Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  “They are doing a fine job keeping their eyes in their heads and on their tasks,” Mr. Harding said, shifting his weight about.

  “Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Lindsay.” James stared at him long and hard until Octavius looked away.

  “Sir! The men don’t have to look at Meg Kettle in the darkness of their cots. We are not all true gentlemen here.”

  Aware of the men toiling nearby, James dropped his voice. “We may have beggars and thieves from Newgate prison on board, but as far as I know there are only honourable men among us.”

  “Captain Moreland, I fear … I fear you are growing soft.” No sooner had he uttered the words than Octavius regretted them, as he watched James’s face change colour.

  “Mr. Lindsay,” James hissed through his teeth, “I will not make a scene here. Meet me in the wardroom at two bells.”

  Octavius opened his mouth, but said no more. He saluted and swiftly strode off.

  Mr. Harding waited until James’s complexion had regained its normal pallor. “Forgive me, sir … that young man … I know you’re well acquainted with his father, but that bold tongue of his deserves a flogging.”

  “Like his father, Mr. Lindsay is hotheaded and impulsive.” James’s glance locked on the young sailor who limped alongside Magpie and Gus Walby. “But he is right.”

  “How so, sir?”

  “I am growing soft.”

  * * *

  ONCE GUS HAD HELPED Emily negotiate the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck, he apologized to her. “My lesson with Mr. Austen begins shortly. I must leave you here. But you’ll be quite safe with Magpie.” His eyes brightened. “Today we’re studying the signal flags and communications at sea. It’s my most favourite subject of all.”

  “Then you must go. I’m not concerned for my safety, although I had my doubts trying to get out of the doctor’s hammock.” She gave a satisfied glance around the ship. “Just tell me, is there a quiet place where I may sit with Magpie and enjoy this fresh air?”

  “Aye, on the poop deck. You’ll find it quiet there this time of day. Unfortunately, it’s at the very back of the ship and it will mean more ladders to climb. The quarterdeck is closer, but if you’re caught loitering there, you’ll most likely be ordered to ‘shove off,’ as only officers and midshipmen may stroll there during their leisure hours. Shall I escort you to the poop deck before I go to class?”

  “Thank you, I’ll manage with Mr. Magpie.”

  Hobbling along the fo’c’sle deck with her walking cane, Emily drew no stares. The doctor’s straw hat hid her long, fair hair, and the baggy trousers and waist-length jacket Magpie had fashioned for her disguised her female form. She had supposed her blue silk shoes would be a dead giveaway, but no one seemed interested in her feet. Moreover, Gus had assured her that several of the men were new to the Isabelle, and thus many faces were still foreign to one another.

  As if reading her thoughts, Magpie piped up, “Ya’ll get away with it today, ma’am, but tonight at supper they’ll be askin’ me the name of the sailor I was walkin’ with at noon.”

  “Do you not get leisure time?”

  “Aye, but they don’t usually see the likes of Magpie up on the poop deck.”

  “In that case, let’s just sit here.”

  Emily and Magpie perched themselves upon two overturned barrels alongside the starboard railing of the ship’s waist, and there fell quiet to appreciate the scenes around them. The decks were teeming with sailors – toiling, talking, taking leisure – reminding Emily of a busy street in London minus the coiffed ladies in their bonnets and redingotes. High on the yardarms, the men stood precariously on their footropes, letting down the sails in preparation for their return to the sea. Those on the mast platforms watched the empty horizons for enemy sails. They were like birds in a mountain nest, isolated and free. She longed to be up there with them and determined she would be once her ankle and shoulder had healed.

  Following Magpie’s gaze out over the square, stone buildings in the dockyard and the low, mossy-green hills of Ireland Island, Emily noticed there was only one other ship in port beyond the Isabelle, a small two-masted vessel with an unusually bright red hull. HMS Amethyst and the three East India merchantmen, of which she’d overheard Dr. Braden speaking to Mr. Harding in the hospital earlier, must have departed, she thought. Emily had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Amethyst’s Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington, as their manners and fondness for the Isabelle’s food had apparently provided Captain Moreland with a good amount of entertainment.

  Pulling her eyes away from the thickets of mangrove and hedges of oleander that lay beyond the naval buildings, Emily was surprised to find Magpie studying her face with interest, much as Captain Moreland and Fly Austen had the night of their interrogation. Quickly he looked away, furtively slipping a gilded object into his trousers pocket, and turning his attention to the stretch of new canvas that whispered above his head.

  “What is that you have there?” Emily asked, referring to her tantalizing glimpse of gold.

  “Aw, it ain’t nothing,” said Magpie, still looking at the sail. He pointed upwards. “Ain’t she a beauty, ma’am? I sewed her meself.”

  “Yes,” Emily said absently. It was her turn to study him. His eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with long black lashes, and his dark curls blew with abandon in the warm breeze. His little fingers were stained black and his leather shoes had lost their heels, but his trousers, shirt, and red necktie were all clean, and the stitches around the patches were neat and even. There was a catch in her throat as she asked, “Where did you live before joining the navy, Magpie?”

  “In London, ma’am. I was a chummy, a climbin’ boy.”

  “A climbing boy? Do you mean you cleaned chimneys?”

  “That I did. Still can’t get the soot out o’ me nails.”

  “What a horrible time you must have had.”

  “Oh, aye, and I had a mean boss – Mr. Hardy was his name. He stood around eatin’ meat pasties while I climbed the dark flues. And if I didn’t wanna go up, he’d prick me feet with a pin. I’ve burns on me legs and arms, and me lungs don’t take kindly to colds.”

  “How did you ever escape Mr. Hardy?”

  “I didn’t jump out o’ no windows, ma’am,” he said with an impish grin. “Nay, I was climbin’ at a big house one day and I had a fall. Bruised meself badly. The man o’ the house was kind enough to give me water and let me rest awhile on his couch. He gave Mr. Hardy a terrible tongue lashin’ on account o’ me bad treatment, and ordered Mr. Hardy to leave his house at once, sayin’ I would be stayin’ with him. Imagine me surprise! His wife was kind too. She give me the best dinner I’ve ever eaten and told me to eat up ’til me sides busted. I remember it still: roast o’ pork an’ potatoes, a kind o’ mint sauce, biscuits, cheese, and a baked bread puddin’.” He sighed at the memory. “It was grand. After dinner the man asked me if I wanted a postin’ on a sailin’ ship. Said he was a big gun in the Royal Navy and could get me a post if I was keen. Course I didn’t wanna go back climbin’ so I jumped at the chance.”

  “Who was this saviour of yours?”

  There was mischievous glint in Magpie’s eyes and his thin chest swelled as he proudly said, “He was called the Duke o’ Clarence.”

  Emily’s mouth fell open. “The – the Duke of Clarence? Our King George’s son?”

  “One ’n’ the same, ma’am.”

  “That is astounding!” Her dark eyes danced as she clapped together her bandaged hands in merriment. “Imagine you making the acquaintance of the Duke of Clarence.”

  Magpie’s smile vanished. “Why? ’Cause I ain’t nobody?”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it in that vein, Magpie. I just think the poor duke has long been criticized for his lifestyle and politics and here he’s shown true kindness to the I
sabelle’s sail maker.”

  “D’ya know him too, ma’am?”

  Emily shrank back on her barrel. “No. I’ve just read about him in the newspapers. That is all.”

  For a moment Magpie’s almond eyes watched her, as if expecting her to say more, but when she did not, his expression changed and he peeked up shyly at her. “Do ya like the clothes I made fer ya, ma’am?”

  “Your handiwork is truly exquisite! I look every inch a sailor now, do I not?” Emily leaned closer to him. “Everything is perfect and yet … I cannot guess how it fits me so well.”

  “Dr. Braden helped me guess yer … yer proportions, ma’am.”

  “Did he now?” Emily grinned pensively.

  “Magpie! Why aren’t you below sewing our sails?”

  The low voice startled Magpie, who sprang off his barrel to salute the young man with the bandaged left hand who stood before them.

  “You don’t have to salute me,” the man said.

  “Aye, but I do, sir. Yer a carpenter’s mate and higher on the scale than me.”

  “Nonsense,” the carpenter’s mate replied. His hair was long and shaggy, and beneath his knitted hat, which resembled a long sock, his tanned face was familiar. He jerked his paint-splattered thumb towards Emily.

  “Who’s your pal, Magpie?”

  The boy faltered, his eyes darting nervously between Emily and the carpenter’s mate.

  “Mr. George, midshipman, at your service, sir,” Emily said loudly, raising a fist to the brim of her straw hat in salute.

  The young man looked wary as he returned the salute. “How do you do? Morgan Evans is my name … sir.” His stare flickered beneath her face and settled on her silk slippers. “You must be one of the new ones on the Isabelle. Welcome aboard, Mr. George.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he nodded and sauntered on down the deck.

  “Ya didn’t fool Mr. Evans, ma’am.”

  “Apparently not.” Emily watched after him until she could no longer discern his funny hat amongst the throng of sailors.

  “He’s the one what plucked ya from the sea.”

  “I thought he looked familiar.”

  “Beg yer pardon, ma’am, but if ya wanna pretend you’re a midshipman, ya don’t hafta salute a carpenter’s mate like Mr. Evans.”

  “I have much to learn …” Emily’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of a young officer standing against the quarterdeck railing, his chin raised in challenge, glaring down upon her with his dark, penetrating eyes.

  “Who’s that, Magpie?” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the insolent observer.

  “That’s Lord Lindsay, ma’am.” Magpie shivered. “I … I don’t like him much.”

  1:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

  WHEN THE AIR RESOUNDED with two bells, Magpie had to resume his duties, even though, unbeknownst to Emily, he had missed his dinner to sit with her. Emily couldn’t help feeling sad. Her taste of freedom had been all too brief and she had enjoyed their discussions on naval regulations, the fine art of sail sewing, and Biscuit’s culinary repertoire. Unable to wander the decks alone, she reluctantly began her trek back to the hospital, telling her little companion he didn’t need to assist her. “I’ll have to make my own way around the Isabelle sooner or later.”

  Having successfully managed the first ladder down to the upper deck, she found herself outside the officers’ wardroom. Behind the closed door came two voices raised in anger. She recognized one as the captain’s, but was not certain of the other. Emily slowed her pace in an attempt to hear their words.

  “It’s one thing giving that woman freedom to exercise above deck; it’s quite another allowing her to trifle with the likes of Magpie and Morgan Evans on the main deck.”

  “Magpie is a boy of ten.”

  “Mr. Evans, however, is not.”

  There was a crash as if someone’s fist had found a tabletop. “Enlighten me here. I fail to understand your concerns, brought on by an abundance of grog no doubt …”

  Emily’s heart stopped when the floorboards creaked behind her. A stench of perspiration and rotting teeth struck her nose with the force of a club. A growling voice breathed down her neck.

  “Lost yer way, sailor?”

  “Aye, sir. If you please, which way to the hospital?”

  It was Biscuit, the cook, carrying a tray of wine, sweets, and goblets. He resembled a flame with his shock of orange hair standing straight up on his forehead. One of his eyes widened in delight, while the other – horribly out of alignment – searched about for her. His long grey sideburns were sprinkled with food crumbs, as were his chest hairs, which sprang from his open-necked checked shirt like a stowed animal struggling to escape.

  “Yer arse backwards, sailor. Thee hospital’s in thee front o’ thee ship and yer in thee back.” He lowered his peculiar eyes to her right foot. “Seein’ as yer crippled, would ya like me to carry ya there after I take thee wine in to Captain Moreland?”

  “I can manage.”

  “Yer an awfully pretty young sailor. I’d be watchin’ meself wand’rin’ thee decks alone, especially in yer condition.”

  “I appreciate the warning, sir.”

  Unable to endure Biscuit’s odour, Emily stumbled away from him and made for the nearest passageway. She found herself in the sailors’ mess and, uncertain of the path back to the hospital, stood there awkwardly, the room stretching dauntingly before her like a bridgeless gorge. The dinner hour was over, but several men lingered, swilling their mugs of beer, enjoying their leisure time with their mates. They sat in groups, reclining on benches, barrels, and sea chests, and at the tables sandwiched between the menacing carronades lying silent in their open gunports. Hanging on a hook above each table was a swinging bucket of steaming food, and nailed to the walls were racks of wooden spoons and bowls.

  Emily beheld the boisterous scene before her, relieved that the sailors were preoccupied with a variety of pursuits: gambling, arguing, singing, arm wrestling, and blowing tunes on flutes. In all her eighteen years, she had never been in a room with so many men. She could hear the thump of her heart and was shocked to admit it was not anxiety that caused its rapid beating.

  It was not long before she was noticed. One by one, the men slapped one another and gestured in her direction. They ceased their flute playing, paused in their wrestling, and quit arguing long enough to take a good long look at the newcomer with the walking cane. A strange hush permeated the mess where only moments before there had been hilarity and din. Emily could hear a whistle blowing above deck, and beyond the gunports the squawk of the seagulls. A flush crept up her neck.

  An enormous shirtless fellow with a squashed-in nose and peg leg spun around on his bucket to look her up and down. “Nice shoes, sailor,” he shouted, causing his mates to erupt into laughter. From behind the heckler, Morgan Evans’s face appeared.

  “You’re speaking to a midshipman, Jacko. I didn’t see ya salute.”

  “A mid?” Jacko’s thick features displayed shock. “I ain’t never seen a mid wearin’ blue silk shoes.”

  “It’s Mr. George.” Morgan gave Emily a respectful nod. “Sir.”

  “Ah, Mr. George, come ’ave a drink with us.” Jacko raised a hammy arm to her.

  There was more laughter and muttered remarks. It was impossible for Emily to respond as her throat had gone dry. She stood there like a gaping idiot, uncertain of what to do. Then behind her came a familiar reek, and a clap on the back that would have sent her sprawling across the floor had Jacko not caught her with one of his huge hands.

  “Come sit a while, Mr. George, sir,” said Biscuit, steering her towards Morgan’s table. “These lads here – thee ones admirin’ yer shoes – just happen
to be me messmates. Shove over lads so our friend can join us.” Biscuit pushed Emily down hard on the bench, compressing her between Morgan and Jacko, then, finding a space for himself across the table from them, he snapped his fingers at the nearest servant lad. “You there, boyo, fetch me two mugs o’ beer.”

  Gradually the noise in the mess resumed as the men returned to their various amusements. Emily sat frozen between Jacko’s sweaty bare flesh and Morgan, who had quietly pulled his woollen sock off his head, while eight pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed themselves on her reddened face.

  “Mr. George’s been in thee hospital these past days and hasn’t had a drop to drink ’cause – as we all know – Doc Braden don’t allow spirits in his domain.” Biscuit took the mugs from the hovering servant boy and handed one to Emily. “Now, drink up, young lad. This stuff is sure to put hair on yer chest.” He winked his good eye at her.

  Emily sipped the horrid, watery stuff, forcing herself to swallow it rather than spit it all over Jacko, as she would have liked to do. Morgan leaned his right arm on the table and cradled his head on his upturned hand to look at her. “There’s no fear of you getting drunk if you’re going to drink your beer that way.”

  “Mr. George,” said Jacko, showing her two rows of green teeth, “ya look like a regular fop in them shoes. Don’t want the other lads thinkin’ yer a bit of a Beau Brummel now, do ya? They may get the wrong idea about ya. Now, seein’ as I’m the shoemaker here on the Isabelle, how be I knock ya up a pair o’ sensible black leathers? And if yer agreeable to partin’ with a couple o’ pounds, I can arrange to put silver buckles on ’em.”

  Finally Emily found her voice, though it was a good deal softer than she would have liked. “I’m afraid I have no money.” She took another sip of beer, this time a larger one, and grimaced as it went down. It tasted as if it had been brewed with Biscuit’s bath water.

  The men roared.“You! A mid! Wearing silk shoes, and ya say ya ’ave no money?”

  “Young fella like you must ’ave a rich family.”

  “Don’t tell me they sent ya to sea without a shillin’ to yer name?”