Come Looking For Me (18 page)

“Imagine finding you here, old fellow,” Fly remarked. Noticing the mug in Leander's right hand, he added, “Drinking grog no less. Are you drunk yet?”

Leander gave his friend a half-smile. “No, but I intend to be before long.”

“Let me join you then. Who is filling your mug?”

“Biscuit. He's somewhere in the shadows, no doubt hiding a mug of his own.”

“Biscuit!” Fly called out.

Like a red squirrel peeking out of his tree hole to sniff about for predators, Biscuit's flaming orange head appeared on the ladder between the poop and the quarterdeck. “Aye, Mr. Austen?”

“Come here with your grog can. I insist you fill up Dr. Braden's mug and one for me as well.”

There was a slight sway in Biscuit's stride as he crossed with his tray of refreshments to the back of the deck where the two men sat. His checkered shirt was unbuttoned lower than usual, exposing thick tufts of red chest hair, and in his reddish whiskers were bits of pastry, leftovers from the piece of pie he had just devoured.

“Your breath is foul,” said Fly while the cook poured their drinks.

“Ach, I kin explain, sir. Ya see, I was bakin' some o' me sea biscuits down below and as ya know, they taste well on account o' thee rum I puts in 'em.”

“Ahh!” said Fly. “So then it was one shot in your bowl, one shot in your hole, was that it? And here I understood Captain Moreland was withholding your rum rations for your display in the mess with our lady guest a few days back.”

“He threatened to, Mr. Austen,” said Biscuit, balancing his tray with one hand and scratching his hairy chest with the other, “but luckily for we nefarious perpetrators, he didna follow through with it. Ya see, Morgan almost drowned and Magpie lost his eye, and since I'm thee indispensable cook, Jacko and thee boys did thee holystonin' part o' thee punishment. But not a one o' us lost our grog.”

“You are most fortunate our captain lies low in his cabin. If it were up to me, I'd have you on your knees this instant, swabbing the decks. Now get to your hammock, man,” said Fly, wresting the pitcher of grog from Biscuit's grasp, “for I'll not tolerate a grumpy cook at the breakfast table.”

Detecting a twinkle in Mr. Austen's eyes, Biscuit quipped, “And fer yer kindness, sir, I'll be servin' ya up some marmeelade with yer fresh sea biscuits in thee mornin'.”

Fly stared after Biscuit's comical wavering shape until the night's blackness had swallowed him whole. He then turned back to Leander.

“Did you check in on James this evening?”

“I did. His fever is gone, but he's not recovering as fast as I would have hoped.”

“
Will
he recover?”

“If he could rest for a week without interruption, his health may be restored.”

Fly looked out upon the faint purpling shadow of low-lying land and the glimmer of light coming from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse a few miles south from where the
Isabelle
lay anchored. “Our lives on this ship are as uncertain as that beacon on Hatteras – never knowing from one day to the next when we may be shining or flickering or extinguished altogether.” His dark eyes flashed in the night as he glanced about to seek out any eavesdroppers. “We've been sitting here for five days now, adrift in enemy waters, as helpless as a wounded whale while we patch up our ship to make her seaworthy once more. Our captain is ill and our men tired. Moreover, we have forty-odd prisoners of questionable origins along for the ride, who, despite the fact that we feed them from our pitiable rations and have given a few of them some form of occupation, may rise up against us when next we meet a belligerent Yankee frigate.”

Leander searched the night sky until he had located the moon – a slice of pale orange drifting through silvery clouds – at his back. He set down his mug and sighed. “And you're wondering, in all this, where our enemies are hiding?”

Fly nodded. “My guess is that when we cut the
Liberty
loose during the storm, she ran aground south of us, on these flat Carolina islands, or was dashed upon these shoals, and all hands were lost at sea. I expected someone to come looking for them and … for us.”

“Are you certain of our position?”

“I know of no other lighthouse in this vicinity, although one can hardly call it a lighthouse. Its light is so dim and unreliable, it does little good for those of us on the sea.”

“Then we are not far from Norfolk, Virginia.”

“Correct.”

“Is there not a large base there?”

“There is. We've spotted sloops and schooners, and, strangely enough, that odd privateer with its ostentatious red hull – the one that was anchored beside us in Bermuda – but, so far, no warring frigates.” Fly took a long draught from his mug. “I have an uneasy feeling.”

Leander slouched down on the bench and allowed his head to fall back against the railing. Fly followed suit, past caring for the officer-like behaviour necessary in front of those dark figures who stood dreaming on duty far above him on the gusty yards. As the bell tolled the late hour and the
Isabelle
rose and fell rhythmically, lulling Fly and Leander into a stupor, they grew melancholy, listening to the mysterious mutterings of the velvety sea.

“You know, old fellow, you are as easy to read as one of my sister's stories.”

Leander roused himself. “How's that?”

“I can see a change has come over you.” As Fly's alert eyes bore into his blue ones, Leander felt the dreaded red creeping up his neck. “Why, back in my days on the
Canopus,
our doctor was a veritable cussing idler who left most of his work to his mates and loblolly boys. He never kept any notes on his treatments, and if anyone dared come down with a suspicious fever, he avoided the sick bay altogether.”

“Your point?” asked Leander, avoiding Fly's bright stare.

“You, on the other hand, are always on duty, always at your desk, always in the hospital. When did you last lie about above deck wearing a sun hat to protect your fair, freckled face, reading your beloved Burns and Scott? Or join the officers in the wardroom for a drunken singsong after supper?”

“I am doing that very thing now.”

“No, tell me, when?”

“Between battles and lopping off arms and legs, there's been little time for that kind of leisure.”

Fly craned his neck up into Leander's face. “Mind you, the audacious Dr. Willen of the
Canopus
did not have a woman lying in one of his hospital hammocks, wearing his nightshirt, and depending on him for rehabilitation and amusements. If he had, he might have found reason to spend longer hours there.”

As Leander was at a loss for words, Fly's voice softened. “I see it in your eyes, friend. I hear it in your words, and detect it in your actions and occupations. You are besotted with our gentlewoman.”

Under the controlling powers of grog, Leander could not hide the sheepish grin that took hold of his mouth. “I fear she has awakened emotions in me I never thought I would feel again.”

Fly's features fell. “Ahhh! So there is no hope left for my sister Jane? You would have her remain a spinster in Chawton cottage and leave her with no other company than my other sister, Cassandra, and my poor old mother?”

“Must I humble myself to remind you, Fly, that I am no worthy suitor for any woman?”

“Pshaw! Hogwash!”

“I'm a lowly physician floating in the Atlantic on a wounded ship.”

“It's well known you're a common butcher, but a good one at that.”

Leander paid no attention to Fly's remark and went on sullenly. “I have very little money to my name, and my permanent address is a dark corner on the
Isabelle's
orlop deck.”

“Does your desperation spring from the fact that in your heart you know it's me Emily desires and not you?”

Leander pulled a face and gave Fly an emphatic, “No.”

“And why not? She doesn't know I'm happily married to my Mary, and have a daughter and three sons waiting for me on the Isle of Wight.”

“No, perhaps not, but if your marital status was otherwise, Emily would surely consider Mrs. Kettle the better companion for you.”

“Ha, ha. You can be very humorous when you are half-seas over, old fellow.”

“Old fellow? The last time we checked you were older than me by a good five years, Mr. Austen.”

“Maybe so, but one would never know it the way you're conducting yourself, as mournful and out of sorts as if you already stand knee-high in the grave.”

Leander stared into his empty mug. “I – I know so little of her. She has dropped tantalizing hints here and there, but despite this, I find myself no closer to knowing whether she is actually a wealthy man's daughter, destined to marry one of King George's silly, aging sons, or a beautiful, intelligent dairy maiden who chooses to remain secretive so she would have us all believing she is well-born.”

Leander's words jolted Fly into recollection, as if someone had just struck a match to a candle in his brain. He frowned, trying to remember something Bun Brodie had said in his interview in James's cabin, three long days ago, after the battle with the
Liberty
– something about a woman named Mrs. Seaton who had been travelling with him on board the
Amelia,
bound for Upper Canada in the company of a serving woman and the arrogant Mr. Seaton, and who had suffered the misfortune of falling into the hands of Thomas Trevelyan. Was it possible – ? Could she be – ? Fly considered sharing this information with his friend, but upon studying his distraught countenance, decided against it. It could wait. He smiled and tried to be jovial.

“Would it matter to you where she came from? Shakespeare's Juliet discovered her Romeo was from an opposing house, the son of her father's sworn enemy. It made no difference to her.”

Leander regarded his friend sadly. “I should like it if my life were to turn out somewhat differently than Shakespeare's young lovers.”

“It's been too many years since you loved and were loved. Why, you've forgotten all joy in life. Come, now, you have much to offer.” Fly gave him a good looking-over. “You're young, strong enough – perhaps a bit too thin – occasionally funny, and despite your aged mannerisms and bookishness, you have been labelled as being ‘well formed.'”

“Well formed? By whom?”

“None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”

Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here's to Mrs. Kettle.”

“Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”

“You are truly filthy minded.”

“Aye. That I am.”

Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”

“Mr. Walby?”

“No lights burning down below, sir.”

“Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don't want any enemy frigates learning our position.”

“Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.

“And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck's been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”

“I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”

Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”

“Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.

“Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.

Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the
Isabelle's
waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook's assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”

“Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.

Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”

Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.

Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.

“Mornin', Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya'll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it'll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”

“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I'll eat later.”

Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed
some
abilities in the hospital.

“We're busting to know, Miss, why ya've asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.

Emily's eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”

“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another's business on the
Isabelle.”

“Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan't be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She'd last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.

“My clothes! They're gone.”

“Aye, Miss, but ya see it's Monday – Mrs. Kettle's laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”

“Why, I didn't even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week's washing.”

“Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the
Liberty,”
Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.

Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.

“I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden's nightshirt on.”

Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it's a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn't do fer ya to catch a cold.”

“My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”

Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I'd find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily's cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.

“And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.

“With the captain.”

“Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”

“The doctor's not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All's I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we'll be attacked again whilst the captain's ailing. Mr. Austen's ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the
Isabelle
sitting idle in these fogs.”

Emily began pulling her blue jacket on over Leander's nightshirt and tried to ignore the anxious feeling that sent her heart beating out of control and twisted her stomach into reef knots. “Will we be able to sail again soon?”

“I hear there're more repairs to be made, Miss, and then we'll have to wait fer the right winds to carry us away.”

“Surely no one would fire upon us when we do not pose a threat?”

“We'll know soon enough now, won't we, Miss?”

“Please tell Magpie I'll meet him in a few minutes,” she said, her voice cracking.

“Right, Miss, but if it's secrets ya have to tell the lad, speak 'em quietly.”

“Why is that, Mr. Brockley?”

“'Cause we'll all be listening in.”

Emily and Magpie sat upon two overturned buckets in the galley, as far away as was possible from Biscuit, who, in the company of Maggot and Weevil, was preparing the officers' hot morning rations in true Biscuit style – with plenty of confusion and bad language. Dominating the room was Biscuit's pride and joy, his Brodie's Patent galley stove, a huge black hulk of a thing that hissed and shrieked like a monster and was capable of roasting, boiling, and baking simultaneously. Biscuit cheerfully buzzed around it, toasting bread, flipping eggs, stirring oatmeal, and barking at his mates to “clear me way, lads, excellent cookin' in progress.”

Standing in the entranceway between the galley and the hospital stood the ever-present marine sentry. He kept watch over Emily and Magpie, glaring at those who dared to pause a moment in their chores to show interest in their quiet conversation. Emily sat with her back turned to them all and focused her attention on the little sail maker. He sat stoically before her, the right side of his face frighteningly bandaged and bruised. Leander had worried about infection setting into his wound, but surely enough time had passed and he was safely beyond that point. Neatly folded upon Magpie's lap was his special pond-green blanket, and he told her he wasn't afraid to carry it with him as none of the men had once teased him about it.

“Of course they wouldn't tease you,” Emily said kindly.

Magpie's cheeks glowed pink. “The Duke o' Clarence's wife gave it to me. Mrs. Jordan was her name. And she said to me, ‘This is to keep you safe and warm at sea.' I – I sleep better when I 'ave it with me.” He peeked up into Emily's face. “Dr. Braden says in a week or so he'll take away the bandages and be fittin' me up with an eye patch. Will I scare ya? Will ya be lookin' at me and thinkin' of Thomas Trevelyan?”

“Thomas Trevelyan?”

“He's a pirate, ain't he?”

“The worst kind! But how is it you know of Trevelyan?”

“He's the captain of the
Serendipity,
that first ship we done battle with, ain't he? The ship ya was on. Ya told Captain Moreland it was Trevelyan.”

“I suppose I must have done.” Emily tried to remember back to her first interview with James Moreland and Fly Austen. Evidently, there were big ears listening beyond the curtain that day. “And was I also overheard saying that Trevelyan was a pirate?”

“No, but why else would ya've jumped his ship and risked drownin' yerself in the sea?”

Emily reflected on that one a moment. “When I look upon you, Magpie, I will be reminded, not of Trevelyan, but of the most courageous of men.”

The young lad beamed at her for a brief second before his smile faded. Emily could see his eye examining the bruises on her face. “You're so kind to me, ma'am, and I … I don't deserve it. I don't deserve it at all.”

Emily reached for one of his hands, so small and brown the little soot-stained fingers, and squeezed it gently. Liking the feel of his hand in her warm one, Magpie left it there as long as he could, until Biscuit's wandering eye fell on the two of them and he pulled it away to deal with a few tears that had somehow dropped to his cheek.

“A few days ago,” he said quickly, “Morgan told me that the new sail maker – what's replaced me – is a big man named Bun Brodie and he was sailin' on the
Liberty.
Mr. Brodie was tellin' the men one suppertime there was only one lady that he knew of travellin' on the
Serendipity
and her name was Mrs. Seaton.”

Emily struggled to disguise her dismay. “And what did this Mr. Brodie say happened to this Mrs. Seaton?”

“He never knew. He don't know what happened to her, but …” Magpie looked timid and hesitated to say more.

“Go on.”

“The men think – maybe yer Mrs. Seaton.”

Emily didn't reply. She raised her pretty head and a distant look crept into her brown eyes as she sat there, stiff and erect, on the overturned bucket. She stayed silent such a long while that Magpie worried his remarks had been impertinent.

“Magpie,” she said in a whisper, “the day you asked for your blanket, I found something in your chest.”

Magpie grew excited and began squirming about on his bucket like a young kitten. “Ya found me miniature, then, didn't ya?”

“I did!”

“It's you, ain't it?”

Emily nodded slowly.

“I knew it was ya the day Morgan pulled ya in. I just knew ya was the lady in me picture, that first time I seen ya smile. Ya looked just like her, even with yer hair all wet. And ya was wearin' the very same blue velvet clothes! I just knew I was lookin' at a princess.”

Emily placed a finger to her lips, grateful for the great racket Biscuit and his mates were making behind her. “I may be a princess, but I am not a very important one. I'm not heir to the English throne or anything.” There was a twinkle in her eye.

“Imagine me, Magpie, sail maker on the
Isabelle,
knowin' a princess, even if she ain't important. Why, you should be livin' in the captain's cabin, drinkin' tea from his fine china, and havin' Biscuit cook ya up ten-course suppers on silver plate.”

Emily laughed. “Hush, now! That is exactly what I do
not
want.” Leaning in closer to the lad, she dropped her voice. “The day we were left alone above deck … why didn't you tell me of your suspicions then?”

“Oh, I was wantin' to, somethin' fierce, but I was too scared of ya, and I was bein' respectful, ya bein' royalty and all, and 'cause I was wondrin' to meself what ya was doin' jumpin' out o' ships. I was thinkin' maybe ya was runnin' away and didn't wanna be found out. I – I did ask ya then, ma'am, if ya knew the Duke o' Clarence, and right off ya said no.”

“I am sorry for that. I had my reasons for giving you that reply. The truth is, Magpie, I do know your Duke and Mrs. Jordan very well indeed, although to me they are Uncle Clarence and Aunt Dora. Three years ago, when my father died, I lived with them for a short while. Uncle Clarence has always treated me like one of his own daughters.”

Magpie puffed up his small chest, so proud he was, as if they were speaking of his own parents. “And the duke, he's the admiral of the fleet! I didn't even know 'til yesterday. Heard the men talkin' about that too. Did ya know he was the admiral, ma'am?”

She nodded again. “He was given the appointment in December of 1811, if I remember correctly, by his brother, the prince regent.”

Magpie's little face suddenly clouded. “Won't yer Uncle Clarence be worryin' about ya, gettin' shot at and attacked in sail rooms and all, ma'am?”

Emily's eyes glazed over. “He knows nothing of my getting shot at and attacked in sail rooms, but I am certain … he is quite frantic to know of my whereabouts.” She blinked and returned her attention to Magpie. “So tell me, was it my uncle who gave you the miniature?”

Magpie bobbed his curly head. “The day I was cleanin' their chimney, I was admirin' it and says out loud, ‘That's the loveliest lady I've ever set me eyes on.' The Duke told me ya was his niece. And Mrs. Jordan kindly gives it to me along with the sea chest and me blanket here. Ya won't be takin' it back from me, will ya?”

“No, it is yours to keep.” Emily grew sombre. “Magpie … I must know … have you shown that miniature to anyone, told anyone of your suspicions?”

Magpie sat up straighter and crossed his heart. “Not a one,” he whispered. “Not a one, I swear, ma'am. There ain't no one on this ship that knows yer real name. Why, they're all wondrin' if yer Mrs. Seaton, but I know the truth. I know yer really Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, daughter of Henry, Duke o' Wessex, as was.”

Emily peeked over her shoulder to scope out the whereabouts of the cooks. “Please promise me this will be our little secret. Say nothing of Mrs. Seaton and the name Emeline Louisa …”

“Georgina Marie,” Magpie finished off triumphantly.

Biscuit approached, his odd eye rolling about as if trying to fix itself upon them, and said, “Pardon me, lass, but thee men, they'll be piped into their breakfast soon and it might not be fittin' they see ya sittin' here.”

“I'll be crawling back to my hole momentarily, Biscuit,” Emily said tersely, hoping her reply would get rid of him. She waited until he had crept back to his cauldron of porridge. “The miniature, Magpie … I will get it back to you the minute I – ” Her words died on her lips as a sudden realization struck with the force and speed of a cat-of-nine-tails whip.

Good God! Her clothes!

She sprang from her low bucket, her hands fumbling anxiously in the pockets of her white trousers, a fearful look in her eyes. Into the galley came a flood of duty cooks with their ration buckets to begin cooking breakfast for their messmates. Every last one of them gave Emily a long looking over, but in her frenzied state she took no notice.

“Well now, Magpie,” whistled one who had to drag his foot behind him, “ye have done well fer yerself!”

“Our young sail maker has risen in the world!”

“Ha, ha, ho, ho.”

“Shove off,” said the marine sentry.