Come Looking For Me (32 page)

“What ya hearin'?” asked Pemberton Baker, Prosper's jack-of-all-tradesman.

“I dunno. Might be me 'magination, or might be I'm hearin' music.”

“Might be yer losin' yer mind.”

Prosper twisted his neck to glare at Pemberton, who stood on the foredeck, peering up at him on his precarious perch. Soon, however, a sunny smile had replaced his scowl. “Ya ox! I lost me mind long ago! Nay! Listen! Shhh! There be music out there!”

Pemberton bent his short, stocky legs, tilted his thick torso forward, and cupped his right ear. At length he grunted. “There's naught but thee gentle wind's whisper.”

Prosper made odd gurgling sounds in his throat. “Ya lubber! I bet I kin recognize thee tune afore ye.”

The men in the fore rigging, hearing Prosper's challenge, stopped working, cocked their heads, and after a time offered up their own conjectures.

“Nay, Prosper, 'tis only the wind.”

“Or a ship's bell?”

“Should we be beatin' to quarters then?”

“Nay, 'tis a seagull.”

“Or one o' Ma Carey's chickens.”

“Birds, ya say? Are we nearin' land? Toss the lead again, Jasper.”

“Yer all puddin' heads, thee lot o' yas,” said Prosper. “What kinda sailors are ye anyway when ya can't recognize thee strains o' ‘Can o' Grog'?”

The men all laughed and broke into song.
“When up the shrouds the sailor goes, and ventures on the yard …
”

Prosper raised his hand. “Shush all o' yas.” The men shut their mouths and watched with interest as their commander set his facial features into listening mode and poked his head here and there into the fog like a hen pecking at the ground for kernels of corn. After a short while of intense silence, he shocked them all by crying out, “Ah hah!” and scrabbled down from the spritsail yard. “Turn this beast around, ya lubbers,” he yelled, jumping down onto the deck and sprinting aft along the starboard rail, all the while gesturing vigorously at the moving mists.

“What is it?”

“What 'ave ya seen?

Prosper's fringe of thinning curls flew about his ears as he wheeled about to face his men with a grin. “Why, I've seen a flute-playin' devil lyin' in his coffin and I 'spose it be common courtesy we pick 'im up.”

“Mr. Clive,” she said in a deadened voice, “there is no need to bow.”

“Oh, but Miss, I were told to bow afore all ladies of genteel birth.”

“Who told you that?”

“Me ma.”

“And why would you imagine I was genteel?”

“The men, they say yer highborn, though none of us knew it last time ya was on our ship.” He looked ashamed suddenly, and Emily wondered if he'd known that his revered captain had had a fondness for ordering her about like a servant. “Besides, Miss,” he added, peeking up at her through his hair, “I kin see it in yer bearin'.”

She sighed. “What's that you have there?”

“Clothes fer ya, Miss.”

“I
have
clothes, Mr. Clive.”

“These are from the captain.”

“Tell him I don't want them.” She pulled Leander's coat around her shoulders.

“Yer to dine with him at eight bells, Miss, and he said he don't want ya sittin' at his table in men's trousers.”

“Tell him I'll not dine with him. My regular fare of soggy biscuits is quite adequate.”

Charlie's round eyes grew larger. “I can't tell him that, Miss.”

“Why not?”

“No one speaks to Cap'n Trevelyan in that fashion.”

“Well,
I
do, Mr. Clive.” With a dismissive shrug she slid down into her cot and turned her back to him. “You can set the clothes down, but I will
not
wear them.”

Charlie cleared his throat, but made no attempt to leave. At last Emily rolled over and questioned his insolence with a frown. His cheeks reddened as he stooped over to grab the washbasin by its handle and began dragging it towards the door. Refusing to meet her eyes, he said, “The captain told me, Miss, if ya didn't put these clothes on fer dinner, he'd come right in here and do it fer ya.”

“Are you certain you don't want to handle this one on your own, Mr. Norlan?” he whispered, pulling his spectacles from the breast pocket of his black apron.

“Quite certain, sir.”

“You would gain much in experience in dealing with her complaint.”

Joe looked appalled. “Please, sir, she frightens me, really. And I know very little of her – of her parts.”

“If you hope to become a doctor one day, you'll have to familiarize yourself with female parts.”

“You're speaking in terms of studying my medical books, of course, sir?”

“Of course.” Leander averted his face to hide his amusement. “Now stay close, as I may require reinforcements.” He placed his spectacles on his nose and plunged through the curtain.

Mrs. Kettle lay groaning on a flat wooden cot that hugged the ship's side, her fat arms thrown across her face. Upon hearing him approach, she popped opened one eye. “What a good man ye are and a sight fer me sore eyes and limbs.”

Such a greeting would have warmed Leander's heart had it been forthcoming from anyone else besides the former laundress on the
Isabelle.
“Are you well, Mrs. Kettle?”

“Please call me Meggie, Doctor. I likes it when thee men call me Meggie.” She groped about to catch and squeeze his hand.

“Are you still troubled by an unsettling of your stomach? Shall I prepare another tonic for you,
Mrs. Kettle?
”

She quit her moaning and raised herself up on one arm. “What I needs is a long rest.”

“I see. Have you, then, forgotten my instructions to curtail your vigorous habits for the sake of your unborn child?”

Mrs. Kettle flopped back upon her cot. “I 'aven't time fer no kicky-wicky with thee Serendipities, Doctor. Cap'n Trevelyan himself keeps me occupied day 'n night.”

Leander stared at her over his glasses. “May I ask the nature of these occupations?”

She looked indignant. “Why, I were expectin' to be raised in thee ranks and he's got me launderin' hammocks and slops and yards o' canvas.”

“But, Mrs. Kettle, laundering was your occupation on the
Isabelle.
”

“I knows that, but oooh, thee sails be heavy and thee hammocks – so foul-smellin' – and me back aches so and me head constantly pains me.”

“Shall I beg a word with Captain Trevelyan and, if I should be so lucky as to be granted an audience, suggest that, given your circumstances, he engage you in gentler pursuits?” Leander wondered why he should do anything on behalf of this woman.

Her little eyes brightened and she smiled sweetly. “Would ya, Doctor, fer me? Tell 'im to get rid o' that little whelp, Charlie Clive, and I'll do his personal biddin.'”

Leander clasped his hands behind his back. “And if he is not agreeable to that?”

“Tell 'im I'll do anythin' that doesn't call fer stinkin', back-breakin' labour.”

“I shall try, though I cannot promise you anything.”

She thrust out her lower lip. “If he's ugly, remind 'im he owes me a favour and Meggie always comes collectin' on 'er favours.”

Intrigued, Leander was about to question her further when she surprised him by bounding out of her cot with all the robustness of a bull. She wiggled her toes into her shoes, swept aside the bit of canvas, and briskly waddled past Joe like a duck being chased by the farmer intent on having it for his supper.

With rounded eyes, Joe watched her flee. “Captain Trevelyan owes
her
a favour, sir?”

Leander compressed his lips. “I wonder …”

Magpie tried to warn Mr. Walby, but he choked on his words and could only lie there helplessly and watch as a shadowy figure mounted the Jacob's ladder tossed over the ship's side and climbed down towards them. When the figure reached the last rung, it vaulted into the skiff, landing squarely in its centre without upsetting it whatsoever. Magpie peered up at the man who now hovered over him. He was bald save for a fringe of long curls about his ears. His skin was red and deeply lined, and he wore a loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck. “Are ya a pirate, sir?”

“Not officially,” said the man.

“An enemy, then?”

“That all depends.”

Despite his weakened state, Magpie was able to detect a charitable glint in the stranger's squinty grey eyes as he squatted down next to him, and gently raised his little head off the bench. Then, yanking a wineskin from his belt, the stranger held it to Magpie's blistered lips. “Now drink slowly, me little man.”

“Bless ya … bless ya, sir,” sobbed Magpie. He took a few sips of water while the stranger eyed the bandage on his head.

Soon the man's notice fell to the black felt hat with the embroidered banner perched atop Magpie's duffel bag. “By Jove!” he cried, “Here I'm thinkin' yas were a young devil acquainted with grog, when in fact yer from thee
Isabelle.
Come aboard me
Prosperous and Remarkable
and tell us yer tale.”

Magpie pointed towards the skiff's bow. “Please, sir, could ya see to Mr. Walby?”

The stranger peered into the canvas shelter, and seeing Gus in all his splints asked, “Did ya 'ave a fight with this poor scalawag and he wound up losin'?”

“Oh no, sir. Mr. Walby got knocked up fallin' from the mizzen.”

For some time the man crouched over Gus, and when finally he emerged from the shelter, he hollered up at his ship. “Pemberton, ya jackanapes!” A stocky fellow with a pudding face appeared at the rail. “Have thee bo's'n's chair lowered and ready me surgeon's table. There be two little men here that require some tendin' to.”

When the door at her back jerked open and heavy steps entered the great cabin, Emily flinched. She knew from the anxious expressions on the young boys' faces that it was Trevelyan; she herself recognized his odour, and could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head. There was a clanking noise as he put away his sword, and a spray of droplets as he removed his rain cloak. Emily looked up as his looming figure came into view and watched him seat himself across from her. He said nothing, his thin lips a determined line in his bloodless face, but a slight nod of his head brought Charlie and Beans round the table to serve him his supper. Once his plate and wine goblet were filled, he began eating, and Emily watched his hands, scarred like her own, cut his meat and lift his goblet to his lips while her own stomach howled for decent nourishment. Between mouthfuls, he glanced at her, but was well into his meal before he spoke.

“Serve yourself, madam. You have no servants here.”

“I am not hungry.”

Charlie's face fluttered with astonishment. Beans still smiled. Trevelyan sipped his wine, his eyes roving over her hot face before dropping beneath her chin to inspect her garments. She was wearing Leander's coat and had left it open a crack so he could see she had put on one of the dresses Charlie had brought to her.

“I am wondering at you wearing a man's frock coat, madam, when we are heading south and the humidity is on the rise.”

“Of all I possess, this coat is the dearest.”

“And obviously not your own. I thought perhaps a dress would flatter your figure much more than the common slops in which you came on board.”

“Why would I require to be dressed in a more flattering manner when you have me imprisoned in a closet?”

“Is there a problem with your lodging? Would you prefer to hang your hammock on the gun deck with the men?”

“My
lodging
is quite satisfactory. I would, however, feel less a prisoner if I could stretch my legs at least once a day.”