Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  “I can assure you that for every one enemy you may have on the Isabelle, you have two hundred friends.”

  Emily lifted her face to him.

  “You surely know,” continued Leander hesitantly, “it wasn’t me who informed Captain Moreland of your whereabouts yesterday.”

  “I know.”

  The guns began thundering at last. The ship’s timbers shuddered and shook, knocking Emily up against the clothes cupboard beside her. Leander was hurled backwards, but was saved from a fall by the wooden post supporting the bottom end of her hammock. Steadying himself, he seized the blanket from her bed and tossed it to her.

  “Here, place it over you. If the hospital is hit, you may escape the inevitable flying splinters. Stay down and stay safe.” He soon vanished, taking the lantern light with him.

  Alone in the dark she whispered, “And you too.”

  * * *

  CLOAKED IN THE SMOKEY CLOUDS of gunfire, the Isabelle’s crew seized the battle respite to regroup and clear the decks of their fallen comrades. The heart-wrenching wails of the wounded and their pleas for help were everywhere – on the damaged decks, high up in the twisted ropes, and in the agitated waters between the two ships. Amidst the butchery and blood waddled Mrs. Kettle, lifting her skirts to the gore underfoot, cussing in a clamourous voice that surely could be heard on board the enemy frigate.

  “It’s brutes they are, them Yankees!” She inspected the freshly cleaned shirts and trousers not yet collected from the drying lines that crisscrossed the fo’c’sle, now all sooty, blood-splattered, and full of holes. “And they would ’ave to pick me laundry day to shoot their cannons at us.”

  “Next time, Mrs. Kettle, you will take down all the laundry the moment we see a sail on the horizon … as you were instructed to do,” admonished Fly, slipping along the starboard railing. He was heading towards Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”

  “It’s the Liberty, sir. The Isabelle did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”

  “If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”

  “We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”

  “We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”

  “Slices of Swiss cheese, sir!” cried Gus.

  “Quite so!” Fly cupped his hands around his mouth to yell to the men who had the unenviable task of dodging grapeshot and cannonballs high up on the yardarms. “Topsails only, men!”

  “Aye, sir. Topsails.”

  “Quickly now, Mr. Walby, get yourself below. The moment we come up broadside to her, the guns will be firing again.” Fly laid one hand on Gus’s shoulder. “And please do us all a favour and take Mrs. Kettle with you.”

  “I will try, sir.”

  * * *

  ON THE GUN DECK, the air was stifling and rank with the smell of fear. The half-naked gunners were black with gunpowder. Tiny rivers of sweat carved lines upon their blackened torsos as if the men had been scratched with giant fingernails. Clustered around each of the heavy guns was a crew of six, each member with his assigned duty. One man sponged out the gun barrel to remove traces of burning powder so others could insert the new powder charge, wads, and shot, and prepare all for the gun captain, whose task it was to aim and fire the gun. The young lads called “powder monkeys” scurried about, having carried up fresh charges from the magazine deep in the Isabelle’s hold.

  Striding amongst the men and the guns was James, the polished brass buttons of his dark blue jacket glinting like cats’ eyes in the gathering gloom. Already his Hessian boots were scuffed and his cream-coloured breeches covered in filth and blood. His face was red with exertion and he kept one hand glued to the silver hilt of his sword.

  “Deep breaths, men. Do not shoot again until we are broadside-to-broadside. We cannot afford to lose a single shot. Aim for her hull, but remember, our goal is to cripple her, not to sink her.” He stopped his pacing to stand behind Octavius. “This time we will have our chance to board her and search for deserters. I will leave you to it, Mr. Lindsay, as I must learn what damage has been done to our Isabelle.”

  7:30 p.m.

  (Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

  EMILY COULD STAND THE NOISE and suffering no longer. Streams of blood had now found their way into her dark corner. She could not see it, but she could smell it and feel its stickiness. On all fours, she crawled out through her canvas curtain into the hellish scene in the hospital. The room was clogged with bleeding, dying men whose eerie shadows were cast upon the wooden walls by the swaying light of the lanterns. Those who could stand leaned against one another, but most were huddled or lying on the floor. Every one of the hammocks was full, including the extra dozen that Osmund had hung up before the battle began. Young boys sobbed, calling out for their mothers; others groaned mournfully; most said nothing at all, presumably having already died or passed from consciousness.

  “Please, Dr. Braden, please see me next. I can’t breathe, sir.”

  “I’ll be with you soon, Mr. Smith. Hold on.” Leander’s voice was as calm as if he were tending to patients on a routine day.

  “A drink of water … just a drink of water.”

  “I want me ma …”

  “I can’t see! Oh, God, I can’t see!” shrieked a hysterical boy, rocking back and forth on the floor, his face red and mutilated.

  Emily’s eyes filled with tears. She had seen it all before, though it was no easier to bear this second time round. Here again was the reality of battle beyond the politicians’ rousing rhetoric and the reckless bravado of common men. Here again it lay before her – in all its dreadful glory – and she had no recourse but to face it head on. She yanked the red scarf from her neck and used it to tie back her hair. Then, crawling to the bucket of water Leander kept next to his operating table, she unhooked a cup from the bucket’s side and filled it. Balancing the cup in one hand she weaved her way through the throng of suffering sailors to the man who had pleaded for water.

  She put the cup to his swollen lips and said softly, “Here, drink this.” He coughed and spit, but managed to get some down. There were no shoes on his feet, his pants had been half torn away, and a spreading bloodstain on his soiled shirt showed he had been struck in the chest. With laboured breathing, he looked up at her and said, “Thankee, Miss.” A moment later his bruised head slumped forward and he slowly slid down against her breast, his blood seeping into her clothes. Emily heard him utter a long moan and knew that he was gone.

  A teenaged lad crouching nearby said, “He’s dead, ma’am.”

  Emily suppressed a whimper and put her hand on the lad’s arm. “Could you help me carry him out to the galley?”

  “Aye, ma’am. Only got a bit ’o lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.”

  The lad hooked his strong, bare arms under the dead sailor’s limp ones and lifted him up while Emily held onto his legs. Blinking back tears, she fought to keep her stomach down as they carried him through the stifling, stinking hospital and out into the galley where they lay him carefully on a grey blanket near Bailey Beck, who was already at work there sewing the dead men – with an eighteen-pounder at their feet – into their hammocks for burial at sea. Emily thanked the young lad and searched out others who needed aid, this time walking rather than crawling through the sea of misery, mindless of her own cares and annoying ankle. Struggling to contain her emotions, she gave water and a comforting word to those she knew would die before Leander was able to see them.

  Before long the guns boomed again. Above deck, the bellowing grew louder and fiercer so that Dr. Braden had to raise his voice in order to be heard by Osm
und, who was darting nervously about the room like a fox with a pack of hounds on its heels. Emily could hear the whirr of chain and bar shot intended for the Isabelle’s rigging, and could feel the large cannonballs pounding her walls. She reached up for the ceiling boards to balance herself as she waded through the room, catching a word or two spoken by the men.

  “Sounds like we be broadside to ’er now.”

  “Lord, help thee lads.”

  “Dr. Braden, I only got a couple ’o cut-up fingers. If ya could just bandage me real fast, I could git back to fightin’.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, you will have to wait your turn,” Leander said, focusing on a lead extraction from the arm of a shrieking, thrashing, red-haired midshipman. “Mr. Stewart, if you could stay still I might have an opportunity to remove the lead ball. If not, I will be forced to send you to the back of the line, and when I see you again in about three days, I will most likely have to remove your entire arm.”

  Not heeding the doctor’s words, the midshipman continued to thrash about on the table.

  “A good punch to the face will settle ’im down, Doc.”

  “Thank you for that, Mr. Crump, but I don’t normally adhere to those methods.”

  “Ohhhh!” moaned the midshipman. “Please send for my mother. She’ll hold my hand and smooth my hair.”

  Those of the less wounded sailors within earshot chuckled. “If thee lad lives he’ll ’ave trouble livin’ them words down.”

  “I’m afraid, Mr. Stewart, your mother is not here with us.” When the boy did not cease his flailing, Leander finally lost his patience. “Osmund, you’ll have to sit on him.”

  “Right, then.” Rolling his thick tongue around his cracked lips, Osmund hopped up onto the operating table and plunked his full weight down onto the boy’s buttocks, gripping his skinny wrists with his enormous hands. The midshipman howled and cried out for mercy, but Osmund held him fast and firmly enough for Leander to do his work.

  Emily pulled her attention away from the midshipman’s plight and snatched some clean rags from the chair at Leander’s back. She then refilled the water cup and went to kneel next to the boy with the mutilated face.

  “I can’t see!” he cried. “I can’t see.”

  Dipping a rag in the cold water, Emily wrung it out a bit and gently began dabbing his bleeding face. His hair was matted with blood, and on his head and left cheek were oozing gashes. In the shadowy light, with some of the blood washed away, she realized, with dismay, that his left eye had been shattered.

  “Is that you, m’am?”

  Emily paused to study the small, torn face in her hands. “Magpie?”

  “One ’n’ the same, ma’am, but not bein’ very brave, I’m afraid.” He began to sob. Emily wrapped one arm around his thin shoulders, whispering, “Hush, now. I’ll stay with you.” She then searched the room for the teenaged lad, only to find that he was sitting nearby, watching her with interest.

  “Could you manage to help me again?” she asked. “I know where there’s an empty hammock.”

  “Aye, ma’am.”

  With his strong arms, the lad scooped up Magpie and, limping, followed Emily to her private corner. As they weaved and bobbed through the huddled throng, she felt Leander’s eyes on her. Turning her head to him, she found that he had paused in his work to send a grateful smile her way.

  6

  Tuesday, June 8

  2:00 a.m.

  (Middle Watch, Four Bells)

  GUS WALBY HURRIED UP THE LADDER to the poop deck. Captain Moreland stood in the dark and pouring rain, drinking cold coffee and watching the progress of his boarding party as they organized a group of about fifty presumed British deserters on the quarterdeck of the Liberty for transportation onto the Isabelle.

  “Sir, Mr. Austen asked me to tell you we are ready to bring the men aboard,” said Gus, shivering in his sodden muslin shirt. “He says there are forty-six of them. They all speak like Englishmen but, except for one man, all claim to be American citizens.”

  James, wearing his knee-length Carrick coat to shut out the wind and dampness, droplets of rain falling from his bicorne hat, closed his eyes to think. “Thank you, Mr. Walby. Tell Mr. Austen to take them down to the gaol for the balance of the night, then tell Biscuit to make certain they receive food and water. We will begin questioning them one by one in the morning.”

  “And what about their captain, sir?”

  “A pompous, cantankerous young fellow named Butterfield, I believe.” James gave Gus a sardonic smile. “As he is no longer a threat to us, let him stay with his diminished crew.”

  “Did he surrender his sword to you, sir?”

  “I did not ask for it, Mr. Walby.”

  Gus shivered again. “And the ship, sir? Mr. Austen would like to know what your orders are regarding it?”

  “Unlash her, let her go,” said Captain Moreland with surprising calmness. “She’s in no shape to sail far, and I’m afraid we’re in for a spell of bad weather. I cannot trust this night to spare skilled men to take her a prize.”

  Gus tried to hide his disappointment. “Anything else, sir?”

  “Aye, take what weapons you can, then let them all take their chances in the storm. I can do no more for them.”

  Gus made a hesitant salute, then spun around and began retracing his steps to the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. James called him back.

  “Mr. Walby?”

  “Sir?”

  “Here, take my coat,” he said, unbuttoning his Carrick. “It will be long on you, but I believe you will wear it well.”

  “What about you, sir?” Gus said, coming forward eagerly to accept the heavy coat.

  “I need to rest awhile. I’ll be in the wardroom. Tell Mr. Austen to meet me there at six bells before breakfast, and ask him to bring with him that one fellow who admitted to being an Englishman.”

  Gus slid proudly into the captain’s Carrick, fingering its large brass buttons.

  “Now, Mr. Walby, tell me … can you remember all that?”

  “Aye, sir!” Gus grinned. With a second, more serious salute, he negotiated the slippery ladder, careful not to trip on the long coat’s hem, and soon vanished into the shadowy confusion on the main deck. For several minutes James watched the activity below him. The scarlet-jacketed marines had positioned themselves at intervals along the larboard railing, their muskets still pointing at the enemy ship in case there was any further resistance. Mr. Harding hobbled about, pressing his hat to his head, shouting through his speaking trumpet so the men on their lofty footropes could hear his orders.

  “Main staysail only. Reef all others.”

  The men’s replies to the sailing master were lost to the wind and the snapping sails.

  Already the carpenters were at work on repairs. Mr. Alexander was carving a new crossjack yard while Morgan Evans was rebuilding the belfry. Others would be occupied below deck caulking holes with oakum and pitch. James watched as Morgan moved his tools to allow the quartermaster to strike the unharmed bell five times.

  Scurrying about with a large basket under one arm was Meg Kettle, visibly muttering as she tried to gather up the last of the men’s laundry.

  Infernal woman, thought James. Never does she follow orders. Pity a blast of Yankee grapeshot – or British for that matter – didn’t find her backside when the guns were firing.

  His eyes shifted to two midshipmen perched on the capstan, watching the progression of the American seamen onto the decks of the Isabelle. If he’d had the energy, James would have yelled out to them to “stand tall on the deck,” but at this late hour he could only feel relief that the boys had survived the encounter with the enemy.

  In the faint illumination cast by the dozens of lanterns hung from the rigging, James could see the slant of the rain.
He was thankful for the darkness, thankful that it hid the bloodstains on the decks and the faces of the men who had fallen during the engagement. He averted his eyes from the place on the fo’c’sle, near the small boats, where a silent, still row of sailors lay, and instead looked upwards to view the tangle of ropes and ruined sails. The Liberty had forty-four guns on board, no real match for his seventy-four-gun ship, even though he did not possess enough gun crews to man them all. Still, she had inflicted plenty of damage to the Isabelle. He shook his head in frustration. Yet again they would have to refit, but where could they go? Bermuda was out of the question this time. Draining the last of his coffee, he leaned into the wind and crossed the poop deck to the railing opposite the side where the two ships were lashed together. There he stared into the foamy waves that beat against the Isabelle’s hull. It was late. A storm was approaching from the east and there was still so much work to be done. James tightened his grip on the railing and stared into the cold wet blackness.

  5:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Two Bells)

  EMILY STIRRED AS THE ECHOES of two bells entered her sleep. She opened her eyes and felt the Isabelle being tossed about on a rough sea. Having slept on the damp floorboards of her little corner, she awoke in some pain: her back was stiff and her ankle and shoulder ached. In the darkness, she raised herself slowly, stretched, and, steadying herself against Leander’s clothing cupboard, tiptoed over to open the gunport, only to close it up again when a heavy spray of saltwater poured in, soaking her shirt. She stopped to listen to the sounds on the ship. It was hauntingly silent after the explosions and screams and pandemonium of a few hours ago. She could hear the wind howling and the crash of the waves and Magpie’s steady breathing as he slept in her hammock.

  It had been near midnight when Leander had finally been able to examine the lad. He had removed the ruined remains of his left eye and bandaged his small head, and as Magpie slipped into a laudanum-induced sleep, he had turned to Emily saying, “It is always infection that I fear …”