Regrettably, a peek beyond the coach window was not promising.
Gus, his Aunt Sophia, and the children had disappeared into the house; however, her Uncle Clarence was now exchanging pleasantries with a respectable-looking older gentleman who had come walking up the laneway from the direction of the village, holding onto a leather bag. Emily’s first impulse was to cry out and wish them away, but curiosity stopped her. Brushing away the tears from her cheeks, she sat up straighter to observe their exchange.
The gentleman looked to be perhaps sixty-five. He was tall and slender, his posture upright, his hair grey and thinning, but neatly cut, and there was something in his manner of conversing with her uncle that hinted of intelligence and good breeding. Emily doubted he was Aunt Sophia’s husband — if, in fact, the woman actually possessed one — so who was he? She noted with delight the way in which the gentleman planted his feet on the gravel laneway, and carried his head, tilting it forward to show keen interest in her uncle’s speech, and was surprised to feel a twinge of excitement rising in her breast which ignited her imagination.
Thirty long years had suddenly passed — half a lifetime — and there, no more than a few feet away, stood Leander Braden. He was older, but still handsome and wise, and had spent years trying to find her, going from village to village on foot, making inquiries as to her possible whereabouts. He had come round this place before, but had come again straightaway, having heard in town news that the Duke of Clarence and his niece were travelling this way en route to London and would be stopping here. He had to know. Was it true? Was the niece with whom the duke travelled his own Emily? Surely … any minute now … her Uncle Clarence would clap the man on the back, wish him joy, and invite him to look no further than the coach that stood on the laneway. Slowly the gentleman would turn his head around and see her there in the window. His dear face would then break into a broad smile and his blue eyes — for surely he had blue eyes — would brighten with elated incredulity, and he would come forward to greet her, one hand held out to …
Though she desired him to do so, the older gentleman did not glance her way; Emily was never given an opportunity to look upon the full contours of his features, nor confirm the hue of his eyes. Perhaps it was just as well. As the conversation ended abruptly with the gentleman bowing before Uncle Clarence, and moving on up the grass pathway to Aunt Sophia’s front door, she tried to laugh off her whimsical reverie. But she could not, for a cloud of longing clung to her, as if she had been awakened prematurely from a rare and wonderful dream.
The minute Uncle Clarence had reinstated himself in the coach, sitting opposite her this time, upon the seat still warm and reminiscent of Gus Walby’s recent occupation, Emily desired nothing more than to return to sleep. She waited for her uncle to reach for his cane and rap its carved ivory head against the wall of the coach to signal to the coachman, and as they lurched away from Aunt Sophia’s house and started down the road to London — Emily refusing a last glance toward the windows, lest she should find the lone figure of Gus Walby standing there — she made her hopeful inquiries.
“Who was that man, Uncle?”
“Why he’s the doctor I arranged to come and look in after Mr. Walby. Decent of him to come straightaway.”
“A doctor!” Emily drew in breath. “And his name —?”
“Why I haven’t the faintest notion,” he said, peeling off his brown leather gloves. “He didn’t say, and I didn’t think to ask.”
9:00 p.m.
Hartwood Hall
It was Uncle Clarence’s intention to dump Emily off hastily and unceremoniously at the north-facing entrance of Hartwood Hall, claiming he had an evening engagement he desired to keep in the city, though his arrival there would be quite late. Throughout the last leg of their journey — from London to Hampstead — it had been raining heavily, and he was eager to be off again, as the roads were poor and muddy, and it would take him close to two hours to reach his destination.
Emily was incredulous. “This is rather untoward, Uncle. Have you no interest in giving me an introduction to the good people of the house? Do you mean to leave me off here like a child in a basket with the hope they will heap pity on me and take me in?”
Her uncle burst into a chuckle. “They’re not even at home, Emeline, and shan’t be returning for a day or two. The minute the servants open the doors — ah, there they are now! I can see them gathering with their umbrellas and candles — you will have the best surprise, and will understand why I chose to leave you here.”
“I am feeling ridiculous!”
“Oh, ho, no need for that, my dear. Now then you do have the addresses of your family members, as well as that of your friend Mr. Walby?”
“I do,” said Emily, trying, like the barrel of a musket, to lock her enlarged eyes on his.
“And when we next meet out in London society, I do not wish to see you draped in that gown again. I’ve grown frightfully tired of it in our travels together.”
Emily smoothed the folds of her blue-and-white-striped morning dress. “In that case you shall be disappointed, Uncle, for a very special person sewed this gown together for me, and I intend to wear it often.”
Her uncle snorted. “God damn, do not forget who you are! It’ll not do to have the Regent’s niece and the king’s granddaughter traipse around in an inferior, homespun gown, nor, for that matter, sailors’ trousers, for that is what I surmise you have packed away in that chest of yours.”
“That may well be true, but you forget, Uncle, I have little beyond what I’m presently wearing. The clothes with which I departed England four months ago have now settled upon the sea’s bottom within the wreck of the Amelia.”
He looked pleased with himself. “I’ve seen to all that! Clothes and little accessories you shall soon have, for the Regent has kindly seen to providing you with a gift of five hundred pounds.”
“That is more than generous of him, Uncle, but now that I’m not living under my grandfather’s roof, I don’t need the Regent’s charity. I should like to earn my keep. Perhaps the women who work here in the kitchen would happily employ me to wash the china and crystal.”
“God Almighty, Emeline! No need for that sort of nonsense.”
“As this little reticule I am now clutching, given to me by the good ladies of Portsmouth, hasn’t a shilling in it, perhaps you would keep the Regent’s money, and be so kind as to loan me just enough so that I may buy a loaf of bread while I await my first bit of pay.”
Uncle Clarence patted Emily’s hand. “Not to worry, set your mind at ease; it has all been taken care of for you, my dear.”
“Then would you be so kind as to explain it all to me, Uncle?
“No time for that. Rest assured!”
“You haven’t even informed me as to how long I might be here.”
“A few weeks … perhaps a few months.”
“Months!”
“These sorts of trials take time, Emeline,” he said, curtly. “Now … now here is the housekeeper waiting patiently for you at the coach door. Hurry, hurry, the unfortunate woman is getting wet. Give your old uncle a kiss and be off.”
Their goodbyes were exchanged in such an expeditious manner, her uncle almost pushing her out the door and into the rain, that Emily was left wondering if he was embarrassed about being seen in her unmanageable company. The post-boys fetched her small clothing chest from the roof of the coach, handed it off to one of the waiting servants, and in an equally hurried way bowed and wished her “Godspeed.” In no time at all the coach was off again. Emily watched it trundling away, the clip-clop of the retreating horses growing fainter and fainter, until the wet, shadowy world of gusty trees and endless acres of black parkland had swallowed it whole. Feeling quite lost and in a daze, Emily felt the heavy arm of the faceless housekeeper wrap tightly around her shoulders and quickly steer her toward the light and warmth of Hartwood Hall, which loomed before her like three ships-of-the-line with their lanterns ablaze, sailing abreast on th
e darkened sea.
And yet … the Isabelle, her crew, and Leander Braden had never felt so far away.
6
Monday, August 9
7:00 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
As Fly Austen swept into the great cabin, apologizing for his tardiness and having missed supper, Biscuit uncorked another bottle of Madeira and presented the latecomer with a glass, before refilling those belonging to Captain Prickett, Lord Bridlington, and Leander Braden.
“Ach, Mr. Austen, and ya missed one o’ me specialties tonight,” he chirped as Fly took his place at the round table, sampling his wine as he lowered himself into his chair.
“And what was it I missed, Biscuit?”
Biscuit’s odd eye rolled in his head, while he winked his normal one. “On a hint from the doctor, who told me ya was fanatical fer it, I cooked up a shank o’ fried goat!”
The men all laughed when Fly glared at Leander. “Had I received intelligence in advance of the delicacy you planned to serve us for our supper, I’d never have bothered to investigate the desertion of our men.”
Captain Prickett sat back leisurely in his chair, his wine glass propped up upon his prodigious belly. “And how many have we lost while sitting here in Halifax Harbour, Mr. Austen?”
“Four landmen and two sailors,” answered Fly, somewhat perplexed at Prickett’s devil-may-care attitude.
“Their names?”
Fly reached into his uniform jacket to produce a slip of paper, upon which the names of the missing men were recorded, and handed it over to Prickett who pursed his lips in concentration as he perused the list.
“A weakling, a scoundrel, three troublemakers, and one saphead,” pronounced Prickett, carelessly flipping the paper onto the oak table. “In addition to ourselves, Mr. Austen, I granted leave to no one but Biscuit and my purser, so they could round up fresh provisions in the victualling yard, and to Morgan Evans, and a few men of his choosing, who went in search of a new foremast. Did you learn how these men were able to leave the ship?”
“They swam to shore.”
“They swam! Why there’s hardly one amongst us that can swim!”
“I believe they took along a barrel or two to aid them.”
Prickett harrumphed. “Well the lot of them are dolts. They won’t be missed.”
“With your permission, I’ll send a few trustworthy men ashore to track them down, as I understand you’d like to weigh anchor tomorrow morning.”
“Do not bother yourself, Mr. Austen. We’re better off without them.”
“But we’re so short of able-bodied men.”
“If you’d told me that Dr. Braden had left us abruptly —” he paused to acknowledge Leander with a bow of his head, “I might consider going after him, but these men are an insult to the service; in fact, I’m rather pleased they’re gone. Nothing to be done now but write an R beside their names in the ship’s muster book.”
“An R?” asked Leander, looking to his naval companions for an answer.
“It stands for Run, Doctor,” replied Prickett.
Fly and Leander exchanged looks before returning to their wine. While Bridlington brooded — perhaps hoping no one would pin the blame on him, as he had been left in charge — Fly switched the subject. “Captain, upon your return from shore this afternoon, you said you’d received updated orders. Are we still returning to England?”
“We are, but now we shall have company.”
“Will we be travelling in a convoy?”
“No, thank goodness!
Fly narrowed his dark eyes. “But I understood the Admiralty demanded all Royal Navy ships travel in groups these days.”
“You understood correctly, Mr. Austen, but I detest having to stay all together, especially when crossing the Atlantic in all manner of weather, with ships that travel at various speeds, and with captains who are invariably suffering from drunkenness or pompous egoism.” Prickett shifted his bulk toward his first lieutenant. “Bridlington, remember the annoyance of escorting those two merchantmen back in June?”
The first lieutenant’s answer was high-toned. “Aye, sir!”
“Why the minute we were shot at, they took off like frightened women! Nay! There shall be no convoy.” Prickett extended his glass toward Biscuit so that he could refill it. “We’ve been instructed to stick like tar to a government mail packet, HM Lady Jane.”
“A packet? And what will she be carrying?” asked Fly.
“In addition to eight guns and a crew of thirty-six, she will be carrying several important dispatches, private goods, a dozen or so passengers, and gold bullion.”
“A tempting target for Yankee privateers?” offered Leander.
“Precisely, Doctor, thus the reason we’re to escort her home. These packets have had a hell of a time fighting off enemy privateers of late.”
“With us about, no one would dare attack her,” said Bridlington, contemplating his bandaged hand.
“No one except perhaps Prosper Burgo and his unruly Remarkables,” smiled Fly.
“Thank goodness they are on our side,” Leander smiled back.
They raised their near-empty glasses and cried in unison: “To our ships at sea.”
“And may God steer us and the Lady Jane safely home,” added Captain Prickett. He slurped up the last of his wine, and set his relaxed gaze upon Leander. “On second thought, Doctor, should you like to get ashore for an evening before we set sail, I shall grant you leave. I did promise you earlier, and have not yet kept my word. You could visit a grog-shop or two, mingle with the fair ladies awhile — you will find them most accommodating company — and keep an eye out for our missing Amethysts.”
“But, sir,” yelped Bridlington, “what if my hand should start bleeding again and the doctor’s not here to tend to it?”
Prickett’s gaze slid around the table before settling upon Bridlington’s ashen face. “I’ll seize one of the doctor’s colossal knives, cut off your entire hand in one swift blow, and be done with your incessant snivelling once and for all!”
Lord Bridlington cast his wandering eyes toward the cabin’s ceiling, and loudly exhaled to display his indignation.
Prickett snorted and repeated his suggestion to Leander. “It’ll do you good to get off the ship for a while, Doctor.”
“Thank you, Captain, but seeing as you may have to amputate Mr. Bridlington’s hand, I’d better stay to make certain you do a decent job of it.”
“Suit yourself, man,” said Prickett, who then leaned in companionably close to Leander and gave him a wink. “But, tell me, on those nights when visitors did come from shore … did you not take advantage of … well, you know … of any opportunities?”
Leander calmly maintained eye contact with Prickett. “I was very much occupied with the dozen or so men who suffered bad falls apparently brought on while doing cartwheels and handstands on the deck for the benefit of the female visitors.”
Bridlington, trying to salvage his dignity, jumped back into the conversation. “I daresay I should’ve liked it if that Jim Beef had deserted with the lot of those weaklings! He’s become most irksome.”
“How so?” barked Prickett, looking about to see where Biscuit and the wine bottle had gone.
“Last night, around midnight, I found him perched in the rigging, proclaiming to be Davy Jones, saying that the Amethyst was a floating coffin and that we were all heading to our doom. Can’t you do something about him, Doctor?”
“I can heal a man physically, Lord Bridlington,” said Leander, “but just as you cannot harness the wind whilst your ship sits in the doldrums, I cannot harness a man’s mind.”
Prickett punched Bridlington in the arm. “But we are, man.”
Bridlington pulled back and twisted his skinny neck to stare at his captain. “We are what, sir?”
“Sooner or later, we are heading to our doom.”
9:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Two Bells
)
As twilight settled upon the hills of Halifax and her harbour, the lights in her scattered homes and on the anchored ships gleamed like stars that had fallen to earth, and the air that whispered around the Amethyst was fresh and clean on this August night. Magpie sat upon a dilapidated box by the bowsprit on the fo’c’sle deck, his unattended mending upon his lap, his tall Isabelle hat upon his dark curls, and smiled to himself as he listened to the rich, deep-toned voice of Morgan Evans who was singing to a cluster of men seeking entertainment before retiring to their hammocks.
But should thou false or fickle prove
To Jack who loves thee dear
No more upon my native shore
Can I with joy appear
But restless as the briny main
Must heartless heave the log
Shall trim the sails and try to drown
My sorrows in cans of grog.
Unable to find a second available box for himself, Dr. Braden sat beside Magpie on the deck planks and rested his back against the square, clunky carriage of a bow-chaser. He had managed to affix the handle of the lantern he carried onto a protruding piece of the large gun, so that its flame flickered by his shoulder, enabling him to read his slim volume of poetry. Magpie had never before heard the name Robert Burns of Scotland, although Dr. Braden admitted to having a great appreciation of his poetical works. A few yards from where the two relaxed, the sailors tapped their toes, clapped their hands, and at times raised their voices in song with Morgan. Amongst them was Meg Kettle, swinging her hips about in dizzying circles, occasionally lifting her coarse skirt to show the grog-mellowed sailors a bit — or in her case a lot — of leg. It seemed to Magpie that the laundress had quite forgotten her heartbreak in losing Prosper Burgo, and was tickled to be the centre of attention once again, now that Captain Prickett had announced their leaving Halifax at first tide, insisting the men be early to bed and alert for their departure, and thus stemming the nightly flow of female shore visitors to the Amethyst.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 45
