Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (33 page)

“I am sorry for wasting your time,” said Fly without lifting his head. He was sitting on the floor with his back resting against one of two remaining bulkheads, staring blankly at an opened letter that lay across his knees.

“I too am sorry … for your loss.” Leander eyed Fly, looking for signs of injury, but he saw nothing significant beyond a few cuts that still bled through tears in his breeches. “Will you be all right?”

Fly breathed in and out heavily and looked up. “I understand the hospital took a hit.”

“It did. It came through the gunport and it …” Leander couldn’t finish his sentence.

“James never agreed with your philosophy of having your hospital on the upper deck. He always figured you and your patients would be safer on the orlop.”

Leander’s lips disappeared into a thin line and he nodded. “If there is nothing I can do here, I must get back.”

Fly’s stare fell upon the rusty stains on Leander’s forearms. “Aye. But as I’m not sure when we may have another private moment – as there is little time left – I wonder if I could delay you.” He held up the letter. “James asked that I read this if … if things did not go well.”

Leander set his medical chest on the floor beside Fly, lowered himself upon it, and gazed expectantly at his friend. Fly shot a furtive glance at what was once the main entrance to Captain Moreland’s cabin, then began to read in a low, dull voice as if he were delivering a sermon to an empty church.

“Dear Mr. Austen. I realize that what I am about to relate is a subject I should have taken up with you long before now. I had hoped there would be time for you to hear my tale from my own lips. The following is not a story of which I am proud; in fact, I have spent the past nine years trying to forget it ever happened, and I thought I had almost succeeded. In putting off the telling of it, I employed every excuse: our occupation with the prisoners from the
Liberty
, Lord Lindsay’s shameful affair, and my lingering illness. I believed that – nay, I prayed – we would not meet Trevelyan again; leastways, I did not expect him to appear again so soon after our initial engagement. If I am justified in only one respect in writing – and not speaking – of this sorry business, it is that I will leave this world with the comforting knowledge that I have documented the details, of which, God knows, you will most certainly require somewhere down the road.”

Fly injected some inflection in his voice as he started in on James’s story.

“In May of 1803, I was commanding the
Isabelle
along with Henry, the Duke of Wessex. As you know, war had broken out once again with France, and I was ordered to assist in blockading the French port of Brest. We ended up in blockade for several months and it was most difficult on the crew. In addition to their regular duties, they were expected to undergo daily drills, intercept coastal convoys intent on supplying Brest, search the seas for any French ships returning from the West Indies, and, of course, watch the movements of the French frigates holed up in the harbour lest they be sent out on a clandestine operation or try to escape under cover of night. For all of us, the most difficult task was just trying to stay afloat offshore in all sorts of bad weather.

“The long weeks bobbing on the waves, battling nothing but the weather, took their toll. Supplies of fresh food ran low, the men naturally were not allowed any shore leave, and they were given only a drop of grog – Wessex and I wanting to keep them all sharp-witted as we worried they may have to give chase at any time. The result was that tempers flared and fights broke out amongst the men.

“One of the most troublesome amongst the crew happened to be a young lieutenant named Thomas Trevelyan. Trevelyan had recently been elevated in the world, as his step-father, Charles DeChastain, a man of great wealth and power and an earl no less – Trevelyan’s widowed mother had already been married to DeChastain for thirteen years – had finally legally adopted Trevelyan, making him one of his heirs. Consequently, Trevelyan figured, despite his age and inexperience, he should be on equal footing with the son of King George and me, the lowly Captain Moreland. Trevelyan argued every decision, every order. Wessex wanted him punished for his continual insubordination, but I did not, as I understood the crew’s conditions were unbearable at times, and my own spirits had sunk very low. To exacerbate the situation, Trevelyan’s twelve-year-old half-brother, Harry DeChastain, was also on board. He was a midshipman and he adored his older brother. Trevelyan’s discontentment and belligerent disposition had a profound effect upon him.”

Fly pushed his body away from the bulkhead, jumped to his feet, and began pacing through the remains of the room, keeping his eyes averted from the cot as he continued to read.

“In late March of 1804, the
Isabelle
was badly damaged in a gale, and when it had passed over, we were forced ashore to do repairs. Early one morning, while we were anchored off a lonely stretch of the French coast, six of the crew deserted in one of the ship’s small boats. Trevelyan and his little brother, Harry, were amongst the deserters. When it was discovered they were gone, Wessex ordered several crew members to set out in the remaining boats and find them. Miraculously, since the morning was quite foggy, they did. Fearing severe punishment, two of the deserters jumped overboard and drowned. The other four were brought back to the ship, tied to the grating, and before the assembled crew summarily given 300 lashes apiece. On my insistence, Harry was given half that number, but despite the lesser punishment, his back swelled up like a charred pillow and an infectious fever set in. For two long weeks, he suffered cruelly, finally dying on his thirteenth birthday.

“Trevelyan recovered – physically – but he was a changed man. He went about his business, did as he was told and questioned nothing. Wessex figured he had learned his lesson; I figured he was just biding his time. Five months later, in early September, the
Isabelle
received orders to give chase to a French frigate returning from the West Indies. Away from the company and security of the other British ships in blockade, Trevelyan led a mutiny. He had Wessex and me locked into our cabins, then killed three of the
Isabelle’s
officers, as well as my faithful steward, threw their bodies overboard, and endeavoured to take over the ship. While we were being held hostage, Wessex and I tried bargaining with Trevelyan, promised to hear his grievances, and grant a pardon for the mutineers. We both swore on a bible to make changes in exchange for our release and a return of the ship to our command. When a week had passed and our ship was again close to the French coastline, Trevelyan finally yielded and agreed to end the mutiny. I was fully prepared to make concessions and attempt to bring about better conditions for our men, but as Wessex had the advantage of birth and position over me, I was forced to bow to his authority. Wessex refused to make any concessions whatsoever and instead ordered that the mutineering ringleaders be strung up on a yardarm and Trevelyan be shot.

“In the early hours of the morning upon which the executions were to take place, as eight bells tolled the end of the Middle Watch, Trevelyan, with the help of unnamed accomplices, was released from his irons. He then attempted to set the
Isabelle
afire. In the ensuing disorder, he threw himself and a hatch cover overboard, floated to shore, and disappeared into the French countryside. This time, he was not caught.”

Fly folded up James’s letter and looked at Leander for the first time since his friend had entered the room.

Leander rose slowly from his medical chest. “I do not understand. Why is it no one seems to have heard much of this mutiny when its details are as horrific as those of
Spithead
and the
Nore?
”

“For the simple reason that there was no court-martial, only a simple inquiry. James goes on to write that given the political weight of Wessex, and the fact that Wessex and he had determined their own punishments for the deserters and mutineers on the
Isabelle
, the admiralty chose to keep the affair private. Over the years, there have been hundreds of single-ship mutinies that have vanished into the sea mists with no record. All that remains here are the recollections of those men who were aboard the
Isabelle
in March of 1804, and … I just happen to know of one such man.”

“And who would that be?”

“Bun Brodie. He was sailing with James at that time. The man was lucky enough to be with Nelson at Trafalgar, but despite this honour, Brodie told James that he had admired him more.”

Leander gazed pensively at the visible sea through the broken ship wall. “In all these years, did James never hear another thing from Trevelyan?”

“In his letter he states that the Royal Navy suspected Trevelyan’s successful escape was aided by the French themselves, in exchange for information regarding our orders and manoeuvres, and that he had fled to the United States; but no, James never heard another thing until a few weeks back when Emily told him that it was Trevelyan who commanded the
Serendipity.
”

“So Trevelyan blamed James and Wessex for the death of his brother.”

“Aye, it would seem so, and for subsequently ruining his life. Branded a traitor, he would not have been allowed back in England to collect any forthcoming titles, and more importantly, his inheritance.”

“And he took Emily prisoner as a kind of posthumous revenge against her father, and the moment …” Leander raised his voice, “the moment he learns that the ball from Mr. Clive’s pistol didn’t kill her, that she’s in fact on board with us, he’ll take her prisoner once again.”

Fly nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”

Pulling his glasses from his face, Leander screwed his eyes shut and rubbed the auburn stubble on his face. “But if Trevelyan fled to the United States nine years ago, how … how would he have ever known that the only child of the Duke of Wessex was a Mrs. Seaton travelling to Canada on board the
Amelia?
”

“Perhaps he was tipped off,” suggested Fly. “Perhaps he had spies, someone watching her movements in England, especially once her father had died.”

A lengthy silence fell between the two. Finally Leander said, “Emily knew nothing of Trevelyan’s desire for vengeance.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“I just am.” He slipped his glasses back on his nose and bent down to gather up his chest. “We will speak again … as soon as it is possible,” he said with urgency in his voice, “but I must go.” With a half-hearted smile, he faced Fly and extended his right hand to him. Wordlessly, they shook hands, then Leander hurried away.

He had only just disappeared from view when, from out of the corner of his eye, Fly saw him returning, walking slowly backwards towards the spot he had just departed. Wheeling about to question his friend, Fly discovered five men encircling Leander, dressed in the red, white, and blue uniforms of an American captain and marines. There were telltale signs on the faces and clothing of the four marines that they had recently seen action, but the scars on the captain’s face were old ones, and his clothes looked new: his breeches were still white, his epaulettes gleamed gold, and his uniform coat was freshly pressed. It looked as if he had just put them on before boarding the
Isabelle
. He barely glanced at Fly as he pushed past Leander into the shell of the great cabin, and said nothing while he kicked aside bits and pieces of Captain Moreland’s personal belongings with his boots and examined the room’s wreckage, pausing on the contents of the reddening cot. He stepped heavily towards it and stared at James’s silent form, his expression never changing even as, in one fluid motion, he grasped the ivory hilt of James’s sword, which lay across his dead body, and slipped it into the black leather scabbard at his left hip. When his lips at last moved it was to utter a single word. “Pity.”

It was only then that Fly knew for certain the identity of the American captain standing before him; he was not from the second frigate, nor the Yankee brig, but the man who commanded the
Serendipity.

Leander, his brow furrowed with impatience, stepped towards Trevelyan. “I must take my leave, sir. There are dozens below in my hospital awaiting my attention.”

Trevelyan swung around, the heels of his boots grinding shards of Captain Moreland’s broken crystal goblets into the floorboards as he did so. He gave Leander a prolonged stare. “Well, then, they will just have to wait. Your services, Dr. Braden, are now required on
my
ship.”

6:00 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, Four Bells)

THE GUNS HAD STOPPED FIRING two hours ago. Emily had heard the ship’s bell ring out the half-hours, but she knew from the eerie hush on the
Isabelle
that the outcome had not been in their favour. She’d given up sipping Leander’s rum and re-reading his letter and rocking herself back and forth long ago. There was nothing left to feel now. If he could have, Leander would have returned to her long before, or at least sent Gus Walby or Magpie in his stead. But no one had come, and there had been no voices or footsteps outside the small cabin where she lay sprawled in a daze on the damp floor. She had heard what she guessed were small boats knocking up against the hull, had tried to convince herself they belonged to the
Isabelle
, but if she was wrong and they did not, how long would it be before … ?