Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (19 page)

“There’s nowhere to hide,” whispered a thick voice.

In her numbed horror, Emily shrank back upon the pile of tattered sails, unable to think clearly. The sail room was far too narrow to avoid the looming shape before her, and she had nothing on her with which to fight. No pistol, no cutlass, not even a hairpin. He jerked at the buttons on his coat, one tearing from the fabric and clattering to the floor, much as the gold-framed miniature had done earlier, then he stepped closer to her to fumble with the flap on his trousers.

“There’ll be no snivelling,” he said, breathing rum down her neck. He shoved her backwards upon the sails and jumped on her, his sudden weight snapping her head back against Magpie’s oak chest. She cried out in pain as he tore at her shirt and trousers.

“Shut up, shut up,” he hissed, forcing her to roll over onto her stomach. His guttural sounds and unwashed stench caused bile to rise in Emily’s throat and anger to burn in her breast. An image of Magpie’s workbench with its awl and mallet rose in her tortured mind. If she could just reach it. Her right arm was pinned under his knee, but with her left she thrashed out, frantically grabbing at the blackness around her, praying her hand would soon find the bench. Her movements angered him, and she felt a draft of air as his fist rose and crashed down upon her face. This time she screamed, with such fierce volume it hurt her own ears.

“Damn you to hell!” He tensed up, as if listening for approaching footsteps, and as he did so, Emily’s fingers closed around the awl. She swung the pointed instrument about wildly before bringing it down hard upon her assailant. He growled like a cur, throwing her against the wooden pole, her back striking the metal tackle. Before she could recover, his heavy hands were on her neck, crushing the life from her. Her small hands had not a chance of prying his hellish ones from her throat. Helplessly she lay there, fighting to stay conscious by focusing on a pinpoint of light that shone like a beacon behind the grotesque creature crouched over her. She heard the shuffle of feet and voices rising in pandemonium, and soon several more lanterns swayed in the sail room. Cursing and sputtering, her assailant was pulled from her and dragged into the shadows. Released, Emily turned away from the men who crowded into the room, holding their lanterns high and gaping down at her as if she were a wonder from the ocean’s bottom. She curled up into a ball next to Magpie’s workbench, gasping for air.

Above the sailors’ nervous mutterings, Emily heard a terse, wrathful command. “All of you – get out. Get out! Now!” There was a scurry of footsteps as the room emptied. Then the same voice, firm, but gentler this time, said, “Mr. Evans, take
that man
to the master-at-arms.”

“May I carry her to the hospital first, sir?” came Morgan’s voice.

“No! I shall carry her myself.”

“Aye, sir.”

With the sailors gone, peacefulness permeated the sail room, though Emily, her face hidden in her arms, sensed there were those who remained behind. She heard the subdued words, “Mr. Walby, close your mouth and avert your eyes,” and felt a pair of slender arms about her, lifting her bleeding head from the floor, covering her bruised, quaking body with the pond-green quilt that lay forgotten nearby. Into her ear the reassuring voice whispered, “It’s all right now. He’s gone.”

Opening her eyes, she saw Gus Walby standing over her, his chin trembling, his eyes shining with tears. The man who held her said, “Run ahead, Mr. Walby, and ask Osmund to move Magpie from her cot. Then alert Captain Moreland of what has taken place here.”

Gus bolted from the sail room like a whirring ball of lead. A second glance upwards revealed what Emily already knew. It was Leander who watched over her, his arms that comforted her. A wave of relief passed through her and she relaxed her head against the warmth of his body.

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

WITH THE COMPLETION of the burial service, Captain Moreland and Fly Austen trudged to the wardroom in search of a glass of wine before the other officers came in for their noon dinner. They stood, goblets in hand, by the galleried stern windows while Biscuit, who was supposed to be laying silverware on the table, buzzed around them like a horsefly, delighting in describing the meal he had prepared for them.

“Mutton chops – just thee way ya likes ’em, soused herring from me secret store o’ pickled delicacies, cheese I bin hoardin’ since we set out from Portsmouth, butter and toast, and I’ll serve up a big pot o’ tea fer ya. And then I’ll bring in some cold pie and more wine to round things off.”

James cast his cook a look of incredulity. “You’re draining our stores of victuals at an alarming rate, Biscuit. Do you suppose there’ll be anything left to eat when – and if – we ever arrive in Halifax?”

“Without a doubt there will be,” said Fly, hiding a yawn, “for Biscuit either sets a feast before us or he sets out to starve us.”

Biscuit scratched his crusty beard. “Ah, it’s to cheer yas up, Cap’n. Ya bin down o’ late.”

James stared out the windows at the grey monotony of crested waves that rolled past the
Isabelle
and was reminded of the dead young men he had given to the sea an hour earlier. He would have to write to their families and break their mothers’ hearts; grapple with himself to find the words to describe their brave sons’ last heroic moments on earth. It was a task he abhorred. The truth was, their sons were victims of a senseless war, killed by guns manned by men who were in all likelihood English compatriots. The bulk of his letters would be sent to England, but some would be postmarked Ireland, Denmark, and Prussia, and one would have to find its way to Brazil.In the end, they would find their way to all of the mothers on different continents, connected by grief, weeping for their common loss. James’s chest felt heavy and his head ached. He felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. Finally he spoke again. “I should like to have a few days of blessed monotony. No battles, no punishments, and dear God, no more deaths.”

Knowing their captain and his state of mind, Fly and Biscuit said not a word. Fly sipped his wine pensively while the room grew quiet, with only the occasional tinkling sound as Biscuit finished laying the silverware. Not five minutes later, young Walby appeared breathless outside the wardroom and snatched his navy-blue cocked hat from his blond head.

“What’s yer business here?” demanded Biscuit, going to the door. “The cap’n and Mr. Austen is busy.”

Gus looked watery-eyed past Biscuit to the men standing by the windows. “Captain, sir, Dr. Braden asked me to come for you. There’s been a … a commotion in the sail room, sir.”

James came towards Gus. “What sort of commotion?”

“A fight, I mean … an assault. Emily’s hurt.”

“Emily?” James’s eyes grew large. “What the devil was she doing in the sail room?”

“I don’t know, sir, but Magpie’s crying, saying it’s all his fault. And … and
he’s
been taken to the master-at-arms.”

“Magpie?” cried James. “With the master-at-arms? You’re telling me Magpie assaulted Emily?”

“No, not Magpie, sir.
Him.
He hurt her badly.”

“Speak plainly, Mr. Walby. We cannot follow your ramble,” said Fly kindly, extending an arm towards a chair. “Here, sit a while and begin again.”

“I’ll stand, thank you, Mr. Austen,” said Gus, trying to gather himself together. “The thing is, sir, that while we were on deck for the burial, Emily was attacked in the sail room.”

James’s faded blue eyes hardened and he took a step closer to the small midshipman. “And who was it that attacked her?”

Gus took a deep breath. “Mr. Lindsay. Octavius Lindsay, sir.”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

AFT ON THE LOWER DECK near the gunroom, Octavius Lindsay languished on the floor, his feet bound in shackles that were fitted to the deck and to an iron bar. Behind him stood a scarlet-jacketed marine sentry, concentrating on the nothingness in front of him. As most of the crew were still at their dinner, there was no one else about, except Meg Kettle, who sat curiously in the shadows, mending shirts. Hearing determined approaching footsteps, Octavius looked up, his eyes swollen and watery, to find Captain Moreland, Mr. Austen, and Gus Walby standing over him, wearing stern expressions.

“Kindly wait by the fish room hatch, Mr. Walby,” said Mr. Austen. The young midshipman nodded and chirped “sir” but did not move as far along the deck as he’d been instructed.

James hardly recognized the miserable heap of humanity on the floor before him as his haughty first lieutenant. There was a bleeding gash on the side of Octavius’s head, and his features were twisted in anguish and fear. He resembled a young boy who’d been tormenting his younger sister and was about to face a severe reprimand from his intimidating father. James felt a muscle twitching in his cheek as he said sharply, “I am truly disillusioned, Mr. Lindsay. I can find nothing of the senior officer in you.”

“Captain, please, show mercy, sir. Please don’t send me to my death.” Octavius dropped his head between his knees and began blubbering incoherently.

“I don’t know whether to despise you or to pity you.”

Octavius began rocking back and forth on the floor, and in a voice choked with terror sobbed, “Please, sir, don’t hang me. Give … give me fifty lashes, flog me around the fleet when we return to England, just please … I don’t want to hang.”

James’s blue-veined hands flew to his mouth and he shut his eyes as if in pain. A moment later he cried out, “For God’s sake, man,
what
were you thinking? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“You are a friend of my father’s,” Octavius beseeched him. “He can make you a rich man when this war is done. I’ll see to it. I’ll personally see to it. Just don’t put me to death.”

“Mr. Lindsay, you are familiar with the Articles of War by now,” James said, reaching out to steady himself against the nearest post. “I may have no choice.”

“I didn’t know it was her. I swear I didn’t know it was her.”

James straightened himself. “What nonsense! You’ve despised that woman from the moment she came on board.”

“I wouldn’t have harmed her. I thought … I thought – ”

“You thought what?” snapped Fly.

Octavius hid his humiliation with his hands. A wrenching silence followed, broken only by the prisoner’s guttural sobs. Captain and commander turned their backs to him and moved away while Gus Walby braved a few steps towards them, still keeping a respectable distance.

“What will you do with him, sir?” Fly asked in a steely voice.

“I don’t know,” said James wearily. “Given the seriousness of his offence and the fact that he is an officer, his punishment will have to be decided by a court-martial. We have no choice but to wait until we reach Halifax. Only there will we find enough captains and perhaps a few admirals willing to sit and determine his fate.”

“Shall we leave him here in the bilboes with the marine?”

“Aye, for now. It’ll be sufficient punishment keeping him here for all to see and taunt. Would you go ask Osmund Brockley to see to his head wound? I need time to think.” James placed his right hand on Fly’s shoulder.

“Are you well, sir?” asked Fly, alarmed by the ashen colour of James’s face.

“I am in desperate need of some fresh air.” Together they left the gun deck, leaving behind the forgotten Mr. Walby.

Meg Kettle, who had been silently mending her shirts in the shadows, waited until the captain and Mr. Austen were long gone. She then perked up and laughed at the young midshipman, who stood gaping down at the prisoner as if he were a spectacle at St. Bartholomew’s Fair.

“’Ave ya bin able ta figure it all out, Mr. Walby?”

Gus looked surprised, as if he’d only then just noticed her sitting there. His lips parted, indicating to Meg that he might speak. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, turned suddenly on his heels, and hurried away. Meg stood up to address the pathetic prisoner on the floor and made a sucking sound with her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Thee men, if they didna despise ya before, will be despisin’ ya now. Why ya just put a nail inta yer own coffin.”

1:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)

ACCOMPANIED BY A MARINE SENTRY, Fly climbed down the ladder from the foc’s’le deck and into the hospital. The room was as quiet as a crypt. Osmund tiptoed around with his chamber pots and bandages. Mr. Crump had nothing amusing to say. Along with Biscuit and several seamen who were crowded round the galley entrance, he kept a silent watch on the thin sheet of canvas that separated them from Emily, as faithfully as if he were above deck combing the seas for an enemy sighting. On a stool next to a slumbering Magpie, who was now in his new hammock, Gus Walby sat clutching Fly’s sister’s novel,
Sense and Sensibility,
evidently hopeful that he would soon be invited to enter Emily’s sacred corner. Near Gus sat Morgan Evans, who respectfully pulled his knitted hat from his shaggy-haired head and saluted the moment Fly glanced in his direction. The wounded sailors – those who could – sat upright in their beds and saluted him in turn, though immediately afterwards their focus darted back to the canvas.