Come Looking For Me (33 page)

Trevelyan looked amused. “Oh, but you
are
a prisoner: a most valuable one. Have you forgotten the United States is at war with Britain, or are you a typical woman who cares nothing for and cannot comprehend politics?”

Emily dug her toenails into the soles of her shoes. “Is that the reason you came back with a bloody fleet to pounce upon the
Isabelle
– only to retrieve me because you'd discovered that I was a valuable prisoner?”

There was no emotion in his eyes as he regarded her. “I knew you were valuable property, madam, when I first learned you were planning to cross the Atlantic on the
Amelia.
”

Emily had difficulty concealing her shock. “And … and for this reason only you destroyed the
Amelia
as well as Captain Moreland's ship?”

Trevelyan emptied the bottle of wine and swirled the ruby liquid in his goblet for the longest time. When he spoke again his tone had changed. “I would have thought, madam, that lying about suited your disposition and habits.”

“I have never been one to lie about, sir.”

“Yes. I recall you polished my silver very well during your last stay with us, which I found surprising; for I was certain, despite the fact that your English home –
your palace
– must have been filled with the stuff, the task was quite foreign to you.”

Emily's blood boiled. “It may also surprise you,
sir,
that I have never lived in a palace.”

His head rolled to one side. “Old King George never installed his son, Henry, and your poor mother in an apartment at the Queen's House or St. James's or Windsor Castle?”

“He did not.”

“Astounding!”

“And I am rather astounded that
you
are even acquainted with my father's first name.”

Trevelyan leaned forward, placed his elbows on the table, and rested his chin on his upturned hands. “I was once well acquainted with your father,
madam.
”

“Really? Were you a
servant
of his?”

Trevelyan mused a moment and his eyes wavered in recollection, but he did not dignify her question with a reply. He downed the rest of the red wine, and at length said, “I would have been quite happy to share the contents of this bottle with you.”

“It was easy to resist the temptation. You stole that wine from the
Isabelle.
”

He grinned. “I did! And no doubt Captain Moreland stole it from the hold of one of his French prizes, but as
he
has no further use for it, I hate to think of it going to waste.”

Emily's pulse quickened. “What does that mean?”

“Oh! I forget. You know nothing of the
Isabelle's
fate.”

“
You
forget. I was there when you ordered her burned.”

His eyes narrowed. “That's right, madam, I burned her to the waterline and her sorry hull is on the bottom of the Atlantic, in water so black and so deep no one will ever find her again.”

His words cut with all the force of a whip. She closed her eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. “And … and what of her men?” With a throbbing heart, she watched Trevelyan push back his chair and rise to his feet. He grabbed a piece of ham, stuffed it into his mouth, and chewed on it fiercely before turning to nod at Charlie and Beans, who immediately moved to clear the table. He then strode to the wall where he'd hung his rain cloak and sword, took only his weapon, and headed towards the cabin door.

“Mr. Clive, when you are done, take madam back to her
closet,
” he said, opening the door. Then he turned to Emily. “Your Captain Moreland was torn apart by our grapeshot. When I boarded his ship, it was my misfortune to find him dead in his cot, though bleeding still like a stuck pig.”

Emily covered her mouth to strangle her cry.

“For services rendered, we did
rescue
two of your Isabelles: one surly youth named Mr. Lindsay and a cow called Mrs. Kettle.”

Emily twisted in her seat to confront him, but could only whisper, “Is that it? Is that all?”

His eyes grew more distant as he gazed down at her, and there was a twitching in the flesh of his face. The door shut behind him, and Emily sat there in disbelief, her eyes shining with tears. Rain knocked upon the newly installed gallery windows at her back, and the ship's bell clanged once, its resonance hurting her ears. Charlie and Beans said nothing as they tiptoed around her, removing the dishes and the remains of the supper. The still-warm aroma of meat and pastry and pudding tormented her.

After wiping her wet cheeks with a sleeve of Leander's coat, she let her gaze fall on Trevelyan's desk, the very one she had pushed in front of the door three weeks ago to bar entry to the
Serendipity's
marines whilst she made her escape from out the blasted stern windows. There had been nothing atop his desk then. Now it held two gold-framed miniatures. The first was a painting of a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old, with sandy hair and dark, merry eyes. The second one brought a lump to her throat. It was Magpie's little painting of the daughter of Henry, Duke of Wessex – Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie.

Sitting upright, Emily listened to the wind whistling around the
Serendipity
, and to the shouts of the watchmen, which sounded like the cries of those lost at sea. Her cot was swinging more wildly than normal, and rain pounded on the timbers around her. Recollecting the happiness of her dream, she felt an oppressive sense of sadness. It had been ages since she had visited a place of sunshine and happiness in her dreams.

Once more she called out in the night, this time with fear in her voice. Still no one answered. After a few anxious minutes, Emily heard a swishing sound, as if someone had passed something under her door, and soon her cramped quarters became redolent with a mouth-watering aroma. By now used to finding her way around in complete darkness, she scrambled out of her cot and over the cold cannon, falling on her knees to crawl the remaining distance. Her groping hands discovered a wedge of pork pie wrapped in paper. In the darkness, she filled her mouth with the savoury pie, and only once she had food in her stomach did she pause again to listen. Someone was still standing on the other side of her door. She was certain of it. She sensed his presence, was certain even she heard his breathing. Lying flat on the clammy floorboards, she put her face near the gap under the door and whispered, “Charlie? Is it you, Charlie?”

Still nothing.

“Thank you.”

Somewhere beyond her cabin another door opened and Emily could hear muted voices approaching. In a flash, whoever had come to her with food, stole away.

The day was dull and warm and a humid rain fell. Magpie trudged the unfamiliar flush-deck, pausing now and again to ask passing sailors if they knew the whereabouts of Captain Burgo. Finally, one of them pointed towards the bow.

“He often stands there, lookin' fer fat merchantmen with holds o' valuable cargo.”

The only ship Magpie had ever been on was the
Isabelle.
In comparison, Prosper's brig was diminutive, and congested with clutter and livestock pens. Only two masts rose up over its small decks, on which fifty or so men roamed – not one of them dressed in a proper uniform – and he'd counted only fourteen guns in all. Inching his way fore, Magpie found himself distracted by the new sights and the curious, hardened faces of the crew. It was no surprise to Magpie that Prosper found him first, magically appearing before him when he hopped down from the fore rigging with his spyglass in hand. Setting his fox-like features in a frown, he scrutinized the fresh bandage on Magpie's head. Being, among other things, the ship's surgeon, Prosper himself had meticulously applied it the night before.

“'Bout time yas were roused, Magpie. Ya come on board, gulp down me vittles, tell me yarns about thee
Isabelle
and
Serendipity
and some wench named Em'ly, and then ya go sleepin' right round thee watch. Do ya fancy I'm runnin' a hostelry here?”

“No, sir, but I didn't sleep too good in the skiff.”

Prosper turned and shouted, “Mr. Dunkin, ya scoundrel! Find our little friend here a raincoat o' sorts.” To Magpie, he said, “Now don't be callin' me
Sir.
I prefers thee sound o'
Prosper.”

“But aren't ya the captain?”

“I'm thee owner o' this here brig!”

“But ya give the orders, don't ya, sir?”

Prosper shrugged. “That I do! And I 'spect me men ta obey me. If they get foolhardy I pitch 'em overboard, or fix thumbscrews ta their sensitive parts, or I leave 'em on a deserted island where they starve ta death –
slowly.”

Magpie looked out upon the dreary seas and wondered if he'd be spending the rest of his life with Prosper Burgo. He didn't like the sound of those thumbscrews! Reluctantly he followed Prosper down the deck, frightened by the red and purple veins that rose on the man's face whenever he roared out his commands.

“There's a wind come up, ya bunch o' ruffians. Square away thee yards. You there! Clear out this pen. It reeks. You lubbers sittin' on yer arses can move these barrels below and earn yer supper. Pemberton, ya galoot, bring me and Magpie here a mug o' chocolate.” Prosper paused to take in air and assumed the ship's wheel from Pemberton Baker.

“Have ya spotted any fat merchantmen, Mr. Prosper?” asked Magpie in a small voice.

“Nay! Plenty o' fishin' vessels, but there ain't no merchantmen to be seen. I was hopin' these warmer waters would be crawlin' with 'em. Ya see, they're all holed up in them northern harbours thanks ta yer Royal Navy, and it's been kinda hard on me fortunes o' late.”

“What will ya do when ya see one?”

“Why, I'll give 'em chase, board 'em, cut up their crew, and seize their ship.”

“Yer a pirate, then?”

“Nay!” He lifted his stubbly chin to the wind. “Me
Prosperous and Remarkable's
got a letter o' marque.”

“What's that?” asked Magpie, as the scoundrel named Mr. Dunkin helped him into a hooded poncho.

“It's a piece o' paper given ta me by me governor allowin' me ta rob enemy ships at will.”

Magpie's eye shot open. “Yer not Yankee, are ya, Mr. Prosper?”

“Yankee? I woulda strung ya up – and yer friend, despite his afflictions – if I be Yankee.”

Magpie's hand flew to his throat.

“Nay! I'm from Quebec!” continued Prosper. “Born in thee Magdalen Islands, smack dab in thee mighty St. Lawrence.”

“I ain't never heard o' those places, Mr. Prosper.”

“Hmm! Guess I'll have ta take ya there one day, but only after I've plundered a few fat merchantmen and kin afford ta rest fer a spell.”

“Where're we now?”

“We'll soon be raisin' Charleston. Intelligence tells me there ain't many o' yer British ships blockadin' these parts … and that Trevelyan's
Serendipity's
bin seen headin' this way.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I gotta hankerin' ta meet yer Em'ly.”

An icy ripple danced down Magpie's spine. “Oh, Mr. Prosper, if Emily's on the
Serendipity
– and I don't know it fer sure, I'm only thinkin' Trevelyan took her agin – ya wouldn't think o' hurtin' her?”

Prosper turned his ruddy face to the sea and grinned from ear to ear. “Nay, me little man. I wouldna think o' it.”

Picking herself up off the floor, she tossed the book onto her pillow and struggled to open the gunport, the windy, rainy conditions having made it necessary to keep it closed until now. To her delight, the
Serendipity
was sitting broadside to a sizable town. Towering church steeples, terraced homes, impressive buildings, wharves, and warehouses materialized in the mists beyond a harbour full of ships. Emily raised herself up on the cannon's carriage so she could stick her head farther out the port. The rain had stopped and the winds had died away. There was a mucky, marshy smell in the air, curiously mingling with the fragrance of flowers. In the harbour lay moored countless bobbing vessels: fishing boats, cutters, merchantmen, cruisers, frigates, sloops, brigs, barques – she couldn't even put a name to them all – and in no time the
Serendipity
herself was moored in the shallower waters. Listening to the commotion as the men, amid much laughter, prepared to lower the boats, Emily discovered her own spirits lifting.

It had been almost three months since she had set sail from England, three months since she had last stepped on firm ground. She longed to touch trees and smell flowers and jump into a feather bed with fat pillows. It didn't matter to her that this strange town was likely part of the United States; she still wondered what it had to offer. If she could wander through its streets, would she find bookshops and bakeshops and dressmakers, and perhaps an inn that did not serve its patrons hard biscuits and jellied pea soup?

With envy, she watched as two cutters, each carrying twenty or so men, drifted into view from around the
Serendipity's
stern, the oarsmen eagerly setting the oars into their locks while their mates cried out, “Huzzah!” in anticipation of the delights and entertainments that awaited them and their hard-earned shillings. Emily couldn't believe so many men had been granted leave to go ashore all at once, for she knew this sort of arrangement would not be tolerated amongst the captains and commanders of England's Royal Navy. No sooner had she tucked away that thought when, to her further surprise, the ship's launch rounded the bow with another twenty-five on board! It plied through the waters beneath her, so close she could read amusement in the sailors' eyes as they beheld her leaning out the gunport.

Trevelyan stood at the stern of the launch, his eyes haunting in that expressionless face of his. He was outfitted in his dress uniform: a dark blue jacket with startling white trim and flashing gold buttons, and bright white breeches. “Lay on your oars,” he shouted at his men, and they immediately ceased their rowing so that he could address Emily. He lifted his black bicorne from his matted hair and, in a voice as flat as the now-calm waters of the harbour said, “Madam, would you care to accompany us to William's Coffee House for a meal, and have drinks later at McCrady's Tavern?”

Without thinking, Emily's reply leapt from her lips. “Yes! Please! I would like that.”

Trevelyan raised his eyebrows a notch. “Very well, then, find yourself a means of transportation and we'll look forward to your company in town.”

Emily's face flushed as the men cackled and hooted, their heads and shoulders shaking with mirth as the launch rowed past her. Trevelyan pressed his hat down on his head and called for the oarsmen to pull harder. His men refocused on their tasks, all of them that is, but one.
He
continued to stare up at her, a smirk upon his lips. It was easy to recognize him, despite his new, borrowed uniform and the confidence that overspread his pockmarked face. Try as she might, she would
never
forget Octavius Lindsay.

Emily slunk backwards into the shadows of her cabin, away from his probing eyes, and silently screamed at her stupidity. Her fist struck out at the wooden wall behind her, and with a howl, she collapsed to the floor in pain. There she drew her knees up to her chin and had a good cry, unaware of the sounds of bells and voices and screeching gulls around her. When her tears were spent, she lay still, her eyes absently roving over the confines of her cabin, her thoughts wading through a pool of anguish and apathy. A few inches from her damp brow, a stray sunbeam had found its way in through the open port. She reached out and placed her throbbing hand in the little circle of warm light that quivered on the floorboards. A sudden determination emboldened her to pick herself up off the ground and gaze out again. Trevelyan and his merry lot were now nowhere to be seen. She imagined they had arrived at one of the wharves and were now boisterously descending upon Charleston. She gazed up at the sky. There was an opening of blue in the parting clouds and a sunny sparkle on the spire of a white church. She glanced below, to the place where Trevelyan had addressed her from his launch, where the water now quietly licked at the hull. Her eyes shifted to the bobbing boats nearby, and finally rested upon the enticing skyline of the town.

Nightfall could not come soon enough.

When Leander looked at Joe, he seemed confused, as if he'd been dreaming of someplace far away and had not yet returned. He was unshaven and looked as if he hadn't slept in days. “Where is it you're going?”

“Into Charleston, sir. I haven't been off a ship in months; not going to miss my chance now.” Joe nodded towards the soldier who stood rigidly a few feet behind Leander. “You can bring
him
with you, sir.”

Leander smiled wanly. “Yes, apparently I'm allowed more freedom as long as I have Mr. Morven in tow.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then, I – I haven't a clean shirt to wear.”

“You've no time to change even if you did, sir. Will you come, then?”

Leander hesitated, looking embarrassed. “I'm afraid I have no money. The little I once had went down with the
Isabelle.”

Joe slipped his hand into the pocket of his trousers and jingled a few coins. “I've plenty for the two of us; well, at least enough to buy us a decent meal.”

While the sailors bellowed at Joe, “Hurry up, or thee boat's leavin' without yas!” Joe pleaded with the sullen-looking first lieutenant in charge to grant Leander shore leave. “Neither of us have enough money to get into much mischief, sir, and we can keep an eye out for the lads who will.”

The first lieutenant considered a minute, his bushy-black eyebrows dancing up and down, and his lower lip thrusting in and out all the while. At last, a laugh burst from his fleshy face. “Did you figure, Mr. Norlan, that you and Dr. Braden can take liberties with our captain away from his ship?” He shoved Joe towards the ladder that dangled down the ship's side. “
You
can go. But your friend here is required to stay on board to stitch the busted heads of those that'll be swinging from the rigging tonight.”