Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  Nearby, the sailors who nervously awaited their next round of orders – Mr. McGilp gripping the Isabelle’s wheel, the marines with their muskets ready and aimed, the gun crews and powder monkeys clustered around the great guns on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle, poop, and quarterdeck – never expected to see Mr. Austen, in one sudden movement, toss up his spyglass and throw back his head to howl with laughter.

  “Captain Moreland, sir,” he called out, addressing all those sweating, eager faces that looked his way, “I invite you to take another look through your glass.”

  * * *

  EMILY CAST OFF THE GARMENTS Magpie had laboured to make for her and wiggled into her clean, less formal checked shirt and trousers, determined she would not cower in her corner waiting for the cannons to shake the ship’s sides and the agonizing cries of the mutilated men to echo in her ears. When Gus and Magpie had left her to resume their nautical duties, she had attempted to calm herself by re-reading passages of Jane Austen’s novel, but it was no use. The words in Leander’s letter haunted her thoughts and only served to stir up envious emotions for the talented author of Sense and Sensibility.

  Leaving the security of her corner, she entered the hospital room with trepidation, worried lest there be further talk on the subject of Leander’s stolen letter. When the drums had beat to quarters, she had heard great commotion beyond her curtain, but she had not dreamed that every last man had heeded the call, from the marine sentry and Mr. Crump to Osmund Brockley and the loblolly boys. Leander’s desk had been transformed into an operating table, with the familiar bloodstained sheet and neat line of surgical tools spread out upon it, and Leander himself was sitting hunched over in the desk chair, scratching notes into his medical journal with a quill pen. Uneasily, Emily stood before him like a child before a stern teacher. “Please, Doctor, I am in need of an occupation.”

  He pressed his lips together and regarded her over his round spectacles, and without saying a word, lifted up a bucket of bandages by his feet and handed it to her. Emily knew he meant for her to roll them in preparation for their next round of patients. She searched about for the nearest stool, sat down with her bucket, and set about to work, relieved to be doing something useful and delighting in the pleasant musky smell of Leander’s closeness. From her seat, she furtively watched his fingers fly over the pages of his journal and his slim shoulders stir in his clean muslin shirt and striped waistcoat as he exercised stiffening muscles, hoping that eventually he would set his eyes upon her.

  “I gather my interview with Captain Moreland has been postponed.”

  He paused in his writing, but did not look up. “It has.”

  “Yes, yes, of course,” she said, hating herself for stating the obvious.

  As the silence between them continued, Emily grew more and more jittery, and the pandemonium over their heads seemed at once remote and unreal. At last, Leander lay down his pen. “I thought perhaps you might find respite in reading Jane’s book.”

  She eagerly smiled up at him. “It is not the same without the company of Gus Walby.”

  “I see,” he said absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

  “Besides, I cannot help feeling jealous of Jane Austen.”

  “Why is that?”

  Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Because her … her book is so finely crafted, her writing so true. Her accomplishments are an inspiration to all women.” Leander nodded thoughtfully before returning to his journal. “And because,” she added quickly, “she so obviously holds your affections.”

  The flash of his eyes on her made her shaky and her words tumbled out of her mouth. “Doctor, please, you must believe me. I did not steal your letter. I found it on the floor of the hospital a week back. Osmund Brockley had already stepped on it with his clumsiness and spilled all forms of liquid upon it. It would have been lost altogether had I not picked it up before setting off for the sail room to fetch Magpie’s blanket and placed it in my pocket, and when … when I was forced to return to my cot it remained in my pocket, safe, but altogether forgotten. I swear to you … I did not read it.”

  Leander shut his journal and leaned back against the wooden spindles of his chair, assuming the aspect of a judge about to exact a punishment. Before long, an expression of amusement brightened his face. “If I were to believe you, Emily, can you tell me truthfully that you wouldn’t – at some point – have been tempted to read it?”

  She laughed nervously. “Honestly? I cannot tell.”

  All the clamour and confusion that had crashed above their heads for so long ceased abruptly, as if the peacefulness of the hospital had permeated the entire ship. Together Leander and Emily raised their eyes to the wooden ceiling and strained their ears to catch a sailor’s footfall or vociferous bellow.

  Emily fidgeted with the bandages in her lap, certain that Leander could hear her heart beating. “Why is there no sound?”

  “There is often an eerie calm before battle.” He set his eyes once again upon Emily, a sober glint having replaced his one of earlier enjoyment. “You asked Mrs. Kettle to return to you something that was yours. If it was not my letter to which you referred, may I ask what it was?”

  Emily was slow to answer, for her mind was muddled. It was tortuous trying to ignore the fact that a Yankee frigate was swiftly bearing down on them, and yet she keenly felt Leander’s humiliation at having Meg Kettle scornfully read aloud his letter to Jane. She needed to make amends.

  Somehow.

  “Mrs. Kettle found two things in the pockets of my trousers early this morning. The first was your letter, the second was a portrait … a miniature … of me.”

  “Of you?” Leander leaned forward in his chair. “Did you carry it concealed from us when you first came on board?”

  “No! No … the amazing thing is, I found it in Magpie’s sea chest, wrapped in his blanket.” She watched his face closely. “You see, Doctor, our little sail maker has discovered who I am.”

  His eyes searched out hers. “And who might that be, Emily?”

  With trembling hands, she set aside the bandages and stood up to pace the hospital floor, too worried to meet his stare. “You have most likely heard that prior to Magpie taking to the sea, he was a climbing boy in London, cleaning chimneys in the employ of a Mr. Hardy.”

  “I have heard something to that effect.”

  “Three years ago, Magpie was working in the home of my Uncle Clar … my Uncle William when he chanced to suffer a bad fall. My uncle showed Magpie much kindness, first by throwing his angry, unsympathetic employer out the door, secondly by giving him a large supper – more food than Magpie had ever eaten – and finally by offering him an opportunity to work on a ship. My uncle and his wife invited him to stay with them until a suitable posting was found, and when it came time for him to leave for the sea, they gave him three gifts: a sea chest, a blanket, and a miniature of me that the dear boy claimed he had greatly admired.” Emily paused to peer at Leander, only to find that he had not moved, that his gaze still rested on her. “That first evening I came on board the Isabelle, Magpie was convinced I was the same woman in his little picture … why, I was wearing the very same blue velvet spencer! But he told no one of his suspicions, and only this morning, when we met together in the galley, did I learn of it myself. Magpie has since discovered that Mrs. Kettle does indeed have my miniature. He saw her showing it to – of all people – Octavius Lindsay.”

  Leander stretched his arms across his surgery-ready table. “But as she has stolen it from you, we shall simply demand she give it back.”

  Emily turned to look at him, her dark brown eyes glistening in the half-light. “And by nightfall, every man on the Isabelle will know who I am. You see, Doctor, on the back of the miniature, in addition to my full name, there is written my father’s name and … his title.”

  Leander’s eyes widened and his lip
s parted, but he said nothing, only waited.

  “I told Captain Moreland when I first came on board the Isabelle that my mother died when I was young. She was legally married to my father, but my father’s parents did not approve of the match. During my childhood, my father was often absent for long periods of time, but I was well taken care of by various members of his family. Above all else, I adored my Uncle William and his children, and when my father died in 1810, I begged and pleaded to be permanently installed in my uncle’s home. Sadly, not long afterward, their home was broken up, my uncle and aunt separated, and Aunt Dora was forced to move into a much smaller home.

  “My grandmother was adamant that I live with her in London, and certainly she had enough spare bedrooms to accommodate me, but I could not warm to the woman who had made my own mother’s short life so difficult. Besides, I could not tolerate the thought of vegetating in that household, of being shut up in the company of my grandmother, who was growing increasingly disagreeable, and my poor unmarried aunts, living out my days and evenings cutting out silhouettes, and painting china, and making lace, and doing needlework, having to rely upon visitors to tell me something of the vast world beyond my front door. I was seventeen, almost eighteen, and, as far as I was concerned, free to make my way in the world. To appease my grandmother, I told her I would happily come live with her if she would first grant me permission to have an extended visit with my mother’s relations in Dorset. Her answer was a long time in coming, and goodness knows, she made me suffer, but she finally agreed to my wishes.

  “My maternal relations were exceedingly amiable, and my days with them were full of fun and adventure. We explored the countryside by horseback and on foot; we went seabathing in Weymouth Bay; took trips to Lyme Regis and Exeter; and climbed the ancient stones on Salisbury Plain. Why, I even glimpsed the Cerne Giant on his green hill.” Emily smiled in remembrance and was pleased to see Leander’s focused eyes flutter. “Not once, Doctor, did I pick up a needle, or play on a pianoforte, or sit at a whist table. All the while, the thought of returning to London filled me with dread. How could I ever live happily, caged in cold walls of stone, when I had tasted such delights, known such diversions? Determined to prolong my adventure as long as possible, I listened to my cousin’s plans to journey to Upper Canada to visit a distant relation who had made his home there some years before, and as I was drawn to the idea of an ocean-crossing, I began scheming to go …”

  Leander, whose right hand had covered his mouth as he listened, spread his fingers to interrupt her. “Emily, in all this, you have brilliantly avoided my question.”

  “Your question?” she asked innocently.

  He angled his head, feigning impatience with her, but when she still didn’t answer him he grew solemn and looked troubled. “Who are you … really?”

  Emily stared at the bucket of bandages on her recently vacated stool and summoned the courage to reply. She met his watchful gaze. “I have already told you that my father’s name was Henry. At one point in his career, he actually was a farmer. His last name, however, was not George. You see, Doctor, as my grandfather’s name is Geo …”

  But Leander did not hear her subsequent words, for they were wrenched away, lost in a shocking hullabaloo of mirthful voices, pounding drums, and thumping noises that flooded the Isabelle like a tidal wave, causing the hanging lanterns to swing wildly on their hooks and the ship’s oaken timbers to shiver. No sooner had Leander leapt to his feet and Emily blinked at him in wonder when a succession of men blew into the hospital as if propelled by a gust of wind: Mr. Crump and another landsman (who had given the one-legged man assistance with the ladder), both full of chatter and a desire to tell the doctor what had just transpired; Emily’s marine sentry returning to his babysitting duties; a poor young sailor who had crushed his hand while his crew readied their gun for battle; and finally, a freckle-faced midshipman with a message for Dr. Braden: “Captain Moreland requests your presence for dinner in his cabin at the start of the First Watch, sir, and sends his apologies for the late hour, but says it will take Biscuit some time to fire up his stove in order to cook a proper meal.” Finally it all made sense when Gus Walby clambered down the ladder, calling out, “Dr. Braden! Dr. Braden, sir! You’ll never believe it! The Yankee ship … why, she’s not Yankee at all. She’s one of ours. She’s the Amethyst!”

  Emily clutched at her chest and allowed a few tears of relief to fall, but as she looked from Gus back to Leander, she found the doctor’s attention fully engaged with the sailor and his crushed hand, and her heart sank to the floor. Their private moment had passed.

  5:00 p.m.

  (First Dog Watch, Two Bells)

  MEG KETTLE GRUNTED AND CURSED her way down the ladder that led to the murky orlop deck, trying to lift her long skirt and find the ladder’s slippery rungs while balancing a lantern and bowl of stew. The Isabelle’s criminal, having been moved below when the gun deck was cleared for action, sat dejectedly in his new irons and raised his head as the blackness around him began to recede. Mrs. Kettle held the bowl high above him and took pleasure in watching him grab for it. “Ya looks like a mangy cur beggin’ fer a scrap o’ meat.”

  Octavius’s sunken black eyes shone in the lantern-light. “I’m hungry.”

  With a cluck of disgust, she handed him the stew. “And here ya used ta be so high and mighty, lookin’ down yer spotted nose at thee lot o’ us.”

  He wolfed down half his portion of meat and onions before answering in his familiar pompous voice. “Naturally, Mrs. Kettle, for you are a harlot and reside in the lowest order of humankind.”

  Her response was swift. She kicked the bowl from his hands, the chunks of stew flying across the damp floor planks like spinning bits of grapeshot. Octavius howled with anger and attempted to seize hold of her coarse linen skirt.

  “Ha, ha,” she cried gleefully, dodging his fingers, but soon finding herself breathless, she sought out the comfort of a nearby crate.

  Octavius folded his arms across his chest to quell his irritation. He waited for his own breathing to be restored before speaking. “The ship sighting …” He dared to hope. “ Is she American?”

  Mrs. Kettle shook her scowling face in the shadows. “We would ’ave bin shootin’ at her by now, wouldn’t we ’ave?”

  Octavius gazed upon his bound feet for several moments to hide his disappointment. “Are you still in possession of that miniature?”

  “Aye!” She leaned forward eagerly. “What of it?”

  He threw her a lingering look of contempt and his intended words died on his lips. It sickened him to have to grovel.

  “Ah, be done with ya,” grunted Mrs. Kettle, heaving her bottom off the crate and mounting the ladder with her light. Halfway up, Octavius called out to her.

  “Mrs. Kettle!”

  She paused and lowered her lantern.

  “If … if there should be a Yankee ship on the horizon, would you keep me informed?”

  She considered his request for an eternity.

  “Please?”

  “And what’s in it fer me, Lord Lindsay?”

  He tightened his fists and gulped. “A handful of silver.”

  Cackling with satisfaction, Mrs. Kettle continued on her way. As darkness settled around him, Octavius flung his unfettered upper body down upon the floor and felt around for his scattered supper, hoping to find it before the rats did.

  9:00 p.m.

  (First Watch, Two Bells)

  A RUMBLE OF LAUGHTER rattled the galleried windows of the great cabin and caused the crystal wine goblets and silver cutlery to jump upon the oak table around which sat James Moreland, Fly Austen, Mr. Harding, Leander Braden, and their honoured guests from the Amethyst, Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington. Sandwiched between Fly and Mr. Harding was an exalted Gus Walby. He sat with his back erect, marvelling at every word uttered by
the important men around him. The atmosphere in the room was exceedingly jovial, and no one seemed to notice that the supper hour was much later than expected. Indeed, the feast before them was one well worth waiting for. Biscuit had insisted upon cooking a joint of beef in addition to the accompaniments of cold ham, roast potatoes, pickled salmon, devilled eggs, sea biscuits, and several boiled lobsters – the latter having been brought on board by Captain Prickett when the two ships finally came alongside one another and were lashed together, making possible a visit between officers and ordinary seamen alike. No amount of badgering on the part of the uneasy officers left in charge had prevailed upon Biscuit to expedite his feast.

  “Through my spyglass, I could see your gunports closing up one by one. It was obvious you weren’t going to fight us,” said Fly to his Amethyst friends. “And then, to my astonishment, I saw the Yankee ensign lowered and the British colours raised in their stead.”

  Mr. Harding wore a wide grin upon his florid face. “My fine Mr. Prickett, what tremendous relief we all felt to see a friend.”

  “We all knew our chances for victory were slim, as we have hardly recovered from our battle with the Americans a week back,” James said, pushing the meat around his plate. Seated next to him, Leander could tell from James’s pasty complexion and beaded forehead that he was still feverish.

  “Here we inadvertently played a nasty trick on you and still you reward us with a fine supper!” Captain Prickett laughed, his three chins and protruding stomach jiggling as he helped himself to another juicy slab of beef.

  “Aye!” said Fly. “It was a battle in itself trying to convince our cantankerous cook to fire up his stove after he’d been ordered, not long before, to douse its flames as we prepared to engage, but a fine supper indeed.” He raised his wine glass to Biscuit, who stood behind Captain Moreland’s chair, thrilled to be centred out in such distinguished company.