Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Gus looked up in surprise to see the neighbour grinning down at him. “The sender saw fit to pay the postage.”

  Bursting into smiles he could barely contain, and grasping the letter so tightly the wind could not possibly wrest it from his fist and send it sailing over the sheep fields, Gus limped to a quiet corner of the courtyard and leaned against his aunt’s whitewashed shed. The words on the letter — his very first ever — had been executed in the most magnificent script: Master Augustus Walby, Midshipman, Butterfield Farm, Winchester. With trembling fingers, he carefully broke open the wax seal.

  Bushy House

  Monday, August 23rd

  My Dear Master Walby,

  I am distressed to hear that so much time has gone by without you receiving a letter from my niece. I cannot fathom why she has delayed corresponding with you, for I have been informed she does nothing all day long but read books on surgery and go for lengthy walks; however, be assured that she is well and in good hands. You may write to her at the following address:

  Hartwood Hall, Helena’s Lane, Hampstead Heath, London

  I trust you are thriving and well attended by the amiable and obedient doctor from Steventon, and that upon your complete recovery you are very much looking forward to your return to the sea.

  Your much obliged, and very sincere friend,

  William, Duke of Clarence.

  Gus let out a loud whoop, and hurried toward the house as fast as his strong leg and crutch could take him, fully resolved — even if it meant an extra hour or two of back-breaking chores before bedtime — to beg Aunt Sophia for a single sheet of paper and a spot of ink so he could dash off a letter forthwith to Hartwood Hall.

  11:00 a.m.

  Portsmouth Harbour

  Trevelyan found Twitch, wrapped like an Egyptian mummy in his stolen velvet coat, in a reeking corner of the orlop deck, near the Black Holes: the poorly ventilated, damp cells below the waterline, into which prisoners were lowered for committing shipboard crimes. Twitch’s chalky, skeletal face was pressed against an iron-grilled scuttle cut into the hull, so that he could draw breath and bask in its tiny slit of daylight. Inspecting the encircling gloom to make certain there were no spies listening in — English, American, or otherwise — Trevelyan dropped down on the floor beside him, and was careful to speak in subdued tones.

  “I haven’t crossed paths with you lately on deck.”

  Twitch’s eyes fluttered open and narrowed as if to ascertain the identity of the speaker, but he kept his prone position on the floor. “Ain’t they dragged ya off to Newgate yet?”

  “I have not yet had the privilege,” was Trevelyan’s droll reply.

  Twitch snorted. “Why then haven’t ya tried to escape?”

  “I’ve already witnessed the attempts of those who’ve tried and abjectly failed to flee through a hole in the hull, or hide out in the water casks carried back to shore.”

  “What happened to ’em?” Twitch asked with fervour.

  “One drowned, his body washed up on the mud flats, the other is languishing a few feet from you in his lonely Black Hole. I believe I can hear the poor fellow sobbing as we speak.”

  “Ya ain’t afraid of the Black Holes, are ya?”

  “I can think of more agreeable places in which to pass my hours.” Trevelyan changed up the subject. “So then, are you ill?”

  “I’m feeble; I haven’t eaten fer days.”

  “Have you been playing at cards and suffered the cruelties of bad luck?”

  “Aye! Lost me meal rations … lost me exalted place on the gun deck … lost me trousers … lost everythin’ but me coat and tricorne. Ain’t givin’ them up.”

  “When do you expect to eat next?”

  “Haven’t a clue. What day is it?”

  “Tuesday.”

  “Right then, I eat again tomorrow.”

  Trevelyan could see that Twitch had his esteemed tricorne wrapped up in his coat, and quietly he produced a half loaf of coarse bread from the open neck of his shirt. The aroma of food instantly roused Twitch, who peered up again. “Have ya come to share yer meal with me then?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “I thought maybe we was comrades forever.”

  “I make no man my friend.”

  Twitch went silent, shutting his eyes again.

  “Give me your hat, and I’ll give you this morsel of bread.”

  “Tell me first … how did ya get yer hands on it? Did ya swindle it from the cook when he wasn’t lookin’?”

  “I did not! It’s honest payment.”

  “Payment fer what?”

  “Whilst you were gambling away your belongings and meat rations, I’ve set up classes.”

  One of Twitch’s eyes popped open. “Classes? What! Here on the Illustrious?”

  “Aye, classes! And thanks to one of your compatriots, we have a decent supply of ink, pens, and paper.”

  “What’re ya teachin’ at?”

  “Mathematics, mainly, although there’re those who have additionally pleaded for lessons in geography and reading.”

  “What do they want with all o’ that nonsense?”

  “They hope to improve their lot when they’re released or exchanged.”

  Twitch managed a weak guffaw. “A waste o’ time, I say. They might as well realize this here hulk’s their home ’til the end o’ time.” He raised his head to sniff the bread. “It pains me to part with me tricorne, but I’m thinkin’ … if I don’t eat soon, I’ll perish, and I’m right dismayed thinkin’ of meself as a stiffened corpse with no prospect of seein’ home again.” He opened the velvet coat and held out the hat.

  With sang-froid Trevelyan accepted it, giving him the bread in return, and then sat back to watch with amusement as Twitch ravenously bit into the hardened lump, ripping off a big chunk of it with his broken teeth. “There’s more where that came from.”

  Twitch’s answer arrived only when he’d managed his first swallow. “Ya just said we ain’t comrades.”

  “No, we are not, but there’s something else I want from you.”

  “I’ve nothin’ left to barter with.”

  “Oh, but you do,” said Trevelyan, rising and leaving the American to lick up every last grain of his bread.

  4:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

  Aboard HMS Amethyst

  Clutching the spyglass in one sweaty palm, Magpie knocked timidly on Captain Prickett’s door. He wasn’t even certain he was allowed to do such a thing, and he trembled with worry lest he be punished for taking such a liberty. It seemed everything worried him now. There was a constant anxiety at work, unrelentingly champing on his stomach; he was not the brave little sailmaker the Amethysts thought him to be. But he had to have a word with Mr. Austen, and since no musket-wielding marine was about to halt him, he took a deep breath and mastered his composure.

  A servant swung the great door open, allowing Magpie to see the important men gathered around a map-strewn table, their faces as red as beets, as if they’d been at odds with one another. As soon as they realized who had come to disturb them, Captain Prickett’s lower lip jut out in a show of annoyance and Bridlington’s crooked nose flared violently. Next to them, Mr. Austen looked relieved, indeed grateful, as if he needed a reason to escape from the stale air, which the captain and the first lieutenant were reputed to frequently blow about.

  “Pardon me, Mr. Austen, but I need to speak to ya … in private if yer able, sir.”

  Mr. Austen lost no time in obliging Magpie. He collected his uniform jacket from the back of his chair, and was in the middle of excusing himself when a grumbling Prickett suddenly shouted, “One moment, sailmaker,” and, upturning his jutting lip at Mr. Austen, he said, “I say we preserve our ammunition for the occasion when we have most need of it.”

  “Then I must ask again, sir, that you remember we’re still at war with both America and France. At any time now, we may encounter hostilities. Against an enemy man-o’-war we
have a chance, but these privateers, they sail swiftly and are capable of overwhelming a large ship such as ours in an instant. We must be ready. If we have one chance at a broadside, our aim must be accurate.”

  “We travel alone on this vast sea, Mr. Austen. Why we haven’t even spotted the spout of a whale.”

  “And our little storm of a week ago,” added Bridlington, lisping through his chipped teeth, his eyes sliding along the ceiling planks, “rather than throwing us off course, has nudged us nicely toward England.”

  “Bridlington’s quite right! We’re making excellent time. If these fresh winds continue, we’ll be in Portsmouth in two weeks’ time, perhaps less.” Prickett pulled his lip in. “Mr. Austen, I wish you wouldn’t worry so. Look how well our Amethysts behaved against Trevelyan and his lot.”

  Magpie was certain he saw a tremor pass through Mr. Austen’s upper body before he wilted — just like a thirsty flower — in frustration. “How silly of me to have forgotten their superb conduct on that day. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Without giving Prickett and Bridlington another glance, he hurried Magpie out of the captain’s cabin and led him away from prying ears. Though his countenance was still florid and his question direct, his manner was gentle. “What’s all this?”

  “I don’t want to rouse the lads, sir, but I’ve seen somethin’ through yer glass. My sight ain’t like Mr. Walby’s — ya always said he had the keenest eyes of anyone — but I think maybe I’ve spotted a sail.”

  “Where?”

  “Off the stern, comin’ from the west.”

  Mr. Austen made a sweeping glance around him; there was a sparse scattering of men on the decks, and no one at all on the yards, most of them having gone down for their supper. “Follow me,” he instructed. His gait was nonchalant, as if he was hoping to attract little attention to himself.

  Arriving at the taffrail, Magpie handed him the spyglass and pointed in the general direction. For unbearably long minutes, Mr. Austen slid the glass around on the horizon, grunting now and then as he fixed his sight on various points of the sea.

  Busting at the seams with hope, Magpie had to know. “Do ya think it’s them, sir?”

  Mr. Austen brought down the glass, keeping his eyes on the ocean. “It’s too far off to know for certain.”

  “It’s a sail then, sir, and not me ’magination?”

  “’Tis,” concurred the commander, snapping the glass shut. As if unaware of the expectant boy at his side, he stood still for a time, the breezes ruffling his dark hair, the afternoon sun shining fully on his face, highlighting a melancholy that was hard for Magpie to look at. When he spoke again, his voice was so hollow and suppressed that Magpie felt like an eavesdropper on his thoughts. “Perhaps it’s time you steel your heart against your imagination.”

  “What’re ya sayin’, sir?”

  Mr. Austen gazed down at him. “I believe you understand me, Magpie.”

  “I won’t never lose hope, sir, if that’s what yer sayin’.”

  “For that I am grateful.” Mr. Austen placed his spyglass in Magpie’s hands, drew himself up to his full height, and smiled. “Now, tell me, have you eaten today?”

  “Nay, sir, I only just came off the mizzen top to tell ya what I seen.”

  “The mizzen? And here I thought you’d set up watch on the foretop?”

  “I … I did at first, sir,” said Magpie, powerless to explain the hostile visitation Saturday evening at midnight.

  “I shall have your supper sent to you straightaway, but you’ll take it on the mizzen. I need you to scramble up there and keep your eye latched to that sail. Should it gain on us, you must let me know … immediately. I’ll be in my cabin.”

  Magpie followed Mr. Austen’s eyes back to the whitish speck on the horizon. “What d’ya see, sir?”

  “Even from a far distance, there’s something in the aspect of a ship, and the way she sits in the waves, which reveals something of her temperament. Is she at leisure, or does she sail with purpose?”

  “What are ya supposin’, sir?”

  “We may soon have a chase on our hands.”

  5:00 p.m.

  At Sea

  Leander stared at the dead man, lying curled in a foetal position on the spiny planks of the skiff, and felt his weakened limbs coursing with dread. No one knew much about the man; why he’d barely uttered a word in the week they’d been bouncing about on the sea, barely taken a bite of salted pork or dried beans, and not one of them had been privy to his name.

  “What should we do with him, Doc?” asked Biscuit, lying against the skiff’s side, too exhausted to move a muscle.

  Leander shot a glance at their two remaining companions, who sat huddled in the stern, anxiety etched upon their sunburned faces, their eyes hollow with hunger. How much longer could they hold on? Their flasks of rum had been drained, their food was gone, the empty pails now employed to catch the rainwater that periodically fell from the heavens. Cramps had already seized their bellies, so wrenching and relentless in their assault, Leander could think of nothing but his physical agony.

  “We’ll … we’ll slip him over the side, and commit him to the sea,” he said in little more than a whisper.

  Biscuit locked eyes with him. “Sure ya don’t wanna eat him?”

  A disquieting image of the unknown man’s parents passed before Leander, standing together with their arms linked on some unnamed shore, the mother’s long skirts blowing in the breeze, both of them staring sadly out upon the Atlantic, wondering what had become of their son. Wouldn’t their pain be just as great as the searing despair his own grandparents had endured when their eldest son was lost at sea?

  “Though I’d prefer a dish o’ stovies meself, his flesh’ll keep us goin’ fer a few more days.”

  “He ain’t even one of ours, Doctor,” said one of the sailors at the stern.

  “He’s Yankee. He came on board with us after Trevelyan’s Serendipity foundered,” piped up the other, a strange glow working in his eyes.

  The thought of carving up the dead man caused Leander’s stomach to heave. “It makes no difference that he’s American … no difference at all.”

  Biscuit closed his eyes. “Ya’ll be right sorry, Doc, ’cause in a day or two yer hunger pains will drive ya mad.”

  Leander believed he’d already gone mad, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and impending doom. He would sell his soul to be taken away from this skiff and its torments, away from the sight of the empty food pails and vacant eyes of the sailors, if only for an hour … to stand upright, exercise his legs, eat to his fill, and then lay his head upon a feather pillow. Biscuit’s constant chatter had been a respite from his frightening reflections, but the Scottish cook had less to say now. In his present despair, Leander’s restless eyes fell upon the sailors’ hands, resting upon their legs, useless with inactivity and blackened with tar, and absently he picked up one of the ropes attached to the lugsail. If he rubbed his hands over the woven yarns, it left a residue of tar upon his palms, giving him an idea. Unravelling his shirt, piled as usual like a turban upon his head, he began tearing at it, grunting as he did so and startling Biscuit.

  “I didna mean fer ya to go mad this instant, Doc.”

  Leander said nothing and kept on, ripping a square of muslin from the tails of his shirt. Once he was satisfied with his handiwork, he set about inspecting the boat’s planks, searching for the perfect splinter. Having located one he tore it off, and with its pointed end attempted to extract a blister of tar from the ropes. Meeting with success, he began to draw a letter on his patch of muslin.

  “Might be best to use blood, Doc,” suggested Biscuit, as if guessing Leander’s intentions.

  With some enthusiasm, Leander pressed on, aware the men had pitched their full concentration upon his task, as if they figured he’d come up with a brilliant strategy to save them all. But when long minutes had passed, and he’d only managed to painstakingly write one poorly executed letter, Biscuit held out his knife. Staring at
its blade, glinting in the late afternoon sun, Leander hesitated.

  “If ya want, ya can cut into me,” said Biscuit, offering up one bare, hairy leg.

  “Why not cut the dead man, Doctor? He’ll be a right gusher,” said one of the sailors.

  “No,” said Leander gravely. “When the heart stops, the blood no longer gushes. It pools in the body, predominantly in the back and in the abdomen.”

  “Ahhh!” said the onlookers, their faces awash with wonderment.

  Biscuit placed his knife into Leander’s reluctant hands and retracted his proffered leg to allow the doctor space to squat down beside the dead man. Opening up the man’s shirt, Leander made a deep incision in his belly, slicing through the layers of skin and tissue until a trickle of black blood appeared. Then he dipped a fresh splinter into the small reserve of substitute ink, and set to work once more on his square of muslin, holding it up for approval upon its completion: Aug. 24 Alive in skiff. Find us.

  Biscuit’s comment was teeming with sarcasm. “Ya best add the word please.”

  Not one of them laughed.

  Leander soon lost heart. “We can wait ’til the blood dries, but we run the risk that the words will be washed away.”

  Biscuit raised a finger, and cried, “I got somethin’ fer it!” Reaching into his trousers, he shocked Leander by pulling out a watch and fob ribbon — items a wealthy gentleman might own, not a penniless Scottish cook. “It’s the sum total o’ me possessions, but here —” he gazed fondly at it before handing it off to Leander. “The watch stopped markin’ time long ago, so fold yer message up in it, and snap it shut. Might keep the words from fadin’, and then ya can pin the works on our dead comrade here. But take off his clothes. He don’t have no more use fer ’em.”

  Leander nodded in agreement, and with Biscuit’s assistance they stripped the dead man of his jacket and shirt, and pinned the ribbon and watch with its precious message onto his dungarees. The deed done, Leander struggled to raise himself up on his legs, which were completely bereft of strength.

  “We therefore commit the earthly remains of this unknown American to the deep, looking for the general resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ —” Leander stopped suddenly, unable to recall the rest from memory.