Emily dragged herself back to the table. “Uncle, please! I’m not in a frame of mind to hear ultimatums regarding my future.”
For a moment, Uncle Clarence’s expression was one of confusion. “Oh! I see what you’re getting at! Well, my dear, I’m quite sure ultimatums will come later on, once I’ve had time to consult my brother, the Regent, and then fashion my wording of them in a way which will give you clarity of mind.” He sat down in Helena’s empty chair, and waved his letters in the air. “These have just arrived, and as the senders are individuals of great importance, I should like you to be apprised of their contents.”
10:30 a.m.
There was a gleam in Uncle Clarence’s eyes as he watched for the reaction from his audience of two before breaking the seal on the first letter — the one he deemed of most importance — and perusing its pages. “This one is from the office of the First Lord of the Admiralty,” he announced, “written by the Right Honourable the Viscount Melville himself.”
Emily pushed her cold breakfast around on her plate with a fork, and kept her eyes lowered as her uncle grunted over Lord Melville’s letter. A stolen glance at Somerton was completely disconcerting, for he was wearing a silly grin, and seemed pleased that she had returned to the table, as if the unpleasant exchange with his mother had never taken place. Unable to remember when she had last eaten — not having elected to dine with the family the previous evening — she had just speared a piece of potato, and was bringing it to her waiting mouth when her uncle’s ejaculations rent the air.
“God Almighty! My word! Hark’ee! This is bad news indeed!”
Emily looked up.
“What is it?” asked Somerton.
Uncle Clarence sat up a little straighter, held up his hand, and inhaled deeply. “Wait ’til I’ve read the others, for there’s another one here from Whitehall, and one from the Transport Office.” He continued to read, Emily watching in alarm as the rosy colour faded from his face and the lines on his brow deepened. When he was done, he slowly set the letters down beside his coffee cup and pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket. Rising solemnly from his chair, he began mopping his brow, and took up pacing before the windows, occasionally pausing to watch the rain drum the gardens. It was some time before he wheeled about to face them. “Lord Somerton, would you arrange for my carriage to be brought to the door? I must away to London this morning.”
“Of course,” said Somerton, looking quizzically at Emily as he jumped up to ring the bell for the butler.
Her heart thumping, Emily rushed to her uncle’s side. “First tell us what has transpired to cause you such dismay?” she insisted, leading him back to the table. “Is it Grandfather? Is he having hallucinations again?”
“No, my dear, it’s not the king.” Uncle Clarence allowed Emily to pour him another coffee and load it up with cream and sugar, although he normally drank it black. “The mail packet, the Lady Jane, arrived in Portsmouth the other day.”
“The Lady Jane? Of what significance is she?”
Uncle Clarence took Emily’s hands in his. “She was being escorted back to England from Halifax by your good friends on the Amethyst. About two weeks back, there was a horrendous storm; the seas were heavy, and the winds —”
Emily went white to the lips. She swallowed and was barely able to speak. “Please do not tell me the Amethyst was lost. Please —”
“The two ships were separated, and the crew of the Lady Jane has not seen her since. They had hoped to find her already moored in Portsmouth when they arrived home.”
Emily shut her eyes and prayed under her breath. Muted by the pouring rain, she could hear Somerton’s voice, giving instructions to the butler. He was standing but a few feet from where she sat, though he seemed miles away.
Uncle Clarence squeezed her hands. “There’s something more I must tell you, my dear.”
Emily pulled her hands from his. “No! Tell me no more!” she said in despair. “What little you have already said … I cannot bear.” She struggled to raise herself up, and began to creep toward the door like an elderly woman.
Uncle Clarence ran his handkerchief across his chin. “Emeline! You must hear this news from me. It won’t be long before all of England is speaking of it.”
Emily met her uncle, her eyes glistening with tears.
“It’s astonishing really, and no one in the Transport Office knows how he managed to effect it — being as there were no witnesses to his deception — but on the day he was to be moved to Newgate, Thomas Trevelyan escaped from his prison hulk, and his whereabouts at this time are regrettably unknown.”
30
10:30 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Five Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
The Amethyst did not wait for them. Captain Prickett shot off the minute he realized that Fly and the others weren’t coming back, but even as he set a new course for England and his sails began to billow with wind, he was still cursing into the speaking trumpet, and insisting their delay was “… intentional, insubordinate, and a veritable suicide.”
On the main deck of the Prosperous and Remarkable, Magpie stood soldered to the larboard rail, keeping his eye on the goings-on in the water below. A glance at the retreating Amethyst had already sent his heart racing; he didn’t dare look behind him. The thought alone of what was coming at them from the west was bad enough. Mr. Austen and Mr. Evans, along with the rest of his stranded boat-mates, were working against time to bring the skiff survivors up the side of the brig on bosun chairs. One of the four men had died, his hands stiffened around the ropes of the skiff’s single sail, but Dr. Braden was alive. He was gaunt and sickly, and his voice was faint, but he was alive. The lump in Magpie’s throat was so prodigious, he wasn’t certain he’d ever swallow again.
Nearby, Prosper was wearing a rut in the deck’s planks with his feverish pacing. His wispy curls flattened by the wind, his veins at attention on his bald pate, he ordered his ruffians — those who had successfully fled the Americans’ uprising on the schooner and had kicked their way back on the waves with the aid of anything that would float — to “… refrain from comin’ aboard ’til yas helps with the survivors.” Despite the long shadows cast by the American fleet, Prosper’s voice sounded reassuringly normal. “Ya jackanapes! Ya galoot! Ya worthless plank shank! Careful there with the doctor! He’s worth more than all o’ yas put together!” Stunning Magpie even further, Prosper gave him a wink and a grin. “Yer a right lucky lad, sailin’ on me Prosperous and Remarkable once agin.”
Magpie wasn’t sure how that made him lucky, but there was no time to ponder it, for Mrs. Kettle was now thundering across the deck like a snorting bull. Along with Magpie, she’d been among the first ones hoisted up from the Amethyst’s cutter, wailing the whole time about her “poor wee babe,” but now that she felt safe she grabbed hold of Prosper’s wind-whipped shirttails. “Leave ’em be, Prosper! Git a move on, else we’ll all be dead by noon, nothin’ left o’ us but bits of flesh hangin’ like gory pendants from the yardarms.”
“Git below, Meggie! Make yerself useful, and leave me to make the hard decisions,” he said, peeling away her grasping hands.
Mr. Austen had come on board with the survivors, and had just arranged for them to be carried below for medical attention, when an eruption of gunfire rattled the western sky. It was nothing more than a bold warning from the enemy, but it unleashed a terrible, rippling wave of urgency around the brig. Mrs. Kettle, who had been running about in circles, suddenly dropped to the deck and began shrieking. High up on the masts, the Remarkables hugged the yards, bracing for a hit, while below the remaining ruffians and Amethysts, as if they were suddenly conscious of their vulnerability, cried out, and propelled themselves up the side of the hull.
Magpie could see the distraught men clinging to dangling ropes, and clambering over open gun ports and one another to gain the brig’s deck. Morgan was still down there, fighting to maintain a foothold on whatever he could, bu
t paralyzed by the weight of a lanky sailor, who scrabbled over him in order to climb higher, using him as if he were a fixed part of the ship.
The second burst of gunfire hit its mark, smashing one of the brig’s heads to splinters on her bow. Prosper’s head jerked in the direction of the schooner. “God be damned! Them schooner Yankees have gone and fired up the guns! That’s it! Pemberton Baker! Where are ya, ya smellfungus?”
“Where ya normally finds me, Prosper,” came the composed voice of Pemberton, his thick torso hunched over the ship’s wheel.
“Beat to windward, ya lubber! We’re gettin’ the hell out o’ here.”
The topmen sprang into action with their weather braces and sheets, and lee tacks and bowlines, and in no time the Prosperous and Remarkable groaned and shifted and rolled into the waves, but, in doing so, upended the Amethyst’s cutter, dumping those still within it into the cold Atlantic.
“Mr. Austen!” shouted Magpie, gesturing toward the water. “It’s Mr. Evans, sir!”
Realizing at once that Morgan was not among the men on deck, Fly called for extra hands as he searched for something to throw over the side. “Here! This old sail! Hold onto it, lads, and pull with everything you’ve got.”
Though he was now secure in the knowledge that everything would be all right with Morgan, Magpie was enthralled by the awful scenes below, where a handful of sailors still thrashed about in the ocean, frantic to reach the overturned cutter; their eyes huge with terror as the Prosperous and Remarkable lunged from them in her scramble to get away. Over the delirium of sobbing and bellowing and booming guns, Magpie yelled, “Sir, what about the others?”
“Come away from the rail.”
“But, sir!”
“’Tis the terrible cost of war, Magpie.” Mr. Austen’s eyes fell unblinkingly on him, his hands covering his ears, as if to silence the distressing cries for help. For a while he stood perfectly still, and when the light returned to his eyes he gave Magpie an overly bright smile. “Let us go down to the hold to see our friends.”
11:00 a.m.
Aboard HMS Amethyst
“Dear God in Heaven!” muttered Captain Prickett, lowering his telescope. “What shall we do?”
Overhearing Prickett, Bridlington sidled up to him at the taffrail, his glance darting about at the gun crews clustered around the carronades on the poop deck. They were all speaking in hushed voices to one another, their facial expressions a disturbing mixture of despair and disgust. Bridlington smoothed down his uniform jacket and shuddered. “We must get Mr. Austen back on board immediately, sir.”
Prickett rolled his eyes. “It would be a sight easier to restore life to our former prime minister, Mr. Perceval.”
Bridlington moved in closer; another inch and he would be climbing his captain’s back. “What if the men rise up in mutiny?”
“With that fleet on our tail, there won’t be time for thoughts of mutiny,” said Prickett, running a roughened hand over his stubbly chin. “What’ve you done with the deserters?”
“They’re locked up in the hold, but most petulant the lot of them. I don’t like the look in their eyes, but then, neither do I like the look of our own men.”
“Quit worrying about mutinies, and focus on maintaining your scalp this day.”
Bridlington caught his breath. “You don’t think those American ships are carrying Indian warriors, do you, sir? I’ve — I’ve heard such stories of what the Indians, fighting with our own men in the forests of Canada, like to do to the enemy as they are lying helpless, in agonies of pain, and breathing their last on the —” Bridlington suddenly leaned way over the taffrail, as if he were about to abandon ship, and released a withering cry. “Oh, Mr. Austen, do come back!”
Prickett grabbed him by the collar and hissed into his ear. “I command you to collect yourself.”
“I am sorry, sir,” whistled Bridlington, droplets of perspiration dripping down his scarlet cheeks.
“I’m putting you in charge. It’s your watch. See to it those damned ships don’t catch up to us before nightfall.”
Bridlington’s eyes popped open. “Where’re you going, sir?”
“Below.”
“What … to check on the petulant deserters?”
Prickett pursed his lips and thought a moment. “Aye! Naturally! Where else would I be going?”
11:30 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
Magpie looked around him. He’d never been on Prosper’s orlop deck before, but he knew that Mr. Walby had, and his tales of terror of being alone in the dark had haunted Magpie ever since their telling. He was relieved to have others with him. It smelled awful down here, the odours of fish and tar and decaying cheese and mouldy canvas and vermin excrement made him headachy and ill at the stomach. There was little room to move around the hempen anchor cable on the platform deck that overlooked the brig’s hold, and its endless sea of barrels and casks, sunken into the shingle of the ballast, over which scurried rats trying to chew their way through the wooden staves to get at the food inside. But somehow a few cots had been rigged in the middle of it all for the three skiff survivors.
Mr. Austen and Prosper had put Magpie in charge, and, feeling as if he had suddenly grown a foot, he moved from cot to cot, bringing water to his patients’ parched lips and occasionally giving them each a spoonful of oatmeal. Prosper had further handed him a jar of oily salve, instructing him to gently administer a bit of it onto their sunburned skin. In the distance there was gunfire, and every so often Magpie tensed, thinking the Prosperous and Remarkable might rock with a direct hit, but so far there’d been nothing beyond the initial bow strike. He gave thanks that, at the time, no one had been sitting on the heads, or the seats of ease as the lads called them. Magpie thought that would be a mortifying way to die, with one’s trousers down around one’s ankles.
Dr. Braden’s eyes opened. Seeing Magpie sitting there next to his cot, he smiled. “Have our roles reversed?”
Magpie couldn’t speak right away, still in disbelief that the doctor was here, so close to him. “I wanted to give ya a banquet, sir, but Prosper scolded me, and said ya couldn’t handle it right off.”
Dr. Braden’s voice was little more than a whisper. “No, I couldn’t, but then I wonder if Mr. Burgo’s galley larder could provide for a true banquet.”
Magpie shook his head. “I bin on board with him afore, and his victuals ain’t so good. Pemberton gave me a cup o’ tea once, and said he’d bin boilin’ water over the same leaves fer two months. I won’t suggest ya try Pemberton’s tea, sir.”
“I will gladly take your advice.”
“But I promise, when I give ya some biscuit, I’ll first pluck out the weevils and maggots.”
“I am grateful to you. I’ve always found maggots to be somewhat cold and unpleasant, and weevils … well, they have a bitter taste to them.”
Magpie peeked over at the cots where his two other patients were asleep. He had to remind himself that Biscuit slept in one of them, being as he was so used to the Scottish cook’s chatter and jokey nature. There seemed to be more streaks of white in his bushy hair and whiskers than Magpie remembered. When he turned back to Dr. Braden, Magpie found his eyes intently watching him.
“I — I don’t suppose you know that I locked Emily’s miniature into my writing box.”
There was an ache in Magpie’s chest. “I was hopin’ ya might have it on ya, sir. This whole voyage … me mind’s bin so jumbled with fear … I sometimes can’t remember what she looks like.” He stared at his hands. “I do remember she smelled nice, and she had fine white teeth, but her face … it’s not clear, and I git her features all mixed up in me head.”
Dr. Braden exhaled quietly and, in the lantern light, Magpie thought he saw tears in his eyes.
Magpie sloped toward his cot. “Can I do anythin’ more fer ya, sir?”
“You can,” he whispered.
“Just name it,
and I’ll do it, sir.”
“Take me home to England.”
31
Noon
Hampstead Heath
Gus Walby sat on a three-legged stool by the window in the low-beamed room he was sharing with old Dr. Braden at the coaching inn in Hampstead Heath. He cradled his chin upon an upturned hand and reflected upon the muddy road that led to Hartwood Hall. Would the rain ever let up? He wanted so badly to spend another day at the estate, taking his lessons with Fleda, for he enjoyed the girl’s company — she was amusing, and never made mention of his crutch, and had such plans for their hours together — and he hoped he might catch a fleeting look at Emily, as he had yesterday when she was sitting in the garden with the Duke of Clarence, or even hear her voice through the schoolroom walls. It didn’t matter that he was forbidden to mingle with Fleda’s family. The duchess scared him. Why, he was quite certain she could hold her own in the society of Prosper Burgo’s ruffians, although — as far as he had seen — she was still in possession of all her teeth and extremities. The morning had dragged on interminably, and the prospect of spending the rainy afternoon with a penny novel was not an enticing one. When the door suddenly squeaked opened and in walked old Dr. Braden, all soaking wet but with a gleam in his eyes, Gus grabbed for his crutch at once.
“Sir, I didn’t expect you back until suppertime.”
The doctor kicked off his mud-caked shoes and peeled off his cape and broad-brimmed hat, hanging them to dry on a hook beside the empty grate of the fireplace. “My cousin is expecting visitors this afternoon, so I thought maybe we could spend the rest of the day together.” He disappeared behind a screen to change out of his wet clothes. “It’s chilly in here, Mr. Walby. Do you have a woollen vest in your travelling case? I shan’t allow that cough of yours to worsen.”
“I don’t, sir.”
“Well then, put on your midshipman’s jacket.”
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 69
