Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (71 page)

“It ain’t him I’d be worryin’ about,” hooted Jacko, “it’s them sorry lot o’ Prickett and Bridlington. Depends on who’s in charge … who’s makin’ the calls.”

Magpie was picturing himself clinging to a dead man when the plates and mugs on the table began sliding about. “Could the winds throw us on a lee shore? Could we be dashed on rocks like a crate o’ eggs?”

“Little chance o’ that! Ain’t no shores nearby to be dashed upon!” said Biscuit, catching his sliding mug and raising it to his whiskery mouth.

“And nobody ’round to come to our aid if we are,” said Jacko, chuckling.

“The
Lady Jane
—” yelped Magpie with a glimmer of optimism, “— wouldn’t she help us?

“She’ll go down afore us, I’ll warrant,” said Jacko, wiping his mouth with the back of his big hand. “It’ll be ev’ry man and
Lady
fer themselves.”

The men all laughed, leaving Magpie puzzled that not one of them seemed unstrung by all this talk of approaching storms and shipwrecks; in fact, Mr. Evans seemed to be in uncommonly high spirits. How could they feel this way, especially when the wind that howled around the
Amethyst
was arousing the hairs on his scalp, sounding as it did like every sailor that had ever perished in the Atlantic had gathered around them to weep?

“Now then, lad,” grunted Biscuit, “ya best eat up me hearty pork stew to conserve yer strength, so’s ya kin swim to England … if need be.”

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

The afternoon sky
was rapidly turning into night.

Fly Austen, his head down in the wind, pulled his way to Captain Prickett’s cabin. To those sailors and assorted individuals he met along the way he roared orders — orders that should have been given some time ago, when the first cracks of thunder had rattled their ears and the lightning flashes revealed the ever-increasing swells of the sea.

“Take these chicken coops below! Lash the oars and pikes to the masts! Have the lifelines ready, fore and aft! Mrs. Kettle … take your infernal laundry down at once, and quit cursing like a costermonger.”

“Ain’t no one kin hear me with all o’ this caterwaulin’ wind,” she shot back, ripping down a saturated shirt from the shrouds.

“Sir, what about the sails? Should we be takin’ in some canvas?” asked the worried looking helmsman, Lewis McGilp, who, along with a second sailor, struggled to steer the ship.

Fly blinked through the sea spray to find the topgallants still flying, and hid his frustration. “I’ll have a word with the captain and get back to you straightaway.”

Captain Prickett was in his cot, which seemed to sway leisurely as the ship rolled, like a child’s swing. On the floor were the remains of a cake that looked as if someone had gone at it with his hands.

“Sir, the gale is quite upon us now. May I suggest we take up the sails and try to ride it out?”

“What’s that Austen?” asked a groggy Prickett.

“Sir, your attention is needed on the quarterdeck. The men want to know what your orders are regarding the sails.”

Prickett tried to raise himself up in his cot, but found he could not, and fell back upon his bedclothes. Fly could see that his waistcoat was unbuttoned to allow his belly room to manoeuvre.

“Are you unwell, sir?”

Prickett chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not able to leave my cot.”

“Shall I call Dr. Braden for you?”

“Nay, don’t bother the man. No need for it. I’ve just been overindulging. You know how I delight in Biscuit’s spice cake. Then, of course, I had to wash it down with ale —” Prickett produced an empty mug from under his blanket.

“Your orders then, sir?” said Austen, trying to maintain civility.

“Do what needs to be done to see us through, Mr. Austen.” Prickett licked his fingers before throwing his hand upon his forehead like an actor in a histrionic play. “In the meantime … I shall sleep off my indigestion.”

2:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)

The dark ocean rose
and fell around the
Amethyst
like an endless terrain of desolate, bituminous hillocks and hollows.

Holding tightly to the boats fastened to the ship’s waist, Fly, Leander, and Magpie stood, soaked to the bone, near the mainmast — which buckled and groaned in a most alarming manner — watching the men on the soaring yardarms scrambling to take in the sails. The ship pitched and heeled in the grey-crested swells that washed over the fo’c’sle every time she plunged headlong into the foaming sea, the water pouring out of her scuppers like fountains in St. James’s Park.

Looking uncertain, Morgan Evans suddenly appeared before them to address Fly. “Sir, shall I search out Captain Prickett or report to you?”

“Captain Prickett is indisposed at the moment. What’s the situation in the hold?”

“The water’s coming in fast, sir. We’re quickly filling the leaks, but the men working the pumps are faint with exhaustion.”

“How much water in the bilge?”

“Three feet and rising, sir.”

“I’ll send down a fresh crew immediately, Mr. Evans. Now return to your men at once. Lord knows they need your guidance.”

With a word of thanks and a salute, Morgan headed into the wind toward a hatchway and disappeared into the lurching hull of the
Amethyst
. Distressed by the amount of seawater cascading onto the lower decks, Fly yelled, “All hands! Batten down the hatches.”

Lord Bridlington, the Officer of the Watch, approached, trying to stabilize himself with his healthy hand and keep his other one safe from further harm. “Oh, Mr. Austen, I’m afraid we’ve lost sight of the
Lady Jane
. What shall we do if she’s been stove in and sunk?”

“I cannot worry about it at this moment.”

“Then please pray that she’ll be there, waiting for us on the horizon when this storm has passed, for I simply cannot bear to hear the captain’s tirade on the subject. He’ll surely blame me.”

“My immediate concern is for
our
men. Round up a fresh crew to man the pumps. At once!”

Bridlington set off at a snail’s pace, infuriating Fly, especially when the first lieutenant was struck down by the heavy sea and wasted precious time fussing over his maimed hand. But too many other anxieties were weighing on Fly, specifically the worry of the
Amethyst
rolling over on her beam-ends. “Stand ready by the guns! If need be, unlash them and throw them overboard. I’ll not have us capsizing.” Having dispensed with the necessary orders for the time being, he called out to Leander. “Have you come to stand with me at the mouth of Hell?”

Leander glanced up nervously at the great press of canvas. “I thought … should someone have the misfortune to fall … I’d stand here ready.”

“I’ll catch ’em fer ya, sir,” shouted Magpie into the gale, feeling safe — as nowhere else — in the presence of Mr. Austen and Dr. Braden.

“Magpie, I’d breathe easier if you would remain in the hospital,” said a disquieted Leander.

“Please, Doctor, I’d like to be stayin’ up here with ya.”

“Perhaps then, you could help Mrs. Kettle,” suggested Fly, his eyes noting the laundress, wrestling with her baskets. “She’ll never be done with it, and I fear the wind has already whisked away a good number of shirts.”

“We can’t have the lads naked, can we, sir?” chirped Magpie.

“We cannot.”

“Fly!” yelled Leander. “Send Mrs. Kettle below. She’s in no condition to be wandering the deck in a storm.”

Fly nodded in agreement, and hollered, “Mrs. Kettle!” When she did not respond, he grabbed the speaking trumpet from the sailing master’s hands, and bellowed, “Meg Kettle, get below now!”

With a scowl and a saucy word on her tongue, the laundress finally jerked her head in their direction, in time to meet a giant wave that flooded the decks, slapping her off her feet and sending her into a screaming collision with the mainmast. The gale tore at the contents of her laundry basket, scattering articles of clothing everywhere, some clogging the ship’s scuppers, which served to drain water from the decks, most lost to the sea.

Magpie set off to collect what he could before they were washed away forever, his task taking him further and further away from Mr. Austen, who, having little faith in Lord Bridlington, had gone off to make certain men had been gathered for the pumps, and from Dr. Braden, who had immediately dropped to the deck to attend to Mrs. Kettle in her fuddled state. Near the bowsprit, his eye widened in horror; the fo’c’sle deck sloped toward the sea like a wooden ramp to Davy Jones’s locker. Grasping the lifelines, Magpie tried to gather the lost clothes, but the wind made it hard work, and he hated the thunder for startling him and the flashes of lightning for illuminating such a fearful world.

Perched in the fore rigging was the spectre; his long arms locked around the strong ropes, his long hair flailing about him, the wind tugging at his unbuttoned shirt.

Spying Magpie, he bawled his gloomy pronouncements in a voice that rivalled the cracking thunder.

“Hold fast, ye wretched soul. The end o’ life as ye know it has come. Woe and despair will escort us all to the grave.”

Then he released a laugh — a deep, penetrating laugh that, with the cacophony of creaks and moans and howls and cries all around, made Magpie’s blood freeze in his veins.

But their encounter was short-lived.

A wall of water whooshed up before Magpie and carried him down the deck, away from the spectre, snatching him up so quickly there was no time to call out for help or grab on to the safety of something lashed down. Its force was so tremendous Magpie could only think it was an ocean beast that had seized him, a colossal feline creature that had him by the scruff of the neck, intent on giving him a severe drubbing. Showing no quarter, it knocked him around like a toy before dragging him over the side of the tilting ship and sucking him into the roiling sea.

13

Monday, August 16

2:00 p.m.

Hartwood Hall

Emily gazed up at
the dreary sky and felt light drops of rain on her nose. For two hours she had been walking the grounds of Hartwood, determined to regain her strength and vitality, depleted by months at sea — and further drained by the ball — and was not going to be deterred from her goal by the arrival of a little rain shower. Her first hour had been spent poking about the little bridges and glass-like ponds on the lower front lawns; her second around the service wing, the kitchen gardens, and colourful rhododendron bushes near the house; and now she was on the wooded driveway that led to Hartwood’s gatehouse, hoping to explore the roads beyond the Duke of Belmont’s land. There was no need to concern herself that the hem of her blue-and-white-striped morning dress was damp and encrusted with dirt, and the cooling breeze ruffling the heath was wreaking destruction upon her unbound hair, for it seemed there was no one around to be met. The whereabouts of the Lindsay family was a mystery and their staff — though she had periodically spied Glenna at the windows, watching her rambles — was all indoors, feverishly engaged in the restoration of Hartwood after the weekend festivities, or so they had been when she had first left the house. Wandering alone, Emily had revelled in her pensive freedom, so that when, from out of nowhere, swift-moving footsteps approached, she could not help feeling a surge of annoyance.

“Wait up!” cried Fleda, running along the driveway, her dog trotting along beside her.

“Where’ve you been?” asked Emily. She had not seen any members of the Lindsay family since the early hours of Sunday morning, when she had finally abandoned her cold bench under the chestnut tree to seek her warm bed; her last few meals taken alone at the dining room table with no other company than the silent servants.

“We have been visiting friends in the neighbourhood with your Uncle Clarence. Father didn’t wish to awaken you on Sunday when we set out —” Fleda paused to roll her eyes. “I had to come back for my afternoon lessons with Mademoiselle, but everyone else is still away.”

“When will they return?”

“When Father has had his fill of refreshments. He’s always most interested in what people serve for tea and luncheon. And when your uncle is satisfied that he’s asked everyone how they enjoyed the ball, and if they enjoyed meeting
you
.”

It was Emily’s turn to roll her eyes. “And what has their response been? Were they overjoyed to meet the
scandalous
woman who’d sailed the Atlantic with a flock of pirates?”

Fleda was surprisingly reverential in her response. “They cannot stop chattering about you. The women speak of nothing but your hair and your ball dress, which pleases Mother so, and the men … they are all clamouring for details of your sea adventure.”

“Most likely they were unsatisfied with my replies to their questions on Saturday night.” Emily couldn’t resist a lighthearted laugh. “Although I did tell one of my dance partners that I’d single-handedly manned the cannons during a battle with the Americans, and another one that I’d walked across an iceberg.”

“And did you?”

“No,” Emily said wistfully. “And what of Somerton? When shall he be home?”

Fleda picked up a stick and tossed it into the darkening woods that flanked the serpentine driveway, her dog making a mad dash in search of it. “He plans to go on to town for a few days.”

“Are you able to divulge the nature of his business in town?”

“He’s been invited to stay with a family eager to have him marry one of their daughters.”

Emily was reminded of the silly girls who had run across Hartwood’s lawns at two in the morning. “And shall he?”

“Would you be upset if he did?”

“Of course not,” Emily said quickly.

“Mother says their father doesn’t have a large enough fortune for her tastes.”

“How sad to dash their hopes,” said Emily, feeling genuine sympathy for the unknown girls.

“She thinks Somerton deserves someone
much
better.”

Emily bristled. “Does your mother have someone in mind?”

Fleda’s green eyes unwaveringly met Emily’s; her solemn face revealing nothing.