9

Tuesday, June 15

6:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Five Bells)

THE SLOW, DELIBERATE FIVE BELLS of the Morning Watch shook Emily free of her troubled dreams. Opening her heavy eyes, she saw the thick column of a mast rising before her, and beyond its gently waving topsail, ghost-stars winked in the brightening sky. The red sun was just beginning to peek over the eastern horizon and its striking rays spread a rich crimson colour onto the bit of sea it touched. Travelling in its midst as though through a fire, with all her sails set in the light breeze, was the Amethyst, far enough away now that the gold letters of her name, painted onto her stern, were no longer visible to the naked eye.

Shivering in the morning chill, Emily sat up to rub her frozen feet, suddenly remembering she was on the mizzenmast’s platform and recalling, too, the sad events that resulted in her having sought sanctuary there. She scanned the mizzen’s yards and rigging and couldn’t believe her good fortune in finding she was totally alone. Surely one of the sailors would have stumbled across her as he climbed to the yards in the night; but perhaps when the celebratory revelry of the evening before finally came to an end, no one was fit to climb the high ropes. Peering over the side of the platform, Emily spied the men far below, going about their business on the quarterdeck.

Mr. McGilp had both hands on the Isabelle’s wheel, his weathered face turned to the sea and one ear angled towards Mr. Harding, who seemed in a jolly mood despite having trouble balancing himself on his one foot as he spoke at length to the coxswain. Beyond them, on the larboard side of the ship, rows of barefooted seamen, their trousers rolled up to their knees, scrubbed the gritty quarterdeck with square holystones, and up through the crisp air came the grumpy voices of two sailors who Emily was certain were Morgan Evans and Bailey Beck.

“Me knees are aching. And, ooooo, me back!”

“Quit your bellyaching, you dumb ox, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I’ll be havin’ no pity fer ya. Yer head’s achin’ on account of all yer dancin’ on the barrels and doin’ cartwheels around the deck and drinkin’ a month’s worth o’ the grog last night.”

“And I have no pity for your old scrawny knees, so shut up and keep your head down. Here comes the officer of the watch, that little squib, Walby.”

Emily couldn’t help grinning at their banter and the sight of Gus Walby, who strutted before the labouring men, his young chest puffed and proud in his midshipman’s uniform. But soon her grin faded. In another half hour, the sleeping crew would be called from their beds, and Osmund would barge into her hospital corner with sea biscuits and jam only to discover she wasn’t in her cot. Her brief moment of freedom would, as usual, soon end. Emily hugged the solid topmast, took several breaths of the fresh salty air, and tried to take pleasure in the rising sun. Through the puckered sails of the mainmast, she caught sight of Captain Moreland standing alone beside the starboard rail, his spyglass trained on the expanse of sea that lay to the north of the Isabelle. He cut a lonely figure in the morning light, wraithlike with his cream-coloured breeches and shirt and yellow-white hair. Devoid of his uniform and the great height of his captain’s hat, he appeared shrunken, less formidable, and apprehensive. Feeling sadder still, Emily stood up, stretched, and gazed several feet up to the mizzen crosstrees, determined to reach them before returning to the hospital.

Careful with her footing, as the platform wood was slippery with dew, Emily grabbed onto the mizzen’s topmast shrouds and began her ascent, thankful that she’d dispensed with her silk shoes, relishing the sensation of falling backwards as she climbed higher and higher. She ignored the throbbing pains that still plagued her shoulder and ankle, and instead filled her head with inspiring remembrances of her youthful days when she’d managed to clamber up the shrouds on her father’s ships when his attentions and those of his officers were engaged elsewhere.

Upon reaching the crosstrees, over a hundred feet from the deck below, she spread herself onto their latticed shelf to catch her breath. She then drew herself up into a ball, peeled off Leander’s felt hat, and turned her face into the wind to feel its caress on her warm cheeks and through her hair, hoping its sough would whisk away the noise of the clamouring sailors below. She watched the departing Amethyst ply the glowing waters and tried to lift her spirits by recalling the lively scenes of the night before as the crew of the two lashed ships had celebrated together on the Isabelle’s deck. With envy, she had watched the drunken dances, amusing games, Magpie’s flute-playing, and rousing singsongs from her platform perch, and had fervently wished she’d been among them, swilling her own small mug of grog in an effort to slow her heart’s nervous shudder and rid her mind of melancholy thoughts.

Tearing her eyes from the Amethyst, her quick glance swept the upper deck again, stopping on Leander, who stood curiously amongst the swabbing crews, wearing the same dishevelled clothes he’d had on the previous evening, shading his eyes with his hands as he leaned back his auburn head to look upon the mainmast. As it was the bosun’s responsibility to inspect the ship’s sails and rigging, Emily pondered what possible interest the doctor would have in any one of the Isabelle’s towering masts. Curious, she followed his movements along the quarterdeck to the ship’s wheel where, with a nod, he greeted Mr. McGilp and Mr. Harding, then up the short ladder to the poop deck where he walked to its aft bench and angled his head upwards a second time to search the length of the mizzenmast. Emily felt a tingle dance down her spine, wondering if he’d seen her curled upon the crosstrees like a proud eagle minding its lofty nest. She shifted away from his gaze to hide her long, blowing hair beneath the abandoned felt hat.

With a small smile playing upon her lips, she waited for him to call out to her, and as she did so, her dark eyes fell upon the blue world that lay forever beyond the Isabelle’s wake. She squinted into the shimmering vastness until a shape suddenly appeared on the horizon. With a jerking motion, she sat upright, her fingers tightening around the rough edges of her latticed platform, and endured the sick feeling that resulted in the explosive quickening of her heart. In the far distance, emerging from the morning mists, were the distinctive white sails of three ships.

7:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Six Bells)

THE QUARTERMASTER turned over the sandglass and rang the bell six times, and as the echo of the last toll drifted away, the bosun’s mate in his deep, penetrating voice called out, “All hands ahoy. Up all hammocks ahoy.”

Alongside the aft rail of the poop deck beneath the blowing British colours, James stood in the company of Fly, who’d been quietly summoned from his bed the moment his captain had spotted the three ships.

“They’re still far off, sir,” said Fly, unhappy with the worry lines on James’s face. “It’ll be hours before they catch up to us, if ever they do. Shouldn’t we feed the men before we beat to quarters?”

James glanced about him distractedly to find the seamen who’d been cleaning the quarterdeck now standing and craning their necks over the ship’s sides to catch a glimpse of whatever it was the captain and Mr. Austen were looking at through their spyglasses. Finally he said, “Aye, you’re right. Feed them first.” He raised his spyglass for yet another look. “The one in the middle is definitely larger than the others and not sailing as quickly. Let’s hope it’s nothing more than a frigate escorting two merchantmen. But there is something worrying in their aspect. It’s my guess we are being chased.”

“Should they prove to be the enemy, sir, we can sail towards Norfolk where, as Captain Prickett informed us, our fleet is blockading the Chesapeake. We will find friends there.”

“But the winds, Fly, they are soft, and the tides, they’re with us now, but should we change direction and go northwest rather than northeast … ?” James straightened himself up, snapped shut his spyglass, and pursed his lips. “Right then! We can … we can at least try to harness more wind.” He strode across the poop deck to its fore rail. “Mr. Harding, if you please,” he called out in a voice that sounded stronger than Fly thought him capable of. The sailing master was waiting expectantly for his orders beside Lewis McGilp at the wheel on the quarterdeck below.

“Sir?”

“Have the bosun put out the word for the captains of the tops and their crews. Muster the skilled men you can and have them unfurl every last sail we’ve got.” With a brief nod, Mr. Harding hobbled off on his task. James then spun around to address Mr. Tucker, who had just thrown the log line out over the Isabelle’s stern and was now timing her speed with the aid of a small sandglass. “What is our speed, Mr. Tucker?”

“Three knots, sir.”

“Slow as molasses. We’ll soon bring that number up.” James watched as men from the swabbing crews familiar with the workings of the sails began their ascent up the rigging to unfurl the reefed topgallants and royals, and he saw Mr. Harding disappear down the main hatchway to search out the bosun and more men to go aloft. Satisfied, he then waved at the officer of the Morning Watch, Gus Walby, who had been leaning over the larboard rail, scanning the distance behind the Isabelle, and was now standing tall on the deck, his hands clasped behind his back, bright eyes firmly focused on the ship’s two senior officers.

“A moment of your time, Mr. Walby.”

Gus dashed up the short ladder to the poop deck. “Sir?”

“You have the best eyes of anyone on this ship,” said James, smiling. “Take my glass and tell me what you see.”

“Thank you, sir.” Gus took the spyglass and lifted it to his eye. After a moment of soft grunting and speculation, he said, “Two frigates, sir, and one smaller ship … I believe … I believe it’s a brig.”

An astonished James stared at the boy with fatherly affection as he was handed his glass back. To Fly, he said, “Your student, Mr. Austen, does you proud.”

Fly looked down upon the fair-haired midshipman and gave him a wink.

“And its colours, Mr. Walby. Are they discernible?” asked James.

“I cannot see anything flying from the tops, sir, and their stern flags are obscured by their sails.”

James laid a blue-veined hand on Gus’s small shoulder before crossing to the starboard rail, where he paused to gaze after the diminishing Amethyst. Fly and Gus followed him and watched as his eyes fell upon the flag locker beneath the taffrail.

“Mr. Walby,” he said thoughtfully, “as we are not a flag ship, I have no flag-lieutenant. I wonder then if I could trouble you to run up the mizzenmast and signal to our friends on the Amethyst that we need help.”

Gus’s cheeks reddened as he struggled to contain his excitement.

“And perhaps,” James added, “you could ask Mr. Stewart – if his arm is no bother to him – to assist you in hoisting the flags.”

“Right away!”

The boy was halfway to the ladder down when James stopped him.

“Mr. Walby?”

“Sir?”

“Remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”

“Yes, sir!” Grinning, Gus raised his fist in salute before setting off like a full-sailed ship in a storm to fetch Midshipman Stewart.

Heartened by James’s burst of energy and seeming return to his old self, Fly smiled at him. “Are you feeling better, sir?”

The good humour James had manifested in the presence of Gus Walby vanished as he studied the progress of the approaching ships. “Not at all.” He fell into a trance-like state for several seconds before adding, “Feed the men, Fly, then beat to quarters and clear the decks for action.”

“Will you get some sleep then, sir?”

“No. But I’ll be in my cabin … composing a letter to my wife.”

8:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Eight Bells)

IN WHAT LEANDER PERCEIVED as the most unappetizing corner on the orlop deck, Meg Kettle lay in her cot, moaning and clawing at her blankets, her puffy eyes closed, spittle lodged in the creases of her mouth and running down her moist face. He hung up the lantern he’d brought with him and set down his medicine chest on a small shelf by her bed whereupon she had displayed her prized possessions. It was difficult for Leander not to compare her to a rabid dog, nor to gag at having to breathe in the fetid air that emanated from the laundress’s unwashed body. Opening his chest to begin preparing a stomach-settling tonic – as he supposed in advance of his examination that this would ease all that ailed her – Leander studied the jumble of tarnished buckles, watches, hairbrushes, bags of tea, jars of pickles, bits of cheap jewellery, embroidered handkerchiefs, shillings, china cups, candle stubs, and silver spoons, the majority of which, he suspected, were gifts from the sailors for her services, stolen from the captain’s table and the Isabelle’s storerooms. He hoped to spot amongst them Emily’s miniature.

“Oooo, ’twas good o’ ya to come see poor Meggie, Doctor,” she said in a weak, crackling voice as if she were on her deathbed. “I always hoped ya’d one day come to me bed. When I sees ya swimmin’ with thee men, I always admires yer handsome buttocks, and I think to meself I should be invitin’ ya down here fer a wee bit o’ kicky-wicky.”

“Mrs. Kettle,” said Leander crisply, his back to her, “it is my understanding that you had a poor night and have been sick to your stomach.”

“I ’ave, Doctor. Me head’s a poundin’ and me insides, they’re a churnin’. Ooo, here it comes agin. Grab me bowl there quick.”

Leander fetched the wooden bowl at the foot of her cot and held it to her mouth to catch the gush of yellow liquid that was laced with the distinct odour of rum.

“Perhaps too much drink last night?” he asked, taking away the offending bowl and offering her a dampened cloth.

“Why, I drinks too much ev’ry night, Doctor. Nay, this be a different feelin.’ ’Aven’t kept me vittles down fer a week now.”

For a moment Leander studied his moaning patient, then moved in closer to check for fever and take her pulse, and while he held her plump wrist in his hand, he furtively searched her bed and blankets for any lumps that might indicate hidden objects. Seeing nothing suspicious there, he looked around her little corner, his eyes settling on the bulging duffle bag hung upon an iron hook in the shadows.

Mrs. Kettle stopped her groans long enough to give him a queer look. “I ain’t an idiot, Doctor. I knows what yer about.”

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Kettle?”

“Yer lookin’ about fer that miniature, ain’t ya?”

“I am counting the beats of your heart.”

“Then why ain’t ya lookin’ at me?”

Leander, who found it easier to look upon bleeding corpses, could not think of a reply.

“Quit pretendin’. Ya can’t fool thee likes of Meggie Kettle.” She groped beneath her blankets, dug in and around her bosom, and pulled out the little painting. “Go on! Take a good long stare at it. It’s that woman what lies in yer cot, all right.”

“I have no interest in it,” he said solemnly, tearing his eyes away, “although I have been informed it wasn’t given freely to you; that it was stolen. You haven’t forgotten that stealing is a punishable offence on this ship?”

“That don’t bother me none ’cause when they comes round lookin’ fer it, they won’t finds it. And they can’t very well punish me, can they, Doctor, if they can’t finds it?”

Biting his lip, Leander finished taking her pulse, gently lowered her wrist, and twisted round to reach for the cup of prepared tonic. Turning back, he met the miniature head on, Mrs. Kettle having thrust it up temptingly before him. His heart sank as he recognized Emily’s dear, smiling face – there couldn’t be a truer likeness of her anywhere – her pale gold hair, and the blue velvet jacket she wore (surely the same one she had on when Gus Walby first spotted her adrift in the sea). Seeing his flicker of discomfort, Mrs. Kettle clapped her hands together. “It ain’t no secret amongst thee men how ya feels about ’er. Osmund Brockley tells me ya won’t let no one near ’er ’cept Magpie and Gus Walby; that yer besotted with thee wench.”

“‘Wench’ is a word I might use to describe you, Mrs. Kettle, not her,” he said in monotone. “Now, if you’d kindly give me the miniature, I will see that it is returned to its rightful owner and say nothing of its having been stolen to Captain Moreland.”

Mrs. Kettle shook her head at him, narrowing her eyes suspiciously, and shoved the precious stolen object back into her shirt.

Leander gazed at her intently, unshaken by her defiance, and held out the cup of tonic. “Drink this. It should ease the vomiting.”

Still eyeing him, Mrs. Kettle took the cup from him, drained its contents, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and finally glowered up at him. “Even if she did fancy ya, she’d never be allowed to marry yer kind, bein’ a king’s granddaughter and all … and you, nothin’ more than a naval surgeon. She’s outta yer class.” She lay back on her flat pillow, looking pleased with herself. “Nay, thee only way ya can ’ave ’er is by … is by tacklin’ ’er in thee sail room like young Octavius Lindsay done. Ho, ho, ha, ha, ha.”

Tears of mirth poured from her eyes, mixing with the white spittle on her lips, and as Leander watched her guffaw like a drunken sailor, he was struck with an overwhelming desire to dump her from her grubby cot onto the damp floor – where a host of vermin was sure to find her – grab Emily’s miniature, and race off with it. Instead, he stuffed his trembling hands into his apron pockets, took a deep breath, and forced a smile.

“Rest if you can, Mrs. Kettle, and I’ll be back later to examine you more closely, if I may.”

She dabbed at her eyes with a bit of her blanket and blinked up at him. “What? To rifle through me bosom?”

“Certainly not!”

“What fer, then?” Suddenly she looked more anxious. “Ya didn’t poison me, did ya?”

“No! But I suspect you may be with child.”

10:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Four Bells)

THE MOMENT THE MEN were done eating, James ordered them to clear the decks and get to their action stations “in the event those three ships prove to be our enemies.” With the Isabelle abuzz and reverberating with activity, Gus Walby sat precariously upon the mizzen top crosstrees, tightly gripping the captain’s telescope in one hand and a length of secured rope in the other, looking across at the main and foremasts and down upon the decks to watch the sailors, landsmen, officers, and marines alike preparing for battle: placing scuttlebutts of drinking water at intervals, puddening the yards (to prevent them – should their supporting ropes be severed – from falling upon the men), wetting and sanding the decks (to avoid slippage on the inevitable rivers of blood), putting up the splinter nets for protection against flying bits of oak, piling grape and shot beside each of the guns, cleaning pistols, and stacking poleaxes and pikes. Gus could see the captain of the marines giving his men their orders, Captain Moreland and Mr. Austen plotting their strategies on the poop deck, and Mr. Harding alongside Mr. McGilp at the wheel devising navigational manoeuvres to suit the prevailing wind conditions; and as the men all went about their tasks, the fresh morning air circulating round the ship rang with their laughter, chatter, songs, orders, and oaths.

“What is our speed now, Mr. Tucker, if you please?”

“Five knots, sir.”

“It better be them Yanks this time. I’m out fer a bit o’ blood today.”

“Looks like it’ll be three against one.”

“Then ya better ’ave writ yer will.”

“What fer? I ain’t got nothin’ ta will ta nobody.”

“Might as well fight ’em ’cause we can’t carouse with ’em. Drained our barrels of grog last night.”

“England expects and all that.”

“Don’t forget your old shipmate, faldee, raldee, raldee, raldee, rye-eye-doe!”

Gus had been through the drill enough times now to know that the same flurry of activity would be abounding on the unseen upper and gun decks. Biscuit would be dousing his breakfast fires, Dr. Braden sharpening his surgical tools, the gunner handing out muskets, and men taking down the bulkheads and canvas screens. Those with no immediate occupation would be writing letters home to their loved ones – or their wills – and in her hospital corner, Emily would be steadying her nerves with the aid of Jane Austen’s book.

Gus was just about to climb down the mast to report to the captain when his heart skipped a beat. Dr. Braden – of all people – was climbing up the mizzenmast towards him.

“Doctor,” he called out in alarm. “What’s wrong, sir?”

Leander, shoeless, stockingless, and climbing in a loose shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, paused in his ascent to catch his breath, and smiled up at the young midshipman. “Several times now I have been dared to climb the ropes, and I thought it as good a time as any to try my sea legs.”

Gus widened his eyes in disbelief, thinking the doctor’s timing inopportune. “You will be careful, sir. Please don’t fall.”

“It is not my intent to fall, Mr. Walby.” Leander continued climbing. “I have often heard Captain Moreland tell you men to keep one hand for the ship and one for yourself, but as I’m no sailor, I think it best I keep both hands for myself.” He reached Gus’s platform and peered down at the little men scurrying about the decks far below his bare toes.

“You’re over a hundred feet up here, sir.”

Leander grinned. “I will fare better without that knowledge, thank you, Mr. Walby.” He hooked his arms around two sturdy ropes. “I’m not fond of heights, but climbing up here for pleasure is one thing. To work on a daily basis upon these bits of rope suspended over nothing is quite another.” Seconds later, he exclaimed, “Why it’s magnificent up here!”

As Dr. Braden, his face flush with exercise, enjoyed the air’s salty tang and beheld the snapping sails and shimmering horizons, Gus watched him closely, relieved to see the doctor in good spirits, especially after last evening’s dinner conversation, when he had seemed desolate and withdrawn. In silence the two fell to watching the approaching ships, and when Leander lifted his face to Gus again, the jubilant glint had left his eyes.

“I have not taken leave of my senses, Mr. Walby,” he said soberly. “Finding myself with little to do, I volunteered to come up here to retrieve your intelligence. And – ” He paused to produce a small napkin-wrapped bundle out of one rolled-up sleeve. “I brought you breakfast. Two biscuits and some cheese.”

Gus accepted the food. “Thank you, sir. How kind of you.”

“Now, what have you found out? Any word from the Amethyst?”

“Mr. Stewart and I hoisted the flags for assistance some time ago, sir, but she’s not answering, and I fear she’s too far away now to see the signals.”

“Is it possible she has no lookouts on duty?”

Gus grimaced. “That would be unwise, sir, particularly in enemy waters.”

“Indeed,” said Leander, but he wondered how any of the sailors could have resumed their duties after such a night of revelry. “Tell me then, Mr. Walby, what more can you see of the three ships?”

“Definitely two frigates and a brig, sir. And they’re gaining on us, travelling much faster than we are.”

Leander gazed into the distance. “Is their nationality evident?”

“Aye, sir, they’re American.”

“Are you quite certain?”

“I just witnessed the colours being raised on one of the frigates.”

“Any chance she may be flying false colours?”

“No, sir. Not this time.”

Leander raised his brow in question.

“The markings on one of the frigates are familiar,” said Gus. He lowered his voice. “I’m sure of it, sir. It’s Trevelyan’s Serendipity.”

11:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)

WITH HIS WHITE, HAIRY ARMS folded belligerently upon his chest and an unhappy expression fixed on his bronzed, withered face, Bailey Beck planted his feet in the small area on the orlop where Jacko, the Isabelle’s shoemaker, did his work creating, sewing and repairing the sailors’ footwear. “Ya lubber! Ya told me ya’d have ’em ready at three bells and now I hear the six bells. Do ya figure I don’t mind fightin’ them Yankees in me bare toes?”

There was a scowl on Jacko’s usually cheerful face as he sat on his low stool, polishing one of two silver buckles for a pair of newly minted shoes that lay atop his pile of leather pieces on the dusty floorboards. “Makes no difference to me,” he replied as evenly as a ship in the doldrums. “We’ll all be keepin’ the company o’ Davy Jones before thee day be done. I heared ’em sayin’ there be three ships comin’ after us. Yanks they be, and I doubt they’ll be lookin’ to trade fish and jokes with we Isabelles.”

“Lost yer nerve, ’ave ya, Jacko?”

“Lost it long ago, when I lost me leg.” Jacko rubbed his wooden peg as if he were stroking a faithful dog. “I ain’t like ya, Bailey. Ya fear nothin’.”

Bailey’s angry face softened. “The guns can’t hit ya here below the water, man. Ya ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

“I do if them Yanks board us. I ain’t as fast with me dirk as I once were.”

“Don’t go blamin’ yer lost leg fer that. Blame yer prodigious fat belly.” Bailey cracked up, but seeing that Jacko did not share his enthusiasm for the insult, he wiped his eyes and reassumed a serious aspect. “Aw, anyways, ’twon’t come to that. We’ll blow all three of ’em outta the water with our heavier guns, ya’ll see.” He cuffed Jacko in good fun across the head. “So quit fussin’ with them foppish shoes and finish mine up first. Ain’t no one on this ship needs a pair o’ dandy shoes like them.”

“They be fer Emily. I told her I’d knock her up a decent pair so she don’t ’ave to wear them blue silks.”

Bailey looked at his old mate with surprise and was contemplating another wisecrack when Jacko quietly added, “If I don’t see ya again, would ya see the young miss gets ’em?”

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

“ALLS I’M ASKIN’ FER is two minutes with ’im without ya hangin’ about.”

“It wouldn’t be right, Mrs. Kettle,” said the young marine standing sentry over the unfortunate Octavius Lindsay. Rather than being returned to the gun deck, which had been cleared again for action for the second time in twenty-four hours, Octavius had been left in irons outside the slops room on the dank orlop. The uncertain-looking soldier kept spinning around to see if anyone was lurking in the darkness.

“No one’s about. All thee men was called to stations.”

“W-e-e-e-l-l-l.”

“Won’t be no harm done. I ’ave no key to unlock his chains.”

“All right, then. But two minutes only.”

“That’s a good lad and fer yer trouble ya can visit me sometime in me cot,” she cooed, reaching out her arms to him.

“I’d – I’d rather not, Mrs. Kettle,” he sputtered, crimson colour flooding his face as he took a step backwards.

“Be off then, ya fool.”

The flustered marine shot off along the orlop deck like a frightened colt, coming to a halt only once he was well beyond the laundress’s reach, though still in sight of his prisoner.

“Ho, ho, ha, ha,” chortled Octavius, bent over his locked legs. “You’d be far better off bribing green boys with your silver spoons and necklaces, Mrs. Kettle, than offering up your flesh.” He tensed, expecting a kick in the ribs, and when none was delivered, was shocked to find the laundress in a serene frame of mind.

She bestowed upon him her sweetest smile. “There be three Yankee ships chasin’ us. Just what yas was hopin’ fer. Here. Take it and hides it where ya can.” She handed him the miniature with a sidelong glance towards the marine who had occupied himself poking around the sail room. “Won’t be no one lookin’ fer it here.” Mrs. Kettle then pulled a quill pen and piece of paper from the pocket of her skirt.

“Hell! What’s this for?”

“I wants ya to write somethin’ out fer me and I’ll come back fer it when I can. But know this … I ’spects to be rewarded roundly fer helpin’ ya – that is, if we ain’t dead in a few hours.”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

EMILY SAT ALONE on a stool in the empty hospital, Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility opened but ignored upon her lap, a loaded pistol at her feet, staring at the ladder that led up to the fo’c’sle deck and praying that Leander would soon come back. The hours of agony and suspense that had passed since the three ships were first sighted had left her numb, and now that the threat was known – a greater one than ever the Isabelle had faced – she no longer felt fear, only a desire, above all things, to speak to Leander before the guns began to fire and his hospital filled with the dead and dying.

To her surprise, it was not Leander but Morgan Evans who climbed down the ladder. He pulled off his knitted hat, ran a hand through his hair, and gave her an awkward little bow before glancing about the hospital. “Excuse me, ma’am, for interrupting your reading …”

Emily laughed, rising with the book in her hands, relieved to have some company. “Oh, you are interrupting nothing. I haven’t been able to concentrate since I heard the fife and drums for quarters.”

A bit of red crept into Morgan’s cheeks as he shifted from one foot to another. “I’ve – I’ve come to ask a favour of you.”

“Do you need me to help unfurl a few sails or fill up the guns with powder?”

Morgan grinned, his eyes looking everywhere but at Emily. “You’d be too late for all that. Everything that can be done is done.” He fiddled with his hat and stayed on the opposite side of the hospital, keeping between them Leander’s desk, which was once again transformed into a surgical table. “I know that you’re a clever one, ma’am. I once overheard you reading a story about two sisters to Mr. Walby and Magpie.”

Emily stared at him in surprise. “Thank you, Mr. Evans.”

“You see, ma’am, I can’t read. I always meant to learn, but there never seemed to be the time nor anyone around that could teach me.”

“But your way of speaking – I always thought you were well educated.”

“My mother took great pains to teach me to speak properly, and she had the best intentions to provide me with a good education herself, but she died when I was a boy, in childbirth along with her baby.”

“I am sorry.”

“What I want to say, ma’am, is that, well, I’ve been on a ship of some kind for seven years now. I didn’t set out to be a sailor. I learned carpentry work in my hometown of Swansea in Wales, so I could help my sisters keep the house and pay the mortgage. But this one night, when I was fourteen and supposed to be long in my bed, I sneaked out of the house, and along with a friend of mine, we stole into the local tavern to scrounge a few drinks. Beg your pardon, ma’am, I know it’s not something you would do. It was on my way home, when I was alone, I suddenly found myself surrounded by a press gang.”

“You mean those naval ruffians who scour the countryside, forcing men of all ages to work on their ships?”

Morgan nodded. “It seems someone had tipped them off that I had some skill with a hammer and nails. They asked me the name of my ship, and when I told them I wasn’t connected with any ship at all and never had been, they beat me about the head and carried me off to the docks, where they threw me into the hold of a large frigate. Well, you see, I’m almost twenty-one, ma’am. That was seven years ago and I don’t think my sisters know whatever became of me. Most likely they believe I was spirited away.”

“You haven’t been home at all since you were fourteen?”

“No, ma’am.” He glanced shyly up at Emily.

“And this favour you have come to ask of me?”

He cleared his throat and straightened himself up as if trying to summon up courage.

“I was wondering if you could write a letter to my sisters for me, Brangwen and Glyn they are, informing them of my whereabouts these past several years.”

Seeing his hopeful expression, Emily felt a sudden constriction around her heart.

“I would … I would be delighted, Mr. Evans.”

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

THE FIRST SHOT ERUPTED from the Serendipity like a steaming volcano blowing its top.

Clinging to the lower mizzenmast platform, Gus could smell its cold metal, feel its shiver, and hear its ominous drone as it fell, short of its mark, into the empty ocean behind the Isabelle’s stern. Its shocking suddenness caused him to drop the captain’s telescope, and a young sailor working above him to lose his foothold on the topsail yard. As fate answered, the sailor was able to grasp onto the shrouds before falling to a certain death on the unforgiving deck below. The telescope did not fare quite as well; with an unsettling crash, it landed at Captain Moreland’s feet, its glass shattering and the shards cast spinning across the poop deck planks. Without a flinch, James kept his composure to address his anxious gun crews hunched over their cannons, itching to light their guns in reply.

“Hold your fire, men,” he cried. “For God’s sake, hold your fire.” His command was repeated again and again around the ship, and when the guns stayed silent, he muttered a word of thanks, for he was not certain what action to take. His men, with their hearts in their mouths, stared at him, waiting for the word. Beneath the fluttering British flag on the poop deck, James, Fly, Mr. Harding, and Leander stood in a semi-circle, consulting navigational charts and closely watching the movements of the enemy ships – the Serendipity, a second frigate, and an accompanying brig – that now loomed, three abreast, a mile off the Isabelle’s stern.

Realizing that James was undecided in his tactics, Fly spoke up. “Sir, if we turn the ship broadside, we’re prepared to fire four successive rounds. With a little luck, we may rip open one of their hulls.”

“But we are too heavy to out-manoeuvre those three ships,” said a jittery Mr. Harding, bouncing back and forth from foot to stump. “Why, by the time we swing her round, they’ll have raked our stern, or worse still, shot our own hull full of holes.”

In mute silence, James calmly flicked away the glass bits of his broken telescope with his boot.

“With respect gentlemen,” said Leander hesitantly, “do we not have greater gun power, having more and heavier guns than either of those two frigates or that brig?”

“We do, Doctor,” said Fly, “but despite bolstering our numbers with the men taken from the Liberty, we are still seriously short on skilled sailors, and therefore, not all of our seventy-four guns will see action. In comparison, those ships possess one hundred guns between them.”

Mr. Harding shook his head sadly. “And with these light winds, we can’t hope to match their speeds.”

“But surely this Trevelyan is not interested in just sinking us here in the Atlantic?”

“Nay, Doctor,” said Fly. “He would more likely be wont to humiliate us by taking us a prize and leading us triumphantly into one of his nearby ports, an American flag hoisted over ours.”

James gazed around the Isabelle with affection. “It is not my intent to send my men to certain death today, nor to humiliate them; however, the simple truth of the matter is that Trevelyan knows the Isabelle well. He is fully aware of her capabilities and encumbrances.”

“What about trying negotiations, sir?” asked Mr. Harding, his round, red face lighting up hopefully. “We – we could return the sailors we took from the Liberty, and sweeten the deal with the return of the girl.”

James pulled his eyes from his ship’s standing rigging and proud sails to glance past his sailing master at Leander, who had turned very pale. “Where is Emily, Doctor?”

“In the hospital,” Leander answered slowly.

“Think of it, sir,” said Mr. Harding, a bit too quickly. “They may bite at the prize money she will bring, and agree to leave us be.”

Leander stared at James in disbelief. “Surely you don’t – you don’t mean to offer Emily up to Trevelyan?”

“What are our chances here, Doctor?” cried Mr. Harding. “Would you have us all perish for the sake of one woman? She may be our only hope.”

“You surprise me, Mr. Harding,” said James in a cold, reproachful voice. “A seasoned warrior such as yourself.” He took several paces from his companions and wavered alone on the Isabelle’s stern with his back to them, staring unseeing at the Serendipity.

Closing his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift across the Atlantic to England. For several wonderful minutes he dwelled in a pleasant reverie filled with light and beauty and the love of family and friends until the cries and calls from the enemy ships intruded upon his consciousness, yanking him back to the terrible reality of the moment. Quietly and privately, James tucked away in his heart the precious memories of the Yorkshire moors, his wife’s dear smile, and the loveliest sound in the world, the laughter of his six children. “I will give Trevelyan nothing,” he said to the wind, blinking away a solitary tear. “Besides, it is me he wants, and for nine long years he has waited for just such an opportunity.” He swung around to face his waiting officers.

“Lee, find Emily and take her down to the orlop. In the event Trevelyan has heard of our admiral’s reward for her, hide her there, wherever you think appropriate.”

Leander looked dazed and uncertain.

“Go! Now!”

Fly leaned into him and gave him an encouraging smile. “But don’t linger too long, Doctor. We may soon need you to wield a sword.” Leander snapped his mouth shut, cleared his throat, grinned self-consciously, and hurried off.

When he was gone, James removed two letters from the inside breast pocket of his uniform coat and held them out to Fly. “Should the outcome be … I would rest easier knowing …” He stopped, and began again. “There is one addressed to my wife and another to you. I have attempted to answer all your questions regarding Trevelyan. Just know that he was connected with the ugliest episode of my life.”

Fly accepted the letters with a comprehending nod. Silent seconds passed away before he was aware again of the vigilant eyes surrounding them. “Sir, the men … they are prepared to fight. They understand nothing of handing over prisoners in order to be left alone.”

James sighed. “I know that, son.” He raised his head to yell at Gus sitting up high on his platform. “Mr. Walby!”

“Aye, sir?”

“Get down from there this instant and get yourself below.” He turned to Fly again. “How far off is Gosport Yard, where our friends are set up in blockade?”

“We are not far off now, sir.”

“Let us pray they hear our guns.”

“Sir?”

With restored conviction and resolve, James settled his blue bicorne upon his head, and in a voice robust enough for all to hear cried, “Shall we give it a try, Mr. Austen? Shall we have a go at them?”

Understanding his captain’s meaning, Fly beamed. “Aye, sir!”

“Broadside!”

“Broadside it is, sir!”

“Turn her round, Mr. McGilp,” James bellowed to the coxswain, as he climbed sprightly down the ladder to the quarterdeck, “and let her fly.”

A roar of approval swept the Isabelle fore and aft as the energized men, seeing Captain Moreland striding with purpose down the deck towards the bow, high colour in his sunken cheeks and a glowing smile upon his lips, realized that he meant to fight. Fly followed, desperately trying to keep up to his revitalized leader, and was cheered to see the sailors’ reactions to the news. Mr. Crump gripped the larboard rail and showed his joy by dancing around on his one leg while Biscuit swiped the air several times with his cutlass. Bun Brodie released a guttural sound not unlike a foghorn and lifted a laughing Magpie high over his copper-coloured head. Bailey Beck clapped Morgan Evans on the back, almost knocking him off his feet, then pumped his arm in an enthusiastic handshake. The scarlet-jacketed marines all raised their muskets to their eyes, and the sweating gun crews rallied round their cannons and carronades on the larboard side of the ship, waving their rammers and fists in the air, ready to pour the gunpowder into the firing holes.

And the Isabelle turned her head slowly into the wind.

Within minutes, a second blast ripped from the Serendipity. This time it hit its mark, smashing into the mizzen topmast, snapping it in half and sheering away the lower platform, catching Gus Walby unawares on the ropes below and cruelly slinging him into the sea.

3:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Six Bells)

LEANDER SAID NOT A WORD throughout their journey from the hospital to his private cabin, located between the captain’s storeroom and the spirits room on the orlop deck. When finally he spoke, his tone was detached and formal, as if he were seeing Emily as a patient for the first time. “You’re to stay here.” He unlocked the low, thin door, held high the lantern he carried, and stood back to let her pass into the room. “I am sorry for the dampness and the strong smell of fish.”

Emily glanced miserably around his cramped quarters, which contained nothing more than a shabby hammock, a small bookshelf, and two wooden pegs on which he had hung a few articles of clothing. It was obvious to her why Leander preferred to sleep in the hospital. She stole a glance at him and her heart sank. He stared back at her, his features rigid, his eyes blank, as if she was not there at all, and solemnly he said, “I will not pretend that our situation is not serious. There are three of them to our one.”

“The Amethyst – ?”

“Our signals to her for assistance went unanswered.”

“Will you not allow me to stay in the hospital, Doctor?”

“It is Captain Moreland’s wishes – his orders – that you ride out the battle down here.”

“Would I not be put to better use helping you with your patients?”

“I – the men would only be anxious for your safety. You’ll be better off down here.”

Hearing the misstep in his speech, she scanned his handsome face, willing him to gaze upon her with adoring eyes as he once had, only to be disappointed when he blinked several times and looked away. A brooding silence fell between them. Emily’s arms dropped to her sides in defeat. She bit back her stinging tears in an effort to conceal her hurt and fear from him. Long, awkward moments passed before she broke their silence.

“Would you leave me the lantern? I do not like the darkness.”

“Of course,” he said, placing it on his bookshelf next to a slim volume of Robbie Burns’s poems. He gestured towards a small purple bottle slipped in amongst his books. “Should things get … intolerable, you might find a sip of that will help.” He frowned and started as if suddenly remembering something. Reaching into the pocket of his brown frock coat, he pulled from it a folded slip of parchment and held it out to her.

“Is it another letter to Jane you would have me read?” Emily asked.

“This one is for you.”

Emily glanced up sharply, daring to hope.

“There – there is information that has recently come to light,” he continued, his eyes full of sadness, “information gleaned from Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington of the Amethyst with whom I had the privilege to dine last evening. It is the very best of news. Read my letter and take comfort in it, and know that you do have a life worth living.”

Emily looked puzzled. “You tell me this, Doctor, yet I hear no joy in your voice. What of that?”

From the far reaches of the orlop, a voice suddenly called out, shattering the unsettling stillness around them. “Dr. Braden? Are ya down here, sir?”

“I am, Mr. Brockley.”

“And will ya be along, then? The hospital – I’m worried it’ll soon be full, sir.”

“I am coming straightaway.”

Emily snapped in exasperation. “You are always needed somewhere! Why, I can hardly complete a sentence let alone a conversation in your company without someone listening in or pulling you away or beating to quarters or drowning or needing you to stitch up their bloody head! And now … you are needed again.” With a sharp intake of breath, she caught herself, regretting her words.

Leander lifted his chin. “There are many things I cannot change and that is one of them.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Doctor, will you not stay a moment? I should like to hear this good news from your own lips.”

“I should go.” He bent his tall frame to pass through the low door. Out in the darkness of the deck, he paused, briefly, before setting off, firm resignation evident in his stride.

A forlorn emptiness pressed down on Emily as she watched him go, disappearing bit by bit into the obscurity like an elusive dream. He was nothing more than a grey shape in the black shadows when a thunderous explosion ripped through the air and the Isabelle pitched and groaned with a hit. Panic arose in her breast as she listened to the crew’s suppressed but distinct outpouring of horrified anger in the distance. In the furore, she was certain she discerned the chilling words, “man overboard.” Her pulse accelerated with anxiety for the Isabelle’s crew. They were no longer faceless, nameless sailors; they were her friends, companions, brothers she had never before known, cherished substitutes for her lost parents. Her family.

“Who is it that has fallen now?”

Cold dread coursed through her veins as she realized, with a battle looming, a rescue of the poor soul would be impossible. The Isabelle shuddered as her larboard guns boomed and jumped in answer to the enemy blasts. Emily imagined the men falling dead, bloodied and torn apart by grapeshot, or worse still, alone and injured on the deck, pleading piteously for help that would be a long time in coming, if ever. Her mind raced to Morgan Evans, who only minutes before had said good-bye to her in the hospital after he had haltingly dictated a touching letter home to his Welsh sisters. She thought of Fly Austen and Captain Moreland running steadfastly about, assuring, assisting, and encouraging their men while standing in the direct line of enemy fire, and of little Magpie, his head still in bandages, and dear Gus Walby, proudly wearing his bicorne, both of them heady with adrenaline as they carried out orders and fought alongside the older men. Wild-eyed, she peered into the spreading gloom for a final glimpse of the one man she cared for above all others, and hysterically she cried out, “Leander!”

For a moment, there was a haunting silence, as if the battle had ended and all hands were lost, then at last she heard the welcoming echo of his returning footsteps. He soon appeared in the dim illumination of her lamplight, an expression of expectation on his face, staring at her with wide eyes as her own filled with tears.

“I cannot bear this coldness between us any longer,” she choked out. “I – I have relied so completely on your friendship these past weeks. I am well aware that I may not see you again. Will you – could you not at least shake hands with me?” She extended her trembling right hand as the tears started down her face and whispered, “Would you leave me thus?”

He stood stock-still, his auburn brow etched in sorrow, and for the longest time said nothing. Only when the pervasive wails of war intensified did his words at last tumble out. “If I had not heard the name of Mrs. Seaton and learned of your background and parentage and understood the reason for your unhappiness and nightmares; if everything was different, if everything was put right in the world – had we been born in the same circles – not opposite ends of the earth – and I wasn’t simply a ship’s doctor – then – then – I would never leave you.”

It was Emily’s turn to be rendered speechless. She gave him a tentative smile and her eyes never wavered from his face.

He nodded towards the letter she held to her breast and gently said, “I cannot stay long, but I shall stay here while you read it.”

Tearing it open, she hungrily swept its contents.

Dear Madam;

Should we not have an opportunity to speak again in private I feel compelled to inform you that I am now aware that you are the granddaughter of King George and will henceforth address you as the Princess Emeline Louisa. I can only speculate what unfortunate circumstances resulted in you being taken prisoner on the Serendipity and now understand why it was you were travelling across the ocean under the name of Mrs. Seaton. But know this – it has been my pleasure and an honour to care for your wounds these past weeks. You have proven to be a most affable and courageous patient.

Rejoice in the knowledge that your lady-in-waiting and your husband, Frederick Seaton, were rescued from the wreck of the Amelia and are safely home in England under the care of your Uncle William, the Duke of Clarence. It is my hope that this news will safeguard you from your blackest hours.

I bid you Godspeed,

Your Faithful Servant,

Leander Braden.

Emily’s fist tightened around the letter and her shoulders sagged as she fell against the cabin door, sinking to her knees, murmuring thanks like the tranquil sea after a tempest. Transfixed in happiness, she sat there until her spent sobs had turned to laughter and eagerly she looked up at Leander. “I travelled under the name Mrs. Seaton for no other reason than for my safety. Frederick Seaton is my cousin. He is not, nor ever shall be, my husband.”

Leander’s lips parted in surprise.

“There is so much that I need to tell you, Doctor. So much that I need to explain. Give me a chance to tell you about myself and when you have learned all, tell me there is some hope.”

“Hope? When we belong to such different worlds?”

“It is your world, not mine, to which I wish to belong.”

Leander stared at her in mute elation, then dropped down next to her. There he lifted her little white hand that bore the scars of her leap from the Serendipity and, closing his eyes tightly, held it to his cheek, then to his lips, letting it linger there. When he opened his eyes again, their sea-blue colour was more striking than ever, and the fine lines around them crinkled in mirth. He seemed as content as he had been that gusty morning when they had sat together on the Isabelle’s waist within the shelter of the smaller boats.

“God willing, I will meet you later, up high on the mizzenmast’s platform, and there we will talk and watch tomorrow’s sun rise.” He searched her face as if trying to memorize every one of her features, and his own broke into a teasing smile. “Your pistol, Princess Emeline, keep it with you at all times. I suspect you know how to use it.”

He rose and bowed to her respectfully, as he would have had he made her acquaintance in a lavish ballroom, allowed his gaze to fall on her another moment, and was gone. Emily shrank back against the door and waited until the guns and desperate cries above had swallowed the wrenching sound of his departing steps, then dragged herself beneath Leander’s bed where she wept unrestained tears of joy.

4:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

BEFORE EVEN A FULL HOUR had elapsed, the roar, rattle, and thunder of battle had rolled away with the white clouds of the June day, leaving in its place a suffocating pall of acrid smoke that swirled around the Isabelle like a grey-black blanket trying to hide her terrible destruction from her enemies. Rudderless, mastless, she bobbed about on the wine-red waves like a dead sea-creature. All about her was profound silence except for the stifled groans of the wounded who lay in pathetic heaps, crumpled and traumatized, upon the bloody decks, and a single white gull that tumbled through the smoke, squawking eerily, like a bird from another world.

James lay still, near the bowsprit where he had fallen, his breathing laboured, trying to focus on the gull as it cheerfully swooped and glided around the ruins of his once-proud masts. He kept his eyes skyward, afraid of what he might see if he lifted his head to search the decks. He could smell charred flesh and feel the stickiness of the blood that ran in rivulets along the planks, seeping into his cream-coloured breeches, and he tried to convince himself that neither belonged to him. He would have to get himself up soon – stand tall on the deck – as the men needed him now more than ever. They required direction and a calming word. The enemy was approaching. He could hear their excited shouts as they clambered into their small boats to cross over and board the Isabelle. James attempted to raise himself up, but he couldn’t breathe properly, nor could he move his legs, or his arms, or any part of his body.

He lay there helplessly as the American boats pulled nearer and nearer, unable to do a blessed thing, except dwell with forlorn thoughts. Is this how it would end, then? No victory, no glory, no prize money, no lofty comparisons made to Lord Nelson back home in England; his family forever having to bear the shame of his ignoble defeat at the hands of a British traitor? James twitched and tasted blood in his mouth, and from somewhere far away, heard a voice calling to him.

“Captain Moreland! Sir!”

It was Fly’s voice, but James could not see him clearly. Fly appeared over him suddenly, faceless in the darkness, and there were two others at his side, one weeping profusely.

“Hold on, sir, and I’ll get Leander.” Fly’s voice had a strange hoarseness to it.

“No!” James began to cough and he had to wait until his spasms had passed. “No. There will be others who need the doctor’s attention. I will wait my turn.”

He felt himself being gently lifted from the wet deck and carried away, although in which direction they were headed he could not guess. He tried to hold onto their voices, which grew more and more distant with each step.

“Biscuit! Take the captain to his cabin.”

“Ach, but sir, it’s bin shot out … awful mess in there. Glass all over thee place and thee furniture, why it’s nothin’ but rubble.”

“Take him there in any case.” Fly then lowered his voice. “Magpie, quit your snivelling this instant! Tell Dr. Braden to meet me in the great cabin. Run!”

“Fly?” James called out, feeling an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. “My letters, do you have them?”

“Aye, sir. They are safe.”

“I – I regret that first time a few weeks back, allowing Trevelyan to get away. Perhaps I should not have concerned myself with wind and repairs; perhaps I should have gone straight back after him.”

“But, sir, you had no idea it was Trevelyan’s ship.”

“No.” James sighed. “Still …” He lifted his faded blue eyes to the sky once again. “I ask for your forgiveness.”

He could see quite clearly now and watched as the white gull, having grown tired of the cheerless wreck, swooped down the length of the Isabelle’s decks towards her taffrail, circled her shattered mizzenmast and the tattered British colours that still fluttered from her stern, and finally soared through the smoke to search for the sun.

4:20 p.m.

(First Dog Watch)

MAGPIE PAUSED MIDWAY on the ladder down to the hospital to wipe away the tears that poured from his eye, trying to carry out Mr. Austen’s orders to be brave and stand tall. He didn’t feel brave at all. Below him was a hellish scene. A heap of bleeding men sat slumped over and dazed on the hospital floor, looking as if they had been hastily dumped there from the deck above like a bucket of refuse hurled from a second-storey window. Some had their heads so covered in gore that he had no idea who they were; others had arms and legs hanging unnaturally from their bodies. Magpie shuddered and felt his stomach heave. It was worse than any nightmare he had ever had.

“Move along, boy,” shouted a sailor at Magpie’s head. “Git outta me way.”

Magpie dangled precariously to one side of the ladder as the sailor, carrying a hysterical gunner with a badly burned back over his shoulder, swept past him and into the congested hospital. Magpie took a deep breath and followed the sailor, keeping his eyes on the ceiling planks, having no desire to see the writhing mass of miserable men who coughed and cried out at his feet, nor the devastation of Emily’s little corner, which had taken a hit through its gunport. What remained of her canvas curtains shivered in the sea breeze that blew through the gaping hole in the ship’s side, bringing with it wafts of unwelcome smoke. Standing in the middle of the mayhem was Dr. Braden, hunched over his gruesome operating table, periodically raising his voice with orders and advice for Osmund Brockley and the loblolly boys, as well as for Bun Brodie and Biscuit, who both claimed some knowledge of medicine and had therefore agreed to stay and help him with his wretched work.

“Sir?” Magpie stood patiently by Dr. Braden’s side while he performed an amputation, keeping his eye averted from the doctor’s red-stained arms and the frightening tools he held in his hands, and the mangled mess spread out upon the table before him. When the doctor finally set his eyes on him, Magpie was unsettled by their haunted look. Raising himself up on his tiptoes, he whispered, “Mr. Austen was hopin’ ya could come to the great cabin to examine Captain Moreland. He ain’t doin’ so good.”

Dr. Braden straightened himself and slowly looked all around him, pausing thoughtfully on what was once Emily’s corner. “Tell Mr. Austen … I will come.”

As Magpie emerged from the woeful hospital onto the fo’c’sle deck, he found Morgan Evans standing before him, his face blackened with soot, his knitted hat gone, carrying Bailey Beck in his arms. Magpie didn’t like the way Bailey’s white head was slumped against Morgan’s chest, nor the hysterical note in his own voice as he cried out, “Mr. Evans, sir!”

Morgan’s reply was strangely subdued. “I’ve told you before, you don’t have to address me that way.”

Magpie grasped Morgan’s upper right arm and looked up at him.“Would ya help me find Mr. Walby?”

Morgan didn’t answer. A pained expression crept into his eyes as he shifted the weight about in his arms.

“Please, sir?”

Morgan’s lips began moving silently, as if he were speaking in a trance, and the only thing Magpie could understand was, “… that second shot from the Serendipity took the mizzenmast down and him with it. He’s gone.”

With his precious load, Morgan hurried away towards the ladder down to the hospital, leaving Magpie alone. Bewildered, the little sail maker stumbled to the starboard rail and hung his head over the ship’s side, gulping at the air. His eye fell below to the accumulation of battle debris that knocked up against the Isabelle’s hull – bits of barrels, shredded sails, and lifeless sailors – and he followed its path out beyond the smoke into the far water, upon which the sun still shined. Aware of the gentle rise and fall of the ship, he clung to the rail and thought about Emily, and Jane Austen’s book, and tried to recall all the delicious things Mrs. Jordan had fed him for supper that fascinating first night in the Duke of Clarence’s home. The sounds around him had no meaning: the ringing of the ship’s bell, the roaring requests for assistance with the wounded, and the shrilly cries of the Americans as they made ready to board the Isabelle.

After a time, Magpie shoved himself away from the rail. He wiped at his runny nose and aimlessly started walking, and though he was bumped and jostled by those scurrying around him, he kept his head down. Near a carronade, still scorching from employment, he discovered an officer’s spyglass, lying forgotten on the red deck. Magpie bent over to pick it up, and as his hand closed around it he looked out again upon the azure sea. The water was calm and the winds running northeast were light.

4:30 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, One Bell)

THE SURVIVORS LINED THE SHIP’S RAILS, making way for the boarding party of sixty or so American officers and marines who moved across the Isabelle’s quarterdeck like a creeping pool of blood. With heavy hearts and vacant eyes that stared from weather-beaten faces, they wordlessly watched. Mrs. Kettle hovered near the Isabelle’s wheel, away from the men. She didn’t like the look of the Isabelle’s crew – their sloping shoulders, and arms that hung uselessly at their sides – and chose instead to concentrate on the Americans, stretching her neck to catch the first glimpse of the Yankee captain around whom Bun Brodie had spun countless yarns. A long time passed while each of the boarders made his way up the ladder aside the ship, and she was certain that the last of them to step onto the quarterdeck was Captain Thomas Trevelyan himself.

Though not the pirate with flowing beard, peg leg, and flag – bearing skull and crossbones – that Mrs. Kettle had imagined, her knees still wobbled as she looked him over. He was a giant of a man with straw-coloured hair that stuck out in untidy bits from beneath his cocked hat. He had hideous eyes and a scarred, pockmarked face that reminded her of someone mouldering in his grave. Mrs. Kettle would hate to have encountered his kind at night in a London alleyway. Before the remnants of the Isabelle’s crew, he rose up, hands on his hips, a smirk on his sunken face, looking around with satisfaction at the ruin he had wrought.

The marine lieutenant at Trevelyan’s side straightened his round infantry hat and hollered at his assembled soldiers. “Forty-six of the Liberty’s crew are prisoners on this ship. Seek them out, have them muster on the quarterdeck, and prepare for their transport to the Serendipity.”

Trevelyan addressed one of his officers. “Mr. Smith, strike all the bunting and raise our colours. She may not be worth the powder to blow her to hell, but she’s our prize now.” He took several more steps, his eyes flicking over the crew that shuffled backwards as he leaned into them, before halting in front of Midshipman Stewart.

“Where is your captain?”

The flush-faced teenager struggled to clear his throat. “He’s in … in the great cabin … sir.”

Mrs. Kettle steadied her nerves with deep breaths as Trevelyan strode in her direction. Her left hand sought out her abdomen and she stroked it absently while her right fumbled at the neck of her shirt. Smiling prettily, she plucked a folded note from her bosom – the one she had asked Lord Lindsay to compose for her. She stepped forward, and held it out to Trevelyan, her heart beating rapidly when his eyes flashed over her form.

“Whom do we have here?” he asked with condescension. “The cook?”

“Nay, sir. Meggie Kettle, the laundress.”

He glanced down at the proffered note. “What’s this?”

“If ya please, sir. I needs ya to read it. If yer Cap’n Trevelyan, as I’m supposin’, ya’ll be findin’ whot’s in it mighty int’restin’.”

Squinting, he studied her a moment, then snatched the note and skimmed its contents. When he was done, he crumpled it up triumphantly in his fist and his lips twisted into a smile. “Well, Mrs. Kettle, it seems the Isabelle’s more valuable than I thought.”

* * *

CLUTCHING HIS MEDICAL CHEST under one arm and buttoning his clean shirt with his free hand, Leander kept his head down and hurried past the ship’s wheel towards the great cabin. He stopped short when one quick glance up revealed the destruction ahead. The cabin’s galleried windows had been blasted away; one wrong step would send him plunging into the sea. Scattered about the once-fine space were fragments of Captain Moreland’s private papers, maps, and logbooks; his oak table and red velvet chairs had been reduced to pathetic piles of scrap and material. The only thing that had survived the barrage of Yankee shot was Captain Moreland’s hammock, which was still swinging with the ship’s serene rise and fall, and as Leander observed the spreading stain on its side and the still form lying within, he realized he had arrived too late.

“I am sorry for wasting your time,” said Fly without lifting his head. He was sitting on the floor with his back resting against one of two remaining bulkheads, staring blankly at an opened letter that lay across his knees.

“I too am sorry … for your loss.” Leander eyed Fly, looking for signs of injury, but he saw nothing significant beyond a few cuts that still bled through tears in his breeches. “Will you be all right?”

Fly breathed in and out heavily and looked up. “I understand the hospital took a hit.”

“It did. It came through the gunport and it …” Leander couldn’t finish his sentence.

“James never agreed with your philosophy of having your hospital on the upper deck. He always figured you and your patients would be safer on the orlop.”

Leander’s lips disappeared into a thin line and he nodded. “If there is nothing I can do here, I must get back.”

Fly’s stare fell upon the rusty stains on Leander’s forearms. “Aye. But as I’m not sure when we may have another private moment – as there is little time left – I wonder if I could delay you.” He held up the letter. “James asked that I read this if … if things did not go well.”

Leander set his medical chest on the floor beside Fly, lowered himself upon it, and gazed expectantly at his friend. Fly shot a furtive glance at what was once the main entrance to Captain Moreland’s cabin, then began to read in a low, dull voice as if he were delivering a sermon to an empty church.

“Dear Mr. Austen. I realize that what I am about to relate is a subject I should have taken up with you long before now. I had hoped there would be time for you to hear my tale from my own lips. The following is not a story of which I am proud; in fact, I have spent the past nine years trying to forget it ever happened, and I thought I had almost succeeded. In putting off the telling of it, I employed every excuse: our occupation with the prisoners from the Liberty, Lord Lindsay’s shameful affair, and my lingering illness. I believed that – nay, I prayed – we would not meet Trevelyan again; leastways, I did not expect him to appear again so soon after our initial engagement. If I am justified in only one respect in writing – and not speaking – of this sorry business, it is that I will leave this world with the comforting knowledge that I have documented the details, of which, God knows, you will most certainly require somewhere down the road.”

Fly injected some inflection in his voice as he started in on James’s story.

“In May of 1803, I was commanding the Isabelle along with Henry, the Duke of Wessex. As you know, war had broken out once again with France, and I was ordered to assist in blockading the French port of Brest. We ended up in blockade for several months and it was most difficult on the crew. In addition to their regular duties, they were expected to undergo daily drills, intercept coastal convoys intent on supplying Brest, search the seas for any French ships returning from the West Indies, and, of course, watch the movements of the French frigates holed up in the harbour lest they be sent out on a clandestine operation or try to escape under cover of night. For all of us, the most difficult task was just trying to stay afloat offshore in all sorts of bad weather.

“The long weeks bobbing on the waves, battling nothing but the weather, took their toll. Supplies of fresh food ran low, the men naturally were not allowed any shore leave, and they were given only a drop of grog – Wessex and I wanting to keep them all sharp-witted as we worried they may have to give chase at any time. The result was that tempers flared and fights broke out amongst the men.

“One of the most troublesome amongst the crew happened to be a young lieutenant named Thomas Trevelyan. Trevelyan had recently been elevated in the world, as his step-father, Charles DeChastain, a man of great wealth and power and an earl no less – Trevelyan’s widowed mother had already been married to DeChastain for thirteen years – had finally legally adopted Trevelyan, making him one of his heirs. Consequently, Trevelyan figured, despite his age and inexperience, he should be on equal footing with the son of King George and me, the lowly Captain Moreland. Trevelyan argued every decision, every order. Wessex wanted him punished for his continual insubordination, but I did not, as I understood the crew’s conditions were unbearable at times, and my own spirits had sunk very low. To exacerbate the situation, Trevelyan’s twelve-year-old half-brother, Harry DeChastain, was also on board. He was a midshipman and he adored his older brother. Trevelyan’s discontentment and belligerent disposition had a profound effect upon him.”

Fly pushed his body away from the bulkhead, jumped to his feet, and began pacing through the remains of the room, keeping his eyes averted from the cot as he continued to read.

“In late March of 1804, the Isabelle was badly damaged in a gale, and when it had passed over, we were forced ashore to do repairs. Early one morning, while we were anchored off a lonely stretch of the French coast, six of the crew deserted in one of the ship’s small boats. Trevelyan and his little brother, Harry, were amongst the deserters. When it was discovered they were gone, Wessex ordered several crew members to set out in the remaining boats and find them. Miraculously, since the morning was quite foggy, they did. Fearing severe punishment, two of the deserters jumped overboard and drowned. The other four were brought back to the ship, tied to the grating, and before the assembled crew summarily given 300 lashes apiece. On my insistence, Harry was given half that number, but despite the lesser punishment, his back swelled up like a charred pillow and an infectious fever set in. For two long weeks, he suffered cruelly, finally dying on his thirteenth birthday.

“Trevelyan recovered – physically – but he was a changed man. He went about his business, did as he was told and questioned nothing. Wessex figured he had learned his lesson; I figured he was just biding his time. Five months later, in early September, the Isabelle received orders to give chase to a French frigate returning from the West Indies. Away from the company and security of the other British ships in blockade, Trevelyan led a mutiny. He had Wessex and me locked into our cabins, then killed three of the Isabelle’s officers, as well as my faithful steward, threw their bodies overboard, and endeavoured to take over the ship. While we were being held hostage, Wessex and I tried bargaining with Trevelyan, promised to hear his grievances, and grant a pardon for the mutineers. We both swore on a bible to make changes in exchange for our release and a return of the ship to our command. When a week had passed and our ship was again close to the French coastline, Trevelyan finally yielded and agreed to end the mutiny. I was fully prepared to make concessions and attempt to bring about better conditions for our men, but as Wessex had the advantage of birth and position over me, I was forced to bow to his authority. Wessex refused to make any concessions whatsoever and instead ordered that the mutineering ringleaders be strung up on a yardarm and Trevelyan be shot.

“In the early hours of the morning upon which the executions were to take place, as eight bells tolled the end of the Middle Watch, Trevelyan, with the help of unnamed accomplices, was released from his irons. He then attempted to set the Isabelle afire. In the ensuing disorder, he threw himself and a hatch cover overboard, floated to shore, and disappeared into the French countryside. This time, he was not caught.”

Fly folded up James’s letter and looked at Leander for the first time since his friend had entered the room.

Leander rose slowly from his medical chest. “I do not understand. Why is it no one seems to have heard much of this mutiny when its details are as horrific as those of Spithead and the Nore?”

“For the simple reason that there was no court-martial, only a simple inquiry. James goes on to write that given the political weight of Wessex, and the fact that Wessex and he had determined their own punishments for the deserters and mutineers on the Isabelle, the admiralty chose to keep the affair private. Over the years, there have been hundreds of single-ship mutinies that have vanished into the sea mists with no record. All that remains here are the recollections of those men who were aboard the Isabelle in March of 1804, and … I just happen to know of one such man.”

“And who would that be?”

“Bun Brodie. He was sailing with James at that time. The man was lucky enough to be with Nelson at Trafalgar, but despite this honour, Brodie told James that he had admired him more.”

Leander gazed pensively at the visible sea through the broken ship wall. “In all these years, did James never hear another thing from Trevelyan?”

“In his letter he states that the Royal Navy suspected Trevelyan’s successful escape was aided by the French themselves, in exchange for information regarding our orders and manoeuvres, and that he had fled to the United States; but no, James never heard another thing until a few weeks back when Emily told him that it was Trevelyan who commanded the Serendipity.”

“So Trevelyan blamed James and Wessex for the death of his brother.”

“Aye, it would seem so, and for subsequently ruining his life. Branded a traitor, he would not have been allowed back in England to collect any forthcoming titles, and more importantly, his inheritance.”

“And he took Emily prisoner as a kind of posthumous revenge against her father, and the moment …” Leander raised his voice, “the moment he learns that the ball from Mr. Clive’s pistol didn’t kill her, that she’s in fact on board with us, he’ll take her prisoner once again.”

Fly nodded in agreement. “Precisely.”

Pulling his glasses from his face, Leander screwed his eyes shut and rubbed the auburn stubble on his face. “But if Trevelyan fled to the United States nine years ago, how … how would he have ever known that the only child of the Duke of Wessex was a Mrs. Seaton travelling to Canada on board the Amelia?”

“Perhaps he was tipped off,” suggested Fly. “Perhaps he had spies, someone watching her movements in England, especially once her father had died.”

A lengthy silence fell between the two. Finally Leander said, “Emily knew nothing of Trevelyan’s desire for vengeance.”

“How can you be certain of that?”

“I just am.” He slipped his glasses back on his nose and bent down to gather up his chest. “We will speak again … as soon as it is possible,” he said with urgency in his voice, “but I must go.” With a half-hearted smile, he faced Fly and extended his right hand to him. Wordlessly, they shook hands, then Leander hurried away.

He had only just disappeared from view when, from out of the corner of his eye, Fly saw him returning, walking slowly backwards towards the spot he had just departed. Wheeling about to question his friend, Fly discovered five men encircling Leander, dressed in the red, white, and blue uniforms of an American captain and marines. There were telltale signs on the faces and clothing of the four marines that they had recently seen action, but the scars on the captain’s face were old ones, and his clothes looked new: his breeches were still white, his epaulettes gleamed gold, and his uniform coat was freshly pressed. It looked as if he had just put them on before boarding the Isabelle. He barely glanced at Fly as he pushed past Leander into the shell of the great cabin, and said nothing while he kicked aside bits and pieces of Captain Moreland’s personal belongings with his boots and examined the room’s wreckage, pausing on the contents of the reddening cot. He stepped heavily towards it and stared at James’s silent form, his expression never changing even as, in one fluid motion, he grasped the ivory hilt of James’s sword, which lay across his dead body, and slipped it into the black leather scabbard at his left hip. When his lips at last moved it was to utter a single word. “Pity.”

It was only then that Fly knew for certain the identity of the American captain standing before him; he was not from the second frigate, nor the Yankee brig, but the man who commanded the Serendipity.

Leander, his brow furrowed with impatience, stepped towards Trevelyan. “I must take my leave, sir. There are dozens below in my hospital awaiting my attention.”

Trevelyan swung around, the heels of his boots grinding shards of Captain Moreland’s broken crystal goblets into the floorboards as he did so. He gave Leander a prolonged stare. “Well, then, they will just have to wait. Your services, Dr. Braden, are now required on my ship.”

6:00 p.m.

(First Dog Watch, Four Bells)

THE GUNS HAD STOPPED FIRING two hours ago. Emily had heard the ship’s bell ring out the half-hours, but she knew from the eerie hush on the Isabelle that the outcome had not been in their favour. She’d given up sipping Leander’s rum and re-reading his letter and rocking herself back and forth long ago. There was nothing left to feel now. If he could have, Leander would have returned to her long before, or at least sent Gus Walby or Magpie in his stead. But no one had come, and there had been no voices or footsteps outside the small cabin where she lay sprawled in a daze on the damp floor. She had heard what she guessed were small boats knocking up against the hull, had tried to convince herself they belonged to the Isabelle, but if she was wrong and they did not, how long would it be before … ?

Emily lifted herself unwillingly from the floor, angled her head and listened; still nothing but a rhythmic beating sound against the hull and the occasional muffled voice in the distance. The lantern’s candle was waning, its flickering light projecting her huddled silhouette upon the sweating timbers of the room. Soon she would be left in utter, suffocating darkness. With this realization an image of faceless forbidding figures rose before her, causing her to shudder with such fear that she sprang to her feet and began pacing the cramped perimeter, alternately wringing her hands and pulling at her long hair.

Was there another place to hide, then? In the Isabelle’s hold perhaps? But what if they sank the ship? What if Leander finally did come looking for her and she wasn’t there? Could she disguise herself with some of his clothes and wend her way above deck, there to run up the shrouds or blend in with the men and endure whatever punishments the Americans inflicted upon their lot? With whitened knuckles, Emily tore Leander’s frock coat and felt hat from the hanging pegs, pulled on the coat, fumbled with its two buttons, and shoved her hair up into the hat; all the while she was sadly aware of their evocative smell.

Then she froze.

There was a knock at the door. She spun round and stared at it in horror before calling out in a low voice, “Leander?”

“Aye,” came a whispered voice, “it is me.”

A warm wave of relief passed over her as she swiftly unlocked the door and threw it open. She blinked into the blackness, unable to see a thing besides the dying light in Leander’s cabin. A thick hand caught her around the wrist and jerked her forward with such roughness that her hat rolled off and she dropped her letter. Something cracked. She cried out as her arms were wrenched behind her and her hands tied tightly together with rope. The sound of her pounding heart was painfully amplified in her ears, as were the grunts of satisfaction muttered by whomever it was binding her wrists. There were others standing nearby – she could tell from the pervading stale air and shuffling steps on the wooden deck. As Emily fought to gather her wits, a light appeared from the spirits room and with it the bulky shape of Mrs. Kettle. She grinned at Emily and broke into a gale of laughter, and when she was done, dabbed at her eyes. “I knew ya was hidin’ in thee great doctor’s cabin all thee while.”

Emily gazed at the laundress with cold resentment.

“Ya see, prisoners ain’t left on the gun deck durin’ battle. They be tossed down here on thee orlop. It was him what saw Dr. Braden leadin’ ya here.” Mrs. Kettle cocked her head behind her, and Octavius Lindsay – no longer fettered in irons – stepped into the light of her lantern.

6:30 p.m.

Out at Sea

AS HE ROWED FARTHER and farther away from the Isabelle, Magpie forced himself to keep his eyes glued to the little whirlpools created by his oars. He liked the way they gathered energy and took on a life of their own: swirling the sea-greens and blues together, then spinning away from his cutter, like miniature ships without sails. He could not bring himself to look at the three ships hovering in a semi-circle to the south of the Isabelle, nor could he look at the Isabelle herself, having already witnessed too much. The Yankee colours now flew in exultation above the British ones on the Isabelle’s broken masts, strangers in strange uniforms swarmed her decks, and gaping holes in her hull reminded him of hideous mouths opened in agony. It was a miracle she was still afloat.

Magpie blinked at the June sun just beginning to climb down from her lookout in the sky and tried to take pleasure in the white gulls that squealed and frolicked high above his head. It had been easy enough leaving the Isabelle. All of her small boats had been lowered into the sea long before the battle began, to be towed astern as a precaution against their being blown to bits and becoming a hail of deadly splinters that would slice through the fighting crew. With all the confusion on the quarterdeck, no one had seen him scramble over the taffrail and shinny down the towrope that led to the skiff, the smallest of the three cutters – an easy task for someone who had once been a London climbing boy. Biscuit had seen him, though, not long after he had happily been relieved from the hospital. It was Biscuit who had hastily thrown together for him a small duffle bag that contained a blanket, bandages, a wineskin of water, and a day’s supply of sea biscuits, and had then released the towrope after Magpie was safely seated in the cutter and had picked up the oars.

“If thee Yankees don’t capture ya and toss ya in thee supper stew, ya might wanna stay out there. Ya may be safer in thee sea than here on thee Isabelle,” Biscuit had said while giving him a lift over the taffrail. “Keep yer bandages dry if ya can; ya don’t want no infection settin’ in. And whatever ya does, don’t eat them biscuits all at once.” As Magpie had started down the rope, Biscuit saluted him.

Handling the oars was not an easy task for Magpie. The cutter normally required four men to do the rowing, and his arms and back ached as they never had before, his hands were bleeding, his legs felt numb, and there was a bad pain in his head. As he set down the heavy oars to rest, he wished Biscuit had come along to share the work.

Taking up the spyglass, he looked north again. The dark smudge on the horizon – the one he’d noticed when he had first set off – was definitely larger than before. Did he dare hope? Sighing, he picked up the oars. If the Yankees didn’t notice his boat out on the waves, if the winds and the sea stayed calm, and if his body held out, he would soon be there.

6:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

Aboard HMS Isabelle

MORGAN EVANS WEARILY CLIMBED the ladder from the hospital onto the fo’c’sle deck, squinted into the golden evening light, and drew a long breath of sea air. He had waited a long time for Dr. Braden to come back after being summoned to Captain Moreland’s cabin, and while waiting, Morgan had occupied himself helping Osmund Brockley with the injured. But Dr. Braden never returned and there was little he could do for those who required an amputation or a bullet extraction. Morgan forced from his mind disturbing pictures, especially that of Bailey Beck’s old eyes as he breathed his last.

The smoke of war had passed away now and the sun sparkled on the calm waters of the Atlantic as if mocking the fact that a violent event had just taken place. The weather decks and yardarms hummed with the activities commonly seen following an enemy encounter. Morgan could see Bun Brodie climbing the mainmast rigging with a roll of sail slung over his shoulder, while dozens of sailors were already aloft stripping the torn sails from their yards. A crew of men was hoisting the small boats from the sea to swing once again on their davits until they were next needed. The guns were being cleaned and stored, and everywhere repairs were underway. Along the larboard rail, Maggot and Weevil were sewing the dead into their hammock coffins, and weaving throughout their dismal part of the ship was Biscuit, carrying a tray and muttering oaths in between the times when he stopped to offer a mug of coffee to one of the American officers. Standing on the quarterdeck was a sober-looking Fly Austen, giving his men their orders, though not in his usual robust voice. If it hadn’t been for the pervasive horde of shouting American officers and marines, their hands poised on their muskets and swords, and the strange, muted quality that lingered amongst the men, Morgan could have believed all was right with the Isabelle. Unable to look upon the long line of bodies laid out on the larboard gangway, he inched his way instead along the crowded starboard rail towards the quarterdeck, where he overheard Midshipman Stewart reporting to Mr. Austen.

“Sir, all the boats are up; however, it appears the skiff is unaccounted for.”

Fly replied with a sideways glance. “Perhaps a casualty of war, Mr. Stewart.”

Fly’s glance then shifted and fell on Morgan. There were lines on the commander’s face Morgan had never noticed before, and in his right hand he carried a book that Morgan supposed was a bible.

“There you are, Mr. Evans! Collect your hammer and nails if you please. We’ve been instructed to patch up the ship and ready ourselves for sailing as soon as possible.” His tone was sarcastic.

“Where are we sailing to, sir?”

“To Hell’s harbour.”

Morgan looked past Fly at the flag of stars and stripes that fluttered from the Isabelle’s stern and understood. “Aye, sir.” As an afterthought he added, “Captain Austen.”

As there was no pleasure to be taken in the tribute, Fly looked away and, assuming exuberance, pointed aft of the Isabelle’s waist. “Perhaps, Mr. Evans, before you dash off, you might wish to witness the spectacle that is about to unfold on our fine decks.”

Morgan turned his head in time to see Meg Kettle tramping up the ladder from the upper deck in the company of two American marines. She had a wide grin planted on her face as she swayed down the deck in a relaxed manner, swinging a bag of what Morgan figured must be her possessions, and chattering merrily away to her escorts even though they said nothing in return. As she passed by certain men she recognized, she winked or bobbed her head or, in some cases, blew them a kiss.

“Why, sir, would they want the likes of her?”

“Why? To do their laundry, of course, Mr. Evans,” Fly replied dryly.

Following on the heels of Mrs. Kettle was Octavius Lindsay. He walked freely behind her, his dark eyes troubled by the sun’s strong glare, but he held his unshaven face high and the arrogant sneer of old was once again visible on his pale features. While the marines set about putting Mrs. Kettle and Mr. Lindsay into the small boats for transportation to the American frigates, there arose from amongst the onlookers a groan that sounded like the cries of a pod of wounded whales. Morgan craned his neck to view the object of their outpouring, but at first could only see the jackets of four marines. When he saw Emily – her eyes ablaze with fear – despair tugged on his heart. Unlike Meg Kettle and Mr. Lindsay, her hands were tied behind her back and she was being pushed along the deck with the point of a musket’s bayonet, often faltering and having to endure the guffaws of the enemy.

In agitation, Morgan again addressed Fly. “Is there nothing we can do, sir?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Evans.”

Morgan couldn’t stand to watch any longer. He turned away sadly and fled below deck.

7:00 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Two Bells)

“PICK IT UP. MOVE ALONG,” came the gruff command. It was followed by a sharp jab between Emily’s shoulder blades, hitting dangerously close to her healing bullet wound, and she cried out in pain. When the wave of agony had subsided, her swollen red eyes looked towards the Isabelle’s men. They had all paused in their chores to watch her as they had done that first night she came on board; only then, she had been carried, safe in the arms of Morgan Evans, and the expressions on the men’s faces had been curious and kind. Now she could only read guilt and compassion in them. She lifted her chin in defiance, avoiding glances at the destruction around her, at the dead sailors arranged in their hammocks at her feet, and at the figure of Trevelyan himself, lurking by the break in the larboard rail where, in a few moments, she would be lowered into a waiting boat and rowed away from the Isabelle forever. A solid line of armed, blue-jacketed marines kept the sailors back. Emily searched the faces that peeked out between arms and bayonets and the heads that bowed as she passed, hoping to catch a glimpse of those known to her.

Before long, she was standing, weak-kneed, near the Isabelle’s open rail-edge, peering across at the anchored brig and frigates, feeling Trevelyan’s eyes boring into her back like the jabs of the Yankee bayonets.

“Emily!”

She swung her head in the direction of the cry, and found Morgan Evans, his face overspread with a deep red, looking at her with his hopeful eyes. He tried to draw closer, but was thrust back by two marines. He then shot his arm through a barrier of crossed muskets and with a bob of his head urged her to take the gift he held out in his hand. She gazed down at the black leather sailor’s shoes with the shiny silver buckles, and her eyes blurred with tears. She twisted her head to the marine at her back. “Please take them for me.” With a look and cluck of disgust, the marine snatched the shoes from Morgan’s hand and stuffed them into the pocket of her borrowed coat as if they were soiled handkerchiefs. When Emily again looked up at Morgan, he gave her a naval salute and with an audible catch in his throat said, “Mr. George, sir.” All too soon his face was lost in the jostling throng.

“Prepare the chair,” shouted Trevelyan, referring to the contraption on a pulley that would be used to lower Emily to the boats.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you just tossed me overboard?” she asked, keeping her eyes fixed on the American ships. “Or perhaps you – you could ask Mr. Clive to shoot me again?”

She heard Trevelyan click his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Madam, our Mr. Clive is neither a reliable nor steady marksman. I would not think to trouble him.”

She moved away from him to watch in anguish as the chair was manoeuvred into place for her, acutely aware that an escape was impossible. In time, a gentle pressure on her shoulder roused her from her miserable reverie. It was Fly who stood next to her now, his face tired and troubled, holding out his sister’s well-thumbed volumes of Sense and Sensibility.

“Perhaps it is worth a second reading,” he said quietly.

“Most certainly it is,” she replied, giving him an encouraging smile as he slipped the slim books into the empty pocket of her coat. Despite Trevelyan’s nearness, she leaned in closer to Fly.

“Mr. Austen, you have been most kind to me. For that I will always be grateful.” She fixed her eyes as steadily as she could on his. “Is the doctor – well?”

A softening of Fly’s features told her he was.

Her voice quivered. “Could I then impose on you once more to deliver a message to him for me?”

Fly bent his head to hers. “You may be in a better position to deliver that message yourself, Emily,” he whispered.

Her eyes narrowed in question, and she was about to ask, Whatever do you mean? when her arm was seized from behind and she was shoved towards the waiting chair.

“For God’s sake!” Fly shouted at Trevelyan in restrained exasperation.“Could you not at least untie her hands?”

As Emily was roughly hustled into the chair and another rope secured around her waist, Trevelyan gave his snide reply. “Mr. Austen, you should know that a good captain never gives those he cannot trust a second chance, even if that person is one’s intended wife.”

Emily stiffened. His words invaded her brain like a malignant infection. There was an awful moment of silence that preceded Trevelyan’s command for the chair to be lowered. As it lurched and dropped, Emily trembled and felt herself growing ice-cold. She saw nothing, heard nothing, and could only think that this is what it must feel like to be lowered into one’s grave. By the time her chair reached the waiting boat, hands scrambled to unfasten the rope at her waist, and smirking officers and sailors openly scrutinized her, but she was hardly conscious of them. She sat on the front few inches of the aft bench of Trevelyan’s barge, her hands still tied behind her, her back to the Isabelle’s great hull, and closed her eyes, refusing to look ahead at the three ships that would take her who knows where, unable to contemplate what was to become of her. Soon she felt the boat rock and knew that Trevelyan was positioning himself on the bench opposite her.

“Away, then,” he yelled. The oars fell into the water with a jarring splash and the barge rolled away from the Isabelle. Within seconds of their departure, a voice called out urgently to Captain Trevelyan from the Isabelle’s decks.

“Sir, the Serendipity has signalled to us of a sighting: two ships, perhaps ten or so miles to the north of us.”

“And their nationality?”

“It is uncertain at this time, sir. Do you still wish to take the Isabelle a prize?”

For the first time since being paraded from her ship, Emily looked directly at Trevelyan, only to find him drawing his fingers back and forth across his chin, and staring at her with those strange eyes of his. She stared back, determined – though it sickened her – to hold his hostile gaze.

His immediate reply was loud enough for all to hear. “No! Raid her hold, take what able-bodied men you want and then – since I have achieved what I came here for – you can burn her.”

Emily’s stomach churned with horror. Her heart was so full that she could not speak. But Trevelyan, as if he had all the time in a world that was at peace, not war, leaned forward and stroked her hair as he would his pet dog.

“Perhaps, madam, once you are settled on the Serendipity, we can order you a bath.”

7:00 p.m.

Adrift in the Atlantic Ocean

WHEN THE SMALL CUTTER finally pulled alongside the fallen mizzenmast, Magpie let out an agonized wail. Gus was sprawled across the timber debris and its torn topsail like a discarded doll, his legs submerged in the sea, his back twisted, and his arms – swollen and blackened with bruises – hooked around the mast-stump. Only his face had escaped the ravages of his calamitous fall – angelic still and gently caressed by the watery fingers of the Atlantic.

“Mr. Walby?”

When there came no reply, an undaunted Magpie shoved the spyglass down the neck of his shirt, grabbed the length of rope lying beside him on the bench, leaned over the gunwale, and fastened a portion of the mast’s rigging as securely as he could to a metal hook on the bow of his boat. Then he climbed out of the skiff onto the mizzenmast wreckage, locked his legs around the stump, and inched his way along it until he arrived at Gus’s head. Wondering how best to rouse him, Magpie gingerly tousled his damp hair and said, “Sir! I’m rescuin’ ya, sir.”

He waited awhile, but there was no response to his voice or his touch. There was nothing but a still form lying beside him.

Magpie started shaking uncontrollably. A crushing pressure squeezed his ribs, as if he’d been jammed between two cannons, and he couldn’t breathe. His soot-stained fingers sought out his crumpling face as he lowered his head to his knees. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t row fast enough.”

He stayed huddled over Gus on the fallen mizzenmast, listening to the quiet lap of the sea as it nudged their little floating island farther still from the Isabelle. So great were his feelings of desolation, he no longer cared where the low waves carried him. He thought of playing his flute, but it was still in the skiff, rolling about on the ribbed bottom, and he did not possess the strength to retrieve it. Instead, he stretched his body along the mast, and made the decision to die next to his friend.

It was a loud cry that awoke Magpie with a start. Raising his head in sleepy confusion, he gazed about in gloomy recollection. The Isabelle!

Blue-black smoke slithered up and around her standing masts and spewed from the gaping wounds in her hull. Magpie pulled the spyglass from his sodden shirt and tried to steady his hands long enough to see through its magnifiers. Instantly he understood the significance of the sailors’ scramble to lower the cutters from their davits, the urgency with which they descended the yards and the tops, and the chaos that abounded above deck. Before long, the men, with no option but to take their chances in the sea, would be throwing themselves off the rails.

With a rallying shot of adrenalin, Magpie bolted upright. “Mr. Walby,” he said, “we gotta go back. I ain’t gonna leave ya here alone.”

Slowly, reverentially, he began to unwrap Gus’s bruised arms from their embrace of the mast, and had successfully freed one when he heard an odd sound. He tensed, wondering if it had come from the debris knocking about in the water, or a sea creature, or was simply a product of his imagination. His eyes darted about, fully expecting to light upon a nearby school of dolphins. As he began working on Gus’s other arm, he heard it again: a human-sounding yelp of pain. This time there was no mistaking its source.

“Yer alive, sir!” he shrieked.

Gus’s eyes flickered, then opened. “I’m cold.”

“Oh, Mr. Walby …” Magpie’s voice broke. He tugged at his arms again.

“No! Leave me. I’m broken – most everywhere, I think. Leave me here.”

“I won’t, sir,” shouted Magpie. “I’ve brung a blanket and some water.” With his chest bursting now with happiness, he chattered on, his words tripping over one another, informing Gus of how he would make him better by feeding him freshly baked biscuits and fixing up his broken bones “just like I seen Dr. Braden do it” and how he would carefully haul him into the cutter where he could get dry.

“And then I’ll play ‘Heart of Oak’ on me flute!” Magpie broke into sudden, shrill song. “Come cheer up my Lads, ’tis to glory we steer …”

Gus closed his eyes again. “Save yourself and go back.”

Magpie, his back to the dying ship, knew there was no sense in telling Gus of the terror on the Isabelle. “I won’t, sir.” He glanced to the north again and his heart quickened, for he was now certain that it was two sails he could see on the skyline. “But if ya can see fit to look through the glass with yer good eyes and all, ya might tell us what ya see.” He waited anxiously for the waves to swing the mizzenmast in a north-facing direction, and then held the glass before Gus’s right eye. “There now, Mr. Walby, give us a squint.”

Gus stared at the horizon for what seemed to Magpie an eternity.

“What d’ya see, sir?”

Finally, Gus raised his head a bit and began to laugh – his laughter weak at first, then an outpouring of explosive sobs. “I’m certain of it, Magpie! Two ships – one of them – why, I know her colours!” he gasped, tears streaming down his whitened cheeks. “It’s our good friend, the Amethyst!”