“Morgan – the barrel – grab onto it! Swim harder, man! You’re almost there,” Leander cried. Folds of his long forest-green coat furled around his tall frame like an untethered canvas on its yard, revealing the slim curves of his legs in his brown stockings and knee breeches. And when he turned his eyes towards her, as if reassuring himself she was still close at hand, Emily felt a wonderful surge of warmth flow through her.
Still pulling on his uniform coat and looking as if he had just roused himself from his hammock, James swiftly arrived on the fo’c’sle deck and joined Leander at the rail. “Can we save them?”
“Morgan’s got a hold of a barrel,” said Leander. “Looks like he’s going back for Mr. Alexander.”
James spun around to seek the whereabouts of the sailing master. “Mr. Harding, a word, if you please.”
Mr. Harding quit his station next to Lewis McGilp at the wheel and limped over to the rail.
“Do we have any idea where we are, Mr. Harding?”
“The gale has blown us off course. We won’t have an exact location until we see the sun again and can make an accurate measurement, sir.”
“We may never see the sun again. What is your guess?”
“Dangerously close to Cape Hatteras, I’d say. Definitely off the North Carolina coast.”
“Did you try sailing into the wind?”
“We did, but the rudder received a hit during the fight, and the unfurled sails are so full of holes they are next to useless. We need to repair her, sir. It is almost impossible to steer her in her present condition.”
“Why wasn’t I awakened earlier?”
“We – you were up half the night.”
“And so was every other man on this ship.” James frowned. “If we’re smashed upon the shoals of Hatteras, we’ll all soon be sleeping.”
“With respect, sir, what more could have been done?”
“We could have prayed, Mr. Harding.”
Teetering a hundred feet above them, one arm pointing towards the western horizon, the lookout bellowed, “Land, ho! Land, ho!”
Peering into the gloom, James was certain he could see the dim outline of land in the distance. His heart quickened. “Mr. Tucker? What is our depth?”
“No soundings as of yet, sir.”
“Heave the lead lines again,” James ordered, taking a deep breath before returning his attention to his carpenters’ pitiful predicament. Morgan now had one arm locked around the barrel and another trying to hold onto Mr. Alexander, who sputtered and croaked in fear. The shouts of the men on the Isabelle became desperate and louder than before.
“They’re closer now. Throw ’em lifelines.”
“C’mon, Morgan. C’mon, now.”
“You can do it.”
“You’re almost home.”
Seeing the lifelines hit the water, Morgan released the barrel and battled his way through the waves towards them, one hand still gripping the collar of Mr. Alexander’s shirt.
Suddenly a massive, merciless wave rose up like the foot of a giant and crashed down upon the carpenters’ heads, shoving them beneath the sea’s white surface. “Good God!” gasped James, scrambling farther down the rail to watch in horror. There was an outpouring of despair on the Isabelle. Two young midshipmen standing against the rail wheeled away from the disturbing scene and wept openly. Gus reappeared, quietly gave Emily two blankets, and went off to console his distraught friends.
“Pull in the lifeline!”
Old Bailey Beck had tied a cord of rope around his belly and was being hoisted up onto the side of the ship by a couple of sailors when James guessed his intentions. Sensing his disapproval, Bailey calmly stated, “I’m goin’ in after me buddy, Cap’n, even if I die tryin’,” and with his long, white hair and dungaree shirt blowing around him, sprang from the Isabelle like a mythical druid in self-sacrifice. Feet first, he splashed into the swirling waters. When he surfaced he began paddling like a dog towards the place where the men had gone under.
“Cap’n, sir – Old Beck – he canna swim.”
“Damn fool! I don’t need the loss of another man on my conscience.”
The moment James demanded Bailey be pulled in, Morgan reappeared, crying out, gasping for air, both of his hands clenching the lifeline. Emily clutched her chest in fervid relief while yelps of delight and applause erupted amongst the onlookers – if only for a brief time. It was soon apparent to them all that Morgan was alone. The waves continued to rise and fall, but Mr. Alexander was no longer there. The celebration ceased and all became eerily silent, save for the wind’s moans and the unceasing crash of the waves that knocked about the Isabelle.
Emily inched nearer to the circle of seamen toiling to retrieve both Bailey Beck and Morgan from the water. No words were spoken, only grunts of effort heard, and when the rescued men’s feet finally touched the Isabelle’s firm deck, Bailey grabbed his buddy and held him close. “Thanks to thee Lord for sparin’ ye.”
While Morgan rested his head on Bailey’s bony shoulder, Emily could see the anguish on the young man’s white face, and his slim body shuddering from head to toe. Even with pain and misery filling his eyes, he noticed her hooded figure amongst the sailors, coming towards him with the offering of grey blankets. With trembling hands, he took them from her, glancing at her feet, and in a strangled voice said, “Mr. George. Sir.” Emily placed a sympathetic hand on his shivering arm before he and Bailey Beck were whisked away to the hospital, Morgan twisting his head around for a last look at her.
Beside her, Leander cleared his throat. This time his eyes did not meet hers. “I must return below. It would be unwise for you to linger much longer. Stay with Mr. Walby – please.”
He left before Emily could reply. She watched him lean down to exchange a few words with the young midshipman, and then he disappeared down the main hatchway. Gus stretched his neck around to seek her out, and once he had spotted her in Dr. Braden’s oversized coat, sent a warm smile her way.
“Back to work. Back to work, men,” Fly Austen ordered as he stomped through the crowd of loafers still lining the rail, all of them staring forlornly into the brightening sea as if hoping that somehow Mr. Alexander would appear in the water within rescuing distance of the Isabelle. Fly waved his arms madly about to break them up, but there was no harshness in his voice.
Six sombre bells sounded around the suffering ship and from some unseen location a ghostly voice cried out, “Fifty fathoms! Grey mud.” Nearby a sailor repeated the words.
Emily sidled up to Gus, whose fair hair was dark with dampness, and whispered, “Mr. Walby, I heard Captain Moreland speaking of shoals near Cape Hatteras. Are we in danger?”
“Aye, it’s a worry. It’s not just any shoals, though, Em. It’s the Diamond Shoals. The sands in these parts are constantly shifting and extend more than ten miles from the Cape. I’ve only heard tell of them, but I do know plenty of ships have foundered here. There’re no natural landmarks on shore, except for the lighthouse, and its light is rarely burning. As well, there are strong currents here, and the currents, along with this northeast wind, are forcing the Isabelle towards those shoals.” Seeing a look of alarm cross her pretty face, he added, “Don’t worry, Em. You’re sailing with a good lot.”
Trying to oust the ruined rudder and the useless sails from her mind, Emily swallowed her fear and put on a brave face. “For so young a man, your nautical knowledge is impressive.”
“Ma’am!” Gus was so happy to hear praise, he did not dare tell her that Mr. Harding had only yesterday taught him all this. He hung his head backwards to inspect the sails that still cracked liked whips above him. “I think the winds have started to die down a bit. In fact – ” His voice rose an octave.“In fact, I’m sure of it.”
Hearing his words, James and Mr. Harding both gazed upwards. “You’re quite right,
Mr. Walby.” James stared out upon the lonely spot where Mr. Alexander had been swallowed by the sea. “But what a price we’ve paid for this bit of luck.” Sighing, he turned to Mr. Harding. “Should God spare us on this day and we’re lucky enough to avoid the shoals, drop the anchors the moment the lead comes up with sand and begin making those repairs. I’ll be in my cabin with Mr. Austen and the first of our prisoners.” James leaned closer to the sailing master and lowered his voice. “In the meantime, tell the officers on watch to keep a sharp lookout. The wind has cruelly tossed us into unknown waters. Let’s hope no one’s waiting for us.”
The captain’s ominous words caused Emily’s knees to grow weak. An image of a shadowy uniformed figure filled her thoughts, leaving her despairing as she began making her way back to the hospital. She held the hood of Leander’s coat close to her face as she jostled her way through the sailors hurrying back to their stations, unaware that Octavius Lindsay, who stood in conversation with three sailors in her path, had seen through her disguise; his penetrating eyes singled her out as she headed towards the ship’s stern and crawled along the starboard rail to the ladder down.
Thankful that the northeast winds had subsided and she could get her footing, Emily soon discovered she was following on the heels of Fly Austen, who was leading a shirt-clad prisoner from the Liberty towards Captain Moreland’s cabin. The prisoner was a giant of a man with impressive arm muscles and a dishevelled copper-coloured pigtail that hung down his stooped back.
“I will ask our cook to bring you a mug of hot coffee for your interview,” said Fly to the man, “although I daresay you’d prefer wine.”
“A can o’ grog wouldn’t go amiss, Mr. Austen, sir. It soothes all that ails a man,” replied the prisoner in a low gravelly voice as distinctive as the British colours that flew from the Isabelle’s stern and mainmast. Emily stopped suddenly in her tracks to stare after them. Her heart quickened and her mouth went dry.
She was acquainted with this prisoner.
7:30 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)
BISCUIT SET DOWN A TRAY laden with hot coffee, sea biscuits, and strawberry jam upon the Captain’s rectangular table. “I’ll have thee stove warmed up in no time, sir, now that thee wind’s abatin’. Will ya be wantin’ a proper breakfast?”
“Thank you, Biscuit. A bowl of oatmeal would be most welcome.” James shifted in his chair to look at the prisoner. “What about you, Mr. Brodie?”
“I’ll gladly accept whatever’s put in front o’ me,” he said, eyeing the biscuits hungrily.
“Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed Biscuit. “Yer a Scotsman!”
“That I be, frae bonny Scotland.”
“It’s obvious ya ain’t no Yankee.”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” said James with some humour.
“Maybe later, after they’re done interrogatin’ ya,” Biscuit went on merrily, “we can raid thee grog barrels together and speak of thee auld country.”
Mr. Brodie gave his countryman a toothless grin.
“Biscuit! See to your cooked breakfast.”
“Sir.” Biscuit bowed and reluctantly left the cabin.
Fly poured James and Mr. Brodie a mug of coffee, then one for himself. He downed it as quickly as a shot of whiskey. In the grey morning light that filtered in through his cabin’s windows, James could see that Fly’s face had aged overnight. The whites of his eyes were red, and his complexion was pale and puffy.
Leaning back in his chair with his mug of coffee, James stifled a yawn and tried to assume a more serious attitude. “Tell us, Mr. Brodie, where were you born?”
“In Girvan, Scotland, sir, in thee year of our Lord, 1789.”
“And how long have you been a seaman?”
“I joined thee Royal Navy when I was ten. Worked me way up to captain o’ thee maintop. Sailed on thee Victory with Lord Nelson himself. I was there when he was shot at Trafalgar in ’05.”
Fly could not help the wave of envy that swept over him. “You are lucky, Mr. Brodie. That is an honour of which few men can boast.”
“We all admired Lord Nelson, but …” He turned his copper-haired head to look at Captain Moreland. “I admired you more, sir.”
James straightened in his chair and set his mug down on the table. “You once sailed with me?”
“That I did. Before thee Victory, I was thee sail maker on thee Isabelle.”
James’s face twitched. “I thought my memory was still sound … I do not recall a man such as yourself.”
“I was still a young lad. Early ’04 it was. We was on blockade duty at Brest, off thee coast of France.”
Fly watched James’s face drain of its colour, much the way it had when Emily had first mentioned the name of Thomas Trevelyan.
“I believe it was your last voyage, sir, before ya – well, before ya retired,” continued Brodie. “Ya’ll remember … ya was commandin’ thee Isabelle at Brest along with King George’s son, thee Duke o’ Wessex. As I recall it, sir, Wessex scared thee lot o’ us.”
“I’ve heard tell that Wessex was a harsh disciplinarian and notorious for swearing like a tinker,” said Fly, glancing at James. “Am I right, sir?”
James picked up his mug and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. He gave a slight nod, but made no comment. Instead, he switched the subject. “Mr. Brodie, you were brought on board last night with forty-five other men. Do you know or recognize any of the others?”
“Not a one, sir. But I can tell ya they’ll all swear to bein’ Yankee. Hard to tell when I heard plenty o’ English tongues among ’em.”
“We’ll deal with them in our own way later,” said Fly, rubbing his face.
“How long then were you a crew member on the Liberty?” asked James.
“Two days, sir.”
“Why only two days?”
“Before that I was a prisoner on a Yankee frigate, thee Serendipity it was.”
Fly saw a slight quivering of James’s hands around his mug. When his captain said nothing in reply, he asked, “Under the command of Thomas Trevelyan?”
“Aye, Trevelyan was his name. I was lyin’ in his gaol, keepin’ company with rats whilst he did battle with yas a week back. Ya did enough damage he had to flee to Norfolk, Virginia, to make repairs, but me, I was sent straightaway to thee Liberty, ’cause their own Cap’n Butterfield had been ordered to go after ya, to give ya chase, even though ya was a bigger ship, possessin’ more guns.”
Fly and James exchanged glances.
“You said you were a prisoner on the Serendipity.” James’s voice was hoarse.
“Aye, sir.” Mr. Brodie looked again at the biscuits. Fly slid the plate under his nose and gestured for him to help himself. “Much obliged, Mr. Austen.”
“When and how were you taken Trevelyan’s prisoner?”
Mr. Brodie gobbled a biscuit before answering. “I was on an East India merchant vessel called thee Amelia, bound for Upper Canada.”
“Were you being escorted by a man-of-war?”
“Nay, thee Amelia was a large vessel with plenty o’ eighteen-pounder guns of her own.” He reached for a second biscuit and rapidly disposed of it. “We was carryin’ supplies of all kinds: farm equipment and seeds, wine, materials, linens, guns, gunpowder, you name it. As well, we had a number o’ families, mostly women and children, travellin’ to meet their military husbands posted at York, Kingston, and Quebec.”
“Go on.”
“We was nearin’ Halifax when we was attacked. About four in thee mornin’ it was. Trevelyan – he caught us by surprise – subjugated us with his guns and grapeshot, then lashed his ship to ours and boarded us. Straight off, his men killed a good number of our crew. But others, includin’ me, was tied up and hurled like sacks o’ taters onto thee main deck of thee Serendipity. We could hear t
hee women and children screamin’ and cryin’ below on thee Amelia. But we – we couldna do a thing.” Mr. Brodie lowered his head. “Lord, it was awful hearin’ those babies cry.”After a moment he raised his eyes to James and Fly. “Me and thee others was taken below to Trevelyan’s gaol, and later on it was, I overheard a couple o’ his men say they’d burned thee Amelia.”
James suddenly looked more alert. “How long ago was this, Mr. Brodie?”
“Can’t rightly say, sir, on account I was knocked about thee head badly. Maybe four weeks back.”
“Sir?” Fly looked at James questioningly.
“Mr. Austen, do you recall in Bermuda we were visited by a Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington from the Amethyst? You were not present at our meeting, but they told me that about four weeks back my old friend William Uptergrove had come upon the debris of a burned merchant vessel, sitting fifty miles southeast of Halifax.” He turned back to Mr. Brodie with a furrowed brow. “Can you offer any explanation as to why your ship was destroyed and not just taken a prize?”
“I canna, sir.”
“Didn’t you say you had plenty of guns?” Fly asked in an agitated manner. “Where were your gunners? How could Trevelyan have taken you by surprise?”
“I’m afraid I dunno, sir. I was off duty at thee time and, well, thee night before I’d had a wee bit too much grog and had been makin’ rather merry. I can tell ya this – our captain was as weak as a woman, sir. He had trouble keepin’ thee men in line.”
“You said that Trevelyan took others from the Amelia besides yourself … How many?” asked James, his fingers clasped beneath his nose. Fly, cognizant of what James was getting at, looked eagerly at Mr. Brodie.
“Don’t rightly know, sir. There was twenty men in thee gaol. Maybe there was others.” Mr. Brodie quickly swallowed his third biscuit. “But this much I can tell ya. Trevelyan took a woman from thee Amelia before he burned her.”
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