Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (79 page)

Saturday, August 21

8:30 p.m.

(First Watch, One Bell)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

Morgan scaled the
ratlines of the futtock shrouds, careful not to overturn the two small pails — one of soup, the other of ale — swinging from his leather belt, and found Magpie huddled on the foretop, steadfastly peering through Mr. Austen’s spyglass into the vast and vigorous sea.

“I swear, Magpie, if you don’t rest up, that thing will stay plastered to your eye.”

Lowering the glass, Magpie smiled up at Morgan, and crawled to a corner of the top’s D-shaped platform to make room for him. It saddened Morgan to see the boy’s blotchy face — a telltale sign of his inner turmoil. For two days now, he had stayed at his post in his quest to find Dr. Braden, Biscuit, and the others who had tried to rescue him; the only person visiting him — up until this moment — was Mr. Austen. Last evening, Captain Prickett had insisted they push on toward England, pronouncing it a waste of time,
“…
searching for men who had already met their God.”
But Magpie would not give up. He had refused to abandon the platform during the nights, lashing himself to the timbers so he wouldn’t roll off, thinking he might spot a lantern burning, or hear a gunshot across the water. Not one of the Amethysts working on the yards around his lofty lookout dared to tell the boy it was unlikely the skiff had been fitted out with paraphernalia such as guns and candles.

Morgan began to untie the pails at his waist. “I would’ve brought you some coffee, but I wasn’t allowed. We’re short on water ’cause a few of our scuttlebutts were stove in during the storm.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Is there anything else I can get for you?”

Magpie looked hopeful. “Could ya ask Jacko to stitch me up a new pair o’ shoes?”

“What happened to yours?”

“I fed ’em to the sea beasts.”

“You what?”

“I didn’t want ’em feedin’ on me legs.”

Morgan chuckled when comprehension dawned upon him. “That was clever of you. Someone, somewhere, must’ve told you that leather, when soaked in water, makes a good meal.”

“Biscuit told me, sir.”

“Well, thankfully, our Scottish cook never tried serving us lads a pot of stewed shoes.”

Magpie went quiet and stared absently at the contents of his soup pail, leaving Morgan anxious for more conversation. Studying the accumulation of leaden clouds above the topgallants, he quickly said, “I’ll fetch you a cape; looks like we’re in for some rain.”

Magpie nodded in gratitude.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you whatever happened to your
Isabelle
hat. I haven’t seen you wearing it for a while now.”

“I lost it,” said Magpie gruffly, as if to curtail further inquiries on the subject.

“Oh. Well, I … I can’t stay long. Mr. Austen said I could bring you your soup, so long as neither Prickett nor Bridlington see me.”

Magpie peeked up at him, concern etched on his face. “If ya don’t mind me askin’, sir, what did they give ya?”

Raising his fingers one at a time, Morgan spelled it out for him, listing the five punishments Captain Prickett had gravely and ceremoniously heaped upon him yesterday morning in the great cabin. “No grog for a week; no more singing on deck with the lads in the evening; forfeiture of any prize money we gain on this cruise; I have to holystone the entire quarterdeck ’til we reach England; and —” he paused to display amusement in the form of a broad smile, “and never again may I stand within twenty feet of Lord Bridlington.”

Magpie whistled his relief. “Oh, Mr. Evans, I were so worried they might strap ya to gratin’ and give ya a hundred lashes.”

“I’m lucky, Magpie, very lucky to have Mr. Austen fighting on my behalf. If Bridlington were captain, he’d have had me strung up. Why I’d be hanging here now, beside you on the yardarm, my neck all stretched, my face all blackened, my eyes bulging from their —”

Magpie quickly clapped his hands over his ears. “I can’t hear it, sir. Even thinkin’ they might have killed ya churns me up.”

“I’m sorry.” Morgan tapped the boy’s thin shoulder. “Tell you what, you eat up your meal and come down the lines with me. The lads would love to hear you play your flute. It’s been such awhile, and they’re hankering to hear
Heart of Oak
, and that favourite of yours, the one about the grazing sheep.”

“I don’t have the heart fer it, sir,” said Magpie. “I need to stay here.”

Morgan nodded his understanding. “But you can’t live on the platform forever. At least come down and sleep in your own hammock.”

“I ain’t goin’ back to the sail room at night, sir.”

“Why not?”

Morgan grew suspicious when Magpie was so long in answering. “I had a bad dream down there, sir.”

“Then return to the hospital. That way you’ll be with others.”

“I don’t like bein’ called Maggot Pie.”

Morgan smirked and slowly raised an upturned fist. “You know, it felt awfully good giving Bridlington a punch in the face. Maybe Mrs. Kettle needs one too.”

“Ya wouldn’t hit a woman, would ya, sir? Even if she’s right nasty?”

“One of these days … I just might.”

There was a brief brightening of Magpie’s expression, but all too quickly the light left his eye and he turned toward the western horizon where, despite the gathering darkness above the ship, the sea was still drenched in evening sunshine.

“I keep thinkin’ I hear Dr. Braden out there, callin’ to me, tryin’ to alert me to his whereabouts. And I wonder if he’s feelin’ cold and hungry and has to eat
his
leather shoes, and he’s worried he’ll never get to England to see his Em —” Magpie broke into a sob.

Morgan waited, giving the boy time to collect himself. “Come down with me, Magpie.”

“I can’t, sir.”

“Then tell me, how much longer do you intend to stay at this?”

“’Til I find Dr. Braden, ’til I no longer hear his voice.” Magpie raised the spyglass to his eye. “When he stops callin’ out to me.”

Midnight

The haunting clangs of
the ship’s bell, denoting the end of the First Watch, gave Magpie a start on the foretop. Pulling the hooded cloak — the one Mr. Evans had kindly brought for him — closer still around his shivering shoulders, he lifted his face to the rain. He was chilled to the bone and in dire need of sleep, but he had to stay awake … he had to stay alert. What if Dr. Braden was out there right now, trying to signal the ship, his ebbing voice muffled by wind and waves? Over and over again, Magpie imagined the momentous moment when the
Amethyst
’s lost skiff would at long last come into view and he would cry out, “Heave to,” so loudly and with such spirit; he would afterward surely collapse in happiness. What a magnificent reunion they would all have! There would be clapping and singing and dancing, and he would pick up his flute and play the most joyous tunes he knew, and Captain Prickett would strut about the quarterdeck with his short arms hoisted high, calling for a celebratory feast, though he surely wouldn’t dare insist Biscuit prepare it for the cook would be waterlogged. It was this happy image that preserved him through the long, cheerless hours of waiting.

Magpie gave his cheeks a vigorous slapping to stave off the heaviness of sleep. When the rain had first come, the topmen had been ordered up the mast to trim the fore topsail against the strengthening winds; now the footropes and yards were empty, those same men presumably asleep in their warm beds. It gave Magpie some comfort knowing he was not totally alone, that there were others moving about on the weatherdecks. At the very least, the helmsman would be standing at the wheel behind his lighted compasses in their binnacle; the Officer of the Watch would be recording the wind directions, as well as the ship’s course and speed on the log board; and a poor, able seaman would be balancing in the chains, heaving the lead to make certain they were still navigating in deep water. But up here — one hundred feet up the foremast — it was a lonely, secluded place at midnight, and the sea emitted such eldritch sounds, as if, somewhere out there in the gusty darkness, a gaggle of witches was chanting over its bubbling potions. If only Morgan Evans would come for another visit, and present him with a pail of steaming coffee and a happy explanation that, despite the dearth of drinking water, an exception had been made for him.

No sooner was Magpie done wishing for Morgan than a figure appeared below in the misty gloom of the foredeck, and — to his initial delight — started up the starboard ratlines. Wiping the rain from his eye, Magpie blinked into the depths below his perch. The figure climbed awkwardly, with one hand holding a round hat to his head. He had the gait of a gangling individual, all arms and legs, and scaling the ropes seemed exhausting and unnatural to him. An icy chill crossed Magpie’s neck, as if ghostly hands had touched him. This was no friend coming with coffee and companionship, in pursuit of a bit of skylarking. And that hat he was wearing … well, Magpie was certain of it … it was his own, the one he had taken from the dead, drifting sailor after the burning of the
Isabelle
.

Magpie grasped at the safety ropes that bound him to the top, incited by barbarous thoughts of being strangled by a pair of calloused hands and hurled into the sea like the fetid contents of Osmund Brockley’s sick-bay bucket. No one would see, no one would know, and if anyone did hear a splash in the night they would think it nothing more than the crash of a wave. Beneath his square of oak timber — all that separated Magpie from the spectre, indefensible as a bird’s eyrie — came a throaty voice, which rose up in a most dreadful declaration: “Woe and despair, woe and despair to all. The sea shall rise up and swallow the dead.”

Magpie screamed at his ropes, cursing his rubbery, ineffectual fingers. His only chance for escape was fleeing down the larboard ratlines before the spectre had completed his own climb of the starboard rigging. But he had to move … now! A gurgle of laughter sent Magpie recoiling in shock, afraid to meet the blazing eyes that suddenly appeared, level with the platform. Slowly, deliberately, the spectre exposed the gruesome lineament of his face, and though obfuscated by the night, the lettering of HMS
Isabelle
embroidered across the round hat was clearly legible.

From his swollen lips there came another dark declaration. “Penitence and obscurity, and the little sailmaker shall be no more.”

Feeling the ropes loosen around him, Magpie rolled away, as far as he could from his unwelcome visitor, and, in an effort to gain the larboard ratlines, grabbed two blocks of tackle. But the spectre moved quickly. Like the tongue of a lizard, one of his sinewy arms shot out, snatching up Magpie’s bare foot and tugging and pumping on it gleefully, as if it were a toy. Within seconds hostile hands had closed around Magpie’s leg, and he felt himself being dragged to the edge of the foretop, like a vanquished soldier from the lofty parapets of his king’s castle, surely to be dropped and smashed upon the fo’c’sle. Locking his arms around the mast, Magpie squirmed and kicked with all his might, but all in vain, for the spectre’s grip was vicelike, his strength overwhelming. With a violent yank, Magpie was pulled from the security of the mast’s stump, his trembling fingers desperately scraping along the wooden platform, his legs soon dangling in the vast emptiness of the night air. Only a matter of seconds stood between life and a ghastly descent to his doom. Mustering his voice, he cried out for help, praying someone on watch would hear his plea. Squeezing his good eye shut, he waited for the inevitable plunge.

But it never came.

Mysteriously, the pernicious clutches let go, the spectre having turned abruptly away, vanishing from view as if something or someone had distracted him, and he was now engrossed in hurrying to deliver his reign of terror on another victim. His mutterings — now incoherent — gradually receded, becoming nothing more than an eerie echo, until, silenced completely, the gusty night resumed its fury in Magpie’s ears. Breathing heavily, his chest a madhouse of palpitations, Magpie crawled back to the lubber’s hole in the centre of the top where the huge mast rose up from the fore deck and, through the large cracks, peered into the rainy mists below. He could see no one on the shrouds or anywhere about on the deck. The spectre’s visit seemed as fantastical as his dreams of being reunited with Dr. Braden.

Laying his head down on the cold, wet platform, Magpie wept with relief.

Sunday, August 22

Noon

At Sea

The nights proved to
be so bitterly cold that the men were forced to huddle with one another to keep from perishing, but during the daylight hours, if the sun dominated the skies, their existence in the skiff was tortuous. To safeguard his freckled skin and hot head against the sun, Leander dipped his coat into the sea and wrung it out before slipping his arms into it, and then wrapped his muslin shirt around his head like a turban.

“I’d do the same, Doc, but if we’ve a chance o’ bein’ spotted I’d best keep me shock o’ hair unbound,” said Biscuit, reaching instead for his flask of grog. “That way we might be perceived as a burnin’ vessel, and someone might come lookin’.”

Leander’s weary gaze slid past the single mast and four-sided lugsail — with which the eighteen-foot skiff had propitiously been fitted out — toward the squared-off stern where two of their three companions lay asleep, curled up and half-naked under a makeshift roof of knotted shirts and trousers, while the third, who had barely said a word since the storm, kept wetting the sail to hold the light wind. Leander was thankful that not one of them had been lost; it was already more than he could bear, this gnawing fear, this drifting around in the Atlantic, wondering if there was any chance for survival, and, if not, would they all starve or be slowly roasted to death. Admittedly, he was strangely comforted by the presence of Biscuit, as the cook seemed genuinely nonchalant about their circumstances and, having no spirit for conversation, he was content to listen to Biscuit’s endless chatter, even though, after almost a week of it, the man had now taken to repeating himself and his seafaring yarns.