Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Morgan began to untie the pails at his waist. “I would’ve brought you some coffee, but I wasn’t allowed. We’re short on water ’cause a few of our scuttlebutts were stove in during the storm.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

  Magpie looked hopeful. “Could ya ask Jacko to stitch me up a new pair o’ shoes?”

  “What happened to yours?”

  “I fed ’em to the sea beasts.”

  “You what?”

  “I didn’t want ’em feedin’ on me legs.”

  Morgan chuckled when comprehension dawned upon him. “That was clever of you. Someone, somewhere, must’ve told you that leather, when soaked in water, makes a good meal.”

  “Biscuit told me, sir.”

  “Well, thankfully, our Scottish cook never tried serving us lads a pot of stewed shoes.”

  Magpie went quiet and stared absently at the contents of his soup pail, leaving Morgan anxious for more conversation. Studying the accumulation of leaden clouds above the topgallants, he quickly said, “I’ll fetch you a cape; looks like we’re in for some rain.”

  Magpie nodded in gratitude.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask you whatever happened to your Isabelle hat. I haven’t seen you wearing it for a while now.”

  “I lost it,” said Magpie gruffly, as if to curtail further inquiries on the subject.

  “Oh. Well, I … I can’t stay long. Mr. Austen said I could bring you your soup, so long as neither Prickett nor Bridlington see me.”

  Magpie peeked up at him, concern etched on his face. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, sir, what did they give ya?”

  Raising his fingers one at a time, Morgan spelled it out for him, listing the five punishments Captain Prickett had gravely and ceremoniously heaped upon him yesterday morning in the great cabin. “No grog for a week; no more singing on deck with the lads in the evening; forfeiture of any prize money we gain on this cruise; I have to holystone the entire quarterdeck ’til we reach England; and —” he paused to display amusement in the form of a broad smile, “and never again may I stand within twenty feet of Lord Bridlington.”

  Magpie whistled his relief. “Oh, Mr. Evans, I were so worried they might strap ya to gratin’ and give ya a hundred lashes.”

  “I’m lucky, Magpie, very lucky to have Mr. Austen fighting on my behalf. If Bridlington were captain, he’d have had me strung up. Why I’d be hanging here now, beside you on the yardarm, my neck all stretched, my face all blackened, my eyes bulging from their —”

  Magpie quickly clapped his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear it, sir. Even thinkin’ they might have killed ya churns me up.”

  “I’m sorry.” Morgan tapped the boy’s thin shoulder. “Tell you what, you eat up your meal and come down the lines with me. The lads would love to hear you play your flute. It’s been such awhile, and they’re hankering to hear Heart of Oak, and that favourite of yours, the one about the grazing sheep.”

  “I don’t have the heart fer it, sir,” said Magpie. “I need to stay here.”

  Morgan nodded his understanding. “But you can’t live on the platform forever. At least come down and sleep in your own hammock.”

  “I ain’t goin’ back to the sail room at night, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  Morgan grew suspicious when Magpie was so long in answering. “I had a bad dream down there, sir.”

  “Then return to the hospital. That way you’ll be with others.”

  “I don’t like bein’ called Maggot Pie.”

  Morgan smirked and slowly raised an upturned fist. “You know, it felt awfully good giving Bridlington a punch in the face. Maybe Mrs. Kettle needs one too.”

  “Ya wouldn’t hit a woman, would ya, sir? Even if she’s right nasty?”

  “One of these days … I just might.”

  There was a brief brightening of Magpie’s expression, but all too quickly the light left his eye and he turned toward the western horizon where, despite the gathering darkness above the ship, the sea was still drenched in evening sunshine.

  “I keep thinkin’ I hear Dr. Braden out there, callin’ to me, tryin’ to alert me to his whereabouts. And I wonder if he’s feelin’ cold and hungry and has to eat his leather shoes, and he’s worried he’ll never get to England to see his Em —” Magpie broke into a sob.

  Morgan waited, giving the boy time to collect himself. “Come down with me, Magpie.”

  “I can’t, sir.”

  “Then tell me, how much longer do you intend to stay at this?”

  “’Til I find Dr. Braden, ’til I no longer hear his voice.” Magpie raised the spyglass to his eye. “When he stops callin’ out to me.”

  Midnight

  The haunting clangs of the ship’s bell, denoting the end of the First Watch, gave Magpie a start on the foretop. Pulling the hooded cloak — the one Mr. Evans had kindly brought for him — closer still around his shivering shoulders, he lifted his face to the rain. He was chilled to the bone and in dire need of sleep, but he had to stay awake … he had to stay alert. What if Dr. Braden was out there right now, trying to signal the ship, his ebbing voice muffled by wind and waves? Over and over again, Magpie imagined the momentous moment when the Amethyst’s lost skiff would at long last come into view and he would cry out, “Heave to,” so loudly and with such spirit; he would afterward surely collapse in happiness. What a magnificent reunion they would all have! There would be clapping and singing and dancing, and he would pick up his flute and play the most joyous tunes he knew, and Captain Prickett would strut about the quarterdeck with his short arms hoisted high, calling for a celebratory feast, though he surely wouldn’t dare insist Biscuit prepare it for the cook would be waterlogged. It was this happy image that preserved him through the long, cheerless hours of waiting.

  Magpie gave his cheeks a vigorous slapping to stave off the heaviness of sleep. When the rain had first come, the topmen had been ordered up the mast to trim the fore topsail against the strengthening winds; now the footropes and yards were empty, those same men presumably asleep in their warm beds. It gave Magpie some comfort knowing he was not totally alone, that there were others moving about on the weatherdecks. At the very least, the helmsman would be standing at the wheel behind his lighted compasses in their binnacle; the Officer of the Watch would be recording the wind directions, as well as the ship’s course and speed on the log board; and a poor, able seaman would be balancing in the chains, heaving the lead to make certain they were still navigating in deep water. But up here — one hundred feet up the foremast — it was a lonely, secluded place at midnight, and the sea emitted such eldritch sounds, as if, somewhere out there in the gusty darkness, a gaggle of witches was chanting over its bubbling potions. If only Morgan Evans would come for another visit, and present him with a pail of steaming coffee and a happy explanation that, despite the dearth of drinking water, an exception had been made for him.

  No sooner was Magpie done wishing for Morgan than a figure appeared below in the misty gloom of the foredeck, and — to his initial delight — started up the starboard ratlines. Wiping the rain from his eye, Magpie blinked into the depths below his perch. The figure climbed awkwardly, with one hand holding a round hat to his head. He had the gait of a gangling individual, all arms and legs, and scaling the ropes seemed exhausting and unnatural to him. An icy chill crossed Magpie’s neck, as if ghostly hands had touched him. This was no friend coming with coffee and companionship, in pursuit of a bit of skylarking. And that hat he was wearing … well, Magpie was certain of it … it was his own, the one he had taken from the dead, drifting sailor after the burning of the Isabelle.

  Magpie grasped at the safety ropes that bound him to the top, incited by barbarous thoughts of being strangled by a pair of calloused hands and hurled into the sea like the fetid contents of Osmund Brockley’s sick-bay bucket. No one would see, no one would know, and if anyone did hear a splash in the night they would think i
t nothing more than the crash of a wave. Beneath his square of oak timber — all that separated Magpie from the spectre, indefensible as a bird’s eyrie — came a throaty voice, which rose up in a most dreadful declaration: “Woe and despair, woe and despair to all. The sea shall rise up and swallow the dead.”

  Magpie screamed at his ropes, cursing his rubbery, ineffectual fingers. His only chance for escape was fleeing down the larboard ratlines before the spectre had completed his own climb of the starboard rigging. But he had to move … now! A gurgle of laughter sent Magpie recoiling in shock, afraid to meet the blazing eyes that suddenly appeared, level with the platform. Slowly, deliberately, the spectre exposed the gruesome lineament of his face, and though obfuscated by the night, the lettering of HMS Isabelle embroidered across the round hat was clearly legible.

  From his swollen lips there came another dark declaration. “Penitence and obscurity, and the little sailmaker shall be no more.”

  Feeling the ropes loosen around him, Magpie rolled away, as far as he could from his unwelcome visitor, and, in an effort to gain the larboard ratlines, grabbed two blocks of tackle. But the spectre moved quickly. Like the tongue of a lizard, one of his sinewy arms shot out, snatching up Magpie’s bare foot and tugging and pumping on it gleefully, as if it were a toy. Within seconds hostile hands had closed around Magpie’s leg, and he felt himself being dragged to the edge of the foretop, like a vanquished soldier from the lofty parapets of his king’s castle, surely to be dropped and smashed upon the fo’c’sle. Locking his arms around the mast, Magpie squirmed and kicked with all his might, but all in vain, for the spectre’s grip was vicelike, his strength overwhelming. With a violent yank, Magpie was pulled from the security of the mast’s stump, his trembling fingers desperately scraping along the wooden platform, his legs soon dangling in the vast emptiness of the night air. Only a matter of seconds stood between life and a ghastly descent to his doom. Mustering his voice, he cried out for help, praying someone on watch would hear his plea. Squeezing his good eye shut, he waited for the inevitable plunge.

  But it never came.

  Mysteriously, the pernicious clutches let go, the spectre having turned abruptly away, vanishing from view as if something or someone had distracted him, and he was now engrossed in hurrying to deliver his reign of terror on another victim. His mutterings — now incoherent — gradually receded, becoming nothing more than an eerie echo, until, silenced completely, the gusty night resumed its fury in Magpie’s ears. Breathing heavily, his chest a madhouse of palpitations, Magpie crawled back to the lubber’s hole in the centre of the top where the huge mast rose up from the fore deck and, through the large cracks, peered into the rainy mists below. He could see no one on the shrouds or anywhere about on the deck. The spectre’s visit seemed as fantastical as his dreams of being reunited with Dr. Braden.

  Laying his head down on the cold, wet platform, Magpie wept with relief.

  Sunday, August 22

  Noon

  At Sea

  The nights proved to be so bitterly cold that the men were forced to huddle with one another to keep from perishing, but during the daylight hours, if the sun dominated the skies, their existence in the skiff was tortuous. To safeguard his freckled skin and hot head against the sun, Leander dipped his coat into the sea and wrung it out before slipping his arms into it, and then wrapped his muslin shirt around his head like a turban.

  “I’d do the same, Doc, but if we’ve a chance o’ bein’ spotted I’d best keep me shock o’ hair unbound,” said Biscuit, reaching instead for his flask of grog. “That way we might be perceived as a burnin’ vessel, and someone might come lookin’.”

  Leander’s weary gaze slid past the single mast and four-sided lugsail — with which the eighteen-foot skiff had propitiously been fitted out — toward the squared-off stern where two of their three companions lay asleep, curled up and half-naked under a makeshift roof of knotted shirts and trousers, while the third, who had barely said a word since the storm, kept wetting the sail to hold the light wind. Leander was thankful that not one of them had been lost; it was already more than he could bear, this gnawing fear, this drifting around in the Atlantic, wondering if there was any chance for survival, and, if not, would they all starve or be slowly roasted to death. Admittedly, he was strangely comforted by the presence of Biscuit, as the cook seemed genuinely nonchalant about their circumstances and, having no spirit for conversation, he was content to listen to Biscuit’s endless chatter, even though, after almost a week of it, the man had now taken to repeating himself and his seafaring yarns.

  “When the Isabelle was set afire, and we lads, along with Mr. Austen, were bobbin’ about, we had no food, no drink. Ach, we were a sorry lot. So I decided that won’t be happenin’ on the Amethyst, and hid a pail o’ salted pork and dried beans in every boat fer this kind o’ occasion. Of course, I couldn’t stash the grog away.”

  “Why is that?”

  “At night the lads on watch would sniff it out, and be sportin’ grog blossoms in the mornin’, the kind Mr. Austen would be sure to spot.”

  “Grog blossoms?”

  “Ya know, when yer all flush-faced from drinkin’.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “I grabbed nothin’ prior to leavin’ the sinkin’ Isabelle, so this time I made sure we wouldna go thirsty.” Biscuit helped himself to a carefully measured swig before passing off the flask to Leander, who, in turn, slid it along the boat’s ribbed bottom toward the taciturn coxswain.

  “I’m grateful for that which experience has taught you. It would be dire indeed if it weren’t for your beans and pork, and flasks of grog. I don’t think we would’ve survived long on handfuls of rainwater.”

  “Truth is, Doc, I’m always carryin’ a full flask hidden in me shirt. Ya won’t be tellin’ that to Mr. Austen now, will ya?”

  “If we’re so fortunate as to see Mr. Austen once more, rest assured, I shall be as silent as a cemetery on the subject.”

  Biscuit winked in thanks.

  “I … I’ve never experienced severe hunger, but the men I’ve known who’ve lived through a shipwreck, and thus met with it, tell me the stomach cramps are fierce.”

  “Aye, they be! When this lot’s gone, ya’ll know what I mean.”

  “I’ll not think of that now.”

  “Best not, Doc! When the time comes, we’ll draw lots.”

  “What for?”

  “To decide which one of us we’re going to eat.”

  “Oh! Shall we resort to cannibalism?”

  “Aye, that’s it!”

  “And how do you propose we kill the poor victim?” Leander asked the question, drawing deep breaths to keep his stomach from heaving. “Stick his head underwater until he drowns?”

  “Nay, we let ’im decide fer himself.”

  “How fortunate for him.”

  “Though ’tis best to bleed ’im, and the rest o’ us drink his blood, and gorge on his flesh.”

  “And end up with raging insanity?”

  “Won’t matter at that point.”

  “I suppose not,” said Leander in a hollow voice.

  They fell quiet, Leander searching the low waves and imagining — as he had for days now — being sighted by the Amethyst or the Lady Jane, or some such ship with friendly inclinations. But the hours passed slowly, agonizingly slow, and more often than not his daydreaming mind strayed toward the sinister eventuality that either an American or French frigate would find them, and forthwith despatch them to a godforsaken prison.

  He could not — would not — end his days on foreign soil, in obscurity, forgotten by all.

  It wasn’t long before Biscuit once again took up his chatter. “Been on the sea most of me life, seen a lot o’ men drown. I keep thinkin’ we all need a pair o’ special-made trousers or somethin’ to keep us afloat, should we have the misfortune o’ bein’ tossed overboard.”

  “Did you really see Magpie restored to the Amethyst?” It was a question Leander had alread
y asked a dozen times.

  “I tell ya, Doc, though I have a lazy eye, I swear to ya, the sea saw fit to take him right back to Mr. Austen. I seen the likes afore where one wave washes men overboard, and another washes them right back agin. Right astoundin’, it is!”

  “I do rest easier, knowing the boy is safe.”

  “He’ll be sick with worry when he learns yer gone, Doc.”

  Leander frowned. “He may be more distraught to think he’s lost forever his precious miniature of Emily.”

  Biscuit arched one of his bushy eyebrows. “His precious miniature, sir?”

  “You see, we share it,” said Leander, averting his eyes from Biscuit’s leering face, “and as I was the last to have the responsibility for it, I locked it away in my writing box.”

  Biscuit let go a long, gurgling sigh. “Ah, she were a fine lass. All o’ us loved her.”

  Leander could not trust himself to speak.

  “Well, aside from the privateersman Prosper Burgo, that is. Emily were a bit too scrawny fer his tastes; he preferred his Meggie, his roly-poly puddin’.”

  Still, Leander could say nothing; his heart was too full. He could not allow himself to think of Emily at all. The pain was worse than anything he had had to endure in the skiff. And yet he could not — without giving up on life — give up hope that he might one day see her again. With his eyes following the swirling puddles of seawater racing along the bottom of the boat, he could hear Biscuit digging around in the dwindling food pail. He looked up only when the cook placed a portion of salted pork into his hands.

  “Here, Doc, take a bite o’ this to keep yer energy up. ’Twould taste a sight better if we’d enough freshwater to soak it properly, but no mind. Eat up and set yer eyes on the waves. We’ve seen a sail or two in our travels. Might be we’ll see another one.”