Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (76 page)

Twitch ignored Trevelyan’s admonishment to parade before him, very nearly tripping him up. “Got me a new coat too. What d’ya think o’ it?”

Stifling his annoyance, Trevelyan replied, “It doesn’t fit you properly. It’s much too big.”

“Right! But ain’t it fine? It’s velvet to be sure.” Twitch lifted up the hem of his coat and caressed the material as if it were the hand of a lady.

“It is far too hot to be wearing a coat of velvet.”

“Just what the poor bastard I stole it from said to me.”

“You stole it?”

“Aye! Heard him complainin’ ’bout the heat, so I filched it last night whilst he slept. Overheard someone askin’ him this mornin’ where his coat had got to, and he said,
‘What coat? I’ve never owned a coat in me life.’
I tell ya, the man’s brain is out o’ order. They say he’s been livin’ on prison hulks fer four years all told.”

“That explains it,” said Trevelyan dryly, taking sudden note of a group of official-looking men, outfitted in a variety of uniforms, boarding the hulk. They walked about on deck with an aggressive stride, presumably meant to intimidate, and shoved aside those prisoners who faltered in their way. When all eight of them had stepped on board, they sought out the insignificant lieutenant-in-command.

“Ya should try gamblin’ with me some time,” suggested Twitch.

“I prefer to keep my clothes, thank you.”

“Come winter, think o’ the pretty price this coat’ll fetch.”

“Come winter, I don’t intend to be here.”

Twitch guffawed, his unfortunate mouth thrown to one side of his face as he did so. “Right! Now, if ya was to take up gamblin’, and wagered yer captain’s breeches and shirt, ya might get yerself a decent supply o’ tobacco and enough burgoo and turnip to fill yer belly, though it be a shame ya no longer have yer jacket.”

Trevelyan did not answer straightaway, having been distracted by a new commotion and an order to
“make way.”
The ship’s company of boys was removing two skeletal corpses from the hulk, bound in their filthy hammocks, their eyes and mouths still open in a ghastly grimace. They should have been transported to the hospital ship in the harbour long ago; instead, their illnesses were ignored. As he followed the boys’ weaving and bobbing through the prisoners, Trevelyan silently cursed his circumstances.

The slovenly lieutenant had told him he would soon be transported to Newgate, but that with its overcrowding and the daily influx of new prisoners there would be a delay. “Be thankful,” he had jeered, “the sooner you get there, the sooner they’ll hang you.”
Surely
, thought Trevelyan,
there was some living relation of his who would soon learn of his whereabouts and send money, or see to his being paroled in a nearby town
. He was an officer, not a common seaman, and despite the list of offences mounted against him, he was — he believed — still eligible for parole. If he stayed here much longer, he would die. They were carrying out the dead at an alarming rate, not surprising when pestilence raged in every crevice of the hulk, and the air was so fetid below deck some had suffocated to death.

Finally, he responded to Twitch, no hint of his anxiety in his evenly spoken tone. “Sidle over to those men who just came aboard and find out what their business is with the lieutenant.”

Without questioning his mission, Twitch set off, elbowing his way to the capstan, around which the newcomers stood in their discussions. Wincing in pain with every step, Trevelyan pressed on with his exercise, looking back over his shoulder at every opportunity to observe Twitch’s progress. The simpleton had flattened his meagre body against the bulwark, behind the carriage of a dormant six-pounder broadside gun — the only gun still on the fo’c’sle deck — to do his eavesdropping. The official men, so absorbed in conversation, seemed oblivious to the pathetic humanity limping around them.

In no time at all, the eavesdropper returned.

“What’s all that about?” demanded Trevelyan.

“They’re plannin’ to move a bunch o’ us, split us up between the hulks, some to Chatham on the Medway; the French to Portchester Castle, and some to that new prison at Dartmoor.”

“When?”

“All’s they said was within the week.”

Trevelyan acknowledged his findings with a nod. “Anything else?”

Twitch’s crooked smile spread slowly across his face. “I believe yer one o’ the ones they’re movin’.”

“Why is that?”

“They’re sendin’ some to Newgate in London!” he chuckled.

Trevelyan was careful not to show his alarm. Twitch obviously knew more about him than he had suspected. Did the others as well? They carried on around the deck, Twitch chattering about the number of prisoners that had perished during his brief captivity on the
Illustrious
, relishing his own graphic descriptions of their fatal maladies, while Trevelyan, his mind miles away and racing like the clouds overhead in the summer sky, eyed the simpleton’s newly acquired velvet coat and tricorne.

17

Thursday, August 19

1:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

When his eye opened
upon the day, Magpie was relieved and grateful to find himself at home, in the warmth of the
Amethyst
’s hospital. Mr. Austen was standing tall next to his hammock, the brass buttons on his uniform coat reflecting sunshine, and Osmund Brockley was hovering nearby, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as usual, his hands clasped around a bowl of steaming gruel. Magpie kept his eye fixed on the kindly face of Mr. Austen, determined not to dispense any notice at all to Meg Kettle, who filled the hammock next to him — probably shirking her chores and faking illness — her features all contorted in a sour expression as she mouthed the words “Maggot Pie!”

“How’s the head?” asked Mr. Austen, blinking down at him.

Feeling tenderness near his left ear, Magpie’s probing fingers landed on a bump the size of a quail’s egg. “How’d I get this?”

“You don’t remember?”

Magpie’s face wore a frown until he caught his breath in remembrance. “I were in the sea, and gettin’ tired and cold, and waitin’ for Emily to come.”

“EMILY?” cackled Meg with glee. “Yer a daft one, all right!”

“Hush!” cried Fly. “Mr. Brockley, fetch Mrs. Kettle her breakfast this instant; her tongue requires occupation.” Fly relieved Osmund of his bowl of gruel and handed it to Magpie. “Now then, tell me why you were waiting for Emily?”

“I thought I were dyin’, sir. I thought she might be comin’ to take me to the other place.”

“Well, you’re very much alive, Magpie, and if we’re to keep you that way, you must eat something. You’ve been lying here for a few days, and each time you came to we weren’t able to get you to swallow more than a spoonful of soup.” There was a melancholy cast in Mr. Austen’s eyes that Magpie didn’t like to see, and his smile was inordinately solicitous.

Magpie sat upright with his bowl. “How’d I get back on the ship, sir?”

Mr. Austen folded his arms across his chest. “Ah! Would you believe a leviathan wave? It swept you up and, like a barrel, rolled you right back to us. You landed in on the quarterdeck, whereupon you knocked your head about, but you returned to us safely, for which we are
all
most thankful.”

In response to Mr. Austen’s declaration there came a snarling sound from Mrs. Kettle’s hammock, like a pack of dogs fighting over a chunk of meat, its owner trying but failing to exasperate Magpie, who was so happy to feel the gruel warming his empty stomach and to have the momentous presence of the commander at his bedside. Turning his back to Mrs. Kettle, Magpie silently thanked the stars for his safe return. On the deck above the hospital the air was infused with the steady banging of hammers and carefree voices. Sunshine poured in through the open gunports, and the
Amethyst
was travelling on a tranquil sea. Osmund Brockley, who was never one to work quietly, stepped lightly about on the floor planks and, once he had secured food for Mrs. Kettle, wordlessly tended to the bruised head of a third patient. In the centre of the hospital, sun shadows danced upon Dr. Braden’s desk, empty except for the locked writing box, which Morgan Evans had knocked together for him in Halifax. Though Magpie felt a sense of well-being, free from the terrors of the stormy sea, something unpleasant began to prick at his waterlogged brain.

Mr. Austen stepped closer to his bed, clasping his hands behind his back. It gave Magpie a pain in the pit of his stomach to see Mr. Austen looking very drawn, like a sail deprived of its driving wind. He wondered if he was going to say something more to him, perhaps question him further on his experiences alone in the big ocean, but a step on the hospital ladder diverted the man’s attention. It was Morgan, pulling the woolly thrum cap from his head, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Magpie beamed at him, so glad he was to see him, and yet Morgan did not, would not, look his way.

“Excuse me, sir, Captain Prickett wishes to speak with you. He asked that you come straightaway.”

Spying Mr. Evans, Mrs. Kettle started in her hammock. “What’s all this? Yer still about? I woulda thought ya’d been clapped in irons by now fer all yer mischief.”

In bewilderment, Magpie’s eye hopped from the carpenter to the commander and back again.

“I don’t suppose,” muttered Mr. Austen, raising his hand to silence the laundress, “you know what he wishes to see me about, do you, Mr. Evans?”

“I have an idea, sir, but I don’t like to say,” Morgan replied, his eyes never leaving Mr. Austen.

“I’ll come. In the meantime, may I ask … could you stay a while with Magpie? Maybe take him above deck when he has eaten … if he feels strong enough to take some fresh air? I haven’t yet had a chance to … I was about to, but —”

Morgan’s reply was swift. “Aye, sir. I will, sir.”

Without a parting word or glance, Mr. Austen hurried from the hospital. Magpie’s heart pounded in his chest as he waited for Morgan to locate a stool and carry it to the side of his bed away from Mrs. Kettle.

“What’s happened, sir?” he asked in a frightened whisper. “Why should ya be clapped in irons? And why … why is Mr. Austen so aggrieved?”

There were tears working in the corner of Morgan’s eyes when he finally lifted them to Magpie. “When you were in the sea,” he whispered, “five men set out in the skiff to get you. You came back, all on your own, but
they
couldn’t reach the
Amethyst
, and
we
couldn’t steer her toward them.”

A stone dropped in Magpie. He remembered … those familiar voices that had called out to him over the howling wind, so close to where he was fighting for his life, and those strong, comforting hands grabbing for him … latching onto his shirt just as the wave came … the one that had wrenched him away …

He looked up at Morgan to await the final answer.

“I’m afraid … we lost them.”

1:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)

A sober-sounding
Captain Prickett invited Fly to enter the great cabin.

“Do come in, Mr. Austen. Sit yourself down and I’ll have my servant get you a glass of refreshing wine. Goodness knows you could use it, seeing as your appearance reminds me of a fish caught on a hook.”

Fly seated himself next to Bridlington, who lost no time in inviting attention to his facial injuries by fingering the bandages around his mouth. “You asked to see me?”

“That I did!” Prickett swivelled in his cushioned chair to give loud instructions to the hovering waif to fetch them wine and a dish of sweets, and then eyeballed Fly.

“Now then, two things, first of which is this sorry business involving Mr. Evans. It must be settled. What do you suggest as a form of punishment?”

“I will tell you with honesty,” Fly said with a sorrowful shake of his head, “it is my
wish
we do nothing at all.”

Bridlington nearly jumped out of his boots. “Mr. Austen! We cannot let this pass. Your chap assaulted me. Why I hardly have a tooth left in my head.”

Allowing his glance to rove over Bridlington, who sat cross-legged and trout-faced in the comfort of his armchair, Fly felt a powerful temptation to inform the first lieutenant he would have done the same had he been in Mr. Evans’s place. It was therefore necessary to restrain his thoughts before he again opened his mouth. “My apologies … I’m afraid I’ve no appetite for discipline, my mind being full of nothing beyond the loss of our five men.”

“Put aside your soft feelings, Mr. Austen, and think clearly. Violence to a superior may result in death,” admonished Prickett, so serious in his demeanour, such a far cry from the slobbering bump in his hammock that Fly had seen earlier in the week.

“And Mr. Evans has been allowed to wander at will these past days,” Bridlington said, his speech an unfortunate sequence of lisps and whistles. “It’s abominable that we’ve not taken any action against the man, and now the men are whispering that the
Amethyst
is managed by milksops.”

“I’ve told you before, Bridlington, you
are
a milksop!” said Prickett, his reproach leaving his second-in-command muttering under his breath. “Naval law dictates a punishment must be exacted no later than twenty-four hours after the transgression. In any event, we
have
had our reasons for delay, but now Mr. Austen, I require your immediate counsel in the matter. How shall we proceed?”

Fly answered quickly. “Mr. Evans is one of our best men, industrious and loyal, and his skill as a carpenter is unparalleled. You’ve seen how well he’s organized the men and patched up the damage done by the storm. I plead for leniency in his case.”

Prickett rubbed his nose in circles as he considered the situation, while a red-faced Bridlington squealed, “Leniency? I’ll settle for nothing less than a flogging.”

Fly looked toward Prickett. “Might we take a moment to consider Lord Bridlington’s ill-conceived remarks prior to Mr. Evans having struck him?”

“By all means! Bridlington, forthwith!” said Prickett. “What exactly did you say that caused Mr. Evans to erupt like a volcano?”