Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (22 page)

Leander searched the night sky until he had located the moon – a slice of pale orange drifting through silvery clouds – at his back. He set down his mug and sighed. “And you’re wondering, in all this, where our enemies are hiding?”

Fly nodded. “My guess is that when we cut the
Liberty
loose during the storm, she ran aground south of us, on these flat Carolina islands, or was dashed upon these shoals, and all hands were lost at sea. I expected someone to come looking for them and … for us.”

“Are you certain of our position?”

“I know of no other lighthouse in this vicinity, although one can hardly call it a lighthouse. Its light is so dim and unreliable, it does little good for those of us on the sea.”

“Then we are not far from Norfolk, Virginia.”

“Correct.”

“Is there not a large base there?”

“There is. We’ve spotted sloops and schooners, and, strangely enough, that odd privateer with its ostentatious red hull – the one that was anchored beside us in Bermuda – but, so far, no warring frigates.” Fly took a long draught from his mug. “I have an uneasy feeling.”

Leander slouched down on the bench and allowed his head to fall back against the railing. Fly followed suit, past caring for the officer-like behaviour necessary in front of those dark figures who stood dreaming on duty far above him on the gusty yards. As the bell tolled the late hour and the
Isabelle
rose and fell rhythmically, lulling Fly and Leander into a stupor, they grew melancholy, listening to the mysterious mutterings of the velvety sea.

“You know, old fellow, you are as easy to read as one of my sister’s stories.”

Leander roused himself. “How’s that?”

“I can see a change has come over you.” As Fly’s alert eyes bore into his blue ones, Leander felt the dreaded red creeping up his neck. “Why, back in my days on the
Canopus,
our doctor was a veritable cussing idler who left most of his work to his mates and loblolly boys. He never kept any notes on his treatments, and if anyone dared come down with a suspicious fever, he avoided the sick bay altogether.”

“Your point?” asked Leander, avoiding Fly’s bright stare.

“You, on the other hand, are always on duty, always at your desk, always in the hospital. When did you last lie about above deck wearing a sun hat to protect your fair, freckled face, reading your beloved Burns and Scott? Or join the officers in the wardroom for a drunken singsong after supper?”

“I am doing that very thing now.”

“No, tell me, when?”

“Between battles and lopping off arms and legs, there’s been little time for that kind of leisure.”

Fly craned his neck up into Leander’s face. “Mind you, the audacious Dr. Willen of the
Canopus
did not have a woman lying in one of his hospital hammocks, wearing his nightshirt, and depending on him for rehabilitation and amusements. If he had, he might have found reason to spend longer hours there.”

As Leander was at a loss for words, Fly’s voice softened. “I see it in your eyes, friend. I hear it in your words, and detect it in your actions and occupations. You are besotted with our gentlewoman.”

Under the controlling powers of grog, Leander could not hide the sheepish grin that took hold of his mouth. “I fear she has awakened emotions in me I never thought I would feel again.”

Fly’s features fell. “Ahhh! So there is no hope left for my sister Jane? You would have her remain a spinster in Chawton cottage and leave her with no other company than my other sister, Cassandra, and my poor old mother?”

“Must I humble myself to remind you, Fly, that I am no worthy suitor for any woman?”

“Pshaw! Hogwash!”

“I’m a lowly physician floating in the Atlantic on a wounded ship.”

“It’s well known you’re a common butcher, but a good one at that.”

Leander paid no attention to Fly’s remark and went on sullenly. “I have very little money to my name, and my permanent address is a dark corner on the
Isabelle’s
orlop deck.”

“Does your desperation spring from the fact that in your heart you know it’s me Emily desires and not you?”

Leander pulled a face and gave Fly an emphatic, “No.”

“And why not? She doesn’t know I’m happily married to my Mary, and have a daughter and three sons waiting for me on the Isle of Wight.”

“No, perhaps not, but if your marital status was otherwise, Emily would surely consider Mrs. Kettle the better companion for you.”

“Ha, ha. You can be very humorous when you are half-seas over, old fellow.”

“Old fellow? The last time we checked you were older than me by a good five years, Mr. Austen.”

“Maybe so, but one would never know it the way you’re conducting yourself, as mournful and out of sorts as if you already stand knee-high in the grave.”

Leander stared into his empty mug. “I – I know so little of her. She has dropped tantalizing hints here and there, but despite this, I find myself no closer to knowing whether she is actually a wealthy man’s daughter, destined to marry one of King George’s silly, aging sons, or a beautiful, intelligent dairy maiden who chooses to remain secretive so she would have us all believing she is well-born.”

Leander’s words jolted Fly into recollection, as if someone had just struck a match to a candle in his brain. He frowned, trying to remember something Bun Brodie had said in his interview in James’s cabin, three long days ago, after the battle with the
Liberty
– something about a woman named Mrs. Seaton who had been travelling with him on board the
Amelia,
bound for Upper Canada in the company of a serving woman and the arrogant Mr. Seaton, and who had suffered the misfortune of falling into the hands of Thomas Trevelyan. Was it possible – ? Could she be – ? Fly considered sharing this information with his friend, but upon studying his distraught countenance, decided against it. It could wait. He smiled and tried to be jovial.

“Would it matter to you where she came from? Shakespeare’s Juliet discovered her Romeo was from an opposing house, the son of her father’s sworn enemy. It made no difference to her.”

Leander regarded his friend sadly. “I should like it if my life were to turn out somewhat differently than Shakespeare’s young lovers.”

“It’s been too many years since you loved and were loved. Why, you’ve forgotten all joy in life. Come, now, you have much to offer.” Fly gave him a good looking-over. “You’re young, strong enough – perhaps a bit too thin – occasionally funny, and despite your aged mannerisms and bookishness, you have been labelled as being ‘well formed.’”

“Well formed? By whom?”

“None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”

Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here’s to Mrs. Kettle.”

“Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”

“You are truly filthy minded.”

“Aye. That I am.”

Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”

“Mr. Walby?”

“No lights burning down below, sir.”

“Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don’t want any enemy frigates learning our position.”

“Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.

“And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck’s been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”

“I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”

Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”

“Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.

“Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.

Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the
Isabelle’s
waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook’s assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”

“Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.

Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”

Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.

8

Monday, June 14

7:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Six Bells)

THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”

Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.

“Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”

“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”

Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed
some
abilities in the hospital.

“We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.

Emily’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”

“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the
Isabelle.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.

“My clothes! They’re gone.”

“Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”

“Why, I didn’t even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week’s washing.”

“Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the
Liberty,”
Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.

Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.

“I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden’s nightshirt on.”

Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it’s a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn’t do fer ya to catch a cold.”

“My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”

Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I’d find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily’s cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.

“And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.

“With the captain.”

“Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”

“The doctor’s not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All’s I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we’ll be attacked again whilst the captain’s ailing. Mr. Austen’s ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the
Isabelle
sitting idle in these fogs.”