“Lord Somerton, I believe the time has come to say goodnight. Thank you so very much for the excellent meal. Please, I beg you, stay here with your sister to enjoy your dessert. Perhaps Emily will see us out. No need to worry about calling for the carriage; I believe the rain has let up, so Mr. Walby and I shall be quite happy to walk back to our lodgings.” He bowed and sidled away from the table.
Gus wanted to die. This was not how he’d envisioned his evening at Hartwood. He knew it, he felt it in his bones; he’d never be allowed back. He’d never see the tunnels under the house, or explore the woods with Fleda, or picnic by the ponds. Refusing to let tears roll from his eyes, he blindly followed Emily and old Dr. Braden to the doorway, loathing himself for ending things this way with Fleda. Before passing into the darkness of the antechamber, he glanced back over his drooping shoulder. It gave him a pain to see such sadness in Fleda’s ashen face. But something — her downturned eyes, her wilting posture, her empty stare — told him that the death of her brother was not the true source of her devastation; it seemed to him she was regretting the leaving and the loss of her newfound friend.
32
8:00 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)
Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable
In the lengthening shadows of the day, Fly Austen and Prosper Burgo met together at the taffrail of the Prosperous and Remarkable, studying the movements of the American ships within their sights. With the exception of one ship, which had stopped to aid the drifting schooner, they were still frighteningly close, particularly the three smallest vessels. Being as she was lightweight, and with every stitch of her canvas flying, Prosper’s brig flew like a seagull over the waves, but Fly despaired for the Amethyst, imagining the tumult most likely unfolding upon her decks. Prosper’s brig had long surpassed her, and now — like a lumbering turtle — she had fallen behind, managing only to maintain a safe distance beyond the range of the Americans’ bow chasers. Casting his eyes toward the red and purpling sky, Fly prayed for nightfall to descend upon the Atlantic.
Beside him, Prosper was gnawing on a sandwich of stale biscuit and cheese — his stores of cheese being so tough, Fly had witnessed some of the Remarkables carving buttons out of their portions of the stuff — and quaffing the contents of a cracked and chipped mug between bites, most likely to assist the food’s path down his gullet. Not far from where they conferred, Meg Kettle had settled herself on an overturned tub normally reserved for the soaking of salted beef and pork. Prosper had warned her repeatedly to “git below,” but she disregarded his words, choosing instead to keep him within her sights at all times, so that whenever he moved camp she would follow. But during the rare moments when her slitty eyes weren’t padlocked on Prosper, she was mending a pair of his stockings, though Fly wondered why she bothered when there seemed to be more holes than wool with which to work.
“Meggie, best dump them woollies and git below to wrestle me laundry. I heard ya complainin’ ’bout me greasy scarves.”
“Nay, Prosper!” she hollered back. “Ya ’ave no lye soap on board, and I ain’t about to wash clothes in urine and saltwater. Ain’t proper fer a lady what’s got a child comin’.”
The wispy curls around Prosper’s ears shivered when he glanced up at Fly, his tongue stuck in his cheek. “I fear yer a lofty lot, Mr. Austen. There’s Meggie yowlin’ ’bout no soap, and Mr. Evans askin’ me fer tools I ain’t never heard of, and then there’s yer rumbustious Scotch cook declarin’ me biscuits inferior, and insistin’ we bake some up with sugar and rum. Mr. Austen, I haven’t transported a bag o’ sugar on these old timbers fer near a decade.”
“And rum?”
Prosper raised his mug with a low chuckle. “I wouldn’t think o’ sailin’ without plenty o’ rum in me hold.”
“I apologize for what may be perceived as our extravagant tastes, but I do assure you, we are all most obliged to you and give thanks that we are alive on your brig.”
“Ah, but fer how long kin I keep ya that way? I ain’t never had a fleet o’ ships on me arse afore.”
Meg Kettle’s head shot up from her mending, her mouth all quivery. “What d’ ya mean, Prosper?”
Prosper shushed her up with a snap of his fingers. “Now then, Mr. Austen, if only the clumsy winds would blow fresher, or a bit o’ rain would fall, or a bank o’ fog would come rollin’ our way, we might make a bit o’ headway. I’ll not tolerate another hit to the heads. Already me lads are usin’ buckets to do their business, and most o’ them — bein’ gowks and dullards — have habits o’ tossin’ their filth overboard … into the wind.”
“Mr. Evans will have your seats of ease restored to your men in no time.”
“Aye, he’s a good lad, your carpenter.”
“The very best,” smiled Fly, trying to spot Morgan’s woolly thrum cap amongst the crush of Remarkables labouring on the other end of the brig.
Prosper gave Fly a thorough going over. “When did ya last take sustenance?”
“I cannot recall.”
“Grog would be best, but I know ya likes to keep yer wits intact.” Prosper shouted out at Pemberton Baker at the helm. “Bring Mr. Austen some coffee straightaway, ya galoot.”
It astounded Fly to hear no protests from Pemberton, no justification as to why it would be more prudent to ask another to fetch coffee; the man simply handed the wheel to the nearest ruffian and lumbered off to do his duty.
“Now quit worryin’ so. The Amethyst’ll pull through; she’s got plenty o’ heavy guns on her.”
“I wish I could share your confidence. In order to lighten her weight, I fear her men may throw them overboard rather than use them.”
“If there be any need fer load lightenin’, they best keep the guns and pitch Prickett and Bridlington overboard.”
As Prosper was quite solemn in his pronouncement, Fly chewed on his lip to mask his amusement.
“We’ll soon be raisin’ England. Might be we’ll cross paths with yer Royal Navy.”
“Let us hope —”
Draining the grog, Prosper flung his clay mug over the railing, and then hardened his fox-like features and spoke quietly so pricked up ears could not listen in. “Mr. Austen, ya might be me kinsman, but yer on my ship now. I kin do one o’ two things: I kin either pull away from this lot and leave the Amethyst to make her own way, or I kin hope we make it through the night, and come first light I kin turn right ’round and blow those three smaller American ships to kingdom come. One way ya’ll make it home fer sure; the other —” He gave his bony shoulders a shrug.
Fly’s breathing accelerated; his eyes stung, memories suddenly flooding his mind — memories of places he loved: Steventon and Southampton, and the Isle of Wight, that rising treasure of an island with its chalky downs and snug villages, protecting his home harbour of Portsmouth. The anxious faces of his wife, his elderly mother, and his two sisters rose up poignantly before him; the chubby arms of his babies stretched toward him, clambering to reach his lap for their hugs, all of them waiting and hoping to see him just as he did them. And closer still, those cherished friends, convalescing beneath the waterline on the fusty orlop, who had placed their complete faith in his hands. Longing and despair crushed a small chamber in his chest, and he was scarcely aware that Pemberton Baker was standing before him, placing a warm mug into his hands as if offering him a sovereign’s crown. Choking down the coffee, he resumed his reluctant vigil of the menacing shadows on the sea, watching the bows of the American ships pound the waves toward them, their open gunports and the great flukes of their raised anchors silhouetted against the darkening sky.
“There’s only one option, Mr. Burgo,” said Fly with a decisive nod, “only one I can truly countenance.”
11:00 p.m.
(First Watch, Six Bells)
Worried he would disturb his slumbering patients, Magpie went about his task as soundlessly as he could, breaking down Prosper’s empty barrels to make some much-needed space, and stacking the hoops
and wooden staves into separate piles. He was over-tired, but his restlessness forbade sleep. Besides, there was no room to sling a fourth hammock; he would have to sit upon the slimy planking and rest his body against a lumpy sack of biscuits, which wiggled in a most unsettling manner. But there was no call for complaining; it was better to be here in the gloaming with a burning lantern than to be sitting atop the mizzen, exposed to the elements, or huddled in complete darkness on the gun deck with the Remarkables, petrified that — at any time — those American ships would overtake them and pour their arsenal of lead and iron into their small decks.
Magpie made a final check on Dr. Braden to be certain he was still breathing, and was settling in against his lumpy sack when a creaking noise stopped him cold. His eye slowly widened in the shadows; his heart galloped. He tried to convince himself it was only the pigs rooting around in the manger’s straw one deck up, but if Biscuit — during one of his more lucid moments — hadn’t gone and told him there was a strong possibility that Prosper had dead men buried in the shingle of his hold, his imaginings mightn’t have been so dreadful. Were the mouldering corpses rising up in their shallow graves to go haunting in the dead hours of the night? Too terrified of what he might meet should he peer over the platform’s edge, Magpie didn’t move a muscle.
The second creak was on the ladder. Behind a pyramid of water barrels, Magpie could see an orb of light sweeping the floor, growing ever greater as whomever it was crept toward him. Oh! What if the spectre had followed him to the Prosperous and Remarkable?
“Who — who goes there?”
“Shhh! It’s me, Magpie,” whispered Morgan Evans, lifting his lantern to his face, haloing his woolly thrum cap and shaggy hair. Picking his way around the piles of staves, Morgan dropped down on the planks, pulled his legs into a cross-legged position, and presented Magpie with a wooden bowl and spoon. “Pemberton sends his compliments, and his jellied pea soup.”
“Pemberton’s still awake?”
“Everyone to a man is still awake — well, except for those who helped themselves earlier to Prosper’s rum.”
“What time is it, Mr. Evans?”
“It’s just after 11:00. I heard the clang of six bells as I was making my way down to you.”
“Have we given the slip to them Americans yet, sir?”
Despite the lanterns’ cheerless illumination, Magpie could see his friend’s face fall. “There’re still three of them on our tail.”
“But how can they see us? Hasn’t Prosper doused all o’ the lights?”
“He has! Your lantern and mine are the only two still burning at this hour. But the skies are clear; there’s a full moon out, and a multitude of stars shining. They’ll be able to follow our shadows through till daybreak, and then, as soon as we’re able, we’re going to —” Morgan stopped himself short as if he’d said too much.
But Magpie did not petition for an explanation. He didn’t want to know what the Remarkables had planned. If there was going to be any boarding of ships, he just prayed Prosper wouldn’t force him to join the boarding party. He wasn’t sure he could handle going through all that heart-hammering action again. “Should I be makin’ up me will, sir?”
“Aye,” Morgan nodded, “if you have anything to bequeath.”
Magpie wiggled the toes of his bare feet. “Jacko was gonna knock me up some new shoes, but I suppose I won’t never get them. And … and I lost me Mrs. Jordan blanket long ago, and Dr. Braden told me Emily’s miniature is locked away in his writin’ desk on the Amethyst.” He shook his head sadly. “I don’t got nothin’ to will, sir.”
“What about your flute?”
“Can’t recall where it got to.”
“Ah! Well, whatever became of your Isabelle hat? You didn’t say.”
Magpie nibbled on his lip, his glance sweeping the dark pockets of the orlop behind him. “I — I don’t rightly know, sir.”
“I’ve asked you a thousand times not to call me sir.”
“Sorry, sir; it’s on account o’ me respectfulness fer ya.”
Morgan offered up a sad, crooked smile, as if his mind had moved on. “I’d better get back. Mr. Austen has asked me to keep him company through the night on deck.”
“That’s a right honour, sir.”
“It is that.” Morgan held on to the sack of biscuits to assist him up from the floor. “If I don’t drop asleep, I’ll come to you again.”
Magpie too scrambled to his feet, feeling an irksome wetness on the seat of his trousers. “And will ya be makin’ a will fer yerself?”
“If I die, you can have my thrum cap. It’s all I have to my name.”
An icy chill ruffled the back of Magpie’s neck. “Pemberton once told Mr. Walby that yer safer bein’ with Prosper than ya are with God.”
“Let’s hope he’s right,” said Morgan.
An uneasy silence stretched between the two until Morgan suddenly reached out his right hand to shake Magpie’s. “Godspeed, my friend.”
When Morgan had vanished into the unknown, his footfalls and final words now silenced to memory, Magpie tried to get some rest. He kept the lantern close to his side and took comfort knowing that he was not alone, that it was Dr. Braden who rested in the gently swinging hammock by his head, but as he drifted off the echo of familiar words struck terror in his ears, bringing him back to the night with a terrible shudder. In his half-conscious state, he fought to find its source. Had it been a dream? Had it come from a vermin-plagued corner of the orlop, or from the cloaking gloom of the hold?
“Penitence and obscurity, and the little sailmaker shall be no more.”
33
Sunday, August 29
8:00 a.m.
Coaching Inn, Hampstead Heath
Old Dr. Braden quickly came forward when he saw who it was tucked away in the parlour alcove by the window, waiting to speak with him. “Come into the other room and sit by the fire; you’ll be warmer there.”
Emily stood wringing her hands and looking about, expecting the inn door to be kicked open by Somerton and a horde of mean-looking constables, eager to slap handcuffs on her and forcibly return her to Hartwood Hall. “I would prefer to stay here, sir. I don’t want to risk attracting more attention. The innkeeper already gave me such glances; I fear his curiosity was getting the better of him. Perhaps I shouldn’t have dressed in trousers, but it was my only hope of fleeing the Hall.”
As they seated themselves on the alcove armchairs the doctor surreptitiously eyed her soiled slippers and the scarf that concealed her hair. “However did you get here?”
“I was able to secure a ride on a supply wagon,” Emily said, a twinkle in her eyes. “A whole team of them descended upon Hartwood early this morning, so I —”
“On a Sunday?”
“Oh, Her Grace does not heed the days of the week, so long as she has needs.”
Spying the innkeeper walking toward them with a tray of tea — which neither of them had ordered — Emily wilted in her chair, and was therefore grateful when the doctor leapt up to go and ward him off. Only once they had been provisioned with a cup of tea and a bowl of bread pudding, the latter compliments of the innkeeper’s wife who had installed her smiling self on a nearby settee to fake absorption in the mending of a yellowing lace cap, did Emily resume her tale.
“I waited behind a tree by the gates, and while the wagons were lining up for the gatekeeper’s inspection — he always inspects them on their way out, to make certain they haven’t helped themselves to the Lindsay’s treasures — I jumped onto the back of the very last one.”
“Did the driver not question you?”
“He did! He thought me quite insolent until I told him I was a servant of the Hall, and that I’d been sacked, and could I just beg a ride with him to the inn.” Emily wished her heart wasn’t drumming so, knowing full well it was attributed to the closeness of him, and not the clandestine alteration of her whereabouts. “Is Mr. Walby still asleep?”
“He is. The poor lad
cried himself to sleep at such a late hour; he may very well lie in ’til noon.”
Emily was wistful. “I must get back soon, before breakfast, or else the duchess shall send out a search party, complete with hounds and muskets.”
“When we’re done here, I shall accompany you to the gate. I cannot have you wandering this lonely road on your own.”
Emily looked up at him and for a moment said nothing, choosing instead to reflect upon the endearing similarities of physiognomy and breeding between the father and his son. “Sometimes I can scarcely believe that such good men as you and Leander exist on this earth.”
He advanced and retracted one of his hands, as if he had considered, but decided against, reaching out to her. “Tell me why you’ve come.”
Emily stared unseeing at her teacup. “To apologize for my behaviour last evening. I wasn’t aware of Lord Somerton’s bold interrogation of Mr. Walby until it was too late.”
“There’s no need for you to apologize. It seems to me it is Lord Somerton who needs to make amends, but not to me, to Mr. Walby. In my long life I’ve never witnessed such impolitic treatment of one’s guest. However, if the young man has inherited his mother’s character, rehabilitation would be hopeless.” His voice fell to a whisper. “It is evident that your relationship with your host family is a strained one.”
“More than I care to discuss at present. But please know my behaviour last evening was not a result of it. The truth is I feared that Lord Somerton’s sudden turnabout in inviting you to dine was his selfish desire to be the one to give you the — the news.” Unable to hold her cup still, she set it down, and her throat closed up as she started in on an explanation of the letter her Uncle Clarence had received, recounting the Lady Jane’s arrival in Portsmouth, and her crew’s concerns for HMS Amethyst. Haltingly she spoke, carefully choosing the words her tongue found so difficult to form. His full attention was hers. He sat unmoving on the edge of his chair like a statue, fear and incredulity fighting for predominance on his face, his eyes — bright at first — clouding over as he assimilated the forbidding facts.
Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Page 71
