Come Looking For Me

Come Looking for Me

A Novel

CHERYL COOPER

Blue Butterfly Books

THINK FREE, BE FREE

© Cheryl Cooper

All rights reserved. Written permission of Blue Butterfly Books or a valid licence from Access Copyright is required to copy, store, transmit, or reproduce material from this book.

Blue Butterfly Book Publishing Inc.

2583 Lakeshore Boulevard West

Toronto, Ontario, Canada M8V 1G3

Tel 416-255-3930 / Fax 416-252-8291

www.bluebutterflybooks.ca

For complete ordering information for Blue Butterfly titles, go to:

www.bluebutterflybooks.ca

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Print edition, soft cover: 2010

ISBN 978-1-926577-07-4

Electronic edition, epub format: 2010

ISBN 978-1-926577-38-8

A CIP record for this title is available from Library and Archives Canada

Cover design by Fox Meadow Creations

Cover photo © Bigstock Photo / Bas Meelker (background) / Corey Ford (ship)

Blue Butterfly Books thanks book buyers for their support in the marketplace.

To my mother, Marie Isabelle Evans,

and my grandmother,

Isabelle Fleda McCubbin Moreland (1904–1985),

who listened and selflessly gave of their time.

War of 1812

Admiralty Orders to

Captain James Moreland of HMS
Isabelle:

Seek and destroy all enemy frigates along the coast of North America.

Search the crew for deserters.

Sink the ship or re-flag her for England.

The voices grew louder. The crew moved swiftly on their decks, shouting orders to one another. Beyond the thin walls of the cabin Emily could hear Trevelyan speaking to one of his young servants. She climbed out of her cot and crept to the door, opening it a crack to listen.

“Captain Trevelyan, sir, they're sayin' there's a man-o'-war two points off the larboard.”

“My spyglass please, Mr. Clive.”

“Is it one of ours, sir?”

Trevelyan squinted through his spyglass for some time. “Take a look for yourself.”

“She's British, sir.”

“British, yes, but she's not just any ship, Mr. Clive. That's the
Isabelle.”

“The
Isabelle
, sir?”

“She has seventy-four guns and two decks, the lower one equipped with a full battery of thirty-two-pounders. Been in service for over thirty years …” Trevelyan lowered his voice. “And I've been waiting for her for almost nine.”

“A seventy-four, sir? She'll have a large crew, then.”

“I doubt it, Mr. Clive. Britain has been warring far too many years now. My guess is she is horribly undermanned and what crew she possesses will be poorly trained, made up of thieves and lunatics from the emptying of English prisons.”

“Did ya once serve on the
Isabelle
, sir?”

Trevelyan was slow to reply. “I know her well, Mr. Clive. Now get to your station. And if you see Lind, ask him to come to my cabin straightaway.”

Thinking Trevelyan would sweep into his cabin at any moment, Emily hurried back to her cot. But no one came, not even a crew of sailors to take down the cabin's surrounding bulkheads in order to utilize the cannon housed inside. For what seemed like hours, she lay still, trying to shut out the noises of the
Serendipity's
men readying themselves for battle, fixing her attention on the ship's gentle rise and fall on the waves. Finally, just as she felt herself drifting back to sleep, the sound of heavy footsteps jolted her upright. Trevelyan came through the door, pulling off his bicorne hat. He scratched his straw-coloured hair and stared long and hard at her.

“Out of your cot, madam. There will be no laying about this afternoon. In a matter of minutes the cannons will be sounding.”

Emily climbed out and stood, looking away from his cadaverous face.

“At this moment, the crew is lighting our guns against the enemy,” Trevelyan continued. “Therefore, as it won't be convenient for you to wash my shirts or polish my silver today, I shall give you a pistol so you can help shoot a few of King George's men.”

“I will not take up arms against my countrymen.”

“You may have no choice.”

“I doubt you would trust me with a pistol in my hand. Our definition of enemy differs … sir.”

Trevelyan smirked and turned to reach for his sword, which hung on the wall by his own cot. Emily searched the water beyond the windows for a glimpse of the
Isabelle.

“If you're figuring this will be your escape, you can forget it. The
Serendipity
may be a smaller ship, but she's faster and more easily manoeuvred. Of course, you have already seen evidence of her capabilities against larger ships with more guns.” He sheathed his sword with a violent thrust.

Emily looked at him with dead eyes.

There was a swift knock at the door.

“Enter!” said Trevelyan. Lind lumbered into the cabin, a coil of thin rope in his hands. He stank like a barnyard. Emily grimaced as he approached her.

“Tie her up, Lind.” Trevelyan eyed Emily's tattered clothes, then added, “In my latrine.” He moved towards her, gripped her face in his scarred hands, and forced her to look up into his dark eyes. “I'll see you afterwards, once we have our prize.” Releasing her with a shove, he added, “Perhaps then we could order you
a bath.”

Emily's eyes widened. There was a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. Whatever did he mean by such an odd remark?

Replacing his hat, Trevelyan gave a low laugh and left the cabin.

Almost immediately, the first round of guns fired from the
Serendipity
. The blasts shook the ship's walls and floorboards. Through the rattling windows, the
Isabelle
came into view, close enough for Emily to see her open gunports and her gun crews huddled around the short-barrelled carronades on the weather decks. The sight of the British colours flying from her mainmast and stern caused Emily's chest to tighten.

Boom, boom, boom! The
Isabelle
fired back. The
Serendipity's
hull shuddered with each blow. Emily had to steady herself against Trevelyan's desk. All the while, Lind slowly unwound his rope and laughed, showing her his collection of mossy teeth, then with one sudden motion he lunged forward and grabbed her around the waist.

“No use in fightin' me, lass. Old Lind will win,” he cackled, leering at her. “I'm gonna tie ya in thee toilet and then I'll go searchin' out thee captain's private store o' rum. We might as well enjoy ourselves while thee lead flies.”

Emily rammed an elbow into his soft belly. As he keeled over, she made a dash for the door.

“If ya figure on goin' out there,” he snarled, clutching his middle, “ya'll be meetin' up with thee captain's marines. And I don't 'spect they'll be as gentle with ya as old Lind will be.” Beads of sweat rolled down his florid face as he straightened himself and brandished the rope.

The two warships were in full battle now. The crack of the cannons and carronades was deafening, and the smoke from their barrels poured into the cabin. There was a confusion of orders and men's frantic replies. Emily could hear the screams of dying men, and she prayed that British grapeshot would find its way straight through Trevelyan's torso. Coughing, she watched Lind starting towards her again. He was grinning.

“Be a good girl and let old Lind tie ya up nice and tight.” Licking his lips, he leaped at her, grabbed her wrists, and jerked her towards him. Emily kicked him in the knee as hard as she could. The exertion propelled her backwards onto the floor of the latrine just as the windows behind Lind exploded, blowing him onto the cabin floor with a terrible thud. A hail of glass shards ripped into him. He lay there stunned, his eyes bulging from his torn face, his outstretched arms slippery with blood.

Emily bolted from the latrine and struggled to push Trevelyan's desk against the door, hoping it would hold against any marines lying in wait. Lifting her skirt to avoid the spreading pool of Lind's blood, she hurried to the windows and seized a large fragment of wood to smash out the bits of jagged glass still lodged in the frames. The
Isabelle
was so close …

Between the ships, which were lying broadside to each other, floated a swirling mass of debris: barrels, bits of mast and rigging, segments of timber, a legless goat, and dead seamen. Emily surveyed the scene for a moment, then peeled off her silk slippers, stuffed them into her spencer-jacket, and tucked her skirt up into her drawers.

Behind her, Lind exhaled a long moan. She swung around to find him sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His head resembled a chunk of slaughtered meat. Despite his wounds, he seemed in no mood to give up. Spying Emily, he began crawling towards her, his right arm reaching, his torn fingers opening and closing crab-like before him. Emily clambered into the window frame and was almost away when Lind managed to grasp her foot. She held onto the frame, oblivious to the glass that cut into the palms of her hands, and kicked until her foot struck his mangled face.

“Damnable woman!” he rasped, collapsing on the floor.

Over the gunfire and Lind's howling complaints, there came a clattering racket near the door. Looking up, Emily realized the cabin's bulkheads were at last being taken down. In a matter of seconds the room would be swarming with men and marines. She braced herself for the jump, hesitating a moment to give Lind one last thought. “Perhaps, Mr. Lind, when Trevelyan is done battling, he can order a bath for
you.”

With that, she plummeted over the ship's stern. As she hit the water, she struck a length of broken mast. Her right ankle erupted in pain, snatching her breath away. The sea that engulfed her was cold, and red with blood spilled from the sailors who bobbed on the waves next to her, their faces burned or maimed, their sightless eyes turned towards the warring ships. Emily felt a clutch in her stomach; her heart raced uncomfortably. Shutting her eyes to the horrors, she tried swimming, but her escape had left her exhausted and the chilly saltwater that washed over her torn hands forced her into submission. She held on tightly to the broken mast and allowed the waves to carry her.

Over her head flew cannon balls and whirring chain and bar shot that punched devastating holes in the ships' hulls and sliced through their sails and rigging. Sprays of wooden splinters fell like dangerous rain. Emily quickly ducked beneath a section of fallen sail, hoping to protect herself. Amidst the screams of war, she could hear the distinctive voice of Captain Trevelyan, and peering through a hole in the sail, up through clouds of cannon smoke, she saw him, his face obscured in shadow, standing over her like Goliath on the side of his ship.

“Shoot her, Mr. Clive.”

Forgetting her pain, Emily frantically began pushing aside bodies and debris from her path.
Oh, God, swim, swim
, she urged her poor limbs. The
Isabelle
loomed large, the long barrels of the lower guns seemed almost within reach. She could see the barnacles that clung to the waterlogged timbers and the bits of oakum wedged into the cracks, and while she kicked her way towards safety, she was aware that
he
still hovered over her.

Swim, swim
.

Several minutes had passed now since Trevelyan ordered her execution, and hope began to burn in Emily's young breast, but as she raised her hand from the water to touch the side of the
Isabelle
, a ball of lead struck her from behind. This new pain was unimaginable. Gasping, she flailed about, striving to concentrate on the solid timbers that shuddered before her. Once again, she tried reaching out to them, but her vision blurred and her strength evaporated. With a cry of frustration, she felt herself, and the fragment of mast to which she clung, drifting slowly away into a blackened void.

“You have the keenest eyes of anyone on this ship, Mr. Walby. Please keep a lookout for any of our men who have fallen overboard and may still have life in them.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Can you tell me, sir, has the
Serendipity
retreated or do you think that she is simply going to turn around for another go at us?”

Captain Moreland grunted. “My guess is they are running away, Mr. Walby. We managed to shoot away a good deal of their yards and rigging. If they continue fighting they'll have nothing left with which to sail.”

“Should we not go after them?”

“We've troubles of our own. It might be wiser to repair ourselves before fighting them again.”

“Sir, one thing I don't understand … the
Serendipity's
a frigate, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Why, then, would she take a shot at us when she is smaller and has far fewer guns. We did nothing to provoke her, did we, sir?”

“We did not,” the captain replied, watching her retreat. “However, Mr. Walby, we are in American waters and we are the enemy. Most likely their captain is a brazen young fellow.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gus touched his hat in a salute.

Overhearing the captain, First Lieutenant Lord Octavius Lindsay, a bad-complexioned youth with greasy hair, stepped forward. “Will it be necessary to return to Bermuda then, sir?” he asked.

“I must consult with our carpenters first to learn the extent of our damages.” Captain Moreland paused to shout an order to the men working high up on the yardarms. “Sails up, men. Slow her down. And remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”

“But we would lose much time if we had to return to the island,” said Octavius.

“In a hurry to take an American prize, are we, Mr. Lindsay? Or is it the prospect of shore leave in Halifax that has you impatient? I am hoping we can make our repairs at sea; however, we cannot fight this war with a crippled ship.” Captain Moreland ran his large blue-veined hands along the rail, then continued on down the quarterdeck with Octavius following on his heels.