Come Looking For Me (22 page)

“Here we inadvertently played a nasty trick on you and still you reward us with a fine supper!” Captain Prickett laughed, his three chins and protruding stomach jiggling as he helped himself to another juicy slab of beef.

“Aye!” said Fly. “It was a battle in itself trying to convince our cantankerous cook to fire up his stove after he'd been ordered, not long before, to douse its flames as we prepared to engage, but a fine supper indeed.” He raised his wine glass to Biscuit, who stood behind Captain Moreland's chair, thrilled to be centred out in such distinguished company.

The old cook bowed low before the table. “Me pleasure, gentlemen, me pleasure.”

Lord Bridlington clasped his girlish hands together. “We thought it best to fly the American colours until we knew for certain just who
you
were. It's been quite frightening sailing about in enemy waters.”

“I am guessing you never made it to Halifax?” said James.

Captain Prickett swallowed a chunk of meat. “No, Mr. Moreland, we never did. We were maybe one hundred miles north of Bermuda when we were shot upon early one morning, in the darkness before dawn. We haven't a clue who it was that attacked us in this most cowardly fashion, but their aim was clean and they caught us completely unawares. We scrambled to fire up our guns, but strangely, whoever it was didn't stick around to finish us off.”

“They crippled us for a time, they did, bringing down the tops of our main and mizzenmasts,” added Lord Bridlington, speaking to the ceiling as was his way.

“When last we met,” said James, “you were escorting three East India merchant vessels. What of them? Were they shot upon as well?”

“No! It was the
Amethyst
that sustained all the damage.” Captain Prickett spoke with such vehemence that he spewed bits of beef directly into Leander's potatoes. “But their captains – a fearless lot if you ask me – had no interest in hanging about while we were refitting. They had their orders and their schedules to keep, so we wished them well and sent them on their way.”

“Bloody disrespectful it was,” said Lord Bridlington, “and here we'd protected them from being fired upon all the way from Portsmouth.”

“We hobbled back as far as Norfolk's Gosport Yard,” Captain Prickett continued. “There we had the good fortune to find our British friends set up in blockade there. They've locked several Yankee ships into their Chesapeake harbours.”

“Ah! Perhaps that explains why we hadn't seen any large sails before yours,” said Fly.

Lord Bridlington tapped his long, crooked nose. “There we were, near Gosport Yard, amongst our own and therefore able to safely repair our fallen masts. And there it was we met a friendly fisherman who passed the word you'd done battle with the
Liberty
and were refitting off the Carolina islands. Once the
Amethyst
was patched up, we were ordered to seek you out and, if possible, offer you aid.”

“We are truly grateful,” James said warmly.

With that, the men switched their attention to Biscuit's banquet of beef and roast potatoes – with the exception of Gus Walby, who was far too excited to eat a mouthful, and who, throughout the conversation, had sat quite still, his hands folded in his lap, his blond head bobbing from officer to officer as they delivered their enthralling words. As they supped, the ensuing discussion covered a variety of topics from the health of King George III (he was as mad as ever), to the invigorating news of the recent victory HMS
Shannon
had achieved over the USS
Chesapeake
on June 1st beyond the capes of Boston Harbour (a glimmer of hope and pride after a bitter succession of naval defeats), and finally, to the science of war wounds. The men were most interested in drawing out Leander, whose mind was evidently hovering elsewhere, for he had not yet contributed a word to their spirited chatter. But as the doctor was in no frame of mind to discuss dissection and amputation and trepanning, the subject was soon spent. The meal came to an end and Biscuit and his Jamaican mates carried in five more bottles of French wine (from a store of several hundred bottles that, according to James, had been taken from the hold of a captured French frigate in '07) for the diners' after-dinner pleasure. The cook uncorked two of them, and poured the contents round – including a “wee taste” for Mr. Walby – before slipping out the door and affording the men some privacy.

James raised his glass. “To our ships at sea.”

“Our ships at sea,” the others repeated, raising their glasses as well, the rich red wine swirling about and reflecting candlelight as it was carried to their lips.

James held up his glass a second time. “To the health of our King George.”

“King George's health.”

“Hear, hear.”

All fell quiet as they enjoyed the bouquet and flavour of the captain's stolen wine.

“Oh, I just remembered something!” said Captain Prickett in a spray of words and spit, chewed bits of food this time striking the side of Leander's face, forcing Gus to stifle his rising laughter. “I have some intriguing news from our comrades blockading Gosport Harbour!”

James looked up quickly from his untouched meal.

“You'll remember, Captain Moreland, that at our last meeting in Bermuda, I told you the story of Captain William Uptergrove of the
Expedition
– an old friend of yours, as I recall – coming upon the debris of a burned merchant vessel some fifty miles southeast of Halifax?”

James, who had been rapidly wearying and was ready for his bed, hiked himself higher in his chair. “Aye, I do. Have you more information?” Seeing James's sudden interest, Leander swivelled in his chair, hoping for a better view of the
Amethyst's
captain, and some advance warning of more flying fragments of food.

“Well, as we heard it, the doomed vessel was known as the
Amelia.
And apparently, it was a Yankee frigate called the
Serendipity
that destroyed her.”

“My God!” cried James. Fly's dark eyes brightened as he too leaned in closer.

“The captain's name was Thomas Trevelyan.”

James mopped his brow. He and Fly exchanged a significant glance, which did not escape Leander's notice.

“Now you'll remember me telling you that Uptergrove reported there being only three survivors from the
Amelia
before she was robbed and burned. It turns out there were many more. Uptergrove himself picked up an elderly woman, a little child, and an unconscious young man, all of whom were found clinging precariously to a bit of debris in the water, and sailed them back to England.”

“And the others?” asked Fly and James together.

“Once back in London, the old woman had sufficiently collected her wits to carry herself – without delay – to the Board Room of the Admiralty in Whitehall where she insisted upon telling her tale directly to the Duke of Clarence. She subsequently informed Clarence that she'd seen, with her very own eyes, her young mistress, a strapping sailor named Bun Brodie, and several other men forced from the defeated
Amelia
and taken prisoner by Captain Trevelyan himself.”

Mr. Harding turned quickly to address Captain Moreland. “Isn't Bun Brodie the name of the man now tending our sails, sir?”

“It is, Mr. Harding.” James took a moment to courteously explain to an astonished Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington how it was Mr. Brodie came to be on the
Isabelle.
He did not, however, divulge anything about the woman they had on board, and with a warning glance at his men – and another aimed especially at Gus, whose saucer eyes and quivering mouth gave the impression he was about to burst – discouraged them from volunteering this information. When James had finished his explanation, Leander spoke up. “Can you tell me, Captain Prickett, the old woman's young mistress, what of her?”

Captain Prickett, his face flushed with fine food and spirits, looked very pleased with himself. “The Duke of Clarence is offering a handsome reward for her safe return to England, Doctor, as she is the only daughter of his now deceased brother, Henry, once known as the Duke of Wessex. She is called Emeline Louisa.”

There was a moment of silence as everyone digested the intriguing information, Captain Prickett, his eyes round and vivid with anticipation, enjoying each man's reaction in turn.

Mr. Harding, whose mouth had fallen open, exclaimed, “She is the daughter of the Duke of Wessex and the niece of the Duke of Clarence? No wonder our Admiralty agreed to give the old woman a personal audience and take seriously her claim.” He shot a glance at James, who furtively raised a finger to his lips.

“She is therefore a granddaughter of our King George!” added Lord Bridlington.

Gus gasped. “That makes her a princess!”

“She is, young man.” Bridlington giggled. “Although there's so much illegitimacy in our monarch's family, it's not clear whether the Duke of Wessex was actually married to Emeline's mother. Most likely, they enjoyed the same kind of an arrangement as the Duke of Clarence and his Mrs. Jordan. How many illegitimate FitzClarences did they breed together?”

All of the men sniggered at Lord Bridlington's remark, except for Leander, whose handsome face lost its colour as it dawned on him who had been sleeping behind the canvas curtain in his hospital all this time. “Captain Prickett?” he asked in a tight voice, “do you have any idea where this Emeline is now?”

Captain Prickett shrugged. “Still on the
Serendipity,
I'm supposing. Word is getting around briskly that there's a reward for her safe passage home. All of our poor sailors are quite determined to find her, hoping to make up for the pathetic lack of prize money in this ridiculous war.”

“Do you have any understanding why Trevelyan would have taken her prisoner in the first place?” James asked, his faded blue eyes unnaturally bright. “Did he know who she was?”

Captain Prickett shook his head as he refilled his wine glass. “I regret I cannot say, but if he did, he would certainly have congratulated himself for having taken such a superb prisoner of war.” He gulped his wine and held up one of his sausage fingers to the men. “Oh, one more thing, gentlemen. Should it be your good fortune to again come upon the
Serendipity,
be forewarned that the lady in question is travelling under the name of Mrs. Seaton.”

Leander looked as if he had been dealt a physical blow. “She is … married then?”

“It would seem so, Doctor Braden,” said Lord Bridlington, eyes cast upwards. “The wounded man Captain Uptergrove found in the sea and carried back with him to England was a Frederick Seaton, and as he was travelling with Emeline Louisa, I daresay he was her husband.”

At the start of the First Watch, the hospital had emptied, Osmund, the loblolly boys, Mr. Crump, as well as the other dozen or so patients having either rushed or limped off to “drink like fish” while they could. Before leaving her alone (with not even her marine sentry, who in any case neither desired nor had been ordered to keep her company on such a night), Osmund informed her that “Dr. Braden would be carousing in Captain Moreland's cabin until late” and that she'd have complete privacy to “seek amusement in bathing or in the officers' toilet.” But as Emily found these options unappetizing, she was determined to join in the jollity above deck, figuring the men would be too intoxicated to recognize a woman in their social circle.

Emily threw on the white pants and sailor-blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her, tied on her red polka-dotted scarf, rolled her pale hair up into one of Leander's felt hats, slipped on her silk shoes, then slipped them off again, preferring to go barefooted. Tingling from head to toe, she fled the hospital, savouring a freedom she had not tasted since setting off to the orlop a week ago, as excited as if she were en route to a soiree. She hurried through the empty galley as quickly as her sore ankle could manage, past Biscuit's cold black patent stove and the silent guns that sat before their sealed gunports, and headed towards the aft ladderway near the wardroom, preferring to make her entrance on the less-populated quarterdeck.

Not a soul did she meet until the harsh light of a single lantern revealed the outline of the closed wardroom door ahead and up drifted the sound of two familiar voices, speaking in unfamiliar hostility. As noiselessly as possible, she ducked inside the pantry, where on oak shelves were stored the officers' tableware, silverware, and crystal goblets. She dropped to her knees and crawled into a corner hole. With her heart pounding like the sailors' drums overhead, she peeked around a stack of china bowls and saw Fly, looking stiff and uncomfortable in his dress uniform, and Leander, leaning against the wardroom bulkheads, dressed in a short brown frock coat, his white cravat untied and hanging loosely upon its lapels.

“For God's sake, Lee, I did
not
know,” Fly said emphatically to his friend, whose pale face was hauntingly desolate as if he'd received some bad news.

Leander raised his head. “Do you take me for a fool? Do you really expect me to believe that? I caught the knowing looks you shared with James at supper. It was quite evident you both knew more. Earlier, James told me he wished to speak to her again, but I never suspected that new information had come to light, and that you, my old friend, had been privy to it for some time.”