Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  “I am doing that very thing now.”

  “No, tell me, when?”

  “Between battles and lopping off arms and legs, there’s been little time for that kind of leisure.”

  Fly craned his neck up into Leander’s face. “Mind you, the audacious Dr. Willen of the Canopus did not have a woman lying in one of his hospital hammocks, wearing his nightshirt, and depending on him for rehabilitation and amusements. If he had, he might have found reason to spend longer hours there.”

  As Leander was at a loss for words, Fly’s voice softened. “I see it in your eyes, friend. I hear it in your words, and detect it in your actions and occupations. You are besotted with our gentlewoman.”

  Under the controlling powers of grog, Leander could not hide the sheepish grin that took hold of his mouth. “I fear she has awakened emotions in me I never thought I would feel again.”

  Fly’s features fell. “Ahhh! So there is no hope left for my sister Jane? You would have her remain a spinster in Chawton cottage and leave her with no other company than my other sister, Cassandra, and my poor old mother?”

  “Must I humble myself to remind you, Fly, that I am no worthy suitor for any woman?”

  “Pshaw! Hogwash!”

  “I’m a lowly physician floating in the Atlantic on a wounded ship.”

  “It’s well known you’re a common butcher, but a good one at that.”

  Leander paid no attention to Fly’s remark and went on sullenly. “I have very little money to my name, and my permanent address is a dark corner on the Isabelle’s orlop deck.”

  “Does your desperation spring from the fact that in your heart you know it’s me Emily desires and not you?”

  Leander pulled a face and gave Fly an emphatic, “No.”

  “And why not? She doesn’t know I’m happily married to my Mary, and have a daughter and three sons waiting for me on the Isle of Wight.”

  “No, perhaps not, but if your marital status was otherwise, Emily would surely consider Mrs. Kettle the better companion for you.”

  “Ha, ha. You can be very humorous when you are half-seas over, old fellow.”

  “Old fellow? The last time we checked you were older than me by a good five years, Mr. Austen.”

  “Maybe so, but one would never know it the way you’re conducting yourself, as mournful and out of sorts as if you already stand knee-high in the grave.”

  Leander stared into his empty mug. “I – I know so little of her. She has dropped tantalizing hints here and there, but despite this, I find myself no closer to knowing whether she is actually a wealthy man’s daughter, destined to marry one of King George’s silly, aging sons, or a beautiful, intelligent dairy maiden who chooses to remain secretive so she would have us all believing she is well-born.”

  Leander’s words jolted Fly into recollection, as if someone had just struck a match to a candle in his brain. He frowned, trying to remember something Bun Brodie had said in his interview in James’s cabin, three long days ago, after the battle with the Liberty – something about a woman named Mrs. Seaton who had been travelling with him on board the Amelia, bound for Upper Canada in the company of a serving woman and the arrogant Mr. Seaton, and who had suffered the misfortune of falling into the hands of Thomas Trevelyan. Was it possible – ? Could she be – ? Fly considered sharing this information with his friend, but upon studying his distraught countenance, decided against it. It could wait. He smiled and tried to be jovial.

  “Would it matter to you where she came from? Shakespeare’s Juliet discovered her Romeo was from an opposing house, the son of her father’s sworn enemy. It made no difference to her.”

  Leander regarded his friend sadly. “I should like it if my life were to turn out somewhat differently than Shakespeare’s young lovers.”

  “It’s been too many years since you loved and were loved. Why, you’ve forgotten all joy in life. Come, now, you have much to offer.” Fly gave him a good looking-over. “You’re young, strong enough – perhaps a bit too thin – occasionally funny, and despite your aged mannerisms and bookishness, you have been labelled as being ‘well formed.’”

  “Well formed? By whom?”

  “None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”

  Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here’s to Mrs. Kettle.”

  “Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”

  “You are truly filthy minded.”

  “Aye. That I am.”

  Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”

  “Mr. Walby?”

  “No lights burning down below, sir.”

  “Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don’t want any enemy frigates learning our position.”

  “Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.

  “And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck’s been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”

  “I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”

  Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.

  “Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.

  Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the Isabelle’s waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook’s assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”

  “Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.

  Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”

  Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.

  8

  Monday, June 14

  7:00 a.m.

  (Morning Watch, Six Bells)

  THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”

  Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.

  “Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”

  “Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”

  Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed some abilities in the hospital.

  “We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.

  Emily’
s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”

  “Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the Isabelle.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.

  “My clothes! They’re gone.”

  “Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”

  “Why, I didn’t even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week’s washing.”

  “Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the Liberty,” Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.

  Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.

  “I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden’s nightshirt on.”

  Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it’s a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn’t do fer ya to catch a cold.”

  “My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”

  Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I’d find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily’s cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.

  “And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.

  “With the captain.”

  “Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”

  “The doctor’s not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All’s I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we’ll be attacked again whilst the captain’s ailing. Mr. Austen’s ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the Isabelle sitting idle in these fogs.”

  Emily began pulling her blue jacket on over Leander’s nightshirt and tried to ignore the anxious feeling that sent her heart beating out of control and twisted her stomach into reef knots. “Will we be able to sail again soon?”

  “I hear there’re more repairs to be made, Miss, and then we’ll have to wait fer the right winds to carry us away.”

  “Surely no one would fire upon us when we do not pose a threat?”

  “We’ll know soon enough now, won’t we, Miss?”

  “Please tell Magpie I’ll meet him in a few minutes,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “Right, Miss, but if it’s secrets ya have to tell the lad, speak ’em quietly.”

  “Why is that, Mr. Brockley?”

  “’Cause we’ll all be listening in.”

  Emily and Magpie sat upon two overturned buckets in the galley, as far away as was possible from Biscuit, who, in the company of Maggot and Weevil, was preparing the officers’ hot morning rations in true Biscuit style – with plenty of confusion and bad language. Dominating the room was Biscuit’s pride and joy, his Brodie’s Patent galley stove, a huge black hulk of a thing that hissed and shrieked like a monster and was capable of roasting, boiling, and baking simultaneously. Biscuit cheerfully buzzed around it, toasting bread, flipping eggs, stirring oatmeal, and barking at his mates to “clear me way, lads, excellent cookin’ in progress.”

  Standing in the entranceway between the galley and the hospital stood the ever-present marine sentry. He kept watch over Emily and Magpie, glaring at those who dared to pause a moment in their chores to show interest in their quiet conversation. Emily sat with her back turned to them all and focused her attention on the little sail maker. He sat stoically before her, the right side of his face frighteningly bandaged and bruised. Leander had worried about infection setting into his wound, but surely enough time had passed and he was safely beyond that point. Neatly folded upon Magpie’s lap was his special pond-green blanket, and he told her he wasn’t afraid to carry it with him as none of the men had once teased him about it.

  “Of course they wouldn’t tease you,” Emily said kindly.

  Magpie’s cheeks glowed pink. “The Duke o’ Clarence’s wife gave it to me. Mrs. Jordan was her name. And she said to me, ‘This is to keep you safe and warm at sea.’ I – I sleep better when I ’ave it with me.” He peeked up into Emily’s face. “Dr. Braden says in a week or so he’ll take away the bandages and be fittin’ me up with an eye patch. Will I scare ya? Will ya be lookin’ at me and thinkin’ of Thomas Trevelyan?”

  “Thomas Trevelyan?”

  “He’s a pirate, ain’t he?”

  “The worst kind! But how is it you know of Trevelyan?”

  “He’s the captain of the Serendipity, that first ship we done battle with, ain’t he? The ship ya was on. Ya told Captain Moreland it was Trevelyan.”

  “I suppose I must have done.” Emily tried to remember back to her first interview with James Moreland and Fly Austen. Evidently, there were big ears listening beyond the curtain that day. “And was I also overheard saying that Trevelyan was a pirate?”

  “No, but why else would ya’ve jumped his ship and risked drownin’ yerself in the sea?”

  Emily reflected on that one a moment. “When I look upon you, Magpie, I will be reminded, not of Trevelyan, but of the most courageous of men.”

  The young lad beamed at her for a brief second before his smile faded. Emily could see his eye examining the bruises on her face. “You’re so kind to me, ma’am, and I … I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve it at all.”

  Emily reached for one of his hands, so small and brown the little soot-stained fingers, and squeezed it gently. Liking the feel of his hand in her warm one, Magpie left it there as long as he could, until Biscuit’s wandering eye fell on the two of them and he pulled it away to deal with a few tears that had somehow dropped to his cheek.

  “A few days ago,” he said quickly, “Morgan told me that the new sail maker – what’s replaced me – is a big man named Bun Brodie and he was sailin’ on the Liberty. Mr. Brodie was tellin’ the men one suppertime there was only one lady that he knew of travellin’ on the Serendipity and her name was Mrs. Seaton.”

  Emily struggled to disguise her dismay. “And what did this Mr. Brodie say happened to this Mrs. Seaton?”

  “He never knew. He don’t know what happened to her, but …” Magpie looked timid and hesitated to say more.

  “Go on.”

  “The men think – maybe yer Mrs. Seaton.”

  Emily didn’t reply. She raised her pretty head and a distant look crept into her brown eyes as she sat there, stiff and erect, on the overturned bucket. She stayed silent such a long while that Magpie worried his remarks had been impertinent.

  “Magpie,” she said in a whisper, “the day you asked for your blanket, I found something in your chest.”

  Magpie grew excited and began squirming about on his bucket like a young kitten. “Ya found me miniature, then, didn’t ya?”

  “I did!”

  “It’s you, ain’t it?”

  Emily nodded slowly.

  “I knew it was ya the day Morgan pulled ya in. I just knew ya was the lady in me picture, that first time I seen ya smile. Ya looked just like her, even with yer hair all wet. And ya was wearin’ the very same blue velvet clothes! I just knew I was lookin’ at a princess.”

  Emily placed a finger to her lips, grateful for the great racket Biscuit and his mates were making behind her. “I may be a princess, but I am not a very important one. I’m not heir to the English throne
or anything.” There was a twinkle in her eye.

  “Imagine me, Magpie, sail maker on the Isabelle, knowin’ a princess, even if she ain’t important. Why, you should be livin’ in the captain’s cabin, drinkin’ tea from his fine china, and havin’ Biscuit cook ya up ten-course suppers on silver plate.”

  Emily laughed. “Hush, now! That is exactly what I do not want.” Leaning in closer to the lad, she dropped her voice. “The day we were left alone above deck … why didn’t you tell me of your suspicions then?”

  “Oh, I was wantin’ to, somethin’ fierce, but I was too scared of ya, and I was bein’ respectful, ya bein’ royalty and all, and ’cause I was wondrin’ to meself what ya was doin’ jumpin’ out o’ ships. I was thinkin’ maybe ya was runnin’ away and didn’t wanna be found out. I – I did ask ya then, ma’am, if ya knew the Duke o’ Clarence, and right off ya said no.”

  “I am sorry for that. I had my reasons for giving you that reply. The truth is, Magpie, I do know your Duke and Mrs. Jordan very well indeed, although to me they are Uncle Clarence and Aunt Dora. Three years ago, when my father died, I lived with them for a short while. Uncle Clarence has always treated me like one of his own daughters.”

  Magpie puffed up his small chest, so proud he was, as if they were speaking of his own parents. “And the duke, he’s the admiral of the fleet! I didn’t even know ’til yesterday. Heard the men talkin’ about that too. Did ya know he was the admiral, ma’am?”

  She nodded again. “He was given the appointment in December of 1811, if I remember correctly, by his brother, the prince regent.”

  Magpie’s little face suddenly clouded. “Won’t yer Uncle Clarence be worryin’ about ya, gettin’ shot at and attacked in sail rooms and all, ma’am?”

  Emily’s eyes glazed over. “He knows nothing of my getting shot at and attacked in sail rooms, but I am certain … he is quite frantic to know of my whereabouts.” She blinked and returned her attention to Magpie. “So tell me, was it my uncle who gave you the miniature?”