Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (38 page)

“Thirteen, Miss; fourteen come August.”

“And where is your home?”

He looked surprised.

“Well? Are you from Boston? New York? Norfolk?”

“No one’s ever cared to ask afore, Miss.”

“Did the American navy steal you from a British ship?”

“With respect, Miss, it’s the British doin’ the stealin’, not the other way round.”

Emily angled her head and raised her eyebrows.

Charlie pushed the hair out of his eyes. “It’s Salem, Massachusetts I’m from, and if yer int’rested, Miss, I could show ya where it is on a map.”

“I know how to locate Salem on a map.”

“Me apologies, Miss; I figured ya might have some learnin’.”

Without warning, an enormous officer with a florid face filled the doorway and glared at Charlie. “What the devil are you about, Fish, er, Mr. Clive?”

Charlie wilted. “Just leavin’, sir.”

“I should hope so, Mr. Clive.” The officer scrutinized Emily from head to toe, raised one bushy-black eyebrow in a pompous manner, and moved on.

“Good-bye then, Miss.” Charlie turned to sidle out.

Emily felt a constriction in her chest. That door would close again and heaven knows when it would next open. She had so many questions. Maybe this boy – maybe he had some information about the
Isabelle.

“Will you come again?” She had not intended to sound so eager.

“Of course, Miss, to collect yer wash basin.” He doubled his thin body over in a clumsy bow and slipped away.

Emily returned to stand watch by the open gunport. She looked out upon the colourless waves as she unbuttoned her shirt and eased out of it. Her fingers then sought out the healing bullet wound in her shoulder and as she gently caressed the rough layers of new skin, a gurgle of laughter burst from her lips. “I’ve just met the fearsome Charlie Clive!”

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

THE BULK OF CAPTAIN PRICKETT of HMS
Amethyst
spread out like an oak tree, overshadowing Fly, who sat quietly, drinking his coffee, upon a wooden crate on the poop deck near the taffrail.

“Mr. Austen, so wonderful to see you up and about, my good man. I drink to your restored health and to the health of your miscellaneous men.” The captain lifted his own china cup to his red lips and drained the contents, which curiously did not possess the aroma of coffee. He then grunted with satisfaction and peered over the taffrail into the foggy gloom.

Fly’s gaze slid from the corpulent captain to the misty weather decks where he spotted a few of his Isabelles working contentedly alongside their
Amethyst
compatriots. “I thank you for all you’ve done, sir.”

“I’m just sorry we couldn’t have saved a few more of you,” Prickett said with a concerned shake of his big head.

You could have if you had heeded our signals for assistance,
Fly was tempted to retort.

“Well, now, time for dinner. Will you join me, Mr. Austen? Bridlington and I are most anxious to have a good, long chat with you.”

“I wonder, sir, if I may defer your kind invitation. I’m afraid I find myself with no appetite.”

“By all means. But you must eat, Mr. Austen, and keep up your strength. I’ll have my cook bring a morsel to you here. God knows when this outrageous fog will lift. It’d be damned impertinent of the enemy to come upon me while I’m enjoying muttonchops and fish pie. You
will
keep a sharp eye out, won’t you, Mr. Austen?” Without giving Fly a chance to answer, he hiked his breeches up over his girth and started off. But his ever-roving eye soon caught sight of Morgan Evans and Biscuit climbing the steps to the poop deck.

“Ah, now, here come the two you sent for, Mr. Austen. Such affable characters! I’ve a mind to take the Scottish cook off your hands since
you
won’t have need of him any too soon. Ha, ha!”

“Sir, you are welcome to him, though I’ll warn you his culinary skills leave much to be desired.”

Fly nodded at Morgan and Biscuit as they loped past Captain Prickett towards him. He had not seen any of his men since the Wednesday afternoon of their rescue, when the
Amethyst
had hove to in order to pick up the straggling survivors, for he had immediately been taken below to the surgeon, suffering from burns and exhaustion. In the meantime, Morgan and Biscuit had washed up nicely, having been the recipients of new slops. Fly was shocked to see such a gleam in Biscuit’s orange hair – dazzling against the white of the sails and the swirling sea mists – and happy that Morgan again wore a shirt, as his last one had been sacrificed to bandage up the burned flesh on Fly’s back – an injury, he’d been told, caused by a fiery, falling spar that had struck him. The two men halted before him, with Biscuit standing behind Morgan, who saluted.

“You passed the word for us, sir?”

“I hope yer feelin’ better, Cap’n,” added Biscuit, leaning over Morgan’s shoulder. “We’ve all been missin’ ya, sir.”

“Much better, thank you.” Fly looked up gravely at Morgan. “Those hard hours, Mr. Evans, during which we pulled towards the
Amethyst
and the
Expedition,
you made me aware of our numbers, though I confess I had no desire to know the names of the men sitting alongside me in those small boats. I ask that you tell me now.”

Morgan, aware beforehand that this was the reason he was being summoned, held out a sheet of parchment on which were written – in an elegant cursive script – the names of the eighty-seven survivors of the
Isabelle.
“I took the liberty of asking Lieutenant Bridlington for his assistance with this, sir.”

Fly set his mug down on the deck and took the sheet from Morgan. He took a quick glance down the list, then reluctantly examined it a second time.

“Our sailing master, Mr. Harding?”

“No, sir.”

“Our purser, Mr. Spooner?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Tucker? Mr. Harris? Mr. Crump? Old Bailey Beck?”

“Ach, nay, sir,” said Biscuit, putting his hand on Morgan’s shoulder.

“Young Gus Walby?”

“You may recall, sir, that Mr. Walby fell from the mizzen at the start of the battle.”

Fly nodded absently and sighed. The only names he recognized on the parchment, besides his own and those of the two standing before him, were Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, Jacko, the shoemaker, Maggot and Weevil, the Jamaican brothers, Mr. Stewart, the midshipman, and Osmund Brockley, Dr. Braden’s assistant.

“What about our little sail maker?”

Biscuit stepped forward. “Now funny ya should ask about wee Magpie, sir. Ya see, afore thee Yankees did their boardin’, I set him inta thee skiff with a few rations. He were bound-bent on findin’ Mr. Walby. Might be he did just that. Might be they was both picked up.”

“Aye.”

“Well, yas never kin tell, sir.”

“You never can tell,” echoed Fly, without any of Biscuit’s enthusiasm.

“Trevelyan took some of our men, sir,” said Morgan, “though I don’t know who or how many. And … and Dr. Braden and Emily are on the
Serendipity,
prisoners perhaps, but hopefully safe.”

“And Mr. Lindsay and Mrs Kettle too,” Biscuit added cheerfully, “though yas might not be carin’ much fer their kind.”

Fly folded up the list of mainly ordinary seamen, landmen, and boys, and rose to his feet. “If you please, Mr. Evans, beg a quill and more parchment from Bridlington for me. The Admiralty and Parliament will be expecting to receive a full account of the circumstances surrounding the loss of our ship, and I shan’t keep them waiting any longer.”

“Aye, sir, but you might be interested to know that it’ll be some time before you’ll be meeting with anyone from the Admiralty.”

Fly gave him an expectant look. “Why is that, Mr. Evans?”

“Well, you see, sir, we’re not heading north to Halifax, nor are we returning to England.”

Fly looked up at the squared sails and around at the fog that shut in the
Amethyst
like an ethereal curtain-wall. “Then where is it we’re headed?”

“South, sir. To find the
Serendipity.
”

Afternoon

Adrift in the Atlantic

MAGPIE WAS NOT SURE what time it was. He was not even sure what day it was. His brain was as foggy as the cold, eerie mists that moved around the skiff; as thick as the rolls of canvas that were once housed in his little sail room on the
Isabelle.
Too weak to sit upright, he lay across his bench on his side and stared at the oars resting in their locks, trying to encourage his lungs to provide enough wind power for him to blow into his flute. Playing a tune was the only thing that eased the misery of the wrenching spasms in his stomach. Gus had been awfully quiet for a long time now. Magpie supposed he was only sleeping, but had no energy to crawl into the tent to make certain by checking his pulse.

Perhaps today the skiff would enter shallow waters beside an island or hit a scattering of rocks near a shore. If the fog would go away, perhaps he’d spy a fishing vessel or a merchantman, one close enough to hear him call out for help. He didn’t want to think about an American frigate or a pirate ship finding them, but he’d happily board their vessel and be clapped in irons if they would just give him something to eat. No longer could he bear to imagine the feast that the Duke of Clarence and his wife had once set before him – the succulent roast of pork and scrumptious baked bread pudding. It only made his pains worse, as if the unknown creature that had gnawed on the dead sailor had now sunk its teeth into his belly. There was a dull pain in his head too, where his right eye used to be, but he could ignore it. His innards, however, would not afford him such luxury. He lifted his flute to his lips.

It would have to be today.

3:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

PROSPO BURGO scratched the top of his head where he had gone bald and cursed the fog that shrouded his brig, the
Prosperous and Remarkable.
He wrapped his long fingers around the ropes on the bowsprit and inched along the spritsail yard. Then, leaning his body into the light breeze, he listened.

“What ya hearin’?” asked Pemberton Baker, Prosper’s jack-of-all-tradesman.

“I dunno. Might be me ’magination, or might be I’m hearin’ music.”

“Might be yer losin’ yer mind.”

Prosper twisted his neck to glare at Pemberton, who stood on the foredeck, peering up at him on his precarious perch. Soon, however, a sunny smile had replaced his scowl. “Ya ox! I lost me mind long ago! Nay! Listen! Shhh! There be music out there!”

Pemberton bent his short, stocky legs, tilted his thick torso forward, and cupped his right ear. At length he grunted. “There’s naught but thee gentle wind’s whisper.”

Prosper made odd gurgling sounds in his throat. “Ya lubber! I bet I kin recognize thee tune afore ye.”

The men in the fore rigging, hearing Prosper’s challenge, stopped working, cocked their heads, and after a time offered up their own conjectures.

“Nay, Prosper, ’tis only the wind.”

“Or a ship’s bell?”

“Should we be beatin’ to quarters then?”

“Nay, ’tis a seagull.”

“Or one o’ Ma Carey’s chickens.”

“Birds, ya say? Are we nearin’ land? Toss the lead again, Jasper.”

“Yer all puddin’ heads, thee lot o’ yas,” said Prosper. “What kinda sailors are ye anyway when ya can’t recognize thee strains o’ ‘Can o’ Grog’?”

The men all laughed and broke into song.
“When up the shrouds the sailor goes, and ventures on the yard …
”

Prosper raised his hand. “Shush all o’ yas.” The men shut their mouths and watched with interest as their commander set his facial features into listening mode and poked his head here and there into the fog like a hen pecking at the ground for kernels of corn. After a short while of intense silence, he shocked them all by crying out, “Ah hah!” and scrabbled down from the spritsail yard. “Turn this beast around, ya lubbers,” he yelled, jumping down onto the deck and sprinting aft along the starboard rail, all the while gesturing vigorously at the moving mists.

“What is it?”

“What ’ave ya seen?

Prosper’s fringe of thinning curls flew about his ears as he wheeled about to face his men with a grin. “Why, I’ve seen a flute-playin’ devil lyin’ in his coffin and I ’spose it be common courtesy we pick ’im up.”

3:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)