Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “What is it?”

  “What ’ave ya seen?

  Prosper’s fringe of thinning curls flew about his ears as he wheeled about to face his men with a grin. “Why, I’ve seen a flute-playin’ devil lyin’ in his coffin and I ’spose it be common courtesy we pick ’im up.”

  3:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)

  Aboard the USS Serendipity

  IT WAS MID-AFTERNOON when Charlie Clive returned to Emily’s cabin to fetch the basin. He sidled in at her invitation to enter, and once again took a darting glance around her accommodation before bowing to her as she lay in her cot. Sitting up, Emily noticed the lad had taken a brush to his hair and had tied a blue-and-white striped scarf around his thin neck. In his arms, he carried a heap of dresses. As he stepped towards her, one of them fell to the floor. Emily was reminded of the day, a few weeks back, when another small lad had come to her, proudly bearing a bundle of new clothes.

  “Mr. Clive,” she said in a deadened voice, “there is no need to bow.”

  “Oh, but Miss, I were told to bow afore all ladies of genteel birth.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Me ma.”

  “And why would you imagine I was genteel?”

  “The men, they say yer highborn, though none of us knew it last time ya was on our ship.” He looked ashamed suddenly, and Emily wondered if he’d known that his revered captain had had a fondness for ordering her about like a servant. “Besides, Miss,” he added, peeking up at her through his hair, “I kin see it in yer bearin’.”

  She sighed. “What’s that you have there?”

  “Clothes fer ya, Miss.”

  “I have clothes, Mr. Clive.”

  “These are from the captain.”

  “Tell him I don’t want them.” She pulled Leander’s coat around her shoulders.

  “Yer to dine with him at eight bells, Miss, and he said he don’t want ya sittin’ at his table in men’s trousers.”

  “Tell him I’ll not dine with him. My regular fare of soggy biscuits is quite adequate.”

  Charlie’s round eyes grew larger. “I can’t tell him that, Miss.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one speaks to Cap’n Trevelyan in that fashion.”

  “Well, I do, Mr. Clive.” With a dismissive shrug she slid down into her cot and turned her back to him. “You can set the clothes down, but I will not wear them.”

  Charlie cleared his throat, but made no attempt to leave. At last Emily rolled over and questioned his insolence with a frown. His cheeks reddened as he stooped over to grab the washbasin by its handle and began dragging it towards the door. Refusing to meet her eyes, he said, “The captain told me, Miss, if ya didn’t put these clothes on fer dinner, he’d come right in here and do it fer ya.”

  3:30 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Seven Bells)

  IN THE SURGERY, Leander hesitated before the canvas curtain that separated him from his next patient and shot a quizzical look at his young assistant.

  “Are you certain you don’t want to handle this one on your own, Mr. Norlan?” he whispered, pulling his spectacles from the breast pocket of his black apron.

  “Quite certain, sir.”

  “You would gain much in experience in dealing with her complaint.”

  Joe looked appalled. “Please, sir, she frightens me, really. And I know very little of her – of her parts.”

  “If you hope to become a doctor one day, you’ll have to familiarize yourself with female parts.”

  “You’re speaking in terms of studying my medical books, of course, sir?”

  “Of course.” Leander averted his face to hide his amusement. “Now stay close, as I may require reinforcements.” He placed his spectacles on his nose and plunged through the curtain.

  Mrs. Kettle lay groaning on a flat wooden cot that hugged the ship’s side, her fat arms thrown across her face. Upon hearing him approach, she popped opened one eye. “What a good man ye are and a sight fer me sore eyes and limbs.”

  Such a greeting would have warmed Leander’s heart had it been forthcoming from anyone else besides the former laundress on the Isabelle. “Are you well, Mrs. Kettle?”

  “Please call me Meggie, Doctor. I likes it when thee men call me Meggie.” She groped about to catch and squeeze his hand.

  “Are you still troubled by an unsettling of your stomach? Shall I prepare another tonic for you, Mrs. Kettle?”

  She quit her moaning and raised herself up on one arm. “What I needs is a long rest.”

  “I see. Have you, then, forgotten my instructions to curtail your vigorous habits for the sake of your unborn child?”

  Mrs. Kettle flopped back upon her cot. “I ’aven’t time fer no kicky-wicky with thee Serendipities, Doctor. Cap’n Trevelyan himself keeps me occupied day ’n night.”

  Leander stared at her over his glasses. “May I ask the nature of these occupations?”

  She looked indignant. “Why, I were expectin’ to be raised in thee ranks and he’s got me launderin’ hammocks and slops and yards o’ canvas.”

  “But, Mrs. Kettle, laundering was your occupation on the Isabelle.”

  “I knows that, but oooh, thee sails be heavy and thee hammocks – so foul-smellin’ – and me back aches so and me head constantly pains me.”

  “Shall I beg a word with Captain Trevelyan and, if I should be so lucky as to be granted an audience, suggest that, given your circumstances, he engage you in gentler pursuits?” Leander wondered why he should do anything on behalf of this woman.

  Her little eyes brightened and she smiled sweetly. “Would ya, Doctor, fer me? Tell ’im to get rid o’ that little whelp, Charlie Clive, and I’ll do his personal biddin.’”

  Leander clasped his hands behind his back. “And if he is not agreeable to that?”

  “Tell ’im I’ll do anythin’ that doesn’t call fer stinkin’, back-breakin’ labour.”

  “I shall try, though I cannot promise you anything.”

  She thrust out her lower lip. “If he’s ugly, remind ’im he owes me a favour and Meggie always comes collectin’ on ’er favours.”

  Intrigued, Leander was about to question her further when she surprised him by bounding out of her cot with all the robustness of a bull. She wiggled her toes into her shoes, swept aside the bit of canvas, and briskly waddled past Joe like a duck being chased by the farmer intent on having it for his supper.

  With rounded eyes, Joe watched her flee. “Captain Trevelyan owes her a favour, sir?”

  Leander compressed his lips. “I wonder …”

  4:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Alongside the Prosperous and Remarkable

  MAGPIE LOWERED HIS FLUTE and stared up at the assortment of strange faces gawping down at him from the side of the blood-red ship that had inexplicably materialized out of the mist. Being light-headed, he couldn’t discern if the ship was large or small, its crew friend or foe. Rippling in the light wind high on one mast was a pennant upon which two lengthy words were painted in black, though he did not know what they meant.

  Magpie tried to warn Mr. Walby, but he choked on his words and could only lie there helplessly and watch as a shadowy figure mounted the Jacob’s ladder tossed over the ship’s side and climbed down towards them. When the figure reached the last rung, it vaulted into the skiff, landing squarely in its centre without upsetting it whatsoever. Magpie peered up at the man who now hovered over him. He was bald save for a fringe of long curls about his ears. His skin was red and deeply lined, and he wore a loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck. “Are ya a pirate, sir?”

  “Not officially,” said the man.

  “An enemy, then?”

  “That all depends.”

  Despite his weakened state, Magpie was able to detect a charitable glint in the stranger’s squinty grey eyes as he squatted down next to him, and gently raised his little head off the bench. Then, yanking a wineskin from his belt, the
stranger held it to Magpie’s blistered lips. “Now drink slowly, me little man.”

  “Bless ya … bless ya, sir,” sobbed Magpie. He took a few sips of water while the stranger eyed the bandage on his head.

  Soon the man’s notice fell to the black felt hat with the embroidered banner perched atop Magpie’s duffel bag. “By Jove!” he cried, “Here I’m thinkin’ yas were a young devil acquainted with grog, when in fact yer from thee Isabelle. Come aboard me Prosperous and Remarkable and tell us yer tale.”

  Magpie pointed towards the skiff’s bow. “Please, sir, could ya see to Mr. Walby?”

  The stranger peered into the canvas shelter, and seeing Gus in all his splints asked, “Did ya ’ave a fight with this poor scalawag and he wound up losin’?”

  “Oh no, sir. Mr. Walby got knocked up fallin’ from the mizzen.”

  For some time the man crouched over Gus, and when finally he emerged from the shelter, he hollered up at his ship. “Pemberton, ya jackanapes!” A stocky fellow with a pudding face appeared at the rail. “Have thee bo’s’n’s chair lowered and ready me surgeon’s table. There be two little men here that require some tendin’ to.”

  4:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard the USS Serendipity

  EMILY SAT STIFF AND TENSE at the captain’s table waiting for Trevelyan to appear. Behind the empty chair facing her stood two servants, Charlie Clive and a dark-skinned fellow named Beans. Charlie kept his eyes lowered to the floor, but Beans’s bright, brown eyes were glued to her, making her feel all the more uncomfortable. She kept her own gaze fixed upon the feast spread out on china dishes before her: roasted ham, salt-fish pudding, pork pie, white biscuit, and a bottle of French wine. The aroma of the steaming ham aggravated her terrible hunger, and were she alone, she would have carved herself a chunk of it.

  When the door at her back jerked open and heavy steps entered the great cabin, Emily flinched. She knew from the anxious expressions on the young boys’ faces that it was Trevelyan; she herself recognized his odour, and could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. There was a clanking noise as he put away his sword, and a spray of droplets as he removed his rain cloak. Emily looked up as his looming figure came into view and watched him seat himself across from her. He said nothing, his thin lips a determined line in his bloodless face, but a slight nod of his head brought Charlie and Beans round the table to serve him his supper. Once his plate and wine goblet were filled, he began eating, and Emily watched his hands, scarred like her own, cut his meat and lift his goblet to his lips while her own stomach howled for decent nourishment. Between mouthfuls, he glanced at her, but was well into his meal before he spoke.

  “Serve yourself, madam. You have no servants here.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  Charlie’s face fluttered with astonishment. Beans still smiled. Trevelyan sipped his wine, his eyes roving over her hot face before dropping beneath her chin to inspect her garments. She was wearing Leander’s coat and had left it open a crack so he could see she had put on one of the dresses Charlie had brought to her.

  “I am wondering at you wearing a man’s frock coat, madam, when we are heading south and the humidity is on the rise.”

  “Of all I possess, this coat is the dearest.”

  “And obviously not your own. I thought perhaps a dress would flatter your figure much more than the common slops in which you came on board.”

  “Why would I require to be dressed in a more flattering manner when you have me imprisoned in a closet?”

  “Is there a problem with your lodging? Would you prefer to hang your hammock on the gun deck with the men?”

  “My lodging is quite satisfactory. I would, however, feel less a prisoner if I could stretch my legs at least once a day.”

  Trevelyan looked amused. “Oh, but you are a prisoner: a most valuable one. Have you forgotten the United States is at war with Britain, or are you a typical woman who cares nothing for and cannot comprehend politics?”

  Emily dug her toenails into the soles of her shoes. “Is that the reason you came back with a bloody fleet to pounce upon the Isabelle – only to retrieve me because you’d discovered that I was a valuable prisoner?”

  There was no emotion in his eyes as he regarded her. “I knew you were valuable property, madam, when I first learned you were planning to cross the Atlantic on the Amelia.”

  Emily had difficulty concealing her shock. “And … and for this reason only you destroyed the Amelia as well as Captain Moreland’s ship?”

  Trevelyan emptied the bottle of wine and swirled the ruby liquid in his goblet for the longest time. When he spoke again his tone had changed. “I would have thought, madam, that lying about suited your disposition and habits.”

  “I have never been one to lie about, sir.”

  “Yes. I recall you polished my silver very well during your last stay with us, which I found surprising; for I was certain, despite the fact that your English home – your palace – must have been filled with the stuff, the task was quite foreign to you.”

  Emily’s blood boiled. “It may also surprise you, sir, that I have never lived in a palace.”

  His head rolled to one side. “Old King George never installed his son, Henry, and your poor mother in an apartment at the Queen’s House or St. James’s or Windsor Castle?”

  “He did not.”

  “Astounding!”

  “And I am rather astounded that you are even acquainted with my father’s first name.”

  Trevelyan leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on his upturned hands. “I was once well acquainted with your father, madam.”

  “Really? Were you a servant of his?”

  Trevelyan mused a moment and his eyes wavered in recollection, but he did not dignify her question with a reply. He downed the rest of the red wine, and at length said, “I would have been quite happy to share the contents of this bottle with you.”

  “It was easy to resist the temptation. You stole that wine from the Isabelle.”

  He grinned. “I did! And no doubt Captain Moreland stole it from the hold of one of his French prizes, but as he has no further use for it, I hate to think of it going to waste.”

  Emily’s pulse quickened. “What does that mean?”

  “Oh! I forget. You know nothing of the Isabelle’s fate.”

  “You forget. I was there when you ordered her burned.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That’s right, madam, I burned her to the waterline and her sorry hull is on the bottom of the Atlantic, in water so black and so deep no one will ever find her again.”

  His words cut with all the force of a whip. She closed her eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. “And … and what of her men?” With a throbbing heart, she watched Trevelyan push back his chair and rise to his feet. He grabbed a piece of ham, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed on it fiercely before turning to nod at Charlie and Beans, who immediately moved to clear the table. He then strode to the wall where he’d hung his rain cloak and sword, took only his weapon, and headed towards the cabin door.

  “Mr. Clive, when you are done, take madam back to her closet,” he said, opening the door. Then he turned to Emily. “Your Captain Moreland was torn apart by our grapeshot. When I boarded his ship, it was my misfortune to find him dead in his cot, though bleeding still like a stuck pig.”

  Emily covered her mouth to strangle her cry.

  “For services rendered, we did rescue two of your Isabelles: one surly youth named Mr. Lindsay and a cow called Mrs. Kettle.”

  Emily twisted in her seat to confront him, but could only whisper, “Is that it? Is that all?”

  His eyes grew more distant as he gazed down at her, and there was a twitching in the flesh of his face. The door shut behind him, and Emily sat there in disbelief, her eyes shining with tears. Rain knocked upon the newly installed gallery windows at her back, and the ship’s bell clanged once, its resonance hurting her ea
rs. Charlie and Beans said nothing as they tiptoed around her, removing the dishes and the remains of the supper. The still-warm aroma of meat and pastry and pudding tormented her.

  After wiping her wet cheeks with a sleeve of Leander’s coat, she let her gaze fall on Trevelyan’s desk, the very one she had pushed in front of the door three weeks ago to bar entry to the Serendipity’s marines whilst she made her escape from out the blasted stern windows. There had been nothing atop his desk then. Now it held two gold-framed miniatures. The first was a painting of a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, with sandy hair and dark, merry eyes. The second one brought a lump to her throat. It was Magpie’s little painting of the daughter of Henry, Duke of Wessex – Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie.

  Near Midnight

  (First Watch)

  THE FIRST KNOCK intruded upon Emily’s dreams of her childhood home in England, but did not wake her. The second was louder, more insistent. She lifted her head off her flat pillow and sleepily called out, “What is it?” Her cabin was as black as tar. She could see nothing, and when no one responded, her heart began to race.

  Sitting upright, Emily listened to the wind whistling around the Serendipity, and to the shouts of the watchmen, which sounded like the cries of those lost at sea. Her cot was swinging more wildly than normal, and rain pounded on the timbers around her. Recollecting the happiness of her dream, she felt an oppressive sense of sadness. It had been ages since she had visited a place of sunshine and happiness in her dreams.

  Once more she called out in the night, this time with fear in her voice. Still no one answered. After a few anxious minutes, Emily heard a swishing sound, as if someone had passed something under her door, and soon her cramped quarters became redolent with a mouth-watering aroma. By now used to finding her way around in complete darkness, she scrambled out of her cot and over the cold cannon, falling on her knees to crawl the remaining distance. Her groping hands discovered a wedge of pork pie wrapped in paper. In the darkness, she filled her mouth with the savoury pie, and only once she had food in her stomach did she pause again to listen. Someone was still standing on the other side of her door. She was certain of it. She sensed his presence, was certain even she heard his breathing. Lying flat on the clammy floorboards, she put her face near the gap under the door and whispered, “Charlie? Is it you, Charlie?”