Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (86 page)

The transportation dragged on. Trevelyan compared the sorry business to his imminent execution, only the executioner had decided to eat his lunch before carrying out his gruesome task. Perspiration rolled down his chest, his bare feet burned on the scorching timbers of the deck, his frayed nerves already made breathing difficult, but the close proximity of others pressing up against him gave him an unbearable sense of suffocation. The sun grew hotter still. The air grew increasingly fetid. And those already weakened by deprivation and want began to drop to the deck. Harassed by the English officers and their angry impatience, the lieutenant ordered the lines to move out with their escorts, even if it meant tripping over those who had fallen.

Trevelyan made his move, this time swiftly, squeezing into the bit of space left vacant by a wizened, bearded prisoner who had fortuitously fainted beside him and, most likely, passed from life. He hoped there was far too much chaos in the removal of bodies for anyone to notice the hunchbacked Thomas Trevelyan being led off the rotting decks of the
Illustrious
in his filthy drawers, away from those guards and boys and other assorted company who might recall his face.

He had managed to painfully descend the wooden stairs, and had just stepped into his designated launch — cheered at having made it this far — when nearby voices suddenly sent his pulse escalating. No more than five feet away from him was Twitch, crammed into the launch with the others headed for Newgate and Woolwich, being questioned by two English officers.

“
You
are Captain Thomas Trevelyan?” said one of them incredulously.

“I am,” was Twitch’s solemn answer, his shrunken body shivering.

The second officer guffawed. “Why you’re just a corpuscle! You’re right puny! And
you
have set all of England quaking in their beds at night?”

“We were expecting a hairy monstrosity with fangs and a serpent’s tail.”

They both gave Twitch’s rear end a thorough inspection, but seeing nothing untoward they burst into laughter before giving him a dismissive shove. Gathering around him his dignity and his fine, loose-fitting rags, which hung from him like draperies, Twitch held his head high, and fixed his blinking gaze upon the distant town of Portsmouth. Trevelyan shot an anxious glance toward the two sentry huts on the floating gallery. Had the guards posted there overheard the jocular exchange? He kept thinking, any time now, a dozen guards would pounce upon him, shrieking obscenities, foaming at the mouth in their enthusiasm to either rip him apart or empty their bullets into his bare chest. But their attention was directed upon the slowly descending prisoners, as if they fully expected a number of them, in one last desperate attempt to escape their fate, to hurl themselves into the harbour. Trevelyan felt his shoulders droop with relief. Closing his eyes, he was able, for the first time, to draw deep breaths.

No one bothered to make inquiries about Asa Bumpus of New Bedford, who had been slated for Dartmoor Prison, and who, instead, was heading for another prison hulk, moored in the Medway River at Chatham.

5:00 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

Captain Prickett came
hurrying onto the poop deck, his shirttails flying behind him like a billowing jib sail, his pillows having wreaked havoc upon his hair.

“Oh, Mr. Austen, I do apologize for oversleeping,” he said, tucking his shirt into his stained breeches, and peeking sheepishly about at the milling Amethysts. “Now tell me why the hospital is suddenly full of men? And guns, I heard guns! What’s going on?”

“Mr. Brockley didn’t offer you an explanation?”

“Not at all! When I awoke he was nowhere to be found, and neither, for that matter, was Mrs. Kettle.”

Fly’s voice was measured in good patience, though he longed to inform the captain that the blast of guns had first rang through the air hours ago. “We are still following the movements of the two ships we spotted yesterday.”

Prickett looked nervously into the distances. “Yes, yes, but who are they? And what is their business? And why are they firing their guns?”

“We’ve not been able to ascertain.”

“Why not?”

Before giving Prickett a full accounting of the carronade accident, Fly peered down the length of the ship to see if he could spot Bridlington. If the first lieutenant were to catch sight of Prickett, raised at last from his hospital bed, he would be sure to make a beeline for the skylight — around which the two now stood — to pour forth his distorted version of the episode. When no one rushed forward to interrupt them, Fly hoped the man was safely at supper in the wardroom.

“There was only one shot fired after our accident, and we thought at first it may have been intended for us, but our deficient spyglasses can only see so far. It appears — it is my opinion — that the subsequent shots we all heard were meant for one another.”

“You don’t think they’re in pursuit of us?” He took the glass from Fly’s grasp to have a look.

“I cannot be certain of that. At times they seem to have gained on us, at others they have retreated, but always, they seem to follow our course, which makes me wonder —”

“Wonder at what, Mr. Austen?”

“Might one of them be one of ours — a ship of His Majesty’s navy?

“What if this is true?” he asked, squinting through the lens.

“Do you not think we should turn about to investigate?”

“I want no part of their business. The sooner we get home the better.”

Fly’s mind raced back to the decks of the
Isabelle
, to the desperate situation Captain Moreland and his loyal crew had encountered, surrounded and outgunned by three enemy ships. If only Prickett had heeded his signals for assistance on that June day. “What if they
require
our help?”

Prickett returned the glass, and then cleared and lowered his voice. “Mr. Austen, tell no one else, kind sir,” — he gave a darting glance around him — “but my thinking is unclear, my eyes bleary. I have no stamina at present for an engagement of any sort.”

“Even if we go back far enough so that we may have a clear view of the action. If one of our ships is in trouble we can stand to and wait, and come in if necessary.”

“It’ll be dark soon.”

“We shall have good light until half after eight.”

“Mr. Austen, I am a bundle of palpitations.”

“Sir! What if it’s the
Lady Jane
, and she’s being chased by a privateer or an American man-o’-war?” Fly pulled his trump card. “Think of your Admiralty’s orders, sir, given in Halifax.”

Prickett fiddled with his straining waistband for several indecisive moments and then he looked up at Fly, his features set. “Right! We’ll turn around to investigate. However, if they should both prove to be formidable foes, I’ll put you in charge of handling the gun crews and getting us through it all. See that we suffer no more deaths and no more injuries, for I warrant our Mr. Brockley doesn’t know what he’s about.” With a firm clap on Fly’s arm, Prickett stomped toward the quarterdeck, bellowing with each step he took. “Pass the word for the sailing master! Where the devil has he got to? Quartermaster? What speeds have you recorded on the log board? What’s our present depth? Ah, there’s our master now. Good man, tell the lads to turn her around. We’re going straight at ’em!”

Fly stared after him, shaking his head, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. Amidst whistles and hoots and shouts, the Amethysts worked swiftly to set a new course and tack the ship, turning her bow into the wind. For a time, Fly watched them at their various tasks, and then he walked to the taffrail and leaned upon it, fixing his thoughts upon the stern’s foamy trail, which led and opened into the rolling blue vastness. “I shall never forgive you, old fellow, for abandoning me,” he whispered.

It was a snuffling Magpie who finally pulled him back to the cares of the present. The little sailmaker touched his fist to his temple in a respectful salute, but his chin was trembling. “Is there a problem in the hospital?” Fly asked.

“Not at all, sir. Mr. Evans bandaged up the gunners’ burns, and I done the disinfectin’ like ya asked me to. I’ve bin on the mizzen for a bit, sir, and I was wonderin’ if ya’d permit me to go out in the boats with the lads.”

“The boats?” frowned Fly. “Perhaps, Magpie, sitting way up high on the top, you misunderstood. The master didn’t call for the boats to be lowered. We’re turning around to —”

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said, his words now coming out in dry gulps. “Ya gotta know! We spotted a body floatin’ in the waves, and I … I need to see if —” He dropped his curly head on his chest, unable to finish his sentence.

25

Thursday, August 26

2:00 p.m.

Hartwood Hall

The library door quietly
opened and closed. With a small shrug of annoyance, Emily twisted around on the scarlet sofa by the fireplace so that she could identify the interloper. Since her breakfast, eaten in blessed solitude, she had been hiding out, reading in the magnificent dimensions of the library under its mythically painted ceilings, surrounded by gilded and mirrored recesses and endless rows of bookshelves, her shoes off, her legs curled beneath her, and an assortment of medical tomes scattered upon the cushions beside her. But it was an old, mouldy edition of Daniel Dafoe’s
The Life and Strange Surprizing Adventures of Robinson Crusoe
that she now held in her hands, having found it so absorbing and evocative that she was reluctant to tear her eyes away from its pages.

Helena sidled across the carpet toward her, as if she had come on a covert mission, and primly installed herself far from Emily, in a scarlet-silk elbow chair next to one of the great windows. She gazed out upon the verdant lawns where the gardeners were at work amongst the flowers and shrubbery. Something in her stiffened manner hinted at unpleasant business. Guessing this was neither a social visit nor an invitation to drink tea with her, Emily slipped her feet into her shoes and raised herself up on the sofa cushions.

“Mademoiselle has come back, pleading to be reinstated as Fleda’s governess,” Helena said, still looking out the windows.

“Oh! I did not expect her to return at all,” said Emily, curious to know why the duchess felt inclined to close the door behind her in order to deliver such tedious news.

“As I made certain she could find no other employment with a
good
family, I’m not surprised in the least.” Helena smiled as if she were quite pleased with herself.

“And will you reinstate her?”

“I will. But I shall be very harsh in my treatment of her from here on.”

Poor Mademoiselle
, thought Emily. “And how’s Fleda accepting the news?”

“She made a terrible fuss, and just now had a tantrum in the schoolroom.”

Emily smiled. “And have you come to inform me that you’ve hired a second governess for me?”

“Don’t tempt me,” Helena responded with a caustic roll of her eyes. “The Lord knows you require one, Emeline.”

“Pray, what, precisely, do you mean by that remark?”

Helena lifted one of her dark eyebrows, as if to imply the obvious.

Setting aside
Robinson Crusoe
, Emily contemplated the duchess’s severe profile. Last evening they had all dined together, the memory of which Emily found distasteful, for Wetherell and Adolphus were crapulous from their night of debauchery — their heads in their hands throughout most of the meal. Fleda had pushed her food around her plate, refusing to eat, and declaring she would never again play the pianoforte for
anyone
; and Helena had been a burgeoning storm cloud, about to unleash her rain and thunder at any moment. Only Somerton had been capable of decorum, bestowing upon Emily, every now and again, a few apologetic smiles, leaving her questioning whether he was trying to atone for past wrongs. When all six courses had been served and ingested, she was most relieved to see everyone going their separate ways — most of them to bed — for she had no desire to repeat the dramatics of the previous night.

“As the men are out, I felt this was a good time for us to have a little talk,” said Helena. “I wasn’t at all pleased to hear you stayed up with the men until all hours on Tuesday.”

“Why is that?”

“You were unchaperoned.”

“You left me with them quite willingly earlier in the evening.”

“I didn’t expect you to stay up with them until dawn.”

“It was 2:00 when I returned to my room.”

“Yes, and you proceeded to awaken the household with your hysterical laughter.”

“
Most
of the household was still up with me.”

“I awoke with such a fright. I was convinced a fiend had entered our midst on the first floor.”

“I know for a fact there was at least one
drunken
fiend about at that late hour.”

Helena admonished her remark with a withering stare before continuing. “Is this the sort of behaviour with which you conducted yourself while at sea?”

“I made a point of playing the fiend every night, and always during the Middle Watch.”

“Most amusing!”

“Were you unable to sleep, worried that I was joining your husband and sons in draining your stores of Madeira? And being the light, loose woman I am, did you fancy I was flirting with your Wetherell?”

Helena’s mouth had dropped open in horror, but Emily pressed on. “It is plainly evident you don’t like me, Your Grace. From the moment I arrived at Hartwood your behaviour toward me has been icy at best, so much so that I’ve often wondered why you agreed to provide me with accommodation in the first place. I confess I’m not happy here, but I’ve tried to be pleasant to your family; I’ve tried to show my gratitude. I do not understand how I offend you so.”

Helena slowly formed and enunciated her answer. “And if I can help it, you shall
never
know.”

Emily’s eyes flickered, so confounded she was by such a disturbing declaration. With nonchalance, Helena adjusted the collar on her gown, clasped her hands neatly upon her lap, and compressed her thin lips. “I want you to return the emerald.”