Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (61 page)

Snatching the spyglass from the deep pocket of his new bottle-green coat, Leander placed it to his eye and scoured the waters around the King’s Naval Yard. The
Amethyst
lay anchored in the middle of the harbour in the company of six other ships-of-the-line, and HMS
Centurion
, now a hulk put to good use as a hospital and receiving ship, but there were no small boats travelling the distance between them and the shore. From his vantage point, Leander could see plenty of activity afoot in the yard: two small frigates were being constructed, the banging of the shipwrights’ hammers echoing over the water; a careened ship had a team of men stripping the barnacles from its hull; large kettles of pitch were being boiled; new masts were being hauled from the sail loft; a wall of stone was being erected; meat was being purchased in the victualling yard; a cluster of men stood chatting near the door of the blacksmith’s shop; and naval supplies were being transported to and from the various storehouses.

Leander turned his glass upon the Commissioner’s House, a three- storey architectural beauty with a sloping roof and large, harbour-facing windows which stood out from the rest of the low, flat nondescript wooden buildings and warehouses built around it. He was more than likely sure it was Fly’s location, for H.R.H. Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, had been known to stay there during his time in Halifax as commander-in-chief, and Captain Broke of HMS
Shannon
had been taken there to recuperate after his ship’s battle with the USS
Chesapeake
. Unfortunately, at this early hour, there was no one about except for a washerwoman hanging out the laundry.

Much to Leander’s chagrin, another attempt to read was thwarted by the appearance of the
Amethyst
’s own washerwoman, Meg Kettle, whose bulk he could see waddling up the ladder with her large basket. She was cursing and chuntering away to herself, and intent on invading his quiet domain in order to string up a few freshly laundered hammocks in the rigging of the mizzenmast. Laundry was rarely done on a Sunday — Mondays and Fridays being the more traditional days — but regardless of the day chosen for the task it was commonplace to hang it to dry in the fo’c’sle rigging. The problem was, with Captain Prickett away from the ship and the Amethysts still working on replacing the broken foremast, Mrs. Kettle was marching — as was her way — to her own rules, indulging in her own caprices.

Leander glanced up at the grumbling, grey-haired woman, whose hips were as broad as the ship’s beam, snapped his book shut once and for all, and addressed her in a cool manner.

“Are you unwell this morning, Mrs. Kettle, or just out-of-sorts?”

“I ain’t never well, Doctor,” she grunted, “on account o’ the babe in me belly, and the rotten work ya gives me to do. I were treated with more respect on Trevelyan’s ship.”

“And that surprises you?”

Mrs. Kettle ignored his remark. “Still can’t keep down me vittles in the mornin’.”

“Were you late getting to bed last night?”

“I’m late to bed ev’ry night, Doctor. Ya would knows that if ya was to leave behind yer books and doctorin’, and come have a wee bit o’ fun with us.”

“I’ve warned you before about the imprudence of drinking each evening in your condition. Perhaps if you were to entirely leave off your rations of grog, and avoid rum and ale when you are dancing with the men on deck, you might feel better.”

Mrs. Kettle’s eyes widened. “What other pleasures do I ’ave in this life, Doctor?”

Leander raised one of his auburn eyebrows to convey his disbelief.

Gathering up her mud-coloured calico skirt, Mrs. Kettle spun about and began fastening the wet hammocks to the rigging with fat wooden pegs. “It’s Prosper Burgo what puts me in a temper. Here I was thinkin’ maybe I’d found fer meself a decent man — a father fer me child what’s comin’ — and the scoundrel goes and runs off.”

“I believe the man is just trying to make a living. He’s not assigned to the
Amethyst
. He has a very good ship of his own.”

“He could ’ave asked me to go with him, now couldn’t he? Nay! The scoundrel ran off; he won’t be back.”

Leander mulled over how best to put his next theory into words. “Perhaps Mr. Burgo was discomfited by your
other
pleasures.”

Mrs. Kettle, arms akimbo, her sausage fingers drumming her ever-thickening waist, rounded on him. “And how else am I supposed ta earn me money? I git paid a pittance fer slavin’ on this ship, cleanin’ the lads’ stockings and dirty drawers. If I were to leave off lyin’ with the men, I might as well drown meself.”

“Yes, please,” whispered Leander to the wind.

“Ya think maybe I’m not good enough fer Prosper?” she cried, jabbing a finger at him. “Is that what yer sayin’?”

“I did not
say
such a thing, nor
think
such a thought.”

“Ya think yer so superior on account o’ that princess what fancied ya fer a week or two.” Mrs. Kettle quickly finished up with her hammocks, and groaned as she bent over to scoop up her basket from the deck. She then planted her feet on the ship’s planks to aim her last dart at Leander. “Ya ain’t no better than me, Doctor. Why the minute that harlot lands in London, she’ll ’ave the Quality vyin’ fer her — men with heaps o’ money and fancy titles — and afore long she’ll be forgettin about ya. Why, ya might as well ’ave gone down with the
Isabelle
.”

A dozen rejoinders burned in Leander’s brain before he made his reply. “Thank you for that, Mrs. Kettle. You know it puzzles me greatly that Mr. Burgo would ever have run off in the night and left you behind when you are so generous in manner … so affable a woman.”

Mrs. Kettle jerked her head backward in surprise, and was a long time in responding. “Well,” she snarled, kicking at the deck with the toe of her boot, “there ain’t no sense in ya dreamin’ ’bout somethin’ ya can’t ’ave.” With a toss of her chin, Mrs. Kettle marched across the poop deck, leaving Leander believing his day would have got off to a much better start if he had stayed in bed to eat his cheese and biscuit. Languidly he lifted the spyglass to his eye, and gave a silent word of thanks when the
Amethyst
’s launch immediately popped into view.

Fly was on his way at last.

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Hours later Leander
finally had his opportunity to speak to Fly in private. Upon his arrival back to the
Amethyst
, there was much he had to discuss with Lord Bridlington, and then of course he had to be present for both muster and the Sunday church service. Leander was writing a letter at his desk in the hospital when Fly, carrying a paper-wrapped parcel in his hands, came stomping down the ladder with a big grin on his face.

“Mr. Austen, I would kindly remind you that my patients require a bit of peace and quiet down here,” said Leander, folding up his letter and returning his friend’s smile.

“Aye! My apologies.” Fly glanced around the small space to find only one of the hospital hammocks filled. “Is Jim Beef still in a bad way?”

“No, he’s come through the swelling on his brain nicely, and periodically is conscious, though when awake he claims to be Davy Jones and enjoys pronouncing doom on the lot of us.”

“I understand he was a Tom o’ Bedlam from the Bethlem Hospital before he was deemed a
curable
and impressed upon the
Amethyst
. It is more than likely sure he thought of himself as Davy Jones many years ago.”

Leander chuckled as he pulled up a chair for Fly. “Come sit and tell me of the amusements in Halifax, and all the manner of debauchery you have indulged in over the past few days. In your absence, my life has been dull; my company the fretful Mr. Bridlington — you’d think the man had lost
all
of his limbs — and the ill-natured Mrs Kettle. If it weren’t for little Magpie, I believe I would’ve thrown myself into one of my hammocks, and happily joined Mr. Beef in his madness.”

Fly’s gaze fell upon Leander’s letter. “Ah, I see you are busy writing again.”

Hastily, Leander stuffed the folded parchment into his sloped writing box (the one Morgan Evans had recently knocked together for him) that sat atop his desk and turned the key in its tiny lock. “You are changing the subject on me. I asked about Halifax.”

Fly plunked his parcel down upon the desk, flipped the chair around backward, and straddled it. “And if your red face is any indication, I’m guessing it’s addressed to the enigmatic Emeline.”

“Actually,” Leander began, hoping to keep his flush in check, “I’m writing a love letter to Mrs. Kettle. I thought, now that Prosper Burgo has left us and he is seemingly out of the way, I should unburden the longing in my bosom to the woman. My only worry is that the long-absent Mr. Kettle may one day surface.”

Much to Leander’s discomfort, Fly — his facial features twisted in a stultifying grin — stared him down.

“I … I only hope,” he stammered, “that
she
has made it safely to England by now.” Fly’s stare grew brighter and more unsettling. “And, I confess, I would like to know if she still … if she still thinks of me occasionally.”

Fly leaned forward to punch Leander on his upper arm. “While I do believe she’s now safely in London — for only the most foolhardy would have attempted to attack Clarence and his flotilla — I rather doubt she still thinks of you. Knowing she may never see you again, Emily has most likely decided to make the most of her marriage to Thomas Trevelyan. Hmmm … unless … have you told her that you have now managed to put aside five shillings for your future?”

Leander shook his head in wonder. “You are quite astute at savaging a poor man’s confidence, Mr. Austen.”

Fly laughed and began wrestling with the string holding his paper-wrapped parcel together. “You do know, old friend, I’m not
all
brute. Let me show you what I have here, and then I’ll tell you something that may lift up the corners of your sad mouth.”

Heartened, Leander watched as Fly peeled back the paper layers to reveal a feast of food. “I’ve been spoiled these past days at the Commissioner’s House; therefore, I could not countenance returning to Biscuit’s cooking, and a meal that might include his lobscouse or fried goat — though I do hope he has brought in fresh vegetables and soft bread, and perhaps some unsalted beef for the men from shore. So, before quitting Halifax, I did a bit of shopping as well as a bit of pilfering —”

“Hopefully not in the victualling yard,” interjected Leander, hungrily eyeing the spread of fresh rolls, cold chicken, boiled eggs, ripe strawberries, and apple pastries.

“Certainly not! Nay! I was able to charm a good lady into opening up her bakeshop early for the rolls and pastries; the rest I stuffed into my pockets while breakfasting in the company of Captain Prickett, a few vice- admirals and members of local gentry. It’s amazing really the strawberries aren’t mashed to a pulp.”

Leander grimaced. “In your pockets?”

“I jest, old friend, eat up.”

Producing two clean cloths, which would serve as napkins, from a cupboard at his back, Leander tossed one at Fly, and then the two men set about to eat the cold chicken and eggs with their hands.

“Your news, Fly,” Leander soon said, trying to quell the eagerness in his voice. “Don’t keep me waiting any longer.”

“Right then! The truth is … I bring both good and bad news,” said Fly, wiping his fingers on his cloth. “I’ll begin with the good. Prickett has presented his resignation from the Royal Navy to the Admiralty, citing his age, and complaints of rheumatism and fluttering nerves. I shall soon be assuming command of the
Amethyst
.”

“Congratulations! I know how difficult it’s been for you to stand by while Prickett and Bridlington pretend to lead the Amethysts.”

“I have been waiting for another command for a long time now. And … we’ve been given fresh orders. Running into that American privateer in the fog a few days back was exceptional. Business has dried up in these parts, for our merchantmen rarely sail unescorted nowadays. The result? Our enemy has now found new hunting grounds. As so many of our ships are blockading the French in their harbours, or over here doing the same thing to the American warships, our enemy privateers are having great success in striking where we are
not
— in the waters around Britain.”

Leander looked at Fly blankly. “You’re telling me that we shall be securing the shores of England from American privateers, preying on our trading ships?”

“Aye, we shall be!”

Leander leaned back against the bony spindles of his chair, looking somewhat dejected. “I am happy for your new command and for your new orders, but I must ask … knowing we are simply taking our fight into new waters … that I will continue my days on this ship, sewing up heads and lopping off limbs … how
did
you think this news might cause me to smile?”

Fly began tapping the smooth, rounded curve on the back of his chair. “My new command and new orders can wait; I’ve been called back to London for two reasons: firstly, to attend an inquiry regarding the loss of the
Isabelle
—”

“Yes, why is it,” interjected Leander, “a court-martial has not yet been called to settle the affair?”

“For the simple reason that, in order to do so, there must be present at least five captains or admirals in the court, and preferably more, especially when Britain suffered such a great loss.”

“And the second reason?”

“To testify at Trevelyan’s trial. A date has not yet been set for it; however, Whitehall wants me in the city, to stand there prepared when the time comes.”

Still not satisfied, Leander furrowed his brow.

“And you, my friend, having been a witness to the destruction of Captain Moreland’s
Isabelle
, and subsequently been kidnapped by Trevelyan … along with the king’s granddaughter —” Fly paused to give his friend a long, significant look. “
You
are going with me.”

5

Sunday, August 8

3:00 p.m.