Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (56 page)

Despite all the turbulence around him, Magpie still cowered against the starboard rail, but soon spotted Morgan Evans, newly returned from conveying all of his messages, and most likely having had a hard time of it trying to convince Biscuit to smother the fires on his Brodie stove. “Magpie! Get yourself below. It’s too dangerous for you to linger here. Go and help Dr. Braden prepare his surgery table. He’ll appreciate your company.”

“I can’t move, sir. It’s like Jacko’s gone and pasted me feet with some o’ his shoemaker’s glue and I’m part o’ the deck.”

“I’ll carry you then.”

“Oh, no, everyone’ll be givin’ me a turrible hecklin’ if ya do that, sir.”

“You’ve got to get a move on.”

“Could ya let me lean on ya, sir, just ’til me legs work agin?”

Morgan offered him a supporting arm and together they forged their way through the congested quarterdeck, skirting the gun crews hunched over their long guns and carronades, and headed toward the fore ladder that would take them down to Dr. Braden’s hospital. All the while, Magpie could sense an eerie calm overspreading the
Amethyst
. The men had taken their positions, and their eyes closely observed the rising mists on the ship’s starboard side, their necks taut and extended as if hoping to be the first to glimpse the ghost ship. Magpie gazed up at the barefooted topmen, balancing on the yardarms — relieved he was not among them — and the men’s sweaty faces, particularly those pinched with trepidation, were soon branded onto his memory. With care, he released the dirks from his belt and carried them upright before him.

The fore ladder was a mere step beyond them when Magpie saw it again; this time slinking alongside the larboard rail, on the opposite side of the ship from where most everyone stood watch.

And this time … its gunports were opened.

Magpie’s brain had barely registered the ominous object when he was suddenly blinded by a cloudburst of red. The deafening explosion that followed rattled his teeth and jarred his bones. In a flash, Morgan’s strong hands were on Magpie’s head, shoving it down hard between his ankles, sending him and his heavy dirks tripping down the ladder.

7:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

The
Amethyst
answered
the mystery ship with a booming broadside, the powerful recoiling of the guns shaking every inch of the deck.

Magpie lay paralyzed in fear on the hospital floor, scarcely aware that someone in spectacles, rolled up sleeves, and dark breeches, was standing over him with an expression of concern etched upon his brow.

“Am I still livin’?” he squeaked, when he finally recognized the face peering down at him.

“You appear to be,” said Dr. Leander Braden, reaching down to pull him to his feet, “although your unorthodox entrance into my hospital with those portentous dirks
could
have killed you.” He led Magpie to a stool next to his operating table, and set him down upon it.

More alert now, Magpie looked around him in alarm. “Where’s Mr. Evans?”

“Most likely he’s in the hold, filling holes with oakum and pitch, so we stay afloat.”

“He told me to come help ya with yer prep’rations.” But Magpie could see that Dr. Braden had already laid out his frightening instruments of surgery upon a bloodstained square of cloth, which covered what was normally his writing desk. He didn’t like the look of the doctor’s inauspicious collection of knives — especially that big amputating saw — nor the peculiarity of the bone nippers and forceps: they acutely reminded him of the day he’d been laid out upon that table, Dr. Braden using some of those very instruments to remove his shattered eye.

A picture of twitching apprehension perched upon his stool, Magpie hooked the dirks onto his hempen belt, and listened to the now familiar tumult of war that thundered all around them. A choking black smoke wafted around his head, its acrid odour mixed with the foul smell of human fear, filling his nostrils. Above and below deck, there was so much shouting going on amongst the Amethysts, he could not decipher a single word spoken.

“It’s not Trevelyan agin, is it, sir?” he asked, barely able to put voice to his thoughts.

Dr. Braden removed his round spectacles and tucked them into a breast pocket of the black apron he wore over his linen shirt, and then gave Magpie a reassuring smile. “You won’t ever have to fear Thomas Trevelyan again. By now, he’ll be back in England, and before long he’ll be tried, found guilty, and executed.”

“But ’til then, ya don’t think he’ll try harmin’ Emily, do ya, sir?”

“The Duke of Clarence and his men will make certain she’s kept safe from him.”

“Are ya missin’ her, sir?”

Dr. Braden raised an eyebrow, as if he had not expected to be asked such a question, but he could not conceal the sadness that subsequently crept into his blue eyes. There was a sharp intake of breath before he replied. “Since her leave-taking … my hospital has not been quite the same.”

Not certain how to interpret his answer, Magpie dug around in his trouser pocket, produced a folded scrap of canvas, and unravelled it to reveal its secret contents: a gold-framed miniature of a young woman wearing a blue-velvet spencer jacket, pearls in her pale gold hair, and a mischievous smile upon her lips. He held it out to Dr. Braden. “Sir, I bin carryin’ it fer a while now. Why, it means everythin’ to me since I lost me blanket — the special one what Mrs. Jordan gave me when I were a climbin’ boy and workin’ fer Mr. Hardy in London.”

Dr. Braden’s face flushed as he took the miniature from Magpie and lowered his gaze upon Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, the granddaughter of King George III; the only child of the Duke of Wessex.

“Well, sir, I bin thinkin’ … maybe ya’ll be needin’ it now.”

For a long time, Dr. Braden did not stir, but when at last he spoke again, his voice sounded strangely hoarse. “No … no, you keep it, Magpie.” He quickly handed the miniature back to Magpie, and turned away to fuss with the instruments already lying in their organized line upon his table. Carefully returning Emily’s picture in its bit of canvas to his warm pocket, Magpie wondered what he could say or do to cheer up the doctor, but at that moment a strident flock of men trudged down the fore ladder and into the sanctuary of the hospital. Led by Osmund Brockley, Dr. Braden’s assistant, the group had volunteered — nay, felt it their duty — to leave their comrades behind upon the weather decks to contend with the hail of enemy grapeshot and musket balls while they carried the whimpering wounded down to safety, each one of them in turn delivering an accounting of the various afflictions which required ministration.

“Mr. Piper’s got a mess o’ splinters stickin’ outta his legs, Doctor.”

“Mr. Beef took it on the head, sir. A riggin’ block knocked ’im silly.”

“This one’s gun jumped back on him and squashed his foot.”

“We got a few bad burns here, sir.”

“Young Sam went and regurgitated his vittles all over the ship’s bell.”

The last of the men to enter the hospital did not have escorts at his side. He was able to make his own way down the slippery rungs, although his face was as white as sea foam; there were beads of perspiration upon his forehead, and a large bloodstain on his starched and ruffled shirt.

In a voice as calm as a ship drifting in the doldrums, Dr. Braden first instructed the volunteers where to lay or leave the wounded, and then he addressed the straggler. “Lord Bridlington! What’s happened to you?”

A stupefied Bridlington stared at his left hand. “A bit of grapeshot … from nowhere … it took with it one of my fingers,” he stammered, looking quite as if he would faint dead away.

Realizing the first lieutenant’s injury was not life threatening, Dr. Braden concentrated on Mr. Piper, who convulsed in pain upon the blood-soaked table, and spelled out directions to Osmund Brockley — who stood there with a vacant expression upon his countenance, licking his lips with his oversized tongue.

“Please pay attention, Mr. Brockley,” said Leander sternly, “and do not make me rue the day I lost the skilful Joe Norlan to another Royal Navy ship.”

Magpie led Lord Bridlington to the stool he had just vacated, and fetched him a drink of water and a cloth bandage to wrap around his hand, but while doing so he could not help his welling resentment toward these men — wounded or not — as they would now command Dr. Braden’s undivided attention. Still, despite the agony of the injured and the bad smells, he wanted to stay and help if he could. Knowing the presence of sand on the floor was necessary to keep a ship’s surgeon and his knife steady, he hurried to scoop up a large cupful from the sand bucket and scatter it around Dr. Braden’s feet. When he was done, and had stood back to observe his efforts, he thought his chest would burst with elation, for not only had Dr. Braden been aware of his little initiative before he set to work on Mr. Piper, he smiled down at him and said, “Perhaps, Magpie … every so often … you would do me a kindness and show me her face.”

9:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

Leander Braden could
not comprehend why the guns had ceased firing when — it seemed to him — they had only just begun.

Having changed his shirt and, against his better judgement, left his few patients in the incapable hands of Osmund Brockley, he headed above deck for an explanation. In no time at all he had spotted the distinguishing blue bicornes of Fly Austen and Captain Prickett as they stood in consultation beside the ship’s wheel. But even from a distance, Leander could see there was something in the manner in which the two men addressed one another that suggested all was not well.

As the sun had now completely burned off the morning mists, the mystery ship and its snowy-white sails were clearly visible, at two points off the larboard bow, too far away for the
Amethyst
’s guns to have further effect. The crew had been ordered to “stand down” and the activity on the weather decks had returned to normalcy. Even Meg Kettle, the laundress, had ventured from the safety of the orlop and come on deck to hang a few shirts and stockings on the rigging to dry — though it was not her usual wash day. She went about her tasks as she always did, swinging her prodigious hips provocatively, and openly flirting in between grumbling tirades on the subject of her aching back. If it were not for the sailors with their brooms and brushes, clearing the decks of splintered oak and little puddles of blood, and the foremast having been unburdened of its top half, one would hardly guess the day had had such an inauspicious beginning.

The Scottish cook, known only as Biscuit on account of his artistry in the baking of sea biscuits — his
pinch of sugar and shot of rum
placing them in good standing amongst the men who consumed them on a daily basis — buzzed around the quarterdeck, dispensing refreshments from a silver tray and jokey words to all of the officers who lingered there. His unkempt orange hair waved wildly about in the fresh winds, and his shirt was opened at the neck to proudly display his thick thatch of chest hairs. The moment he saw Leander approaching, he sprang forward to offer up a steaming mug of coffee.

“Ach, sir, ya look weary,” he said in welcome, his skewed eye rolling about in a most disturbing fashion. “This here’s fer yer pains.”

“Thank you, Biscuit.” Leander gratefully accepted the proffered mug and downed the hot contents in two gulps before fixing his attention on the fleeing vessel. “Do we know who our enemy was?” he asked Fly Austen.

There was no mistaking the hint of sarcasm in Fly’s tone. “A bold Yankee privateer with no more than fourteen guns and a crew of approximately forty, who, it is more than likely sure, mistook us for a merchantman.”

“Ha! And when that blighted fog finally lifted,” continued Captain Prickett, crossing his arms atop his belly, “and they had had an opportunity to observe our size and power, they ran off like a frightened rabbit. Why, in their haste to escape, we could see them dumping their guns over the side of their brig.”

“Either that or their leader was a paroled officer,” Fly added gravely, “and knew, should the day not end in his favour, we would hang him.”

Biscuit, ever ready with a quip (his impertinence rarely checked by any of the captains he had ever served — Captain Prickett included), had his own explanation for the privateer’s hasty retreat. “Or they done reminded one another o’ the prison hulks we got moored in the Thames and our disease-ridden prison here on Melville Island.”

Captain Prickett released a long sigh. “Aye, and here the lads were raring for a bit of hand-to-hand combat.”

Fly’s jaw tightened. “There’s still time to pursue them, sir. The winds are stiff and in our favour. Perhaps the lads may still have their fight.”

Appearing not to have heard Mr. Austen’s comment, Prickett helped himself to a sweet from Biscuit’s tray, chewed hard upon it, and assumed the aspect of one deep in meditation. Undaunted, Fly pressed his point. “It would bring the people of Halifax such pleasure to see us bring one in, even a small, inferior one. Aside from perhaps the
Shannon
’s victory over the
Chesapeake
, our record at sea has not been impressive, and these privateers are wreaking havoc on our trade. They must be stopped.”

Captain Prickett seemed determined to remain cheerful. “But, Mr. Austen, how quickly you forget our own splendid victory in bringing down Trevelyan and his
Serendipity
. We may travel a great distance on that sweet triumph for months to come.”

Leander could see that Fly’s hands had formed fists. “Sir, with respect, that was six weeks ago, and as for it being
our
victory … have you forgotten the crucial role played by Prosper Burgo and his Remarkables?”

“Mr. Austen, do not delude yourself into thinking that Mr. Burgo and his ruffians could ever have brought Trevelyan down if it had not been for our presence and the threat of our superior gun power.” Prickett gazed up at the blue sky. “Nay, I do not recommend further fighting on this fine morning; besides, that damned privateer blew away a portion of our foremast with those first feeble shots of hers.”