Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (73 page)

“Not a word,” Uncle Clarence replied quietly. “It’s more than likely she was not acquainted with your son. From what I’ve been told she was confined to the hospital on the
Isabelle
, and rarely allowed to leave it. But it will be necessary for her to take the stand, for I believe she’s witnessed a great deal and has not told me the half of it.”

After they refilled their glasses, Helena politely inquired if she could interest the gentleman in sampling an apple tart, one of the excellent few left over from the weekend feast.

“Emeline is well aware her story must be saved for the stand,” resumed Uncle Clarence, smacking his lips. “I now expect the prosecuting lawyer to show up here within the next two weeks or so. I’ll write to you of his coming, or, if I’m able, I shall bring him myself. He desires to begin gathering evidence, and to read the letter Captain Moreland composed before his death, which Emeline has in her safe possession. But, let me be clear, he must be able to meet with her in a private place. We cannot have the servants listening at the door.”

The duke and duchess both murmured their agreement, and gave him their assurances that all would be arranged to his satisfaction.

“As to your other inquiry,” continued Uncle Clarence, “the Prince Regent has informed me that he’ll do what he can to rush Emeline’s annulment through Parliament. Given the circumstances surrounding her liaison with Trevelyan, there should be no impediments, and then we shall be in a position to consider your proposal. The sooner we have her married — legally this time — the sooner we can rest up. Already the Regent and I have spent far too much time on her affairs, although we gladly do so out of respect for our late brother Wessex.”

Emily tensed against the bookshelves, hardly daring to breathe.

“You will keep us informed of the progress of the annulment,” said Helena.

“I most certainly will, and perhaps, when you hold your next ball, I’ll have good news for you,” said Uncle Clarence with fervour. “But before I speak my farewell to my niece and take my leave, I must impress upon you the necessity of keeping your eye on her. I was most distressed to see her out in the rain near the main gates.”

“I’ll see that that does
not
happen again,” said Helena with conviction.

“It’s a fear of mine,” continued Uncle Clarence, “that she may try to escape.”

A gruff laugh burst from Adolphus. “Where to? Why? How can she be anything but happy here at Hartwood?”

“It has come to my attention that, whilst on the
Isabelle
, she became exceedingly attached to one of the men. And though I doubt the complete authenticity of my source’s recounting, I was told that Emeline planned to … had promised this particular man she’d come back for him the minute she could.”

In the library, Emily’s lips suppressed her fury.

“Who is this fortunate fellow with whom Emeline is besotted?” asked Adolphus.

“He was the
Isabelle
’s ship doctor, a man named Leander Braden.”

Helena’s response was rife with derision. “My word! A ship’s doctor? I’m afraid, Clarence, your Emeline is a rather senseless girl.”

“We’ll beat it out of her,” Adolphus piped in.

“Yes, when
we
are done with her,” said Helena, “she’ll have no more thoughts of returning to the sea to her little doctor.”

14

Monday, August 16

3:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)

HMS Amethyst

Prior to the hatches
being secured with battens, Fly Austen and Morgan Evans pulled their way back up to the main decks, both men having seen with their own eyes and therefore been reassured that fresh hands had relieved the pump crews. From the yards, an ominous shriek rose up.

“Man overboard!”

Fly rushed to the starboard rail. “Where? Where is he?”

“I can see him, sir!” pointed Morgan. “Look out from the mainmast.”

In no time at all some of the sailors, balancing perilously on the fore chains in order to provide ballast and keep the ship upright, scrambled over the bulwark and, needing no instructions, began hurling whatever they could lay their hands on in the direction of the hapless victim.

“Get anythin’ what floats!”

“Careful now, or ya’ll fall in yerself.”

“Hurry! He can’t last long.”

“Who’s the poor Jack?”

“Must be a landlubber!”

“Nay! ’Tis the little sailmaker! ’Tis Magpie!”

Winded, Fly reached Leander’s side when the last words were communicated in dreadful shouts. It did not surprise him to see Leander scramble to his feet, immediately distracted from Meg Kettle, who lay groaning and sprawled out upon the sodden planks of the deck having taken — in her collision with the mainmast — an injury to her abdomen.

Blinking into the turbulent gloom of the sea, Leander gasped. “Not Magpie! Fly, please, tell me it’s not Magpie.” He did not await confirmation from his friend, instead he sprang into motion, leaving the task of transporting Mrs. Kettle to the hospital —
“With care if you please”
— to Morgan, who stood nearby begging to know how he could be of assistance, and shouted out at the men glued to the rail to keep their sights on Magpie’s bobbing head. “Seize anything that’s not nailed down. Should the mainmast fall throw it overboard too.” Leander hurried aft with Fly — keenly aware of his intentions — close on his heels.

“Lee! Don’t even think of going out there.”

“I must.”

“This is madness!” yelled Fly, trying to grab his arm.

“Aye! It is!” Leander yelled back, shrugging him off.

“It’ll be the end of you both.”

“We’ll come back. The sea — I swear — she’s not as furious as she was earlier.”

“For God’s sake, Lee, you’re needed on this ship. Others can go. I’ll instruct them —”

“No! This is for me to do.”

Fly was finally able to break his friend’s reckless stride by seizing his coat tails. “Dr. Braden, I — I forbid it!”

Leander swung around, and for a heated moment the two friends eyed one another in the battering rain. “I must go. I must at least try. Can you honestly tell me you would not enter a burning house to save your children?”

Unnerved by the wild expression in Leander’s eyes and the ragged despair in his voice, Fly released his coat and backed off.

“Please … I beg you … just help me lower the skiff.”

With churning resignation, Fly lifted the master’s speaking trumpet to his lips and croaked a call for men to manoeuvre the dangling skiff from its davit on the ship’s stern. He had just begun the terrible task of handpicking others to accompany Leander when Biscuit appeared at his side.

“As me rowin’ skills is legendary, I’ll go with the doctor!” Seeing Mr. Austen’s astounded face, Biscuit added, “I ain’t just an exalted cook, ya know!”

Leander reached out to give Biscuit a handshake of gratitude. “Bless you.”

With the cook now barking the orders, the men — whipped by wind and waves — toiled to control the skiff that wildly swung about with every lurch of the
Amethyst.
All the while they struggled to preserve a toehold on the ship, lest they too became a victim of the sea. Those who were going jumped aboard, and slowly — far too slowly for Leander’s gnawing anxiety — the skiff began its interminable descent into the swirling water.

Over the taffrail, a shaken, heartsick Fly called out to his friend. “If — if the boat should overturn, stay with it, or hold fast to an oar. I cannot afford to lose you.”

The hysterical cries of the men at the starboard rail, still hurling encouragement and buoyant objects at Magpie, fell beyond earshot as Leander, Biscuit, and three volunteer sailors who were ready to take up the oars, disappeared below the
Amethyst
. Looking up at Fly, whose countenance was wreathed in worry, Leander replied, “And if I lost that little lad, I couldn’t live with myself.”

3:15 p.m.

In the Atlantic

First Lieutenant Bridlington
hooked his arm around one of the lifelines stretched across the quarterdeck and began squawking. “What in hell are they doing? The fools! They’ll all be drowned!”

Morgan Evans, who had returned from delivering Meg Kettle to the hospital and placing her in the
incapable
hands of the disconcerted Osmund Brockley, shouted above the howling wind, “That doesn’t help the situation any … sir.”

Bridlington’s eyes bulged from their sockets. “Mr. Evans, do not forget yourself and your — your uneducated station.”

It took every ounce of his discipline for Morgan to ignore the officer’s contempt. His eyes remained fixed upon Magpie — who appeared as inconsequential as a breadcrumb on the wardroom table — and on the progress of the skiff which, tossed upon those mountainous swells, seemed so helpless.

All the horror and pain of Mr. Alexander’s drowning off the coast of North Carolina once again overwhelmed Morgan’s agitated mind. That day, more than two months ago, when he and Mr. Alexander had fallen from the yards of the
Isabelle
in a hurricane, he had come so very close to drowning and it was impossible to forget those dreadful moments, panicking for air, the terrifying darkness of the water, and the awful awareness that life was about to end. The very thought that poor Magpie was being tortured thus made Morgan physically sick.

It was doubtful the boy could swim, but somehow … somehow he was managing to stay afloat — one wave tearing him further away from the ship, another conveying him closer again. The Amethysts had thrown all kinds of objects into the sea — including several capstan pawls and pieces of a scuttlebutt that had been stoved in by the oppressive waves — praying fervently that one of them would be swept within reach of him. So far their efforts had failed.

Though he longed to go into hiding below deck to steady his nerves, Morgan fought the urge to do so, and demanded of his sore lungs to continue hollering support. “That’s it, Magpie! Keep your arms up! Don’t fight the waves — let them carry you. Dr. Braden’s coming for you. He’s coming for you, and he’ll be there soon.”

Meanwhile, at his back, Bridlington railed on, squawking like a chicken about to be cooked in a pot of boiling water. “Dr. Braden’s a fool. Mr. Austen should never have allowed him to leave the ship. Doesn’t he know we need the doctor’s services? Who’ll tend to my hand should he drown? It hasn’t healed yet, you know. And yet, we’ve no use for that young sailmaker, especially since he only has one eye. The boy is ten years old! He has no parents, no living relatives, who then will ever miss a trifling
mite
such as —”

Morgan’s eyes blazed murderously. Flouncing away from the starboard rail, his trembling fist shot out with the speed and force of fired grapeshot and smashed into Bridlington’s face, sending the shocked lieutenant tripping and flailing backward before landing in a pathetic heap on the same spot whereupon Mrs. Kettle had previously been slumped in agony. Before Bridlington was even cognizant of his injuries, Morgan could see the ruin he had inflicted. Though the driving rain dashed away much of the gore, Bridlington’s mouth was a blackened, blood-filled hole.

In his baffled state, the first lieutenant tried to grab the lifeline to pull him into a sitting position, and once he had managed to do so he sat gathering his wits, alternately hiding his wound with his arm and spitting out mouthfuls of blood. A horrified look leapt into his eyes when he realized more than blood was being spit out upon the deck.

“My teeth! You’ve broken my teeth!” His scream was garbled. “You’re a fool, Mr. Evans, a damn fool. I’ll have you punished most severely for this. I’ll have you hanged, drawn, and quartered for this … this … this devilry!” He swivelled his messy face around to scan the buckling decks. “Mr. Austen? Mr. Austen! At once, Mr. Austen, order the doctor to return to the ship. I’ve been violated in a most atrocious manner.”

The queasiness in Morgan’s belly intensified. He began shaking. Flexing his painful hand — the one that had wreaked the damage — he dragged himself back to the sorrowful scenes beyond the railing.

Magpie’s little head was no longer visible in that immense sea.

3:15 p.m.

In the Atlantic

Above the din of
the storm, and despite the salty water unremittingly oppressing his ears, Magpie was certain he could hear Mr. Evans calling out to him, though he hadn’t a clue what he was saying. One minute Magpie found himself turned toward the
Amethyst
, full of hope, for he was cheered to see the men at the rail waving to him and hurling buckets and barrels at him with all their might, the very next he was spun around, facing an endless, nightmarish landscape of watery hills he had not the energy to scale. The ocean moved in such strange ways, surely its humps and rolls meant the lurking presence of great whales and saw-toothed sharks that would, any second now, swallow him whole or tear off his legs. The blackness beneath him, which boiled and frothed up like a cauldron of Biscuit’s soup, contained terrifying secrets, and if it wasn’t a shark that intended to swim off with his parts, he imagined the grey, grasping hands of drowned sailors, dragging him down into their dark place. Was this the same agony the Duke of Clarence’s son had felt as his ship had foundered in the Indian Ocean, near the coast of Madagascar — that far-off place that struck such sinister fear in Magpie?

He kicked off his shoes, praying a meal of leather would satisfy the ocean beasts, and tried calming himself, allowing the waves to carry him where they would. He did not possess the strength to fight his way back to the ship, and if the blinding waves would only cease breaking over his one eye, he might be able to tell whether the boat coming toward him was filled with rescuers, or if the storm had simply knocked her free of the ship. But it was so hard to stay calm when he felt as if he were falling into a deep, cavernous hole where his mates would never ever find him.

Sputtering and fighting for air while the ocean thrashed him about, Magpie could only pray someone would soon deliver him from this ghastly evil. If he allowed himself to think of Emily, sitting in her London castle, receiving news that the little sailmaker was lying in a lonely grave on the ocean’s mucky bottom, he was sure he would cry, and crying would only steal further from his waning store of strength.