Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Fly listened intently to his host. “What about blockades, sir? Are any of our ships watching the harbour mouth?”

  “We haven’t the manpower to properly blockade these American ports, Mr. Austen, and what we do have is concentrated in the north, just south of New York. We are totally ineffectual down here. It’s about time our ships moved south in larger numbers.”

  “Sir, are we close enough to get a good look at the ships anchored in the harbour?” Fly strained his neck to catch a glimpse of Charleston through the great cabin windows, but his vantage point afforded him only a scene of rolling waves.

  Prickett thoughtfully sipped his cup of chocolate. “Of course it is necessary to keep a safe distance and this rainy weather doesn’t give us the best visibility.”

  Feeling suddenly restless, Fly asked, “What are you proposing to do, sir?”

  “Hang about a few days, see whether Trevelyan’s Serendipity does slip out of the harbour.”

  “And if he does, sir?”

  “Well, now that’s where you come in, Mr. Austen.

  “Sir?”

  Prickett cleared his throat. “You’ve had experience with this Trevelyan, Mr. Austen. You know his tactics, his games, and more importantly, how fast that ship of his can sail.”

  “Aye, I have gained a brief familiarity, sir.”

  Prickett shifted his bottom about in his chair. “You see, Mr. Austen, I’ve spent the past two years escorting merchantmen about this ocean, bullying potential predators with the Amethyst’s sheer size and her long guns. Call it luck, call it misfortune, I cannot recall when I last fired a broadside at anyone and, heaven forbid, had the fire returned; notwithstanding, of course, that cowardly early morning shot we recently withstood.” He poured himself a second cup of chocolate. “For the most part, my men are experienced seamen, though they’ve had little opportunity to become a well-drilled crew. And I’m afraid I am not a fighting captain.”

  An awkward silence followed, during which Fly was forced to listen to Prickett slurp and extol the virtues of his hot drink. Finally he took the initiative. “Sir, are you asking me to assist you with your campaign against Trevelyan?”

  “Assist? Nay! I’m asking that you lead it.”

  Fly set down his knife and fork and handed Prickett an incredulous stare. Prickett looked sheepish, but his familiar joviality soon returned the moment he spied Biscuit entering the great cabin with the spiced cake. “Ah! There you are. Cut me a generous slab of that, will you now?”

  12:30 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

  Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

  MAGPIE COERCED A CHUNK OF MEAT down his throat. He had lost his appetite – due to the roughness of the sea and also to the company he was keeping. If it weren’t for the presence of Prosper and for his kind invitation to join his messmates for a meal, Magpie would have quietly carried his plate back to the corner he shared with Mr. Walby. He peered up at the men who sat around the mess table, swilling their dinner’s ration of grog, and eating their salted beef and boiled potatoes with their fingers. Though not having been intimately acquainted with them, Magpie was aware that a few of the Isabelles had had diseases of the mind or appetites for petty thievery, but these Prosperous and Remarkables were a different breed altogether. He had seen the likes of them before – at night in London, where they could be found lingering in rotting doorways down damp, foul alleyways, preying on passersby, dragging them into dark recesses, and murdering them for the few coins in their ragged pockets. Most of those who sat around him now had queer body parts – cracked teeth, maimed arms, missing ears, tattooed faces – and all of them had a peculiar brightness in their gaze. The man on his left had huge hands and shifty eyes, and a nose that looked like a tumorous strawberry. The way Magpie saw it, Prosper must have invited him to the table thinking he fit in with the bunch, having only one eye in his head. He shuddered as he sat on a chest at the head of the table and grabbed for his mug, praying the grog would settle his stomach, which had been home to a knot the size of an anchor since early the previous day. To avoid eye contact with the fearsome faces that surrounded him, he huddled over his plate and waited for the ship’s bell that would herald the end of the dinner hour.

  “Taken nineteen prizes since thee start o’ this war,” said Prosper, jabbing his knife in the air, “and, by Jove, I’d likes ta ’ave an even twenty.”

  “Aye, it’s bin a while now, Prosper,” said the tattooed sailor at the end of the table. “I miss thee feelin’ o’ me cutlass cuttin’ some gullet.”

  The man with shifty eyes who sat next to Magpie’s left elbow spoke up. “D’ya recall two months back, comin’ upon that brig – what was it? Portuguese? French? Austrian? No matter. D’ya recall? And I roughed their captain up good and pitched overboard them what got in me way. And them wenches in their silk gowns – how they screamed shrilly, enough to uncleave barnacles from thee hull – and begged us to kill thee men but spare them.”

  “And did ya?” Magpie’s question was barely audible.

  “Nay, pitched them in too.”

  “Ya galoot,” hissed Prosper. “’Twere a waste. I coulda thought o’ other things ya coulda done with ’em.”

  The men broke into laughter and slammed their fists in approval on the solid oak of the tabletop, causing the pewter plates to dance.

  “Is it true then, Prosper? Are ya goin’ after Trevelyan?”

  “Aye! Heard his men in Charleston talk o’ silver, weaponry, and hundreds o’ casks o’ French wine in thee hold.” Prosper swivelled his head towards Magpie. “And … a comely lass named Em’ly in thee great cabin.”

  Magpie’s heart stopped. He looked fearfully from Prosper to the man on his left that had boasted of pitching wenches overboard.

  “Ya – ya won’t harm her, sir?”

  The man leaned over and thrust his strawberry nose into Magpie’s flushing face. “Nay. So long as she don’t git in me way.”

  A second round of hilarity rocked their small table, the noise so loud it frightened Magpie. He had to tug on Prosper’s sleeve to get his attention. “But, the Serendipity’s a lot bigger than the Prosperous and Remarkable. And Trevelyan’s got hundreds o’ men and sharpshootin’ marines and lots o’ big guns.”

  A smug smile sprang to Prosper’s lips and his eyelids fell to halfmast. “Nineteen prizes, little man, nineteen of ’em.” His good humour suddenly changed to a scowl. “Magpie! Swathed in them bandages, ya look weak in thee head. ’Twould serve thee Prosperous and Remarkable well if I was ta fix ya up with an eye patch.”

  There, finally, was the bell.

  Prosper rose to his feet and cuffed the heads of the two men on either side of him.

  “Have yas finished fillin’ yer faces, then? Better look lively, ya band o’ ruffians! Won’t be bobbin’ forever in these waters with no purpose, ya know. Soon, we’ll be goin’ after our prize. And accordin’ ta Magpie here, yer gonna see fightin’ on thee seas in thee rare style o’ David and Goliath.”

  As the men advanced from the mess table and headed out to their stations, Magpie whispered, “May the saints preserve us – every last one o’ them.”

  1:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

  Aboard the USS Serendipity

  EMILY SEARCHED THE WASHING LINES fixed between the main and fore shrouds for space on which to hang her last load of linens, muslin shirts, neckcloths, silk stockings, and cotton trousers. She then set her laundry basket down on the deck beneath the foresail, gave her back a stretch, and wiped the sweat from her brow with her shirtsleeve. The sky was still overcast, threatening more rain, but between puffs of ocean breeze, the day was hot and sticky. Emily did not mind the weather. Nor did she mind that her ankle was hurting, her hands were red and roughened (the unhappy result of being submerged for hours in tubs of warmed saltwater and lye soap), or that her muscles were crying for mercy, having been shocked into use after weeks of inactivity. Her physical ailments were small nuis
ances compared to the pleasure of being out-of-doors, working alongside the Serendipities. The colourful scenes in the harbour and of distant Charleston were an agreeable change from the confinement of her dark cabin. Though physically drained, she felt stronger mentally, better than she had in days.

  Bending down to pick up a pair of damp dungarees and two forked clothespins, Emily spotted the striking figure of Bun Brodie and his distinctive copper-coloured pigtail out of the corner of her eye, coming along the deck with a roll of canvas slung over his shoulders. She had seen him earlier, labouring above her on the yards, replacing sails for most of the day with the help of young Charlie Clive. They did not dare speak to one another, for Meg Kettle hovered nearby, keeping an eye on her every movement, making certain Emily did not converse with any of the sailors, although it was quite acceptable for her to lick her lips provocatively and make eyes at them. But this time, as Bun Brodie passed by Emily, he smiled and whispered “Mrs. Seaton” in greeting, before taking his heavy load up the shrouds. Emily could not keep her heart from quickening. With the exception of Meg Kettle and Octavius Lindsay, Bun Brodie was the first of the Isabelles she had seen on the Serendipity. If… if Trevelyan took him, did she dare hope – despite what Mrs. Kettle had said that morning – might he have taken others as well? At the very least, Mr. Brodie might be able to tell her what had become of Captain Moreland’s crew. Locking away the flame of hope, Emily looked up at Charlie, standing tall beside Bun Brodie on the foreyard, only to find him gazing down upon her. Though the lad’s facial features rarely fluctuated, he acknowledged her with a wave before setting to work unfurling the new sail.

  Deep in happy thought, Emily pinned the remaining clothes onto the already congested lines, unaware that Trevelyan’s launch had returned to the ship. Suddenly hearing his distinctive voice only a few feet from where she worked gave her a fright, but as the deck was teeming with all manner of activity, and she, outfitted in hat and trousers, must have blended well with the crew, Emily hoped he had not yet recognized the new washerwoman. Keeping her back to Trevelyan, she listened with curiosity to his conversation with Octavius Lindsay.

  “Why am I only hearing of this now, Mr. Lindsay?”

  “Sir, you – I had no idea where you were lodging in town.”

  “How many of them were there, besides that little mongrel that vomited on my rain cloak?”

  “Hard to tell, sir. They scattered … ran down different alleyways and streets.”

  “Did you watch all vessels leaving the harbour?”

  “We did our best, sir. At dawn we rowed from ship to ship to question and search the crews, but we came up empty-handed. Perhaps, whoever it was, they took their chances and slipped away in the dark.”

  “There is still daylight, Mr. Lindsay. Search again. Take the launch and twelve or so marines with you, and this time, make certain you upend all chests and run a sword through every ditty bag. That little mongrel could be hiding anywhere. He could be on anyone’s ship. But before you dash off – I have brought Mr. Humphreys with me from town. See to it that he is provided with accommodation below deck.”

  “Mr. Humphreys, sir?”

  “The chaplain.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Emily laughed to herself as she hung up the final articles of laundry. Few men of the sea had religious leanings. Was Trevelyan about to seek God and salvation with the help of this Mr. Humphreys? She scooped up her empty basket, then while she waited a moment, giving Trevelyan time to quit the deck, a stomach-churning thought struck her. Feeling faint, she turned around slowly. But he stood there still, his strange eyes having found her. Whatever thoughts he had in his head, they were hard to read. His thin lips parted and Emily braced herself for what surely would be a disparaging remark related to her present occupation; instead, he lifted his gaze to the foresail that billowed above her head, and called out, “Mr. Clive, are you contented with your new situation?”

  For a moment Charlie appeared bewildered and delayed his reply as if he weren’t certain his captain had singled him out. “Aye, sir.”

  “And does it surpass serving up biscuits and tea to common wenches?”

  Charlie’s eyes shyly met Emily’s upturned ones. “I – I suppose so, sir.”

  “And have you mastered the shrouds, Mr. Clive?”

  Charlie’s head rose higher on his skinny neck. “Oh, aye, sir.”

  “Show me then.”

  “Sir?”

  “Climb down and I will observe your abilities.”

  Perched high up on the yard, Bun Brodie and the men assisting him in replacing the foresail followed Charlie’s cautious descent with amusement until the lad had landed safely on the deck between Emily and Captain Trevelyan.

  “Well done, Mr. Clive,” Trevelyan said with no enthusiasm. “Now this time I will watch as you climb to the foretop and back. But as I require improvement in your speed, I will suggest a contest and provide you with an opponent.”

  Those within earshot of the exchange broke off their chores and crowded round to witness the impending spectacle, including Meg Kettle. Emily’s mouth went dry when Trevelyan’s eyes dropped on her like an axe and remained there as he spoke in a voice for all to hear.

  “Men! Ten years ago I had the privilege of watching a young child race up the ratlines on HMS Isabelle as her proud father looked on. Perhaps today, she will bewitch us with another brilliant performance.”

  Astonished, Emily could only gape at Trevelyan as she tried to make sense of his words. Cold dread rushed through her body as the spectators – encouraged by Trevelyan’s rare display of good nature – drew closer.

  “But, sir, that was a very long time ago,” said Emily, trying to gather her scattered wits.

  “Yes,” Trevelyan responded flatly.

  “I’ve not had much opportunity of late to climb ropes.”

  “I was told you were spotted sitting upon the mizzen crosstrees the morning of the Isabelle’s last day. Did a great eagle carry you there?”

  Emily glanced at Mrs. Kettle and was inflamed to see a glowing smile upon the woman’s glistening features. Quickly, she turned back to Trevelyan.

  “I have never made a habit of participating in such contests, sir.”

  Trevelyan sloped his body towards her until barely an inch separated their faces, then he tilted his head to one side. “Well, madam, you can begin now. I believe – given your unorthodox upbringing – you shall relish this novel adventure.” He stepped backwards to smile at the crowd.

  Feeling helpless, Emily wavered. She prayed no one would see the tremor in her hands nor hear the pounding of her heart.

  “C’mon now, Miss.”

  “Show us what yer made of.”

  “Give Charlie a lickin’.”

  “Aye, thee whelp needs a good thrashin’.”

  “Nay!” Meg Kettle yelled out. “’Tis thee other way round.”

  With the men’s raucous laughter ringing in her ears, Emily – dazed and distressed – pulled off her hat, threw it into her empty laundry basket, and set the basket down upon the deck. Then she squared her shoulders and slowly began rolling up the legs of her trousers.

  Noon

  (Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  FLY AUSTEN LOWERED HIS SPYGLASS to address Captain Prickett and his first lieutenant, Lord Bridlington, who stood alongside him on the starboard rail, looking out over Charleston.

  “It appears there are three larger ships in the harbour; perhaps they are frigates, perhaps one of them is Trevelyan. It would be ideal if we could move in closer to shore to get a better look.”

  Surprise crossed Lord Bridlington’s face. “But if we were to do that, in a heavy ship such as ours, we may ground on a shoal and some of the smaller vessels would then come after us and board us, and if they were to gain control, what would become of us?”

  Captain Prickett raised his hand to silence his senior officer. “Mr. Austen,” he said, lowering his voice so the me
n working around him could not hear his words, “tell me what course of action we should assume and I’ll pass the word to have it carried out.”

  Beneath the bow of his bicorne, Lord Bridlington’s eyes widened.

  “Thank you, sir,” said Fly thoughtfully. “There is a sloop flying under our colours hove to near Sullivan Island. It might be wise to attempt communication with it.”

  “Imagine our Admiralty sending nothing more than a sloop to watch this part of the coast. The Americans must be having a good laugh at our expense,” grumbled Prickett. “Consider it done, Mr. Austen.”

  “Also, sir, I wonder if we could – as soon as possible – put to sea. With your permission, I should like the gun crews to practise their drills, as you yourself admitted this morning that it has been a long while.”

  Captain Prickett glanced around his ship and nodded in agreement. “Right! I will arrange for it, Mr. Austen.”

  Lord Bridlington’s eyes darted between his captain and Fly. “If gunfire is heard onshore, won’t the enemy get the notion that we are issuing a challenge of sorts?”

  Captain Prickett hiked his breeches up around his prodigious belly. “That’s exactly what we are doing, Mr. Bridlington. If Trevelyan’s holed up in there, we’ll root him out … if he’s any kind of a man, of course.”

  Captain Prickett clapped his jumpy officer on the back and led him towards the nearest hatchway, leaving Fly shaking his head in wonder as he watched after them. Left alone, he ambled along the rail, pausing every few feet to squint again through his spyglass. There were myriad vessels sailing in and out of the Charleston harbour; most of them appeared to be harmless fishing boats, though the Amethyst was too far away for Fly to confirm it one way or the other. He stayed there for an hour, accepting a cup of tea and a roll from Biscuit, but speaking to no one else as he continued his watch over the harbour. Engrossed in his thoughts, he took some time to recognize Morgan Evans loitering nearby, still unaccustomed as he was to seeing the young man without his distinguishing wool hat. “Mr. Evans!”