Curling up into a foetal position, Emily burrowed her face into her pillows, and, as she waited for sleep to come, she clutched her treasures, and dreamed of possibilities.
23
Wednesday, August 25
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
Aboard HMS Amethyst
Fly Austen supported himself against the netting of stowed hammocks on the ship’s waist to follow the horizons with the spyglass he had borrowed from the sailing master — Magpie still had possession of his — trying to locate the ships the little sailmaker had first spotted the previous afternoon. Until nightfall they remained in view, never once straying from their course or attempting to gain in speed, one always lagging behind the other. Were they spies? Friends? Foes? Royal Navy? American Navy? Neutral merchantmen? Fishing vessels? At such a great distance, he simply had no idea. Consequently, he had spent a fitful night, sick with worry lest they be belligerents biding their time, and when the first light of day illumined the sea he had hurried above deck — half-dressed in an open-necked shirt and knee breeches — to make certain they had not surreptitiously crept up on the Amethyst under cover of darkness. Mercifully they had not; they were nowhere to be seen. Still, Fly watched, peering into the low cloudbanks, careful not to mistake the white clouds for canvas.
“You don’t mind, do you, sir?”
Hearing the youthful voice behind him, Fly lowered the glass and wheeled about to see Morgan shifting from foot to foot, his trousers rolled to his knees, a bucket of greenish water in one hand and in the other a holystone — the soft, brittle sandstone used to scour the deck; named, in part, for its resemblance to a bible.
“I was hoping to scrub the quarterdeck before breakfast, but I can come back later if you wish, sir.”
“You shan’t be in my way,” Fly said with a smile, always pleased to engage the carpenter in conversation. “Tell me, are you shouldering your punishments well?”
“I am, sir. ’Tis nothing to scrub the decks alone — works off a bit of restlessness of the mind and body. I do miss the evening pastimes with the lads; have to keep myself cheered by humming tunes in my head. Staying clear of Lord Bridlington is the easiest part, quite painless really.” Morgan frowned. “The grog on the other hand —”
“Aye! The grog! Well, it’ll be restored to you come Friday.”
“For that I’m thankful, sir. You’ve been most kind.” Morgan tucked the holystone up under his arm so he could transfer the weight of the bucket to his opposite hand. “Have there been any sightings this morning, sir?”
“Nothing, but as you know all that can change in an instant.” Fly held up his spyglass and gave it a playful shake. “Therefore, we must all keep a sharp lookout.”
“Magpie will be up soon, sir. He said if I was to see you to let you know he’ll be back on the mizzen the minute he’s downed his oatmeal and ale.”
“Is he still sleeping on the floor of your cabin, Mr. Evans?”
“Aye, he’s done so for four nights now. First night, finding him curled up at my door, I nearly hauled off and kicked him. Mistook him for a groggy landman who’d lost his way to bed.”
“Does he sleep well?”
“Cries out at times.”
“But he hasn’t yet told you what it was that frightened him?”
“Nay, he’s revealed nothing, but then, for a little fellow, he’s very proud.”
“I wondered if perhaps Mrs. Kettle was trying to harm him.”
“Could be, sir. He did say he didn’t want to sleep in the hospital; that he hated being called Maggot Pie.”
“Hmmm, and yet we all know Mrs. Kettle hasn’t left her hospital cot since her run-in with the mainmast.”
“If I may conjecture, sir, she’s far too contented in the hospital to return to her laundry.”
“I must own, Mr. Evans, were Dr. Braden with us he would’ve dismissed her the instant he was assured her baby was out of harm’s way.”
“More than likely, he would’ve trundled her out, sir!”
They shared a quiet laugh, muted at the mention of their missing friend.
Fly set his chin. “You’ll keep me informed of Magpie’s well-being?”
“I will, sir.”
When the two had parted, Fly considered returning to his cabin to change. Instead he ambled toward the stern, pausing to speak to the officers on watch, nodding to those who wished him a “Good morning.” He was bounding up the steps to the poop deck when a voice cried out from way on high. Arching his back, his searching glance finally landed on the mizzentop where Magpie, already back at his station, was swinging from the topmast shrouds, his face incandescent with excitement.
“Sir! Look!” he gasped, pointing west. “It’s them agin.”
1:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)
Since co-operation was found wanting amongst those in charge of the Amethyst, Fly singlehandedly organized the ship’s company for the eventuality of an encounter the moment they had eaten their dinner and left their mess tables to return to work. Contrary to Captain Prickett’s sentiment, the men appeared to relish their preparatory drills and employments, filling them with much-needed pride of purpose. Standing next to Mr. McGilp at the wheel, though his foot tapped nervously against the deck, Fly’s dark eyes swept the bustling decks with satisfaction. In a circle of vivid red on the ship’s waist, the marines were cleaning their muskets; men were scurrying to replenish round shot in the holes of the hatchway coamings; they lugged boxes of grapeshot on deck, laid out powder horns, wads, and matches by the carronades, loaded pikes into buckets, and worked together to rig the sauve-tête: the blanket of netting that would protect them from the inevitable hail of splinters, spars, and blocks should it come to an all out battle. All was abuzz, all were stepping lively. Gone was the somnolence, which had hung upon the Amethysts for days like a pall, leaving Fly questioning whether Prickett had previously ordered their morning beer to be laced with a soporific drug.
Fly’s gaze stopped on Lord Bridlington, whose pace on the poop deck was decidedly slower than the encircling gun crews moving like bees in a hive around the long guns, fitting them out, and rehearsing the steps involved in their loading and firing. The man was mincing about in an indolent fashion, as if he were browsing in a circulating library. At once, Fly marched toward him. “Have you nothing to do?”
Bridlington glared at him. “I don’t like your tone, Mr. Austen.”
“I give no apology for my tone. But given our circumstances, since you seem to be at leisure, you could round up men to clear the bulkheads of the great cabin.”
“I don’t take my orders from you,” Bridlington whistled through the stumps of his front teeth, “for you are not yet the commander of this ship.”
Fly’s voice remained dead calm. “Nay, but when I am, you’d better hope the Admiralty grants you a transfer to a different ship.”
Some of Bridlington’s confidence fell away. “Besides … besides, Captain Prickett expressly requested we keep his cabin intact.”
“Where is your captain?”
“In the hospital,” the first lieutenant replied, hastily pushing past him to resume his stroll.
“Patience, patience,” Fly cautioned, stemming his anger with thoughts of how he would have dealt with such an insubordinate on the Isabelle. A little shot rolling might do the trick. Wouldn’t he love to see Bridlington knocked off his feet? He made his way to the forepeak, where Osmund Brockley now proudly presided over the ill and the injured. Stopping short at the bottom of the ladder, he found Prickett ensconced in a hammock, his eyes tearing up, laughing hysterically along with Meg Kettle, who lay on her side in her own bed, one arm cradling her head, her shirt indecently exposing the rounded tops of her bosom.
“The men are ready, sir.”
Prickett rolled heavy eyelids toward Fly. “For what, Mr. Austen?”
“For action. We’re most assuredly being followed.”
“Why are yo
u always so goosey, man? My guess is they are whalers, travelling together for safety’s sake.” He winked at Mrs. Kettle. “I bet I’m right, Meggie.”
“I betcha are too,” flirted the laundress.
“Excuse me, sir, but are you not well?”
With a long groan, Prickett dropped his head upon his pillow. “Nay! Not at all, Mr. Austen. I’ve such flutterings of the heart, and shifting pains in my gut, and excessive secretions in the pits of my arms. And, if that weren’t enough, I’m plagued with frequent bouts of diarrhea.”
Mrs. Kettle covered her mouth to titter.
Fly shot a quizzical glance at Osmund, who swiftly lowered his head to devote his full attention to the stirring and cooling of his soup. “Mr. Brockley, what are you giving him for his various complaints?”
“Laudanum, sir.”
“With what?”
“He likes it taken with whiskey, sir.”
When another glance at Prickett revealed the man had slipped into a stupor, Fly squeezed his eyes shut. “Mr. Brockley, I’m no doctor, but I ask that you see me before you give the captain another tincture of opium.”
“Right, sir, but he won’t like it. He’s been beggin’ fer it nonstop.”
Fly rounded on Mrs. Kettle, who, without her amiable companion to amuse her, was now pretending to read a book. “Get up, and return to your chores.”
“I don’t want to do the launderin’ no more.”
“You’re quite welcome to take your concern up with the captain when he’s gathered his wits.”
“Me back hurts so.”
“Would you prefer to have the job of trapping the rats in the hold?”
Mrs. Kettle pulled an ugly face.
“We’re always short of topmen. How do you think you would fare on the yards’ footropes, Mrs. Kettle?”
“I don’t hear no one callin’ ya Captain.”
“Get up at once. Do not make me call for the bosun and his rattan.”
“Ya wouldn’t hit a lady!”
“No, but he wouldn’t hesitate!” Fly stood his ground until Mrs. Kettle had reluctantly flipped from her hammock.
“If I lose me babe,” she squabbled, casting about for her shoes, “it’ll be on account o’ yer orderin’ me back to hangin’ laundry when I’m still sufferin’ so.”
“While I’m most happy to hear that you didn’t lose your child, Mrs. Kettle, you should thank your stars that you’ve not yet lost your head.”
Comprehending his meaning at once, Mrs. Kettle blanched as white as the Amethyst’s fore and aft sails. Plucking up her shoes, she hurried from the hospital with them still in her arms. Perhaps worried he too would become a recipient of Mr. Austen’s wrath, Osmund slunk away and began rearranging the bottles and jars in Dr. Braden’s medicine chest.
Fly stood in the middle of the hospital, his eyes blurring on Leander’s writing box. It was a mess; it was all a mess. Nothing was as it should be. He waited until he felt more tranquil before returning to the quarterdeck, wishing he could retreat to the wardroom to drink wine rather than leading the ill-prepared Amethysts through more anxious hours.
Just as he set foot on the ladder, one of the ship’s guns exploded.
1:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)
If Fly thought chaos was reigning supreme in Dr. Braden’s hospital, he was chagrined to find a smoking carronade and disorder on the poop deck.
“We was just practisin’, sir; I was just leadin’ the lads through the drill, and she misfired,” said the gun captain, his blackened face transfixed with shock, standing there holding the gunlock’s lead cover in his hand. At his feet were three of his crew: one scorched and inert, another gawping at his red, raw arms, and the third swearing profusely at a little powder monkey for stealing the buttons from his torn shirt. A fourth man sat nearby, grimacing in pain, his foot having been crushed under the recoiling weight of the gun carriage.
Exacerbating the situation was Lord Bridlington, who’d been thrown to the deck in the blast. He lay on his stomach, arms and legs spread-eagle, as if he were about to be flogged in a prone position. “They tried to kill me!” he shrieked. “There was a plot afoot to kill me!”
Ever mindful of the pain and scars of his own burns, and desiring only to get the injured down to the hospital, Fly’s response was unsympathetic. “Curtail your nonsense, Mr. Bridlington.”
“The very second I walked by that gun it went off. Treason! Treason, I say!” he whistled, getting up to gently strike his limbs, as if to make certain he was still all there.
“Did you lose another finger?”
Bridlington brought his hands to his face. “Noooo.”
“Then you can pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and make yourself useful.”
In no mood to deal with Bridlington’s indignation, Fly turned away to rally volunteers. “See to these men! Easy now! Fetch the stretchers if need be! Run ahead and tell Mr. Brockley he’ll soon have four more patients.” Sighting Morgan’s distinctive woolly thrum cap in the crowd, he pulled the carpenter aside. “Could you provide some assistance in the hospital? I fear Mr. Brockley is in way over his head. If he carries on as he has been, we’ll all be devoted to laudanum when we reach England.”
Morgan’s fist touched his cap accordingly, and he was about to head off when he discovered Magpie at his side. Having scuttled down the mizzen the minute the ship stopped rocking, the little sailmaker had overhead Mr. Austen’s request. “If ya want, sir, I’ll help too. I knows somethin’ o’ bandages, and sand on the floor, and the like.”
“I’m grateful to you, Magpie. Perhaps you could sprinkle vinegar on the floor? I believe a good disinfecting is long overdue.”
Magpie nodded, recognizing the importance of his new role.
Morgan caught Fly’s attention, his lips moving silently. “What about Mrs. Kettle?”
“Trundled out,” he mouthed in reply.
Having cleared the accident scene, Fly rushed back to the taffrail to raise his spyglass once again. Was it his imagination? Had the ships gained on them? He gazed up at the Amethyst’s sails; not all of them were set. Where was the sailing master? It was imperative they stay ahead of them, at least until nightfall. He was about to call for the ship’s speed, and to the captain of the tops to see to the unfurling of the gallants, when, as if in answer to their misfiring gun, there came an answer back.
A single gun boomed over the water, sending a chill through Fly. Around him, the Amethysts stopped in their tracks. Still clutching boxes and pikes and muskets and cannonballs, their eyes flew to the stern. At so far a distance, what did it mean? Was it a signal from a friend, or a signal to war?
At sea
Leander lifted his head up, and as he listened, he nudged Biscuit, who lay slumped against him.
“Did you hear that?”
“Hear what?” grumbled Biscuit, rubbing his sleepy eyes. “I hear nothin’ but me belly. I swear I swallowed two crabby old women that’re scratchin’ at one another’s faces.”
“Shhh! Listen!” whispered Leander. “Guns firing!”
“I figured it would come to this. Yer hallucinatin’, Doc.” Biscuit looked over at their companions, who were asleep in the skiff’s stern, their mouths open as if hoping to catch a flying fish, one still grasping onto the ropes that governed their single sail. “Apparently, our mates heard nothin’.”
“Wake them up! We must steer toward the guns,” insisted Leander.
“Oh, nice! Folly it is then. Did ya wanna sail below their batteries, and get shot to pieces?”
“Perhaps Providence will smile on us, and we’ll discover they’re the guns of our countrymen.”
“And what if they ain’t?”
“At this point, I no longer care.”
They exchanged a meaningful glance.
“Right then,” whispered Biscuit. Moving nothing more than the muscles of his mouth, he barked, “You there, Helmsman!” It took a considerable amount of Biscuit’s waning ene
rgy, and more than one bark to rouse the comatose sailors, as well as a few minutes of waiting before the one holding the sailing ropes looked up in anticipation. “We’re settin’ a new course! Tell ’im where to, Doc.”
Leander felt a flutter in his belly, and a tingling in his weakening limbs. Pressing his clasped hands to his lips, he finally called out, “Due south.”
24
Wednesday, August 25
2:00 p.m.
Winchester
Gus could hardly believe his ears. What was it old Dr. Braden had just said to his Aunt Sophia? He pinched himself. Was he dreaming? Hoping to hear the suggestion repeated, he fixed his shining eyes on the doctor, who sat across from him at the small oak table in the kitchen at Butterfield Farm. Begrudgingly, his aunt had prepared tea, but in doing so had mortified Gus by refusing to take out her porcelain teapot and saucers from the sideboard, using the excuse that “a country doctor such as yerself deserves, I suppose, nothing more than a clay mug and a basin of bread and butter.”
Old Dr. Braden did not seem in the least bit put off by Aunt Sophia’s scarcity of charm and hospitality, and, thankfully, his surprising suggestion — nay, his invitation — had served to dampen Gus’s embarrassing recollection of the unfavourable beginning to his unexpected call.
“You see, I have occasion to visit a cousin in London who’s long been ailing, and, I thought, as I should only be away a few days, why not take Mr. Walby with me?” He turned to smile at Gus. “Besides, I believe he has a special someone there whom he’s most anxious to see again.”
It took a moment for Aunt Sophia, who was bouncing her homely, ill-tempered baby on her lap, to snap shut her suspended mouth. She seemed as dumbfounded with the invitation as was Gus. “Ya mean that haughty princess what didn’t have the decency to make me acquaintance on the day that fat Duke what’s-his-name left Gus here?”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 62
