Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (2 page)

Over her head flew cannon balls and whirring chain and bar shot that punched devastating holes in the ships’ hulls and sliced through their sails and rigging. Sprays of wooden splinters fell like dangerous rain. Emily quickly ducked beneath a section of fallen sail, hoping to protect herself. Amidst the screams of war, she could hear the distinctive voice of Captain Trevelyan, and peering through a hole in the sail, up through clouds of cannon smoke, she saw him, his face obscured in shadow, standing over her like Goliath on the side of his ship.

“Shoot her, Mr. Clive.”

Forgetting her pain, Emily frantically began pushing aside bodies and debris from her path.
Oh, God, swim, swim
, she urged her poor limbs. The
Isabelle
loomed large, the long barrels of the lower guns seemed almost within reach. She could see the barnacles that clung to the waterlogged timbers and the bits of oakum wedged into the cracks, and while she kicked her way towards safety, she was aware that
he
still hovered over her.

Swim, swim
.

Several minutes had passed now since Trevelyan ordered her execution, and hope began to burn in Emily’s young breast, but as she raised her hand from the water to touch the side of the
Isabelle
, a ball of lead struck her from behind. This new pain was unimaginable. Gasping, she flailed about, striving to concentrate on the solid timbers that shuddered before her. Once again, she tried reaching out to them, but her vision blurred and her strength evaporated. With a cry of frustration, she felt herself, and the fragment of mast to which she clung, drifting slowly away into a blackened void.

Early Evening

Aboard HMS
Isabelle

TWELVE-YEAR-OLD MIDSHIPMAN Augustus Walby, or Gus, as he was known in shipboard circles, stood by the starboard rail of the
Isabelle’s
quarterdeck, surveying through his spyglass the battle carnage that lay in the water. Sensing someone standing next to him, he turned to find Captain James Moreland, a tall, thick man with yellow-white hair, faded blue eyes, and a sad face. The captain laid a hand on Gus’s shoulder and silently peered into the settling smoke.

“You have the keenest eyes of anyone on this ship, Mr. Walby. Please keep a lookout for any of our men who have fallen overboard and may still have life in them.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Can you tell me, sir, has the
Serendipity
retreated or do you think that she is simply going to turn around for another go at us?”

Captain Moreland grunted. “My guess is they are running away, Mr. Walby. We managed to shoot away a good deal of their yards and rigging. If they continue fighting they’ll have nothing left with which to sail.”

“Should we not go after them?”

“We’ve troubles of our own. It might be wiser to repair ourselves before fighting them again.”

“Sir, one thing I don’t understand … the
Serendipity’s
a frigate, is she not?”

“She is.”

“Why, then, would she take a shot at us when she is smaller and has far fewer guns. We did nothing to provoke her, did we, sir?”

“We did not,” the captain replied, watching her retreat. “However, Mr. Walby, we are in American waters and we are the enemy. Most likely their captain is a brazen young fellow.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gus touched his hat in a salute.

Overhearing the captain, First Lieutenant Lord Octavius Lindsay, a bad-complexioned youth with greasy hair, stepped forward. “Will it be necessary to return to Bermuda then, sir?” he asked.

“I must consult with our carpenters first to learn the extent of our damages.” Captain Moreland paused to shout an order to the men working high up on the yardarms. “Sails up, men. Slow her down. And remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”

“But we would lose much time if we had to return to the island,” said Octavius.

“In a hurry to take an American prize, are we, Mr. Lindsay? Or is it the prospect of shore leave in Halifax that has you impatient? I am hoping we can make our repairs at sea; however, we cannot fight this war with a crippled ship.” Captain Moreland ran his large blue-veined hands along the rail, then continued on down the quarterdeck with Octavius following on his heels.

Gus Walby lifted his spyglass to his eyes once again and slowly moved it along the sea’s surface, searching for survivors. There were plenty of dead men bouncing lifelessly on the waves like grotesque channel markers. Gus was relieved that he could not identify their remains. Already, some of the hands had set out in the ship’s small boats and cutters to retrieve the bodies of their mates so that they could be given a proper burial at sea. The lucky ones who had survived their first fight unscathed rushed to clear the slippery decks of the dead and wounded. There was a terrible sound of moaning and sobbing as those still living were lifted and carried down to the hospital on the upper deck.

Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the
Isabelle
. He called out to Captain Moreland.

“Sir! You might find this of interest.”

Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus’s glass from him.

“At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it’s a woman.”

Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a
lady
escaped our enemy ship.”

“With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can still sail. Shouldn’t we at least try to make a run after that American frigate rather than stopping to pick up some
laundress?
”

Captain Moreland’s eyes hardened. “You surprise me, Mr. Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, holding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”

“Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

“Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”

Gus saluted and ran off.

“Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I’ll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”

He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”

With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.

* * *

THE CARPENTER’S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the
Serendipity
were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman’s favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the
Isabelle
, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.

“Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”

With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff’s wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman’s face

“She’s lovely!” he gasped.

“She ain’t no cookin’ woman.”

“Look at her finery: blue velvet and silk. I’ve never met a woman who wore such clothes.”

“Aye! Though she’s a bit ragged, she’s a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain’t never been in the company of a
lady
before.”

“Oh, we’re in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat’s ribbed bottom.

“Hey, yer gettin’ me clean pants all wet.”

“Just row, Bailey. Yours may be wet, but mine are all bloody. I’ll have a fight on my hands with Mrs. Kettle to get her to launder them again for me.”

Bailey winked as he picked up the oars. “Might as well enjoy the feel o’ that woman in yer arms. May be a while ’fore ya has another one.”

By the time their boat was hoisted up to the
Isabelle’s
stern, word had spread that a woman had been found in the sea. Those men not on duty below deck, or in the hospital having their wounds tended by Dr. Braden, poured onto the deck to watch the spectacle. Gus was also there, having delivered his message to a grumbling Mrs. Kettle and returned in a flash.

Octavius Lindsay stood alongside the starboard rail, watching the proceedings. He sniffed and swung around to address Commander Austen. “The Admiralty, with few exceptions, does not allow women on our war ships.”

Commander Francis “Fly” Austen was an imposing man of nearly forty years who had been present at many of the celebrated navy battles, although, to his disappointment, not Trafalgar. He stared at the woman Morgan Evans cradled in his arms. “You forget, Mr. Lindsay, we have Mrs. Kettle on
our
ship.”

“Is Mrs. Kettle a woman? I hadn’t noticed, sir.”

“It appears this woman is not as wide in the beam as our Mrs. Kettle. It might be rather pleasant having her on board.”

“With – with all respect, sir, we are
fighting
a war.”

“Aye … that we are.”

Octavius sniffed again. “Well, I will make sure she is put off at the first port.”

Mr. Austen raised one eyebrow. “I don’t believe that will be
your
decision to make, Mr. Lindsay.”

The moment Morgan Evans stepped out of the skiff and onto the poop deck, Emily opened her eyes to find hundreds of seamen lining the rails, craning their necks in her direction. In her weakened state, she could not discern individual faces; everything seemed a blur of blue frock coats, red uniforms, checked shirts and scarves, legs in white trousers, heads in bicornes and felt hats. She gazed skywards to find that even those perched on the rigging platforms and yardarms had paused in their tasks. It was so quiet on the ship that Emily heard nothing but the wind beating the sails. No one spoke. No orders were shouted. Each man seemed latched to his allotted space on the deck. And when her rescuer spoke, his voice was disembodied and distant, as if it came to her in a dream.

“You’re on the
Isabelle
now, ma’am,” he whispered. “You should be safe here.”

Emily looked up at him. He was a young man of nineteen, perhaps twenty years, with dark shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a funny woollen hat that resembled a large sock. With a nod of her head she thanked him, then she shivered and sank back against his chest.

7:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

CAPTAIN MORELAND took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the hospital. It stank of medicines, vomit, and coagulating blood. Every hammock held a wounded seaman, and crowded on the floor were a dozen more waiting to be seen by the doctor. The younger ones were snivelling, the older ones swearing, and some of those in between recited verses from the Bible.

In the middle of the mess, Dr. Leander Braden, dressed in a soiled shirt that had been clean that morning at breakfast, quietly worked on those with the worst wounds. James Moreland hated entering this part of the ship after a battle. The wounded reminded him of his own seafaring sons, now grown up and sailing on separate, distant ships, on distant seas, and he could not bear witnessing the removal of the sailors’ shattered limbs or knowing that hideous scars would disfigure their youthful faces.

Noticing James’s grave countenance, Dr. Braden wearily gave instruction to his assistant. “Brockley, continue stitching the man’s wounds – and for God’s sake, be gentle.” He left the operating table, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, and made his way over to where James stood.

“How many did we lose, Doctor?”

Leander wiped his hands on his black apron, then raised his arms to steady himself on the low ceiling. “Eighteen, including young Patrick and George.”

James groaned. “And how many wounded?”

“Seriously? Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had a chance to count.”

James fell silent awhile. “I have great admiration for you, Lee. You handle this bloody business so calmly. I’m afraid it makes me quite insane. I suppose when I was younger I could bear it better. I’m just …”

Leander looked at him over his round spectacles. “You have me all wrong. I don’t handle it well at all. I do know that given more skilled assistants and a decent supply of medicine we could save a lot more lives. Grog and a few instruments for amputating limbs are simply not enough.”