Come Looking For Me (27 page)

“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.

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.