Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (16 page)

He beamed up at her. “I’m glad you are safe as well, Em.”

“The men – they will need blankets when they are pulled in. Dr. Braden has a few in the hospital. Would you mind fetching them?”

Gus handed her his spyglass. “Right away!”

When he was gone, Emily shrank back from the rail and pulled up the hood on Leander’s coat, knowing the sight of her above deck was liable to cause Captain Moreland or Mr. Lindsay to have a stroke, in the event they should happen by. She said a silent prayer for Morgan and Mr. Alexander, and turned her back to the east wind to fix her eyes upon Leander, who had joined the chorus of sailors leaning over the rail shouting encouragement to the carpenters as they laboured to reach one of the floating objects.

“Morgan – the barrel – grab onto it! Swim harder, man! You’re almost there,” Leander cried. Folds of his long forest-green coat furled around his tall frame like an untethered canvas on its yard, revealing the slim curves of his legs in his brown stockings and knee breeches. And when he turned his eyes towards her, as if reassuring himself she was still close at hand, Emily felt a wonderful surge of warmth flow through her.

Still pulling on his uniform coat and looking as if he had just roused himself from his hammock, James swiftly arrived on the fo’c’sle deck and joined Leander at the rail. “Can we save them?”

“Morgan’s got a hold of a barrel,” said Leander. “Looks like he’s going back for Mr. Alexander.”

James spun around to seek the whereabouts of the sailing master. “Mr. Harding, a word, if you please.”

Mr. Harding quit his station next to Lewis McGilp at the wheel and limped over to the rail.

“Do we have any idea where we are, Mr. Harding?”

“The gale has blown us off course. We won’t have an exact location until we see the sun again and can make an accurate measurement, sir.”

“We may never see the sun again. What is your guess?”

“Dangerously close to Cape Hatteras, I’d say. Definitely off the North Carolina coast.”

“Did you try sailing into the wind?”

“We did, but the rudder received a hit during the fight, and the unfurled sails are so full of holes they are next to useless. We need to repair her, sir. It is almost impossible to steer her in her present condition.”

“Why wasn’t I awakened earlier?”

“We – you were up half the night.”

“And so was every other man on this ship.” James frowned. “If we’re smashed upon the shoals of Hatteras, we’ll all soon be sleeping.”

“With respect, sir, what more could have been done?”

“We could have prayed, Mr. Harding.”

Teetering a hundred feet above them, one arm pointing towards the western horizon, the lookout bellowed, “Land, ho! Land, ho!”

Peering into the gloom, James was certain he could see the dim outline of land in the distance. His heart quickened. “Mr. Tucker? What is our depth?”

“No soundings as of yet, sir.”

“Heave the lead lines again,” James ordered, taking a deep breath before returning his attention to his carpenters’ pitiful predicament. Morgan now had one arm locked around the barrel and another trying to hold onto Mr. Alexander, who sputtered and croaked in fear. The shouts of the men on the
Isabelle
became desperate and louder than before.

“They’re closer now. Throw ’em lifelines.”

“C’mon, Morgan. C’mon, now.”

“You can do it.”

“You’re almost home.”

Seeing the lifelines hit the water, Morgan released the barrel and battled his way through the waves towards them, one hand still gripping the collar of Mr. Alexander’s shirt.

Suddenly a massive, merciless wave rose up like the foot of a giant and crashed down upon the carpenters’ heads, shoving them beneath the sea’s white surface. “Good God!” gasped James, scrambling farther down the rail to watch in horror. There was an outpouring of despair on the
Isabelle.
Two young midshipmen standing against the rail wheeled away from the disturbing scene and wept openly. Gus reappeared, quietly gave Emily two blankets, and went off to console his distraught friends.

“Pull in the lifeline!”

Old Bailey Beck had tied a cord of rope around his belly and was being hoisted up onto the side of the ship by a couple of sailors when James guessed his intentions. Sensing his disapproval, Bailey calmly stated, “I’m goin’ in after me buddy, Cap’n, even if I die tryin’,” and with his long, white hair and dungaree shirt blowing around him, sprang from the
Isabelle
like a mythical druid in self-sacrifice. Feet first, he splashed into the swirling waters. When he surfaced he began paddling like a dog towards the place where the men had gone under.

“Cap’n, sir – Old Beck – he canna swim.”

“Damn fool! I don’t need the loss of another man on my conscience.”

The moment James demanded Bailey be pulled in, Morgan reappeared, crying out, gasping for air, both of his hands clenching the lifeline. Emily clutched her chest in fervid relief while yelps of delight and applause erupted amongst the onlookers – if only for a brief time. It was soon apparent to them all that Morgan was alone. The waves continued to rise and fall, but Mr. Alexander was no longer there. The celebration ceased and all became eerily silent, save for the wind’s moans and the unceasing crash of the waves that knocked about the
Isabelle.

Emily inched nearer to the circle of seamen toiling to retrieve both Bailey Beck and Morgan from the water. No words were spoken, only grunts of effort heard, and when the rescued men’s feet finally touched the
Isabelle’s
firm deck, Bailey grabbed his buddy and held him close. “Thanks to thee Lord for sparin’ ye.”

While Morgan rested his head on Bailey’s bony shoulder, Emily could see the anguish on the young man’s white face, and his slim body shuddering from head to toe. Even with pain and misery filling his eyes, he noticed her hooded figure amongst the sailors, coming towards him with the offering of grey blankets. With trembling hands, he took them from her, glancing at her feet, and in a strangled voice said, “Mr. George. Sir.” Emily placed a sympathetic hand on his shivering arm before he and Bailey Beck were whisked away to the hospital, Morgan twisting his head around for a last look at her.

Beside her, Leander cleared his throat. This time his eyes did not meet hers. “I must return below. It would be unwise for you to linger much longer. Stay with Mr. Walby – please.”

He left before Emily could reply. She watched him lean down to exchange a few words with the young midshipman, and then he disappeared down the main hatchway. Gus stretched his neck around to seek her out, and once he had spotted her in Dr. Braden’s oversized coat, sent a warm smile her way.

“Back to work. Back to work, men,” Fly Austen ordered as he stomped through the crowd of loafers still lining the rail, all of them staring forlornly into the brightening sea as if hoping that somehow Mr. Alexander would appear in the water within rescuing distance of the
Isabelle.
Fly waved his arms madly about to break them up, but there was no harshness in his voice.

Six sombre bells sounded around the suffering ship and from some unseen location a ghostly voice cried out, “Fifty fathoms! Grey mud.” Nearby a sailor repeated the words.

Emily sidled up to Gus, whose fair hair was dark with dampness, and whispered, “Mr. Walby, I heard Captain Moreland speaking of shoals near Cape Hatteras. Are we in danger?”

“Aye, it’s a worry. It’s not just any shoals, though, Em. It’s the Diamond Shoals. The sands in these parts are constantly shifting and extend more than ten miles from the Cape. I’ve only heard tell of them, but I do know plenty of ships have foundered here. There’re no natural landmarks on shore, except for the lighthouse, and its light is rarely burning. As well, there are strong currents here, and the currents, along with this northeast wind, are forcing the
Isabelle
towards those shoals.” Seeing a look of alarm cross her pretty face, he added, “Don’t worry, Em. You’re sailing with a good lot.”

Trying to oust the ruined rudder and the useless sails from her mind, Emily swallowed her fear and put on a brave face. “For so young a man, your nautical knowledge is impressive.”

“Ma’am!” Gus was so happy to hear praise, he did not dare tell her that Mr. Harding had only yesterday taught him all this. He hung his head backwards to inspect the sails that still cracked liked whips above him. “I think the winds have started to die down a bit. In fact – ” His voice rose an octave.“In fact, I’m sure of it.”

Hearing his words, James and Mr. Harding both gazed upwards. “You’re quite right, Mr. Walby.” James stared out upon the lonely spot where Mr. Alexander had been swallowed by the sea. “But what a price we’ve paid for this bit of luck.” Sighing, he turned to Mr. Harding. “Should God spare us on this day and we’re lucky enough to avoid the shoals, drop the anchors the moment the lead comes up with sand and begin making those repairs. I’ll be in my cabin with Mr. Austen and the first of our prisoners.” James leaned closer to the sailing master and lowered his voice. “In the meantime, tell the officers on watch to keep a sharp lookout. The wind has cruelly tossed us into unknown waters. Let’s hope no one’s waiting for us.”

The captain’s ominous words caused Emily’s knees to grow weak. An image of a shadowy uniformed figure filled her thoughts, leaving her despairing as she began making her way back to the hospital. She held the hood of Leander’s coat close to her face as she jostled her way through the sailors hurrying back to their stations, unaware that Octavius Lindsay, who stood in conversation with three sailors in her path, had seen through her disguise; his penetrating eyes singled her out as she headed towards the ship’s stern and crawled along the starboard rail to the ladder down.

Thankful that the northeast winds had subsided and she could get her footing, Emily soon discovered she was following on the heels of Fly Austen, who was leading a shirt-clad prisoner from the
Liberty
towards Captain Moreland’s cabin. The prisoner was a giant of a man with impressive arm muscles and a dishevelled copper-coloured pigtail that hung down his stooped back.

“I will ask our cook to bring you a mug of hot coffee for your interview,” said Fly to the man, “although I daresay you’d prefer wine.”

“A can o’ grog wouldn’t go amiss, Mr. Austen, sir. It soothes all that ails a man,” replied the prisoner in a low gravelly voice as distinctive as the British colours that flew from the
Isabelle’s
stern and mainmast. Emily stopped suddenly in her tracks to stare after them. Her heart quickened and her mouth went dry.

She was acquainted with this prisoner.

7:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

BISCUIT SET DOWN A TRAY laden with hot coffee, sea biscuits, and strawberry jam upon the Captain’s rectangular table. “I’ll have thee stove warmed up in no time, sir, now that thee wind’s abatin’. Will ya be wantin’ a proper breakfast?”

“Thank you, Biscuit. A bowl of oatmeal would be most welcome.” James shifted in his chair to look at the prisoner. “What about you, Mr. Brodie?”

“I’ll gladly accept whatever’s put in front o’ me,” he said, eyeing the biscuits hungrily.

“Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed Biscuit. “Yer a Scotsman!”

“That I be, frae bonny Scotland.”

“It’s obvious ya ain’t no Yankee.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” said James with some humour.

“Maybe later, after they’re done interrogatin’ ya,” Biscuit went on merrily, “we can raid thee grog barrels together and speak of thee auld country.”

Mr. Brodie gave his countryman a toothless grin.

“Biscuit! See to your cooked breakfast.”

“Sir.” Biscuit bowed and reluctantly left the cabin.

Fly poured James and Mr. Brodie a mug of coffee, then one for himself. He downed it as quickly as a shot of whiskey. In the grey morning light that filtered in through his cabin’s windows, James could see that Fly’s face had aged overnight. The whites of his eyes were red, and his complexion was pale and puffy.

Leaning back in his chair with his mug of coffee, James stifled a yawn and tried to assume a more serious attitude. “Tell us, Mr. Brodie, where were you born?”

“In Girvan, Scotland, sir, in thee year of our Lord, 1789.”

“And how long have you been a seaman?”

“I joined thee Royal Navy when I was ten. Worked me way up to captain o’ thee maintop. Sailed on thee
Victory
with Lord Nelson himself. I was there when he was shot at Trafalgar in ’05.”

Fly could not help the wave of envy that swept over him. “You are lucky, Mr. Brodie. That is an honour of which few men can boast.”

“We all admired Lord Nelson, but …” He turned his copper-haired head to look at Captain Moreland. “I admired you more, sir.”

James straightened in his chair and set his mug down on the table. “You once sailed with me?”

“That I did. Before thee
Victory,
I was thee sail maker on thee
Isabelle.”