Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (51 page)

“I knows that sound,” said Beans, as if he were commenting on the weather. “They’s placed alongside us. Soon they be boardin’.”

A profound sadness descended upon the surgery. All was deathly silent until Mrs. Kettle continued her pronouncements of their imminent doom and a fresh round of wounded Serendipities limped or were carried through the door. Catching sight of them, Leander’s shoulders sagged, but he worked on, doing what he could for these men, although they were not his own. The cannons were quiet now, but cracks of musket fire and exploding grenades filled the air, and Emily thought she could hear the clash of swords. Above the din came an ominous noise of rhythmic pounding. Below, in the hold, the shouts of the men manning the pumps rose in anxious volume as did the cries of the carpenters trying in vain to pack oakum and bits of cotton and wool into the hull’s gaping seams.

Her stomach sickly with the stench of burned flesh, Emily moved wearily towards the ragged newcomers, discovering Octavius Lindsay among them. Giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts, she offered the water ladle to the others first, but when at last she came to him,
he
was the one who had difficulty meeting her eyes.

“It is … fitting … Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said haltingly, “that you should serve me last.”

Emily hardened her stare, not wanting to look down at the appalling dark stain around his belly that had deepened the blue of his officer’s jacket. “Given the affected nature of our relationship, it is a wonder I am serving you at all.”

“I am quite used to being served last.”

“Why is that, Mr. Lindsay?”

“I am my father’s eighth son.” He snickered and raised the water to his lips with his quivering, bloodstained fingers, then thought better of it. “Is it some form of poison to finish me off?”

Emily shook her head. “It will help a little while you wait.”

Octavius observed the other waiting men, perhaps silently taking note of their number, and slowly eased himself back against the surgery wall. “My confidence would be greater if it were simply one of my arms or legs …” His voice trailed off and his eyes fixed themselves on nothing in particular. Gone was the bravado he had displayed only a few hours earlier as
she
had stood in wretchedness by the ship’s wheel, having endured a sham of a wedding ceremony with a man she despised. Yet, despite the ruin of his once-white breeches and crisp uniform, his Hessian boots were unsullied, and reflected the lantern light over Leander’s table.

“I wanted a career in law, you know,” he said suddenly.

Deliberating the wisdom of staying with him, Emily finally asked, “Why, then, did you choose the navy?”

“For the simple reason that the
choosing
was done for me.” He coughed, and once he had recovered, an odd laugh burst from his lips. “If someone had told me I was going to find the King’s granddaughter by my side near the end, I – I might have lived my life differently.”

“How so, Mr. Lindsay?” Though her voice was challenging, the lump rising in her throat perplexed her. Cognizant of his spreading stain, she waited patiently for him to continue, but he had turned his head to the wall and closed his eyes, his features locked in a wince. Emily looked to Leander, who was now applying bandages to the badly burned torso of a powder monkey, the sound of the young lad’s sobbing agony only precipitating her lump to rise higher.

A violent pitch of the ship caused the
Serendipity’s
cargo to shift and several of her guns to break free from their binding tackles, the grinding, thumping clamour of it all striking fear in the men as if an explosion were about to blow them to bits. Emily was thrown up against the medicine cupboard and onto the floor. Leander and Joe unhooked the lurching lanterns seconds before a shocking torrent of water hurtled into the surgery like the flow of a tide, sending the wounded sailors – those of them who could – scrambling for the ladders.

Mrs. Kettle went hysterical when she found she could not get out of her hammock. “I needs to get outta here,” she shrieked. “I needs to tell ’em I ain’t Yankee.”

Cold water swirled around Emily’s legs. Every part of her ached and it was hard to breathe, for two dead sailors – their eyes staring into eternity – had pinned her to the cupboard. Beside her, a young sailor vomited, and panicking voices filled the air.

“The guns! They’re poundin’ our sides.”

“There’s too much water!”

“Abandon the pumps.”

“We’re founderin’.”

“Every man – every man fer himself.”

“Joe! Grab hold of Mrs. Kettle! You there, are you able to stand? Carry out whomever you can.”

Wedged between the cupboard and the wall, Octavius looked over at her, fear plainly written on his boyish face. Emily blinked back at him, astonished to think he was likely her age. “Give me your hand, Mr. Lindsay,” she said, surprised by her own words.

His breathing came in dreadful snatches, his coal-black eyes welled up with tears and he stared around him in despair.

“Come!” she insisted. “Perhaps you may still have your career in law.”

He did not reach out to her. Instead, his hand disappeared into his blood-drenched jacket. When it reappeared, he was wielding a small pistol. Emily froze in horror, knowing all too well what he was contemplating. She tried to plead with him, but her mouth would not move. Slowly, he cocked the trigger. Tears ran down his pimply face as he lifted the gun’s barrel to his temple. Silently, his lips moved. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he seemed to say as he pulled the trigger. Emily’s body convulsed as if the shot had ripped through her and not him. Crumpling against the solid mass of the cupboard, she gasped for air, trying to shut out the image of his shattered skull.

The gun blast heightened the hysteria in the surgery. Around them, the
Serendipity
whimpered like a wounded animal. The water level rose. The rhythmic pounding continued its funereal lament. In all the confusion, Emily sensed Leander nearby. Working quickly, he hauled the heavy bodies off her, locked his arm around her waist, and yanked her to her feet. She could see that his jaw was set, his feverish eyes fixed on the way out. “You must get out of here,” he cried, leading her to the ladder, already clogged with frantic men climbing for their lives.

3:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

ALONE ON THE ORLOP DECK of the
Prosperous and Remarkable
, Gus sat rigidly in his elaborately carved, ebony armchair, his ears fixed on the clash and pandemonium far above. Pemberton had given him a lamp so he would not be left in the dark, but its oil was sputtering, and with the brig leaning on its larboard and knocking up against another ship – at least that is what he guessed – he was having difficulty holding on to it. Should it fall from his precarious grasp – no, no, he would not allow his mind to travel there. Though the ship’s bell was no longer ringing the half-hours, Gus estimated it had been at least four hours since Pemberton had brought him down here. He had no idea what was happening, nor could he understand why it was all taking so long. Not knowing made it impossible to slow the disquieting beating of his heart. If the outcome were not a good one, would anyone remember he was hiding out in the brig’s bottom?

Like the feeble gasp of a dying mouse, the lantern went out.

Gus’s distraught voice stabbed the darkness. “Magpie? Prosper? Pemberton?” When no one came, he broke down and wept. He couldn’t help it. He was certain that any minute now Trevelyan and his dogs would come creaking down the ladder and …

“Help! Help! Please!”

He waited and listened, straining to hear something beyond the hammering of his heart. But hope faded when there came no reassuring replies, no hastening footsteps – only the lonely sounds of the muttering bilge water and the suffering ship that wreaked havoc with his head. No longer could Gus sit tight. With one tremendous effort he propelled himself out of the chair, screaming in agony as he did so, rolled over the hassock, and landed hard on the scummy planks of the orlop, jarring his broken body. He lay there for a moment, waiting for the overwhelming wave of pain and nausea to subside. Then, using his unsplintered forearms, he dragged himself to the ladder.

3:30 p.m.

Aboard the USS
Serendipity

EMILY THOUGHT SHE WOULD SUFFOCATE in the crush. She clung to Leander’s arm for dear life as he pressed forward on the ladder, determination transfixing his handsome features. Behind them, Joe Norlan escorted the sobbing Mrs. Kettle. Emily muttered a prayer of thanks that she was not following the laundress’s rump up to the next deck; it was bad enough that their progress was slowed by the many wounded who required assistance. Those who could not get a foothold on the ladder had already broken into the closets where Trevelyan housed his liquor. Happily, they uncorked their stolen bottles and guzzled the contents, the odd charitable sailor offering a swig or two to those hanging onto the ladder. Others stood about, seemingly unconcerned by the rising water, eating bread and cheese pilfered from the food storerooms.

When at last they reached the lower deck, Emily was shocked to find it deserted, except for a half-dozen or so men who were rummaging through ditty bags or sitting alone with their belongings, fingering coins, combs, letters, and silhouettes of loved ones. Nevertheless, the areas surrounding the ladders to the gun deck were seething with sailors who hoped, sooner or later, to gain the weather decks. The ship continued to list, no longer able to completely right itself. Emily gritted her teeth and kept her eyes forward. Her anxiety was impossible to ignore, but she took some comfort in feeling Leander’s hand on her arm.

As they jostled their way up the ladder like a herd of cattle en route to the slaughterhouse, Bun Brodie spotted them, and in his gravelly accent yelled out, “Give me yer hand, m’am.” With his strong right arm he hoisted Emily to the deck as easily as if she were a bucket in a well. At Joe’s urging, Bun did the same for Mrs. Kettle, though imperilling every muscle in his back as he did so. Once Leander and Joe had rejoined them, they stayed close to Bun, for he was reassuringly armed. Together they surveyed the final set of steps, watching in alarm as the aft hatchway became blocked with brawling men. Leander yelled for them to head fore. They dashed along the gun deck, kicking aside the scattered debris of battle – powder horns, shot, sponges, wads, ramrods, cartridge cases – and dodging the cannons that rolled dangerously about, rupturing the ship’s sides with their pounding weight. But when they came upon the wounded, huddled in tattered heaps where they had fallen, Emily slowed down, unable to look the other way. Their piteous pleas for mercy cut into her like a surgeon’s knife.

“Can we help them, Doctor?”

Leander tugged her forward. “I’ll come back for them.”

As they approached the fore hatchway, three Yankee sailors threatened them with their long sabres.

“Go on!” shouted Bun, shielding them with his immense frame as they began their ascent.

Leander lifted Emily up the ladder and hissed “Don’t look” in her ear. But his warning came too late. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bun shoot one of the sailors, and as he levelled his pistol a second time, one of the two remaining sailors, enraged by the loss of his friend, viciously hacked at Bun’s right arm, severing it completely. The gushing blood struck Leander in the side of his face and coated the wooden rungs under Emily’s feet like a grisly form of paint.

Reaching the main deck, they discovered Joe and Mrs. Kettle were no longer with them. Certain that Joe could take care of himself and his objectionable charge, Leander insisted they press onward. Swiftly he scanned the smoke-shrouded deck, as if assessing the best escape route. A small brig was lashed to the starboard rail of the listing
Serendipity,
and a gang of men was labouring furiously to cut the ropes of the grappling hooks that held the brig up on a precarious angle. Off the
Serendipity’s
larboard bow, Emily sighted a collection of boats plucking men from the sea, and in the dreary distance, a waiting ship. “Doctor,” she said, pointing, but Leander had already seen them and was pulling her in their direction. They scrambled over the bulwark and were steadying themselves on the slender ledge of the fore chains on the exterior of the hull, holding tightly to the railing – enemy shot had razed the standing rigging – when Emily suddenly lifted her head to listen. There was no mistaking the eager young voice that called out to her.

“Emily! Em! Em!”

Ignoring Leander’s protests, she spun around and searched the knot of men locked in hand-to-hand combat in and around the splintered remains of the foremast. There was Magpie, his felt hat pushed down upon his dark curls, his lost eye hidden behind a black patch. He was hopping about on the broken bowsprit as if it were scorching hot, waving two impossibly long dirks. No more than four feet from him, standing taller than the others, was Trevelyan, his face a grimace of indomitability as the blade of his sabre crashed down again and again upon his enemies. Around the imposing captain, four of his officers and marines were locked in a clash of swords with, among others, a sure-footed, florrid-faced man with fox-like features, and – Emily could hardly believe her eyes – Fly Austen.