Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (5 page)

“What if she’s a spy?” Octavius ventured unhappily.

There was a roar of laughter that rivalled the thunder of the sea beyond the windows, and the men unanimously agreed that the wine had gone to Octavius’s head.

“Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to discover if our
guest
has appetites to rival those of Mrs. Kettle’s,” quipped Fly. “And, should this be true, I daresay you’ll be parting with a good portion of your pay.”

While his messmates snickered, Octavius rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re quite a boor, Mr. Austen.”

“Tell me, Doctor, when might I be able to speak with her?” asked James. “She may have valuable information regarding the
Serendipity
.”

“Ah, so my spy theory holds weight, does it?” cried Octavius, lifting his chin.

“Perhaps, Mr. Lindsay,” James said patiently. “Either way, she may be able to tell us whether or not there were any Royal Navy deserters on board that American ship.” He looked over at Leander and repeated his question.

Leander clasped his hands and regarded him over his spectacles. “The young woman is exhausted, James. I would suggest, at the very least, we give her a few days of rest.”

“I will wait twenty-four hours, Doctor. No more.” James drained his wine goblet, then twisted his neck to face Biscuit, who stood behind his chair, awaiting orders. “I am wondering, Biscuit, if you could put more thought and effort into our supper tomorrow evening.”

“Ah-hah, war rations and we’re complainin’, sir! I could pilfer all o’ yer rum rations and boil up sauces to hide thee poor quality o’ thee meat then, heh?”

James smiled as he poured himself more wine and raised his glass. “Gentlemen! To our native land, to the health of our King George and to our indispensable cook.”

“Our native land.”

“King George’s health.”

“Our cook.”

The men lifted their goblets in toast and broke into mirthful laughter.

2

Wednesday, June 2

7:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Six Bells)

AT SIX BELLS the next morning, Leander Braden rose from his hammock to resume his duties in the small hospital in the forepeak of the
Isabelle’s
upper deck. He and his assistant, Osmund Brockley, had completed their operations on the battle-wounded the night before, having had to amputate three legs, two hands, and one foot, in addition to closing forever the eyes of many young men. But at this early hour, there were still six seamen with a multitude of injuries, in various states of consciousness, groaning and twitching in their troubled sleep, who required Leander’s care and attention.

The hospital air was heavy with the putrid smell of medicines, blood, excrement, and festering wounds, despite Osmund having thrown open all of the nearby gunports. It aggravated Leander’s crushing exhaustion and the creeping stiffness he felt in his shoulders. With a sigh, he settled at his desk to begin making notes in his medical journal, but he could not concentrate. He gazed over at the old sails that Morgan Evans had rigged up at one end of the hospital for the comfort of Emily, his newest patient, and for several minutes he allowed himself to wonder who she was, and why it was she had jumped from the
Serendipity
.

Leander had just managed to return his attention to his journal when Biscuit and his assistants, Maggot and Weevil (so named for their weekly task of drawing the maggots and weevils out of the biscuit barrel), entered the hospital ward from the galley next door, bearing bowls of porridge and plates of sea biscuits.

“Biscuit,” Leander called out sternly as the cook tiptoed towards Emily’s corner, “you may leave the food here with me and I’ll make certain she gets it when she wakes up.”

“Ah, but Doc, I got up real early to make fresh biscuits for thee lass. I’d likes to present ’em to her. There ain’t no weevils burrowin’ in ’em.”

Leander held his gaze.

“Ah, but Doc, I was below deck cookin’ up yer supper when Morgan brought her on board.”

“We’re dyin’ for a wee peek,” said Maggot. Behind him, his brother, Weevil, nodded eagerly.

“All in good time, men. Now I insist you all leave.”

But the three interlopers stood rooted to the floor.

Leander frowned. “You wouldn’t want to catch a
contagious
fever now, would you?”

The possibility of catching something did the trick. Biscuit and the brothers, suddenly remembering urgent duties elsewhere, dropped Emily’s breakfast feast on top of Leander’s journal – spilling his inkwell – and shoved at one another as each tried to be the first to exit the hospital. No sooner had they fled, however, than Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, sauntered in from the galley.

“Yes, Mr. McGilp?” asked Leander, still frowning at the annoyance of his spilled ink.

“It’s my throat, sir. It’s mighty sore,” he said, looking sheepish.

“Come in then and I’ll examine you.”

Lewis hopped up on the operating table, opened his mouth, and said, “Ahhhh” just as Octavius Lindsay climbed through the hatch from the fo’c’sle deck, straightened his frock coat, and took off his bicorne hat.

Looking over his round spectacles, Leander addressed him. “Let me guess, Mr. Lindsay: you are suffering from a stomach ailment, most likely caused by the poor quality of last night’s fare.”

Octavius shuffled his feet in his Hessian boots, striking his greasy head on a hanging lantern. “That’s it, Doctor, and I’m feeling so poorly I cannot attend to my duties.”

“I’ve a tonic that should help if you’ll just wait until I’ve seen to Mr. McGilp.”

Octavius dropped down on a stool and fixed his black eyes on the canvas curtain.

Morgan Evans was the next to appear. He stood beside Octavius and tugged the woollen sock from his head.

“What afflicts you, Morgan?” asked Osmund Brockley, coming towards him with a reeking chamber pot that required dumping into the ocean.

“I missed the mark doing my repairs and smashed my left hand with my hammer,” he responded in a muted tone, studying the cracks in the floorboards.

“Mr. Evans,” said Leander without turning around, “I have never known you to injure yourself with your hammer before. Is this nonsense?”

“No, sir,” said Morgan quickly, holding up the swollen fingers of his left hand.

“Fine. I will attend to you after Mr. Lindsay. Take a seat where you can find one.”

Morgan sank to the floor while Leander completed his examination of the coxswain. “Mr. McGilp, there is no evidence of swollen glands. May I suggest you wear a jacket and extra scarf while standing at the helm, especially during the night when there is much dew on deck.”

Lewis jumped down from the table. “Aye, sir, thank you, sir.”

Leander cleaned away the pool of ink on his desk then made a brief note in his journal. When at last he wheeled about to signal to Mr. Lindsay to come forward, he discovered a crowd of sailors standing in the hospital doorway, all waiting their turn, their wide eyes fixed on the private corner where Emily lay.

Osmund rolled his oversized tongue about. “They say they’ve either taken in some bad water or ingested too many weevils, sir.”

Leander folded his arms across his slender frame. “Gentlemen, unless you have fallen from the shrouds, broken your neck, or are bleeding profusely, I would ask that you come back later when there is sufficient air in here for us all to breathe.”

The men, excluding Octavius Lindsay and Morgan Evans, all shuffled out grumbling to themselves. Osmund broke into a succession of guffaws that sounded like the brays of a donkey, while Mr. Harding, the sailing master, keenly watched their departure from his hammock, his footless leg propped up at a forty-five-degree angle.

“Doctor,” he said with a grin, “I fear it’s not
your
services that brought them down here.”

“That is abundantly obvious,” replied Leander, uncrossing his arms. “Now, Mr. Lindsay, about that tonic …”

* * *

AT EIGHT BELLS, when his morning watch had ended, Gus Walby wandered into the hospital holding the first volume of
Sense and Sensibility
.

“May I read to Miss Emily, Doctor?”

Leander laid a long finger to his lips. “I just scared a dozen men away. If they learn you have been allowed to stay, I’ll be walking the plank at midnight. She’s only now awakened, Mr. Walby, and hasn’t yet taken breakfast.” He reached for the bowl and plate on his desk. “Her porridge is cold, but she may like some biscuits.”

Gus tucked his book under one arm and took the food from Leander. He walked carefully to Emily’s canvas corner, cleared his throat, and awaited her invitation to enter.

A landsman named Mr. Crump, who had just lost a leg to Leander’s blade the previous day, looked up from his nearby cot.

“Doctor, why would ya be turnin’ away all those sailors and allowin’ the likes of Mr. Walby a chance ta see her?”

“For the simple reason that Mr. Walby has only good intentions and I fear the other men do not.”

Leander, who was now moving from cot to cot, re-dressing wounds and checking for signs of infection, listened with great interest to the conversation behind the canvas.

“Good morning,” Gus chirped, setting Emily’s breakfast down on a shelf near the gunport.

“Good morning, Gus.” Emily tried raising herself in her cot, an action that sent a shot of pain down her arm. She gritted her teeth. “Better stay where I am,” she admitted finally. She lay back on her pillows and looked up at Gus. The sight of his youthful, innocent face warmed her heart.

“Did you have a good rest, Em?”

“I did, but only once the doctor gave me some laudanum. I recall hearing your mates above deck singing tunes about reckless sailors and cans of grog. And I suspect the doctor gave me some of
that
as well.” Emily noticed she was wearing a nightshirt and quietly wondered when and how she had been placed in it.

“The men dance and sing on deck every night they can unless the weather is poor.”

“Even when they’ve lost friends in battle?”

“That’s when they need it most, Em. Takes their minds off sad things.”

“I see.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’ll take breakfast later, thanks.” She did not want to tell him that the hospital smells had quite put her off eating.

Gus stepped closer to her cot. “May I ask how you broke your ankle?”

“I was fleeing a monster who stank like a manure patch.”

Gus’s eyes widened. “Was it the captain of the
Serendipity?
”

“No. It was his toady, Lind.”

“And did you jump overboard?”

“I did.”

“You were very brave to do so,” said Gus, looking quite impressed.

Emily lowered her voice. “Thanks to your gunners’ accuracy, an explosion of grapeshot tore through the stern windows, striking Lind down just as he was about to tie me up in the captain’s privy. I jumped out the broken windows and landed on something … a fallen mast, I believe.”

“Why was that man, Lind, going to tie you up in the privy?”

From within the dark hospital came the doctor’s insistent voice. “Mr. Walby, I understood you came by to
read
to Miss Emily.”

Gus’s face registered a look of guilt. “Oh! Would you like me to begin reading now?”

“Please.” Emily relaxed in the cot, a small smile on her lips, and listened to Gus’s sweet voice as he read Jane Austen’s book. She turned her head towards the opened gunport. The ocean waves of green, blue, and turquoise were strangely calming this morning. She watched them rise and fall, thankful for the light and a view to the outside world.

When she turned back to Gus, she found Dr. Braden’s sea-blue eyes gazing upon her through the crack in the canvas.

7:00 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)

BEFORE NIGHTFALL, as those members of the
Isabelle’s
crew not on watch began making their way to the weather decks with their flutes and fiddles for a bit of entertainment, James Moreland and Fly Austen entered the hospital with the purpose of speaking to Emily. With the help of Osmund Brockley, Leander had moved his remaining patients so that their hammocks hung as far from the canvas curtain as possible, affording the captain and his commander some privacy during their interview. Fly came bearing a can of grog and handed it to Emily, saying, “Compliments of our cook, who, I might add, was crestfallen he couldn’t deliver it to you personally.”

Sitting up in her cot with several extra pillows at her back, Emily quipped, “Is this to loosen my tongue before the interrogation?”

“Aye, we had thought it might help,” Fly confessed.

James stepped towards her cot, his arm extended. “James Moreland, ma’am. We did meet last night, but it was … well, you were …”