Come Looking For Me

by CHERYL COOPER

  “Quit your bellyaching, you dumb ox, you’re giving me a headache.”

  “I’ll be havin’ no pity fer ya. Yer head’s achin’ on account of all yer dancin’ on the barrels and doin’ cartwheels around the deck and drinkin’ a month’s worth o’ the grog last night.”

  “And I have no pity for your old scrawny knees, so shut up and keep your head down. Here comes the officer of the watch, that little squib, Walby.”

  Emily couldn’t help grinning at their banter and the sight of Gus Walby, who strutted before the labouring men, his young chest puffed and proud in his midshipman’s uniform. But soon her grin faded. In another half hour, the sleeping crew would be called from their beds, and Osmund would barge into her hospital corner with sea biscuits and jam only to discover she wasn’t in her cot. Her brief moment of freedom would, as usual, soon end. Emily hugged the solid topmast, took several breaths of the fresh salty air, and tried to take pleasure in the rising sun. Through the puckered sails of the mainmast, she caught sight of Captain Moreland standing alone beside the starboard rail, his spyglass trained on the expanse of sea that lay to the north of the Isabelle. He cut a lonely figure in the morning light, wraithlike with his cream-coloured breeches and shirt and yellow-white hair. Devoid of his uniform and the great height of his captain’s hat, he appeared shrunken, less formidable, and apprehensive. Feeling sadder still, Emily stood up, stretched, and gazed several feet up to the mizzen crosstrees, determined to reach them before returning to the hospital.

  Careful with her footing, as the platform wood was slippery with dew, Emily grabbed onto the mizzen’s topmast shrouds and began her ascent, thankful that she’d dispensed with her silk shoes, relishing the sensation of falling backwards as she climbed higher and higher. She ignored the throbbing pains that still plagued her shoulder and ankle, and instead filled her head with inspiring remembrances of her youthful days when she’d managed to clamber up the shrouds on her father’s ships when his attentions and those of his officers were engaged elsewhere.

  Upon reaching the crosstrees, over a hundred feet from the deck below, she spread herself onto their latticed shelf to catch her breath. She then drew herself up into a ball, peeled off Leander’s felt hat, and turned her face into the wind to feel its caress on her warm cheeks and through her hair, hoping its sough would whisk away the noise of the clamouring sailors below. She watched the departing Amethyst ply the glowing waters and tried to lift her spirits by recalling the lively scenes of the night before as the crew of the two lashed ships had celebrated together on the Isabelle’s deck. With envy, she had watched the drunken dances, amusing games, Magpie’s flute-playing, and rousing singsongs from her platform perch, and had fervently wished she’d been among them, swilling her own small mug of grog in an effort to slow her heart’s nervous shudder and rid her mind of melancholy thoughts.

  Tearing her eyes from the Amethyst, her quick glance swept the upper deck again, stopping on Leander, who stood curiously amongst the swabbing crews, wearing the same dishevelled clothes he’d had on the previous evening, shading his eyes with his hands as he leaned back his auburn head to look upon the mainmast. As it was the bosun’s responsibility to inspect the ship’s sails and rigging, Emily pondered what possible interest the doctor would have in any one of the Isabelle’s towering masts. Curious, she followed his movements along the quarterdeck to the ship’s wheel where, with a nod, he greeted Mr. McGilp and Mr. Harding, then up the short ladder to the poop deck where he walked to its aft bench and angled his head upwards a second time to search the length of the mizzenmast. Emily felt a tingle dance down her spine, wondering if he’d seen her curled upon the crosstrees like a proud eagle minding its lofty nest. She shifted away from his gaze to hide her long, blowing hair beneath the abandoned felt hat.

  With a small smile playing upon her lips, she waited for him to call out to her, and as she did so, her dark eyes fell upon the blue world that lay forever beyond the Isabelle’s wake. She squinted into the shimmering vastness until a shape suddenly appeared on the horizon. With a jerking motion, she sat upright, her fingers tightening around the rough edges of her latticed platform, and endured the sick feeling that resulted in the explosive quickening of her heart. In the far distance, emerging from the morning mists, were the distinctive white sails of three ships.

  7:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Six Bells)

  THE QUARTERMASTER turned over the sandglass and rang the bell six times, and as the echo of the last toll drifted away, the bosun’s mate in his deep, penetrating voice called out, “All hands ahoy. Up all hammocks ahoy.”

  Alongside the aft rail of the poop deck beneath the blowing British colours, James stood in the company of Fly, who’d been quietly summoned from his bed the moment his captain had spotted the three ships.

  “They’re still far off, sir,” said Fly, unhappy with the worry lines on James’s face. “It’ll be hours before they catch up to us, if ever they do. Shouldn’t we feed the men before we beat to quarters?”

  James glanced about him distractedly to find the seamen who’d been cleaning the quarterdeck now standing and craning their necks over the ship’s sides to catch a glimpse of whatever it was the captain and Mr. Austen were looking at through their spyglasses. Finally he said, “Aye, you’re right. Feed them first.” He raised his spyglass for yet another look. “The one in the middle is definitely larger than the others and not sailing as quickly. Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a frigate escorting two merchantmen. But there is something worrying in their aspect. It’s my guess we are being chased.”

  “Should they prove to be the enemy, sir, we can sail towards Norfolk where, as Captain Prickett informed us, our fleet is blockading the Chesapeake. We will find friends there.”

  “But the winds, Fly, they are soft, and the tides, they’re with us now, but should we change direction and go northwest rather than northeast … ?” James straightened himself up, snapped shut his spyglass, and pursed his lips. “Right then! We can … we can at least try to harness more wind.” He strode across the poop deck to its fore rail. “Mr. Harding, if you please,” he called out in a voice that sounded stronger than Fly thought him capable of. The sailing master was waiting expectantly for his orders beside Lewis McGilp at the wheel on the quarterdeck below.

  “Sir?”

  “Have the bosun put out the word for the captains of the tops and their crews. Muster the skilled men you can and have them unfurl every last sail we’ve got.” With a brief nod, Mr. Harding hobbled off on his task. James then spun around to address Mr. Tucker, who had just thrown the log line out over the Isabelle’s stern and was now timing her speed with the aid of a small sandglass. “What is our speed, Mr. Tucker?”

  “Three knots, sir.”

  “Slow as molasses. We’ll soon bring that number up.” James watched as men from the swabbing crews familiar with the workings of the sails began their ascent up the rigging to unfurl the reefed topgallants and royals, and he saw Mr. Harding disappear down the main hatchway to search out the bosun and more men to go aloft. Satisfied, he then waved at the officer of the Morning Watch, Gus Walby, who had been leaning over the larboard rail, scanning the distance behind the Isabelle, and was now standing tall on the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, bright eyes firmly focused on the ship’s two senior officers.

  “A moment of your time, Mr. Walby.”

  Gus dashed up the short ladder to the poop deck. “Sir?”

  “You have the best eyes of anyone on this ship,” said James, smiling. “Take my glass and tell me what you see.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gus took the spyglass and lifted it to his eye. After a moment of soft grunting and speculation, he said, “Two frigates, sir, and one smaller ship … I believe … I believe it’s a brig.”

  An astonished James stared at the boy with fatherly affection as he was handed his glass back. To Fly, he s
aid, “Your student, Mr. Austen, does you proud.”

  Fly looked down upon the fair-haired midshipman and gave him a wink.

  “And its colours, Mr. Walby. Are they discernible?” asked James.

  “I cannot see anything flying from the tops, sir, and their stern flags are obscured by their sails.”

  James laid a blue-veined hand on Gus’s small shoulder before crossing to the starboard rail, where he paused to gaze after the diminishing Amethyst. Fly and Gus followed him and watched as his eyes fell upon the flag locker beneath the taffrail.

  “Mr. Walby,” he said thoughtfully, “as we are not a flag ship, I have no flag-lieutenant. I wonder then if I could trouble you to run up the mizzenmast and signal to our friends on the Amethyst that we need help.”

  Gus’s cheeks reddened as he struggled to contain his excitement.

  “And perhaps,” James added, “you could ask Mr. Stewart – if his arm is no bother to him – to assist you in hoisting the flags.”

  “Right away!”

  The boy was halfway to the ladder down when James stopped him.

  “Mr. Walby?”

  “Sir?”

  “Remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”

  “Yes, sir!” Grinning, Gus raised his fist in salute before setting off like a full-sailed ship in a storm to fetch Midshipman Stewart.

  Heartened by James’s burst of energy and seeming return to his old self, Fly smiled at him. “Are you feeling better, sir?”

  The good humour James had manifested in the presence of Gus Walby vanished as he studied the progress of the approaching ships. “Not at all.” He fell into a trance-like state for several seconds before adding, “Feed the men, Fly, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action.”

  “Will you get some sleep then, sir?”

  “No. But I’ll be in my cabin … composing a letter to my wife.”

  8:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

  IN WHAT LEANDER PERCEIVED as the most unappetizing corner on the orlop deck, Meg Kettle lay in her cot, moaning and clawing at her blankets, her puffy eyes closed, spittle lodged in the creases of her mouth and running down her moist face. He hung up the lantern he’d brought with him and set down his medicine chest on a small shelf by her bed whereupon she had displayed her prized possessions. It was difficult for Leander not to compare her to a rabid dog, nor to gag at having to breathe in the fetid air that emanated from the laundress’s unwashed body. Opening his chest to begin preparing a stomach-settling tonic – as he supposed in advance of his examination that this would ease all that ailed her – Leander studied the jumble of tarnished buckles, watches, hairbrushes, bags of tea, jars of pickles, bits of cheap jewellery, embroidered handkerchiefs, shillings, china cups, candle stubs, and silver spoons, the majority of which, he suspected, were gifts from the sailors for her services, stolen from the captain’s table and the Isabelle’s storerooms. He hoped to spot amongst them Emily’s miniature.

  “Oooo, ’twas good o’ ya to come see poor Meggie, Doctor,” she said in a weak, crackling voice as if she were on her deathbed. “I always hoped ya’d one day come to me bed. When I sees ya swimmin’ with thee men, I always admires yer handsome buttocks, and I think to meself I should be invitin’ ya down here fer a wee bit o’ kicky-wicky.”

  “Mrs. Kettle,” said Leander crisply, his back to her, “it is my understanding that you had a poor night and have been sick to your stomach.”

  “I ’ave, Doctor. Me head’s a poundin’ and me insides, they’re a churnin’. Ooo, here it comes agin. Grab me bowl there quick.”

  Leander fetched the wooden bowl at the foot of her cot and held it to her mouth to catch the gush of yellow liquid that was laced with the distinct odour of rum.

  “Perhaps too much drink last night?” he asked, taking away the offending bowl and offering her a dampened cloth.

  “Why, I drinks too much ev’ry night, Doctor. Nay, this be a different feelin.’ ’Aven’t kept me vittles down fer a week now.”

  For a moment Leander studied his moaning patient, then moved in closer to check for fever and take her pulse, and while he held her plump wrist in his hand, he furtively searched her bed and blankets for any lumps that might indicate hidden objects. Seeing nothing suspicious there, he looked around her little corner, his eyes settling on the bulging duffle bag hung upon an iron hook in the shadows.

  Mrs. Kettle stopped her groans long enough to give him a queer look. “I ain’t an idiot, Doctor. I knows what yer about.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kettle?”

  “Yer lookin’ about fer that miniature, ain’t ya?”

  “I am counting the beats of your heart.”

  “Then why ain’t ya lookin’ at me?”

  Leander, who found it easier to look upon bleeding corpses, could not think of a reply.

  “Quit pretendin’. Ya can’t fool thee likes of Meggie Kettle.” She groped beneath her blankets, dug in and around her bosom, and pulled out the little painting. “Go on! Take a good long stare at it. It’s that woman what lies in yer cot, all right.”

  “I have no interest in it,” he said solemnly, tearing his eyes away, “although I have been informed it wasn’t given freely to you; that it was stolen. You haven’t forgotten that stealing is a punishable offence on this ship?”

  “That don’t bother me none ’cause when they comes round lookin’ fer it, they won’t finds it. And they can’t very well punish me, can they, Doctor, if they can’t finds it?”

  Biting his lip, Leander finished taking her pulse, gently lowered her wrist, and twisted round to reach for the cup of prepared tonic. Turning back, he met the miniature head on, Mrs. Kettle having thrust it up temptingly before him. His heart sank as he recognized Emily’s dear, smiling face – there couldn’t be a truer likeness of her anywhere – her pale gold hair, and the blue velvet jacket she wore (surely the same one she had on when Gus Walby first spotted her adrift in the sea). Seeing his flicker of discomfort, Mrs. Kettle clapped her hands together. “It ain’t no secret amongst thee men how ya feels about ’er. Osmund Brockley tells me ya won’t let no one near ’er ’cept Magpie and Gus Walby; that yer besotted with thee wench.”

  “‘Wench’ is a word I might use to describe you, Mrs. Kettle, not her,” he said in monotone. “Now, if you’d kindly give me the miniature, I will see that it is returned to its rightful owner and say nothing of its having been stolen to Captain Moreland.”

  Mrs. Kettle shook her head at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, and shoved the precious stolen object back into her shirt.

  Leander gazed at her intently, unshaken by her defiance, and held out the cup of tonic. “Drink this. It should ease the vomiting.”

  Still eyeing him, Mrs. Kettle took the cup from him, drained its contents, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and finally glowered up at him. “Even if she did fancy ya, she’d never be allowed to marry yer kind, bein’ a king’s granddaughter and all … and you, nothin’ more than a naval surgeon. She’s outta yer class.” She lay back on her flat pillow, looking pleased with herself. “Nay, thee only way ya can ’ave ’er is by … is by tacklin’ ’er in thee sail room like young Octavius Lindsay done. Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha.”

  Tears of mirth poured from her eyes, mixing with the white spittle on her lips, and as Leander watched her guffaw like a drunken sailor, he was struck with an overwhelming desire to dump her from her grubby cot onto the damp floor – where a host of vermin was sure to find her – grab Emily’s miniature, and race off with it. Instead, he stuffed his trembling hands into his apron pockets, took a deep breath, and forced a smile.

  “Rest if you can, Mrs. Kettle, and I’ll be back later to examine you more closely, if I may.”

  She dabbed at her eyes with a bit of her blanket and blinked up at him.
“What? To rifle through me bosom?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “What fer, then?” Suddenly she looked more anxious. “Ya didn’t poison me, did ya?”

  “No! But I suspect you may be with child.”

  10:00 a.m.

  (Forenoon Watch, Four Bells)

  THE MOMENT THE MEN were done eating, James ordered them to clear the decks and get to their action stations “in the event those three ships prove to be our enemies.” With the Isabelle abuzz and reverberating with activity, Gus Walby sat precariously upon the mizzen top crosstrees, tightly gripping the captain’s telescope in one hand and a length of secured rope in the other, looking across at the main and foremasts and down upon the decks to watch the sailors, landsmen, officers, and marines alike preparing for battle: placing scuttlebutts of drinking water at intervals, puddening the yards (to prevent them – should their supporting ropes be severed – from falling upon the men), wetting and sanding the decks (to avoid slippage on the inevitable rivers of blood), putting up the splinter nets for protection against flying bits of oak, piling grape and shot beside each of the guns, cleaning pistols, and stacking poleaxes and pikes. Gus could see the captain of the marines giving his men their orders, Captain Moreland and Mr. Austen plotting their strategies on the poop deck, and Mr. Harding alongside Mr. McGilp at the wheel devising navigational manoeuvres to suit the prevailing wind conditions; and as the men all went about their tasks, the fresh morning air circulating round the ship rang with their laughter, chatter, songs, orders, and oaths.

  “What is our speed now, Mr. Tucker, if you please?”

  “Five knots, sir.”

  “It better be them Yanks this time. I’m out fer a bit o’ blood today.”

  “Looks like it’ll be three against one.”

  “Then ya better ’ave writ yer will.”

  “What fer? I ain’t got nothin’ ta will ta nobody.”

  “Might as well fight ’em ’cause we can’t carouse with ’em. Drained our barrels of grog last night.”