Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle

by CHERYL COOPER

  Emily was careful, lest her eyes should widen in disbelief. “No, I’m afraid they were exchanging broadsides.”

  “Whatever is a broadside?” asked a thin voice from the lower end of the dining table.

  “The shooting off of cannons and long guns, my dear,” answered someone.

  “Goodness me!” came Mrs. Jiggins’s breathy reaction. She motioned to a hovering servant to bring a selection of pastries to Emily. “Why would you ever choose to take a swim while two ships were shooting off their cannons at one another?”

  Emily tried to invoke a measure of patience in her reply. “I wasn’t taking a swim for pleasure. I had escaped from the American ship as she battled one of our Royal Navy ships.”

  A drunken voice rose up from amongst the heads. “Americans? I thought we were fighting the French.”

  “Oh, we are, but apparently we’ve now taken up a second quarrel with the Americans,” said Mrs. Jiggins, her ostrich plumes nodding with authority.

  “As of when?”

  “Last year, I think it was.”

  “Why did I never hear of it?”

  “And whatever for?”

  “I believe our disagreement is over the issue of taxation.”

  “On what? Our tea?”

  “Ladies,” pleaded the gentleman near Emily, “you’re mistaking our present quarrel with one of the causes for the American War of Independence, and, you may recall, during those years we were the ones taxing their tea.”

  “Well, I cannot keep it all fixed in my mind.”

  “Pray, let us eat instead.”

  “Her Grace has certainly outdone herself by bringing in a French chef.”

  “Yes! These profiteroles are divine.”

  “And do taste the apple tarts!”

  Mrs. Jiggins seemed indignant with her companions’ preference for food over the recounting of great adventures, but, making a speedy recovery, she smiled congenially and leaned in toward Emily so that she might have a good view of her diamond necklace. “You must forgive them, Your Royal Highness; they don’t understand war and politics as I do. Now, go ahead and enjoy your pastries.” She gave Emily’s hand a gentle pat. “And let us speak together sotto voce, for I’m quite in painful suspense to know how you managed on these ships in the company of lusty sailors. Had I been in your place, I’m certain I would’ve abandoned all virtuous notions, and, despite the stink and dirt, indulged daily in carnal recreation.”

  2:00 a.m.

  Outside the night was warm, even at this late hour, though a cool respite from the flummery and overheated noise of Hartwood’s ground floor, where the volume had reached a crescendo as the guests — so decorous in the beginning — unleashed their inhibitions with the aid of lively Scottish reels and plenty of drink. It had taken forever to pry herself away from the dining-room table and the insatiable attentions of Mrs. Jiggins, and upon wandering wearily back to the music room Emily could see that even her Uncle Clarence and the Duke of Belmont had overindulged; she was appalled to have found them napping on separate sofas. It was evident, however, that the duchess found this arrangement to her satisfaction. Having foregone the pleasures of the midnight buffet, she was still dancing, her normally reserved temperament having slipped to permit clapping in time to the music and occasional tweets of laughter.

  Finding an empty bench under an enormous chestnut tree, Emily arranged her gown upon its wrought-iron configurations and gazed upon the far-off lights of London. Nearby stood the carriages and their attending footmen, belonging to the guests determined to stay until sunrise, when every drop of wine and every last morsel of the French chef’s feast had been devoured. Emily wondered how difficult it would be to clamber atop one of the closed-in carriages, or slide into the seat of a barouche or curricle, and wait for the owner to — inadvertently or not — offer a ride to the city. To amuse herself, she pictured Glenna McCubbin bursting into her room to awaken her Sunday afternoon, and finding her bed empty, its former occupant miles away from the high walls of Hartwood.

  It was a gaggle of giggling women, having abandoned propriety to run across the lawn in their flowing gowns, who cut short Emily’s machinations. They dropped to the grass only yards from where she sat, hidden by the low-hanging branches of the chestnut. In the torchlight she recognized the young ladies as the ones who had shot daggers at her early in the evening when she had been partnered with Somerton for the first two dance selections. With mild amusement, Emily listened to their banter.

  “Lord Somerton said I was the prettiest girl in the room.”

  “I daresay he told you you were the fattest in the room!”

  “No, he did not! In comparison to his father, I’m a twig.”

  “Well, he said I was the most graceful dancer of all the ladies at the ball.”

  “Pish! According to Lord Somerton, my gown is the most exquisite one he’s ever laid eyes upon.”

  “He won’t be impressed when he sees it again, all rumpled and marked with grass stains.”

  Peals of drunken laughter ensued.

  “I had been fretting so before the ball, worried that that pompous Princess Emeline Louisa would bewitch him.” Emily’s name had been scornfully enunciated. “But he never asked her for another dance after the first two, and I believe he only started off the dancing with her to please the Duke of Clarence.”

  “Certainly he never seemed to give her another thought afterward. He seemed so very contented with us.”

  “I’d so hoped to find that she resembled a horse, like her cousin Charlotte, the Prince Regent’s daughter.”

  “It appears she’s not as fond of food as Princess Charlotte is.”

  “They say she was half-starved at sea. That her captors fed her nothing but oiled rats.”

  “Well, you won’t have to worry about Lord Somerton hoping to make a match with her.”

  “With Princess Charlotte?”

  “For goodness sake, dear sister, do follow the thread of the conversation! Not with Charlotte, silly, with Princess Emeline, for she is already married.”

  “Yes, but I heard that when her husband is tried, he’ll more than likely be found guilty and put to death, so then she’ll be free to marry again.”

  “But Helena Lindsay would never allow her son to be married to such a notorious woman.”

  “Indeed! Not after the disappointment of her eldest son, the marquess.”

  “Lord Somerton deserves a woman of good breeding … such as myself.”

  “You should be so lucky!”

  “Princess Emeline, for all her beauty and royal connections, deserves nothing more than an English tar named Jack.”

  Their laughter rang clear across the dark, rolling lawns of Hartwood, echoing throughout the distant woods and turning the heads of the footmen who stood vigil by the carriages. But the girls soon tired of the subject, and, desperate to replenish their empty punch cups and seek more merriment, they scrambled to their feet, brushed themselves and their silk slippers off, and scampered toward the glittering hall.

  “Ladies,” one of them shouted as they ran, “let us determine, once and for all, which one of us is most favoured by the breathtaking Lord Somerton.”

  Emily turned away from the ridiculous girls to gaze upon the waning moon that navigated alone in the inky sky just above the London spires, shivering in the fresh breeze that incited the chestnut tree to whisper and stir around her. Strains of a familiar and poignant tune suddenly floated upon the night air. Lifting her head to listen, a lump slowly rose in her throat. It was Bach’s haunting composition “Sheep May Safely Graze,” a favourite of Magpie’s. From where was the music coming? It was hard to imagine the musicians installed in the ballroom had decided to hush the happy crowds with the hymnal piece. Was it coming from a snug cottage or perhaps a tavern on the heath? Or was a little piper playing it somewhere on the sea?

  Far too soon the lonely notes died away and, left to endure the more joyful, carefree sounds of the night, Emily was overcome wi
th grief. Lying down upon the bench, its cold iron cutting into her exposed flesh, she cried herself to sleep.

  12

  Monday, August 16

  12:15 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch)

  Aboard the HMS Amethyst

  Magpie rested his head upon his upturned hand and stared down at his dinner of brown stew and pork, absent-mindedly watching the trickles of gravy charting a course around his square wooden plate.

  “What’s wrong with you, Magpie?” asked Morgan Evans, giving him a playful kick under their mess table. “You haven’t touched your food.”

  “Ya should be chirpin’,” added Biscuit, who had left his galley to sit down for a spell with his messmates. “Mealtimes are the best bits o’ the day — our one delight.”

  “Fer me it’s me twice-daily grog rations,” said Jacko, smacking his blubbery lips.

  “Ach,” moaned Biscuit wistfully, “if only Captain Prickett’s rum weren’t so watered down, it might have the effect o’ warmin’ our bellies to be sure.”

  Morgan nudged Biscuit, hoping to unseat the cook. “What do you have to complain about? You’ve access to the stores of rum all day long, and take full advantage of it.”

  Repositioning his bottom upon the bench, Biscuit assumed a stately manner. “Mr. Evans, the day ya want to trade occupations with me, ya let me know.”

  Around the table, the men guffawed. “Ya can’t even git the food right, Biscuit,” said Jacko with a glower, pointing at his plate. “God help us if ya was responsible fer patchin’ up the sides of the ship.”

  “We’d be certain to sink straightaway.”

  “Ha, ha, ho, ho!” was Biscuit’s sarcastic response.

  Morgan looked again at Magpie. “So, what’s all this sullenness about?”

  It was the spectre that had stolen Magpie’s appetite in recent days, but he could not tell the men of his fearful experiences, for surely they would be merciless in their teasing. And though he was now safe at night, having gained sanctuary in the hospital in exchange for helping out Dr. Braden whenever he was free from his sail-making duties, he was still terrified of another sighting. In a quandary, Magpie fished for an answer to give his messmates.

  “It’s the rollin’ of the ship. It’s takin’ me appetite away.”

  “That’s never bothered you before,” said Morgan, looking concerned. “I’ve never known you to be sickened by the waves.”

  Jacko chewed thoughtfully on a lump of pork. “I overheard Mr. Austen sayin’ this morning he didn’t like the look o’ the sky. He thinks we’re in fer a big one.”

  Recalling the spectre’s words of doom, Magpie looked alarmed.

  “Not to worry, Magpie.” Morgan smiled. “The Amethyst is weatherly and solid as a rock. She’s built to withstand a pummelling from wind and waves.”

  “He’s right, lad,” added Biscuit. “Few ships go down on account o’ storms.”

  Magpie glanced first at Morgan, and then at the others sitting around the table. “What about the Blenheim? The Duke o’ Clarence told me he lost his son William on that ship back in 1807 … that it vanished without a trace on account o’ awful weather.”

  “No one knows that for sure,” said Morgan. “It was just speculation that the Blenheim foundered in a heavy gale. There were some that’d seen her in port after the storm had passed.”

  “But the Duke o’ Clarence told me she was last seen sendin’ out distress signals in a big gale o’ wind.”

  “Magpie, it was well-known that the Blenheim was in very poor condition.”

  Jacko frowned at Morgan. “Where did she go down?”

  “Near Madagascar.”

  “Where’s that, sir?” asked Magpie.

  “The Indian Ocean, off the coast of Africa, and we’re a long way from there,” said Morgan, pitching a piece of biscuit at Magpie’s chest.

  Magpie flinched. He hated the thought of the Duke of Clarence’s forlorn son drowning in such a foreign and frightening sea, so far from all that he had loved.

  “No worries,” continued Morgan, “especially with Mr. Austen on board. He saw us through the end of the Isabelle.”

  “It ain’t him I’d be worryin’ about,” hooted Jacko, “it’s them sorry lot o’ Prickett and Bridlington. Depends on who’s in charge … who’s makin’ the calls.”

  Magpie was picturing himself clinging to a dead man when the plates and mugs on the table began sliding about. “Could the winds throw us on a lee shore? Could we be dashed on rocks like a crate o’ eggs?”

  “Little chance o’ that! Ain’t no shores nearby to be dashed upon!” said Biscuit, catching his sliding mug and raising it to his whiskery mouth.

  “And nobody ’round to come to our aid if we are,” said Jacko, chuckling.

  “The Lady Jane —” yelped Magpie with a glimmer of optimism, “— wouldn’t she help us?

  “She’ll go down afore us, I’ll warrant,” said Jacko, wiping his mouth with the back of his big hand. “It’ll be ev’ry man and Lady fer themselves.”

  The men all laughed, leaving Magpie puzzled that not one of them seemed unstrung by all this talk of approaching storms and shipwrecks; in fact, Mr. Evans seemed to be in uncommonly high spirits. How could they feel this way, especially when the wind that howled around the Amethyst was arousing the hairs on his scalp, sounding as it did like every sailor that had ever perished in the Atlantic had gathered around them to weep?

  “Now then, lad,” grunted Biscuit, “ya best eat up me hearty pork stew to conserve yer strength, so’s ya kin swim to England … if need be.”

  2:00 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

  The afternoon sky was rapidly turning into night.

  Fly Austen, his head down in the wind, pulled his way to Captain Prickett’s cabin. To those sailors and assorted individuals he met along the way he roared orders — orders that should have been given some time ago, when the first cracks of thunder had rattled their ears and the lightning flashes revealed the ever-increasing swells of the sea.

  “Take these chicken coops below! Lash the oars and pikes to the masts! Have the lifelines ready, fore and aft! Mrs. Kettle … take your infernal laundry down at once, and quit cursing like a costermonger.”

  “Ain’t no one kin hear me with all o’ this caterwaulin’ wind,” she shot back, ripping down a saturated shirt from the shrouds.

  “Sir, what about the sails? Should we be takin’ in some canvas?” asked the worried looking helmsman, Lewis McGilp, who, along with a second sailor, struggled to steer the ship.

  Fly blinked through the sea spray to find the topgallants still flying, and hid his frustration. “I’ll have a word with the captain and get back to you straightaway.”

  Captain Prickett was in his cot, which seemed to sway leisurely as the ship rolled, like a child’s swing. On the floor were the remains of a cake that looked as if someone had gone at it with his hands.

  “Sir, the gale is quite upon us now. May I suggest we take up the sails and try to ride it out?”

  “What’s that Austen?” asked a groggy Prickett.

  “Sir, your attention is needed on the quarterdeck. The men want to know what your orders are regarding the sails.”

  Prickett tried to raise himself up in his cot, but found he could not, and fell back upon his bedclothes. Fly could see that his waistcoat was unbuttoned to allow his belly room to manoeuvre.

  “Are you unwell, sir?”

  Prickett chuckled. “I’m afraid I’m not able to leave my cot.”

  “Shall I call Dr. Braden for you?”

  “Nay, don’t bother the man. No need for it. I’ve just been overindulging. You know how I delight in Biscuit’s spice cake. Then, of course, I had to wash it down with ale —” Prickett produced an empty mug from under his blanket.

  “Your orders then, sir?” said Austen, trying to maintain civility.

  “Do what needs to be done to see us through, Mr. Austen.” Prickett licked his fingers before throwin
g his hand upon his forehead like an actor in a histrionic play. “In the meantime … I shall sleep off my indigestion.”

  2:30 p.m.

  (Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)

  The dark ocean rose and fell around the Amethyst like an endless terrain of desolate, bituminous hillocks and hollows.

  Holding tightly to the boats fastened to the ship’s waist, Fly, Leander, and Magpie stood, soaked to the bone, near the mainmast — which buckled and groaned in a most alarming manner — watching the men on the soaring yardarms scrambling to take in the sails. The ship pitched and heeled in the grey-crested swells that washed over the fo’c’sle every time she plunged headlong into the foaming sea, the water pouring out of her scuppers like fountains in St. James’s Park.

  Looking uncertain, Morgan Evans suddenly appeared before them to address Fly. “Sir, shall I search out Captain Prickett or report to you?”

  “Captain Prickett is indisposed at the moment. What’s the situation in the hold?”

  “The water’s coming in fast, sir. We’re quickly filling the leaks, but the men working the pumps are faint with exhaustion.”

  “How much water in the bilge?”

  “Three feet and rising, sir.”

  “I’ll send down a fresh crew immediately, Mr. Evans. Now return to your men at once. Lord knows they need your guidance.”

  With a word of thanks and a salute, Morgan headed into the wind toward a hatchway and disappeared into the lurching hull of the Amethyst. Distressed by the amount of seawater cascading onto the lower decks, Fly yelled, “All hands! Batten down the hatches.”

  Lord Bridlington, the Officer of the Watch, approached, trying to stabilize himself with his healthy hand and keep his other one safe from further harm. “Oh, Mr. Austen, I’m afraid we’ve lost sight of the Lady Jane. What shall we do if she’s been stove in and sunk?”

  “I cannot worry about it at this moment.”

  “Then please pray that she’ll be there, waiting for us on the horizon when this storm has passed, for I simply cannot bear to hear the captain’s tirade on the subject. He’ll surely blame me.”