14

Tuesday, June 22

1:00 a.m.

(Middle Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

GUS’S EYES FLEW OPEN, the sudden noise having awakened him. Pemberton Baker was still sitting near his cot, whittling away at a chunk of wood with a small knife, his features unremarkable and placid in that large face of his.

“Was that cannon-fire, Mr. Baker?”

“It were only a clap o’ thunder. And it’s Pemberton. We don’t much stand on formalities round here.”

“But are you quite certain? It was so loud!”

“Common thing in these parts … thunderclaps.”

“Is Magpie back?”

“Nay! Whisht now and go to sleep.”

Alarmed, Gus lifted his head from his pillow. “Shouldn’t he be back by now? What time is it?”

“Close to two bells in thee Middle Watch.”

“You don’t think anything has happened, do you?”

“Nay! Yer friend’s as safe with Prosper Burgo as with God.” Pemberton returned to his whittling. “Sleep now. Thee more sleepin’ ya do, thee sooner ya’ll be leavin’ yer cot.”

“Why aren’t you in bed, Mr. … Pemberton?”

Another rumble of thunder rattled the brig’s timbers. Pemberton studied his knife. “Not sleepy. But I’ll be goin’ soon; me bed’s over yonder. You whisht now.”

Gus closed his eyes and tried to summon slumber, but the thunder frightened him, booming all around as if the Prosperous and Remarkable were under siege. He turned his head to watch Pemberton work, digging and paring away at his chunk of wood, the tiny shavings falling like crumbs onto the bent knees of his beige trousers. Then, raising his eyes to Pemberton’s wide, blank face, he whispered, “Would you stay awhile and talk to me? I should like to hear what became of the Isabelle.”

3:30 a.m.

(Middle Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

PULLING THE HOOD of his borrowed rain cloak over his head, Leander stepped onto the weather decks of the Serendipity. Instantly, the rain found his face, but he welcomed it after the heat and oppression of the ship’s bowels. The decks were empty except for the glum souls on watch and a handful of others who had earlier been celebrating a bit too heartily and had simply dropped before they could stumble off to their beds. On a discarded heap of canvas, he spotted a sleeping Meg Kettle, snuggled up with a snoring sailor, both of them oblivious to the pelting rain in the happiness of their makeshift bed. It was perhaps fortunate that Trevelyan and his new toady, Octavius Lindsay, had made plans to spend the night in Charleston.

With a pounding heart, Leander wandered to the part of the ship where Emily was housed. Flashes of lightning revealed the area around her cabin to be clear; no one stood guard there now. Nevertheless, in the event he was stopped and questioned, he had invented an excuse and, for insurance, brought his medical chest along. As he neared his destination, he strode past two sailors who were busy clearing the upper deck of the filth and clutter from the night’s carousing. Both of them nodded in his direction, nothing on their worn-out features indicating they thought it amiss that the British doctor should be wandering near the great cabin in the middle of the night.

Leander studied the closed doors before him. Rattling snores filled the air, though he could not pinpoint their origin, as the walls of the cabins were nothing more than flimsy sheets of canvas stretched upon frames of wood. Thanks to information provided by one of his patients, Leander now knew where it was that Emily lay, and twice now he had spied young Charlie Clive coming out of her cabin, carrying a tray. He moved towards her door and quietly set his medical chest on the floor by his feet. Then, reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the package of bread and meat that Joe Norlan had kindly brought back for him from town. He knocked once and took a step backwards to listen. Inside her cabin there was movement – of that he was certain – but to his dismay the snoring suddenly stopped. Had his knock awakened a nearby officer? Hardly daring to breathe, he waited, but when nothing happened, he grew restless.

“Emily?” he whispered into the night. “Emily, it’s me.”

The long-awaited reply – one word mumbled in a sleepy voice – caused him both joy and physical pain.

“Doctor?”

Faint with excitement, he called out again. “I’m right here at your door. I’ve – I’ve brought you some food.”

“Why, Doctor, was ya lookin’ fer me?”

Whirling about, Leander came face to face with Meg Kettle. She stood there, one hand on her prodigious hips, the other rumpling her untidy hair, a jubilant expression pressed upon her fat cheeks. She snatched away the meat sandwich and sank her grey teeth into it. Then, producing from her apron pocket a key that she dangled before him, she unlocked Emily’s door and, keeping her eyes on him, squeezed her bulk into the cabin. “Doctor,” she said, chewing with her mouth open, “it’s a bit late fer me to be entertainin’ visitors, if ya knows what I mean.”

Leander reddened. “This – this is your cabin?”

“’Tis now, so shove off or I’ll report yer mischief to Cap’n Trevelyan when he returns.” She slammed the door in his face.

Thunderstruck, Leander remained rooted to the floor timbers, unable to comprehend this disastrous turn of events. She was there, a few feet from him, a bit of canvas separating them, yet he could do nothing. The two sailors were now watching him. By lantern light, Leander could see sportive smiles upon their faces. Retrieving his medical chest, he reluctantly left Emily in the hands of Meg Kettle, and with his head held high, brushed by the sailors, ignoring their mirthful clucks. His fingers tensed around the handle of his medical chest and determination burned in his breast. Sooner than later, he would find another opportunity.

5:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

OUT OVER THE OCEAN there were still muted bursts of thunder, but the driving downpour that had knocked for ages against the sides of the Prosperous and Remarkable next to Gus’s head had finally ceased. Lying in his cot, Gus waited for Magpie to strip off his sodden clothing and pull on the oversized muslin shirt that Prosper had donated for his night attire. He was anxious to hear about Magpie’s explorations in Charleston, but didn’t dare tell him he’d been awake for ages, listening for the sound of his familiar step.

“Why are you back so late?” he snapped.

Magpie hopped into his cot, drew his knees up to his chest, and pulled his thin blanket around him. In the light cast by the lantern that hung near their cots, Gus could see that Magpie’s cheeks were aglow and his eye sparkled, and when he finally spoke in a loud whisper, his words tumbled out in a breathless, jumbled torrent. “Oh, sir, when we come back here, I wanted to see ya straight off, but Prosper was insistin’ he change me bandages. And then he was wantin’ to ask me hundreds o’ questions ’bout Cap’n Trevelyan and Octavius Lindsay.”

Gus was aghast. “Trevelyan? Mr. Lindsay? Why?”

“Oh, sir, you’ll never guess – I saw them, in a tavern near the docks. And Trevelyan stands eight feet high and ya wouldn’t like the looks o’ him. He’s got the eyes o’ Lucifer and his hands – they’re all cut up like a farmer’s plough runned him down. And Mr. Lindsay – I don’t understand it, sir, ’cause the last I saw him, he were clapped in irons on the Isabelle, but – well, he’s workin’ for Trevelyan now. And ya see, while I were gettin’ Prosper somethin’ to eat, I heared them usin’ big words I didn’t understand and talkin’ ’bout Halifax and Bermuda and the Duke o’ Clarence comin’ to rescue Emily.”

“Emily?”

“Oh, sir. She’s alive. She’s on the Serendipity, just like I guessed. Just like I told Prosper. But then I got real scared and threw up me supper all over Trevelyan and Mr. Lindsay’s boots, and they didn’t much like that so I had to run fer me life. And, sir, we … we had to wait ’til the wharf were clear o’ Yankees afore we could get to the cutter and come back. I kept on thinkin’ ’bout that dungeon, and I were so distressed, I couldn’t stop me tears. Prosper told me again and again to quit me snivellin’ or he were gonna feed me to the alligators. They ’ave alligators in these waters, sir, with big teeth! And I didn’t like the thought o’ alligators eatin’ me legs. All the while it were rainin’ and I had to keep hidin’ and watch out for Trevelyan and Mr. Lindsay and the soldiers runnin’ around, hollerin’ and chasin’ us with their muskets, ready to shoot us dead.” He stopped to take in air.

Gus could see Magpie’s body trembling beneath his blanket. “You must slow down and tell me everything from the very beginning.”

Magpie took a deep breath and was about to try again when Pemberton’s firm voice sounded in the darkness. “Lads! Pipe down! Out with thee lantern. Thee call fer hammocks up will come afore ya know it. Whisht now!”

Scurrying from his cot, Magpie quickly blew out the lantern candle and came to kneel beside Gus’s head. “Sir, afore I tell ya ’bout what I saw and heared tonight,” he whispered, “I gotta tell ya ’bout the Isabelle. Ya gotta know it first.”

“I do know,” said Gus, glad that Magpie could not see his welling tears. “Pemberton told me everything – that is, everything he’d learned from you. He said you didn’t know what happened to the crew, because – because you’d come away in the skiff – to find me.” Gus’s throat closed up and he paused until he once again had full command of his voice. “He did tell me how you came by that embroidered hat you keep under your cot.” Gus felt Magpie’s warm hand close around his forearm, beneath his splints.

“Oh, sir, I wished ya’d never had to learn the truth. I wish we was on the Isabelle still, sittin’ in Emily’s corner readin’ that book and Dr. Braden smilin’ upon us and Mr. Crump makin’ wisecracks from his hammock. And Prosper’s biscuits aren’t nearly as tasty as them what Biscuit used to bake.” Magpie began to weep.

“Start from the beginning, Magpie.”

But Magpie’s weeping only grew louder until at last Pemberton raised his voice in warning. “If ya don’t stop yer blubberin,’ I’ll toss ya overboard meself, and trust me, them alligators ya don’t fancy none will be sure ta find ya.”

Magpie mewled and made a dash for his cot. But soon he was feeling his way back to Gus’s head. “Sir, I promise, I’ll tell ya everythin’ after I sleep a bit. But ya gotta know now. Come first light, we’re leavin’ here, and Prosper … well, he’s all fired up and plannin’ on goin’ after Trevelyan the first chance he gets.”

7:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

EMILY OPENED HER EYES from her night of dreams to find her lower back aching and Meg Kettle standing over her, a broad smile on her thin lips.

“’Bout time ya woke up.”

Emily sat up in her cot, rubbed life into her face, and frowned as she surveyed the grubby hammock that was newly hung so close to her own. As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Kettle said, “It were Cap’n Trevelyan’s idea t’ave thee ladies bunk together.”

“Mrs. Kettle,” said Emily with restraint, “one would hardly consider you a lady.”

“Ooo, and ya think yer a right smart lady! Jumpin’ outta ships and wearin’ trousers and drinkin’ with thee Isabelles and sleepin’ with all thee men in Dr. Braden’s hospital?”

Emily did not give her the satisfaction of a reply. She gazed past Mrs. Kettle, wishing she were alone to remember the voice that had called out to her in the night. It had seemed so real and so close. She closed her eyes for a second, pulling the coat that had been his up around her shoulders.

“Get a move on. Ya won’t be layin’ ’bout today.”

Emily threw Mrs. Kettle an impatient glance. “I’ll get up when I want to.”

“Nay! Today ya ’ave work to do.”

Emily lifted her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s yer punishment fer tryin’ to escape last night.”

“I would have thought being forced to share my cabin with you was punishment enough.”

Mrs. Kettle made a snuffling sound. “Yer to do thee men’s washin.”

“With you?”

Mrs. Kettle’s hands found her hips. “Nay! Won’t be findin’ Meggie doin’ laundry no more.”

“Why not? Has Trevelyan finally decided to reward you for being a traitor?”

A muscle in Mrs. Kettle’s cheek quivered. “I bin given a promotion.”

“Really? Shall I address you from here on as yeoman of the bedsheets or perhaps as captain of the heads?”

“Think yer comical now, don’t ya?”

“Mrs. Kettle, I doubt there’s a uniform on this ship large enough to fit your frame.”

Mrs. Kettle compressed her lips and flounced her hammy arms across her chest, but Emily, having no interest in hearing the details of her shipboard promotion, scrambled from her cot and pushed up the gunport. Rain and sea spray blew into the tiny cabin, invigorating Emily’s warm face. She filled her lungs with the clean, salty air, and massaged her lower back as she gazed longingly towards Charleston.

“Shut that,” growled Mrs. Kettle.

“I will not.”

“Ya’ll get me hammock all wet. Now shut it.”

“I will not! I cannot breathe in here. You reek like a manure patch.”

Mrs. Kettle took a menacing step towards Emily. “Ooo, if I’d a knife, I’d cut yer bold tongue from that white throat o’ yers.” Emily swung round and stood her ground before the open gunport, meeting the older woman’s stare dead on. They glared at each other until the whooshing sound of a tray being passed under the cabin door diverted Mrs. Kettle’s wavering glance.

“Yer breakfast!” trilled an unfamiliar voice.

Scurrying to collect the food, Mrs. Kettle said, “Git dressed and be quick with yer gruel. Come eight bells, ya’ll ’ave yer white hands in a tub o’ saltwater.”

The thought of leaving her small prison – especially now that it was redolent with the essence of livestock – lifted Emily’s spirits. Having endured endless days of nothingness, she was ready to embrace any form of occupation and would not have complained even if ordered to draw the weevils from the ship’s biscuit barrels. Suppressing her anger with Mrs. Kettle, Emily watched as she gobbled her buttered biscuits and foraged about in her ditty bag.

“Were you speaking to Dr. Braden last night?”

Mrs. Kettle gave Emily nothing more than a wary glance.

“I – I thought I heard his voice.”

The laundress let loose a gurgle of laughter along with a spray of biscuit bits. “Dr. Braden? Where did ya get thee notion?”

Emily felt her confidence wane. “He said he had brought me some food.”

A pompous smile crossed Mrs. Kettle’s sweaty face. “Ya daft girl. ’Twere a dream only. Yer precious doctor’s lyin’ on thee ocean floor.”

8:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

BISCUIT HUMMED A SCOTTISH TUNE as he set upon the captain’s table a steaming pot of chocolate, a dish of marmalade, toast, and a freshly baked salt-fish pie. Fly frowned at Biscuit. Humming had not been allowed in the presence of Captain Moreland at mealtimes, but Captain Prickett, who was busy stuffing his linen napkin into the collar of his shirt, did not seem to mind the impertinence. “Biscuit, tell me, my good man, what’s in the pie?”

Biscuit clasped his hands behind his back and cast a grave gaze upon the stern windows as he rhymed off the ingredients. “Soused herrings, oysters, halibut, lobster, potatoes, herbs, parsnips, pepper and salt, oh … ah …” He paused to show off his greenish teeth. “And a pinch o’ rum.”

Captain Prickett smiled his delight. “Well done, Biscuit. Now cut me and Mr. Austen a generous slice of it, then fetch the spiced cake you baked last night.”

“Ya’ll be wantin’ cake fer breakfast, sir?”

“Most certainly. The day’s chores already lie heavy on me. I need to be fortified with tasty sustenance.” Captain Prickett spread a dollop of marmalade onto a half piece of toast, popped the whole works into his mouth, and studied his guest as he chewed. “How are you faring this morning, Mr. Austen?” he asked when Biscuit had left them.

Fly, who was about to take his first bite of pie, lowered his fork. “I am well, sir.”

“And that scorched back of yours?”

“On the mend. These past few days of rest have helped immeasurably. I thank you for the reprieve in not sending me straightaway to work in the galley with Biscuit.”

“Biscuit is quite capable of performing wonders with very little assistance.”

“I am glad you are finding his service satisfactory. With all due respect, his performance was not quite as impressive on the Isabelle, but then Captain Moreland and his officers provided Biscuit with nothing more than the most basic of victuals.”

“Where I, Mr. Austen, insist that my officers pay handsomely for their provisions, as food is my one joy.”

As Captain Prickett eagerly dug into his pie, Fly took the opportunity to pop his waiting forkful into his mouth.

“I have other plans for you, Mr. Austen,” Prickett said between bites. “That is why I wished to dine with you alone this morning.”

Fly watched his face expectantly, but had to wait until the pie was dispensed with to hear more.

“You are aware, Mr. Austen, that we raised Charleston earlier this morning.”

“Aye! I could see the town in the distance when I rose from my bed, sir.”

“Hopefully, we find Trevelyan here, and if not in Charleston then in the general vicinity, though we may have to search as far south as Savannah or even St. Augustine. We have gleaned information from two fishing vessels that claimed they passed a ship fitting the Serendipity’s description. Now, if I were Trevelyan, and I had something to celebrate – in this case, the taking down of Moreland’s ship – it is to Charleston that I would head. After all, it is known as the Paris of the American South for good reason.”

Fly listened intently to his host. “What about blockades, sir? Are any of our ships watching the harbour mouth?”

“We haven’t the manpower to properly blockade these American ports, Mr. Austen, and what we do have is concentrated in the north, just south of New York. We are totally ineffectual down here. It’s about time our ships moved south in larger numbers.”

“Sir, are we close enough to get a good look at the ships anchored in the harbour?” Fly strained his neck to catch a glimpse of Charleston through the great cabin windows, but his vantage point afforded him only a scene of rolling waves.

Prickett thoughtfully sipped his cup of chocolate. “Of course it is necessary to keep a safe distance and this rainy weather doesn’t give us the best visibility.”

Feeling suddenly restless, Fly asked, “What are you proposing to do, sir?”

“Hang about a few days, see whether Trevelyan’s Serendipity does slip out of the harbour.”

“And if he does, sir?”

“Well, now that’s where you come in, Mr. Austen.

“Sir?”

Prickett cleared his throat. “You’ve had experience with this Trevelyan, Mr. Austen. You know his tactics, his games, and more importantly, how fast that ship of his can sail.”

“Aye, I have gained a brief familiarity, sir.”

Prickett shifted his bottom about in his chair. “You see, Mr. Austen, I’ve spent the past two years escorting merchantmen about this ocean, bullying potential predators with the Amethyst’s sheer size and her long guns. Call it luck, call it misfortune, I cannot recall when I last fired a broadside at anyone and, heaven forbid, had the fire returned; notwithstanding, of course, that cowardly early morning shot we recently withstood.” He poured himself a second cup of chocolate. “For the most part, my men are experienced seamen, though they’ve had little opportunity to become a well-drilled crew. And I’m afraid I am not a fighting captain.”

An awkward silence followed, during which Fly was forced to listen to Prickett slurp and extol the virtues of his hot drink. Finally he took the initiative. “Sir, are you asking me to assist you with your campaign against Trevelyan?”

“Assist? Nay! I’m asking that you lead it.”

Fly set down his knife and fork and handed Prickett an incredulous stare. Prickett looked sheepish, but his familiar joviality soon returned the moment he spied Biscuit entering the great cabin with the spiced cake. “Ah! There you are. Cut me a generous slab of that, will you now?”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

MAGPIE COERCED A CHUNK OF MEAT down his throat. He had lost his appetite – due to the roughness of the sea and also to the company he was keeping. If it weren’t for the presence of Prosper and for his kind invitation to join his messmates for a meal, Magpie would have quietly carried his plate back to the corner he shared with Mr. Walby. He peered up at the men who sat around the mess table, swilling their dinner’s ration of grog, and eating their salted beef and boiled potatoes with their fingers. Though not having been intimately acquainted with them, Magpie was aware that a few of the Isabelles had had diseases of the mind or appetites for petty thievery, but these Prosperous and Remarkables were a different breed altogether. He had seen the likes of them before – at night in London, where they could be found lingering in rotting doorways down damp, foul alleyways, preying on passersby, dragging them into dark recesses, and murdering them for the few coins in their ragged pockets. Most of those who sat around him now had queer body parts – cracked teeth, maimed arms, missing ears, tattooed faces – and all of them had a peculiar brightness in their gaze. The man on his left had huge hands and shifty eyes, and a nose that looked like a tumorous strawberry. The way Magpie saw it, Prosper must have invited him to the table thinking he fit in with the bunch, having only one eye in his head. He shuddered as he sat on a chest at the head of the table and grabbed for his mug, praying the grog would settle his stomach, which had been home to a knot the size of an anchor since early the previous day. To avoid eye contact with the fearsome faces that surrounded him, he huddled over his plate and waited for the ship’s bell that would herald the end of the dinner hour.

“Taken nineteen prizes since thee start o’ this war,” said Prosper, jabbing his knife in the air, “and, by Jove, I’d likes ta ’ave an even twenty.”

“Aye, it’s bin a while now, Prosper,” said the tattooed sailor at the end of the table. “I miss thee feelin’ o’ me cutlass cuttin’ some gullet.”

The man with shifty eyes who sat next to Magpie’s left elbow spoke up. “D’ya recall two months back, comin’ upon that brig – what was it? Portuguese? French? Austrian? No matter. D’ya recall? And I roughed their captain up good and pitched overboard them what got in me way. And them wenches in their silk gowns – how they screamed shrilly, enough to uncleave barnacles from thee hull – and begged us to kill thee men but spare them.”

“And did ya?” Magpie’s question was barely audible.

“Nay, pitched them in too.”

“Ya galoot,” hissed Prosper. “’Twere a waste. I coulda thought o’ other things ya coulda done with ’em.”

The men broke into laughter and slammed their fists in approval on the solid oak of the tabletop, causing the pewter plates to dance.

“Is it true then, Prosper? Are ya goin’ after Trevelyan?”

“Aye! Heard his men in Charleston talk o’ silver, weaponry, and hundreds o’ casks o’ French wine in thee hold.” Prosper swivelled his head towards Magpie. “And … a comely lass named Em’ly in thee great cabin.”

Magpie’s heart stopped. He looked fearfully from Prosper to the man on his left that had boasted of pitching wenches overboard.

“Ya – ya won’t harm her, sir?”

The man leaned over and thrust his strawberry nose into Magpie’s flushing face. “Nay. So long as she don’t git in me way.”

A second round of hilarity rocked their small table, the noise so loud it frightened Magpie. He had to tug on Prosper’s sleeve to get his attention. “But, the Serendipity’s a lot bigger than the Prosperous and Remarkable. And Trevelyan’s got hundreds o’ men and sharpshootin’ marines and lots o’ big guns.”

A smug smile sprang to Prosper’s lips and his eyelids fell to halfmast. “Nineteen prizes, little man, nineteen of ’em.” His good humour suddenly changed to a scowl. “Magpie! Swathed in them bandages, ya look weak in thee head. ’Twould serve thee Prosperous and Remarkable well if I was ta fix ya up with an eye patch.”

There, finally, was the bell.

Prosper rose to his feet and cuffed the heads of the two men on either side of him.

“Have yas finished fillin’ yer faces, then? Better look lively, ya band o’ ruffians! Won’t be bobbin’ forever in these waters with no purpose, ya know. Soon, we’ll be goin’ after our prize. And accordin’ ta Magpie here, yer gonna see fightin’ on thee seas in thee rare style o’ David and Goliath.”

As the men advanced from the mess table and headed out to their stations, Magpie whispered, “May the saints preserve us – every last one o’ them.”

1:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

EMILY SEARCHED THE WASHING LINES fixed between the main and fore shrouds for space on which to hang her last load of linens, muslin shirts, neckcloths, silk stockings, and cotton trousers. She then set her laundry basket down on the deck beneath the foresail, gave her back a stretch, and wiped the sweat from her brow with her shirtsleeve. The sky was still overcast, threatening more rain, but between puffs of ocean breeze, the day was hot and sticky. Emily did not mind the weather. Nor did she mind that her ankle was hurting, her hands were red and roughened (the unhappy result of being submerged for hours in tubs of warmed saltwater and lye soap), or that her muscles were crying for mercy, having been shocked into use after weeks of inactivity. Her physical ailments were small nuisances compared to the pleasure of being out-of-doors, working alongside the Serendipities. The colourful scenes in the harbour and of distant Charleston were an agreeable change from the confinement of her dark cabin. Though physically drained, she felt stronger mentally, better than she had in days.

Bending down to pick up a pair of damp dungarees and two forked clothespins, Emily spotted the striking figure of Bun Brodie and his distinctive copper-coloured pigtail out of the corner of her eye, coming along the deck with a roll of canvas slung over his shoulders. She had seen him earlier, labouring above her on the yards, replacing sails for most of the day with the help of young Charlie Clive. They did not dare speak to one another, for Meg Kettle hovered nearby, keeping an eye on her every movement, making certain Emily did not converse with any of the sailors, although it was quite acceptable for her to lick her lips provocatively and make eyes at them. But this time, as Bun Brodie passed by Emily, he smiled and whispered “Mrs. Seaton” in greeting, before taking his heavy load up the shrouds. Emily could not keep her heart from quickening. With the exception of Meg Kettle and Octavius Lindsay, Bun Brodie was the first of the Isabelles she had seen on the Serendipity. If… if Trevelyan took him, did she dare hope – despite what Mrs. Kettle had said that morning – might he have taken others as well? At the very least, Mr. Brodie might be able to tell her what had become of Captain Moreland’s crew. Locking away the flame of hope, Emily looked up at Charlie, standing tall beside Bun Brodie on the foreyard, only to find him gazing down upon her. Though the lad’s facial features rarely fluctuated, he acknowledged her with a wave before setting to work unfurling the new sail.

Deep in happy thought, Emily pinned the remaining clothes onto the already congested lines, unaware that Trevelyan’s launch had returned to the ship. Suddenly hearing his distinctive voice only a few feet from where she worked gave her a fright, but as the deck was teeming with all manner of activity, and she, outfitted in hat and trousers, must have blended well with the crew, Emily hoped he had not yet recognized the new washerwoman. Keeping her back to Trevelyan, she listened with curiosity to his conversation with Octavius Lindsay.

“Why am I only hearing of this now, Mr. Lindsay?”

“Sir, you – I had no idea where you were lodging in town.”

“How many of them were there, besides that little mongrel that vomited on my rain cloak?”

“Hard to tell, sir. They scattered … ran down different alleyways and streets.”

“Did you watch all vessels leaving the harbour?”

“We did our best, sir. At dawn we rowed from ship to ship to question and search the crews, but we came up empty-handed. Perhaps, whoever it was, they took their chances and slipped away in the dark.”

“There is still daylight, Mr. Lindsay. Search again. Take the launch and twelve or so marines with you, and this time, make certain you upend all chests and run a sword through every ditty bag. That little mongrel could be hiding anywhere. He could be on anyone’s ship. But before you dash off – I have brought Mr. Humphreys with me from town. See to it that he is provided with accommodation below deck.”

“Mr. Humphreys, sir?”

“The chaplain.”

“Aye, sir.”

Emily laughed to herself as she hung up the final articles of laundry. Few men of the sea had religious leanings. Was Trevelyan about to seek God and salvation with the help of this Mr. Humphreys? She scooped up her empty basket, then while she waited a moment, giving Trevelyan time to quit the deck, a stomach-churning thought struck her. Feeling faint, she turned around slowly. But he stood there still, his strange eyes having found her. Whatever thoughts he had in his head, they were hard to read. His thin lips parted and Emily braced herself for what surely would be a disparaging remark related to her present occupation; instead, he lifted his gaze to the foresail that billowed above her head, and called out, “Mr. Clive, are you contented with your new situation?”

For a moment Charlie appeared bewildered and delayed his reply as if he weren’t certain his captain had singled him out. “Aye, sir.”

“And does it surpass serving up biscuits and tea to common wenches?”

Charlie’s eyes shyly met Emily’s upturned ones. “I – I suppose so, sir.”

“And have you mastered the shrouds, Mr. Clive?”

Charlie’s head rose higher on his skinny neck. “Oh, aye, sir.”

“Show me then.”

“Sir?”

“Climb down and I will observe your abilities.”

Perched high up on the yard, Bun Brodie and the men assisting him in replacing the foresail followed Charlie’s cautious descent with amusement until the lad had landed safely on the deck between Emily and Captain Trevelyan.

“Well done, Mr. Clive,” Trevelyan said with no enthusiasm. “Now this time I will watch as you climb to the foretop and back. But as I require improvement in your speed, I will suggest a contest and provide you with an opponent.”

Those within earshot of the exchange broke off their chores and crowded round to witness the impending spectacle, including Meg Kettle. Emily’s mouth went dry when Trevelyan’s eyes dropped on her like an axe and remained there as he spoke in a voice for all to hear.

“Men! Ten years ago I had the privilege of watching a young child race up the ratlines on HMS Isabelle as her proud father looked on. Perhaps today, she will bewitch us with another brilliant performance.”

Astonished, Emily could only gape at Trevelyan as she tried to make sense of his words. Cold dread rushed through her body as the spectators – encouraged by Trevelyan’s rare display of good nature – drew closer.

“But, sir, that was a very long time ago,” said Emily, trying to gather her scattered wits.

“Yes,” Trevelyan responded flatly.

“I’ve not had much opportunity of late to climb ropes.”

“I was told you were spotted sitting upon the mizzen crosstrees the morning of the Isabelle’s last day. Did a great eagle carry you there?”

Emily glanced at Mrs. Kettle and was inflamed to see a glowing smile upon the woman’s glistening features. Quickly, she turned back to Trevelyan.

“I have never made a habit of participating in such contests, sir.”

Trevelyan sloped his body towards her until barely an inch separated their faces, then he tilted his head to one side. “Well, madam, you can begin now. I believe – given your unorthodox upbringing – you shall relish this novel adventure.” He stepped backwards to smile at the crowd.

Feeling helpless, Emily wavered. She prayed no one would see the tremor in her hands nor hear the pounding of her heart.

“C’mon now, Miss.”

“Show us what yer made of.”

“Give Charlie a lickin’.”

“Aye, thee whelp needs a good thrashin’.”

“Nay!” Meg Kettle yelled out. “’Tis thee other way round.”

With the men’s raucous laughter ringing in her ears, Emily – dazed and distressed – pulled off her hat, threw it into her empty laundry basket, and set the basket down upon the deck. Then she squared her shoulders and slowly began rolling up the legs of her trousers.

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

FLY AUSTEN LOWERED HIS SPYGLASS to address Captain Prickett and his first lieutenant, Lord Bridlington, who stood alongside him on the starboard rail, looking out over Charleston.

“It appears there are three larger ships in the harbour; perhaps they are frigates, perhaps one of them is Trevelyan. It would be ideal if we could move in closer to shore to get a better look.”

Surprise crossed Lord Bridlington’s face. “But if we were to do that, in a heavy ship such as ours, we may ground on a shoal and some of the smaller vessels would then come after us and board us, and if they were to gain control, what would become of us?”

Captain Prickett raised his hand to silence his senior officer. “Mr. Austen,” he said, lowering his voice so the men working around him could not hear his words, “tell me what course of action we should assume and I’ll pass the word to have it carried out.”

Beneath the bow of his bicorne, Lord Bridlington’s eyes widened.

“Thank you, sir,” said Fly thoughtfully. “There is a sloop flying under our colours hove to near Sullivan Island. It might be wise to attempt communication with it.”

“Imagine our Admiralty sending nothing more than a sloop to watch this part of the coast. The Americans must be having a good laugh at our expense,” grumbled Prickett. “Consider it done, Mr. Austen.”

“Also, sir, I wonder if we could – as soon as possible – put to sea. With your permission, I should like the gun crews to practise their drills, as you yourself admitted this morning that it has been a long while.”

Captain Prickett glanced around his ship and nodded in agreement. “Right! I will arrange for it, Mr. Austen.”

Lord Bridlington’s eyes darted between his captain and Fly. “If gunfire is heard onshore, won’t the enemy get the notion that we are issuing a challenge of sorts?”

Captain Prickett hiked his breeches up around his prodigious belly. “That’s exactly what we are doing, Mr. Bridlington. If Trevelyan’s holed up in there, we’ll root him out … if he’s any kind of a man, of course.”

Captain Prickett clapped his jumpy officer on the back and led him towards the nearest hatchway, leaving Fly shaking his head in wonder as he watched after them. Left alone, he ambled along the rail, pausing every few feet to squint again through his spyglass. There were myriad vessels sailing in and out of the Charleston harbour; most of them appeared to be harmless fishing boats, though the Amethyst was too far away for Fly to confirm it one way or the other. He stayed there for an hour, accepting a cup of tea and a roll from Biscuit, but speaking to no one else as he continued his watch over the harbour. Engrossed in his thoughts, he took some time to recognize Morgan Evans loitering nearby, still unaccustomed as he was to seeing the young man without his distinguishing wool hat. “Mr. Evans!”

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.