Come Looking For Me (29 page)

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.

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.”

“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.