Читать книгу Come Looking for Me - Cheryl Cooper - Страница 10

4

Sunday, June 6

9:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

“‘… She played over every favourite song that she had been used to play with Willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained …’”

“Gus, could I ask you to stop your reading for now?” Emily pleaded from her bed.

Beyond the canvas curtain, Leander paused in his letter writing.

“Are you tired?” asked Gus.

“Tired? How could I be? I’ve done nothing but sleep for the past several days. No, I am not tired, but this part in the novel is so sad.”

“Shall I come back this evening before my watch?”

“Please do. You read so well. I am sure I could not read that well when I was your age.”

Gus reluctantly closed the book. “Who taught you to read, Em?”

Emily thought a moment before answering. Crooking her finger, she invited Gus to come closer and whispered, “Am I correct in believing – nay, in hoping – that our conversations are just between you and me?”

Gus was taken aback. “Of course they are!”

“Well, then, I shall tell you. Would you believe a string of tutors and governesses taught me to read?”

“Why so many? Were you a naughty child?”

“No, it was my father. He had a cruel streak in him, and being a man of great wealth figured he could exercise it upon my poor teachers. They were all wonderful, but that didn’t stop him from dismissing them at will.”

Gus angled his head. “Perhaps your father, being a man of great wealth, knew Lord Lindsay’s father, as he is the Duke of Belmont.”

“I am sure he must have. My father travelled in many circles, Gus.” Suspicious that Leander would be straining to lend an ear to their quiet conversation, Emily called out to him. “Doctor? May I trouble you a moment?”

She smiled at the scrape of his chair.

His auburn head peeked around the canvas. Even behind his round spectacles, the doctor had striking eyes, Emily thought.

“Doctor, I’ve been deteriorating in your cot far too long … not that I don’t appreciate you giving up your cot … but I wondered if I might walk above deck to air my lungs … and exercise my one good leg. It would be nice to see Bermuda before we leave.”

“I’m afraid I’d have to consult with Captain Moreland.” Leander stepped farther into her little corner. “Women are not usually allowed to move freely above deck at sea.”

“He may give his consent, Doctor, as we are anchored,” said Gus. He looked back at Emily and added, “Although the sight of you on the weather decks might cause the men to fall from their yardarms.”

Emily laughed, but Gus was quite serious.

“If I were fitted out with a walking stick and maybe a pair of Biscuit’s old trousers? A straw hat would hide my hair … then again, I do recall seeing men with hair longer than mine when first I came on board. Surely, if appropriately outfitted, no one would guess my identity.”

While Gus regarded him anxiously, Leander tried to hide his amusement with one freckled hand.

“As your doctor, I would strongly recommend fresh air and exercise; still, I must seek permission from the captain.”

Emily was disheartened. “I recall being allowed to wander freely on the weather decks of ships when I was a child – ” She caught herself, and for a moment stared at Leander, praying he had taken no notice of her incautious words. Seeing him raise an inquisitive eyebrow, she looked away and said no more on the subject.

At length, he replied, “I am sure much has changed since then.”

Gus’s eyes shone. “I will go see the captain straightaway.” He dashed off before Leander could stop him.

“Doctor,” said Emily, hoping to steer the conversation in a new direction, “might it be possible for someone, other than Mrs. Kettle, to lend me some clothes?”

Leander smiled broadly as he took off his spectacles. “I believe Mr. Austen has asked Magpie to sew something together for you.”

“Magpie?”

“Our sail maker. He’s brilliant with a needle and thread.”

“You are all very kind.”

“I would advise you against taking exercise in my nightshirt.”

Emily smoothed the muslin shirt she wore. “I thought this might belong to you.”

Unable to hold her gaze, Leander examined the ceiling boards above his head.

“I could see you writing a letter at your desk,” said Emily.

“Could you?”

“Were you writing to someone back home?”

“I was, as a matter of fact.”

Emily tried to urge him onward with her eyes, but she did not meet with success.

“Is there someone to whom you would like to send a letter?” he asked. “I could arrange for you to be given parchment and ink.”

Emily shook her head. “No.”

“Right, then, I’d better return to it while we await the captain’s word.” He left her abruptly.

No sooner had Leander reinstated himself at his desk than Gus, breathless from his errand, rushed into the hospital shouting, “Dr. Braden, sir!”

“Mr. Walby,” Leander scolded, “please remember my patients here require peace and quiet.”

Mr. Harding piped up. “You kidding? We haven’t had a moment’s peace since that woman moved into your hammock.”

“You’re not complaining now, are you, Mr. Harding?” asked Leander. From his pillow the sailing master gave him a wink and a cluck. Leander turned back to Gus.

“Captain Moreland said it was fine, sir.”

“Did he now?”

“On one condition,” Gus added.

“And that condition is … ?”

“He said that if one man falls from the rigging and breaks his neck, Emily’s to be sent packing below deck for all time.”

In her corner, Emily laughed out loud.

9:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Three Bells)

GUS'S NEXT ERRAND was a visit to the sail room on the orlop deck to see whether Magpie had completed his task. He found the young sail maker sitting cross-legged on the floor amongst his tools and yards of canvas. His tiny room, crammed with rolls of fresh sails, was poorly ventilated and illuminated with only one lantern. It amazed Gus that Magpie could do such wonderful work in such small quarters.

Magpie set aside the sail he was stitching and looked up hopefully. “Have ya come fer the clothes, sir?”

“Captain Moreland said she could go for a walk on the weather decks, but not in Dr. Braden’s nightshirt.”

“I bin waitin’ fer someone to come fetch ’em. I had ’em all done yesterday, sir.” Magpie sprang to his feet and carefully picked up the neatly folded bundle on his stool. “Did the cap’n say I could meet her, sir?”

“I didn’t ask him, but I don’t see why not.”

“Should I wash up first, sir?”

“You’re quite presentable as you are.”

Magpie plucked his flute from the jumble of blankets on his bed and held it up. “Do ya suppose I could play her a tune? She might like knowin’ I ’ave a bit o’ refinement.”

Gus shook his head. “Music is forbidden in Dr. Braden’s hospital. Come along then.”

Tingling with excitement, Magpie followed Gus up two decks, through the animals’ stable, the grog room, the sailors’ galley, and the mess before reaching the hospital ward. As there were still some sections of the Isabelle he had never seen before, his eyes were open to everything around him. When Gus and Magpie entered the hospital, Mr. Harding called out, “Magpie, I hope illness is not forcing you to join us.”

“No, sir. I’m quite well. I do hope yer foot’s feelin’ better.”

Mr. Harding breathed in and exhaled sadly. “As my foot is swimming in the sea, I’m certain it is feeling better than it ever has before, unless, of course, it’s been chewed upon by a hungry shark.”

“Won’t be no shark chewin’ on yer foot,” called out the sailor in the neighbouring hammock, “so long as it spotted Mr. Crump’s tasty leg first.”

Mr. Crump grumbled his displeasure at the lot of them making jokes at the expense of his lost leg, shut his eyes, and pretended to be asleep.

Leander folded up his letter and rose from his desk to greet the little sail maker. “She’s just beyond that curtain, Magpie.”

In the dimness of the hospital, Magpie’s eyes sparkled as he followed Gus.

Emily was sitting up in her cot. The moment she saw Magpie, surprise transformed her features.

“Mornin’, ma’am,” he said, thrusting out his small right hand. “They call me Magpie on account o’ me black hair, and ’cause I talk all the time and get into trouble a lot.”

“What is your real name?” Emily asked, taking his hand in hers. There was a half-moon of grime under each of his fingernails.

“Haven’t a clue, ma’am. I never had no family to give me a proper name. Only name I ever bin called is Magpie.”

“How old are you?”

“When they measure me against Mr. Walby here, they figure I’m about ten.”

“And you’re a sail maker?”

“Aye, ma’am … learned the trade from old Beck Bailey, who was hankerin’ fer a promotion. He wanted to be a bo’s’n, but he don’t read none. The cap’n – not Cap’n Moreland mind – promised him work above deck if he’d teach me the sail makin’. First learned it when I was seven.”

“Seven? That young? And you can make clothes too?”

“Aye, ma’am. I make ’em and I repair ’em. I hope ya like ’em.” He proudly held out his little bundle.

As she accepted them, Emily thought her heart would burst. “I’m sure I will.”

“We’ll wait outside, Em,” Gus said, jabbing Magpie with his elbow.

“And if ya be needin’ any alt’rations, ma’am, I’ll be standin’ by.”

Emily took a deep breath when they had closed up the curtain. For a time she fingered the workmanship of the jacket and trousers, her dark brown eyes fixed upon the sea beyond the open gunport, then with a determined shake of her head, she called out, “Dr. Braden? Are you still out there?”

“I am.”

“May I ask you something?”

He poked his head round, catching her brushing away a tear.

“I have no interest in seeing Mrs. Kettle again, but I do require some assistance. Would you help me?”

Fully aware that an audience of men and boys stood eavesdropping a few yards away, Leander gave her a quick nod. He took a step towards her then stopped, not certain where to begin.

She looked up at him questioningly, and quietly said, “Should we take off the nightshirt while I’m still in the cot?”

“Of course.” He smiled uneasily as he came closer.

Trying her best not to cry out in pain, Emily eased the shirt up around her legs. She took another deep breath. “Can you take it from here, Doctor?”

“Do you feel up to this, Emily?”

She attempted to smile. “Up to what, Doctor – taking exercise on the weather decks or having you take off my nightshirt?”

The hospital walls thundered with the mirthful howling of its occupants. Leander turned scarlet.

“If there is any more laughter out there,” he yelled over his shoulder, “I’ll give you all a shot of laudanum that will put you out for days.”

Instantaneously, a hush descended upon the hospital.

“Well done, Doctor,” Emily whispered.

Knowing her shoulder was still raw, Leander slid the nightdress over Emily’s head as carefully as he could. Underneath, she wore her chemise and his eyes passed over her breasts. His hands shook slightly. The feel of her soft hair, those dark expressive eyes of hers, the interesting curves of her face … she was beautiful. He picked up the blue jacket that Magpie had sewn for her and helped her into the sleeves one at a time, certain he could hear the men’s laboured breathing in the distance. Once Emily had done up her jacket’s brass buttons, he leaned over her cot and murmured, “Now, I’ll pull the trousers on over that ankle of yours.” She shuddered as he touched her feet.

He turned his head towards her. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, I’m … quite fine.” Emily held her breath while he gently hiked the trousers up her legs.

“Now, I hope you can finish the last bit.”

He walked over to the open gunport, his back to her as she struggled with the trousers. Pulling them over her hips and up to her waist, Emily had to stifle the urge to laugh when she noticed the flap front. Then, kicking off her blankets, she hooked her legs over the side of her hammock. “Ready for step two, Doctor.”

Leander spun around, knowing his face was still flushed, and observed her figure in the sailor’s clothing as discreetly as possible.

“Ah, you’ll be needing shoes!” He dashed to a cupboard in the wall and opened its door to reveal three shelves on which he had neatly arranged his own hats, shirts, and cravats. He pulled out a straw hat and her blue silk slippers. “Before you went for your swim the other day,” he said, holding up the slippers, “you smartly tucked these into your jacket.” Kneeling down, he placed them onto her feet.

“I don’t know how well they’ll wear climbing the ship’s rigging and spars,” said Emily, “but they do match my new jacket.”

Leander looked at her thoughtfully. “I have never known a farmer’s daughter who was able to climb the rigging and spars of a ship.”

“In another lifetime, Doctor, I – ” She forced a smile rather than finishing her sentence.

Leander held out his straw hat to her. “Maybe we could save spar climbing for another day.”

Emily gathered up the long waves of her hair with the stronger of her two arms. When she was done, Leander popped the hat on her head.

“Right, now, lean forward a bit,” he whispered.

As she did so, he moved in so close to her face that she could smell the pleasant muskiness of his shirt. He placed one of his slender arms around her back and eased her out of the hammock and onto the floor.

“Mr. Walby,” he called out, “we’re ready for you now.”

Gus burst through the curtains as if on cue, waving a walking cane. Reaching across the hammock, Leander took the cane, handed it to Emily, and stood back to watch as she hobbled like a happy child towards the curtain. Gus held it open for her. In the hospital room, the men looked on from their hammocks with a curiosity to rival a group of elderly women observing couples at a ball.

“Emily,” said Leander, avoiding his patients’ stares, “the winds are strong on deck. Mind the hat.”

11:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Six Bells)

“SIR, THE DOCTOR has allowed that woman to wander freely above deck.”

Octavius, whose pimply face was red and puffy from the hot Bermudian sun, interrupted James as he conferred next to the capstan with Mr. Harding, who, following Emily’s example, had obtained from Dr. Braden a crutch and an admonition against over-exerting himself, and left his hospital cot to resume his duties. There was much to discuss, as the Isabelle would be leaving Bermuda later that day.

Jerking his head up, James squinted into the sun to search the decks within his sight. “I cannot see her anywhere, Mr. Lindsay.”

“She’s standing with Gus Walby and Magpie – of all people – by the fore ladders.”

James looked again. “I see Mr. Walby and young Magpie, but by the stars, I see no woman dressed in a corselet and chemise.”

Octavius compressed his lips in annoyance. “Sir, the Admiralty clearly states that no woman, be she an officer’s wife or a cook, appear above deck while at sea.”

“I’m well versed in navy rules, thank you. Need I remind you we are anchored in port?”

The first lieutenant pointed towards the mainmast’s yardarm. “See how the men pause in their chores to watch her.”

James and Mr. Harding both looked up, shading their eyes from the bright sun.

“They are doing a fine job keeping their eyes in their heads and on their tasks,” Mr. Harding said, shifting his weight about.

“Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Lindsay.” James stared at him long and hard until Octavius looked away.

“Sir! The men don’t have to look at Meg Kettle in the darkness of their cots. We are not all true gentlemen here.”

Aware of the men toiling nearby, James dropped his voice. “We may have beggars and thieves from Newgate prison on board, but as far as I know there are only honourable men among us.”

“Captain Moreland, I fear … I fear you are growing soft.” No sooner had he uttered the words than Octavius regretted them, as he watched James’s face change colour.

“Mr. Lindsay,” James hissed through his teeth, “I will not make a scene here. Meet me in the wardroom at two bells.”

Octavius opened his mouth, but said no more. He saluted and swiftly strode off.

Mr. Harding waited until James’s complexion had regained its normal pallor. “Forgive me, sir … that young man … I know you’re well acquainted with his father, but that bold tongue of his deserves a flogging.”

“Like his father, Mr. Lindsay is hotheaded and impulsive.” James’s glance locked on the young sailor who limped alongside Magpie and Gus Walby. “But he is right.”

“How so, sir?”

“I am growing soft.”

* * *

ONCE GUS HAD HELPED Emily negotiate the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck, he apologized to her. “My lesson with Mr. Austen begins shortly. I must leave you here. But you’ll be quite safe with Magpie.” His eyes brightened. “Today we’re studying the signal flags and communications at sea. It’s my most favourite subject of all.”

“Then you must go. I’m not concerned for my safety, although I had my doubts trying to get out of the doctor’s hammock.” She gave a satisfied glance around the ship. “Just tell me, is there a quiet place where I may sit with Magpie and enjoy this fresh air?”

“Aye, on the poop deck. You’ll find it quiet there this time of day. Unfortunately, it’s at the very back of the ship and it will mean more ladders to climb. The quarterdeck is closer, but if you’re caught loitering there, you’ll most likely be ordered to ‘shove off,’ as only officers and midshipmen may stroll there during their leisure hours. Shall I escort you to the poop deck before I go to class?”

“Thank you, I’ll manage with Mr. Magpie.”

Hobbling along the fo’c’sle deck with her walking cane, Emily drew no stares. The doctor’s straw hat hid her long, fair hair, and the baggy trousers and waist-length jacket Magpie had fashioned for her disguised her female form. She had supposed her blue silk shoes would be a dead giveaway, but no one seemed interested in her feet. Moreover, Gus had assured her that several of the men were new to the Isabelle, and thus many faces were still foreign to one another.

As if reading her thoughts, Magpie piped up, “Ya’ll get away with it today, ma’am, but tonight at supper they’ll be askin’ me the name of the sailor I was walkin’ with at noon.”

“Do you not get leisure time?”

“Aye, but they don’t usually see the likes of Magpie up on the poop deck.”

“In that case, let’s just sit here.”

Emily and Magpie perched themselves upon two overturned barrels alongside the starboard railing of the ship’s waist, and there fell quiet to appreciate the scenes around them. The decks were teeming with sailors – toiling, talking, taking leisure – reminding Emily of a busy street in London minus the coiffed ladies in their bonnets and redingotes. High on the yardarms, the men stood precariously on their footropes, letting down the sails in preparation for their return to the sea. Those on the mast platforms watched the empty horizons for enemy sails. They were like birds in a mountain nest, isolated and free. She longed to be up there with them and determined she would be once her ankle and shoulder had healed.

Following Magpie’s gaze out over the square, stone buildings in the dockyard and the low, mossy-green hills of Ireland Island, Emily noticed there was only one other ship in port beyond the Isabelle, a small two-masted vessel with an unusually bright red hull. HMS Amethyst and the three East India merchantmen, of which she’d overheard Dr. Braden speaking to Mr. Harding in the hospital earlier, must have departed, she thought. Emily had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Amethyst’s Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington, as their manners and fondness for the Isabelle’s food had apparently provided Captain Moreland with a good amount of entertainment.

Pulling her eyes away from the thickets of mangrove and hedges of oleander that lay beyond the naval buildings, Emily was surprised to find Magpie studying her face with interest, much as Captain Moreland and Fly Austen had the night of their interrogation. Quickly he looked away, furtively slipping a gilded object into his trousers pocket, and turning his attention to the stretch of new canvas that whispered above his head.

“What is that you have there?” Emily asked, referring to her tantalizing glimpse of gold.

“Aw, it ain’t nothing,” said Magpie, still looking at the sail. He pointed upwards. “Ain’t she a beauty, ma’am? I sewed her meself.”

“Yes,” Emily said absently. It was her turn to study him. His eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with long black lashes, and his dark curls blew with abandon in the warm breeze. His little fingers were stained black and his leather shoes had lost their heels, but his trousers, shirt, and red necktie were all clean, and the stitches around the patches were neat and even. There was a catch in her throat as she asked, “Where did you live before joining the navy, Magpie?”

“In London, ma’am. I was a chummy, a climbin’ boy.”

“A climbing boy? Do you mean you cleaned chimneys?”

“That I did. Still can’t get the soot out o’ me nails.”

“What a horrible time you must have had.”

“Oh, aye, and I had a mean boss – Mr. Hardy was his name. He stood around eatin’ meat pasties while I climbed the dark flues. And if I didn’t wanna go up, he’d prick me feet with a pin. I’ve burns on me legs and arms, and me lungs don’t take kindly to colds.”

“How did you ever escape Mr. Hardy?”

“I didn’t jump out o’ no windows, ma’am,” he said with an impish grin. “Nay, I was climbin’ at a big house one day and I had a fall. Bruised meself badly. The man o’ the house was kind enough to give me water and let me rest awhile on his couch. He gave Mr. Hardy a terrible tongue lashin’ on account o’ me bad treatment, and ordered Mr. Hardy to leave his house at once, sayin’ I would be stayin’ with him. Imagine me surprise! His wife was kind too. She give me the best dinner I’ve ever eaten and told me to eat up ’til me sides busted. I remember it still: roast o’ pork an’ potatoes, a kind o’ mint sauce, biscuits, cheese, and a baked bread puddin’.” He sighed at the memory. “It was grand. After dinner the man asked me if I wanted a postin’ on a sailin’ ship. Said he was a big gun in the Royal Navy and could get me a post if I was keen. Course I didn’t wanna go back climbin’ so I jumped at the chance.”

“Who was this saviour of yours?”

There was mischievous glint in Magpie’s eyes and his thin chest swelled as he proudly said, “He was called the Duke o’ Clarence.”

Emily’s mouth fell open. “The – the Duke of Clarence? Our King George’s son?”

“One ’n’ the same, ma’am.”

“That is astounding!” Her dark eyes danced as she clapped together her bandaged hands in merriment. “Imagine you making the acquaintance of the Duke of Clarence.”

Magpie’s smile vanished. “Why? ’Cause I ain’t nobody?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it in that vein, Magpie. I just think the poor duke has long been criticized for his lifestyle and politics and here he’s shown true kindness to the Isabelle’s sail maker.”

“D’ya know him too, ma’am?”

Emily shrank back on her barrel. “No. I’ve just read about him in the newspapers. That is all.”

For a moment Magpie’s almond eyes watched her, as if expecting her to say more, but when she did not, his expression changed and he peeked up shyly at her. “Do ya like the clothes I made fer ya, ma’am?”

“Your handiwork is truly exquisite! I look every inch a sailor now, do I not?” Emily leaned closer to him. “Everything is perfect and yet … I cannot guess how it fits me so well.”

“Dr. Braden helped me guess yer … yer proportions, ma’am.”

“Did he now?” Emily grinned pensively.

“Magpie! Why aren’t you below sewing our sails?”

The low voice startled Magpie, who sprang off his barrel to salute the young man with the bandaged left hand who stood before them.

“You don’t have to salute me,” the man said.

“Aye, but I do, sir. Yer a carpenter’s mate and higher on the scale than me.”

“Nonsense,” the carpenter’s mate replied. His hair was long and shaggy, and beneath his knitted hat, which resembled a long sock, his tanned face was familiar. He jerked his paint-splattered thumb towards Emily.

“Who’s your pal, Magpie?”

The boy faltered, his eyes darting nervously between Emily and the carpenter’s mate.

“Mr. George, midshipman, at your service, sir,” Emily said loudly, raising a fist to the brim of her straw hat in salute.

The young man looked wary as he returned the salute. “How do you do? Morgan Evans is my name … sir.” His stare flickered beneath her face and settled on her silk slippers. “You must be one of the new ones on the Isabelle. Welcome aboard, Mr. George.”

“Thank you, sir.”

There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he nodded and sauntered on down the deck.

“Ya didn’t fool Mr. Evans, ma’am.”

“Apparently not.” Emily watched after him until she could no longer discern his funny hat amongst the throng of sailors.

“He’s the one what plucked ya from the sea.”

“I thought he looked familiar.”

“Beg yer pardon, ma’am, but if ya wanna pretend you’re a midshipman, ya don’t hafta salute a carpenter’s mate like Mr. Evans.”

“I have much to learn …” Emily’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of a young officer standing against the quarterdeck railing, his chin raised in challenge, glaring down upon her with his dark, penetrating eyes.

“Who’s that, Magpie?” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the insolent observer.

“That’s Lord Lindsay, ma’am.” Magpie shivered. “I … I don’t like him much.”

1:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

WHEN THE AIR RESOUNDED with two bells, Magpie had to resume his duties, even though, unbeknownst to Emily, he had missed his dinner to sit with her. Emily couldn’t help feeling sad. Her taste of freedom had been all too brief and she had enjoyed their discussions on naval regulations, the fine art of sail sewing, and Biscuit’s culinary repertoire. Unable to wander the decks alone, she reluctantly began her trek back to the hospital, telling her little companion he didn’t need to assist her. “I’ll have to make my own way around the Isabelle sooner or later.”

Having successfully managed the first ladder down to the upper deck, she found herself outside the officers’ wardroom. Behind the closed door came two voices raised in anger. She recognized one as the captain’s, but was not certain of the other. Emily slowed her pace in an attempt to hear their words.

“It’s one thing giving that woman freedom to exercise above deck; it’s quite another allowing her to trifle with the likes of Magpie and Morgan Evans on the main deck.”

“Magpie is a boy of ten.”

“Mr. Evans, however, is not.”

There was a crash as if someone’s fist had found a tabletop. “Enlighten me here. I fail to understand your concerns, brought on by an abundance of grog no doubt …”

Emily’s heart stopped when the floorboards creaked behind her. A stench of perspiration and rotting teeth struck her nose with the force of a club. A growling voice breathed down her neck.

“Lost yer way, sailor?”

“Aye, sir. If you please, which way to the hospital?”

It was Biscuit, the cook, carrying a tray of wine, sweets, and goblets. He resembled a flame with his shock of orange hair standing straight up on his forehead. One of his eyes widened in delight, while the other – horribly out of alignment – searched about for her. His long grey sideburns were sprinkled with food crumbs, as were his chest hairs, which sprang from his open-necked checked shirt like a stowed animal struggling to escape.

“Yer arse backwards, sailor. Thee hospital’s in thee front o’ thee ship and yer in thee back.” He lowered his peculiar eyes to her right foot. “Seein’ as yer crippled, would ya like me to carry ya there after I take thee wine in to Captain Moreland?”

“I can manage.”

“Yer an awfully pretty young sailor. I’d be watchin’ meself wand’rin’ thee decks alone, especially in yer condition.”

“I appreciate the warning, sir.”

Unable to endure Biscuit’s odour, Emily stumbled away from him and made for the nearest passageway. She found herself in the sailors’ mess and, uncertain of the path back to the hospital, stood there awkwardly, the room stretching dauntingly before her like a bridgeless gorge. The dinner hour was over, but several men lingered, swilling their mugs of beer, enjoying their leisure time with their mates. They sat in groups, reclining on benches, barrels, and sea chests, and at the tables sandwiched between the menacing carronades lying silent in their open gunports. Hanging on a hook above each table was a swinging bucket of steaming food, and nailed to the walls were racks of wooden spoons and bowls.

Emily beheld the boisterous scene before her, relieved that the sailors were preoccupied with a variety of pursuits: gambling, arguing, singing, arm wrestling, and blowing tunes on flutes. In all her eighteen years, she had never been in a room with so many men. She could hear the thump of her heart and was shocked to admit it was not anxiety that caused its rapid beating.

It was not long before she was noticed. One by one, the men slapped one another and gestured in her direction. They ceased their flute playing, paused in their wrestling, and quit arguing long enough to take a good long look at the newcomer with the walking cane. A strange hush permeated the mess where only moments before there had been hilarity and din. Emily could hear a whistle blowing above deck, and beyond the gunports the squawk of the seagulls. A flush crept up her neck.

An enormous shirtless fellow with a squashed-in nose and peg leg spun around on his bucket to look her up and down. “Nice shoes, sailor,” he shouted, causing his mates to erupt into laughter. From behind the heckler, Morgan Evans’s face appeared.

“You’re speaking to a midshipman, Jacko. I didn’t see ya salute.”

“A mid?” Jacko’s thick features displayed shock. “I ain’t never seen a mid wearin’ blue silk shoes.”

“It’s Mr. George.” Morgan gave Emily a respectful nod. “Sir.”

“Ah, Mr. George, come ’ave a drink with us.” Jacko raised a hammy arm to her.

There was more laughter and muttered remarks. It was impossible for Emily to respond as her throat had gone dry. She stood there like a gaping idiot, uncertain of what to do. Then behind her came a familiar reek, and a clap on the back that would have sent her sprawling across the floor had Jacko not caught her with one of his huge hands.

“Come sit a while, Mr. George, sir,” said Biscuit, steering her towards Morgan’s table. “These lads here – thee ones admirin’ yer shoes – just happen to be me messmates. Shove over lads so our friend can join us.” Biscuit pushed Emily down hard on the bench, compressing her between Morgan and Jacko, then, finding a space for himself across the table from them, he snapped his fingers at the nearest servant lad. “You there, boyo, fetch me two mugs o’ beer.”

Gradually the noise in the mess resumed as the men returned to their various amusements. Emily sat frozen between Jacko’s sweaty bare flesh and Morgan, who had quietly pulled his woollen sock off his head, while eight pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed themselves on her reddened face.

“Mr. George’s been in thee hospital these past days and hasn’t had a drop to drink ’cause – as we all know – Doc Braden don’t allow spirits in his domain.” Biscuit took the mugs from the hovering servant boy and handed one to Emily. “Now, drink up, young lad. This stuff is sure to put hair on yer chest.” He winked his good eye at her.

Emily sipped the horrid, watery stuff, forcing herself to swallow it rather than spit it all over Jacko, as she would have liked to do. Morgan leaned his right arm on the table and cradled his head on his upturned hand to look at her. “There’s no fear of you getting drunk if you’re going to drink your beer that way.”

“Mr. George,” said Jacko, showing her two rows of green teeth, “ya look like a regular fop in them shoes. Don’t want the other lads thinkin’ yer a bit of a Beau Brummel now, do ya? They may get the wrong idea about ya. Now, seein’ as I’m the shoemaker here on the Isabelle, how be I knock ya up a pair o’ sensible black leathers? And if yer agreeable to partin’ with a couple o’ pounds, I can arrange to put silver buckles on ’em.”

Finally Emily found her voice, though it was a good deal softer than she would have liked. “I’m afraid I have no money.” She took another sip of beer, this time a larger one, and grimaced as it went down. It tasted as if it had been brewed with Biscuit’s bath water.

The men roared.“You! A mid! Wearing silk shoes, and ya say ya ’ave no money?”

“Young fella like you must ’ave a rich family.”

“Don’t tell me they sent ya to sea without a shillin’ to yer name?”

Emily gulped down more beer and confirmed the sailors’ remarks with a nod of her head.

“But lads, ain’t Mr. George a pretty boy?” said Biscuit, raising his beer mug. “Maybe he could earn his silver buckles. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Jacko here’s fond o’ pretty boys such as yerself,” said a sailor with a swarthy complexion and bloodshot eyes.

“Mind ya’d have to keep it quiet from thee cap’n,” said Biscuit. “Cap’n Moreland don’t stand fer no mischief. If he catches ya, he’ll have ya strung up on thee yardarm.”

Morgan watched the colour drain from Emily’s face. “Pay them no heed, Mr. George.” He smacked her playfully on her right shoulder. An agony of pain tore through her body and she doubled over, but rather than cry out she hid in her beer mug and choked down the contents.

“You there, boyo.” Biscuit snapped his fingers again at the servant boy who stood nearby. “More beer fer our friend here.”

When Emily’s pain subsided and she’d caught her breath, she set down her drink and glanced up to find Dr. Braden standing over the mess table.

“Doc, what brings ya to this part o’ thee world?” asked Biscuit, his bad eye rolling in his orange head.

Dr. Braden slid his spectacles down his nose and gazed upon Emily with a look of incredulity. All eight of the sailors stared at her as she sank lower on the bench, trying to disappear behind Jacko’s mountain of flesh. “I’ve come to fetch an errant patient of mine,” he said coolly.

“Ah, but as Mr. George here’s off duty, he was gonna have another beer with us,” said Biscuit.

Dr. Braden frowned and looked around the table at each of the men. “Mr. George?”

Jacko put his slippery arm around Emily. “I’m gonna make ’im a new pair o’ black leathers so he won’t look such a fop in them silk shoes.”

Leander’s face relaxed. “Oh, I see. Mr. George. You threw me off, gentlemen, since I know Mr. George by another name.”

Emily opened her mouth to explain herself and instead emitted a magnificent burp. The men crowded around her rocked with convulsive laughter.

Morgan grinned. “We’ll have him toughened up in no time, Doc.” In disgrace, Emily pulled the rim of her straw hat down over her eyes.

Above deck, the bell rang out and a shout was issued. “All hands, sails aloft.”

The men swilled their drinks, gathered their cards, quit their benches, buckets, and sea chests, and hurried towards the nearest hatches. While Emily watched in remorse as they scattered, she noticed Mr. Lindsay, the young officer with the challenging stare, standing rigidly to one side of the door through which she had entered the mess, his beady black eyes locked on her. She shuddered.

“We’ll be leaving Bermuda, sir,” said Morgan to Dr. Braden. Then to Emily, “Come have a beer with us lads again tomorrow, Mr. George, sir.” He put a fist to his woollen hat in salute. Emily sat there, red-faced, and said nothing.

When the mess had almost cleared, Biscuit turned to Dr. Braden. “Seein’ as his ankle’s troublesome, shall I carry him back to thee hospital fer ya, Doc?”

From under her hat Emily ventured a peek up at Leander and saw his jaw working. In her woozy state, she could not be sure whether it was a flash of anger or twinkle of enjoyment she detected in his sea-blue eyes. Pushing herself up from the bench with the aid of her walking stick, she answered for herself. “Certainly not, Biscuit. Just … just lead the way, if you please.”

7:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

“ARE YA AWAKE, MISS?”

Against the dim light of the hospital lanterns, Emily could see the silhouette of Osmund Brockley, standing outside her curtain, holding her supper in his hands.

“I am, Mr. Brockley. Come in.”

He stooped low as he passed through the canvas, carefully cradling her bowl of jellied green soup. “Biscuit sends the pea soup with his compliments and wants ya to know he made a special pudding fer yer dessert.”

“How kind of him,” Emily said, inching her body up against her pillow. “I didn’t hear the supper bell.”

Osmund pulled a wooden spoon from his pocket, wiped it off on his apron, and dropped it into the bowl before handing it off to Emily. “Supper was over long ago, Miss. Ya been sleeping awhile.”

“Where is Dr. Braden?”

“Dining with Captain Moreland and his officers in the wardroom,” he said, rolling his thick tongue around his cracked lips.

No doubt the men’s supper conversation was colourful, thought Emily. What she wouldn’t give to have been a fly on those walls! She suddenly became aware of the rise and fall of the ship. “We’re at sea, Mr. Brockley?”

“Aye, we pulled anchor hours ago, Miss.” He pulled in his tongue to give her a grin. “Yer exercise above deck must have tuckered ya out.”

“It did indeed,” she said, avoiding his bright eyes. “Thank you for the soup.”

“Holler when ya want yer pudding.”

Osmund gawked at her a moment, then left. Emily dipped the spoon into the thick green muck and slowly brought it to her mouth, banishing all thoughts of its cook and his crumby whiskers.

Later on, as she finished the last of her pudding and contemplated a dull, restless evening, she heard tentative steps approaching. Gus Walby cleared his throat.

“Come in. Please.”

Gus slipped through the curtain into her corner and stood by her hammock holding Sense and Sensibility. Emily could see that his blue eyes were full of excitement.

“Have you come to rescue me from my boredom?”

“I promised to come and read to you before my watch.”

“But the First Watch has already begun, has it not?”

“My watch begins at midnight. I’ve never done the Middle Watch before. Captain Moreland must have confidence in me for we’ll soon be entering enemy waters again.”

“May I watch with you? I’d give anything to be away from this bed.”

Gus’s cheeks reddened. “You’d better not, Em. You caused quite a stir this afternoon.” He reached for the stool at the foot of her hammock and sat down upon it. “When you didn’t return to the hospital, Dr. Braden asked me to look for you, as he had his hands full stitching up the head of a sailor that’d fallen from the shrouds. But I couldn’t find you anywhere. I was mad at myself for leaving you, but I never thought Magpie would have led you to the mess.”

“Magpie did no such thing! When it was time for him to return to his duties, I told him I was quite capable of finding my own way back to the hospital. I soon discovered I was quite lost and not capable at all.”

“Is it true, Em? Were you really drinking beer with Biscuit and his mates?”

“Did Dr. Braden tell you that?”

“Oh, no.” Gus lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was invited to dine with the officers this evening and it was there that Mr. Lindsay announced he’d been informed you were drinking beer with a group of men that were saying lewd things to you. All Dr. Braden said was it was obvious the men had no idea they were in the presence of a lady; otherwise, they wouldn’t have been so vulgar.”

Emily leaned closer to Gus. “Is this Mr. Lindsay the same man that teaches you writing?”

“Aye, he’s a first lieutenant.”

“Fascinating!” Emily said, more to herself than to Gus.

“Were you quite offended by the men’s remarks?”

“Not at all. I’ve had occasion to hear far worse. It’s not just men on the sea who misbehave.”

Gus looked embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have said anything at all …” His voice trailed off when Dr. Braden entered the hospital. In one brisk action, Gus opened Jane Austen’s novel and randomly began to read.

In the lamplight, Emily could see Leander’s shadow stop next to his desk, where he raised his head and stood unmoving as if listening to Gus’s reading. For a full chapter, he stayed in that position, and when it was complete, he called out, “It’s late, Mr. Walby.”

“Good night, Em. Sleep well. I hope we can continue tomorrow.”

Emily replied with a silent nod.

When Gus was gone, she lay swinging in her hammock, listening to the wind howling through the tiny cracks in the ship’s timbers and the sea crashing as the Isabelle battled her way through the waves. Periodically, a bell sounded, an order was shouted, a whistle was blown in the distance, but the rest of the ship was eerily silent. There was no entertainment above deck this night. Near Emily’s head, the gunport was closed up, and her little corner was dark and lonely. She hoped Leander might check in on her, might be in the mood for some conversation, but the only sounds outside her canvas curtain were the moans and snores of the wounded men in their cots, and the scratch of a pen. Emily closed her eyes and waited for sleep to come.

The first crash of cannons sounded in the early morning before light. Emily sat upright in her hammock and blinked in the blackness of the lower deck. As yet, no lanterns had been lit in the room where they all slept. Through the cracks in the ship’s timbers, she could see flashes of light that were followed by thunderous outbursts of guns. The hits to the hull of their merchant ship rattled Emily’s teeth and landed her on her back as she scrambled out of her cot. There was confusion and chaos above her head as the crew raced to defend themselves with their guns. In the darkness of the large cabin the women started screaming and the children began to wail. Emily could not see a thing as she groped her way to the next hammock and, with trembling hands, felt around for the terrified child who lay there. She scooped up the youngster and shouted to the other women to grab their children and take them to the corners of the room. But no one answered her. No one seemed to hear her. All around the ship the explosions and ensuing battle cries were deafening.

Before long, the American captain ordered his men to lash the ships together for boarding. As she crouched down in a gloomy corner, Emily could smell the stale stink of the enemy seamen as they crept through the decks with their pistols cocked and cutlasses in the ready position. She held her breath, hoping somehow they would not find her, and calmed herself by rocking the unknown child in her arms, feeling its soft hair against her cheek, wiping away its tears, but it was impossible, as the women and children sitting in the darkness next to her were hysterical. Voices – frantic voices – called out her name, over and over again. Suddenly, the silhouettes of three men came upon her and lifted a lantern to her face. The tallest one wore a cocked hat. He tore the child from her arms and held his pistol to her breast …

Emily awoke and cried out. Her heart pumped madly in her tightened chest and she gasped for air, her dark thoughts dragging her into an abyss where there was only oppressive sadness. Feeling icy cold, she began to shudder.

Within seconds a hospital lantern was lit and Leander stood next to her bed. “It was a dream … just a dream,” he said gently, pulling the blankets she had cast off in her fitful sleep up around her shoulders. “Breathe in deeply and exhale slowly through your mouth.”

Emily closed her eyes and tried concentrating on her breathing. “It was so black,” she mumbled on her pillow.

“Keep breathing – slowly and deeply. I’ll be right back.”

Fighting the temptation to revisit her nightmare, Emily lay there alone, trying to restore her breathing and heart rate with pleasant memories of her childhood home in England. It had been such a lovely house: three storeys high, stucco and beam, full of cosy corners, secret cupboards, and happy people. And the surrounding gardens had been so fragrant, all riotous colour, humming with tiny creatures. Father was there, smiling and waving to her as she played near the pond under the willow trees …

But it was no use. The haunting sounds of sobbing women and children, and the delirious voices of her unseen companions as they ran about, calling out to her in the shadows, kept interrupting her images of England … kept echoing through the corridors of her mind. Where were they now? Caught in the ship’s remains, their scattered bones lost in the ocean’s dark depths? Try as she might, Emily could not flee from her fear and her guilt that somehow … she had been responsible for their fate.

Leander returned quietly with a lantern and cup of water for her. “There’s a tincture of laudanum in it. It will help you sleep.”

Longing for nothingness, Emily greedily drank the contents.

Leander hung the lantern on a hook by the head of her bed, then pulled up the footstool and sank down upon it, watching her as he did so. She wore his muslin nightshirt, which hid the curves of her breasts. Her pale hair was damp with sweat, and bits of it curled around her face. Her cheeks were flushed and tears clung to her lashes, making her look more like a frightened young child than the self-assured woman of eighteen years he had been used to seeing. A wave of intense feeling swept through him and he longed to hold her in his arms.

When Emily’s heart had slowed, she opened her brown eyes and looked at Leander as if seeing him for the first time. He was dressed in a blue-striped, open-necked nightshirt; his rumpled hair stood up in small tufts on the crown of his head, and a shadow of auburn stubble was visible around his lips.

“Would it help to talk about it?” he asked, resting his elbows on his thighs.

Emily exhaled through her open lips. “Thank you, but no … not yet.”

He nodded and gave her a half smile. “The sea is calmer now. Shall I open the gunport? A bit of fresh air might help.”

“Please.”

Emily’s eyes followed him as he stood up and walked around the foot of her bed – his head and shoulders sloped forward to avoid hitting the ceiling – then slowly they dropped below the hem of his nightshirt as he worked to unlatch the gunport. His calves and ankles were well turned out and she took pleasure in the bone structure of his feet. A breeze, making its way through the open gunport into Emily’s corner, ruffled his nightshirt, outlining his slim form. Her eyelids grew heavy as a surge of warmth spread throughout her body.

Leander retraced his steps to the stool and sat patiently in the event she needed anything. For several minutes, with his head leaning on an upturned fist, he looked upon her quiet face and closed eyelids, and was therefore startled when her lips suddenly twisted into a grin and one of her eyes popped open.

“Doctor Braden,” she whispered, “you have a lovely, fine nose.”

Leander lifted his head and raised his eyebrows, uncertain that he had heard her correctly. He opened his mouth to question her remark, but her breathing had steadied and her features had relaxed. He knew she was sound asleep.