Come Looking For Me (31 page)

The air already felt cooler. Soon it would be dark. Magpie didn't like to think of it. There were such strange sounds heard at night. Throughout the past two, he had slept uneasily next to Gus, under a tent of canvas he'd fashioned from the boat's stowed sail, fancying he heard shouting voices and the creaking timbers of ships passing by. Again and again he had bolted upright, his heart pounding with anticipation, hoping to see the
Isabelle
and his buddies hailing him with their swinging lanterns as they stood lined along the rail. It was never the
Isabelle.
It was never anything at all. Worst were the sounds – real or imagined – that he could not identify: cries and groans, murmurs and gurgles that caused his shaking body to break out into gooseflesh. Frightening, fanciful images had whirled about in his head like a waterspout. But as the sky had been without stars or light of any kind, the black-cloaked night had refused to share her eerie secrets.

“Is there anything left to eat?” Gus whispered from under his blanket.

“Oh, I'm sure of it,” Magpie said cheerfully, reaching for his duffle bag and rummaging about inside. “I'll find us some biscuit.”

Yesterday they had been lucky. Gus had suddenly remembered the breakfast Dr. Braden had brought to him on the mizzenmast platform the morning of the
Isabelle's
last day. Luckily he'd never gotten around to eating it and it was still there in his pocket. Seawater had annihilated the two biscuits, but the fat square of cheese was still edible.

Magpie felt Gus's hopeful gaze on him as he pretended to search for food. Wrapped in a blanket under the canvas tent, Gus had both arms dressed in crude splints that Magpie had created using strips of cloth from his own linen shirt and the ribs of a crushed barrel he had located wedged under the skiff's aft bench. Being certain that Gus also had a broken right leg, he had applied a longer splint to it, with the aid of a boarding pike found fastened to the innards of the boat's larboard side.

“How many days has it been?” Gus asked, the light having left his eyes when Magpie's search proved fruitless.

Old Bailey Beck had once told Magpie about stranded sailors who carved X's on the tree trunks of their uninhabited islands to keep track of time. He well knew how many days it had been, but he'd scratched time markers anyway on one of the skiff's planks just in case.

“Four.”

Gus tried lifting his head. “And can you see land?”

“Please don't try gittin' up, Mr. Walby. Ya'll heal quicker if ya stay put.”

“Are there any boats to be seen, then?”

Magpie peered into the gathering gloom on the horizons. Yesterday he thought he'd seen thousands of sails in the whitecaps on the rough sea. Now all was calm and flat and the distances were frighteningly empty. His hesitation in replying was answer enough for Gus. When he spoke again there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

“Can we raise a sail, then, Magpie?”

“There's no mast to be had, Mr. Walby. I kin only row, but I ain't very strong.”

“Which way are the winds blowing?”

“From the north.”

“And the currents – which way do they flow?”

“Can't rightly tell, Mr. Walby, on account of me bein' a sail maker, not a sailin' master. Mr. Harding, though, could tell us, if he were here.”

“But he's
not
here!” Gus turned his head away. “I don't know – I don't know if I can hang on much longer.”

“Oh, but ya gotta, Mr. Walby. Ya just gotta hang on.”

Gus stared blankly at the canvas walls of his shelter; his voice was hollow. “Was it all just a dream then, Magpie? The two ships I saw through the glass? What – what of them? You never said.”

Magpie's weary mind raced.
What could he answer?
He had lost sight of the
Amethyst
and her sister ship the night the
Isabelle
had been burned. He laughed nervously. “Oh, no, sir. They be on their way fer us still, I'm sure. Tell ya what, if ya just sleep now I'll … why, I'll try catchin' us a fish fer supper.”

There was a disquieting cast in Gus's watery eyes as he fixed them on Magpie, but he nodded and soon drifted off. The moment Magpie heard his even breathing, he seized the spyglass that lay against his bare left foot and stared through it, long and hard, trying to will a ship to come into view. There was no sight of land or sail, marine life or bird, anywhere, but he kept on staring through the glass anyway, until the sky's colours had completely faded and a rolling fog appeared, creeping silently over the water like a phantom flotilla. Magpie was about to crawl into the open-ended tent alongside Gus when he heard a low thud at the skiff's stern, as if something had struck it.

For a moment, he sat paralyzed, trying to think what it might be: a big fish, a bottle with a message inside, a sea creature intent on making him his supper, perhaps? Whatever it was wouldn't go away. It continued to knock insistently against the stern the way a sailor used to knock on his sail room door on the
Isabelle.
Quietly and carefully, Magpie made his way aft so as not to disturb Gus's slumber or upset the boat, and when he had kneeled down upon the backbench he peeked over the side.

What he found there caused his stomach to heave. He covered his mouth to stifle his shrieks and his one eye began streaming from the stench, but he could not look away. It was a dead sailor, come to meet his own kind. His face was burned beyond recognition and it appeared something in the sea had been gnawing it. His body was horribly bloated, his clothes taut and torn, and astoundingly, his hat was still on his head, sitting low on the thick waves of his chestnut hair. Across the front of the black felt hat, embroidered on a faded blue ribbon, were the words “HMS
Isabelle.
”

Magpie had seen his ship burning from afar and guessed the outcome. This sailor had come, like a human dispatch, to confirm the worst. With a terrible fascination, Magpie stared at the mangled body until his fear subsided and his insides settled enough for him to fetch his flute from the pocket of his trousers. He put the instrument to his sunburned lips and began piping a tune that the Duke of Clarence had taught him to play – a piece called “Grazing Sheep” (or something like it), composed, he'd been told, by a man named Bach a long time ago. Its beautiful notes calmed him. When the tune was done, he reached down into the dark water, lifted the hat from the dead man's head, and, despite the stench and dampness, placed it on his own. Then, putting his fist to the hat's brim in a final salute, he gently nudged the unknown sailor away from the skiff, back into the waves.

“I am, thank you, Mr. Norlan. Are you off, then?”

“I wondered, sir, if you might like to accompany me above deck for some fresh air. I know it's late, but the air down here is particularly stagnant, and I believe … I believe Captain Trevelyan said it was quite all right for you to go up after dark.”

Aye, being the nocturnal beast that I have become
, thought Leander, standing up to stretch his muscles, which had not been exercised in days. His entire body hurt, the result of having assumed a permanently hunched-over position on this American ship where, around the clock, it seemed, he had performed amputations, extracted grapeshot, examined throats, set broken limbs, and mixed tonics for this foreign crew. The low beams of the orlop deck suited the man who stood less than five feet; it was hellish for one who stood over six.

Leander looked at Joe Norlan, whose features at times reminded him of someone he once knew, though he could not say whom. He spoke like an Englishman and there was often a certain expression in his hazel eyes, as if he were communicating some secret code he hoped Leander would soon crack. If a second opportunity were afforded, he would gladly exchange conversation with the young man. Not tonight, though. Tonight he longed to be alone.

“Perhaps another time. I need you well rested and alert in the morning.”

There was a hint of disappointment in Joe's voice as he said, “Good night then, sir,” and left the cockpit.

Leander closed the medical journal and picked up a lantern to take a last peek at his patients as they slept on their flat wooden cots, and gave a few instructions to the loblolly boy whose duty it was to stay the night with them. Then, wearily he climbed the ladder to the lower deck where his light cast long shadows across the congested field of hammocks that stretched before him, each filled with the rounded form of a snoring sailor. He headed aft, towards the two rows of tiny cabins that lined both sides of the ship, and stopped before his own door, the very last one on the starboard side. Despite his fatigue, he knew sleep would not come, and suddenly he wished he'd taken Joe Norlan up on his invitation.

With a change of heart, Leander retraced his steps and trudged up a second ladder, which brought him to the gun deck. Gazing ahead into the gloom, he caught sight of a group of idlers, playing cards and swilling mugs of what was most likely grog at a lowered table between two large guns that had last seen action against the
Isabelle.
The scene reminded him of Bailey Beck and Morgan Evans and their penchant for late-night gaming. Surprised, the men paused in their play to watch him. Leander greeted them with a nod of his head. Uncertain whether they should speak or salute in reply, the men raised their mugs to him instead. As Leander slipped away into the shadows of the deck, he heard one of them say, “Never seen the like afore! Why, he stitched me up and took care o' me like I were one o' his kind!”

His companions laughed.

“Did ya figure he'd bleed ya dry and drink yer blood, then?”

They returned to their game, while Leander, hidden from their prying eyes, paused beside the steps that led above deck and leaned his auburn head against a post to gaze upon the warren of cabins belonging to Captain Trevelyan. Earlier today he had overheard one of his patients whisper, “The cap'n keeps 'er locked up next to him, and he don't allow no one to talk to 'er.” She was somewhere before him, then, only a few feet away. Leander imagined he could hear the soft rise and fall of her breathing, and he lingered there until the ship's bell announced midnight and the beginning of the Middle Watch. The card players snarled as they threw down their cards, and scraped their benches and boxes along the floorboards as they rose to head out to their stations. Nearby, a door opened, and Leander, though he knew he should push on, stood transfixed, imagining – hoping – it might be Emily who emerged. His hopes were dashed when the glow of his lantern revealed the last person he expected to see.

“Well, well! If it isn't the good doctor!” said Octavius Lindsay, a slow grin suffusing his pimply face.

Leander's glance flickered over Octavius's new uniform. He wore the coat and carried the hat of an American naval lieutenant. Leander was tempted to reply, “I see you have very quickly been raised in the world, Mr. Lindsay,” but decided against it.

“Tell me, Doctor – how is life in the bowels of the
Serendipity?
”

“I have a bed, food, and a young assistant who learns quickly. I have no complaints.”

“That is good news indeed! Of course, if you did, Captain Trevelyan would hear none of it.” He lifted his chin and pushed past him to take the first step of the ladder up, and having gained it, sneered down upon him. “You'd like to know where
she
is, wouldn't you?”

Leander shoved his hands into the pockets of his waistcoat and unflinchingly met the younger man's cold stare, noting with satisfaction that the lieutenant was the first one to look away. With a dismissive snort, Octavius hurried up the ladder, closely followed by the gang of gaming sailors. Leander stepped aside to let them pass, and when he was alone again, gazed sadly upon the captain's silent quarters. He began the journey back to his own cabin, opting for the stagnant air on the lower deck rather than subjecting himself to the repugnant air that now certainly wafted above.

Much to her surprise, her door creaked open, but rather than the expected Trevelyan or threatening gang of musket-brandishing marines come to order her about, a teenaged boy sidled in. With one curious, darting glance he absorbed the contents of her room – including herself – and finished with a lengthy stare at the silver-buckled leather shoes she now had on her feet. He was dressed in a grey shirt and loose-fitting trousers, and his tea-coloured hair fell about his shoulders and into his large, round eyes. His mouth hung open, most likely because there were too many protruding teeth inside, and the nose above it was long and bumpy. He was painfully thin and, from the scarlet stains on his cheeks, Emily guessed he was also painfully shy.

“Sorry to disturb ya, Miss. I'm – I'm just gonna bring in yer basin fer washin' in.”

“Who are you?”

“The cap'n's faithful servant, Miss.”

“And
are
you faithful?”

“I do me best, Miss.”

“Where is Mr. Lind?”

“Oh, Mr. Lind was ripped up pretty good by flyin' glass that day a ways back when ya leapt from the cap'n's windows durin' the battlin'. We couldn't do nothin' for him, so we pitched him over the side.”

“While he was still alive?”

“Cap'n Trevelyan says it was the merciful thing to do.”

Emily, looking aghast, shook her head to banish that image. “Do you have a name?”

“If ya wants, Miss, it's Charlie, though ya might hear the men call me Fish.”

There was no need for Emily to ponder the origins of his nickname. She made no remark, having no interest in introducing herself to this strange boy.

“The cap'n told me I weren't to speak to ya none, Miss. I was just to bring in yer wash basin and a bit o' soap.” He disappeared out the door, but soon returned, dragging a basin of green water that gobbled up her entire floor space. “The men will soon be attendin' church service on deck, Miss, so no one'll be peekin' in at ya.”

“I should hope not.”

Charlie reddened.

Thinking Trevelyan was rather tardy in carrying out his demands that she bathe, Emily said, “And why is it I'm
now
expected to sit in a basin of cold water?”

Charlie glanced at the open door and lowered his voice. “It's not fer me to be tellin' ya why.”

Emily's stomach knotted with fear, once again sickened by the recollection of Trevelyan's sinister words spoken to Fly Austen before he had forced her from the
Isabelle.
He had referred to her then as
his intended wife!
Feeling behind her for the cold metal of the gun, she sank down upon its carriage. “How – how old are you?”

“Thirteen, Miss; fourteen come August.”

“And where is your home?”

He looked surprised.

“Well? Are you from Boston? New York? Norfolk?”

“No one's ever cared to ask afore, Miss.”

“Did the American navy steal you from a British ship?”

“With respect, Miss, it's the British doin' the stealin', not the other way round.”

Emily angled her head and raised her eyebrows.

Charlie pushed the hair out of his eyes. “It's Salem, Massachusetts I'm from, and if yer int'rested, Miss, I could show ya where it is on a map.”

“I know how to locate Salem on a map.”

“Me apologies, Miss; I figured ya might have some learnin'.”

Without warning, an enormous officer with a florid face filled the doorway and glared at Charlie. “What the devil are you about, Fish, er, Mr. Clive?”

Charlie wilted. “Just leavin', sir.”

“I should hope so, Mr. Clive.” The officer scrutinized Emily from head to toe, raised one bushy-black eyebrow in a pompous manner, and moved on.

“Good-bye then, Miss.” Charlie turned to sidle out.

Emily felt a constriction in her chest. That door would close again and heaven knows when it would next open. She had so many questions. Maybe this boy – maybe he had some information about the
Isabelle.

“Will you come again?” She had not intended to sound so eager.

“Of course, Miss, to collect yer wash basin.” He doubled his thin body over in a clumsy bow and slipped away.

Emily returned to stand watch by the open gunport. She looked out upon the colourless waves as she unbuttoned her shirt and eased out of it. Her fingers then sought out the healing bullet wound in her shoulder and as she gently caressed the rough layers of new skin, a gurgle of laughter burst from her lips. “I've just met the fearsome Charlie Clive!”

“Mr. Austen, so wonderful to see you up and about, my good man. I drink to your restored health and to the health of your miscellaneous men.” The captain lifted his own china cup to his red lips and drained the contents, which curiously did not possess the aroma of coffee. He then grunted with satisfaction and peered over the taffrail into the foggy gloom.

Fly's gaze slid from the corpulent captain to the misty weather decks where he spotted a few of his Isabelles working contentedly alongside their
Amethyst
compatriots. “I thank you for all you've done, sir.”

“I'm just sorry we couldn't have saved a few more of you,” Prickett said with a concerned shake of his big head.

You could have if you had heeded our signals for assistance,
Fly was tempted to retort.

“Well, now, time for dinner. Will you join me, Mr. Austen? Bridlington and I are most anxious to have a good, long chat with you.”

“I wonder, sir, if I may defer your kind invitation. I'm afraid I find myself with no appetite.”

“By all means. But you must eat, Mr. Austen, and keep up your strength. I'll have my cook bring a morsel to you here. God knows when this outrageous fog will lift. It'd be damned impertinent of the enemy to come upon me while I'm enjoying muttonchops and fish pie. You
will
keep a sharp eye out, won't you, Mr. Austen?” Without giving Fly a chance to answer, he hiked his breeches up over his girth and started off. But his ever-roving eye soon caught sight of Morgan Evans and Biscuit climbing the steps to the poop deck.

“Ah, now, here come the two you sent for, Mr. Austen. Such affable characters! I've a mind to take the Scottish cook off your hands since
you
won't have need of him any too soon. Ha, ha!”

“Sir, you are welcome to him, though I'll warn you his culinary skills leave much to be desired.”

Fly nodded at Morgan and Biscuit as they loped past Captain Prickett towards him. He had not seen any of his men since the Wednesday afternoon of their rescue, when the
Amethyst
had hove to in order to pick up the straggling survivors, for he had immediately been taken below to the surgeon, suffering from burns and exhaustion. In the meantime, Morgan and Biscuit had washed up nicely, having been the recipients of new slops. Fly was shocked to see such a gleam in Biscuit's orange hair – dazzling against the white of the sails and the swirling sea mists – and happy that Morgan again wore a shirt, as his last one had been sacrificed to bandage up the burned flesh on Fly's back – an injury, he'd been told, caused by a fiery, falling spar that had struck him. The two men halted before him, with Biscuit standing behind Morgan, who saluted.

“You passed the word for us, sir?”

“I hope yer feelin' better, Cap'n,” added Biscuit, leaning over Morgan's shoulder. “We've all been missin' ya, sir.”

“Much better, thank you.” Fly looked up gravely at Morgan. “Those hard hours, Mr. Evans, during which we pulled towards the
Amethyst
and the
Expedition,
you made me aware of our numbers, though I confess I had no desire to know the names of the men sitting alongside me in those small boats. I ask that you tell me now.”

Morgan, aware beforehand that this was the reason he was being summoned, held out a sheet of parchment on which were written – in an elegant cursive script – the names of the eighty-seven survivors of the
Isabelle.
“I took the liberty of asking Lieutenant Bridlington for his assistance with this, sir.”

Fly set his mug down on the deck and took the sheet from Morgan. He took a quick glance down the list, then reluctantly examined it a second time.

“Our sailing master, Mr. Harding?”

“No, sir.”

“Our purser, Mr. Spooner?”

“No, sir.”

“Mr. Tucker? Mr. Harris? Mr. Crump? Old Bailey Beck?”

“Ach, nay, sir,” said Biscuit, putting his hand on Morgan's shoulder.

“Young Gus Walby?”

“You may recall, sir, that Mr. Walby fell from the mizzen at the start of the battle.”

Fly nodded absently and sighed. The only names he recognized on the parchment, besides his own and those of the two standing before him, were Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, Jacko, the shoemaker, Maggot and Weevil, the Jamaican brothers, Mr. Stewart, the midshipman, and Osmund Brockley, Dr. Braden's assistant.

“What about our little sail maker?”

Biscuit stepped forward. “Now funny ya should ask about wee Magpie, sir. Ya see, afore thee Yankees did their boardin', I set him inta thee skiff with a few rations. He were bound-bent on findin' Mr. Walby. Might be he did just that. Might be they was both picked up.”

“Aye.”

“Well, yas never kin tell, sir.”

“You never can tell,” echoed Fly, without any of Biscuit's enthusiasm.

“Trevelyan took some of our men, sir,” said Morgan, “though I don't know who or how many. And … and Dr. Braden and Emily are on the
Serendipity,
prisoners perhaps, but hopefully safe.”

“And Mr. Lindsay and Mrs Kettle too,” Biscuit added cheerfully, “though yas might not be carin' much fer their kind.”

Fly folded up the list of mainly ordinary seamen, landmen, and boys, and rose to his feet. “If you please, Mr. Evans, beg a quill and more parchment from Bridlington for me. The Admiralty and Parliament will be expecting to receive a full account of the circumstances surrounding the loss of our ship, and I shan't keep them waiting any longer.”

“Aye, sir, but you might be interested to know that it'll be some time before you'll be meeting with anyone from the Admiralty.”

Fly gave him an expectant look. “Why is that, Mr. Evans?”

“Well, you see, sir, we're not heading north to Halifax, nor are we returning to England.”

Fly looked up at the squared sails and around at the fog that shut in the
Amethyst
like an ethereal curtain-wall. “Then where is it we're headed?”

“South, sir. To find the
Serendipity.
”

Perhaps today the skiff would enter shallow waters beside an island or hit a scattering of rocks near a shore. If the fog would go away, perhaps he'd spy a fishing vessel or a merchantman, one close enough to hear him call out for help. He didn't want to think about an American frigate or a pirate ship finding them, but he'd happily board their vessel and be clapped in irons if they would just give him something to eat. No longer could he bear to imagine the feast that the Duke of Clarence and his wife had once set before him – the succulent roast of pork and scrumptious baked bread pudding. It only made his pains worse, as if the unknown creature that had gnawed on the dead sailor had now sunk its teeth into his belly. There was a dull pain in his head too, where his right eye used to be, but he could ignore it. His innards, however, would not afford him such luxury. He lifted his flute to his lips.

It would have to be today.