Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (57 page)

“But that is of little inconvenience. We could quickly replace what was lost with a jury-rigged mast, and then we …”

“Tut, tut, Mr. Austen,” interjected Prickett. “I’ll not have you being disagreeable, especially when Biscuit here has such exquisite plans for our breakfast feast!”

Fly’s nostrils flared as he took a second to gather his composure, and then he swung toward Leander with an obvious desire to change the subject. “Doctor! Tell us, my good man, what is the butcher’s bill?”

“Six wounded. No deaths, thank God.”

“Any serious wounds?”

“Jim Beef may require trepanning, as there is a swelling on his brain, but the others are fine.” Leander paused as Biscuit refilled his mug, and then glanced at Captain Prickett. “I’m afraid your first lieutenant, Mr. Bridlington, though he lost only one finger, is quite certain he’ll soon be meeting his maker.”

“That milksop!” barked Prickett. “I’ve a mind to leave him in Halifax when we dock. He’s not fit for the hearty life on a man-o’-war. I’ll recommend he take the first ship back to England, and take up the merchandising of women’s hosiery.”

“We’re heading back to port?”

Prickett clapped Leander on the back, dangerously close to the spot where Trevelyan’s bullet had entered his left shoulder. “Aye! I think we could all use two, perhaps three weeks in port to refit, collect fresh provisions, and find ourselves a sturdy new foremast.”

Fly’s eyebrows shot upward in disbelief, but this time he said nothing, allowing Prickett the courtesy of continuing.

“I say we all deserve a respite from our cares on the Atlantic, especially you, Doctor, for I have long been aware of a melancholy hanging around you like an over-starched neckcloth. Therefore, let us reward ourselves! A tavern stocked with ale, an excellent meal, and the delights of a brothel may do us all a world of good.”

2

Wednesday, August 4

Early Morning

Aboard HMS
Impregnable

Emily bolted upright
in her cot.

Her hands clutched at her pounding chest as she fought to draw deep breaths and purge the hideous images of her dream.
He
would not harm her again … her Uncle Clarence had promised her.
He
was in the bowels of the
Impregnable,
beneath the waterline on the orlop deck, his feet clapped in irons, with ten marines in attendance, their bayonets fixed upon him, ready to run him through should he so much as utter a single word.

Then why was it Captain Thomas Trevelyan continued to appear, night after night, in her dreams, like a repulsive sea creature intent on dragging her down into the blackness of his world? Would she not be free of him until a London tribunal proclaimed his guilt, and she had witnessed his execution, his pathetic remains tossed into an unmarked paupers’ pit on the outskirts of the city?

Emily squeezed her eyes shut, forced the air into her lungs, and wished she were still safe in the hospital on the
Isabelle
, within reach of Dr. Braden as he cared for his patients on the other side of her canvas curtain. If only she could call his name and he would come to her, bearing a soothing elixir, and stay with her until her heartbeats had resumed their normal rhythm. But it was not to be. She was now travelling on her Uncle Clarence’s flagship, HMS
Impregnable
, within days of raising England, and Leander now sailed with the crew of HMS
Amethyst
, in the company of Fly Austen and Morgan Evans and little Magpie, hundreds of miles away, fighting a war with the United States. A month back, in what seemed like a lifetime ago, Emily and Leander had exchanged their farewells, and she wondered — as she did every day — if he were safe on the sea, and whether the thought of her gave him as much pain as thoughts of him gave her. But this morning, Emily would not submit to tears; she had already dwelled too long in the disagreeable company of sorrow and remorse. While she waited for the constriction around her heart to ease, and her trembling to cease, she refused to revisit her disquieting dream, choosing instead to recall the curves of Leander’s face, his sea-blue eyes, and his last words to her before they parted. And the very instant she felt at peace again, she quit her bed and threw open the heavy gunport on the day.

It was early; dawn was nothing more than a glimmer of red on the far eastern horizon. Unlike the stormy seas of her nightmare, the ocean was calm, the breeze was fresh, and sitting low in the vast, brightening sky was the moon’s ghost. Plying the waters near the
Impregnable
was the comforting presence of two brigs, part of her Uncle Clarence’s convoy. Were she able to gaze out the ports on the ship’s larboard side, she knew she would find two more sailing escorts there. They were all prepared, if need be, to engage in battle with an American or French frigate, or give chase to a pompous privateer. Their presence was a mighty deterrent to potential enemies, and in Emily’s present state of mind she required calm. She could not bear to hear the guns of war booming now; she hoped she would never have to hear their thunder again.

On the weather decks above, the men of the Morning Watch went about their duties. The ship’s bell rang four times, a whistle trilled, commands were barked, barrels rumbled along the deck, and, periodically, the good-natured voices of the men were raised.

“If you please, Mr. Scattergood, what is our present speed?”

“Five knots, sir.”

“Up the mizzen with you, man. What are you waiting for?”

“Sir, I’m afeared of heights.”

“Look lively, Mr. Clamp! Why, ye’re a veritable sluggard this mornin’.”

“With respect, sir, I won’t have no vigour til I’ve had me breakfast.”

“’Tis the voice of a sluggard — I heard him complain: ‘You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.’”

At that moment someone said something amusing, igniting peals of laughter that echoed round the ship. Emboldened by the stirring sounds of life and the shining sea, Emily gathered up her long hair in a red scarf and quickly dressed, pulling on the flimsy linen trousers and checked shirt that, at her request, had been secretly presented to her by the obliging ship’s purser when she first boarded the
Impregnable
. Their quality and fit could not compare to that of the dear blue jacket and cream-coloured pantaloons little Magpie had once sewn for her with such care and attention to detail, but like so many other things she had once cherished, they too were gone, lost to the indomitable waves. She could not think of those days now, for if she were to submit to their poignant remembrance, she would never summon the fortitude to face the terrors that awaited her arrival in London.

Secure in her sailor’s disguise, she slipped quietly from her cabin.

7:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Six Bells)

Midshipman Gus Walby
, who was nearing his thirteenth birthday, hopped along the quarterdeck of HMS
Impregnable
in his ill-fitting uniform with the aid of a crutch. It had been seven weeks since his ruinous fall from the
Isabelle
’s mizzenmast on that dreadful, decisive day when Thomas Trevelyan had set out to destroy Captain Moreland’s crew and his proud ship. Gus had broken both of his arms and his right leg that day, but in the past four weeks his arms had much improved, thanks in part to the admiral, the Duke of Clarence, who had insisted he rest up during their ocean crossing and take on only the lightest of nautical duties, and to Emily, who had frequently provided him with amiable company and had read to him multiple chapters of
Pride and Prejudice
, the book Mr. Austen had presented to her in Bermuda before she had departed for England.

But Gus’s leg was not healing as quickly, and he feared for his future as an officer of the Royal Navy. How could he ever be promoted from midshipman to lieutenant with a crippled leg? Emily had shrugged off his concerns, arguing that in all her nearly nineteen years she had either been acquainted with or had knowledge of several naval captains who had had various limbs missing — she had even known one whose prodigious belly had wreaked havoc on his waistcoats — but their encumbrances had in no way diminished their effectiveness in leading men. Why then, she had asked, should a simple limp and a temporary dependency upon a crutch obstruct
his
ability in the future to command one of the king’s ships? “Now mind you, Mr. Walby, I
would
be most concerned that promotion would forever elude you,” Emily had added as an afterthought, a smile curling her lips, “if you possessed … a disease of the mind.”

Gus tried not to think about his future; advancement and longevity in the Royal Navy were the least of his worries. Though he would not admit it, even to Emily, he was apprehensive about returning to England. How would he ever endure the endless hours while he convalesced? How long would he have to wait until he was well enough to resume his post? And if he were to return to the sea one day, might he be fortunate enough to sail once again with Mr. Austen, Dr. Braden, Morgan Evans, Magpie, and all those for whom he cared? However, deep in his breast, Gus hid the heaviest concern of all, one that pressed on his mind like a perpetual headache. His parents were both dead, his guardian uncle away at sea, who would be there to meet him?

Attempting to banish his gnawing anxieties, Gus gave his blond head a shake; besides, he had to pull himself together for he had an important errand to run. He was carrying a message for Emily. The only problem was, she was not to be found in her cabin — or, as she referred to it, her
little private
box
, having once quipped, “Surely, Mr. Walby, my room has the same dimensions as one of the Duchess of Devonshire’s hat boxes.”

From experience, Gus was well aware that Emily did not take kindly to sitting alone in her quarters for any length of time. When they had sailed together on the
Isabelle
, she had been known to steal off, dressed in sailor’s slops, to forbidden areas of the ship. She had once been found in the men’s mess, swilling a mug of beer in the unsuitable society of Biscuit, the cook, and Jacko, the ship’s shoemaker. Another time she had ventured down to the sail room on the orlop with disastrous consequences. For Gus it was not easy negotiating the ladders down to the lower decks with a crutch stuck in his armpit, and he was hopeful he would find her nearby on the weather decks.

He hobbled along the starboard gangway, careful as always not to bump into any of the working men and risk jeopardizing his agonizingly slow recovery. As he crept by the seamen they saluted him, and while he did his best to acknowledge those who made polite inquiries — “Are you well this morning, Mr. Walby?” “Is your leg better today, sir?” — he searched the length of the foremast for Emily. Just as he expected, there she was, sitting a hundred feet up on the foretop, her unbound hair flying behind her like the ship’s pennants that billowed above the topgallant sails. Dressed in trousers and an oversized checked shirt, one might mistake her for a malingering sailor who preferred the warmth of the morning sun to his duty of unfurling the fore topsail; one would hardly suspect she was a granddaughter of King George III.

Relief flooded Gus when, having spotted him, Emily waved from her lofty perch and cried out, “Mr. Walby,” saving him the embarrassment of having to call out to her. Early on in their voyage, the Duke of Clarence had overheard him address her as
“Em”
and the result was a spitting verbal reprimand:
“From this day forward, Mr. Walby, you are to address my niece as Your Royal Highness
.
And if I should hear you be so indecently familiar with her again, I will not hesitate to lash you to the crosstrees for the night.”
Gus was in no doubt that the duke would carry out the punishment — the trouble was that it was not an easy task remembering to style Emily thus, especially when he was so used to addressing her otherwise.

Without delay, Emily jumped up and began her descent, leaving Gus scrambling to recruit two strong-armed sailors to stand watch beside him in the event she faltered on the shrouds and fell. But Emily clambered down the ropes with the speed and expertise of a seasoned seaman — with no indication of the troubled ankle she had broken weeks earlier while escaping Trevelyan’s ship — and landed safely on the deck before him, her face a healthy glow of exertion, her dark eyes flashing. She straightened her shoulders and raised her right fist to her forehead in a respectful salute.

“And how may I assist you, Mr. Walby? Do you require me to swab the decks, sir? Scrub your soiled shirts? Clean out the goat pens? Toss a bucket of severed limbs overboard?”

With so many men working close by and, as always, unable to mask their interest in Emily, Gus, though he desired to, could not possibly return her lightheartedness. “The admiral … your Uncle Clarence … wishes to breakfast with you this morning,” he said solemnly, “in his cabin … alone.”

Emily angled her head in disbelief. “Imagine that! After all these weeks, my uncle actually wishes to spend time with me? Why, I was beginning to think he had completely forgotten that I was aboard and lodged in quarters four feet from his.”

The two fell in together and slowly made their way aft, toward the
Impregnable
’s stern, where the duke maintained his comparatively spacious quarters.

“Perhaps he’s been much occupied of late,” offered Gus.

Emily scoffed. “Yes, yes, I believe so. Preparing for imaginary sea battles and drinking port with his senior officers, and contemplating a revival of his prospects of marriage to any and all available young women of wealth and position upon his return to London.”

“Aren’t you fond of your uncle?” asked Gus warily.

Emily’s eyes softened. “Not really, but at one time I was … very much so. He and Aunt Dora and their many children were so kind to me when my father died. Seems so long ago now.” She sighed. “There is good in him yet, though I detest how he’s become so dependent upon his brother, the Prince Regent, and all of his royal advisers.”