Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (44 page)

Magpie mewled and made a dash for his cot. But soon he was feeling his way back to Gus’s head. “Sir, I promise, I’ll tell ya everythin’ after I sleep a bit. But ya gotta know now. Come first light, we’re leavin’ here, and Prosper … well, he’s all fired up and plannin’ on goin’ after Trevelyan the first chance he gets.”

7:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the USS
Serendipity

EMILY OPENED HER EYES from her night of dreams to find her lower back aching and Meg Kettle standing over her, a broad smile on her thin lips.

“’Bout time ya woke up.”

Emily sat up in her cot, rubbed life into her face, and frowned as she surveyed the grubby hammock that was newly hung so close to her own. As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Kettle said, “It were Cap’n Trevelyan’s idea t’ave thee
ladies
bunk together.”

“Mrs. Kettle,” said Emily with restraint, “one would hardly consider you a lady.”

“Ooo, and ya think
yer
a right smart lady! Jumpin’ outta ships and wearin’ trousers and drinkin’ with thee Isabelles and sleepin’ with all thee men in Dr. Braden’s hospital?”

Emily did not give her the satisfaction of a reply. She gazed past Mrs. Kettle, wishing she were alone to remember the voice that had called out to her in the night. It had seemed so real and so close. She closed her eyes for a second, pulling the coat that had been
his
up around her shoulders.

“Get a move on. Ya won’t be layin’ ’bout today.”

Emily threw Mrs. Kettle an impatient glance. “I’ll get up when I want to.”

“Nay! Today ya ’ave work to do.”

Emily lifted her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s yer punishment fer tryin’ to escape last night.”

“I would have thought being forced to share my cabin with
you
was punishment enough.”

Mrs. Kettle made a snuffling sound. “Yer to do thee men’s washin.”

“With you?”

Mrs. Kettle’s hands found her hips. “Nay! Won’t be findin’ Meggie doin’ laundry no more.”

“Why not? Has Trevelyan finally decided to reward you for being a traitor?”

A muscle in Mrs. Kettle’s cheek quivered. “I bin given a promotion.”

“Really? Shall I address you from here on as yeoman of the
bedsheets
or perhaps as captain of the
heads?”

“Think yer comical now, don’t ya?”

“Mrs. Kettle, I doubt there’s a uniform on this ship large enough to fit your frame.”

Mrs. Kettle compressed her lips and flounced her hammy arms across her chest, but Emily, having no interest in hearing the details of her shipboard promotion, scrambled from her cot and pushed up the gunport. Rain and sea spray blew into the tiny cabin, invigorating Emily’s warm face. She filled her lungs with the clean, salty air, and massaged her lower back as she gazed longingly towards Charleston.

“Shut that,” growled Mrs. Kettle.

“I will not.”

“Ya’ll get me hammock all wet. Now shut it.”

“I will not! I cannot breathe in here. You reek like a manure patch.”

Mrs. Kettle took a menacing step towards Emily. “Ooo, if I’d a knife, I’d cut yer bold tongue from that white throat o’ yers.” Emily swung round and stood her ground before the open gunport, meeting the older woman’s stare dead on. They glared at each other until the whooshing sound of a tray being passed under the cabin door diverted Mrs. Kettle’s wavering glance.

“Yer breakfast!” trilled an unfamiliar voice.

Scurrying to collect the food, Mrs. Kettle said, “Git dressed and be quick with yer gruel. Come eight bells, ya’ll ’ave yer white hands in a tub o’ saltwater.”

The thought of leaving her small prison – especially now that it was redolent with the essence of livestock – lifted Emily’s spirits. Having endured endless days of nothingness, she was ready to embrace any form of occupation and would not have complained even if ordered to draw the weevils from the ship’s biscuit barrels. Suppressing her anger with Mrs. Kettle, Emily watched as she gobbled her buttered biscuits and foraged about in her ditty bag.

“Were you speaking to Dr. Braden last night?”

Mrs. Kettle gave Emily nothing more than a wary glance.

“I – I thought I heard his voice.”

The laundress let loose a gurgle of laughter along with a spray of biscuit bits. “Dr. Braden? Where did ya get thee notion?”

Emily felt her confidence wane. “He said he had brought me some food.”

A pompous smile crossed Mrs. Kettle’s sweaty face. “Ya daft girl. ’Twere a dream only. Yer precious doctor’s lyin’ on thee ocean floor.”

8:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

BISCUIT HUMMED A SCOTTISH TUNE as he set upon the captain’s table a steaming pot of chocolate, a dish of marmalade, toast, and a freshly baked salt-fish pie. Fly frowned at Biscuit. Humming had not been allowed in the presence of Captain Moreland at mealtimes, but Captain Prickett, who was busy stuffing his linen napkin into the collar of his shirt, did not seem to mind the impertinence. “Biscuit, tell me, my good man, what’s in the pie?”

Biscuit clasped his hands behind his back and cast a grave gaze upon the stern windows as he rhymed off the ingredients. “Soused herrings, oysters, halibut, lobster, potatoes, herbs, parsnips, pepper and salt, oh … ah …” He paused to show off his greenish teeth. “And a pinch o’ rum.”

Captain Prickett smiled his delight. “Well done, Biscuit. Now cut me and Mr. Austen a generous slice of it, then fetch the spiced cake you baked last night.”

“Ya’ll be wantin’ cake fer breakfast, sir?”

“Most certainly. The day’s chores already lie heavy on me. I need to be fortified with tasty sustenance.” Captain Prickett spread a dollop of marmalade onto a half piece of toast, popped the whole works into his mouth, and studied his guest as he chewed. “How are you faring this morning, Mr. Austen?” he asked when Biscuit had left them.

Fly, who was about to take his first bite of pie, lowered his fork. “I am well, sir.”

“And that scorched back of yours?”

“On the mend. These past few days of rest have helped immeasurably. I thank you for the reprieve in not sending me straightaway to work in the galley with Biscuit.”

“Biscuit is quite capable of performing wonders with very little assistance.”

“I am glad you are finding his service satisfactory. With all due respect, his performance was not quite as impressive on the
Isabelle,
but then Captain Moreland and his officers provided Biscuit with nothing more than the most basic of victuals.”

“Where I, Mr. Austen, insist that my officers pay handsomely for their provisions, as food is my one joy.”

As Captain Prickett eagerly dug into his pie, Fly took the opportunity to pop his waiting forkful into his mouth.

“I have other plans for you, Mr. Austen,” Prickett said between bites. “That is why I wished to dine with you alone this morning.”

Fly watched his face expectantly, but had to wait until the pie was dispensed with to hear more.

“You are aware, Mr. Austen, that we raised Charleston earlier this morning.”

“Aye! I could see the town in the distance when I rose from my bed, sir.”

“Hopefully, we find Trevelyan here, and if not in Charleston then in the general vicinity, though we may have to search as far south as Savannah or even St. Augustine. We have gleaned information from two fishing vessels that claimed they passed a ship fitting the
Serendipity’s
description. Now, if I were Trevelyan, and I had something to celebrate – in this case, the taking down of Moreland’s ship – it is to Charleston that I would head. After all, it is known as the Paris of the American South for good reason.”

Fly listened intently to his host. “What about blockades, sir? Are any of our ships watching the harbour mouth?”

“We haven’t the manpower to properly blockade these American ports, Mr. Austen, and what we do have is concentrated in the north, just south of New York. We are totally ineffectual down here. It’s about time our ships moved south in larger numbers.”

“Sir, are we close enough to get a good look at the ships anchored in the harbour?” Fly strained his neck to catch a glimpse of Charleston through the great cabin windows, but his vantage point afforded him only a scene of rolling waves.

Prickett thoughtfully sipped his cup of chocolate. “Of course it is necessary to keep a safe distance and this rainy weather doesn’t give us the best visibility.”

Feeling suddenly restless, Fly asked, “What are you proposing to do, sir?”

“Hang about a few days, see whether Trevelyan’s
Serendipity
does slip out of the harbour.”

“And if he does, sir?”

“Well, now that’s where you come in, Mr. Austen.

“Sir?”

Prickett cleared his throat. “You’ve had experience with this Trevelyan, Mr. Austen. You know his tactics, his games, and more importantly, how fast that ship of his can sail.”

“Aye, I have gained a brief familiarity, sir.”

Prickett shifted his bottom about in his chair. “You see, Mr. Austen, I’ve spent the past two years escorting merchantmen about this ocean, bullying potential predators with the
Amethyst’s
sheer size and her long guns. Call it luck, call it misfortune, I cannot recall when I last fired a broadside at anyone and, heaven forbid, had the fire returned; notwithstanding, of course, that cowardly early morning shot we recently withstood.” He poured himself a second cup of chocolate. “For the most part, my men are experienced seamen, though they’ve had little opportunity to become a well-drilled crew. And I’m afraid
I
am not a fighting captain.”

An awkward silence followed, during which Fly was forced to listen to Prickett slurp and extol the virtues of his hot drink. Finally he took the initiative. “Sir, are you asking me to assist you with your campaign against Trevelyan?”

“Assist? Nay! I’m asking that you
lead
it.”

Fly set down his knife and fork and handed Prickett an incredulous stare. Prickett looked sheepish, but his familiar joviality soon returned the moment he spied Biscuit entering the great cabin with the spiced cake. “Ah! There you are. Cut me a generous slab of that, will you now?”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

MAGPIE COERCED A CHUNK OF MEAT down his throat. He had lost his appetite – due to the roughness of the sea and also to the company he was keeping. If it weren’t for the presence of Prosper and for his kind invitation to join his messmates for a meal, Magpie would have quietly carried his plate back to the corner he shared with Mr. Walby. He peered up at the men who sat around the mess table, swilling their dinner’s ration of grog, and eating their salted beef and boiled potatoes with their fingers. Though not having been intimately acquainted with them, Magpie was aware that a few of the Isabelles had had diseases of the mind or appetites for petty thievery, but these Prosperous and Remarkables were a different breed altogether. He had seen the likes of them before – at night in London, where they could be found lingering in rotting doorways down damp, foul alleyways, preying on passersby, dragging them into dark recesses, and murdering them for the few coins in their ragged pockets. Most of those who sat around him now had queer body parts – cracked teeth, maimed arms, missing ears, tattooed faces – and all of them had a peculiar brightness in their gaze. The man on his left had huge hands and shifty eyes, and a nose that looked like a tumorous strawberry. The way Magpie saw it, Prosper must have invited him to the table thinking he fit in with the bunch, having only one eye in his head. He shuddered as he sat on a chest at the head of the table and grabbed for his mug, praying the grog would settle his stomach, which had been home to a knot the size of an anchor since early the previous day. To avoid eye contact with the fearsome faces that surrounded him, he huddled over his plate and waited for the ship’s bell that would herald the end of the dinner hour.

“Taken nineteen prizes since thee start o’ this war,” said Prosper, jabbing his knife in the air, “and, by Jove, I’d likes ta ’ave an even twenty.”

“Aye, it’s bin a while now, Prosper,” said the tattooed sailor at the end of the table. “I miss thee feelin’ o’ me cutlass cuttin’ some gullet.”

The man with shifty eyes who sat next to Magpie’s left elbow spoke up. “D’ya recall two months back, comin’ upon that brig – what was it? Portuguese? French? Austrian? No matter. D’ya recall? And I roughed their captain up good and pitched overboard them what got in me way. And them wenches in their silk gowns – how they screamed shrilly, enough to uncleave barnacles from thee hull – and begged us to kill thee men but spare them.”