Come Looking For Me (2 page)

Gus Walby lifted his spyglass to his eyes once again and slowly moved it along the sea's surface, searching for survivors. There were plenty of dead men bouncing lifelessly on the waves like grotesque channel markers. Gus was relieved that he could not identify their remains. Already, some of the hands had set out in the ship's small boats and cutters to retrieve the bodies of their mates so that they could be given a proper burial at sea. The lucky ones who had survived their first fight unscathed rushed to clear the slippery decks of the dead and wounded. There was a terrible sound of moaning and sobbing as those still living were lifted and carried down to the hospital on the upper deck.

Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the
Isabelle
. He called out to Captain Moreland.

“Sir! You might find this of interest.”

Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus's glass from him.

“At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it's a woman.”

Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a
lady
escaped our enemy ship.”

“With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can still sail. Shouldn't we at least try to make a run after that American frigate rather than stopping to pick up some
laundress?
”

Captain Moreland's eyes hardened. “You surprise me, Mr. Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, holding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”

“Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”

Gus saluted and ran off.

“Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I'll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”

He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”

With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.

* * *

THE CARPENTER'S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the
Serendipity
were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman's favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the
Isabelle
, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.

“Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”

With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff's wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman's face

“She's lovely!” he gasped.

“She ain't no cookin' woman.”

“Look at her finery: blue velvet and silk. I've never met a woman who wore such clothes.”

“Aye! Though she's a bit ragged, she's a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain't never been in the company of a
lady
before.”

“Oh, we're in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat's ribbed bottom.

“Hey, yer gettin' me clean pants all wet.”

“Just row, Bailey. Yours may be wet, but mine are all bloody. I'll have a fight on my hands with Mrs. Kettle to get her to launder them again for me.”

Bailey winked as he picked up the oars. “Might as well enjoy the feel o' that woman in yer arms. May be a while 'fore ya has another one.”

By the time their boat was hoisted up to the
Isabelle's
stern, word had spread that a woman had been found in the sea. Those men not on duty below deck, or in the hospital having their wounds tended by Dr. Braden, poured onto the deck to watch the spectacle. Gus was also there, having delivered his message to a grumbling Mrs. Kettle and returned in a flash.

Octavius Lindsay stood alongside the starboard rail, watching the proceedings. He sniffed and swung around to address Commander Austen. “The Admiralty, with few exceptions, does not allow women on our war ships.”

Commander Francis “Fly” Austen was an imposing man of nearly forty years who had been present at many of the celebrated navy battles, although, to his disappointment, not Trafalgar. He stared at the woman Morgan Evans cradled in his arms. “You forget, Mr. Lindsay, we have Mrs. Kettle on
our
ship.”

“Is Mrs. Kettle a woman? I hadn't noticed, sir.”

“It appears this woman is not as wide in the beam as our Mrs. Kettle. It might be rather pleasant having her on board.”

“With – with all respect, sir, we are
fighting
a war.”

“Aye … that we are.”

Octavius sniffed again. “Well, I will make sure she is put off at the first port.”

Mr. Austen raised one eyebrow. “I don't believe that will be
your
decision to make, Mr. Lindsay.”

The moment Morgan Evans stepped out of the skiff and onto the poop deck, Emily opened her eyes to find hundreds of seamen lining the rails, craning their necks in her direction. In her weakened state, she could not discern individual faces; everything seemed a blur of blue frock coats, red uniforms, checked shirts and scarves, legs in white trousers, heads in bicornes and felt hats. She gazed skywards to find that even those perched on the rigging platforms and yardarms had paused in their tasks. It was so quiet on the ship that Emily heard nothing but the wind beating the sails. No one spoke. No orders were shouted. Each man seemed latched to his allotted space on the deck. And when her rescuer spoke, his voice was disembodied and distant, as if it came to her in a dream.

“You're on the
Isabelle
now, ma'am,” he whispered. “You should be safe here.”

Emily looked up at him. He was a young man of nineteen, perhaps twenty years, with dark shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a funny woollen hat that resembled a large sock. With a nod of her head she thanked him, then she shivered and sank back against his chest.

In the middle of the mess, Dr. Leander Braden, dressed in a soiled shirt that had been clean that morning at breakfast, quietly worked on those with the worst wounds. James Moreland hated entering this part of the ship after a battle. The wounded reminded him of his own seafaring sons, now grown up and sailing on separate, distant ships, on distant seas, and he could not bear witnessing the removal of the sailors' shattered limbs or knowing that hideous scars would disfigure their youthful faces.

Noticing James's grave countenance, Dr. Braden wearily gave instruction to his assistant. “Brockley, continue stitching the man's wounds – and for God's sake, be gentle.” He left the operating table, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, and made his way over to where James stood.

“How many did we lose, Doctor?”

Leander wiped his hands on his black apron, then raised his arms to steady himself on the low ceiling. “Eighteen, including young Patrick and George.”

James groaned. “And how many wounded?”

“Seriously? Maybe twenty-five. I haven't had a chance to count.”

James fell silent awhile. “I have great admiration for you, Lee. You handle this bloody business so calmly. I'm afraid it makes me quite insane. I suppose when I was younger I could bear it better. I'm just …”

Leander looked at him over his round spectacles. “You have me all wrong. I don't handle it well at all. I do know that given more skilled assistants and a decent supply of medicine we could save a lot more lives. Grog and a few instruments for amputating limbs are simply not enough.”

James shook his head sadly. “Our men are fortunate to have you. Most of our ships are plying the seas without any kind of surgeon. We are overburdened. These wars have gone on far too long.” He glanced over at Leander's inept assistant, Osmund Brockley. “I must let you get back at it, for I am guessing Brockley is quite lost without your guidance.”

“The man has no skill whatsoever.”

“Yes, I am sorry about that. Now, I'm off. I must discuss repairs with the carpenters.” James had just turned to leave when he remembered the main reason he had come to the hospital in the first place. “We pulled a young woman from the water. Young Walby spotted her. She must have jumped from the Yankee frigate. Well, Lee, when you have time … she requires medical attention.”

“James, I can hardly tend to a woman in this space. She would have no privacy here.”

“Morgan Evans has taken her to my quarters and Fly Austen is attending her there. She can come down here when your hospital has cleared.”

“Any idea who she might be?”

“No, but I can assure you she's not a common prostitute,” James said, mounting the ladder that would take him to the fo'c'sle deck.

Intrigued, Leander returned to his gruesome tasks. Several able seamen had lead in their legs, and the sailing master would have to have his foot amputated. As always, it would be arduous extracting lead and lopping off limbs with the ship tossing from side to side.

“Can we refit at sea, gentlemen, or should we return to Bermuda?”

“I think it best we return to port, sir,” said Mr. Alexander. He was a man of fifty years, balding, with a gentle face. “We'll need a few days to fix her up, and with these waters swarming with enemy ships, if one were to surprise us now…”

“We're only a day and a half from Bermuda, sir,” added Morgan, clasping his woollen hat in both hands.

“Your call, gentlemen.” James called out to the coxswain at the helm. “Set a course, Mr. McGilp – south by southeast. Back to Bermuda it is.”

Lewis McGilp nodded and began cranking the ship's wheel about. “Aye, sir, south by sou'east.”

“Thank you, Mr. Alexander, Mr. Evans. That'll be all.” The carpenters saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Left alone, James wandered to the ship's bow where he rubbed his eyes, unbuttoned his blue frock coat, and dreamed of the green meadows around his Yorkshire home. Eight years ago he had officially retired from the Royal Navy. At that time, having had enough of the seas to last his lifetime, he chose to move away from the coastal regions of England. Now he longed for those expanses of green in the north of his homeland.

England had been at war with Napoleon and France on and off since 1793, and now they had become embroiled in yet another military conflict, this one with the United States. The American president, Mr. Madison, had declared war on Britain in June of 1812, citing grievances that included the British navy's habit of seizing American seamen and forcing them into service on their ships. But as James saw it, his navy was guilty of nothing more than searching out British deserters who had taken employment on American vessels, or fellow countrymen who had actually been pressed into the American navy. Regardless of the reasons for the animosity between the two countries, it remained that the British navy was so seriously short of officers, seamen, ships, and supplies that it could not effectively fight this new, distant war. As a result, James, at the age of sixty, when he asked for nothing more than a few years to enjoy his family, his farm, and his books, had been ordered by the Admiralty to take command once again of his old ship, the
Isabelle
, and to sail the western Atlantic waters, halting all enemy ships to seek out deserters and fellow countrymen alike, and to prove to the world that the mighty British navy still ruled the seas.

James stayed near the bowsprit for some time, staring out at the black waves, listening to the
Isabelle
crashing through the heavy waters. The intensifying winds slapped the fore topsail above him. He looked up to the men on the foreyard and called out to them in a booming voice that rivalled that of his bosun's mate waking the crew in the morning. “Careful, lads. We don't want anyone falling now. The doctor has his hands quite full at the moment.”

He was greeted with laughter and salutes.

The quartermaster turned over the sand glass and the bell was rung four times. In the shadowy darkness, James watched his men climb down the thin ratlines from their high posts while others climbed up to begin their four-hour watch. He took a deep breath of the briny air and slowly made his way to the wardroom.