in any case neither desired nor had been ordered to keep her company on such a night), Osmund informed her that “Dr. Braden would be carousing in Captain Moreland’s cabin until late” and that she’d have complete privacy to “seek amusement in bathing or in the officers’ toilet.” But as Emily found these options unappetizing, she was determined to join in the jollity above deck, figuring the men would be too intoxicated to recognize a woman in their social circle.
Emily threw on the white pants and sailor-blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her, tied on her red polka-dotted scarf, rolled her pale hair up into one of Leander’s felt hats, slipped on her silk shoes, then slipped them off again, preferring to go barefooted. Tingling from head to toe, she fled the hospital, savouring a freedom she had not tasted since setting off to the orlop a week ago, as excited as if she were en route to a soiree. She hurried through the empty galley as quickly as her sore ankle could manage, past Biscuit’s cold black patent stove and the silent guns that sat before their sealed gunports, and headed towards the aft ladderway near the wardroom, preferring to make her entrance on the less-populated quarterdeck.
Not a soul did she meet until the harsh light of a single lantern revealed the outline of the closed wardroom door ahead and up drifted the sound of two familiar voices, speaking in unfamiliar hostility. As noiselessly as possible, she ducked inside the pantry, where on oak shelves were stored the officers’ tableware, silverware, and crystal goblets. She dropped to her knees and crawled into a corner hole. With her heart pounding like the sailors’ drums overhead, she peeked around a stack of china bowls and saw Fly, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and Leander, leaning against the wardroom bulkheads, dressed in a short brown frock coat, his white cravat untied and hanging loosely upon its lapels.
“For God’s sake, Lee, I did not know,” Fly said emphatically to his friend, whose pale face was hauntingly desolate as if he’d received some bad news.
Leander raised his head. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you really expect me to believe that? I caught the knowing looks you shared with James at supper. It was quite evident you both knew more. Earlier, James told me he wished to speak to her again, but I never suspected that new information had come to light, and that you, my old friend, had been privy to it for some time.”
Fly exhaled heavily. “The morning after we fought the Liberty, we interviewed Bun Brodie. It was then he told us of his being on the Amelia when she was savagely attacked by Trevelyan, and him being taken prisoner along with a woman named Mrs. Seaton.”
Leander looked hurt. “That was a week ago! And knowing how I feel, you didn’t think this bit of intelligence important enough to tell me?”
“Even if I suspected that Emily may be the said Mrs. Seaton, I had no way of knowing for sure. James and I had hoped to hear as much from Emily’s own lips, we just didn’t get the chance to – ”
“You’re saying you knew nothing of Emeline Louisa, King George’s granddaughter, before hearing of her tonight from that insufferable Captain Prickett?”
“Nothing! And I believe Mr. Brodie himself knew her by no other name.”
“My God! She’s a married woman!” Leander’s voice was hoarse with emotion. “Not only that, she is royalty. Royalty! With the entire British fleet, and perhaps the Yankee navy as well, searching for her so they can fill their filthy pockets with prize money!” Leander looked at him dejectedly. “All this time spent wondering!”
“War or no war, there must be hundreds of women sailing the Atlantic. We have no definitive proof that Emily is the same woman.”
“Think of it, Fly. The lady left hints for us along the way: calling herself Mr. George, telling us her father’s name was Henry, speaking of ships, and her nightmares. It’s no wonder she was plagued with nightmares – taken in the night, several crewmen killed, dozens of innocent children drowned. I believe she … she tried to tell me …” There was a crazed glint in his eyes as he pushed his body away from the bulkheads with one foot. “Now I know the truth.”
Fly put his right hand upon Leander’s slumped shoulder and thrust his face into his. “We do not have the full story yet, my friend. There are still many mysteries surrounding our Emily. Let us go and find her and give her a chance to refute our suspicions.”
Leander stood there wavering a moment, then massaged his weary face with his slim fingers and quietly said, “No! I’ve been a fool. It’s best I no longer concern myself.”
Emily withdrew into the crushing clutter of her hiding spot and hugged her knees tighter still to her chest. Her heart cried out to him. Rocking back and forth, despair and bile rising in her stomach, she started to shiver as waves of suffocating anguish passed over her again and again. She felt cold, miserable, numb, and lost. Before long, she heard Fly and Leander’s echoing footsteps, and realized they had parted in different directions, and as she listened to the hollow sounds, it struck her – like the bullet from Trevelyan’s ship – that Leander was walking away from her.
9
Tuesday, June 15
6:30 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Five Bells)
THE SLOW, DELIBERATE FIVE BELLS of the Morning Watch shook Emily free of her troubled dreams. Opening her heavy eyes, she saw the thick column of a mast rising before her, and beyond its gently waving topsail, ghost-stars winked in the brightening sky. The red sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon and its striking rays spread a rich crimson colour onto the bit of sea it touched. Travelling in its midst as though through a fire, with all her sails set in the light breeze, was the Amethyst, far enough away now that the gold letters of her name, painted onto her stern, were no longer visible to the naked eye.
Shivering in the morning chill, Emily sat up to rub her frozen feet, suddenly remembering she was on the mizzenmast’s platform and recalling, too, the sad events that resulted in her having sought sanctuary there. She scanned the mizzen’s yards and rigging and couldn’t believe her good fortune in finding she was totally alone. Surely one of the sailors would have stumbled across her as he climbed to the yards in the night; but perhaps when the celebratory revelry of the evening before finally came to an end, no one was fit to climb the high ropes. Peering over the side of the platform, Emily spied the men far below, going about their business on the quarterdeck.
Mr. McGilp had both hands on the Isabelle’s wheel, his weathered face turned to the sea and one ear angled towards Mr. Harding, who seemed in a jolly mood despite having trouble balancing himself on his one foot as he spoke at length to the coxswain. Beyond them, on the larboard side of the ship, rows of barefooted seamen, their trousers rolled up to their knees, scrubbed the gritty quarterdeck with square holystones, and up through the crisp air came the grumpy voices of two sailors who Emily was certain were Morgan Evans and Bailey Beck.
“Me knees are aching. And, ooooo, me back!”
“Quit your bellyaching, you dumb ox, you’re giving me a headache.”
“I’ll be havin’ no pity fer ya. Yer head’s achin’ on account of all yer dancin’ on the barrels and doin’ cartwheels around the deck and drinkin’ a month’s worth o’ the grog last night.”
“And I have no pity for your old scrawny knees, so shut up and keep your head down. Here comes the officer of the watch, that little squib, Walby.”
Emily couldn’t help grinning at their banter and the sight of Gus Walby, who strutted before the labouring men, his young chest puffed and proud in his midshipman’s uniform. But soon her grin faded. In another half hour, the sleeping crew would be called from their beds, and Osmund would barge into her hospital corner with sea biscuits and jam only to discover she wasn’t in her cot. Her brief moment of freedom would, as usual, soon end. Emily hugged the sol
id topmast, took several breaths of the fresh salty air, and tried to take pleasure in the rising sun. Through the puckered sails of the mainmast, she caught sight of Captain Moreland standing alone beside the starboard rail, his spyglass trained on the expanse of sea that lay to the north of the Isabelle. He cut a lonely figure in the morning light, wraithlike with his cream-coloured breeches and shirt and yellow-white hair. Devoid of his uniform and the great height of his captain’s hat, he appeared shrunken, less formidable, and apprehensive. Feeling sadder still, Emily stood up, stretched, and gazed several feet up to the mizzen crosstrees, determined to reach them before returning to the hospital.
Careful with her footing, as the platform wood was slippery with dew, Emily grabbed onto the mizzen’s topmast shrouds and began her ascent, thankful that she’d dispensed with her silk shoes, relishing the sensation of falling backwards as she climbed higher and higher. She ignored the throbbing pains that still plagued her shoulder and ankle, and instead filled her head with inspiring remembrances of her youthful days when she’d managed to clamber up the shrouds on her father’s ships when his attentions and those of his officers were engaged elsewhere.
Upon reaching the crosstrees, over a hundred feet from the deck below, she spread herself onto their latticed shelf to catch her breath. She then drew herself up into a ball, peeled off Leander’s felt hat, and turned her face into the wind to feel its caress on her warm cheeks and through her hair, hoping its sough would whisk away the noise of the clamouring sailors below. She watched the departing Amethyst ply the glowing waters and tried to lift her spirits by recalling the lively scenes of the night before as the crew of the two lashed ships had celebrated together on the Isabelle’s deck. With envy, she had watched the drunken dances, amusing games, Magpie’s flute-playing, and rousing singsongs from her platform perch, and had fervently wished she’d been among them, swilling her own small mug of grog in an effort to slow her heart’s nervous shudder and rid her mind of melancholy thoughts.
Tearing her eyes from the Amethyst, her quick glance swept the upper deck again, stopping on Leander, who stood curiously amongst the swabbing crews, wearing the same dishevelled clothes he’d had on the previous evening, shading his eyes with his hands as he leaned back his auburn head to look upon the mainmast. As it was the bosun’s responsibility to inspect the ship’s sails and rigging, Emily pondered what possible interest the doctor would have in any one of the Isabelle’s towering masts. Curious, she followed his movements along the quarterdeck to the ship’s wheel where, with a nod, he greeted Mr. McGilp and Mr. Harding, then up the short ladder to the poop deck where he walked to its aft bench and angled his head upwards a second time to search the length of the mizzenmast. Emily felt a tingle dance down her spine, wondering if he’d seen her curled upon the crosstrees like a proud eagle minding its lofty nest. She shifted away from his gaze to hide her long, blowing hair beneath the abandoned felt hat.
With a small smile playing upon her lips, she waited for him to call out to her, and as she did so, her dark eyes fell upon the blue world that lay forever beyond the Isabelle’s wake. She squinted into the shimmering vastness until a shape suddenly appeared on the horizon. With a jerking motion, she sat upright, her fingers tightening around the rough edges of her latticed platform, and endured the sick feeling that resulted in the explosive quickening of her heart. In the far distance, emerging from the morning mists, were the distinctive white sails of three ships.
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
THE QUARTERMASTER turned over the sandglass and rang the bell six times, and as the echo of the last toll drifted away, the bosun’s mate in his deep, penetrating voice called out, “All hands ahoy. Up all hammocks ahoy.”
Alongside the aft rail of the poop deck beneath the blowing British colours, James stood in the company of Fly, who’d been quietly summoned from his bed the moment his captain had spotted the three ships.
“They’re still far off, sir,” said Fly, unhappy with the worry lines on James’s face. “It’ll be hours before they catch up to us, if ever they do. Shouldn’t we feed the men before we beat to quarters?”
James glanced about him distractedly to find the seamen who’d been cleaning the quarterdeck now standing and craning their necks over the ship’s sides to catch a glimpse of whatever it was the captain and Mr. Austen were looking at through their spyglasses. Finally he said, “Aye, you’re right. Feed them first.” He raised his spyglass for yet another look. “The one in the middle is definitely larger than the others and not sailing as quickly. Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a frigate escorting two merchantmen. But there is something worrying in their aspect. It’s my guess we are being chased.”
“Should they prove to be the enemy, sir, we can sail towards Norfolk where, as Captain Prickett informed us, our fleet is blockading the Chesapeake. We will find friends there.”
“But the winds, Fly, they are soft, and the tides, they’re with us now, but should we change direction and go northwest rather than northeast … ?” James straightened himself up, snapped shut his spyglass, and pursed his lips. “Right then! We can … we can at least try to harness more wind.” He strode across the poop deck to its fore rail. “Mr. Harding, if you please,” he called out in a voice that sounded stronger than Fly thought him capable of. The sailing master was waiting expectantly for his orders beside Lewis McGilp at the wheel on the quarterdeck below.
“Sir?”
“Have the bosun put out the word for the captains of the tops and their crews. Muster the skilled men you can and have them unfurl every last sail we’ve got.” With a brief nod, Mr. Harding hobbled off on his task. James then spun around to address Mr. Tucker, who had just thrown the log line out over the Isabelle’s stern and was now timing her speed with the aid of a small sandglass. “What is our speed, Mr. Tucker?”
“Three knots, sir.”
“Slow as molasses. We’ll soon bring that number up.” James watched as men from the swabbing crews familiar with the workings of the sails began their ascent up the rigging to unfurl the reefed topgallants and royals, and he saw Mr. Harding disappear down the main hatchway to search out the bosun and more men to go aloft. Satisfied, he then waved at the officer of the Morning Watch, Gus Walby, who had been leaning over the larboard rail, scanning the distance behind the Isabelle, and was now standing tall on the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, bright eyes firmly focused on the ship’s two senior officers.
“A moment of your time, Mr. Walby.”
Gus dashed up the short ladder to the poop deck. “Sir?”
“You have the best eyes of anyone on this ship,” said James, smiling. “Take my glass and tell me what you see.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gus took the spyglass and lifted it to his eye. After a moment of soft grunting and speculation, he said, “Two frigates, sir, and one smaller ship … I believe … I believe it’s a brig.”
An astonished James stared at the boy with fatherly affection as he was handed his glass back. To Fly, he said, “Your student, Mr. Austen, does you proud.”
Fly looked down upon the fair-haired midshipman and gave him a wink.
“And its colours, Mr. Walby. Are they discernible?” asked James.
“I cannot see anything flying from the tops, sir, and their stern flags are obscured by their sails.”
James laid a blue-veined hand on Gus’s small shoulder before crossing to the starboard rail, where he paused to gaze after the diminishing Amethyst. Fly and Gus followed him and watched as his eyes fell upon the flag locker beneath the taffrail.
“Mr. Walby,” he said thoughtfully, “as we are not a flag ship, I have no flag-lieutenant. I wonder then if I could trouble you to run up the mizzenmast and signal to our friends on the Amethyst that we need help.”
Gus’s cheeks reddened as he struggled to contain his excitement.
“And perhaps,” James added, “you could ask Mr. Stewart – if his arm is no bother to him – to assist
you in hoisting the flags.”
“Right away!”
The boy was halfway to the ladder down when James stopped him.
“Mr. Walby?”
“Sir?”
“Remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”
“Yes, sir!” Grinning, Gus raised his fist in salute before setting off like a full-sailed ship in a storm to fetch Midshipman Stewart.
Heartened by James’s burst of energy and seeming return to his old self, Fly smiled at him. “Are you feeling better, sir?”
The good humour James had manifested in the presence of Gus Walby vanished as he studied the progress of the approaching ships. “Not at all.” He fell into a trance-like state for several seconds before adding, “Feed the men, Fly, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action.”
“Will you get some sleep then, sir?”
“No. But I’ll be in my cabin … composing a letter to my wife.”
8:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)
IN WHAT LEANDER PERCEIVED as the most unappetizing corner on the orlop deck, Meg Kettle lay in her cot, moaning and clawing at her blankets, her puffy eyes closed, spittle lodged in the creases of her mouth and running down her moist face. He hung up the lantern he’d brought with him and set down his medicine chest on a small shelf by her bed whereupon she had displayed her prized possessions. It was difficult for Leander not to compare her to a rabid dog, nor to gag at having to breathe in the fetid air that emanated from the laundress’s unwashed body. Opening his chest to begin preparing a stomach-settling tonic – as he supposed in advance of his examination that this would ease all that ailed her – Leander studied the jumble of tarnished buckles, watches, hairbrushes, bags of tea, jars of pickles, bits of cheap jewellery, embroidered handkerchiefs, shillings, china cups, candle stubs, and silver spoons, the majority of which, he suspected, were gifts from the sailors for her services, stolen from the captain’s table and the Isabelle’s storerooms. He hoped to spot amongst them Emily’s miniature.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 20
