Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (42 page)

Her body tingling with excitement, she mounted the carriage and, closing her left arm around the gun’s mouth, reached out to steady herself against the port’s framework so that she could hook one leg over the ledge. The crescent moon had now slipped behind a quilt of clouds and low growls of thunder echoed in the distance, but she did not care. Her eyes and mind were fixed on the distant lights of Charleston. Fighting to maintain her precarious balance, she raised her other leg to the ledge and had both legs dangling over the side of the
Serendipity
when lantern light and the stink of an unwashed human suddenly filled her cabin.

“Ho, ho! What’s all this about?”

The unexpected voice caused Emily to teeter and her heart to lurch like a ship in a storm. With a desperate cry, she struggled to steady herself so she could jump from the gunport, but the intruder was too swift. A strong slippery arm caught her around the waist, dragged her across the thick lashings, and dropped her to the floor. Tears of pain sprang to Emily’s eyes as her back struck the wheels of the carriage. Her head swooned as she peered up at her adversary who thrust the harsh lantern light into her face.

“Won’t thee cap’n be int’rested in knowin’ ya was tryin’ to escape again,” taunted Meg Kettle, grinning like a gargoyle.

Behind the elated washerwoman came a hoot of laughter. A shadowy bare-chested figure in dungarees hovered by the door. He dumped a ditty bag, a hammock, and heap of linen blankets upon the floor and smiled at Emily, who winced in pain beside the cannon.

“Can’t say I blame ya for tryin’ to escape, Miss. Ya must ’ave been informed in advance that ya was to share a bunk with Mrs. Kettle.” He placed his fist to his temple in a mock salute and slipped away, leaving the two women alone with one another.

11:00 p.m.

(First Watch, Six Bells)

Aboard HMS
Amethyst

LONG AFTER CAPTAIN PRICKETT, Lord Bridlington, and their senior officers had sought their beds, Fly Austen stayed behind in the
Amethyst’s
wardroom to write. Through the thin canvas screens that divided their small cabins and flanked the rectangular oak table at which he sat, Fly could hear the mumbles and snores of the men as they slept soundly, thanks in part to the hearty multi-course supper Biscuit had forced them to eat. Pushing back his chair, he stretched and wandered over to the galleried stern windows. Still there were no lights to be seen out there, save for the haunted moon that spilled its path of brilliance across the purring waves.

Fly felt in his breast pocket to make certain he still had the two letters James Moreland had given to him before his death. One of them he would post the first opportunity he got; the second he would have to safeguard at all costs. Fly searched the dark regions beyond the moon’s glow. It wouldn’t be long now before they raised Charleston.

“Sir?”

Fly swung round. Morgan Evans was standing in the wardroom doorway, looking somewhat bleary-eyed. At first, Fly had difficulty recognizing the younger man without his old familiar knitted hat pulled down upon his shaggy hair. “Mr. Evans! I apologize for summoning you this late and disturbing your rest.”

“Actually, sir, I was up playing cards with some of the lads, and losing, so I was quite relieved you wanted to see me.”

“I need you to do something for me,” Fly said gravely, offering Morgan a chair, “and unfortunately this might be the only chance we’ll have to talk without an audience in attendance.” He motioned towards the officers’ cabins.

Morgan sat down and watched Fly seat himself opposite the table from him.

“I have great respect for your judgement, Mr. Evans, and I value your honesty. As you happen to be my senior crewman on this ship, I would ask that you read over this statement.” He slid a sheaf of papers towards him. “When you are done, give me your pronouncement on its accuracy.”

Morgan shifted on his chair. “I’d be honoured to, sir, but I can’t read. I can’t read, nor can I write.”

Fly retrieved his papers, and without embarrassing Morgan further, said, “Well, then, lend me your ear awhile.” Pouring the last of the coffee from the silver pot into his cold cup, Fly gulped it down and in a subdued voice began reading his account of the events of June 15, 1813. As he listened, Morgan closed his eyes and relived all the excitement, fear, and horror of that dreadful day. A thousand poignant images flashed through his brain: carrying Bailey Beck down to Dr. Braden when already his life had drained from his old body; Magpie’s crumpling face when he learned Gus Walby had fallen from the mizzen at the start of the battle; the bloody ruins of Captain Moreland sprawled across the deck; the gaping, jagged hole in the hull where Emily had once lain; and
her,
bound and being dragged towards the exultant Trevelyan, like a condemned person about to meet the gallows’ executioner. He could clearly see the ghastly stumps of men stretched out in agony on the operating table, smell the inferno that obliterated his ship, and hear the roar and hiss of her wreckage slipping beneath the waves. And how he could still taste the cold! They were so cold that night, sitting beaten, dazed, and hungry in the small boats, the driving rain adding to their misery.

When at last Fly was done, he looked up to see Morgan’s eyes glistening, and, keeping his own eyes averted, patiently waited for the younger man to speak.

“Aye, sir, that’s pretty much how I – I recall it,” Morgan said, nodding his head. “There’s just one thing – with respect – you’ve mentioned how we signalled to the
Amethyst
for help once we realized our situation. It should have been quite easy for Captain Prickett to turn around at once. How do you account for him not answering us?”

“I cannot account for it at all,” Fly said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “But it is a detail I must include. Had they come back in time, we wouldn’t have been so badly outnumbered, and perhaps could have saved the ship. No doubt the Admiralty will have questions for Prickett and his officers.”

“But they’ve been so kind to us, sir.”

Fly felt his breast pocket again. His gaze fell absently upon his coffee cup, and when at last he spoke his voice was so disembodied, Morgan was not certain the question had been posed to him.

“Was there something more I could have done?”

Wishing to bestow words of comfort, Morgan blurted out, “The lads are itching for a crack at Trevelyan, sir, and hope we catch up to him soon.”

Fly’s brow darkened as he raised flinty eyes to Morgan. “We will, Mr. Evans, and rest assured, they’ll get their fight.”

Midnight

In Charleston

MAGPIE WAS MISERABLE. This was the fifth tavern Prosper had brazenly marched into since their little party from the
Prosperous and Remarkable
had landed in at the wharves a little over an hour ago. Without exception, the walls of every drinking establishment had hummed with boisterous chatter on the subject of Captain Thomas Trevelyan’s triumphant arrival in Charleston, and every Yankee sailor had lapped up the often-false details regarding HMS
Isabelle’s
demise. Magpie would have given his remaining eye to scream out,
Lies! Trevelyan were a coward! Bringin’ down Cap’n Moreland’s brave crew like he were stalkin’ a fox, employin’ three ships to do the deed.
Oh, to do so would have given him so much satisfaction. But every so often Prosper had shot him a warning glance, and while they strolled between taverns, he threatened to toss him into “that dank dungeon” beneath the imposing Exchange building if he so much as opened his mouth.

Magpie had grown weary of the women in their tight-fitting gowns, petting him on the head as if he were a puppy, or pushing him aside, and the strangers with purple noses and stale breath, shoving their queer faces into his, demanding to know how he’d come to lose an eye. More than anything, he wished to return to Prosper’s brig to check on Gus and crawl into the little cot beside his. The problem was, Prosper, having been intrigued by all the talk of the booty Trevelyan was alleged to have stolen from the
Isabelle
before setting her afire, insisted on getting a look at the man firsthand before making his way back to their cutter.

Magpie sat in the front window of a red-brick tavern off a cobblestone alley near the wharves, listening as Prosper talked with a woman whose breasts were more awe-inspiring than Mrs. Kettle’s. Their other crewmen had spread out to take their refreshments in opposite corners of the establishment so they could eavesdrop on the rum-soaked sailors who raised their tankards and voices in conversation and contention at their heavy square tables. Magpie’s tired eye wandered around the room. Candle and lantern light danced upon the sailors’ faces. Some played at cards, some drank sullenly, while others squealed with mirth as they pinched the bottoms of the female servers or pulled them down onto their laps for a kiss and a cuddle. The arched fireplaces that dominated the room lay empty. It was still so humid at this late hour that no additional warmth was required.The room reeked, filled with a pungent mixture of sweat, liquor, and brine, and Magpie was thankful for the open window next to him and the light rain that fell on the cobbled streets.

A server stopped at their table to refresh Prosper’s tankard.

“Just warnin’ ya, sir, we won’t be servin’ much longer.”

“Fine!” Prosper smiled, lifting his ruddy face from his companion’s heaving bosom. “Then I won’t be drinkin’ much longer.” He flipped a silver coin at Magpie. “Get lost fer a bit, ya wee jackanapes. Go git me somethin’ worth eatin’.” Magpie was happy to leave, not wishing to know the nature of the pranks Prosper and the woman were playing at beneath the oak table.

It was a long time before anyone paid him any heed at the bar. He was about to give up when a young black girl, busy stirring something in a steaming copper pot on a stew stove, turned her dulled eyes upon his coin.

“Ya won’t git much fer that,” she said, wiping her damp brow before handing him a small loaf of bread. Magpie shrugged and stepped away from the bar with Prosper’s meal – only to find a giant of a man blocking his way. He seemed to tower up to the tavern’s ceiling. He was hatless, his hair the colour of harvested straw, and on his thin frame he wore a rain cloak that dripped streamlets upon the tavern’s flagstone floor. In his large, scarred hands he held a mug of ale, and sharing a drink with him was another man, dressed in white breeches and polished Hessian boots. The two men were engrossed in a conversation and had no idea they had pinned Magpie to the bar. Knowing Prosper would be impatient for his supper, Magpie made an attempt to skirt around the tall man, but the moment he glimpsed the face that belonged to those breeches and boots, his eye nearly popped out of his bandaged head. Thinking his knees would buckle beneath him, he cowered against the oak bar and quivered like a mouse cornered by a cat, with no alternative but to listen to their exchange.

“Sir, when your business is done here in Charleston, where will you go next? Have you been issued new orders?”

“No, I have not. But even if I had been, I would not heed them. I am setting my own course now.” He raised his mug. “After all, with my recent success, I do not expect my actions to be questioned by Secretary Jones.”

“In what direction shall we be sailing, sir?”

“North. I plan to seek out the Duke of Clarence. My spies tell me that the minute he received word his niece had been taken prisoner after the sinking of the
Amelia,
he asked permission from his brother, the regent, and Lord Liverpool to put to sea with a few escorts and undertake a mission to rescue her himself.” The tall man gave a low snigger. “How very
admirable.”

“Will we head to Halifax then, sir?”

“Perhaps, or we just might be lucky and find the old boy patrolling the waters around Bermuda.”

“Sir, your prisoner … might I be so bold as to ask what you plan to do with her?”

The tall man gulped down his drink and wiped his mouth on the damp sleeve of his cloak. “You will know of my plans soon enough. For now, know this: so long as she is imprisoned upon the
Serendipity,
I have … insurance.”

“I am pleased for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lindsay. You have served me well.”

“It was and
is
an honour to serve you, Captain Trevelyan.”

Captain Trevelyan?

Hearing the name, Magpie gasped as if he’d been struck with a ramrod. That was it! He could linger there no longer. Reaching out blindly, he pushed past the two men, but in a flash Trevelyan’s dark eyes were on him. He raised his arm and shoved Magpie backwards, causing him to lose his balance and trip over Mr. Lindsay’s feet.

“Damnable foundling,” said Octavius, inspecting his boots as if checking for scuffs.

The minute Mr. Lindsay’s eyes beheld Magpie, tremors of surprise ruffled his pimply countenance, but when he had quite recovered from shock, he seized Magpie by the shirt collar. “How the
devil
did you come to this place? Who brought you here?” His suspicious glance roamed the crowded room.