Come Looking For Me (41 page)

Emily laughed, barely able to breathe. “Oh, Mrs. – Mrs. Kettle, if only Trevelyan knew that his deadliest weapon was here in the slop room. If only he could ramrod you into his cannons, imagine the damage you could deliver to the hulls of enemy ships.”

For several moments, Mrs. Kettle lay there stunned. Then her caterwauling began. “Oooo! Now ya done it, now ya
really
done it. Me back. Me head. Me poor babe. All broke fer sure. Oooo!”

Brushing away her mirthful tears, Emily sidestepped the prostrate form and made for the door. “Are you bleeding, Mrs. Kettle?”

“How's would I know with me face pasted to thee floor?”

“At least we know your tongue is still intact … Tell me where I can find Dr. Braden.”

Above their heads on the upper deck, voices yelled out, “Stand clear! Steady now! Fire! Fire!” The
Serendipity's
guns boomed and recoiled violently on their carriages, the reverberating shudders passing through Emily, who had to reach out to steady herself against a shelf.

Mrs. Kettle's shrill voice shot up an octave. “If ya leave me here, squashed like a decayin' rodent, so help me I'll kill ya. I'll rip yer royal head from that white neck o' yers. Thee minute I'm standin', I will.”

“Don't tempt me,” Emily shot back. “You deserve no better than to be left here to fester and rot.”

The penetrating cries that followed were more dreadful than the blaring echoes of cannonfire. Emily repeated her question, this time more firmly. “
Where
is Dr. Braden?”

Mrs. Kettle's reply rushed out of her mouth like a swift-moving stream. “Ya'll – ya'll find 'im nearby. Thee door ain't locked. But leave thee lantern be! I'll – I'll not be left here in thee gloom with hairy creatures crawlin' 'bout me parts.”

“I cannot believe our good fortune, Mr. Austen,” cried Bridlington. “Not only did we barely fire a shot, barely was a shot returned. The commander of that small brig – whoever he may be – is
truly
remarkable.”

“I've never seen such fine seamanship, the way he came up on Trevelyan's tail like that,” exclaimed Captain Prickett. “Root the man out, will you, Mr. Austen? I'd like to meet the fellow and have Biscuit fix him a celebratory feast with all his favourites – and mine, of course.”

“I will, sir. But we must hurry. In a matter of minutes they will be attempting to board the
Serendipity.
”

Captain Prickett did not seem concerned in the least. “One false move from Trevelyan,” he laughed, “and he'll receive another blast from us. This time we'll bring down his mainmast!”

Fly started down the ladder, feeling the pain of his injured back as he gripped each rung. Captain Prickett peered over the rail. “We must claim her a prize, Mr. Austen. Raise the English ensign over hers, and sail her into Bermuda, nay, better still, into Halifax. Well-wishers will be greater in number there.”

Fly was too tired to inform Prickett that the prize was not theirs to take; he had more pressing matters on his mind. Once settled in the launch, he laid his hand lightly on the shoulder of Morgan Evans who, at his request, was manning one of the oars. “Mr. Evans.”

Morgan's mouth was pressed into a thin, grim line. “Aye, sir?”

“Let us away, for we have friends to find.” As Fly turned his face towards the
Serendipity,
he noticed Biscuit sitting there, his odd eye rolling about in his head. “Captain Prickett will not be pleased when he discovers you've abandoned his ship and his galley.”

“I'm comin' with yas, Mr. Austen,” said Biscuit. “Anyone what tries to harm thee lass will be feelin' thee point o' me cutlass between their shoulder blades.”

“Right now, ya scoundrels, lash thee ships together,” he bellowed. “Toss thee grappling hooks. Boarders! Stand ready, and if ya haven't already, gather yer pistols, pikes, and tomahawks. Topmen! Ready with yer grenades and stinkpots.”

“What are stinkpots?” asked Magpie, wearing his
Isabelle
hat, his hands quivering on his dirks.

Prosper grinned. “Little combustible jars what emit a nasty, suffocatin' smoke when they's pitched at thee enemy.”

“Shouldn't ya be stayin' here to command yer own ship, Prosper?” Magpie was still hoping to shirk the boarding party.

“And miss all thee fun? Hell, no. I'll be leadin' thee charge.” Prosper swung around to address his men, who had their muskets aimed at the American ship. “Keep a close lookout fer sharpshooters and any foolhardies what try to blow a hole in me
Prosperous and Remarkable
while we're away
visitin'
.”

Magpie's eye drifted past the
Serendipity's
fallen foremast and snarled rigging to the
Amethyst
beyond, lying like a mystic vision in the angry waves less than a mile off. The sea was too rough for her to open her lower gunports, but those on her upper and weather decks were pointed at the
Serendipity,
and her boats, though a piece off, were pulling towards them. Still, Magpie's heart skipped several beats. A number of Serendipities had already abandoned their quarterdeck guns; Magpie could see them fleeing towards the fore hatchway. A few of them, in their eagerness to escape capture, swept over the bow and into the heaving sea. Trevelyan and his senior officers were nowhere to be seen. Magpie fancied they were lying in wait below, oiling thumbscrews as they plotted an ambush.

Well, this was it.

Inhaling the moist salty air through his nose and exhaling through his mouth, Magpie joined Prosper and his band of ruffian boarders – twenty in all – as they hustled, roaring like ancient warriors, across the
Prosperous and Remarkable's
gangway and over the bulwark of the
Serendipity
, landing upon her bloody quarterdeck. Overhead, musket balls whistled, and grenades and stinkpots rained down upon the
Serendipity's
fore and aft decks, their acrid smoke encircling the boarders in a black hell.

“If ya kin keep me alive 'til I find Trevelyan,” Prosper barked over his shoulder, “we'll go searchin' fer yer Em'ly. Stay close now.” He cocked his pistols and headed straight for a menacing mob of Americans running at them, brandishing pikes and hollering war cries of their own.

Magpie gulped and followed.

It was a relief for Emily to escape Mrs. Kettle, who was sitting upright in her hammock, moaning and cussing, apparently having forgotten that she'd been diagnosed with a badly sprained neck and ordered to rest. If it weren't for Leander, Emily would have happily
wrung
her neck to silence her. Prying the laundress's sweaty, grasping hands from her arm, she hurried to fetch a tin of sand from the large barrel lodged in the lower section of the medicine cupboard, and sprinkled the contents around Leander's feet. Stirred by his closeness, she lingered as long as she could. There was a troublesome tightness in her chest and her stomach boiled with fear, but, for his own part, Leander spoke and moved about so calmly one would think he was working in a garden and not in an overcrowded surgeon's cockpit where the reeking air was rife with doleful lamentations.

“You don't have to stay in here if you don't want to.” Leander's words were like a tonic to Emily. Biting back tears, she met his gaze. “There is no place on earth I would rather be, Doctor.” A faint smile crossed his lips in reply as he returned his attention to his patient.

Averting her eyes from the sailor's gory leg, Emily picked up the water bucket and carried it over to the waiting group of wounded men on the floor, leaning against one another in various states of consciousness. Crouching down beside them, she helped each one bring the water ladle to his lips. Only one man among them seemed alert. He watched her closely, his normally bright, probing eyes dulled by his preoccupation with his injury. Emily was acquainted with few men on the
Serendipity,
but she recognized this young man with the dark skin. It was Beans, who, alongside Charlie Clive, had served Trevelyan dinner the first night she had been summoned to the great cabin.

“Obliged, Miss – Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said, clutching a burned arm to his chest.

“It's
Emily,
just Emily,” she gently replied.

Beans stared back at her blankly.

“Could you tell me what is happening up there?” she asked, once his thirst had been quenched.

“It's a hellish place. Fer a bit we was bein' harassed by a puny brig. It managed to come up on our tail, shoot our rudder away, and sail off before the cap'n could even fire a broadside. We did what we could, but the
Serendipity
don't steer too good with a busted rudder. And that big ship – the one followin' us – caught up, close enough to take down our foremast.”

There was flutter in Emily's heart. She had heard the others speak of “that big ship” as the
Amethyst.
“If all is lost, why are our guns still firing?”

“'Cause,” said Beans, “the cap'n says ain't no one gonna take him alive.”

Having overheard their conversation, Mrs. Kettle squealed from her bed, “I told yas! I told all o' yas! We're all gonna die.”

Leander's admonishment was in earnest. “Restrain yourself, Mrs. Kettle; otherwise, I'll be forced to dispose of you in the slop room.”

“Don't matter, Doctor,” she bawled. “We're all goin' down, just like thee
Isabelle.
”

“Mr. Norlan,” said Leander, frowning, “in the cupboard you will find a tangle of unclaimed stockings. If necessary, stuff one down her throat.”

“Right, sir,” said Joe, fighting to maintain his hold on the wounded sailor who spewed blasphemy as Leander rubbed salt into his leg gashes to guard against infection.

The
Serendipity
twisted and moaned, as it had not before. The oil lanterns jumped on their hooks. A cry rose up amongst those who were still conscious. They lifted their eyes to the low ceiling, and their bodies tensed. At first, Emily worried that the winds had thrown them upon a barrier of shore rocks.

“I knows that sound,” said Beans, as if he were commenting on the weather. “They's placed alongside us. Soon they be boardin'.”

A profound sadness descended upon the surgery. All was deathly silent until Mrs. Kettle continued her pronouncements of their imminent doom and a fresh round of wounded Serendipities limped or were carried through the door. Catching sight of them, Leander's shoulders sagged, but he worked on, doing what he could for these men, although they were not his own. The cannons were quiet now, but cracks of musket fire and exploding grenades filled the air, and Emily thought she could hear the clash of swords. Above the din came an ominous noise of rhythmic pounding. Below, in the hold, the shouts of the men manning the pumps rose in anxious volume as did the cries of the carpenters trying in vain to pack oakum and bits of cotton and wool into the hull's gaping seams.

Her stomach sickly with the stench of burned flesh, Emily moved wearily towards the ragged newcomers, discovering Octavius Lindsay among them. Giving herself a moment to collect her thoughts, she offered the water ladle to the others first, but when at last she came to him,
he
was the one who had difficulty meeting her eyes.

“It is … fitting … Mrs. Trevelyan,” he said haltingly, “that you should serve me last.”

Emily hardened her stare, not wanting to look down at the appalling dark stain around his belly that had deepened the blue of his officer's jacket. “Given the affected nature of our relationship, it is a wonder I am serving you at all.”

“I am quite used to being served last.”

“Why is that, Mr. Lindsay?”

“I am my father's eighth son.” He snickered and raised the water to his lips with his quivering, bloodstained fingers, then thought better of it. “Is it some form of poison to finish me off?”

Emily shook her head. “It will help a little while you wait.”

Octavius observed the other waiting men, perhaps silently taking note of their number, and slowly eased himself back against the surgery wall. “My confidence would be greater if it were simply one of my arms or legs …” His voice trailed off and his eyes fixed themselves on nothing in particular. Gone was the bravado he had displayed only a few hours earlier as
she
had stood in wretchedness by the ship's wheel, having endured a sham of a wedding ceremony with a man she despised. Yet, despite the ruin of his once-white breeches and crisp uniform, his Hessian boots were unsullied, and reflected the lantern light over Leander's table.