At last Magpie appeared, wearing his Isabelle hat and twitching like a bundle of nerves. Gus pounced on him. “What have you been doing all this time?’
“Mendin’ sails, sir,” he said breathlessly. “There’s piles o’ them what needs mendin’.”
“What news of the Amethyst? Is Prosper planning to communicate with her today?”
Magpie dropped down onto the nearest stool. “Oh, Mr. Walby, we’re not sailin’ near Charleston no more.”
Gus’s disappointment was severe. “Where are we, then?”
“In a big, empty cove, sir, beside a bit o’ marshy coast.”
“That’s not very helpful, Magpie.”
“I tried askin’ Prosper, sir, but he’s in a foul mood this mornin’. He’s struttin’ round the deck, peerin’ through his spyglass, mumblin’ ’bout missed opportunities and the storm what’s comin’.”
“Storm? At breakfast you said there were blue skies.”
“Aye, but the winds are pickin’ up and there be some ugly-lookin’ clouds about.”
Gus sighed. “I guess I won’t be allowed up on deck this afternoon?”
“Yer chair’s been cleared away along with the livestock pens, ’cause the men – they’re stackin’ their muskets and cannon balls.”
“Have we sighted an enemy ship?” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when he heard the men begin their task of taking down the gun deck walls. Their audible chatter left him in no doubt: they were clearing for battle. Magpie and he were staring transfixed at the bustle beyond their cots when Pemberton lumbered down the ladder.
“C’mon now, Gus. I’m takin’ ya below, ’neath thee waterline with yas.”
“What about Magpie?” cried Gus, as Pemberton plucked him from his cot.
“Magpie’s got some fightin’ to do, and if we form a boardin’ party, Prosper wants him coverin’ his back. You whisht now and don’t worry none ’bout him.”
As Pemberton, with Gus in his arms, hurried towards the ladder to the lower deck, Gus glanced uneasily back at his friend, only to see that beneath his Isabelle hat and eye patch, his little face had gone green.
11:00 a.m.
Aboard HMS Amethyst
“EVEN IF WE WERE TO SEND our shirts and linens aloft, we wouldn’t have a chance in hell of catching up to him,” said a disheartened Fly to Captain Prickett and his senior officers as they all rallied beneath the Amethyst’s foremast. “Unless, of course, we dump every one of our guns and cannons into the sea.”
“We can’t do that, Mr. Austen,” protested Lieutenant Bridlington.
“It was only said in jest, Mr. Bridlington.” Fly looked at each of the officers in turn. “At the very least, we should continue following him. I believe we will have our chance – perhaps just not here, not today.”
“If we were to catch up to him, Mr. Austen,” Prickett said, puffing out his uniformed chest, as if trying to appear taller, “what would you do?”
Fly studied the gathering grey-blue clouds overhead and thought of the dear friends Trevelyan had on board. “I would like to blow him out of the water with our countless guns, but I cannot. We must take care. The trick is to simply disable him and hope that nature does not finish him off.”
11:30 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)
Aboard the USS Serendipity
THE RISING WINDS wrapped Emily’s wedding dress around her legs and carried her unbound hair in all directions as she stood trembling behind Trevelyan at the Serendipity’s wheel. The sailors on their yards, as well as those hanging from the rigging and clustered around their guns, openly gaped at her – they all knew of the ceremony that had just taken place in the great cabin. But she no longer cared about their curiosity or what thoughts might be racing through their heads. At her back stood the ever-present Meg Kettle, still cradling Emily’s treasures in her arms like a newborn babe. She could feel the older woman’s eyes boring into the back of her head, and hear her muttering obscenities, but she would not acknowledge her presence. Trevelyan stood before her, engrossed in discussions with his sailing master, the coxswain, and Octavius Lindsay, the latter of whom frequently threw pompous airs her way. Feeling as if she had been bled dry, Emily kept her face averted from them all and her eyes locked on the sails of the British ship that followed, still too far off for its cannon fire to find its mark.
“We was sailin’ close to the wind, sir,” said the coxswain, “but the winds are shiftin’, comin’ from the east now.”
Trevelyan gazed upon his majestic masts. “Then the sails must be set accordingly. How far have we come from Charleston?”
“About twenty miles, sir,” replied the sailing master.
“And what is our present speed?
“Last reading was five knots, sir.”
Trevelyan ran his scarred hand over his mouth as he observed the trailing shadow on the sea. “Keep up all sails, all squares, fore and aft, including the royals, until I tell you otherwise.”
“Do you not think we should put further to sea, sir?” asked Mr. Lindsay.
“No,” said Trevelyan. “I wish to sail close to shore.”
“But, sir, if these winds strengthen,” said the sailing master, a note of concern in his tone, “that may be dangerous. These parts are full of shoals and unpredictable currents.”
“I will consider it when the storm breaks and our visibility is diminished. In the meantime, take frequent soundings. Toss the lead every fifteen minutes and check the nature of the sea bottom with the charts.”
“Why all this concern over winds and shoals and currents?” It was Emily who spoke out. The sailing master and Mr. Lindsay scowled at her impudence; Trevelyan, on the other hand, seemed intrigued. He folded his arms across his chest and set his chin, waiting for her to continue.
Emily plucked the wild strands of her hair from her eyes. “I do not understand why you don’t simply stand and face the enemy that follows you.”
“Because I have other business that concerns me,” said Trevelyan, “and have no interest in wasting time and grapeshot.”
“As you have no reinforcements at your side, are you afraid of losing this time?”
The sailing master and the coxswain exchanged looks; Trevelyan spoke calmly as ever. “Hardly.”
Emily tossed her head. “Have you forgotten we’re in the midst of a war? Heading north, your chances of running into another British ship will only increase.”
Trevelyan’s jaw worked for a time before he answered her. “So will my chances of sighting more American ships.” He swung around fully to face her straight on. “Would you reconsider your eagerness to engage that British vessel if you knew who it was standing beneath its foremast?”
Recalling her own fanciful daydream about Captain Moreland, Emily was thrown off guard. “Sir?”
But Trevelyan would not enlighten her. He nodded at Mr. Lindsay. “And as you met with no success in tracking down that little mongrel, I will wager he is most likely standing alongside.”
By now Emily had lost the thread of the conversation. Unable to provide a rejoinder, she stayed silent and suffered the snickers behind her.
Trevelyan waved his finger at Mrs. Kettle. “You there! Take madam below. The slop room or one of the storerooms should suffice.”
Should the guns start firing, Emily could not bear being below in the darkness. “No!” she cried out. “Let me stay here.”
Trevelyan gave her a thorough looking over. “In that white dress against these darkening skies, you will be a sitting duck. I cannot afford to have you strewn about in messy pieces upon my quarterdeck, especially not on my wedding night.”
The men within earshot enjoyed a hearty laugh at Emily’s expense. Mrs. Kettle appeared at her elbow, chuckling away. “C’mon then – Mrs. Trevelyan.”
The laundress might as well have shot a pistol off at Emily’s ear as address her by that name. In desperation, she pleaded, “Please, sir, please don’t send me below. I promise – I will sta
y out of your way.”
Trevelyan remained unmoved. “Take her away, Mrs. Kettle. But before you go, relieve your arms of that rubbish.”
Thrilled to be the centre of attention, Mrs. Kettle pranced to the larboard rail where, with obvious pleasure, she scattered Emily’s possessions into the winds. In a matter of seconds, the buckled shoes and beloved books were lost, swallowed by the swirling waves. Leander’s frock coat was more defiant. It was carried by the winds and sailed high, reaching the heights of the topgallants, before descending in a slow dance to the sea. Watching it, Emily went numb. But there was no time to grieve.
“Larboard bow, ahoy!” came the cutting cry from a topman on the mainmast.
“Sail in sight!”
“Looks like a privateer.”
“And carryin’ British pennants and colours.”
Any vestiges of amusement instantly evaporated from Trevelyan’s face. He swore and seized Mr. Lindsay’s spyglass to study this second ship that had appeared out of nowhere. “Where the devil did he come from?”
“A concealed cove maybe, sir?” offered the coxswain. His face, turned towards the shoreline, was frozen in alarm.
“I daresay he was waiting for us,” said the sailing master quietly.
Giving no further thought to his new wife, Trevelyan sprang into action, roaring orders at his attending men as he criss-crossed the weather decks. Struggling to keep up to him was an ashen-faced Mr. Lindsay, tugging on the stand-up collar of his borrowed uniform coat.
Mrs. Kettle pinched Emily’s forearm and forced her towards the ladder. As they descended to the ship’s bottom, the first crack of cannonfire echoed around them.
Noon
(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
ON THE FOAMING WAVES, the Serendipity loomed like a white whale over the Prosperous and Remarkable, a mere bouncing dolphin in comparison. Magpie could not fathom how Prosper imagined he could bring down Trevelyan’s mighty ship, but already he’d sent off a warning shot that he meant business. The winds were causing problems, and the rains, though nothing more than a drizzle, had made their unwelcome appearance. Prosper had told Magpie that in order to manoeuvre around the Serendipity, they couldn’t go straight at her; they would have to sail south, close-hauled, and come up behind her or risk being battered upon the lee shore. Magpie didn’t like the sound of this and wished he were on that big ship in the distance – the one flying British colours from her mastheads; the one Prosper speculated was the Amethyst.
Like a puppy, Magpie followed Prosper around, uneasily carrying the two dirks with the portentous eighteen-inch blades that Pemberton had given him as if they were hissing hand grenades. As always, he was unsettled by the red and purple veins that popped up on Prosper’s balding head as he spit out instructions like tobacco juice.
“Pemberton, ya jackanapes, take thee wheel from this lubber. Mr. Dunkin, ya scoundrel, see ta them gallants. Reef ’em up or else we’ll soon be findin’ ourselves sittin’ broadside ta thee Atlantic.” Prosper gave Magpie a backwards glance. “Keep up, lad. When we board, ya can’t go wandrin’ off. And sheath those cursed blades, will ya. I don’t fancy one o’ ’em stickin’ into me backend.”
Magpie did as he was told, then hurried to catch up to Prosper, who was disappearing down the ladder to the gun deck. “How many guns do ya ’ave, Prosper?” he asked breathlessly.
“Fourteen, twenty-four-pounders!” exclaimed Prosper proudly.
“And how many men?”
“Fifty-five, includin’ you and Gus.”
“And how many tons is the Prosperous and Remarkable?”
“’Bout one hundred, give or take a ton. Now stop annoyin’ me with all o’ yer nonsense.”
Magpie’s eye was as round and bright as a silver crown. “But the Serendipity’s gotta be seven times that.”
Prosper stopped abruptly beside the galley stove, stooped over Magpie, and with all the confidence in the world, whispered, “Just watch me go. I’ll show ya how it’s done.” He straightened himself, shoved his soiled shirtsleeves up his tanned arms, and hollered at his men, who were circling around their guns, waiting. “Right, then, ya bunch o’ puddin’ heads, I’m gonna take thee wheel and bring yas up behind Trevelyan. Thee first chance ya git, blow his rudder ta hell.”
Noon
Aboard the USS Serendipity
THE INSTANT MRS. KETTLE had shut the slop room door and suspended her lantern from the low ceiling, Emily’s heart began pounding in her ears. Fighting to control her mounting panic, she searched her new cage. It smelled heavily of salt and tar, and its slimy walls were covered with makeshift shelving, all crammed with clothing for the sailors. Emily jumped when something warm brushed past her ankle. Whatever it was scuttled away from her into the murky regions beyond the lantern’s glow. Unable to stand still, and desiring to be as far away as possible from Mrs. Kettle, Emily unhooked the lantern and carried it with her to the farthest end of the rectangular room.
“What’re ya doin’?” demanded the laundress, who hovered uncertainly near the door.
Emily ignored her inquiry and wrested a pair of dungaree trousers and a stripy, open-collared shirt from the shelf labelled “Boys,” then cast about until she spotted a neatly folded stack of neckcloths, selecting a black one for herself.
“Those be reserved fer funerals,” said Mrs. Kettle tartly.
“Then it is most appropriate, for I am in mourning.” Emily set the lantern down on a shelf and quickly stripped down to her chemise, leaving her wedding dress in a disarray of ghostly white at her feet. She wiggled into the shirt and trousers, and loosely knotted the black neckcloth around her shoulders. With a ceremonious flourish, she picked the wedding dress up off the sodden floor and hurled it at Mrs. Kettle with as much vehemence and zeal as the laundress had hurled her possessions overboard. When it landed on the woman’s surprised face, Emily broke into a fit of laughter. “A gift for you, Mrs. Kettle, since you so admired it.”
Mrs. Kettle clawed at the dress as if it were a substantial spider web, and – once revealed – her fat face flared with anger. “Cap’n Trevelyan don’t fancy ya wearin’ sailors’ trousers,” she growled. “Git yer dress back on. I’m to deliver ya, thee way I took ya.”
Emily snatched a heap of clothes from the shelf at her back and angled her head in challenge. One by one, she flung an assortment of footwear, vests, jackets, and trousers at Mrs. Kettle, who howled in protest as if being bombarded with musket balls. It was an agreeable distraction for Emily until the heel of a shoe struck Mrs. Kettle’s forehead and the woman exploded. “Ya wanton witch!” Hiking up her coarse skirts, she bowed her head and charged at Emily like a steaming, snorting bull in a ring. Fortunately, Emily was far swifter in her movements and leaped out of the way in time, leaving the beast to collide heavily with a portion of shelving, dislodging it completely from the walls. Down it came, striking Mrs. Kettle with a hefty thump upon her hunched back and pinning her to the floor.
Emily laughed, barely able to breathe. “Oh, Mrs. – Mrs. Kettle, if only Trevelyan knew that his deadliest weapon was here in the slop room. If only he could ramrod you into his cannons, imagine the damage you could deliver to the hulls of enemy ships.”
For several moments, Mrs. Kettle lay there stunned. Then her caterwauling began. “Oooo! Now ya done it, now ya really done it. Me back. Me head. Me poor babe. All broke fer sure. Oooo!”
Brushing away her mirthful tears, Emily sidestepped the prostrate form and made for the door. “Are you bleeding, Mrs. Kettle?”
“How’s would I know with me face pasted to thee floor?”
“At least we know your tongue is still intact … Tell me where I can find Dr. Braden.”
Above their heads on the upper deck, voices yelled out, “Stand clear! Steady now! Fire! Fire!” The Serendipity’s guns boomed and recoiled violently on their carriages, the reverberating shudders passing through Emily, who had to reach out to steady herself a
gainst a shelf.
Mrs. Kettle’s shrill voice shot up an octave. “If ya leave me here, squashed like a decayin’ rodent, so help me I’ll kill ya. I’ll rip yer royal head from that white neck o’ yers. Thee minute I’m standin’, I will.”
“Don’t tempt me,” Emily shot back. “You deserve no better than to be left here to fester and rot.”
The penetrating cries that followed were more dreadful than the blaring echoes of cannonfire. Emily repeated her question, this time more firmly. “Where is Dr. Braden?”
Mrs. Kettle’s reply rushed out of her mouth like a swift-moving stream. “Ya’ll – ya’ll find ’im nearby. Thee door ain’t locked. But leave thee lantern be! I’ll – I’ll not be left here in thee gloom with hairy creatures crawlin’ ’bout me parts.”
2:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
FLY AUSTEN READIED HIMSELF to climb down the ladder to the waiting launch that bobbed vigorously in the waves alongside the Amethyst’s hull. The ship’s two pinnaces and three cutters had already set out towards the rudderless Serendipity, full of jubilant men still hoping for a true crack at the enemy. Behind Fly, Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington strutted about the quarterdeck, as if they had been solely responsible for paralyzing the American ship.
“I cannot believe our good fortune, Mr. Austen,” cried Bridlington. “Not only did we barely fire a shot, barely was a shot returned. The commander of that small brig – whoever he may be – is truly remarkable.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 35
