Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle (46 page)

Morgan put his fist to his forehead in salute. “Beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Fly regarded Morgan with fondness, his mind wandering to thoughts of his own baby sons back home in England. Were they to mature into young men the quality of Mr. Evans, he would be a proud father indeed. Fly wondered how Morgan was coping without the company of his old mate, Bailey Beck, and whether the horror of Mr. Alexander’s drowning still troubled him. He desired to inquire, but believing himself to be yielding to softness, returned his attention instead to the sea. “What is on your mind, Mr. Evans?”

Morgan shifted from foot to foot as he always did when he was nervous. “We’ve seen you watching the harbour for hours now, sir, and wondered if, by chance, you’d observed what’s running along the larboard rail?”

Fly’s black eyebrows shot up. He swung round to search the waters beyond the
Amethyst’s
waist and, without hesitation, strode to the opposite rail, raising his spyglass as he walked.

“We’ve been keeping our eye on her for a while now, sir,” said Morgan, hurrying to catch up to him. “There aren’t many ships that boast a hull the colour of blood. If I’m not mistaken, we’ve seen this one before.”

Through his glass, Fly watched the two-masted, square-rigged brig bearing down on them, though still a far piece away. “My guess is you are not mistaken, Mr. Evans. The Atlantic is a vast ocean with millions of square miles of water to traverse; chance meetings are a rarity, and yet we meet again.”

“What’s his game, sir?’

“Damned if I know, Mr. Evans.”

1:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)

Aboard the USS
Serendipity

LEANDER LEFT THE CABIN belonging to Mr. Morven, the marine, having tended to the man’s unfortunate injuries, sustained during a fall down wet steps, and set off on a quest for food, as he had missed taking his dinner. He had just begun walking towards the galley when an outburst of laughter resounded above deck. Curious, and without the impediment of Mr. Morven attached to his hip, Leander sprinted up the nearest ladderway to investigate. He could see a hundred or so Serendipities encircling the foremast, and hear Captain Trevelyan’s voice rising above the carefree commotion, though he could not make out his words. Joe Norlan soon spotted him standing there and waved him over.

“How is your patient, sir?” Joe asked.

“He has a bump on his head.”

“Inflicted by
you,
sir?”

Leander smiled wryly then motioned towards the crowd. “What’s all this?”

“You’re just in time. We’re in for a rare delight. Captain Trevelyan has set a contest between – oh, shush – the fun begins.” Joe’s eyes flew to the shrouds, leaving Leander none the wiser. But before long, two figures appeared on the ratlines. The assembled sailors clapped, whistled, and hooted their approval as the figures climbed. Their noise attracted the notice of those on ships moored nearby, some stopping to watch.

“Up ya go.”

“Faster, man!”

“Cap’n Trevelyan has thee watch set on ya.”

“Ya won’t live it down if ya get beat, Fish.”

Leander turned to look at Joe, whose face was flushed with enjoyment. “It’s Charlie Clive?”

Joe nodded, his eyes never leaving the climbers.

“I wasn’t aware Charlie was acquainted with the ratlines. And who is it with him?”

So enthralled was Joe in the competition, he did not reply. Leander exhaled his disgust and began pushing through the spectators. He detested this kind of contest and the cheap captain’s pride in the speed with which their men were able to scale the ropes. By the time Leander had shouldered his way to the edge of the crowd, one of the climbers was nearing the foretop. Trevelyan turned his head towards him and their eyes locked, mutual loathing evident in their brief glance.

“Doctor Braden!” he called out, reinstating his gaze on the climbers. “Are you impressed with
her
skills?”

The implicit message in Trevelyan’s words sent Leander’s eyes scrambling up the shrouds. From this new standpoint, he could see the familiar plait of gold hair swinging over the shoulders of Charlie’s competitor. “Dear God,” he whispered, his pulse escalating.

The jostling onlookers continued urging them on, their voices echoed by several spectators out in the harbour.

“She’s gainin’ on ya, Fish.”

“Look ahead now! Don’t look down.”

“Faster now!”

Charlie was the first to reach the foretop, and seeing that Emily was well behind him, he lingered long enough to bestow a victorious smile upon the spectators. Cries of “Huzzah” erupted around Leander, causing him even greater alarm. Seemingly spurred on by the Serendipities’ support, Charlie launched into his descent and in no time had passed Emily just as she reached out to touch the foretop’s platform. Seeing her take one hand off the lines, Leander shouted, “Be careful!” The men guffawed and slapped Leander on the back in fun; however, no sooner had the words escaped his lips when, to his horror, Emily slipped and lost her footing. An anxious murmur rose up as those standing on the deck beneath her dangling legs followed with trepidation her fight to maintain a hold on the ropes and restore her footing. Leander broke out in a cold sweat; he bolted instinctively towards the shrouds, but Trevelyan stopped him. “There’s no point in
both
of you breaking your necks.”

“C’mon, lass,” yelled the sailors.

“Holdfast.”

“You can do it now.”

“Every hair a rope yarn, that’s you, Miss.”

Powerless to help, Leander thought his chest would burst as he watched her struggle. After long, agonizing moments, a scream of exertion rent the harbour air as Emily hauled herself up and once again had her feet firmly on the ratlines. But likely weakened by her struggle, she stayed put and leaned her head against the security of the ropes. As all eyes were glued to her efforts, few witnessed Charlie’s fall. It all happened so fast. He had been so close to the end of his race, but before anyone even realized he had gotten himself into trouble, he hit the deck with a ghastly thud. He lay there on his back at Trevelyan’s feet, his limbs splayed unnaturally across the deck, blood trickling from his nose and right ear. His large eyes searched the concerned faces that closed in around him, as if looking for their approval, and his mouth went into spasm as if he were trying to speak. Leander knelt beside him and laid a hand on the lad’s thin shoulder, knowing there was nothing he could do for him. Joe Norlan and Bun Brodie soon appeared and crouched down near the lad’s head.

Charlie became agitated and hoarsely he cried out, “Miss … Miss?”

Aware of Charlie’s misfortune, Emily was slow in descending the ropes. Once down, she clambered off the shrouds and fell onto her knees beside the boy, her chest heaving with emotion and breathlessness. There was a crazed look in her brown eyes that moved feverishly over the boy’s broken body. She was no more than three feet from Leander yet she had no idea he was so near; her concentration was exclusively with Charlie. His heart full of anguish, Leander silently watched her take one of Charlie’s hands in hers, their clasped hands raw and blackened with tar from the ropes.

“You soundly beat me,” she said.

Charlie’s eyes brightened and a hint of a smile tugged at his mouth. But in a matter of seconds, his brow had furrowed. “I need ya to know … I didn’t shoot ya, Miss.”

Emily smiled through her tears. “I know. I’ve long known.” Charlie choked up blood, the sight of which caused her distress, though realizing he had more to communicate, she leaned over and put her ear to his trembling lips. “If yer ever in Salem, tell me Ma … I was comin’ up in the world.”

“I will.” Emily squeezed his hand. “For you, Charlie.”

His spasms ceased, his face relaxed, and his eyes stared sightlessly up the foremast. Emily tugged the red kerchief from her neck, used it to gently wipe the blood from his face, then tucked it inside his torn shirt. Her head fell onto her heaving chest as a brooding silence descended upon the men who, seconds before, had been in a celebratory mood. Leander could hear questions shouted from the nearby ships, the cry of the seagulls as they circled the anchored
Serendipity,
and Emily’s quiet sobs. The rain came again, a few drops at first, but soon falling steadily, dimpling the pool of Charlie’s blood that crept slowly along the deck. The sailors dispersed, some returning to their posts, others seeking shelter below. Only a few remained: Joe, Bun Brodie, Meg Kettle, and three other young lads who were likely the dead boy’s messmates. Leander sensed Trevelyan standing over them, and peered up to see the man gazing upon Charlie’s body as he would a dead rat.

Unable to contain his smouldering anger, Leander lashed out. “This should
never
have happened.”

Trevelyan regarded him coolly. “Yes. It’s a pity the wrong climber fell.”

Emily stirred and lifted her face; her haunted eyes instantaneously sought Leander’s. She looked disoriented, as if she did not know where she was, or whether the moment was one in which to grieve or rejoice. Her head shook slightly as she stared at him in disbelief, her lips soundlessly forming questions. The rain mingled with her tears and caused loose tendrils of her hair to attach themselves to her crimson cheeks. A slight frown played on her forehead, then, gradually, a gleam of affection appeared in her eyes. Endeavouring to suppress his own strong emotions, knowing his features betrayed all, Leander longed to be rid of those who gaped down upon them in fascination.

Emily’s glance stayed fixed to Leander’s face, and when at last she spoke, her voice was scarcely a whisper. “I am so tired. Is – is this all a dream, then? Have you been right here with me, all this time?” She released Charlie’s little hand and reached for Leander’s, but Trevelyan, witnessing the gesture, stepped between them. His orders pierced the lament of the pouring rain. “Dr. Braden, remove this corpse and its debris from my deck.”

Emily levelled a look of disdain at Trevelyan. A muscle worked in his scarred cheek as he reciprocated, his gaze equally as disdainful. “Mrs. Kettle, have your worthless washerwoman take down the laundry at once and hang it below.”

Out at sea, thunder rumbled like distant guns in battle.

15

Thursday, June 24

10:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Four Bells)

Aboard the
Prosperous and Remarkable

“MR. WALBY!” CRIED MAGPIE as he flew down the ladder and into the forepeak, holding his embroidered
Isabelle
hat to his head. “I got the best news for ya. Prosper wouldn’t allow me to be sayin’ anythin’ afore now.”

Gus was sitting up in his cot, reading a book that Pemberton Baker had found for him – a moth-eaten copy of Boswell’s
Life of Johnson
. Seeing that Mr. Walby had been laughing, that his face was glowing with enjoyment, Magpie stopped in his tracks. “What’s so comical?”

“Did you know, Magpie, that Dr. Samuel Johnson believed that being in a ship is like ‘being in a jail, with the chance of being drowned,’ and that ‘a man in a jail has more room, better food, and commonly better company.’”

Magpie pursed his lips. “I don’t like the part ’bout drownin’ but I don’t think I’d find better comp’ny in jail than what I got here, sir.”

Gus gave his friend a warm smile. “The eye patch becomes you.”

“Ya don’t think I look like a pirate, do ya, sir? Like Captain Kidd or Blackbeard or one o’ them fellows?”

“No, but you do look
dauntless.
I don’t think many will take up a quarrel with you.” Gus set down his book. “What’s your news?”

“Since Prosper says yer doin’ real good now, Pemberton’s gonna take ya up on deck so’s ya kin see fer yerself.”

A pensive look crept into Gus’s eyes. “Is the
Isabelle
sailing again?”

“She won’t never sail again, sir. But this sight’ll sure cheer a soul up.”

Pemberton was as good as his word and soon arrived on the scene. With the help of Magpie, whose job it was to make certain Mr. Walby’s splints didn’t knock up against the ship’s timber sides and cause the patient undue distress, he carried Gus up into the sunshine. At their posts, the Prosperous and Remarkables greeted Gus as he journeyed aft in Pemberton’s strong arms to the taffrail where Prosper was waiting for them next to an elaborately carved ebony armchair and matching hassock. “Mr. Walby,” he said with a flourish of his arms, “this is so’s ya kin view thee world in comfort while on deck.”

Once ensconced in his special chair, Gus, whose expression had been so full of joy from the moment he alighted into the warmth and brightness of the day, grew suddenly sombre, his face darkening like a rain cloud. Seeing a large ship a mile or two off their stern, its white sails obscuring any other identifying features, Gus stiffened. “That’s not Trevelyan, is it?”

“Nay,” said Prosper. “Trevelyan’s still holed up in thee harbour, quakin’ in his boots ’cause he knows ole Prosper’s waitin’ on him. We bin circlin’ that one out there fer a few days now.”