Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (13 page)

Emily stepped back as dozens of men now began pouring up the ladder, tripping over one another in their haste and articulating a variety of emotions:

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

“Goddamned Yankees.”

“We’ll slice ’em up nicely.”

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done …”

“Move along. Git yer arse out of me face.”

“England expects every man to do his duty. England expects every man …”

“Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper, and let ev’ry man drink off his full glass; we’ll drink, be jolly and drown melancholy …”

“On earth as it is in Heaven …”

“And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass …”

Once safely returned to the hospital, Emily found Leander and Osmund clearing away the clutter on the desk. Osmund, his thick tongue hanging out of his mouth, grabbed a roll of bloodstained cloth and plunked it down hard on what would now become the operating table. Leander opened it and began arranging his surgical equipment. He glanced up when Emily entered.

“What can I do?” she asked quietly.

Leander spoke rapidly. “Sit down on the floor in the corner. Make certain the gunport is closed up and stay clear of it.”

Emily slid the straw hat off her head, her wheat-coloured hair tumbling down around the shoulders of her checked shirt. Feeling faint and headachy, she limped towards the canvas curtain.

“Doctor Braden,” pleaded Crump from his hammock, “please let me get up, sir. I’m willin’ to fight.”

“Mr. Crump, you have just lost your leg. You must wait until Mr. Evans has time to fit you up with a new one.”

Mr. Crump grumbled like an active volcano, cursing saints Peter and Paul.

“Emily …”

She whirled about to find Leander holding out a pistol to her. “Take this. If it’s an American warship, you may need it.” Catching her expression of anxiety, he softened his tone. “I suspect you know how to use it.”

6:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

CROUCHED ON THE FLOOR of her small corner, as far away as was possible from the gunport, Emily heard the echo of one bell. It had been some time since Fly Austen climbed down the ladder to the hospital to inform Leander that it was indeed a Yankee frigate and to make ready for the wounded.

“Fly, as there are only two of us here,” Leander had said, peering over his spectacles at his friend, “please try to make short work of it.”

“Shall I send in Biscuit? He claims to know something of medicine.”

“I forbid it. His smell alone will surely do me in.”

Fly had laughed as he ascended the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck.

Emily was surprised they could joke at a time like this, especially when her own heart had been thumping uncomfortably for the past two hours. Her legs were already cramped from crouching, and her ankle throbbed. The waiting was agony. Why weren’t the guns firing?

Leander suddenly pulled aside the curtain and held up a lantern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m terrified.”

“I have a shot of rum here for you. It might help.” He bent his long frame to hand her a small cup.

Emily downed it, ignoring the burning sensation as it passed to her stomach. Leander shook his head as he looked down upon her. “I’m afraid by the time we reach Halifax, you will not only be a laudanum addict, you will also have developed a fondness for grog.”

“And I will entirely have you to blame.” Emily handed him back the cup with a sigh. “Then, of course, if Captain Moreland is obeyed, I shall have nothing to look forward to, with the exception of my cot, grog, and laudanum.”

“Your interview did not go well?”

“It was horrendous. Captain Moreland is being quite unfair, particularly to the men with whom I was sitting yesterday – suspending their grog rations amongst other things. He has even gone so far as to punish poor Magpie for not escorting me back here before returning to his duties. I will soon have many enemies on the
Isabelle,
the worst of them that vile Mr. Lindsay, although where that man is concerned, I do not give a fig.”

“I can assure you that for every one enemy you may have on the
Isabelle,
you have two hundred friends.”

Emily lifted her face to him.

“You surely know,” continued Leander hesitantly, “it wasn’t me who informed Captain Moreland of your whereabouts yesterday.”

“I know.”

The guns began thundering at last. The ship’s timbers shuddered and shook, knocking Emily up against the clothes cupboard beside her. Leander was hurled backwards, but was saved from a fall by the wooden post supporting the bottom end of her hammock. Steadying himself, he seized the blanket from her bed and tossed it to her.

“Here, place it over you. If the hospital is hit, you may escape the inevitable flying splinters. Stay down and stay safe.” He soon vanished, taking the lantern light with him.

Alone in the dark she whispered, “And you too.”

* * *

CLOAKED IN THE SMOKEY CLOUDS of gunfire, the
Isabelle’s
crew seized the battle respite to regroup and clear the decks of their fallen comrades. The heart-wrenching wails of the wounded and their pleas for help were everywhere – on the damaged decks, high up in the twisted ropes, and in the agitated waters between the two ships. Amidst the butchery and blood waddled Mrs. Kettle, lifting her skirts to the gore underfoot, cussing in a clamourous voice that surely could be heard on board the enemy frigate.

“It’s brutes they are, them Yankees!” She inspected the freshly cleaned shirts and trousers not yet collected from the drying lines that crisscrossed the fo’c’sle, now all sooty, blood-splattered, and full of holes. “And they would ’ave to pick me laundry day to shoot their cannons at us.”

“Next time, Mrs. Kettle, you will take down
all
the laundry the moment we see a sail on the horizon … as you were instructed to do,” admonished Fly, slipping along the starboard railing. He was heading towards Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”

“It’s the
Liberty,
sir. The
Isabelle
did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”

“If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”

“We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”

“We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”

“Slices of Swiss cheese, sir!” cried Gus.

“Quite so!” Fly cupped his hands around his mouth to yell to the men who had the unenviable task of dodging grapeshot and cannonballs high up on the yardarms. “Topsails only, men!”

“Aye, sir. Topsails.”

“Quickly now, Mr. Walby, get yourself below. The moment we come up broadside to her, the guns will be firing again.” Fly laid one hand on Gus’s shoulder. “And please do us all a favour and take Mrs. Kettle with you.”

“I will try, sir.”

* * *

ON THE GUN DECK, the air was stifling and rank with the smell of fear. The half-naked gunners were black with gunpowder. Tiny rivers of sweat carved lines upon their blackened torsos as if the men had been scratched with giant fingernails. Clustered around each of the heavy guns was a crew of six, each member with his assigned duty. One man sponged out the gun barrel to remove traces of burning powder so others could insert the new powder charge, wads, and shot, and prepare all for the gun captain, whose task it was to aim and fire the gun. The young lads called “powder monkeys” scurried about, having carried up fresh charges from the magazine deep in the
Isabelle’s
hold.

Striding amongst the men and the guns was James, the polished brass buttons of his dark blue jacket glinting like cats’ eyes in the gathering gloom. Already his Hessian boots were scuffed and his cream-coloured breeches covered in filth and blood. His face was red with exertion and he kept one hand glued to the silver hilt of his sword.

“Deep breaths, men. Do not shoot again until we are broadside-to-broadside. We cannot afford to lose a single shot. Aim for her hull, but remember, our goal is to cripple her, not to sink her.” He stopped his pacing to stand behind Octavius. “This time we will have our chance to board her and search for deserters. I will leave you to it, Mr. Lindsay, as I must learn what damage has been done to our
Isabelle.
”

7:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

EMILY COULD STAND THE NOISE and suffering no longer. Streams of blood had now found their way into her dark corner. She could not see it, but she could smell it and feel its stickiness. On all fours, she crawled out through her canvas curtain into the hellish scene in the hospital. The room was clogged with bleeding, dying men whose eerie shadows were cast upon the wooden walls by the swaying light of the lanterns. Those who could stand leaned against one another, but most were huddled or lying on the floor. Every one of the hammocks was full, including the extra dozen that Osmund had hung up before the battle began. Young boys sobbed, calling out for their mothers; others groaned mournfully; most said nothing at all, presumably having already died or passed from consciousness.

“Please, Dr. Braden, please see me next. I can’t breathe, sir.”

“I’ll be with you soon, Mr. Smith. Hold on.” Leander’s voice was as calm as if he were tending to patients on a routine day.

“A drink of water … just a drink of water.”

“I want me ma …”

“I can’t see! Oh, God, I can’t see!” shrieked a hysterical boy, rocking back and forth on the floor, his face red and mutilated.

Emily’s eyes filled with tears. She had seen it all before, though it was no easier to bear this second time round. Here again was the reality of battle beyond the politicians’ rousing rhetoric and the reckless bravado of common men. Here again it lay before her – in all its dreadful glory – and she had no recourse but to face it head on. She yanked the red scarf from her neck and used it to tie back her hair. Then, crawling to the bucket of water Leander kept next to his operating table, she unhooked a cup from the bucket’s side and filled it. Balancing the cup in one hand she weaved her way through the throng of suffering sailors to the man who had pleaded for water.

She put the cup to his swollen lips and said softly, “Here, drink this.” He coughed and spit, but managed to get some down. There were no shoes on his feet, his pants had been half torn away, and a spreading bloodstain on his soiled shirt showed he had been struck in the chest. With laboured breathing, he looked up at her and said, “Thankee, Miss.” A moment later his bruised head slumped forward and he slowly slid down against her breast, his blood seeping into her clothes. Emily heard him utter a long moan and knew that he was gone.

A teenaged lad crouching nearby said, “He’s dead, ma’am.”

Emily suppressed a whimper and put her hand on the lad’s arm. “Could you help me carry him out to the galley?”

“Aye, ma’am. Only got a bit ’o lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.”

The lad hooked his strong, bare arms under the dead sailor’s limp ones and lifted him up while Emily held onto his legs. Blinking back tears, she fought to keep her stomach down as they carried him through the stifling, stinking hospital and out into the galley where they lay him carefully on a grey blanket near Bailey Beck, who was already at work there sewing the dead men – with an eighteen-pounder at their feet – into their hammocks for burial at sea. Emily thanked the young lad and searched out others who needed aid, this time walking rather than crawling through the sea of misery, mindless of her own cares and annoying ankle. Struggling to contain her emotions, she gave water and a comforting word to those she knew would die before Leander was able to see them.

Before long the guns boomed again. Above deck, the bellowing grew louder and fiercer so that Dr. Braden had to raise his voice in order to be heard by Osmund, who was darting nervously about the room like a fox with a pack of hounds on its heels. Emily could hear the whirr of chain and bar shot intended for the
Isabelle’s
rigging, and could feel the large cannonballs pounding her walls. She reached up for the ceiling boards to balance herself as she waded through the room, catching a word or two spoken by the men.

“Sounds like we be broadside to ’er now.”

“Lord, help thee lads.”

“Dr. Braden, I only got a couple ’o cut-up fingers. If ya could just bandage me real fast, I could git back to fightin’.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, you will have to wait your turn,” Leander said, focusing on a lead extraction from the arm of a shrieking, thrashing, red-haired midshipman. “Mr. Stewart, if you could stay still I might have an opportunity to remove the lead ball. If not, I will be forced to send you to the back of the line, and when I see you again in about three days, I will most likely have to remove your entire arm.”