Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (21 page)

“Let us not speak of him tonight.”

“I do know, Doctor. I have heard the men in their hammocks whispering his name.”

Leander averted his gaze momentarily and when he looked back at her, her eyes glistened with tears. “My bruises will heal. I know I will be fine; however, I – I long to see Magpie. Is that possible, Doctor?”

“I will arrange it for you in the morning.”

“What will become of Mr. Lindsay?”

Leander’s reply was cold. “His punishment will be decided when Captain Moreland has fully recovered. I expect it will be a harsh one. In time, he may hang or be shot. At the present, he sits clapped in irons on the gun deck, with no more regular company than a single marine sentry – and Mrs. Kettle, who delights in provoking him as she sits with her mending.”

Feeling sick upon hearing this, Emily rolled her head around on her pillow to look out upon the gusty night through the open gunport and listen to the calming murmur of the waves breaking upon the
Isabelle’s
anchored hull. Unencumbered by curious onlookers and jealous quips from the other men, Leander gave her a lingering look. But Emily took no notice. A long time passed, and when there was no further conversation, Leander wondered if his concoction of water, rum, and laudanum had taken effect. Overhead, he heard the haunting peal of three bells, and beyond the canvas curtain came snores and soft groans as the men slept on. He was about to leave when she looked back at him, an impish expression tugging the ends of her mouth. “If I thought I could get away with it, I should like to climb to the top of the
Isabelle’s
mainmast to seek out the stars and stay there until the sun rises.”

Leander leaned in closer to her, amusement playing upon his handsome features. “Does that mean your head and back injury, to say nothing of your broken ankle and shoulder wound, are all much improved?”

“If I tell you I am much improved, will you come climbing with me?”

Leander smiled. “I would surely fall. And if I were spared immediate death, I would find myself without anyone to take care of my injuries.”

“Then you have no faith at all in Osmund and the loblolly boys?”

“Sadly, no. If left to them, it would be better for all if I broke my neck and was simply slipped over the ship’s side.”

“A tragic end for the fine physician, Leander Braden.” She angled her head in a jaunty manner. “Do not speak of your death when I believe … you have a good deal more living to do.”

Recalling his own words to her when she had admitted a desire to be left to die in the sea, Leander grew wistful. “Should I be fortunate enough to have you hand me the occasional cup of water, I
would
desire to live.”

Ignoring the intensity of his eyes, Emily laughed. “Oh, I would do more than give you water. I’d give you plenty of rum and laudanum to ease your suffering, and when you wanted recreation, I’d read Miss Austen’s novel to you, especially the chapters that include Colonel Brandon and Miss Marianne. I could chase away from the hospital those that annoyed you, and I’d re-dress your bandages if you would allow me to – ” All vestiges of her merriment suddenly vanished and in the softest voice she added, “dearest Doctor.”

Leander could not be certain of the true meaning of her words; he could only be certain of the effect they had on him. He started from his stool, heartened and overwhelmed with thoughts of covering her mouth and darling bruised face with his lips. He shifted closer still to her bed, conscious that his pulse had quickened, and his desirous thoughts had caused his face to grow warm. Rather than reaching out for her as he longed to do, his trembling hands gripped the side of her cot and he hovered there, staring down at her as she lay quietly on her pillow, looking back at him, waiting. He felt the ship rise and fall under his feet, and heard her sigh, and, inexplicably, he felt paralyzed. Forcing his hopeful gaze to the floor, he dropped his arms to his sides and mumbled, “Good night” before leaving her to return, with reluctance, to his routine existence outside the canvas curtain.

4:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

OCTAVIUS LINDSAY BEGRUDGINGLY dropped his trousers and lowered his half-numb backside onto the seat of the heads in the farthest forward part of the
Isabelle,
behind the remains of her once-proud figurehead. “I don’t see why I cannot use the officers’ private toilets,” he shouted to the master-at-arms, who stood arms akimbo next to Octavius’s stone-faced marine sentry on the foredeck.

“There’ll be no special treatment fer condemned prisoners on this ship,” the master-at-arms bellowed back, following up his words with a great guffaw that was so loud it pierced the ubiquitous din of banging hammers.

“I’ll remind you that at the present I am not a condemned prisoner. I am an officer and therefore shall be deserving of a just hearing,” said Octavius in a voice rife with indignation. He settled his eyes on the swirling water that slapped the sides of the
Isabelle
far below his bare feet and muttered, “And I have been treated most abominably.”

Hoots and jeers dropped down upon Octavius’s ears like an icy rain from the shrouds, sails, and yardarms far above his head.

“I don’t see no officer. I kin only see some poor lubber with his breeches down round his ankles.”

“What d’ya know! His Lordship’s arse ain’t all spotted like his mug is.”

“Well, I vum. It looks much like mine.”

“And I bet a month’s worth o’ pay Mr. Lindsay is cravin’ a look at yer fleshy backend.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha.”

With hunched shoulders, Octavius bit his lip and silently put to memory the faces of the seamen hurling insults at him. If he were fortunate enough to get an opportunity, he would dispatch each and every one of them. He gleaned tremendous enjoyment from imagining his bloody revenge with sword and pistol and bare hands. Gone was the blubbering idiot he had succumbed to in front of Captain Moreland and Commander Austen. It had been foolish of him to fall apart that way and run off at the mouth. Well, there would be no more of that. Octavius squared his shoulders in his torn, ruffled shirt and sat up higher on the heads. He felt no remorse whatsoever for his actions against that woman. In fact, she deserved a good roughing up. “I bet her ladyship won’t be quite as high and mighty the next time she lays eyes on me.”

“Hurry up with yer business, Lord Lindsay. The sooner yer done, the sooner we kin string ya up.”

Octavius smirked while the sailors enjoyed a hearty laugh.
I’ll deal with the devil before any of your kind get the pleasure of seeing me dangling from the yard,
he swore to himself, scanning the blue-green seas for the sails of a Yankee warship.

Sooner or later, one was bound to find them.

10:00 p.m.

(First Watch, Four Bells)

FLY QUIT THE WARDROOM TABLE, where he had arranged for two senior officers to remain in his stead and continue the interrogation of the last few men taken from the
Liberty
while he went above deck for some air. But as he made his way to the nearest ladder, he slowed his step to listen in on the conversation between the captain of the marines and a man who had given his name as Silas Pegget, a man whose cheeks had a curious network of deep scars upon them.

“Your papers, please, Mr. Pegget.”

“I haven’t any, sir.”

“Tell me then … what is your place of birth?”

“New Bedford, Massachusetts, sir.”

“And that of your parents?”

“Wolverhampton … England.”

“How long have you been employed with the American navy?”

“Just over two years.”

“You look to be over thirty.”

“Aye, sir. I’m thirty-three.”

“New Bedford has for some time been an important trade port. Were you a whaler at any time?”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps you were in the merchant trade?”

“No, sir.”

“Then what did you do before joining the navy?”

“I worked in the post office,” said Silas Pegget, adding, after a fit of sneezing and wiping his craggy face with a ragged bit of cloth, “from the time I was … fifteen, sir.”

While the captain of the marines continued his questioning, Fly shook his head in frustration. At times, it was an exercise in futility, trying to determine those who were legitimate citizens of America and those who most likely had – at some point in their career – sailed with the British Navy, regardless of whether or not the individual in question possessed papers.

Fly slowly ascended the ladder to the weather decks, which he found deserted at this late hour, save for the men who silently stood watch on the fo’c’sle deck and high in the masthead lookouts, keeping their eyes peeled for movement on the vast horizons, and Morgan Evans’s carpenters, who had forfeited sleep to continue toiling and mending wherever they could, using as little lantern light as possible. Spying Gus Walby crossing the quarterdeck, Fly asked him to check below for any lights left burning by the exhausted crew members who now slept, but who, only an hour before, had been entertaining themselves with song and dance and other forms of revelry. He then considered himself officially off duty, and made his way to the poop deck. There he stripped off his uniform coat and sat down next to Leander on the bench that was carved beneath the taffrail, in the fluttering presence of the British ensign.

“Imagine finding you here, old fellow,” Fly remarked. Noticing the mug in Leander’s right hand, he added, “Drinking grog no less. Are you drunk yet?”

Leander gave his friend a half-smile. “No, but I intend to be before long.”

“Let me join you then. Who is filling your mug?”

“Biscuit. He’s somewhere in the shadows, no doubt hiding a mug of his own.”

“Biscuit!” Fly called out.

Like a red squirrel peeking out of his tree hole to sniff about for predators, Biscuit’s flaming orange head appeared on the ladder between the poop and the quarterdeck. “Aye, Mr. Austen?”

“Come here with your grog can. I insist you fill up Dr. Braden’s mug and one for me as well.”

There was a slight sway in Biscuit’s stride as he crossed with his tray of refreshments to the back of the deck where the two men sat. His checkered shirt was unbuttoned lower than usual, exposing thick tufts of red chest hair, and in his reddish whiskers were bits of pastry, leftovers from the piece of pie he had just devoured.

“Your breath is foul,” said Fly while the cook poured their drinks.

“Ach, I kin explain, sir. Ya see, I was bakin’ some o’ me sea biscuits down below and as ya know, they taste well on account o’ thee rum I puts in ’em.”

“Ahh!” said Fly. “So then it was one shot in your bowl, one shot in your hole, was that it? And here I understood Captain Moreland was withholding your rum rations for your display in the mess with our lady guest a few days back.”

“He threatened to, Mr. Austen,” said Biscuit, balancing his tray with one hand and scratching his hairy chest with the other, “but luckily for we nefarious perpetrators, he didna follow through with it. Ya see, Morgan almost drowned and Magpie lost his eye, and since I’m thee indispensable cook, Jacko and thee boys did thee holystonin’ part o’ thee punishment. But not a one o’ us lost our grog.”

“You are most fortunate our captain lies low in his cabin. If it were up to me, I’d have you on your knees this instant, swabbing the decks. Now get to your hammock, man,” said Fly, wresting the pitcher of grog from Biscuit’s grasp, “for I’ll not tolerate a grumpy cook at the breakfast table.”

Detecting a twinkle in Mr. Austen’s eyes, Biscuit quipped, “And fer yer kindness, sir, I’ll be servin’ ya up some marmeelade with yer fresh sea biscuits in thee mornin’.”

Fly stared after Biscuit’s comical wavering shape until the night’s blackness had swallowed him whole. He then turned back to Leander.

“Did you check in on James this evening?”

“I did. His fever is gone, but he’s not recovering as fast as I would have hoped.”

“
Will
he recover?”

“If he could rest for a week without interruption, his health may be restored.”

Fly looked out upon the faint purpling shadow of low-lying land and the glimmer of light coming from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse a few miles south from where the
Isabelle
lay anchored. “Our lives on this ship are as uncertain as that beacon on Hatteras – never knowing from one day to the next when we may be shining or flickering or extinguished altogether.” His dark eyes flashed in the night as he glanced about to seek out any eavesdroppers. “We’ve been sitting here for five days now, adrift in enemy waters, as helpless as a wounded whale while we patch up our ship to make her seaworthy once more. Our captain is ill and our men tired. Moreover, we have forty-odd prisoners of questionable origins along for the ride, who, despite the fact that we feed them from our pitiable rations and have given a few of them some form of occupation, may rise up against us when next we meet a belligerent Yankee frigate.”