Come Looking For Me (34 page)

“Now, I'll only be takin' a few o' yas. Don't wanna stir up no suspicion, and I knows what happens ta most o' yas when ya down a few too many – ya start blubberin' 'n' boastin' somethin' fierce. Now, we don't need no trouble.” He swung round and crouched down to speak to Magpie. “You run and tell yer friend yer goin' inta town with old Prosper so he won't worry none about ya.”

Magpie was stunned. “Yer takin'
me
to Charleston?”

“Aye! I'm takin' ya on yer first reconnaissance adventure! But yer gonna hafta leave that hat behind. Should anyone see that needle-worked ‘
Isabelle'
on it, they might just pitch ya into their dank dungeon under thee Exchange House. Trust me, they have nasty ways ta make a man talk in there. Ya hurry, now!”

A thousand thoughts crashed through Magpie's mind – not the least of which was the prospect of dungeons and Yankee thumbscrews – and his heart boomed like warring cannons as he hastened below to the forepeak where he and Gus kept their cots. Charleston was a Yankee town! What if someone pointed him out as an enemy of President Madison's? Would they pitch him into their damp dungeon? How did Prosper figure he could escape if all those ships lying in the harbour took after him? And what did that big word, “reconnaissance,” mean? As he stowed away his hat under his cot, there was such a rush of emotions coursing through Magpie he could barely breathe.

Gus was awake, staring at the ceiling beams. There was more colour in his cheeks than there had been at noon, but his eyes were now feverish with fear.

Upon seeing Magpie, Gus cried out, “Where are we? Who's the man that put these new splints on me? I swear it wasn't Dr. Braden.”

Gus had been delirious the previous day when Prosper had carried him onto his brig, and during those awful days drifting about in the skiff, knowing how it would upset him, Magpie had never once mentioned the final fate of Captain Moreland's ship.

Magpie attempted a smile. “That was Prosper Burgo what looked after ya, sir. And we're on his ship, the
Prosperous and Remarkable!
He's from Quebec and he's been lookin' after ya real good.”

Gus still looked fearful. “We've stopped. Are we in Halifax?”

“No, but we're somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Well, sir, some place called Charleston.”

“Charleston?”

“Aye!”

“We're in South Carolina?”

“Aye, I suppose that's where it be, but everythin's gonna be all right. And I'm goin' ashore with Prosper fer a bit to do some … well, to do some explorin', so rest up. Pemberton Baker will look in on ya. Prosper calls him a jackanapes and a galoot, but he's really a kind sort o' fellow.”

Gus's forehead wrinkled and twitched as if he were trying to make sense of it all, and Magpie worried he was going to ask more questions – questions he didn't have the nerve to answer right then and there. Chewing on his lip, he was relieved when Gus lowered his gaze and lapsed into a thoughtful silence.

“Well, then, I'll be seein' ya, sir.”

Magpie lunged for the ladder up, but stopped mid-step when Gus called out, “Wait!”

Swinging around, Magpie watched his disabled friend strain to lift his head from his pillow.

“Magpie,” he whispered, “just in case … ask Mr. Prosper for a gun.”

The celebrations were now in full swing, and while the entire world danced upon the weather decks, there was no time to lose. Charlie had just left her, having come to collect the crumbs of her boiled beef and cheese supper. “I won't be comin' back no more, Miss. I won't be bringin' ya yer meals no more. I'm gonna be learnin' the sails,” he had mumbled as he hesitated by the door with her tray. His protruding mouth had opened expectantly as if he had hoped she might make a fuss and demand an explanation. But Emily's mind had long since strayed from the
Serendipity
and the affairs of her sailors. When the door had closed behind him, she felt certain that no one would hear her furtive movements in her dark hovel nor give her another thought until morning.

Emily gazed out the gunport at the wafer moon that glinted upon the calm harbour, and searched the water to make certain there were no boats returning to or leaving Trevelyan's ship at this late hour. With the coast clear, she changed into her favourite clothes, which she had arranged upon her cot earlier. Her fumbling fingers pulled on the now-stained rumpled trousers and sailor-blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her, and tied her neck-scarf around her head to conceal her plaited hair. She then groped about under her bed for her leather shoes and, finding them, held them in her shaky hands a moment, smoothing the silver buckles with her thumbs. They had to be worth something! Quickly she rolled them up into a paisley shawl that she had found amongst the clothes Charlie brought in to her the previous day, stuffed the lot down the front of her jacket, and felt her way to the cannon carriage. It would have been so much easier had the cannon not been lashed so closely to the walls surrounding the gunport, but even if she could untie its solid ropes, the gun was far too heavy to clear away.

Her body tingling with excitement, she mounted the carriage and, closing her left arm around the gun's mouth, reached out to steady herself against the port's framework so that she could hook one leg over the ledge. The crescent moon had now slipped behind a quilt of clouds and low growls of thunder echoed in the distance, but she did not care. Her eyes and mind were fixed on the distant lights of Charleston. Fighting to maintain her precarious balance, she raised her other leg to the ledge and had both legs dangling over the side of the
Serendipity
when lantern light and the stink of an unwashed human suddenly filled her cabin.

“Ho, ho! What's all this about?”

The unexpected voice caused Emily to teeter and her heart to lurch like a ship in a storm. With a desperate cry, she struggled to steady herself so she could jump from the gunport, but the intruder was too swift. A strong slippery arm caught her around the waist, dragged her across the thick lashings, and dropped her to the floor. Tears of pain sprang to Emily's eyes as her back struck the wheels of the carriage. Her head swooned as she peered up at her adversary who thrust the harsh lantern light into her face.

“Won't thee cap'n be int'rested in knowin' ya was tryin' to escape again,” taunted Meg Kettle, grinning like a gargoyle.

Behind the elated washerwoman came a hoot of laughter. A shadowy bare-chested figure in dungarees hovered by the door. He dumped a ditty bag, a hammock, and heap of linen blankets upon the floor and smiled at Emily, who winced in pain beside the cannon.

“Can't say I blame ya for tryin' to escape, Miss. Ya must 'ave been informed in advance that ya was to share a bunk with Mrs. Kettle.” He placed his fist to his temple in a mock salute and slipped away, leaving the two women alone with one another.

Fly felt in his breast pocket to make certain he still had the two letters James Moreland had given to him before his death. One of them he would post the first opportunity he got; the second he would have to safeguard at all costs. Fly searched the dark regions beyond the moon's glow. It wouldn't be long now before they raised Charleston.

“Sir?”

Fly swung round. Morgan Evans was standing in the wardroom doorway, looking somewhat bleary-eyed. At first, Fly had difficulty recognizing the younger man without his old familiar knitted hat pulled down upon his shaggy hair. “Mr. Evans! I apologize for summoning you this late and disturbing your rest.”

“Actually, sir, I was up playing cards with some of the lads, and losing, so I was quite relieved you wanted to see me.”

“I need you to do something for me,” Fly said gravely, offering Morgan a chair, “and unfortunately this might be the only chance we'll have to talk without an audience in attendance.” He motioned towards the officers' cabins.

Morgan sat down and watched Fly seat himself opposite the table from him.

“I have great respect for your judgement, Mr. Evans, and I value your honesty. As you happen to be my senior crewman on this ship, I would ask that you read over this statement.” He slid a sheaf of papers towards him. “When you are done, give me your pronouncement on its accuracy.”

Morgan shifted on his chair. “I'd be honoured to, sir, but I can't read. I can't read, nor can I write.”

Fly retrieved his papers, and without embarrassing Morgan further, said, “Well, then, lend me your ear awhile.” Pouring the last of the coffee from the silver pot into his cold cup, Fly gulped it down and in a subdued voice began reading his account of the events of June 15, 1813. As he listened, Morgan closed his eyes and relived all the excitement, fear, and horror of that dreadful day. A thousand poignant images flashed through his brain: carrying Bailey Beck down to Dr. Braden when already his life had drained from his old body; Magpie's crumpling face when he learned Gus Walby had fallen from the mizzen at the start of the battle; the bloody ruins of Captain Moreland sprawled across the deck; the gaping, jagged hole in the hull where Emily had once lain; and
her,
bound and being dragged towards the exultant Trevelyan, like a condemned person about to meet the gallows' executioner. He could clearly see the ghastly stumps of men stretched out in agony on the operating table, smell the inferno that obliterated his ship, and hear the roar and hiss of her wreckage slipping beneath the waves. And how he could still taste the cold! They were so cold that night, sitting beaten, dazed, and hungry in the small boats, the driving rain adding to their misery.

When at last Fly was done, he looked up to see Morgan's eyes glistening, and, keeping his own eyes averted, patiently waited for the younger man to speak.

“Aye, sir, that's pretty much how I – I recall it,” Morgan said, nodding his head. “There's just one thing – with respect – you've mentioned how we signalled to the
Amethyst
for help once we realized our situation. It should have been quite easy for Captain Prickett to turn around at once. How do you account for him not answering us?”

“I cannot account for it at all,” Fly said, dropping his voice to a whisper. “But it is a detail I must include. Had they come back in time, we wouldn't have been so badly outnumbered, and perhaps could have saved the ship. No doubt the Admiralty will have questions for Prickett and his officers.”

“But they've been so kind to us, sir.”

Fly felt his breast pocket again. His gaze fell absently upon his coffee cup, and when at last he spoke his voice was so disembodied, Morgan was not certain the question had been posed to him.

“Was there something more I could have done?”

Wishing to bestow words of comfort, Morgan blurted out, “The lads are itching for a crack at Trevelyan, sir, and hope we catch up to him soon.”

Fly's brow darkened as he raised flinty eyes to Morgan. “We will, Mr. Evans, and rest assured, they'll get their fight.”