Come Looking For Me (24 page)

“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.”

“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.
”

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?”

“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.