16

Friday, June 25

6:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Five Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

THE EARLY MORNING MISTS were beginning to recede around the Amethyst as she stood out to sea under her topgallants. Near the bowsprit, Fly Austen was captivated with the shimmering orb of orange on the eastern horizon as he searched all round, looking for that elusive ship with the blood-red hull. At this hour, there was no sign of it. Captain Prickett and Lieutenant Bridlington, who were keeping him company on his watch, were more captivated with their bowls of cold fish soup, recently delivered to them by a cantankerous Biscuit.

“I would have preferred hot soup, Mr. Austen, but already the day is a warm one,” said Pickett, beads of sweat dripping down his cheeks as he downed spoonfuls of the brown, oily stuff.

Put off by the smell of both Prickett and his breakfast, Fly wheeled about to face the harbour where, despite the distance, he could see a few sails beginning to stir. “At least there is relief in the winds, sir. Perhaps they bode well for a sea battle.”

Bridlington looked alarmed.

Prickett nodded in agreement. “Tell us your thoughts, Mr. Austen?”

“Now that we have had it confirmed that Trevelyan does indeed lie anchored beyond, I question the wisdom in further delay.”

“But, Mr. Austen,” said Bridlington, “this suggestion of yours – to issue him a challenge – is a disquieting one. The Amethyst is a ship of seventy-four guns. Trevelyan’s frigate boasts no more than thirty-six. It would be dishonourable to challenge a ship with inferior gun power.”

Fly had to stifle his impatience with the first lieutenant; they had already discussed the subject at length last evening in the wardroom. “Mr. Bridlington, of course you are aware that when it comes to single-ship action, much has to be taken into consideration, beyond the gun power of the opposing ships. The Serendipity is a much younger ship, she is well manned, her crews are well drilled, and her sailing ability is far superior to ours.” Fly compressed his lips. “Moreover, her captain is foolhardy and would undoubtedly be the first to issue a challenge if he had an inkling who was watching him.”

Bridlington sought Prickett for help. “Sir, we are not ready for this.”

Prickett hiked up his breeches. “No one is ever prepared to be shot to pieces. Toughen up and resist being a milksop.”

Bridlington reddened and looked offended, but neither Fly nor Prickett paid him heed, for at that precise moment energized voices pierced the calm morning air.

“Sail, ho! Sail, ho!”

“That ain’t no fishin’ boat.”

“For certain that’s a frigate.”

Fly peered up at the masthead. To his pleasant surprise, sitting astride the foreyard, helping to make repairs to the stirrups, was the ubiquitous Morgan Evans. Catching his attention, Fly called out, “Is it him, Mr. Evans?”

“It’s him all right, sir.”

Fly tossed the sulking first lieutenant a smile. “Well, now that our plans for a challenge have been thwarted, let us see how well the Amethyst handles herself in a chase.”

Bridlington’s eyes were frozen in fear, but Prickett threw away his soup bowl and launched into action. He stomped around the quarterdeck with his hands on his heavy hips, barking orders that sounded as if his guns were already firing. “All hands aloft. Make sail, lads, and be sure to chain those yards. Where’s the bo’s’n? Wake the sleepers, man! You there, see to the netting. There’ll be no Yankees boarding my ship today. Pass the word for Biscuit. We must all be fed before clearing the decks for action.” Fly watched in amusement as the stocky captain administered every direction, so unlike the smooth chain of command that had been prevalent on Captain Moreland’s ship.

The Isabelle.

Though he would never admit it to Bridlington, Fly felt his own fears, his own anxiety, and for reassurance, reached into his coat pocket to touch James’s letter. Prickett soon rejoined him at the bowsprit, as his voice was now quite spent. “Tell me, Mr. Austen,” he said hoarsely, trying to assume a bold stance, “are we ready?”

Fly’s thoughtful gaze scoured the decks and masts of the Amethyst. Though the scurry of activity was anything but organized, there was a contagious buzz of excitement in the air. “Not at all, sir, but our men – they are extraordinarily exuberant.”

10:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Four Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

EMILY LEANED OUT OF THE GUNPORT as far as she could. The ship was astir; something was about, and she was determined to find out what. Unable to sleep past dawn, she had witnessed the rising sun, Mrs. Kettle’s grumbling early departure from their cabin, and the Serendipity’s progress as it slipped out of the harbour and blithely glided past a sleepy British sloop that was lying to near Sullivan’s Island. Now, however, the sailors all seemed to move with quickened steps and there was more talk than normal, though Emily could not make out the significance in their shouted words. With a sarcastic shake of her head, she wondered if all the fuss was in honour of her upcoming nuptials, or if indeed there was a looming threat. From her vantage point, she could tell they were sailing in a northeasterly direction, but the sea was empty. If something was following in the Serendipity’s wake, she could not see it. Her mind’s eye envisioned a fleet of twelve ships coming for her, the Isabelle leading the way, and Captain Moreland standing fearlessly above her bow waves, intent on rescuing his friends and having his revenge. But even her imagination could not create a perfect image, for she knew that, if cornered, Trevelyan would not surrender without bloodshed.

The cabin door opened and closed. Wheeling about, she found Meg Kettle with the breakfast tray. The laundress set the food down upon the wooden stool and slipped out the door again. When she returned the second time, she was carrying what looked like an elegant dress box. “Aren’t ye a lucky one,” she snarled.

“And why is that?” Emily said, her voice flat.

Mrs. Kettle blew a strand of greying hair out of her eyes, then eagerly lifted the lid from the box as if she were opening a Christmas gift addressed to her. She pulled out a crisp new chemise and a dress of fine white cotton with satin embroidery, and held them up for inspection. “Cap’n Trevelyan picked ’em out hisself in Charleston.”

Emily glanced indifferently at the dress. “And that makes me lucky?”

Mrs. Kettle returned the clothing to the box with such tender care one would think she was restoring baby birds to their nest. She then placed her hands on her hips and scowled at Emily. “It’s more than ye deserve, I say. And look! See what he ordered up fer yer breakfast.”

Emily looked over the tray laden with sweet rolls, butter, strawberry preserves, cold ham, spiced nuts, cream, and steaming coffee. This morning she would have preferred her usual ration of tea and gruel. “I marvel at Trevelyan’s gifts to me at this late hour,” she said. Wandering over to the tray, she picked up the mug of coffee, then returned and sat upon the cannon carriage. “The feast is all yours, Mrs. Kettle. I have no appetite for it.”

Without hesitation, the older woman stuffed a sweet roll into her mouth, grabbed a handful of spiced nuts, and stood back to scrutinize Emily with her little eyes. “Savin’ yer appetite fer other things, are ye then?”

Emily glanced away, her ears alerted to the increasing commotion beyond the cabin walls. But Mrs. Kettle resumed her heckling. “Look at ya, sittin’ there, full o’ self-pity.”

“Self-pity? You are quite mistaken, Mrs. Kettle. As I am the luckiest of women alive, my temperament can only be interpreted as a testament to my immense disappointment that I will not be wed in the garden of a Charleston mansion, nor will I be able to wear magnolias in my hair, and eat an iced layer cake.”

The laundress watched Emily closely, squinting now and again as she crunched on her spiced nuts. “Bet yer face would be all smiles if ya was marryin’ thee doctor.”

Emily wilted. Unable to summon enough energy to reply, she gazed out the open port at the small wave-like clouds that drifted by, and kept her painful thoughts to herself.

“Thee poor doctor! So melancholy is he. Why, just now it was, I passed him by, comin’ out o’ thee cap’n’s cabin,” said Mrs. Kettle. “He were movin’ real slow, like a man about to face thee gallows.”

Though she longed to hear something – anything – of Leander, Emily sat there silently, refusing to be drawn out.

Mrs. Kettle spit into the cabin’s corner. “Yer nothin’ but an ingrate! Ya bin indulged yer whole life. Why, I would give away me unborn child to be marryin’ thee likes o’ Cap’n Trevelyan.”

“Keep your child, Mrs. Kettle, and take Trevelyan,” said Emily quietly, turning from the open port to face her. “You are welcome to him.”

Mrs. Kettle stopped chewing, and gaped at her.

A sharp knock rattled the cabin door, mobilizing Mrs. Kettle into action. She snatched another roll and cried, “That’s it! Ya gotta hurry! Thee cap’n’s waitin’ on ya.”

“Waiting? Wh – what? Now?”

“He wants thee weddin’ over, just in case yonder ship gets too close and he’s gotta clear thee deck.”

Emily’s heart accelerated. “What ship?”

“Thee one behind us wavin’ all manner of British flags and unfurlin’ her full complement o’ sails.”

Emily flew to the gunport.

“If ya don’t git yer dress on, I’ll give ya a good wallop,” said Mrs. Kettle, as if speaking to a child.

“Where is the ship? I cannot see it. How close is it?”

When Emily refused to budge from the gunport, Mrs. Kettle stormed towards her and started pulling at her shirt. “Looks like I’ll be dressin’ ya meself.”

Emily pushed her away. “Leave me be! I shall not wear Trevelyan’s gift.”

“Ya foolish wench, ya can’t git married in yer trousers.”

“I can! I will!” Emily turned away to conceal her tears and scanned the horizons, standing on tiptoes to lean farther out the port. There! There it was! She could see a crescent of its billowing white sails against the serene blue sky. Her hands tingled with nervous excitement. If only she could tell Leander. But then, if he had just come from next door, perhaps he already knew. So preoccupied was Emily watching the ship’s progress that she forgot about the laundress. Investigating her whereabouts, she found the cabin door ajar and Mrs. Kettle standing next to it, holding her silver-buckled shoes, Jane Austen’s books, and Leander’s frock coat in her fat arms. There was a spiteful gleam in her small eyes.

“Git into yer dress … now.”

A sick, sinking feeling shook Emily to the core. “Only if you return … what is mine,” came her faltering reply.

There was a shuffling sound beyond the door and Trevelyan’s tall figure came into view. His eyes peered through the crack and latched onto Emily’s frightened ones. Mrs. Kettle shook her head and let out a long, low cackle of laughter.

11:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

GUS LISTENED. There was a great deal of bumping and banging, scraping and scurrying going on above his head. Prosper’s men all seemed to be moving around the weather decks with single-minded strides; Gus could hear them grunting and swearing at one another as they laboured. What he wouldn’t give to know what was about. But Magpie had been gone since breakfast and the wait for his return seemed like forever. The heat of the morning was making him sweat like the damp timber walls, and his wool blanket made his legs itchy. He cursed aloud the splints that supported his broken body. In his short life, he had never had to spend so many endless empty days in bed. If only his cot rested beside a gunport as Emily’s had on the Isabelle. If only he could sit in his special chair near the taffrail to catch the sea breezes and vicariously take part in all ship activity. If only someone would stop by for a visit or read to him to help pass the hours – well, anyone with the exception of Prosper’s fearsome messmates. Having become acquainted with them yesterday, Gus not only doubted the Prosperous and Remarkables knew their letters, he wasn’t certain he really desired their company.

At last Magpie appeared, wearing his Isabelle hat and twitching like a bundle of nerves. Gus pounced on him. “What have you been doing all this time?’

“Mendin’ sails, sir,” he said breathlessly. “There’s piles o’ them what needs mendin’.”

“What news of the Amethyst? Is Prosper planning to communicate with her today?”

Magpie dropped down onto the nearest stool. “Oh, Mr. Walby, we’re not sailin’ near Charleston no more.”

Gus’s disappointment was severe. “Where are we, then?”

“In a big, empty cove, sir, beside a bit o’ marshy coast.”

“That’s not very helpful, Magpie.”

“I tried askin’ Prosper, sir, but he’s in a foul mood this mornin’. He’s struttin’ round the deck, peerin’ through his spyglass, mumblin’ ’bout missed opportunities and the storm what’s comin’.”

“Storm? At breakfast you said there were blue skies.”

“Aye, but the winds are pickin’ up and there be some ugly-lookin’ clouds about.”

Gus sighed. “I guess I won’t be allowed up on deck this afternoon?”

“Yer chair’s been cleared away along with the livestock pens, ’cause the men – they’re stackin’ their muskets and cannon balls.”

“Have we sighted an enemy ship?” The words were scarcely out of his mouth when he heard the men begin their task of taking down the gun deck walls. Their audible chatter left him in no doubt: they were clearing for battle. Magpie and he were staring transfixed at the bustle beyond their cots when Pemberton lumbered down the ladder.

“C’mon now, Gus. I’m takin’ ya below, ’neath thee waterline with yas.”

“What about Magpie?” cried Gus, as Pemberton plucked him from his cot.

“Magpie’s got some fightin’ to do, and if we form a boardin’ party, Prosper wants him coverin’ his back. You whisht now and don’t worry none ’bout him.”

As Pemberton, with Gus in his arms, hurried towards the ladder to the lower deck, Gus glanced uneasily back at his friend, only to see that beneath his Isabelle hat and eye patch, his little face had gone green.

11:00 a.m.

Aboard HMS Amethyst

“EVEN IF WE WERE TO SEND our shirts and linens aloft, we wouldn’t have a chance in hell of catching up to him,” said a disheartened Fly to Captain Prickett and his senior officers as they all rallied beneath the Amethyst’s foremast. “Unless, of course, we dump every one of our guns and cannons into the sea.”

“We can’t do that, Mr. Austen,” protested Lieutenant Bridlington.

“It was only said in jest, Mr. Bridlington.” Fly looked at each of the officers in turn. “At the very least, we should continue following him. I believe we will have our chance – perhaps just not here, not today.”

“If we were to catch up to him, Mr. Austen,” Prickett said, puffing out his uniformed chest, as if trying to appear taller, “what would you do?”

Fly studied the gathering grey-blue clouds overhead and thought of the dear friends Trevelyan had on board. “I would like to blow him out of the water with our countless guns, but I cannot. We must take care. The trick is to simply disable him and hope that nature does not finish him off.”

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the USS Serendipity

THE RISING WINDS wrapped Emily’s wedding dress around her legs and carried her unbound hair in all directions as she stood trembling behind Trevelyan at the Serendipity’s wheel. The sailors on their yards, as well as those hanging from the rigging and clustered around their guns, openly gaped at her – they all knew of the ceremony that had just taken place in the great cabin. But she no longer cared about their curiosity or what thoughts might be racing through their heads. At her back stood the ever-present Meg Kettle, still cradling Emily’s treasures in her arms like a newborn babe. She could feel the older woman’s eyes boring into the back of her head, and hear her muttering obscenities, but she would not acknowledge her presence. Trevelyan stood before her, engrossed in discussions with his sailing master, the coxswain, and Octavius Lindsay, the latter of whom frequently threw pompous airs her way. Feeling as if she had been bled dry, Emily kept her face averted from them all and her eyes locked on the sails of the British ship that followed, still too far off for its cannon fire to find its mark.

“We was sailin’ close to the wind, sir,” said the coxswain, “but the winds are shiftin’, comin’ from the east now.”

Trevelyan gazed upon his majestic masts. “Then the sails must be set accordingly. How far have we come from Charleston?”

“About twenty miles, sir,” replied the sailing master.

“And what is our present speed?

“Last reading was five knots, sir.”

Trevelyan ran his scarred hand over his mouth as he observed the trailing shadow on the sea. “Keep up all sails, all squares, fore and aft, including the royals, until I tell you otherwise.”

“Do you not think we should put further to sea, sir?” asked Mr. Lindsay.

“No,” said Trevelyan. “I wish to sail close to shore.”

“But, sir, if these winds strengthen,” said the sailing master, a note of concern in his tone, “that may be dangerous. These parts are full of shoals and unpredictable currents.”

“I will consider it when the storm breaks and our visibility is diminished. In the meantime, take frequent soundings. Toss the lead every fifteen minutes and check the nature of the sea bottom with the charts.”

“Why all this concern over winds and shoals and currents?” It was Emily who spoke out. The sailing master and Mr. Lindsay scowled at her impudence; Trevelyan, on the other hand, seemed intrigued. He folded his arms across his chest and set his chin, waiting for her to continue.

Emily plucked the wild strands of her hair from her eyes. “I do not understand why you don’t simply stand and face the enemy that follows you.”

“Because I have other business that concerns me,” said Trevelyan, “and have no interest in wasting time and grapeshot.”

“As you have no reinforcements at your side, are you afraid of losing this time?”

The sailing master and the coxswain exchanged looks; Trevelyan spoke calmly as ever. “Hardly.”

Emily tossed her head. “Have you forgotten we’re in the midst of a war? Heading north, your chances of running into another British ship will only increase.”

Trevelyan’s jaw worked for a time before he answered her. “So will my chances of sighting more American ships.” He swung around fully to face her straight on. “Would you reconsider your eagerness to engage that British vessel if you knew who it was standing beneath its foremast?”

Recalling her own fanciful daydream about Captain Moreland, Emily was thrown off guard. “Sir?”

But Trevelyan would not enlighten her. He nodded at Mr. Lindsay. “And as you met with no success in tracking down that little mongrel, I will wager he is most likely standing alongside.”

By now Emily had lost the thread of the conversation. Unable to provide a rejoinder, she stayed silent and suffered the snickers behind her.

Trevelyan waved his finger at Mrs. Kettle. “You there! Take madam below. The slop room or one of the storerooms should suffice.”

Should the guns start firing, Emily could not bear being below in the darkness. “No!” she cried out. “Let me stay here.”

Trevelyan gave her a thorough looking over. “In that white dress against these darkening skies, you will be a sitting duck. I cannot afford to have you strewn about in messy pieces upon my quarterdeck, especially not on my wedding night.”

The men within earshot enjoyed a hearty laugh at Emily’s expense. Mrs. Kettle appeared at her elbow, chuckling away. “C’mon then – Mrs. Trevelyan.”

The laundress might as well have shot a pistol off at Emily’s ear as address her by that name. In desperation, she pleaded, “Please, sir, please don’t send me below. I promise – I will stay out of your way.”

Trevelyan remained unmoved. “Take her away, Mrs. Kettle. But before you go, relieve your arms of that rubbish.”

Thrilled to be the centre of attention, Mrs. Kettle pranced to the larboard rail where, with obvious pleasure, she scattered Emily’s possessions into the winds. In a matter of seconds, the buckled shoes and beloved books were lost, swallowed by the swirling waves. Leander’s frock coat was more defiant. It was carried by the winds and sailed high, reaching the heights of the topgallants, before descending in a slow dance to the sea. Watching it, Emily went numb. But there was no time to grieve.

“Larboard bow, ahoy!” came the cutting cry from a topman on the mainmast.

“Sail in sight!”

“Looks like a privateer.”

“And carryin’ British pennants and colours.”

Any vestiges of amusement instantly evaporated from Trevelyan’s face. He swore and seized Mr. Lindsay’s spyglass to study this second ship that had appeared out of nowhere. “Where the devil did he come from?”

“A concealed cove maybe, sir?” offered the coxswain. His face, turned towards the shoreline, was frozen in alarm.

“I daresay he was waiting for us,” said the sailing master quietly.

Giving no further thought to his new wife, Trevelyan sprang into action, roaring orders at his attending men as he criss-crossed the weather decks. Struggling to keep up to him was an ashen-faced Mr. Lindsay, tugging on the stand-up collar of his borrowed uniform coat.

Mrs. Kettle pinched Emily’s forearm and forced her towards the ladder. As they descended to the ship’s bottom, the first crack of cannonfire echoed around them.

Noon

(Forenoon Watch, Eight Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

ON THE FOAMING WAVES, the Serendipity loomed like a white whale over the Prosperous and Remarkable, a mere bouncing dolphin in comparison. Magpie could not fathom how Prosper imagined he could bring down Trevelyan’s mighty ship, but already he’d sent off a warning shot that he meant business. The winds were causing problems, and the rains, though nothing more than a drizzle, had made their unwelcome appearance. Prosper had told Magpie that in order to manoeuvre around the Serendipity, they couldn’t go straight at her; they would have to sail south, close-hauled, and come up behind her or risk being battered upon the lee shore. Magpie didn’t like the sound of this and wished he were on that big ship in the distance – the one flying British colours from her mastheads; the one Prosper speculated was the Amethyst.

Like a puppy, Magpie followed Prosper around, uneasily carrying the two dirks with the portentous eighteen-inch blades that Pemberton had given him as if they were hissing hand grenades. As always, he was unsettled by the red and purple veins that popped up on Prosper’s balding head as he spit out instructions like tobacco juice.

“Pemberton, ya jackanapes, take thee wheel from this lubber. Mr. Dunkin, ya scoundrel, see ta them gallants. Reef ’em up or else we’ll soon be findin’ ourselves sittin’ broadside ta thee Atlantic.” Prosper gave Magpie a backwards glance. “Keep up, lad. When we board, ya can’t go wandrin’ off. And sheath those cursed blades, will ya. I don’t fancy one o’ ’em stickin’ into me backend.”

Magpie did as he was told, then hurried to catch up to Prosper, who was disappearing down the ladder to the gun deck. “How many guns do ya ’ave, Prosper?” he asked breathlessly.

“Fourteen, twenty-four-pounders!” exclaimed Prosper proudly.

“And how many men?”

“Fifty-five, includin’ you and Gus.”

“And how many tons is the Prosperous and Remarkable?”

“’Bout one hundred, give or take a ton. Now stop annoyin’ me with all o’ yer nonsense.”

Magpie’s eye was as round and bright as a silver crown. “But the Serendipity’s gotta be seven times that.”

Prosper stopped abruptly beside the galley stove, stooped over Magpie, and with all the confidence in the world, whispered, “Just watch me go. I’ll show ya how it’s done.” He straightened himself, shoved his soiled shirtsleeves up his tanned arms, and hollered at his men, who were circling around their guns, waiting. “Right, then, ya bunch o’ puddin’ heads, I’m gonna take thee wheel and bring yas up behind Trevelyan. Thee first chance ya git, blow his rudder ta hell.”

Noon

Aboard the USS Serendipity

THE INSTANT MRS. KETTLE had shut the slop room door and suspended her lantern from the low ceiling, Emily’s heart began pounding in her ears. Fighting to control her mounting panic, she searched her new cage. It smelled heavily of salt and tar, and its slimy walls were covered with makeshift shelving, all crammed with clothing for the sailors. Emily jumped when something warm brushed past her ankle. Whatever it was scuttled away from her into the murky regions beyond the lantern’s glow. Unable to stand still, and desiring to be as far away as possible from Mrs. Kettle, Emily unhooked the lantern and carried it with her to the farthest end of the rectangular room.

“What’re ya doin’?” demanded the laundress, who hovered uncertainly near the door.

Emily ignored her inquiry and wrested a pair of dungaree trousers and a stripy, open-collared shirt from the shelf labelled “Boys,” then cast about until she spotted a neatly folded stack of neckcloths, selecting a black one for herself.

“Those be reserved fer funerals,” said Mrs. Kettle tartly.

“Then it is most appropriate, for I am in mourning.” Emily set the lantern down on a shelf and quickly stripped down to her chemise, leaving her wedding dress in a disarray of ghostly white at her feet. She wiggled into the shirt and trousers, and loosely knotted the black neckcloth around her shoulders. With a ceremonious flourish, she picked the wedding dress up off the sodden floor and hurled it at Mrs. Kettle with as much vehemence and zeal as the laundress had hurled her possessions overboard. When it landed on the woman’s surprised face, Emily broke into a fit of laughter. “A gift for you, Mrs. Kettle, since you so admired it.”

Mrs. Kettle clawed at the dress as if it were a substantial spider web, and – once revealed – her fat face flared with anger. “Cap’n Trevelyan don’t fancy ya wearin’ sailors’ trousers,” she growled. “Git yer dress back on. I’m to deliver ya, thee way I took ya.”

Emily snatched a heap of clothes from the shelf at her back and angled her head in challenge. One by one, she flung an assortment of footwear, vests, jackets, and trousers at Mrs. Kettle, who howled in protest as if being bombarded with musket balls. It was an agreeable distraction for Emily until the heel of a shoe struck Mrs. Kettle’s forehead and the woman exploded. “Ya wanton witch!” Hiking up her coarse skirts, she bowed her head and charged at Emily like a steaming, snorting bull in a ring. Fortunately, Emily was far swifter in her movements and leaped out of the way in time, leaving the beast to collide heavily with a portion of shelving, dislodging it completely from the walls. Down it came, striking Mrs. Kettle with a hefty thump upon her hunched back and pinning her to the floor.

Emily laughed, barely able to breathe. “Oh, Mrs. – Mrs. Kettle, if only Trevelyan knew that his deadliest weapon was here in the slop room. If only he could ramrod you into his cannons, imagine the damage you could deliver to the hulls of enemy ships.”

For several moments, Mrs. Kettle lay there stunned. Then her caterwauling began. “Oooo! Now ya done it, now ya really done it. Me back. Me head. Me poor babe. All broke fer sure. Oooo!”

Brushing away her mirthful tears, Emily sidestepped the prostrate form and made for the door. “Are you bleeding, Mrs. Kettle?”

“How’s would I know with me face pasted to thee floor?”

“At least we know your tongue is still intact … Tell me where I can find Dr. Braden.”

Above their heads on the upper deck, voices yelled out, “Stand clear! Steady now! Fire! Fire!” The Serendipity’s guns boomed and recoiled violently on their carriages, the reverberating shudders passing through Emily, who had to reach out to steady herself against a shelf.

Mrs. Kettle’s shrill voice shot up an octave. “If ya leave me here, squashed like a decayin’ rodent, so help me I’ll kill ya. I’ll rip yer royal head from that white neck o’ yers. Thee minute I’m standin’, I will.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Emily shot back. “You deserve no better than to be left here to fester and rot.”

The penetrating cries that followed were more dreadful than the blaring echoes of cannonfire. Emily repeated her question, this time more firmly. “Where is Dr. Braden?”

Mrs. Kettle’s reply rushed out of her mouth like a swift-moving stream. “Ya’ll – ya’ll find ’im nearby. Thee door ain’t locked. But leave thee lantern be! I’ll – I’ll not be left here in thee gloom with hairy creatures crawlin’ ’bout me parts.”

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

FLY AUSTEN READIED HIMSELF to climb down the ladder to the waiting launch that bobbed vigorously in the waves alongside the Amethyst’s hull. The ship’s two pinnaces and three cutters had already set out towards the rudderless Serendipity, full of jubilant men still hoping for a true crack at the enemy. Behind Fly, Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington strutted about the quarterdeck, as if they had been solely responsible for paralyzing the American ship.

“I cannot believe our good fortune, Mr. Austen,” cried Bridlington. “Not only did we barely fire a shot, barely was a shot returned. The commander of that small brig – whoever he may be – is truly remarkable.”

“I’ve never seen such fine seamanship, the way he came up on Trevelyan’s tail like that,” exclaimed Captain Prickett. “Root the man out, will you, Mr. Austen? I’d like to meet the fellow and have Biscuit fix him a celebratory feast with all his favourites – and mine, of course.”

“I will, sir. But we must hurry. In a matter of minutes they will be attempting to board the Serendipity.”

Captain Prickett did not seem concerned in the least. “One false move from Trevelyan,” he laughed, “and he’ll receive another blast from us. This time we’ll bring down his mainmast!”

Fly started down the ladder, feeling the pain of his injured back as he gripped each rung. Captain Prickett peered over the rail. “We must claim her a prize, Mr. Austen. Raise the English ensign over hers, and sail her into Bermuda, nay, better still, into Halifax. Well-wishers will be greater in number there.”

Fly was too tired to inform Prickett that the prize was not theirs to take; he had more pressing matters on his mind. Once settled in the launch, he laid his hand lightly on the shoulder of Morgan Evans who, at his request, was manning one of the oars. “Mr. Evans.”

Morgan’s mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line. “Aye, sir?”

“Let us away, for we have friends to find.” As Fly turned his face towards the Serendipity, he noticed Biscuit sitting there, his odd eye rolling about in his head. “Captain Prickett will not be pleased when he discovers you’ve abandoned his ship and his galley.”

“I’m comin’ with yas, Mr. Austen,” said Biscuit. “Anyone what tries to harm thee lass will be feelin’ thee point o’ me cutlass between their shoulder blades.”

2:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Five Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

THERE WAS A TEMENDOUS SHUDDERING of oak timber as the Prosperous and Remarkable’s larboard fore crashed against the Serendipity’s starboard quarter. A very smug Prosper Burgo, his wispy curls plastered to his ruddy face by seaspray, whooped with joy.

“Right now, ya scoundrels, lash thee ships together,” he bellowed. “Toss thee grappling hooks. Boarders! Stand ready, and if ya haven’t already, gather yer pistols, pikes, and tomahawks. Topmen! Ready with yer grenades and stinkpots.”

“What are stinkpots?” asked Magpie, wearing his Isabelle hat, his hands quivering on his dirks.

Prosper grinned. “Little combustible jars what emit a nasty, suffocatin’ smoke when they’s pitched at thee enemy.”

“Shouldn’t ya be stayin’ here to command yer own ship, Prosper?” Magpie was still hoping to shirk the boarding party.

“And miss all thee fun? Hell, no. I’ll be leadin’ thee charge.” Prosper swung around to address his men, who had their muskets aimed at the American ship. “Keep a close lookout fer sharpshooters and any foolhardies what try to blow a hole in me Prosperous and Remarkable while we’re away visitin’.”

Magpie’s eye drifted past the Serendipity’s fallen foremast and snarled rigging to the Amethyst beyond, lying like a mystic vision in the angry waves less than a mile off. The sea was too rough for her to open her lower gunports, but those on her upper and weather decks were pointed at the Serendipity, and her boats, though a piece off, were pulling towards them. Still, Magpie’s heart skipped several beats. A number of Serendipities had already abandoned their quarterdeck guns; Magpie could see them fleeing towards the fore hatchway. A few of them, in their eagerness to escape capture, swept over the bow and into the heaving sea. Trevelyan and his senior officers were nowhere to be seen. Magpie fancied they were lying in wait below, oiling thumbscrews as they plotted an ambush.

Well, this was it.

Inhaling the moist salty air through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, Magpie joined Prosper and his band of ruffian boarders – twenty in all – as they hustled, roaring like ancient warriors, across the Prosperous and Remarkable’s gangway and over the bulwark of the Serendipity, landing upon her bloody quarterdeck. Overhead, musket balls whistled, and grenades and stinkpots rained down upon the Serendipity’s fore and aft decks, their acrid smoke encircling the boarders in a black hell.

“If ya kin keep me alive ’til I find Trevelyan,” Prosper barked over his shoulder, “we’ll go searchin’ fer yer Em’ly. Stay close now.” He cocked his pistols and headed straight for a menacing mob of Americans running at them, brandishing pikes and hollering war cries of their own.

Magpie gulped and followed.

Just prior to 2:30 p.m.

Aboard the USS Serendipity

AS THE SERENDIPITY PITCHED AND ROLLED, and the world two decks up screamed with cannonfire and commotion, Emily nervously watched Leander. Huddled unsteadily over his table, his shoes slipping in the streams of blood running across the floor and filling the cracks between the timber planks, he was operating on a poor sailor who had begged him to try and save his leg, which had been split open by a hail of jagged splinters. At Leander’s side was his assistant, Joe Norlan, holding the railing sailor down as the scalpel cut into his flesh. Without looking up, Leander suddenly called out, “Emily, please, I need more sand.”

It was a relief for Emily to escape Mrs. Kettle, who was sitting upright in her hammock, moaning and cussing, apparently having forgotten that she’d been diagnosed with a badly sprained neck and ordered to rest. If it weren’t for Leander, Emily would have happily wrung her neck to silence her. Prying the laundress’s sweaty, grasping hands from her arm, she hurried to fetch a tin of sand from the large barrel lodged in the lower section of the medicine cupboard, and sprinkled the contents around Leander’s feet. Stirred by his closeness, she lingered as long as she could. There was a troublesome tightness in her chest and her stomach boiled with fear, but, for his own part, Leander spoke and moved about so calmly one would think he was working in a garden and not in an overcrowded surgeon’s cockpit where the reeking air was rife with doleful lamentations.

“You don’t have to stay in here if you don’t want to.” Leander’s words were like a tonic to Emily. Biting back tears, she met his gaze. “There is no place on earth I would rather be, Doctor.” A faint smile crossed his lips in reply as he returned his attention to his patient.

Averting her eyes from the sailor’s gory leg, Emily picked up the water bucket and carried it over to the waiting group of wounded men on the floor, leaning against one another in various states of consciousness. Crouching down beside them, she helped each one bring the water ladle to his lips. Only one man among them seemed alert. He watched her closely, his normally bright, probing eyes dulled by his preoccupation with his injury. Emily was acquainted with few men on the Serendipity, but she recognized this young man with the dark skin. It was Beans, who, alongside Charlie Clive, had served Trevelyan dinner the first night she had been summoned to the great cabin.

“Obliged, Miss – Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said, clutching a burned arm to his chest.

“It’s Emily, just Emily,” she gently replied.

Beans stared back at her blankly.

“Could you tell me what is happening up there?” she asked, once his thirst had been quenched.

“It’s a hellish place. Fer a bit we was bein’ harassed by a puny brig. It managed to come up on our tail, shoot our rudder away, and sail off before the cap’n could even fire a broadside. We did what we could, but the Serendipity don’t steer too good with a busted rudder. And that big ship – the one followin’ us – caught up, close enough to take down our foremast.”

There was flutter in Emily’s heart. She had heard the others speak of “that big ship” as the Amethyst. “If all is lost, why are our guns still firing?”

“’Cause,” said Beans, “the cap’n says ain’t no one gonna take him alive.”

Having overheard their conversation, Mrs. Kettle squealed from her bed, “I told yas! I told all o’ yas! We’re all gonna die.”

Leander’s admonishment was in earnest. “Restrain yourself, Mrs. Kettle; otherwise, I’ll be forced to dispose of you in the slop room.”

“Don’t matter, Doctor,” she bawled. “We’re all goin’ down, just like thee Isabelle.”

“Mr. Norlan,” said Leander, frowning, “in the cupboard you will find a tangle of unclaimed stockings. If necessary, stuff one down her throat.”

“Right, sir,” said Joe, fighting to maintain his hold on the wounded sailor who spewed blasphemy as Leander rubbed salt into his leg gashes to guard against infection.

The Serendipity twisted and moaned, as it had not before. The oil lanterns jumped on their hooks. A cry rose up amongst those who were still conscious. They lifted their eyes to the low ceiling, and their bodies tensed. At first, Emily worried that the winds had thrown them upon a barrier of shore rocks.

“I knows that sound,” said Beans, as if he were commenting on the weather. “They’s placed alongside us. Soon they be boardin’.”

A profound sadness descended upon the surgery. All was deathly silent until Mrs. Kettle continued her pronouncements of their imminent doom and a fresh round of wounded Serendipities limped or were carried through the door. Catching sight of them, Leander’s shoulders sagged, but he worked on, doing what he could for these men, although they were not his own. The cannons were quiet now, but cracks of musket fire and exploding grenades filled the air, and Emily thought she could hear the clash of swords. Above the din came an ominous noise of rhythmic pounding. Below, in the hold, the shouts of the men manning the pumps rose in anxious volume as did the cries of the carpenters trying in vain to pack oakum and bits of cotton and wool into the hull’s gaping seams.

Her stomach sickly with the stench of burned flesh, Emily moved wearily towards the ragged newcomers, discovering Octavius Lindsay among them. Giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts, she offered the water ladle to the others first, but when at last she came to him, he was the one who had difficulty meeting her eyes.

“It is … fitting … Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said haltingly, “that you should serve me last.”

Emily hardened her stare, not wanting to look down at the appalling dark stain around his belly that had deepened the blue of his officer’s jacket. “Given the affected nature of our relationship, it is a wonder I am serving you at all.”

“I am quite used to being served last.”

“Why is that, Mr. Lindsay?”

“I am my father’s eighth son.” He snickered and raised the water to his lips with his quivering, bloodstained fingers, then thought better of it. “Is it some form of poison to finish me off?”

Emily shook her head. “It will help a little while you wait.”

Octavius observed the other waiting men, perhaps silently taking note of their number, and slowly eased himself back against the surgery wall. “My confidence would be greater if it were simply one of my arms or legs …” His voice trailed off and his eyes fixed themselves on nothing in particular. Gone was the bravado he had displayed only a few hours earlier as she had stood in wretchedness by the ship’s wheel, having endured a sham of a wedding ceremony with a man she despised. Yet, despite the ruin of his once-white breeches and crisp uniform, his Hessian boots were unsullied, and reflected the lantern light over Leander’s table.

“I wanted a career in law, you know,” he said suddenly.

Deliberating the wisdom of staying with him, Emily finally asked, “Why, then, did you choose the navy?”

“For the simple reason that the choosing was done for me.” He coughed, and once he had recovered, an odd laugh burst from his lips. “If someone had told me I was going to find the King’s granddaughter by my side near the end, I – I might have lived my life differently.”

“How so, Mr. Lindsay?” Though her voice was challenging, the lump rising in her throat perplexed her. Cognizant of his spreading stain, she waited patiently for him to continue, but he had turned his head to the wall and closed his eyes, his features locked in a wince. Emily looked to Leander, who was now applying bandages to the badly burned torso of a powder monkey, the sound of the young lad’s sobbing agony only precipitating her lump to rise higher.

A violent pitch of the ship caused the Serendipity’s cargo to shift and several of her guns to break free from their binding tackles, the grinding, thumping clamour of it all striking fear in the men as if an explosion were about to blow them to bits. Emily was thrown up against the medicine cupboard and onto the floor. Leander and Joe unhooked the lurching lanterns seconds before a shocking torrent of water hurtled into the surgery like the flow of a tide, sending the wounded sailors – those of them who could – scrambling for the ladders.

Mrs. Kettle went hysterical when she found she could not get out of her hammock. “I needs to get outta here,” she shrieked. “I needs to tell ’em I ain’t Yankee.”

Cold water swirled around Emily’s legs. Every part of her ached and it was hard to breathe, for two dead sailors – their eyes staring into eternity – had pinned her to the cupboard. Beside her, a young sailor vomited, and panicking voices filled the air.

“The guns! They’re poundin’ our sides.”

“There’s too much water!”

“Abandon the pumps.”

“We’re founderin’.”

“Every man – every man fer himself.”

“Joe! Grab hold of Mrs. Kettle! You there, are you able to stand? Carry out whomever you can.”

Wedged between the cupboard and the wall, Octavius looked over at her, fear plainly written on his boyish face. Emily blinked back at him, astonished to think he was likely her age. “Give me your hand, Mr. Lindsay,” she said, surprised by her own words.

His breathing came in dreadful snatches, his coal-black eyes welled up with tears and he stared around him in despair.

“Come!” she insisted. “Perhaps you may still have your career in law.”

He did not reach out to her. Instead, his hand disappeared into his blood-drenched jacket. When it reappeared, he was wielding a small pistol. Emily froze in horror, knowing all too well what he was contemplating. She tried to plead with him, but her mouth would not move. Slowly, he cocked the trigger. Tears ran down his pimply face as he lifted the gun’s barrel to his temple. Silently, his lips moved. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he seemed to say as he pulled the trigger. Emily’s body convulsed as if the shot had ripped through her and not him. Crumpling against the solid mass of the cupboard, she gasped for air, trying to shut out the image of his shattered skull.

The gun blast heightened the hysteria in the surgery. Around them, the Serendipity whimpered like a wounded animal. The water level rose. The rhythmic pounding continued its funereal lament. In all the confusion, Emily sensed Leander nearby. Working quickly, he hauled the heavy bodies off her, locked his arm around her waist, and yanked her to her feet. She could see that his jaw was set, his feverish eyes fixed on the way out. “You must get out of here,” he cried, leading her to the ladder, already clogged with frantic men climbing for their lives.

3:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Seven Bells)

Aboard the Prosperous and Remarkable

ALONE ON THE ORLOP DECK of the Prosperous and Remarkable, Gus sat rigidly in his elaborately carved, ebony armchair, his ears fixed on the clash and pandemonium far above. Pemberton had given him a lamp so he would not be left in the dark, but its oil was sputtering, and with the brig leaning on its larboard and knocking up against another ship – at least that is what he guessed – he was having difficulty holding on to it. Should it fall from his precarious grasp – no, no, he would not allow his mind to travel there. Though the ship’s bell was no longer ringing the half-hours, Gus estimated it had been at least four hours since Pemberton had brought him down here. He had no idea what was happening, nor could he understand why it was all taking so long. Not knowing made it impossible to slow the disquieting beating of his heart. If the outcome were not a good one, would anyone remember he was hiding out in the brig’s bottom?

Like the feeble gasp of a dying mouse, the lantern went out.

Gus’s distraught voice stabbed the darkness. “Magpie? Prosper? Pemberton?” When no one came, he broke down and wept. He couldn’t help it. He was certain that any minute now Trevelyan and his dogs would come creaking down the ladder and …

“Help! Help! Please!”

He waited and listened, straining to hear something beyond the hammering of his heart. But hope faded when there came no reassuring replies, no hastening footsteps – only the lonely sounds of the muttering bilge water and the suffering ship that wreaked havoc with his head. No longer could Gus sit tight. With one tremendous effort he propelled himself out of the chair, screaming in agony as he did so, rolled over the hassock, and landed hard on the scummy planks of the orlop, jarring his broken body. He lay there for a moment, waiting for the overwhelming wave of pain and nausea to subside. Then, using his unsplintered forearms, he dragged himself to the ladder.

3:30 p.m.

Aboard the USS Serendipity

EMILY THOUGHT SHE WOULD SUFFOCATE in the crush. She clung to Leander’s arm for dear life as he pressed forward on the ladder, determination transfixing his handsome features. Behind them, Joe Norlan escorted the sobbing Mrs. Kettle. Emily muttered a prayer of thanks that she was not following the laundress’s rump up to the next deck; it was bad enough that their progress was slowed by the many wounded who required assistance. Those who could not get a foothold on the ladder had already broken into the closets where Trevelyan housed his liquor. Happily, they uncorked their stolen bottles and guzzled the contents, the odd charitable sailor offering a swig or two to those hanging onto the ladder. Others stood about, seemingly unconcerned by the rising water, eating bread and cheese pilfered from the food storerooms.

When at last they reached the lower deck, Emily was shocked to find it deserted, except for a half-dozen or so men who were rummaging through ditty bags or sitting alone with their belongings, fingering coins, combs, letters, and silhouettes of loved ones. Nevertheless, the areas surrounding the ladders to the gun deck were seething with sailors who hoped, sooner or later, to gain the weather decks. The ship continued to list, no longer able to completely right itself. Emily gritted her teeth and kept her eyes forward. Her anxiety was impossible to ignore, but she took some comfort in feeling Leander’s hand on her arm.

As they jostled their way up the ladder like a herd of cattle en route to the slaughterhouse, Bun Brodie spotted them, and in his gravelly accent yelled out, “Give me yer hand, m’am.” With his strong right arm he hoisted Emily to the deck as easily as if she were a bucket in a well. At Joe’s urging, Bun did the same for Mrs. Kettle, though imperilling every muscle in his back as he did so. Once Leander and Joe had rejoined them, they stayed close to Bun, for he was reassuringly armed. Together they surveyed the final set of steps, watching in alarm as the aft hatchway became blocked with brawling men. Leander yelled for them to head fore. They dashed along the gun deck, kicking aside the scattered debris of battle – powder horns, shot, sponges, wads, ramrods, cartridge cases – and dodging the cannons that rolled dangerously about, rupturing the ship’s sides with their pounding weight. But when they came upon the wounded, huddled in tattered heaps where they had fallen, Emily slowed down, unable to look the other way. Their piteous pleas for mercy cut into her like a surgeon’s knife.

“Can we help them, Doctor?”

Leander tugged her forward. “I’ll come back for them.”

As they approached the fore hatchway, three Yankee sailors threatened them with their long sabres.

“Go on!” shouted Bun, shielding them with his immense frame as they began their ascent.

Leander lifted Emily up the ladder and hissed “Don’t look” in her ear. But his warning came too late. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bun shoot one of the sailors, and as he levelled his pistol a second time, one of the two remaining sailors, enraged by the loss of his friend, viciously hacked at Bun’s right arm, severing it completely. The gushing blood struck Leander in the side of his face and coated the wooden rungs under Emily’s feet like a grisly form of paint.

Reaching the main deck, they discovered Joe and Mrs. Kettle were no longer with them. Certain that Joe could take care of himself and his objectionable charge, Leander insisted they press onward. Swiftly he scanned the smoke-shrouded deck, as if assessing the best escape route. A small brig was lashed to the starboard rail of the listing Serendipity, and a gang of men was labouring furiously to cut the ropes of the grappling hooks that held the brig up on a precarious angle. Off the Serendipity’s larboard bow, Emily sighted a collection of boats plucking men from the sea, and in the dreary distance, a waiting ship. “Doctor,” she said, pointing, but Leander had already seen them and was pulling her in their direction. They scrambled over the bulwark and were steadying themselves on the slender ledge of the fore chains on the exterior of the hull, holding tightly to the railing – enemy shot had razed the standing rigging – when Emily suddenly lifted her head to listen. There was no mistaking the eager young voice that called out to her.

“Emily! Em! Em!”

Ignoring Leander’s protests, she spun around and searched the knot of men locked in hand-to-hand combat in and around the splintered remains of the foremast. There was Magpie, his felt hat pushed down upon his dark curls, his lost eye hidden behind a black patch. He was hopping about on the broken bowsprit as if it were scorching hot, waving two impossibly long dirks. No more than four feet from him, standing taller than the others, was Trevelyan, his face a grimace of indomitability as the blade of his sabre crashed down again and again upon his enemies. Around the imposing captain, four of his officers and marines were locked in a clash of swords with, among others, a sure-footed, florrid-faced man with fox-like features, and – Emily could hardly believe her eyes – Fly Austen.

“Good God!” gasped Leander when he too recognized his old friend.

Emily’s hands were riveted to the rail. Though each jab and slash of the men’s steely weapons pierced her heart, she could not tear her eyes away. Leander let go of the rail and drew Emily to him, his hands on her arms hurting her now, his eyes burning into hers.

“That ship out there is the Amethyst; the boats below are theirs.” He dropped his voice and spoke fervently. “This is the one thing I can do for you.”

Emily wavered in the fore chains, the water roiling at her feet, and sadly turned to the ghastly scenes that played with a strange clarity on the sloping deck. Faces of men she remembered from the Isabelle were fighting alongside Fly and Magpie. There was Leander’s loblolly boy, Osmund Brockley, his bulky frame moving slowly, awkwardly, but fending off sabre strikes quite expertly with his pike, and the coxswain, Lewis McGilp, baring his teeth as his cutlass thrust upwards into the trunk of a Yankee marine. And there was Biscuit, spitting out the bone-chilling battle cries of his Scottish ancestors as he cut a path to Trevelyan.

Leander, his eyes gleaming with anticipation, eased his grip on her arms and waited for her to jump to her freedom. Death and destruction closed in on them like the choking smoke of the battle. Stifling a sob, she laid her weary head against his heaving chest.

“I – I need to know what will become of you, Doctor.”

With a quick indrawn breath, he gazed down at her. “I will be right behind you.”

Emily shook her head, knowing he would first see to her safety, then steal a sword from a dead sailor to join his childhood friend in battle and perhaps in death. Behind them, the engagement raged on, Emily finding it sickeningly hypnotic despite her fear that, when she looked up again, she might find Magpie’s small body drawn and quartered upon the bowsprit. Rolling her head around on Leander’s breast, she found Magpie still jumping around and thankfully intact. It was Mr. Austen who was in trouble. In numbed horror, she watched as Trevelyan raised his sword and struck Fly with the side of its cold blade, and with his boot shoved him sprawling upon the deck. Trevelyan set his bloodless lips in a determined line and aimed his pistol at his victim, limp with resignation at his feet, as powerless as his namesake caught in a spiderweb. Then suddenly, as if reconsidering his options, Trevelyan swivelled his head and hooked his haunting eyes onto Emily’s, his morbid grin an indication he was savouring his advantage over her compatriot. He did not carry out Fly’s execution; instead, he swung his long arm around in a sweeping semi-circle and pointed the gun in her direction.

Then he fired.

Emily sensed time grinding to a halt, as it did in her nightmares, the ones in which she tried desperately to flee dark, sinister, unnamed shapes. Dazed, she could not immediately comprehend why Leander, having made no sound at all, had collapsed against her, nor why his shirt, already soiled with the dried blood of his patients, now had a patch of bright red creeping across the left shoulder. Clasping him gently to her, Emily stood still by the rail and watched helplessly as Trevelyan again raised his pistol.

Magpie flew from the broken bowsprit, landing on all fours behind Trevelyan like a tiger about to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. The scream that now burst from his chest was otherworldly, a plaintive yet bloodcurdling snarl that sprang from deep inside him. In one sprightly motion, he plunged his dirks deep into Trevelyan’s thighs, sending the stupefied captain stumbling and staggering along the littered gangway. As Trevelyan’s legs buckled beneath him and he dropped to the deck, something dislodged from the breast pocket of his uniform coat and shot across the red, weathered planks towards Emily, like a messenger frantic to deliver its final message. Although her glimpse of it was a brief one, she could see it was the gold-framed miniature of the young lad that Trevelyan had set next to her own painted portrait on his desk. It was the last thing Emily saw on the Serendipity.

Groaning and twisting in its death throes, the frigate slipped farther into the Atlantic, throwing Emily and Leander, their arms loosely entwined, from the fore chains and into the swells that tried, like cold, grey hands, to pull them down into a watery grave. As the men had fought on the deck, so Emily fought to prevent Leander from disappearing beneath the punishing surface. Ignoring her exhaustion and the pains that tortured her ankle and shoulder, she tightened one arm around his waist and kicked towards the nearest boat, which was now rowing towards them, the men in it having raised a shout when they spotted her. Recollection of another time when Trevelyan’s pistol had been accurately aimed at her back fuelled her desperate strokes.

“Hold on, Doctor, please hold on,” she spluttered, the waves crashing over her head. “This I can do for you.” Leander gave her one long look of admiration, then shut his sea-blue eyes.

It was only after Morgan Evans had pulled them from the sea and given his oars over to another so that he could cloak Leander in a relatively dry blanket and hold on to him – as he had once held on to her – that Emily turned her back to the silent, staring men, covered her face with her hands, and allowed herself to cry.

7:00 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)

Aboard HMS Amethyst

EMILY SET ASIDE THE LETTER that Fly Austen had handed her while she waited in the sanctuary of Captain Prickett’s great cabin. She had neither the desire nor the composure to assimilate the details of what Fly had described as Trevelyan’s private war – not now, when her thoughts belonged exclusively to another, much more worthy subject. Mentally and physically exhausted, she was thankful to be alone, thankful for the clean change of clothes, and thankful to be surrounded by the healthy timbers of a friendly ship.

Swinging her trousered legs up onto the cushions of the bench below the cabin’s stern windows, she hugged her knees to her chest and gazed upon the place where, hours before, the Atlantic had swallowed the battered Serendipity, and where its tiny nemesis, the red-hulled Prosperous and Remarkable, still rocked triumphantly in the tranquil waves. The sky had cleared and the clouds that now sailed overhead were white and cottony and had blown together to form dreaming castles and majestic mountains. In the west, an evening sun spread beams of scarlet and gold upon the waves, enabling the boats belonging to the Amethyst and to the small brig to continue their task of picking up survivors. Emily had been relieved to learn that there were a great many.

As she watched the victorious and the vanquished sitting side-by-side in the boats below the windows, Emily’s eyes misted. She could see the Amethysts and the Remarkables offering biscuits, meat, water, and even the rarity of cigars to the appreciative Serendipities, and she knew that once on board, they would be further provided with clothes, medical attention, and, eventually, camaraderie. She tried to recall what grievances had provoked their animosity – nay, their war – in the first place, and wondered if the men below, should they be questioned, could even name them.

Viciously they had fought against one another, had been only too happy to lop off limbs, mutilate young faces, and even snuff out lives, but when it was all over, the victorious treated the vanquished with an unspoken regard, as their own. It was as if their minds had cleared when the smoke of battle had cleared away, and they realized that, though a wide sea stood between them, they really were just the same: men of flesh and blood who shared the same language and sheltered the same dreams within their breasts.

There was a quiet tap on the door and Fly Austen entered, sending Emily’s thoughts crashing back to the present. She rose to meet him, her eyes round with apprehension.

“They are still operating on him,” Fly said softly. “I wondered if you might like some company while you are waiting.”

Emily exhaled a nervous sigh and began wringing her hands. “Thank you, Mr. Austen. What I should really like is to be with him.”

“I understand, but this man, Prosper Burgo, insisted he could not be distracted by a princess of England while he worked on ‘thee esteemed Doctor Braden.’” Fly attempted to smile. “Mr. Burgo’s quite a character, really. Apparently he’s taken a shine to our old laundress.”

Emily gave Fly an incredulous stare. “Not Meg Kettle?”

“One and the same. Apparently, he found her in the waves, her ample skirts keeping her afloat, and was quite proud of himself for ‘rescuin’ such an affable lady.’”

Emily sniggered. “He’ll soon find there’s nothing affable or ladylike about Mrs. Kettle. If it weren’t for the growing babe in her womb, I …” But what did it matter now? Why bother telling Mr. Austen the real reason Meg Kettle had been invited to join Trevelyan’s crew before he burned the Isabelle? Perhaps he already knew why.

Fly studied the floor at his feet. “I wonder what became of Octavius Lindsay? He has not been brought in on any of the boats.”

Incapable of reliving his last moments, Emily relegated his lonely death to the farthest corridors of her mind. “Let us not speak of Lord Lindsay at the present, Mr. Austen. I am much more interested in knowing if you are quite well.”

“I have sustained a few wounds, but I am told I will live.” His smile faded as he peered out the stern windows. “Trevelyan could so easily have run his sabre through me or finished me off with his pistol. I am guessing it was his hastiness to get to you … that saved my life.”

Overcome by a chill, Emily began rubbing her arms. “And tell me, Mr. Austen, will Leander live?”

Fly gently steered her to one of Captain Prickett’s armchairs before answering. “They are doing what they can. The Amethyst’s surgeon is with him, and so is a young assistant named Joe Norlan, with whom I believe you are already acquainted. And I have it, on very good authority, that Prosper Burgo is more than competent.”

Emily bit her lip and nodded her head, but his words did little to ease her suffering.

Fly blinked and turned his head away, and began studying the contents of Captain Prickett’s cabin. “Did you look at the letter?” he asked after a time, not meeting her stare, but in a tone that suggested he was relieved to set aside the sorrowful subject of his friend.

“No. Not yet. I’m afraid I am quite distracted.”

“Read it when you can. I believe – I believe it will afford you some answers.”

Emily glanced up at him with wan interest.

“Captain Moreland wrote that letter in the hours before he died so that I would have an understanding of Trevelyan’s thirst for revenge, of the hatred he harboured for both James and your father, Henry.”

Emily thought of the gold-framed miniature and a mystifying shiver passed through her worn body. “Did the root of his hatred have something to do with a young lad with … sandy hair and merry eyes?” she asked, enunciating the words of description.

Fly’s eyebrows jumped up. “It did indeed! Trevelyan’s younger brother, Harry… he blamed them both for his death.”

“Dear Captain Moreland,” said Emily wistfully. “I remember the doctor telling me – when I would not divulge my full name – that I could keep my secrets as long as I was in no way endangering the lives of the Isabelles.” Her voice broke. “I did not know.”

“Read the letter and I will be here to discuss it with you.”

Emily drew a deep breath. “And where is Trevelyan now?”

“Below, surrounded by ten of Captain Prickett’s men and their muskets. You will never again have to fear him.”

Leaning back in her chair, Emily gave a sardonic laugh. “I would rather Magpie’s dirks had killed him rather than disabled him, Mr. Austen. You see, I never wanted the title of princess, I never was Mrs. Seaton, but now – in the days since we last met – I have become … Mrs. Trevelyan.”

Fly stood unmoving, his mouth open in surprise.

“It was never my ambition to become so, Mr. Austen. I endured it for the sake of the men that Trevelyan claimed he had taken from the Isabelle and locked in his gaol, and for that dear soul now fighting for his life.”

A look of compassion crossed Fly’s face. “Evidently, there is much we need to catch up on, much we need to share, but there will be time to do so, later.”

“Thank you, Mr. Austen. You have always been so kind to me.”

As they sat silently, both gazing out the bright windows, a ray of scarlet sunlight found Emily. She closed her eyes and basked in its rosy warmth as it played upon her upturned face. The sounds of life on board the ship that until now had seemed strangely muted suddenly intruded upon her thoughts. Calls were made requesting food and hammocks and the bosun’s chair to help those onto the ship who could not climb the rope ladders. Emily could hear someone – perhaps it was Captain Prickett – gruffly questioning the whereabouts of Biscuit, as his presence was required immediately in the galley. It was Morgan Evans who replied, saying something about Biscuit being delayed as he was occupied at the present with a special task. Hearing Morgan’s voice and knowing the young man had safely come through the tragic events of the past weeks gave Emily’s weary spirits a lift.

Perhaps encouraged by the slight curling of her lips, Fly pressed his fingertips together and wrinkled his brow. “I wonder, Emily, are you feeling up to greeting a few visitors?”

“You are now going to tell me who lives so that I shall know who we have lost? Will I be able to bear it?” she whispered, gripping the arms of her chair.

Fly closed and opened his eyes in an exaggerated nod. “I believe so.” He called out to those apparently waiting behind the cabin’s door. Given the signal, they burst open the door, wreaking havoc on its fragile hinges. In sauntered Biscuit, carrying a large tray. He had cleaned up nicely since Emily had last seen him; his thatch of orange hair was combed off his forehead and his prominent chest hair buttoned up respectably inside a smart muslin shirt.

“Wee lass,” he cried out, one eye looking at her, one eye looking for her, “I brung ya a pot o’ tea and a pile o’ fresh biscuits to celebrate yer safe return.”

Emily laughed. “Baked with a pinch o’ sugar and a shot o’ rum, I hope?”

“Ach, ’tis thee only way.” Biscuit set the tray upon Captain Prickett’s polished table and stepped aside to make way for the next visitor, who swooped down upon Emily like a ghost in the trailing tails and balloon-sleeves of a shirt that had obviously not been tailored to fit him. He moved so swiftly towards her chair that her brain could not make a positive identification until he was in her welcoming arms and hugging her fiercely.

“Magpie!” she cried, embracing him in return, her cheek pressed against his thick dark curls. “My little Magpie,” she cooed, rocking him gently, as the men looked on, visibly moved by their joyful reunion, Biscuit dashing away a few stray tears.

When at last Magpie lifted his head to look up at her, his young face was fluttering with excitement like topgallant sails in a fresh breeze. “Do ya like me eye patch, Em? Do I looks like a pirate?”

Emily caressed the reddened, puckered skin beneath the black patch. “Not at all. You look like the hero of an epic tale … my hero.”

Magpie beamed from ear to ear, his smile warming Emily like the descending sunlight that poured into the cabin, and he threw himself into her arms for another embrace, holding on to her for such a long while that Fly had to clear his throat. Magpie’s curly head shot up again, his face overspread with a blush. “Oh, Em,” he said, jumping back, “we got another surprise fer ya.”

“What is it?” she asked, excited by the boy’s infectious enthusiasm.

Together Fly, Biscuit, and Magpie all turned on their heels and shot broad smiles at the open door. Emily’s brilliant eyes followed theirs. A gurgle of emotion erupted from her lips as she slowly rose from her chair. Standing before her in the doorway was a stocky, pudding-faced man she had never seen before. But in his arms he carried Gus Walby.

10:00 p.m.

(First Watch, Four Bells)

EMILY HESITATED before stepping into the Amethyst’s narrowing forepeak, where Leander was lying in a low cot next to the open gunport.The space was a poignant reminder of the corresponding forepeak on the Isabelle where he had once had his hospital, and where she had once been his patient. At his bedside stood Fly Austen, Joe Norlan, and two other men she did not know – though one looked familiar – conversing with one another in hushed, reverent voices.

Emily recalled the bittersweet hours she had just spent in the company of Magpie and Gus, delighting in their happiness at being reunited with her, awestruck by their miraculous rescue at sea, and marvelling at the tales they recounted of Prosper Burgo and his salty band of ruffians. In their exuberance, neither boy had asked questions about her final imprisonment on the Serendipity. Perhaps it was intentional on their part, or perhaps they simply possessed too many exciting stories of their own to relate; either way, she was grateful, for she needed no reminders of Charlie Clive, her marriage to Trevelyan, the loss of Jane Austen’s book, and the gun blast that had hastened an end to Octavius Lindsay’s short life. Though the lads’ stories had proven to be a wonderful diversion, Emily had stiffened every time footsteps echoed near their private corner lest it be a bearer of bad news. Yet Fly, when he had finally looked in on their little party of three, had been quick to allay her fears with a significant nod of his head and the words, “He’s awake and asking for you.”

Emily massaged her face, hoping to exile her worry lines and inject some colour into her pale, swollen complexion, then she swept into the forepeak, her eyes latching at once onto the cot. Without a word, the four men tiptoed past her, Fly offering a smile of encouragement and the familiar one, an impudent grin painted upon his weatherbeaten features, conducting a head-to-toe inspection. When they had departed, Emily sank down upon a wooden cask already positioned next to Leander and brooded over his ashen complexion and wisps of auburn hair curling upon his damp forehead. Her eyes fell to his shoulders – bare with the exception of the bandages – and traced his slim, freckled arms that lay at his sides, continuing down the lines of his long legs visible beneath a light linen sheet. Her desire to lie beside him was so strong that she was certain he must have heard her sharp intake of breath. Blushing, she returned her gaze to his face and the look in his eyes – so full of affection – warmed her insides and deepened her spreading colour.

She laughed unsteadily. “Were they common butchers, or did they fix you up nicely?”

“Between the three of them, they fixed me up nicely,” said Leander, his voice husky. “Thank goodness for the man they call Prosper Burgo.”

“He’s the one who rescued Magpie and Gus from the sea and took care of them,” said Emily, examining his bandages.

“I should like to hear all about it.”

“I will tell you … only later, Doctor, not now.”

Leander lifted his right hand and felt his left shoulder. “I suppose Trevelyan wished his ball had struck lower or had found his intended victim.”

No, Emily thought sadly, her eyes filling with compassion, Trevelyan knew that in striking you he was dealing me a deadly blow. “I worried you would bleed to death before someone was able to help you. Did the ball splinter bone or take in a fragment of your shirt?”

Leander smiled up at her, perhaps impressed by her knowledge, but he soon grew solemn. “We can’t be certain, though infection is always a concern.”

Not wanting to dwell on the subject, Emily cheered her voice. “Well, then, Doctor, once you are up and around, I will offer you my left shoulder to lean upon.”

“And how is your right one faring?”

“Aside from occasional achiness, it is quite well.”

“I am glad of it. And that ankle of yours?”

Emily sighed. “In order to heal it properly, I’m afraid I’m going to have to rest for weeks on end.”

“That won’t be easy for you, though you are welcome to stay here with me. Perhaps we could employ Prosper Burgo to provide us with his own special tonics to ease our complaints.”

“Of all things, Doctor, I should like that … I should like to stay.”A tear started making its way down Emily’s cheek and, for a time, she could not speak. “Mr. Austen has informed me that, first thing in the morning, we shall be sailing for Bermuda. It is believed that my Uncle Clarence is there, awaiting news of me.”A slight frown appeared between Leander’s eyebrows, but his eyes never left her face. “I must return to England to testify against Trevelyan. He will have to answer for the Amelia and the Isabelle.”

“And for his treatment of you.”

Emily turned her face from him. “Mr. Austen assured me that if I go to England, my uncle would do everything in his power to secure an annulment for me. But I told him that I would not leave until I knew for certain that you were going to live.”

“I will live, Emily.”

She took a deep breath. “You say that, yet I must be certain.”

“You must return to England, if not for yourself, then for all those that lost their lives at the hands of Thomas Trevelyan.”

Overcome with restlessness, Emily suddenly leaned forward on her wooden cask. “You once told me that I had been spared from perishing in the sea because I had a great deal of living left to do.”

“I have no doubt that there are a legion of adventures awaiting you, for you seem to thrive on them and they seem to find you. You are an extraordinary woman. I’ve never seen your like before and probably never will again.”

“Do you not see, Doctor?” she said with a whine in her tone that she detested. “I am afraid of returning to England.”

“What is it you fear?”

“I fear the empty, meaningless existence that awaits me there. I will be placed in my uncle’s guardianship or, worse still, he’ll hand me over to my grandmother, and every waking moment of my life will be mapped out for me.” Emily pressed her hands between her knees and began rocking back and forth. “The moment I am released from my fraudulent marriage, every effort will be made to marry me off again. My mornings will be spent playing the pianoforte and learning my French lessons; my afternoons will be passed in the company of hairdressers and dressmakers; and my evenings in salons and assembly halls. I am not interested in being celebrated for my elaborate hairstyles and exquisite gowns.”

Amusement curved Leander’s lips. “It sounds like a life most women would relish.”

“If you were not injured, Doctor, I would throw something at you.” Emily’s words were playful, but her feelings were not. “Why is it so easy for you to pretend you do not understand what I am trying to find the words to say?”

He angled his head on his pillow, as if hoping for a better view of her.

“If I return to England now,” she continued, one hand covering her mouth, “I fear I will never see you again. You left me once before, Doctor, with hope burning in my breast. If you would only give me that hope again – if I knew you wanted me to return – I would find the ship that would bring me back to you.”

Leander reached out to touch her free hand, which lay in a fist on her lap. “Emily, the reality is, I am a ship’s surgeon, a lowly doctor in the Royal Navy. I have nothing to my name. I possess no land, no house, no family wealth – ” He gave a sarcastic laugh. “Not even these few articles of clothing are mine. I do not have the means to offer you the life you deserve.”

“The life I deserve, Doctor? I chose to leave behind all the trappings and comforts of my life as the granddaughter of King George when I boarded the Amelia for Upper Canada all those weeks ago.” Emily slid off the cask and knelt beside Leander’s bed, entwining her fingers with his long slender ones. “All that I ask is to have the life I hunger for – one that is far away from London. I long to become a learned woman as you are a learned man. I want you to be my teacher and allow me access to your library of medical books. Let me – let me train as your assistant and help you with the men when they are ill or wounded, and if my home should be on the sea, it makes no difference, so long as I may lean on you and feel your arms around me whenever I am in need of comfort.”

Leander gaped at her as if he expected her to laugh and proclaim her words to be nothing more than a salve to speed his healing. After a time, he raised his head from his pillow. “Is this truly what you wish for, Emily?”

“Those hours, those days on the Serendipity, Doctor, when I thought you had gone down with the Isabelle, they were the worst of my life. You must know; I cannot bear to live forever wondering where you are, whether or not you are safe.”

The intensity in Leander’s eyes startled her. “And, you must know, Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, that, above all else, I completely… love and adore you.”