Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “One of the most troublesome amongst the crew happened to be a young lieutenant named Thomas Trevelyan. Trevelyan had recently been elevated in the world, as his step-father, Charles DeChastain, a man of great wealth and power and an earl no less – Trevelyan’s widowed mother had already been married to DeChastain for thirteen years – had finally legally adopted Trevelyan, making him one of his heirs. Consequently, Trevelyan figured, despite his age and inexperience, he should be on equal footing with the son of King George and me, the lowly Captain Moreland. Trevelyan argued every decision, every order. Wessex wanted him punished for his continual insubordination, but I did not, as I understood the crew’s conditions were unbearable at times, and my own spirits had sunk very low. To exacerbate the situation, Trevelyan’s twelve-year-old half-brother, Harry DeChastain, was also on board. He was a midshipman and he adored his older brother. Trevelyan’s discontentment and belligerent disposition had a profound effect upon him.”

  Fly pushed his body away from the bulkhead, jumped to his feet, and began pacing through the remains of the room, keeping his eyes averted from the cot as he continued to read.

  “In late March of 1804, the Isabelle was badly damaged in a gale, and when it had passed over, we were forced ashore to do repairs. Early one morning, while we were anchored off a lonely stretch of the French coast, six of the crew deserted in one of the ship’s small boats. Trevelyan and his little brother, Harry, were amongst the deserters. When it was discovered they were gone, Wessex ordered several crew members to set out in the remaining boats and find them. Miraculously, since the morning was quite foggy, they did. Fearing severe punishment, two of the deserters jumped overboard and drowned. The other four were brought back to the ship, tied to the grating, and before the assembled crew summarily given 300 lashes apiece. On my insistence, Harry was given half that number, but despite the lesser punishment, his back swelled up like a charred pillow and an infectious fever set in. For two long weeks, he suffered cruelly, finally dying on his thirteenth birthday.

  “Trevelyan recovered – physically – but he was a changed man. He went about his business, did as he was told and questioned nothing. Wessex figured he had learned his lesson; I figured he was just biding his time. Five months later, in early September, the Isabelle received orders to give chase to a French frigate returning from the West Indies. Away from the company and security of the other British ships in blockade, Trevelyan led a mutiny. He had Wessex and me locked into our cabins, then killed three of the Isabelle’s officers, as well as my faithful steward, threw their bodies overboard, and endeavoured to take over the ship. While we were being held hostage, Wessex and I tried bargaining with Trevelyan, promised to hear his grievances, and grant a pardon for the mutineers. We both swore on a bible to make changes in exchange for our release and a return of the ship to our command. When a week had passed and our ship was again close to the French coastline, Trevelyan finally yielded and agreed to end the mutiny. I was fully prepared to make concessions and attempt to bring about better conditions for our men, but as Wessex had the advantage of birth and position over me, I was forced to bow to his authority. Wessex refused to make any concessions whatsoever and instead ordered that the mutineering ringleaders be strung up on a yardarm and Trevelyan be shot.

  “In the early hours of the morning upon which the executions were to take place, as eight bells tolled the end of the Middle Watch, Trevelyan, with the help of unnamed accomplices, was released from his irons. He then attempted to set the Isabelle afire. In the ensuing disorder, he threw himself and a hatch cover overboard, floated to shore, and disappeared into the French countryside. This time, he was not caught.”

  Fly folded up James’s letter and looked at Leander for the first time since his friend had entered the room.

  Leander rose slowly from his medical chest. “I do not understand. Why is it no one seems to have heard much of this mutiny when its details are as horrific as those of Spithead and the Nore?”

  “For the simple reason that there was no court-martial, only a simple inquiry. James goes on to write that given the political weight of Wessex, and the fact that Wessex and he had determined their own punishments for the deserters and mutineers on the Isabelle, the admiralty chose to keep the affair private. Over the years, there have been hundreds of single-ship mutinies that have vanished into the sea mists with no record. All that remains here are the recollections of those men who were aboard the Isabelle in March of 1804, and … I just happen to know of one such man.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Bun Brodie. He was sailing with James at that time. The man was lucky enough to be with Nelson at Trafalgar, but despite this honour, Brodie told James that he had admired him more.”

  Leander gazed pensively at the visible sea through the broken ship wall. “In all these years, did James never hear another thing from Trevelyan?”

  “In his letter he states that the Royal Navy suspected Trevelyan’s successful escape was aided by the French themselves, in exchange for information regarding our orders and manoeuvres, and that he had fled to the United States; but no, James never heard another thing until a few weeks back when Emily told him that it was Trevelyan who commanded the Serendipity.”

  “So Trevelyan blamed James and Wessex for the death of his brother.”

  “Aye, it would seem so, and for subsequently ruining his life. Branded a traitor, he would not have been allowed back in England to collect any forthcoming titles, and more importantly, his inheritance.”

  “And he took Emily prisoner as a kind of posthumous revenge against her father, and the moment …” Leander raised his voice, “the moment he learns that the ball from Mr. Clive’s pistol didn’t kill her, that she’s in fact on board with us, he’ll take her prisoner once again.”

  Fly nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”

  Pulling his glasses from his face, Leander screwed his eyes shut and rubbed the auburn stubble on his face. “But if Trevelyan fled to the United States nine years ago, how … how would he have ever known that the only child of the Duke of Wessex was a Mrs. Seaton travelling to Canada on board the Amelia?”

  “Perhaps he was tipped off,” suggested Fly. “Perhaps he had spies, someone watching her movements in England, especially once her father had died.”

  A lengthy silence fell between the two. Finally Leander said, “Emily knew nothing of Trevelyan’s desire for vengeance.”

  “How can you be certain of that?”

  “I just am.” He slipped his glasses back on his nose and bent down to gather up his chest. “We will speak again … as soon as it is possible,” he said with urgency in his voice, “but I must go.” With a half-hearted smile, he faced Fly and extended his right hand to him. Wordlessly, they shook hands, then Leander hurried away.

  He had only just disappeared from view when, from out of the corner of his eye, Fly saw him returning, walking slowly backwards towards the spot he had just departed. Wheeling about to question his friend, Fly discovered five men encircling Leander, dressed in the red, white, and blue uniforms of an American captain and marines. There were telltale signs on the faces and clothing of the four marines that they had recently seen action, but the scars on the captain’s face were old ones, and his clothes looked new: his breeches were still white, his epaulettes gleamed gold, and his uniform coat was freshly pressed. It looked as if he had just put them on before boarding the Isabelle. He barely glanced at Fly as he pushed past Leander into the shell of the great cabin, and said nothing while he kicked aside bits and pieces of Captain Moreland’s personal belongings with his boots and examined the room’s wreckage, pausing on the contents of the reddening cot. He stepped heavily towards it and stared at James’s silent form, his expression never changing even as, in one fluid motion, he grasped the ivory hilt of James’s sword, which lay across his dead body, and slipped it into the black leather scabbard at his left hip. When his lips at last moved it was to utter a single word. “Pity.”


  It was only then that Fly knew for certain the identity of the American captain standing before him; he was not from the second frigate, nor the Yankee brig, but the man who commanded the Serendipity.

  Leander, his brow furrowed with impatience, stepped towards Trevelyan. “I must take my leave, sir. There are dozens below in my hospital awaiting my attention.”

  Trevelyan swung around, the heels of his boots grinding shards of Captain Moreland’s broken crystal goblets into the floorboards as he did so. He gave Leander a prolonged stare. “Well, then, they will just have to wait. Your services, Dr. Braden, are now required on my ship.”

  6:00 p.m.

  (First Dog Watch, Four Bells)

  THE GUNS HAD STOPPED FIRING two hours ago. Emily had heard the ship’s bell ring out the half-hours, but she knew from the eerie hush on the Isabelle that the outcome had not been in their favour. She’d given up sipping Leander’s rum and re-reading his letter and rocking herself back and forth long ago. There was nothing left to feel now. If he could have, Leander would have returned to her long before, or at least sent Gus Walby or Magpie in his stead. But no one had come, and there had been no voices or footsteps outside the small cabin where she lay sprawled in a daze on the damp floor. She had heard what she guessed were small boats knocking up against the hull, had tried to convince herself they belonged to the Isabelle, but if she was wrong and they did not, how long would it be before … ?

  Emily lifted herself unwillingly from the floor, angled her head and listened; still nothing but a rhythmic beating sound against the hull and the occasional muffled voice in the distance. The lantern’s candle was waning, its flickering light projecting her huddled silhouette upon the sweating timbers of the room. Soon she would be left in utter, suffocating darkness. With this realization an image of faceless forbidding figures rose before her, causing her to shudder with such fear that she sprang to her feet and began pacing the cramped perimeter, alternately wringing her hands and pulling at her long hair.

  Was there another place to hide, then? In the Isabelle’s hold perhaps? But what if they sank the ship? What if Leander finally did come looking for her and she wasn’t there? Could she disguise herself with some of his clothes and wend her way above deck, there to run up the shrouds or blend in with the men and endure whatever punishments the Americans inflicted upon their lot? With whitened knuckles, Emily tore Leander’s frock coat and felt hat from the hanging pegs, pulled on the coat, fumbled with its two buttons, and shoved her hair up into the hat; all the while she was sadly aware of their evocative smell.

  Then she froze.

  There was a knock at the door. She spun round and stared at it in horror before calling out in a low voice, “Leander?”

  “Aye,” came a whispered voice, “it is me.”

  A warm wave of relief passed over her as she swiftly unlocked the door and threw it open. She blinked into the blackness, unable to see a thing besides the dying light in Leander’s cabin. A thick hand caught her around the wrist and jerked her forward with such roughness that her hat rolled off and she dropped her letter. Something cracked. She cried out as her arms were wrenched behind her and her hands tied tightly together with rope. The sound of her pounding heart was painfully amplified in her ears, as were the grunts of satisfaction muttered by whomever it was binding her wrists. There were others standing nearby – she could tell from the pervading stale air and shuffling steps on the wooden deck. As Emily fought to gather her wits, a light appeared from the spirits room and with it the bulky shape of Mrs. Kettle. She grinned at Emily and broke into a gale of laughter, and when she was done, dabbed at her eyes. “I knew ya was hidin’ in thee great doctor’s cabin all thee while.”

  Emily gazed at the laundress with cold resentment.

  “Ya see, prisoners ain’t left on the gun deck durin’ battle. They be tossed down here on thee orlop. It was him what saw Dr. Braden leadin’ ya here.” Mrs. Kettle cocked her head behind her, and Octavius Lindsay – no longer fettered in irons – stepped into the light of her lantern.

  6:30 p.m.

  Out at Sea

  AS HE ROWED FARTHER and farther away from the Isabelle, Magpie forced himself to keep his eyes glued to the little whirlpools created by his oars. He liked the way they gathered energy and took on a life of their own: swirling the sea-greens and blues together, then spinning away from his cutter, like miniature ships without sails. He could not bring himself to look at the three ships hovering in a semi-circle to the south of the Isabelle, nor could he look at the Isabelle herself, having already witnessed too much. The Yankee colours now flew in exultation above the British ones on the Isabelle’s broken masts, strangers in strange uniforms swarmed her decks, and gaping holes in her hull reminded him of hideous mouths opened in agony. It was a miracle she was still afloat.

  Magpie blinked at the June sun just beginning to climb down from her lookout in the sky and tried to take pleasure in the white gulls that squealed and frolicked high above his head. It had been easy enough leaving the Isabelle. All of her small boats had been lowered into the sea long before the battle began, to be towed astern as a precaution against their being blown to bits and becoming a hail of deadly splinters that would slice through the fighting crew. With all the confusion on the quarterdeck, no one had seen him scramble over the taffrail and shinny down the towrope that led to the skiff, the smallest of the three cutters – an easy task for someone who had once been a London climbing boy. Biscuit had seen him, though, not long after he had happily been relieved from the hospital. It was Biscuit who had hastily thrown together for him a small duffle bag that contained a blanket, bandages, a wineskin of water, and a day’s supply of sea biscuits, and had then released the towrope after Magpie was safely seated in the cutter and had picked up the oars.

  “If thee Yankees don’t capture ya and toss ya in thee supper stew, ya might wanna stay out there. Ya may be safer in thee sea than here on thee Isabelle,” Biscuit had said while giving him a lift over the taffrail. “Keep yer bandages dry if ya can; ya don’t want no infection settin’ in. And whatever ya does, don’t eat them biscuits all at once.” As Magpie had started down the rope, Biscuit saluted him.

  Handling the oars was not an easy task for Magpie. The cutter normally required four men to do the rowing, and his arms and back ached as they never had before, his hands were bleeding, his legs felt numb, and there was a bad pain in his head. As he set down the heavy oars to rest, he wished Biscuit had come along to share the work.

  Taking up the spyglass, he looked north again. The dark smudge on the horizon – the one he’d noticed when he had first set off – was definitely larger than before. Did he dare hope? Sighing, he picked up the oars. If the Yankees didn’t notice his boat out on the waves, if the winds and the sea stayed calm, and if his body held out, he would soon be there.

  6:30 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

  Aboard HMS Isabelle

  MORGAN EVANS WEARILY CLIMBED the ladder from the hospital onto the fo’c’sle deck, squinted into the golden evening light, and drew a long breath of sea air. He had waited a long time for Dr. Braden to come back after being summoned to Captain Moreland’s cabin, and while waiting, Morgan had occupied himself helping Osmund Brockley with the injured. But Dr. Braden never returned and there was little he could do for those who required an amputation or a bullet extraction. Morgan forced from his mind disturbing pictures, especially that of Bailey Beck’s old eyes as he breathed his last.

  The smoke of war had passed away now and the sun sparkled on the calm waters of the Atlantic as if mocking the fact that a violent event had just taken place. The weather decks and yardarms hummed with the activities commonly seen following an enemy encounter. Morgan could see Bun Brodie climbing the mainmast rigging with a roll of sail slung over his shoulder, while dozens of sailors were already aloft stripping the torn sails from their yards. A crew of men was hoisting the small boats from the sea to swing once again on their davits until they were
next needed. The guns were being cleaned and stored, and everywhere repairs were underway. Along the larboard rail, Maggot and Weevil were sewing the dead into their hammock coffins, and weaving throughout their dismal part of the ship was Biscuit, carrying a tray and muttering oaths in between the times when he stopped to offer a mug of coffee to one of the American officers. Standing on the quarterdeck was a sober-looking Fly Austen, giving his men their orders, though not in his usual robust voice. If it hadn’t been for the pervasive horde of shouting American officers and marines, their hands poised on their muskets and swords, and the strange, muted quality that lingered amongst the men, Morgan could have believed all was right with the Isabelle. Unable to look upon the long line of bodies laid out on the larboard gangway, he inched his way instead along the crowded starboard rail towards the quarterdeck, where he overheard Midshipman Stewart reporting to Mr. Austen.

  “Sir, all the boats are up; however, it appears the skiff is unaccounted for.”

  Fly replied with a sideways glance. “Perhaps a casualty of war, Mr. Stewart.”

  Fly’s glance then shifted and fell on Morgan. There were lines on the commander’s face Morgan had never noticed before, and in his right hand he carried a book that Morgan supposed was a bible.

  “There you are, Mr. Evans! Collect your hammer and nails if you please. We’ve been instructed to patch up the ship and ready ourselves for sailing as soon as possible.” His tone was sarcastic.

  “Where are we sailing to, sir?”

  “To Hell’s harbour.”

  Morgan looked past Fly at the flag of stars and stripes that fluttered from the Isabelle’s stern and understood. “Aye, sir.” As an afterthought he added, “Captain Austen.”

  As there was no pleasure to be taken in the tribute, Fly looked away and, assuming exuberance, pointed aft of the Isabelle’s waist. “Perhaps, Mr. Evans, before you dash off, you might wish to witness the spectacle that is about to unfold on our fine decks.”