13

Monday, June 21

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

THE MOMENT MAGPIE opened his one eye to the new day, he drew a sigh of relief. There, in the low cot next to him, nestled in the forepeak of Prosper Burgo’s brig, was Gus. His face was as wan as a morning moon, and his arms, resting on a plaid blanket, were bound in fresh splints, but Magpie could hear his even breathing, and was so happy he hadn’t died in the night and Prosper’s crew hadn’t had to heave his lifeless body over the side of the Prosperous and Remarkable. Peeling back his own blanket, Magpie got to his feet and went above deck in search of the commander, thinking it was only proper to thank him for all his kindness.

The day was dull and warm and a humid rain fell. Magpie trudged the unfamiliar flush-deck, pausing now and again to ask passing sailors if they knew the whereabouts of Captain Burgo. Finally, one of them pointed towards the bow.

“He often stands there, lookin’ fer fat merchantmen with holds o’ valuable cargo.”

The only ship Magpie had ever been on was the Isabelle. In comparison, Prosper’s brig was diminutive, and congested with clutter and livestock pens. Only two masts rose up over its small decks, on which fifty or so men roamed – not one of them dressed in a proper uniform – and he’d counted only fourteen guns in all. Inching his way fore, Magpie found himself distracted by the new sights and the curious, hardened faces of the crew. It was no surprise to Magpie that Prosper found him first, magically appearing before him when he hopped down from the fore rigging with his spyglass in hand. Setting his fox-like features in a frown, he scrutinized the fresh bandage on Magpie’s head. Being, among other things, the ship’s surgeon, Prosper himself had meticulously applied it the night before.

“’Bout time yas were roused, Magpie. Ya come on board, gulp down me vittles, tell me yarns about thee Isabelle and Serendipity and some wench named Em’ly, and then ya go sleepin’ right round thee watch. Do ya fancy I’m runnin’ a hostelry here?”

“No, sir, but I didn’t sleep too good in the skiff.”

Prosper turned and shouted, “Mr. Dunkin, ya scoundrel! Find our little friend here a raincoat o’ sorts.” To Magpie, he said, “Now don’t be callin’ me Sir. I prefers thee sound o’ Prosper.”

“But aren’t ya the captain?”

“I’m thee owner o’ this here brig!”

“But ya give the orders, don’t ya, sir?”

Prosper shrugged. “That I do! And I ’spect me men ta obey me. If they get foolhardy I pitch ’em overboard, or fix thumbscrews ta their sensitive parts, or I leave ’em on a deserted island where they starve ta death – slowly.”

Magpie looked out upon the dreary seas and wondered if he’d be spending the rest of his life with Prosper Burgo. He didn’t like the sound of those thumbscrews! Reluctantly he followed Prosper down the deck, frightened by the red and purple veins that rose on the man’s face whenever he roared out his commands.

“There’s a wind come up, ya bunch o’ ruffians. Square away thee yards. You there! Clear out this pen. It reeks. You lubbers sittin’ on yer arses can move these barrels below and earn yer supper. Pemberton, ya galoot, bring me and Magpie here a mug o’ chocolate.” Prosper paused to take in air and assumed the ship’s wheel from Pemberton Baker.

“Have ya spotted any fat merchantmen, Mr. Prosper?” asked Magpie in a small voice.

“Nay! Plenty o’ fishin’ vessels, but there ain’t no merchantmen to be seen. I was hopin’ these warmer waters would be crawlin’ with ’em. Ya see, they’re all holed up in them northern harbours thanks ta yer Royal Navy, and it’s been kinda hard on me fortunes o’ late.”

“What will ya do when ya see one?”

“Why, I’ll give ’em chase, board ’em, cut up their crew, and seize their ship.”

“Yer a pirate, then?”

“Nay!” He lifted his stubbly chin to the wind. “Me Prosperous and Remarkable’s got a letter o’ marque.”

“What’s that?” asked Magpie, as the scoundrel named Mr. Dunkin helped him into a hooded poncho.

“It’s a piece o’ paper given ta me by me governor allowin’ me ta rob enemy ships at will.”

Magpie’s eye shot open. “Yer not Yankee, are ya, Mr. Prosper?”

“Yankee? I woulda strung ya up – and yer friend, despite his afflictions – if I be Yankee.”

Magpie’s hand flew to his throat.

“Nay! I’m from Quebec!” continued Prosper. “Born in thee Magdalen Islands, smack dab in thee mighty St. Lawrence.”

“I ain’t never heard o’ those places, Mr. Prosper.”

“Hmm! Guess I’ll have ta take ya there one day, but only after I’ve plundered a few fat merchantmen and kin afford ta rest fer a spell.”

“Where’re we now?”

“We’ll soon be raisin’ Charleston. Intelligence tells me there ain’t many o’ yer British ships blockadin’ these parts … and that Trevelyan’s Serendipity’s bin seen headin’ this way.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I gotta hankerin’ ta meet yer Em’ly.”

An icy ripple danced down Magpie’s spine. “Oh, Mr. Prosper, if Emily’s on the Serendipity – and I don’t know it fer sure, I’m only thinkin’ Trevelyan took her agin – ya wouldn’t think o’ hurtin’ her?”

Prosper turned his ruddy face to the sea and grinned from ear to ear. “Nay, me little man. I wouldna think o’ it.”

1:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

EMILY LOOKED UP from Jane Austen’s book, alerted by the heightened excitement on the quarterdeck beyond her door. The Serendipity was slowing down. For the past two hours she’d been engrossed in reading by lantern-light, positioned on the floor with her back leaning against the coolness of the cannon, and during that time she’d heard frequent calls to “heave the lead,” and replies that revealed the water depth was gradually diminishing. More recently, she’d heard orders for “all hands aloft” and “shorten sails” and “anchor down.”

Picking herself up off the floor, she tossed the book onto her pillow and struggled to open the gunport, the windy, rainy conditions having made it necessary to keep it closed until now. To her delight, the Serendipity was sitting broadside to a sizable town. Towering church steeples, terraced homes, impressive buildings, wharves, and warehouses materialized in the mists beyond a harbour full of ships. Emily raised herself up on the cannon’s carriage so she could stick her head farther out the port. The rain had stopped and the winds had died away. There was a mucky, marshy smell in the air, curiously mingling with the fragrance of flowers. In the harbour lay moored countless bobbing vessels: fishing boats, cutters, merchantmen, cruisers, frigates, sloops, brigs, barques – she couldn’t even put a name to them all – and in no time the Serendipity herself was moored in the shallower waters. Listening to the commotion as the men, amid much laughter, prepared to lower the boats, Emily discovered her own spirits lifting.

It had been almost three months since she had set sail from England, three months since she had last stepped on firm ground. She longed to touch trees and smell flowers and jump into a feather bed with fat pillows. It didn’t matter to her that this strange town was likely part of the United States; she still wondered what it had to offer. If she could wander through its streets, would she find bookshops and bakeshops and dressmakers, and perhaps an inn that did not serve its patrons hard biscuits and jellied pea soup?

With envy, she watched as two cutters, each carrying twenty or so men, drifted into view from around the Serendipity’s stern, the oarsmen eagerly setting the oars into their locks while their mates cried out, “Huzzah!” in anticipation of the delights and entertainments that awaited them and their hard-earned shillings. Emily couldn’t believe so many men had been granted leave to go ashore all at once, for she knew this sort of arrangement would not be tolerated amongst the captains and commanders of England’s Royal Navy. No sooner had she tucked away that thought when, to her further surprise, the ship’s launch rounded the bow with another twenty-five on board! It plied through the waters beneath her, so close she could read amusement in the sailors’ eyes as they beheld her leaning out the gunport.

Trevelyan stood at the stern of the launch, his eyes haunting in that expressionless face of his. He was outfitted in his dress uniform: a dark blue jacket with startling white trim and flashing gold buttons, and bright white breeches. “Lay on your oars,” he shouted at his men, and they immediately ceased their rowing so that he could address Emily. He lifted his black bicorne from his matted hair and, in a voice as flat as the now-calm waters of the harbour said, “Madam, would you care to accompany us to William’s Coffee House for a meal, and have drinks later at McCrady’s Tavern?”

Without thinking, Emily’s reply leapt from her lips. “Yes! Please! I would like that.”

Trevelyan raised his eyebrows a notch. “Very well, then, find yourself a means of transportation and we’ll look forward to your company in town.”

Emily’s face flushed as the men cackled and hooted, their heads and shoulders shaking with mirth as the launch rowed past her. Trevelyan pressed his hat down on his head and called for the oarsmen to pull harder. His men refocused on their tasks, all of them that is, but one. He continued to stare up at her, a smirk upon his lips. It was easy to recognize him, despite his new, borrowed uniform and the confidence that overspread his pockmarked face. Try as she might, she would never forget Octavius Lindsay.

Emily slunk backwards into the shadows of her cabin, away from his probing eyes, and silently screamed at her stupidity. Her fist struck out at the wooden wall behind her, and with a howl, she collapsed to the floor in pain. There she drew her knees up to her chin and had a good cry, unaware of the sounds of bells and voices and screeching gulls around her. When her tears were spent, she lay still, her eyes absently roving over the confines of her cabin, her thoughts wading through a pool of anguish and apathy. A few inches from her damp brow, a stray sunbeam had found its way in through the open port. She reached out and placed her throbbing hand in the little circle of warm light that quivered on the floorboards. A sudden determination emboldened her to pick herself up off the ground and gaze out again. Trevelyan and his merry lot were now nowhere to be seen. She imagined they had arrived at one of the wharves and were now boisterously descending upon Charleston. She gazed up at the sky. There was an opening of blue in the parting clouds and a sunny sparkle on the spire of a white church. She glanced below, to the place where Trevelyan had addressed her from his launch, where the water now quietly licked at the hull. Her eyes shifted to the bobbing boats nearby, and finally rested upon the enticing skyline of the town.

Nightfall could not come soon enough.

7:00 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)

JOE NORLAN WAS ABOUT TO CLIMB down the ladder to the waiting pinnace, but changed his mind when he caught sight of Leander leaning on the rail at the back of the ship, seemingly absorbed in the liveliness of the Charleston Harbour. “Just a minute,” he called down to the sailors who waited with anticipation to push off. They grumbled their acquiescence as Joe hurried along the deck to the spot where Leander stood. Upon reaching him, he cleared his throat and somewhat shyly asked, “Sir? Would – would you care to come with me?”

When Leander looked at Joe, he seemed confused, as if he’d been dreaming of someplace far away and had not yet returned. He was unshaven and looked as if he hadn’t slept in days. “Where is it you’re going?”

“Into Charleston, sir. I haven’t been off a ship in months; not going to miss my chance now.” Joe nodded towards the soldier who stood rigidly a few feet behind Leander. “You can bring him with you, sir.”

Leander smiled wanly. “Yes, apparently I’m allowed more freedom as long as I have Mr. Morven in tow.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then, I – I haven’t a clean shirt to wear.”

“You’ve no time to change even if you did, sir. Will you come, then?”

Leander hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I’m afraid I have no money. The little I once had went down with the Isabelle.”

Joe slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and jingled a few coins. “I’ve plenty for the two of us; well, at least enough to buy us a decent meal.”

While the sailors bellowed at Joe, “Hurry up, or thee boat’s leavin’ without yas!” Joe pleaded with the sullen-looking first lieutenant in charge to grant Leander shore leave. “Neither of us have enough money to get into much mischief, sir, and we can keep an eye out for the lads who will.”

The first lieutenant considered a minute, his bushy-black eyebrows dancing up and down, and his lower lip thrusting in and out all the while. At last, a laugh burst from his fleshy face. “Did you figure, Mr. Norlan, that you and Dr. Braden can take liberties with our captain away from his ship?” He shoved Joe towards the ladder that dangled down the ship’s side. “You can go. But your friend here is required to stay on board to stitch the busted heads of those that’ll be swinging from the rigging tonight.”

10:30 p.m.

(First Watch, Five Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

THE EVENING WAS BALMY, and the silver-crescent moon sailed in and around starry beacons and banks of pearly clouds. The lights of Charleston twinkled in the distance, beyond the bouncing black masts and lanterns of moored vessels in the harbour. Prosper had lowered his distinguishing pennant, doused his lights, and anchored his Prosperous and Remarkable as far out in the water as was possible; that way, should there be any trouble, he could do a quick disappearing act. As they had slipped in under cover of darkness, Prosper was relieved they hadn’t grounded on a sandbar or rammed into Sullivan Island and smashed through the new brick walls of Fort Moultrie. And he certainly hadn’t desired to bump into the back of a British cruiser that might be silently lurking, waiting like an alligator in tall reeds at the mouth of the harbour to give chase to any fleeing Yankee frigates. While the cutter was being prepared for its descent into the murmuring water, Prosper addressed his small crew.

“Now, I’ll only be takin’ a few o’ yas. Don’t wanna stir up no suspicion, and I knows what happens ta most o’ yas when ya down a few too many – ya start blubberin’ ’n’ boastin’ somethin’ fierce. Now, we don’t need no trouble.” He swung round and crouched down to speak to Magpie. “You run and tell yer friend yer goin’ inta town with old Prosper so he won’t worry none about ya.”

Magpie was stunned. “Yer takin’ me to Charleston?”

“Aye! I’m takin’ ya on yer first reconnaissance adventure! But yer gonna hafta leave that hat behind. Should anyone see that needle-worked ‘Isabelle’ on it, they might just pitch ya into their dank dungeon under thee Exchange House. Trust me, they have nasty ways ta make a man talk in there. Ya hurry, now!”

A thousand thoughts crashed through Magpie’s mind – not the least of which was the prospect of dungeons and Yankee thumbscrews – and his heart boomed like warring cannons as he hastened below to the forepeak where he and Gus kept their cots. Charleston was a Yankee town! What if someone pointed him out as an enemy of President Madison’s? Would they pitch him into their damp dungeon? How did Prosper figure he could escape if all those ships lying in the harbour took after him? And what did that big word, “reconnaissance,” mean? As he stowed away his hat under his cot, there was such a rush of emotions coursing through Magpie he could barely breathe.

Gus was awake, staring at the ceiling beams. There was more colour in his cheeks than there had been at noon, but his eyes were now feverish with fear.

Upon seeing Magpie, Gus cried out, “Where are we? Who’s the man that put these new splints on me? I swear it wasn’t Dr. Braden.”

Gus had been delirious the previous day when Prosper had carried him onto his brig, and during those awful days drifting about in the skiff, knowing how it would upset him, Magpie had never once mentioned the final fate of Captain Moreland’s ship.

Magpie attempted a smile. “That was Prosper Burgo what looked after ya, sir. And we’re on his ship, the Prosperous and Remarkable! He’s from Quebec and he’s been lookin’ after ya real good.”

Gus still looked fearful. “We’ve stopped. Are we in Halifax?”

“No, but we’re somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Well, sir, some place called Charleston.”

“Charleston?”

“Aye!”

“We’re in South Carolina?”

“Aye, I suppose that’s where it be, but everythin’s gonna be all right. And I’m goin’ ashore with Prosper fer a bit to do some … well, to do some explorin’, so rest up. Pemberton Baker will look in on ya. Prosper calls him a jackanapes and a galoot, but he’s really a kind sort o’ fellow.”

Gus’s forehead wrinkled and twitched as if he were trying to make sense of it all, and Magpie worried he was going to ask more questions – questions he didn’t have the nerve to answer right then and there. Chewing on his lip, he was relieved when Gus lowered his gaze and lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“Well, then, I’ll be seein’ ya, sir.”

Magpie lunged for the ladder up, but stopped mid-step when Gus called out, “Wait!”

Swinging around, Magpie watched his disabled friend strain to lift his head from his pillow.

“Magpie,” he whispered, “just in case … ask Mr. Prosper for a gun.”

10:30 p.m.

(First Watch, Five Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

THE WALLS OF EMILY’S CABIN vibrated with celebratory sounds: flutes and fiddles, singing voices, dancing feet, clapping hands, and drunken laughter. The sailors still aboard ship, not having had the good fortune in securing shore leave, had been allowed to engage in other diversions tonight on their own home deck. It was the first time, in all her accumulated weeks on the Serendipity, that Emily had heard such unbridled festivity in the evening. Ever since the ship’s arrival in Charleston, boatloads of bedraggled men, women, and children had come boisterously rowing out to meet their ship, waving baskets of food, bottled spirits, letters, and care packages. For hours Emily had rested her head against the gunport frame and watched with envy as the visitors had eagerly scrabbled up the ship’s ladder (or been hauled up like harpooned whales on bosuns’ chairs), and embraced their lovers and loved ones at the rail with shrieks of joy. In an effort to buoy her own spirits, she had pictured herself among them, imagining her own reunion with Leander Braden: his warm arms drawing her close, his searching, sea-blue eyes sending shivers through her.

The celebrations were now in full swing, and while the entire world danced upon the weather decks, there was no time to lose. Charlie had just left her, having come to collect the crumbs of her boiled beef and cheese supper. “I won’t be comin’ back no more, Miss. I won’t be bringin’ ya yer meals no more. I’m gonna be learnin’ the sails,” he had mumbled as he hesitated by the door with her tray. His protruding mouth had opened expectantly as if he had hoped she might make a fuss and demand an explanation. But Emily’s mind had long since strayed from the Serendipity and the affairs of her sailors. When the door had closed behind him, she felt certain that no one would hear her furtive movements in her dark hovel nor give her another thought until morning.

Emily gazed out the gunport at the wafer moon that glinted upon the calm harbour, and searched the water to make certain there were no boats returning to or leaving Trevelyan’s ship at this late hour. With the coast clear, she changed into her favourite clothes, which she had arranged upon her cot earlier. Her fumbling fingers pulled on the now-stained rumpled trousers and sailor-blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her, and tied her neck-scarf around her head to conceal her plaited hair. She then groped about under her bed for her leather shoes and, finding them, held them in her shaky hands a moment, smoothing the silver buckles with her thumbs. They had to be worth something! Quickly she rolled them up into a paisley shawl that she had found amongst the clothes Charlie brought in to her the previous day, stuffed the lot down the front of her jacket, and felt her way to the cannon carriage. It would have been so much easier had the cannon not been lashed so closely to the walls surrounding the gunport, but even if she could untie its solid ropes, the gun was far too heavy to clear away.

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.

Trevelyan raised an eyebrow and hunched over to glower at Magpie, droplets from his cloak soaking into Prosper’s loaf of bread. Magpie was too terrified to answer, his mind now busy imagining that Mr. Lindsay would march him down a lonely back alleyway and fix thumbscrews to his private parts to make him talk. His only hope was that Prosper would pull his face out of that woman’s bosom long enough to see that he needed saving.

“This worthless mongrel was the Isabelle’s sail maker, sir,” said Mr. Lindsay, tightening his hold on Magpie’s shirt.

Magpie thought he was going to be ill.

Trevelyan was as serene as if he were greeting a friend. “Well, then, Mr. Lindsay, we must bring him back to the Serendipity. If we seize him up to the shrouds, he might have a few tales worth hearing.”

“Or we could treat him to a miscreant midshipman’s caning, sir.”

“Better still, we could feed his fingers to the local alligators.”

Up came Magpie’s stomach, his colourful, half-digested supper of oyster stew, corn pone, and plums spewed forth, splattering all over Captain Trevelyan’s cloak and Mr. Lindsay’s shiny boots. Both men jumped back in annoyance, knocking over a server and her liquor-laden tray. As tin and pewter connected with the floor’s flags, shrieks of surprise and dismay rent the tavern air. In the chaotic din that ensued, Magpie recognized Prosper’s provocative roar.

“Ya wee jackanapes, run fer it now!”

Dumping the sodden loaf of bread into the putrid puddle frothing on the floor, Magpie scratched and clawed his way through the smelly tangle of sailors and flew like grapeshot towards the tavern’s front door.

“Stop that foundling!” shouted Trevelyan behind him.

“Don’t let that mongrel escape!”

“There he is! Grab hold of him!”

As he fled for his life, his terror turned his mind to mush; still, up ahead, he was able to distinguish Prosper Burgo in the mob. As if it were commonplace for Magpie to have enemy soldiers upon his heels, Prosper sat sedately at his table, one arm draped around his companion’s voluptuous shoulders, his head wobbling about on his scrawny neck, his back teeth now well-afloat. Fearing he was on his own, Magpie fixed his eye on the opening tavern door as he dodged grasping hands and leapt over legs meant to trip him up. And as he bolted past Prosper, he was certain he heard him say, “I’ll follow ya when thee way be clear.”