Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (66 page)

Forgetting his terrors for a time, Magpie peered into the distance beyond the
Amethyst
’s frothy wake. No longer could he discern the hills of Halifax on the western horizon; the whole coast of Nova Scotia was fast receding in size, looking more like a thin slice of phantom shore than the vast expanse of terrain he knew it to be. Already missing the security of land, he hoped to soon glimpse Sable Island, for it wouldn’t be long now until they were engulfed in miles of empty waves. Magpie found some comfort in seeing the little mail packet, the
Lady Jane
, sailing safely in their shadow — like a child in its mother’s arms — even though she had already proven herself a spirited child, and had been ordered to slow down, her diminutive size capable of travelling much faster than the ponderous
Amethyst
of seventy-four guns, three masts, and five hundred men. It would be nice to have company on their Atlantic voyage.

Magpie heaved a sigh as he studied the large holes in his stockings. If Dr. Braden and he were going to be invited to dine with Emily and the Duke of Clarence at Bushy House, he would have to attempt to salvage his threadbare bits of wool with some momentous mending. He reached into his pocket for the folded scrap of canvas that safeguarded Emily’s miniature, and polished her golden frame until she gleamed in the afternoon sun. Then, holding her high, he pretended that her brown, smiling eyes could actually behold him.

“I’m comin’ to see ya, Em, and I’m bringin’ Dr. Braden with me. We’ll be a while ’cause we gots a big ocean to cross, and I’m worryin’ ya won’t be allowed to see me on account o’ me poor clothes, but I’m still comin’ be what it may.”

A shadow suddenly fell across Magpie, unnerving him at once, for in his mind it must be the spectre come to pounce on him and drag him to his cobwebby lair, but when he raised his head and blinked into the sunshine, he was relieved to see a much rounder figure than the lanky one that had chilled him to the bone last night. It was Meg Kettle who stood before him, her heavy arms folded upon her heavy bosom, her face percolating with ridicule.

“Well, if it ain’t Maggot Pie, the one-eyed monster!” she said, bursting into a gusty laugh. “’Ave ya gone mad then? Sittin’ here, speakin’ to a painted picture?”

Magpie hastily returned Emily to his pocket. “Ain’t none o’ yer business who I’m speakin’ to.”

“Imagine … makin’ love to a picture!” she hissed in a low voice only Magpie could hear.

“Ah, push off.”

“Why, I ain’t never seen such a sight! Yer as daft as the Doctor.”

Magpie’s face grew hot with humiliation.

“D’ya think yer goin’ to be allowed into the castle o’ King George to see ’er?” she asked, her voice rife with sarcasm.

“I might be,” was his diffident reply.

“Ya forget yerself, little Maggot. Ya ain’t no more valuable than a lump o’ mud in the Thames River.”

A scorching anger boiled in Magpie’s chest. How would she like it if he gave her shins a good trouncing? “Ya … ya better watch yerself, Meg Kettle,” he stammered.

“And why should I be watchin’ meself?”

“‘If ya can’t figure it out, then
yer
the daft one!”

Meg’s hands found her broad hips. “Are ya plannin’ … in the dead o’ night … to give me a Jonah’s lift into the sea?” She laughed again. “Why yer so scrawny ya couldn’t throw
yerself
overboard.”

If he lingered a moment longer in her odious presence, Magpie knew he would utter things he would later come to regret. He hopped up off his box. “Ya better watch yerself, ’cause —”

Meg’s eyes disappeared into loose folds of skin, and her neck jerked backward, setting her jowls in motion like that of a farmyard turkey. “’Cause why?”

Bunching his threadbare stockings up in his fist, Magpie backed away from the laundress. “I knows all what ya done. ’Cause I seen ya with Mr. Octavius Lindsay on the
Isabelle
… doin’ yer plottin’ together. Yer a traitor!”

The second his brave words had tripped from his tongue, he bolted from the laundress and her tottering shadow, across the poop and down the ladder to the safety of the quarterdeck. Had he loitered to witness the effect of his intimidation, he would have been richly rewarded for Meg Kettle was utterly dumbstruck.

8:30 p.m.

(First Watch, One Bell)

After an exhaustive search
, Fly found Leander leaning over the taffrail on the ship’s stern, his slim fingers clasped around a mug of coffee, gazing dreamily out over the water toward the lights of the
Lady Jane
.

“I’ve spent the better part of a Watch combing the ship for you. I checked the middy’s berth and the sail room on the orlop, thinking you might be punishing the young ones with reading lessons, and then I scoured the galley, wardroom, and hospital, of course, on the upper deck. And here I find you draped over the taffrail like a penniless poet contemplating a plunge into the sea to end his sufferings.”

Leander filled his lungs with the fresh evening air. “My reason for being drawn to this corner of the ship is not as drastic as all that. I’m listening to the music coming from our sailing mate. Someone on the
Lady Jane
is playing a violin, and playing it quite well.”

Fly slumped down upon the stern bench. “Come away from your romantic musings and cheer me up!”

“And why is it you need cheering up, old man?”

“Old man?” frowned Fly. “You have the audacity to filch my name for
you
?”

“Oh, no! You often refer to me as old
fellow
.”

“Oh, I see! Well you are an old fellow … younger than me in age perhaps, but far more mature in your deportment.” Fly exhaled in mock disgust. “I still say you should have taken Prickett up on his suggestion of shore leave in Halifax. I should like to have observed your behaviour in a dancing hall.”

Leander raised his auburn eyebrows. “I would have been completely beyond myself.”

“Aye! And had a lusty wench made amorous overtures toward you, I’m quite certain you would have stuttered, and grown flustered, and known not how to proceed.”

Leander looked askance at Fly. “It’s astounding I call you friend when you are so frequently like a millstone, grinding the poor grains of me to dust.”

“Cheer up, old fellow … I need
you
to lift my spirits this evening. Shall we drink something stronger than coffee, or shall you be called upon shortly to perform intricate surgeries and therefore have need of your faculties?” Not bothering to await Leander’s reply, Fly searched the deck for someone he could order about. “Ah, Biscuit, I believe you’re hiding there in the gathering gloom.”

Biscuit’s head with its thick shock of orange hair appeared between the newels of the poop deck’s railing. “I’m smokin’ a cigar with me lads, sir. Not often I git the chance to do so.”

“If that is indeed true, mind you don’t burn down the ship,” growled Fly.

“No worry in that, sir. What kin I git fer ya?”

“Bring Doctor Braden and me some of Captain Prickett’s best red wine.”

“Right away, sir, the minute I’ve had me last puff.”

When Fly had completed his transaction with Biscuit, and had relaxed his weary body against the stern bench, Leander sat down beside him. “I cannot understand why you require a bit of cheering up, when, in my estimation,
you
have nothing to grumble about. It’s been some weeks since you encountered the enemy and suffered the loss of men. The incident with that skittish American privateer a few days back was nothing more than a bit of morning agitation, like finding a snake in one’s bed upon waking. And as recently as two days ago, you were the toast of the Halifax nobility.”

Fly pulled off his hat to give his head a good scratch. “It’s Prickett; he’s become most aggravating.”

“How so … beyond his habit of spitting in one’s face at the supper table?”

“The instant we raise Portsmouth, the man is happily relinquishing command of the
Amethyst
, and yet he forgets we’re weeks away from a safe harbour.”

“Are you saying the man has forgotten we’re still fighting a war?” asked Leander.

“Precisely!”

“Is there too much banqueting and frivolity on this ship for your tastes?”

“Aye! I believe so! Prickett and I cannot agree on anything, which is fine so long as our voyage is an uneventful one and we face no American — or French — warships in the next while.”

“But I thought, when Prickett rescued you after the sinking of the
Isabelle
, he happily sought your advice on all matters; that he, in fact, had
you
commanding the ship.”

“Only when it came to the drubbing of the enemy. He was totally unprepared to face Trevelyan, and therefore allowed me to make the decisions pursuant to the chase. But now, when there’s no immediate threat, I find myself powerless, standing helplessly by while Prickett thinks of nothing but the reward that will await him when he presents the
Lady Jane
unmolested to the Admiralty, and the honours which will surely — though undeservedly — be heaped upon him for his role in nabbing Trevelyan.”

“Then tell me, if the
Amethyst
were yours to command, what would you do differently?”

“For starters, I’d focus less on my stomach and the prospect of riches, and more on discipline! The men … they’ve grown soft. At the very least, gun cleaning and drills
must
form part of their work day.”

“I believe you once had the Amethysts practising their gun skills.”

“Aye, but the minute the
Serendipity
was sunk, and Trevelyan taken prisoner, Prickett no longer desired to
waste
his stores of ammunition.” Fly suddenly jumped up to yell at the unseen smokers below the poop deck. “Puff your last, Biscuit, and bring us our wine! I’ve waited long enough.”

There was a scurry and shuffle of feet as the reluctant Biscuit did his bidding. Fly resumed his seat, sighing heavily as he did so. “You see, even our Scottish cook is slow to carry out orders!”

The two friends peered into the diminishing light on the seas around them and were lulled into a reverie. A few stars dotted the night sky, and off the
Amethyst
’s larboard side, just behind them, they could see the glow of the
Lady Jane
’s lanterns and hear the haunting strains of her unknown violinist.

When Fly spoke again, his voice was sombre. “This night is calm, yet I feel unease.”

Leander set his coffee mug down at his feet. “Then speak to Prickett in the morning when he’s at breakfast, and at his best. Tell him of your concerns.”

Fly released a lighthearted snuffle, and then faced his friend in earnest. “I should like for you to see your Emily again, old fellow. It’s my duty to get you safely home.”

“And you shall,” smiled Leander. “Now, banish your unease, and let us … let us get drunk.”

Fly blinked in disbelief. “This cannot be! Is it the grave, pensive Dr. Braden I hear speaking?”

“Quite so!” Leander stood up and reached down to pull Fly to his feet. “And since Biscuit is far too slow in bringing us our wine, let us go fetch it for ourselves.”

9

Thursday, August 12

11:00 a.m.

Outskirts of Winchester

Gus Walby limped down
the laneway as fast as his crutch would enable him, determined to be out of sight before his Aunt Sophia even realized he was gone. He had fled the cottage just minutes before she had raised that shrill, awful voice of hers to boom her midday orders — so reminiscent of the
Isabelle
’s firing cannons — to fetch the milk and prepare the sandwiches for the children and the two labourers who tended her sheep in the fields. Although he knew that upon his return she would unleash a nasty reprimand and send him upstairs to his lumpy cot under the eaves without any dinner, Gus was far too excited to hang about and do her bidding.

The doctor had promised to visit again on Thursday,
“around the hour of eleven”
he had said, as he planned to travel by horseback this time. He had further promised to stop by the posting inn in Winchester for any letters addressed to
Mr. Augustus Walby
. It had been four days now. Surely today there would be a note from Emily.

Having reached a bend in the laneway, where the road widened and fell away into a valley and the trees were as thick and shady as the beech and elm around Aunt Sophia’s home — and he was most assuredly out of earshot should
she
begin hollering — Gus rested upon a low stone wall, and there he ate his apple (stolen from his aunt’s heavily guarded kitchen basket) and affirmed that his pocket still held his three pence. He’d never sent a letter to anyone before, but he did know he had to have money to pay the postmaster in the event one should be sent to him. It was cheaper — and quicker — to send a letter from one address to another in London, but then Winchester was quite a few miles outside of the city. He hoped he had enough.

The better part of a half-hour had passed away when Gus felt a few large droplets on his head and sensed the world darkening. Peering up through the canopy of tree branches, he could see sombre clouds gathering over the countryside. Then at long last he heard a horse cantering up the road, and although the man sitting astride a chestnut mare was concealed in a traveller’s cape and broad-brimmed hat, Gus knew it was the doctor. Tucking his crutch under his arm, Gus raised himself up off the wall and hurried to meet him, his body quivering with anticipation, his face all smiles.

“Mr. Walby!” the doctor called out upon spying him. “I see you are taking my advice and getting some fresh air.”

Gus nodded. “I am, sir!”

“And have you been exercising your leg?”

“I have been … every day!” Gus wanted so badly to tell the doctor his aunt possessed a knack for inventing chores, and refused him rest of any kind until the sun had left the sky, but he could only think of the possibility of a letter from Emily.

“That’s important, Mr. Walby, if we’re going to see you back with your seafaring friends as soon as possible.” He leaned back in his saddle to look up at the patch of leaden sky between the agitated trees. “But perhaps it might have been wiser if you’d stayed in the house today.”