“Oooo, ’twas good o’ ya to come see poor Meggie, Doctor,” she said in a weak, crackling voice as if she were on her deathbed. “I always hoped ya’d one day come to me bed. When I sees ya swimmin’ with thee men, I always admires yer handsome buttocks, and I think to meself I should be invitin’ ya down here fer a wee bit o’ kicky-wicky.”
“Mrs. Kettle,” said Leander crisply, his back to her, “it is my understanding that you had a poor night and have been sick to your stomach.”
“I ’ave, Doctor. Me head’s a poundin’ and me insides, they’re a churnin’. Ooo, here it comes agin. Grab me bowl there quick.”
Leander fetched the wooden bowl at the foot of her cot and held it to her mouth to catch the gush of yellow liquid that was laced with the distinct odour of rum.
“Perhaps too much drink last night?” he asked, taking away the offending bowl and offering her a dampened cloth.
“Why, I drinks too much ev’ry night, Doctor. Nay, this be a different feelin.’ ’Aven’t kept me vittles down fer a week now.”
For a moment Leander studied his moaning patient, then moved in closer to check for fever and take her pulse, and while he held her plump wrist in his hand, he furtively searched her bed and blankets for any lumps that might indicate hidden objects. Seeing nothing suspicious there, he looked around her little corner, his eyes settling on the bulging duffle bag hung upon an iron hook in the shadows.
Mrs. Kettle stopped her groans long enough to give him a queer look. “I ain’t an idiot, Doctor. I knows what yer about.”
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kettle?”
“Yer lookin’ about fer that miniature, ain’t ya?”
“I am counting the beats of your heart.”
“Then why ain’t ya lookin’ at me?”
Leander, who found it easier to look upon bleeding corpses, could not think of a reply.
“Quit pretendin’. Ya can’t fool thee likes of Meggie Kettle.” She groped beneath her blankets, dug in and around her bosom, and pulled out the little painting. “Go on! Take a good long stare at it. It’s that woman what lies in yer cot, all right.”
“I have no interest in it,” he said solemnly, tearing his eyes away, “although I have been informed it wasn’t given freely to you; that it was stolen. You haven’t forgotten that stealing is a punishable offence on this ship?”
“That don’t bother me none ’cause when they comes round lookin’ fer it, they won’t finds it. And they can’t very well punish me, can they, Doctor, if they can’t finds it?”
Biting his lip, Leander finished taking her pulse, gently lowered her wrist, and twisted round to reach for the cup of prepared tonic. Turning back, he met the miniature head on, Mrs. Kettle having thrust it up temptingly before him. His heart sank as he recognized Emily’s dear, smiling face – there couldn’t be a truer likeness of her anywhere – her pale gold hair, and the blue velvet jacket she wore (surely the same one she had on when Gus Walby first spotted her adrift in the sea). Seeing his flicker of discomfort, Mrs. Kettle clapped her hands together. “It ain’t no secret amongst thee men how ya feels about ’er. Osmund Brockley tells me ya won’t let no one near ’er ’cept Magpie and Gus Walby; that yer besotted with thee wench.”
“‘Wench’ is a word I might use to describe you, Mrs. Kettle, not her,” he said in monotone. “Now, if you’d kindly give me the miniature, I will see that it is returned to its rightful owner and say nothing of its having been stolen to Captain Moreland.”
Mrs. Kettle shook her head at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, and shoved the precious stolen object back into her shirt.
Leander gazed at her intently, unshaken by her defiance, and held out the cup of tonic. “Drink this. It should ease the vomiting.”
Still eyeing him, Mrs. Kettle took the cup from him, drained its contents, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and finally glowered up at him. “Even if she did fancy ya, she’d never be allowed to marry yer kind, bein’ a king’s granddaughter and all … and you, nothin’ more than a naval surgeon. She’s outta yer class.” She lay back on her flat pillow, looking pleased with herself. “Nay, thee only way ya can ’ave ’er is by … is by tacklin’ ’er in thee sail room like young Octavius Lindsay done. Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha.”
Tears of mirth poured from her eyes, mixing with the white spittle on her lips, and as Leander watched her guffaw like a drunken sailor, he was struck with an overwhelming desire to dump her from her grubby cot onto the damp floor – where a host of vermin was sure to find her – grab Emily’s miniature, and race off with it. Instead, he stuffed his trembling hands into his apron pockets, took a deep breath, and forced a smile.
“Rest if you can, Mrs. Kettle, and I’ll be back later to examine you more closely, if I may.”
She dabbed at her eyes with a bit of her blanket and blinked up at him. “What? To rifle through me bosom?”
“Certainly not!”
“What fer, then?” Suddenly she looked more anxious. “Ya didn’t poison me, did ya?”
“No! But I suspect you may be with child.”
10:00 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Four Bells)
THE MOMENT THE MEN were done eating, James ordered them to clear the decks and get to their action stations “in the event those three ships prove to be our enemies.” With the Isabelle abuzz and reverberating with activity, Gus Walby sat precariously upon the mizzen top crosstrees, tightly gripping the captain’s telescope in one hand and a length of secured rope in the other, looking across at the main and foremasts and down upon the decks to watch the sailors, landsmen, officers, and marines alike preparing for battle: placing scuttlebutts of drinking water at intervals, puddening the yards (to prevent them – should their supporting ropes be severed – from falling upon the men), wetting and sanding the decks (to avoid slippage on the inevitable rivers of blood), putting up the splinter nets for protection against flying bits of oak, piling grape and shot beside each of the guns, cleaning pistols, and stacking poleaxes and pikes. Gus could see the captain of the marines giving his men their orders, Captain Moreland and Mr. Austen plotting their strategies on the poop deck, and Mr. Harding alongside Mr. McGilp at the wheel devising navigational manoeuvres to suit the prevailing wind conditions; and as the men all went about their tasks, the fresh morning air circulating round the ship rang with their laughter, chatter, songs, orders, and oaths.
“What is our speed now, Mr. Tucker, if you please?”
“Five knots, sir.”
“It better be them Yanks this time. I’m out fer a bit o’ blood today.”
“Looks like it’ll be three against one.”
“Then ya better ’ave writ yer will.”
“What fer? I ain’t got nothin’ ta will ta nobody.”
“Might as well fight ’em ’cause we can’t carouse with ’em. Drained our barrels of grog last night.”
“England expects and all that.”
“Don’t forget your old shipmate, faldee, raldee, raldee, raldee, rye-eye-doe!”
Gus had been through the drill enough times now to know that the same flurry of activity would be abounding on the unseen upper and gun decks. Biscuit would be dousing his breakfast fires, Dr. Braden sharpening his surgical tools, the gunner handing out muskets, and men taking down the bulkheads and canvas screens. Those with no immediate occupation would be writing letters home to their loved ones – or their wills – and in her hospital corner, Emily would be steadying her nerves with the aid of Jane Austen’s book.
Gus was just about to climb down the mast to report to the captain when his heart skipped a beat. Dr. Braden – of all people – was climbing up the mizzenmast towards him.
“Doctor,” he called out in alarm. “What’s wrong, sir?”
Leander, shoeless, stockingless, and climbing in a loose shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paused in his ascent to catch his breath, and smiled up at the young midshipman. “Several times now I have been dared to climb the ropes, and I though
t it as good a time as any to try my sea legs.”
Gus widened his eyes in disbelief, thinking the doctor’s timing inopportune. “You will be careful, sir. Please don’t fall.”
“It is not my intent to fall, Mr. Walby.” Leander continued climbing. “I have often heard Captain Moreland tell you men to keep one hand for the ship and one for yourself, but as I’m no sailor, I think it best I keep both hands for myself.” He reached Gus’s platform and peered down at the little men scurrying about the decks far below his bare toes.
“You’re over a hundred feet up here, sir.”
Leander grinned. “I will fare better without that knowledge, thank you, Mr. Walby.” He hooked his arms around two sturdy ropes. “I’m not fond of heights, but climbing up here for pleasure is one thing. To work on a daily basis upon these bits of rope suspended over nothing is quite another.” Seconds later, he exclaimed, “Why it’s magnificent up here!”
As Dr. Braden, his face flush with exercise, enjoyed the air’s salty tang and beheld the snapping sails and shimmering horizons, Gus watched him closely, relieved to see the doctor in good spirits, especially after last evening’s dinner conversation, when he had seemed desolate and withdrawn. In silence the two fell to watching the approaching ships, and when Leander lifted his face to Gus again, the jubilant glint had left his eyes.
“I have not taken leave of my senses, Mr. Walby,” he said soberly. “Finding myself with little to do, I volunteered to come up here to retrieve your intelligence. And – ” He paused to produce a small napkin-wrapped bundle out of one rolled-up sleeve. “I brought you breakfast. Two biscuits and some cheese.”
Gus accepted the food. “Thank you, sir. How kind of you.”
“Now, what have you found out? Any word from the Amethyst?”
“Mr. Stewart and I hoisted the flags for assistance some time ago, sir, but she’s not answering, and I fear she’s too far away now to see the signals.”
“Is it possible she has no lookouts on duty?”
Gus grimaced. “That would be unwise, sir, particularly in enemy waters.”
“Indeed,” said Leander, but he wondered how any of the sailors could have resumed their duties after such a night of revelry. “Tell me then, Mr. Walby, what more can you see of the three ships?”
“Definitely two frigates and a brig, sir. And they’re gaining on us, travelling much faster than we are.”
Leander gazed into the distance. “Is their nationality evident?”
“Aye, sir, they’re American.”
“Are you quite certain?”
“I just witnessed the colours being raised on one of the frigates.”
“Any chance she may be flying false colours?”
“No, sir. Not this time.”
Leander raised his brow in question.
“The markings on one of the frigates are familiar,” said Gus. He lowered his voice. “I’m sure of it, sir. It’s Trevelyan’s Serendipity.”
11:00 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)
WITH HIS WHITE, HAIRY ARMS folded belligerently upon his chest and an unhappy expression fixed on his bronzed, withered face, Bailey Beck planted his feet in the small area on the orlop where Jacko, the Isabelle’s shoemaker, did his work creating, sewing and repairing the sailors’ footwear. “Ya lubber! Ya told me ya’d have ’em ready at three bells and now I hear the six bells. Do ya figure I don’t mind fightin’ them Yankees in me bare toes?”
There was a scowl on Jacko’s usually cheerful face as he sat on his low stool, polishing one of two silver buckles for a pair of newly minted shoes that lay atop his pile of leather pieces on the dusty floorboards. “Makes no difference to me,” he replied as evenly as a ship in the doldrums. “We’ll all be keepin’ the company o’ Davy Jones before thee day be done. I heared ’em sayin’ there be three ships comin’ after us. Yanks they be, and I doubt they’ll be lookin’ to trade fish and jokes with we Isabelles.”
“Lost yer nerve, ’ave ya, Jacko?”
“Lost it long ago, when I lost me leg.” Jacko rubbed his wooden peg as if he were stroking a faithful dog. “I ain’t like ya, Bailey. Ya fear nothin’.”
Bailey’s angry face softened. “The guns can’t hit ya here below the water, man. Ya ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”
“I do if them Yanks board us. I ain’t as fast with me dirk as I once were.”
“Don’t go blamin’ yer lost leg fer that. Blame yer prodigious fat belly.” Bailey cracked up, but seeing that Jacko did not share his enthusiasm for the insult, he wiped his eyes and reassumed a serious aspect. “Aw, anyways, ’twon’t come to that. We’ll blow all three of ’em outta the water with our heavier guns, ya’ll see.” He cuffed Jacko in good fun across the head. “So quit fussin’ with them foppish shoes and finish mine up first. Ain’t no one on this ship needs a pair o’ dandy shoes like them.”
“They be fer Emily. I told her I’d knock her up a decent pair so she don’t ’ave to wear them blue silks.”
Bailey looked at his old mate with surprise and was contemplating another wisecrack when Jacko quietly added, “If I don’t see ya again, would ya see the young miss gets ’em?”
11:30 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)
“ALLS I’M ASKIN’ FER is two minutes with ’im without ya hangin’ about.”
“It wouldn’t be right, Mrs. Kettle,” said the young marine standing sentry over the unfortunate Octavius Lindsay. Rather than being returned to the gun deck, which had been cleared again for action for the second time in twenty-four hours, Octavius had been left in irons outside the slops room on the dank orlop. The uncertain-looking soldier kept spinning around to see if anyone was lurking in the darkness.
“No one’s about. All thee men was called to stations.”
“W-e-e-e-l-l-l.”
“Won’t be no harm done. I ’ave no key to unlock his chains.”
“All right, then. But two minutes only.”
“That’s a good lad and fer yer trouble ya can visit me sometime in me cot,” she cooed, reaching out her arms to him.
“I’d – I’d rather not, Mrs. Kettle,” he sputtered, crimson colour flooding his face as he took a step backwards.
“Be off then, ya fool.”
The flustered marine shot off along the orlop deck like a frightened colt, coming to a halt only once he was well beyond the laundress’s reach, though still in sight of his prisoner.
“Ho, ho, ha, ha,” chortled Octavius, bent over his locked legs. “You’d be far better off bribing green boys with your silver spoons and necklaces, Mrs. Kettle, than offering up your flesh.” He tensed, expecting a kick in the ribs, and when none was delivered, was shocked to find the laundress in a serene frame of mind.
She bestowed upon him her sweetest smile. “There be three Yankee ships chasin’ us. Just what yas was hopin’ fer. Here. Take it and hides it where ya can.” She handed him the miniature with a sidelong glance towards the marine who had occupied himself poking around the sail room. “Won’t be no one lookin’ fer it here.” Mrs. Kettle then pulled a quill pen and piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt.
“Hell! What’s this for?”
“I wants ya to write somethin’ out fer me and I’ll come back fer it when I can. But know this … I ’spects to be rewarded roundly fer helpin’ ya – that is, if we ain’t dead in a few hours.”
12:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)
EMILY SAT ALONE on a stool in the empty hospital, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility opened but ignored upon her lap, a loaded pistol at her feet, staring at the ladder that led up to the fo’c’sle deck and praying that Leander would soon come back. The hours of agony and suspense that had passed since the three ships were first sighted had left her numb, and now that the threat was known – a greater one than ever the Isabelle had faced – she no longer felt fear, only a desire, above all things, to speak to Leander before the guns began to fire and his hospital filled w
ith the dead and dying.
To her surprise, it was not Leander but Morgan Evans who climbed down the ladder. He pulled off his knitted hat, ran a hand through his hair, and gave her an awkward little bow before glancing about the hospital. “Excuse me, ma’am, for interrupting your reading …”
Emily laughed, rising with the book in her hands, relieved to have some company. “Oh, you are interrupting nothing. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I heard the fife and drums for quarters.”
A bit of red crept into Morgan’s cheeks as he shifted from one foot to another. “I’ve – I’ve come to ask a favour of you.”
“Do you need me to help unfurl a few sails or fill up the guns with powder?”
Morgan grinned, his eyes looking everywhere but at Emily. “You’d be too late for all that. Everything that can be done is done.” He fiddled with his hat and stayed on the opposite side of the hospital, keeping between them Leander’s desk, which was once again transformed into a surgical table. “I know that you’re a clever one, ma’am. I once overheard you reading a story about two sisters to Mr. Walby and Magpie.”
Emily stared at him in surprise. “Thank you, Mr. Evans.”
“You see, ma’am, I can’t read. I always meant to learn, but there never seemed to be the time nor anyone around that could teach me.”
“But your way of speaking – I always thought you were well educated.”
“My mother took great pains to teach me to speak properly, and she had the best intentions to provide me with a good education herself, but she died when I was a boy, in childbirth along with her baby.”
“I am sorry.”
“What I want to say, ma’am, is that, well, I’ve been on a ship of some kind for seven years now. I didn’t set out to be a sailor. I learned carpentry work in my hometown of Swansea in Wales, so I could help my sisters keep the house and pay the mortgage. But this one night, when I was fourteen and supposed to be long in my bed, I sneaked out of the house, and along with a friend of mine, we stole into the local tavern to scrounge a few drinks. Beg your pardon, ma’am, I know it’s not something you would do. It was on my way home, when I was alone, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a press gang.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 21
