Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (30 page)

(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)

WITH HIS WHITE, HAIRY ARMS folded belligerently upon his chest and an unhappy expression fixed on his bronzed, withered face, Bailey Beck planted his feet in the small area on the orlop where Jacko, the
Isabelle’s
shoemaker, did his work creating, sewing and repairing the sailors’ footwear. “Ya lubber! Ya told me ya’d have ’em ready at three bells and now I hear the six bells. Do ya figure I don’t mind fightin’ them Yankees in me bare toes?”

There was a scowl on Jacko’s usually cheerful face as he sat on his low stool, polishing one of two silver buckles for a pair of newly minted shoes that lay atop his pile of leather pieces on the dusty floorboards. “Makes no difference to me,” he replied as evenly as a ship in the doldrums. “We’ll all be keepin’ the company o’ Davy Jones before thee day be done. I heared ’em sayin’ there be three ships comin’ after us. Yanks they be, and I doubt they’ll be lookin’ to trade fish and jokes with we Isabelles.”

“Lost yer nerve, ’ave ya, Jacko?”

“Lost it long ago, when I lost me leg.” Jacko rubbed his wooden peg as if he were stroking a faithful dog. “I ain’t like ya, Bailey. Ya fear nothin’.”

Bailey’s angry face softened. “The guns can’t hit ya here below the water, man. Ya ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

“I do if them Yanks board us. I ain’t as fast with me dirk as I once were.”

“Don’t go blamin’ yer lost leg fer that. Blame yer prodigious fat belly.” Bailey cracked up, but seeing that Jacko did not share his enthusiasm for the insult, he wiped his eyes and reassumed a serious aspect. “Aw, anyways, ’twon’t come to that. We’ll blow all three of ’em outta the water with our heavier guns, ya’ll see.” He cuffed Jacko in good fun across the head. “So quit fussin’ with them foppish shoes and finish mine up first. Ain’t no one on this ship needs a pair o’ dandy shoes like them.”

“They be fer Emily. I told her I’d knock her up a decent pair so she don’t ’ave to wear them blue silks.”

Bailey looked at his old mate with surprise and was contemplating another wisecrack when Jacko quietly added, “If I don’t see ya again, would ya see the young miss gets ’em?”

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

“ALLS I’M ASKIN’ FER is two minutes with ’im without ya hangin’ about.”

“It wouldn’t be right, Mrs. Kettle,” said the young marine standing sentry over the unfortunate Octavius Lindsay. Rather than being returned to the gun deck, which had been cleared again for action for the second time in twenty-four hours, Octavius had been left in irons outside the slops room on the dank orlop. The uncertain-looking soldier kept spinning around to see if anyone was lurking in the darkness.

“No one’s about. All thee men was called to stations.”

“W-e-e-e-l-l-l.”

“Won’t be no harm done. I ’ave no key to unlock his chains.”

“All right, then. But two minutes only.”

“That’s a good lad and fer yer trouble ya can visit me sometime in me cot,” she cooed, reaching out her arms to him.

“I’d – I’d rather not, Mrs. Kettle,” he sputtered, crimson colour flooding his face as he took a step backwards.

“Be off then, ya fool.”

The flustered marine shot off along the orlop deck like a frightened colt, coming to a halt only once he was well beyond the laundress’s reach, though still in sight of his prisoner.

“Ho, ho, ha, ha,” chortled Octavius, bent over his locked legs. “You’d be far better off bribing green boys with your silver spoons and necklaces, Mrs. Kettle, than offering up your flesh.” He tensed, expecting a kick in the ribs, and when none was delivered, was shocked to find the laundress in a serene frame of mind.

She bestowed upon him her sweetest smile. “There be three Yankee ships chasin’ us. Just what yas was hopin’ fer. Here. Take it and hides it where ya can.” She handed him the miniature with a sidelong glance towards the marine who had occupied himself poking around the sail room. “Won’t be no one lookin’ fer it here.” Mrs. Kettle then pulled a quill pen and piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt.

“Hell! What’s this for?”

“I wants ya to write somethin’ out fer me and I’ll come back fer it when I can. But know this … I ’spects to be rewarded roundly fer helpin’ ya – that is, if we ain’t dead in a few hours.”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

EMILY SAT ALONE on a stool in the empty hospital, Jane Austen’s
Sense and Sensibility
opened but ignored upon her lap, a loaded pistol at her feet, staring at the ladder that led up to the fo’c’sle deck and praying that Leander would soon come back. The hours of agony and suspense that had passed since the three ships were first sighted had left her numb, and now that the threat was known – a greater one than ever the
Isabelle
had faced – she no longer felt fear, only a desire, above all things, to speak to Leander before the guns began to fire and his hospital filled with the dead and dying.

To her surprise, it was not Leander but Morgan Evans who climbed down the ladder. He pulled off his knitted hat, ran a hand through his hair, and gave her an awkward little bow before glancing about the hospital. “Excuse me, ma’am, for interrupting your reading …”

Emily laughed, rising with the book in her hands, relieved to have some company. “Oh, you are interrupting nothing. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I heard the fife and drums for quarters.”

A bit of red crept into Morgan’s cheeks as he shifted from one foot to another. “I’ve – I’ve come to ask a favour of you.”

“Do you need me to help unfurl a few sails or fill up the guns with powder?”

Morgan grinned, his eyes looking everywhere but at Emily. “You’d be too late for all that. Everything that can be done is done.” He fiddled with his hat and stayed on the opposite side of the hospital, keeping between them Leander’s desk, which was once again transformed into a surgical table. “I know that you’re a clever one, ma’am. I once overheard you reading a story about two sisters to Mr. Walby and Magpie.”

Emily stared at him in surprise. “Thank you, Mr. Evans.”

“You see, ma’am, I can’t read. I always meant to learn, but there never seemed to be the time nor anyone around that could teach me.”

“But your way of speaking – I always thought you were well educated.”

“My mother took great pains to teach me to speak properly, and she had the best intentions to provide me with a good education herself, but she died when I was a boy, in childbirth along with her baby.”

“I am sorry.”

“What I want to say, ma’am, is that, well, I’ve been on a ship of some kind for seven years now. I didn’t set out to be a sailor. I learned carpentry work in my hometown of Swansea in Wales, so I could help my sisters keep the house and pay the mortgage. But this one night, when I was fourteen and supposed to be long in my bed, I sneaked out of the house, and along with a friend of mine, we stole into the local tavern to scrounge a few drinks. Beg your pardon, ma’am, I know it’s not something you would do. It was on my way home, when I was alone, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a press gang.”

“You mean those naval ruffians who scour the countryside, forcing men of all ages to work on their ships?”

Morgan nodded. “It seems someone had tipped them off that I had some skill with a hammer and nails. They asked me the name of my ship, and when I told them I wasn’t connected with any ship at all and never had been, they beat me about the head and carried me off to the docks, where they threw me into the hold of a large frigate. Well, you see, I’m almost twenty-one, ma’am. That was seven years ago and I don’t think my sisters know whatever became of me. Most likely they believe I was spirited away.”

“You haven’t been home at all since you were fourteen?”

“No, ma’am.” He glanced shyly up at Emily.

“And this favour you have come to ask of me?”

He cleared his throat and straightened himself up as if trying to summon up courage.

“I was wondering if you could write a letter to my sisters for me, Brangwen and Glyn they are, informing them of my whereabouts these past several years.”

Seeing his hopeful expression, Emily felt a sudden constriction around her heart.

“I would … I would be delighted, Mr. Evans.”

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

THE FIRST SHOT ERUPTED from the
Serendipity
like a steaming volcano blowing its top.

Clinging to the lower mizzenmast platform, Gus could smell its cold metal, feel its shiver, and hear its ominous drone as it fell, short of its mark, into the empty ocean behind the
Isabelle’s
stern. Its shocking suddenness caused him to drop the captain’s telescope, and a young sailor working above him to lose his foothold on the topsail yard. As fate answered, the sailor was able to grasp onto the shrouds before falling to a certain death on the unforgiving deck below. The telescope did not fare quite as well; with an unsettling crash, it landed at Captain Moreland’s feet, its glass shattering and the shards cast spinning across the poop deck planks. Without a flinch, James kept his composure to address his anxious gun crews hunched over their cannons, itching to light their guns in reply.

“Hold your fire, men,” he cried. “For God’s sake, hold your fire.” His command was repeated again and again around the ship, and when the guns stayed silent, he muttered a word of thanks, for he was not certain what action to take. His men, with their hearts in their mouths, stared at him, waiting for the word. Beneath the fluttering British flag on the poop deck, James, Fly, Mr. Harding, and Leander stood in a semi-circle, consulting navigational charts and closely watching the movements of the enemy ships – the
Serendipity,
a second frigate, and an accompanying brig – that now loomed, three abreast, a mile off the
Isabelle’s
stern.

Realizing that James was undecided in his tactics, Fly spoke up. “Sir, if we turn the ship broadside, we’re prepared to fire four successive rounds. With a little luck, we may rip open one of their hulls.”

“But we are too heavy to out-manoeuvre those three ships,” said a jittery Mr. Harding, bouncing back and forth from foot to stump. “Why, by the time we swing her round, they’ll have raked our stern, or worse still, shot our own hull full of holes.”

In mute silence, James calmly flicked away the glass bits of his broken telescope with his boot.

“With respect gentlemen,” said Leander hesitantly, “do we not have greater gun power, having more and heavier guns than either of those two frigates or that brig?”

“We do, Doctor,” said Fly, “but despite bolstering our numbers with the men taken from the
Liberty,
we are still seriously short on skilled sailors, and therefore, not all of our seventy-four guns will see action. In comparison, those ships possess one hundred guns between them.”

Mr. Harding shook his head sadly. “And with these light winds, we can’t hope to match their speeds.”

“But surely this Trevelyan is not interested in just sinking us here in the Atlantic?”

“Nay, Doctor,” said Fly. “He would more likely be wont to humiliate us by taking us a prize and leading us triumphantly into one of his nearby ports, an American flag hoisted over ours.”

James gazed around the
Isabelle
with affection. “It is not my intent to send my men to certain death today, nor to humiliate them; however, the simple truth of the matter is that Trevelyan knows the
Isabelle
well. He is fully aware of her capabilities and encumbrances.”

“What about trying negotiations, sir?” asked Mr. Harding, his round, red face lighting up hopefully. “We – we could return the sailors we took from the
Liberty,
and sweeten the deal with the return of the girl.”

James pulled his eyes from his ship’s standing rigging and proud sails to glance past his sailing master at Leander, who had turned very pale. “Where is Emily, Doctor?”

“In the hospital,” Leander answered slowly.

“Think of it, sir,” said Mr. Harding, a bit too quickly. “They may bite at the prize money she will bring, and agree to leave us be.”

Leander stared at James in disbelief. “Surely you don’t – you don’t mean to offer Emily up to Trevelyan?”

“What are our chances here, Doctor?” cried Mr. Harding. “Would you have us all perish for the sake of one woman? She may be our only hope.”

“You surprise me, Mr. Harding,” said James in a cold, reproachful voice. “A seasoned warrior such as yourself.” He took several paces from his companions and wavered alone on the
Isabelle’s
stern with his back to them, staring unseeing at the
Serendipity.

Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift across the Atlantic to England. For several wonderful minutes he dwelled in a pleasant reverie filled with light and beauty and the love of family and friends until the cries and calls from the enemy ships intruded upon his consciousness, yanking him back to the terrible reality of the moment. Quietly and privately, James tucked away in his heart the precious memories of the Yorkshire moors, his wife’s dear smile, and the loveliest sound in the world, the laughter of his six children. “I will give Trevelyan nothing,” he said to the wind, blinking away a solitary tear. “Besides, it is me he wants, and for nine long years he has waited for just such an opportunity.” He swung around to face his waiting officers.