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Tuesday, June 8

2:00 a.m.

(Middle Watch, Four Bells)

GUS WALBY HURRIED UP THE LADDER to the poop deck. Captain Moreland stood in the dark and pouring rain, drinking cold coffee and watching the progress of his boarding party as they organized a group of about fifty presumed British deserters on the quarterdeck of the Liberty for transportation onto the Isabelle.

“Sir, Mr. Austen asked me to tell you we are ready to bring the men aboard,” said Gus, shivering in his sodden muslin shirt. “He says there are forty-six of them. They all speak like Englishmen but, except for one man, all claim to be American citizens.”

James, wearing his knee-length Carrick coat to shut out the wind and dampness, droplets of rain falling from his bicorne hat, closed his eyes to think. “Thank you, Mr. Walby. Tell Mr. Austen to take them down to the gaol for the balance of the night, then tell Biscuit to make certain they receive food and water. We will begin questioning them one by one in the morning.”

“And what about their captain, sir?”

“A pompous, cantankerous young fellow named Butterfield, I believe.” James gave Gus a sardonic smile. “As he is no longer a threat to us, let him stay with his diminished crew.”

“Did he surrender his sword to you, sir?”

“I did not ask for it, Mr. Walby.”

Gus shivered again. “And the ship, sir? Mr. Austen would like to know what your orders are regarding it?”

“Unlash her, let her go,” said Captain Moreland with surprising calmness. “She’s in no shape to sail far, and I’m afraid we’re in for a spell of bad weather. I cannot trust this night to spare skilled men to take her a prize.”

Gus tried to hide his disappointment. “Anything else, sir?”

“Aye, take what weapons you can, then let them all take their chances in the storm. I can do no more for them.”

Gus made a hesitant salute, then spun around and began retracing his steps to the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. James called him back.

“Mr. Walby?”

“Sir?”

“Here, take my coat,” he said, unbuttoning his Carrick. “It will be long on you, but I believe you will wear it well.”

“What about you, sir?” Gus said, coming forward eagerly to accept the heavy coat.

“I need to rest awhile. I’ll be in the wardroom. Tell Mr. Austen to meet me there at six bells before breakfast, and ask him to bring with him that one fellow who admitted to being an Englishman.”

Gus slid proudly into the captain’s Carrick, fingering its large brass buttons.

“Now, Mr. Walby, tell me … can you remember all that?”

“Aye, sir!” Gus grinned. With a second, more serious salute, he negotiated the slippery ladder, careful not to trip on the long coat’s hem, and soon vanished into the shadowy confusion on the main deck. For several minutes James watched the activity below him. The scarlet-jacketed marines had positioned themselves at intervals along the larboard railing, their muskets still pointing at the enemy ship in case there was any further resistance. Mr. Harding hobbled about, pressing his hat to his head, shouting through his speaking trumpet so the men on their lofty footropes could hear his orders.

“Main staysail only. Reef all others.”

The men’s replies to the sailing master were lost to the wind and the snapping sails.

Already the carpenters were at work on repairs. Mr. Alexander was carving a new crossjack yard while Morgan Evans was rebuilding the belfry. Others would be occupied below deck caulking holes with oakum and pitch. James watched as Morgan moved his tools to allow the quartermaster to strike the unharmed bell five times.

Scurrying about with a large basket under one arm was Meg Kettle, visibly muttering as she tried to gather up the last of the men’s laundry.

Infernal woman, thought James. Never does she follow orders. Pity a blast of Yankee grapeshot – or British for that matter – didn’t find her backside when the guns were firing.

His eyes shifted to two midshipmen perched on the capstan, watching the progression of the American seamen onto the decks of the Isabelle. If he’d had the energy, James would have yelled out to them to “stand tall on the deck,” but at this late hour he could only feel relief that the boys had survived the encounter with the enemy.

In the faint illumination cast by the dozens of lanterns hung from the rigging, James could see the slant of the rain. He was thankful for the darkness, thankful that it hid the bloodstains on the decks and the faces of the men who had fallen during the engagement. He averted his eyes from the place on the fo’c’sle, near the small boats, where a silent, still row of sailors lay, and instead looked upwards to view the tangle of ropes and ruined sails. The Liberty had forty-four guns on board, no real match for his seventy-four-gun ship, even though he did not possess enough gun crews to man them all. Still, she had inflicted plenty of damage to the Isabelle. He shook his head in frustration. Yet again they would have to refit, but where could they go? Bermuda was out of the question this time. Draining the last of his coffee, he leaned into the wind and crossed the poop deck to the railing opposite the side where the two ships were lashed together. There he stared into the foamy waves that beat against the Isabelle’s hull. It was late. A storm was approaching from the east and there was still so much work to be done. James tightened his grip on the railing and stared into the cold wet blackness.

5:00 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Two Bells)

EMILY STIRRED AS THE ECHOES of two bells entered her sleep. She opened her eyes and felt the Isabelle being tossed about on a rough sea. Having slept on the damp floorboards of her little corner, she awoke in some pain: her back was stiff and her ankle and shoulder ached. In the darkness, she raised herself slowly, stretched, and, steadying herself against Leander’s clothing cupboard, tiptoed over to open the gunport, only to close it up again when a heavy spray of saltwater poured in, soaking her shirt. She stopped to listen to the sounds on the ship. It was hauntingly silent after the explosions and screams and pandemonium of a few hours ago. She could hear the wind howling and the crash of the waves and Magpie’s steady breathing as he slept in her hammock.

It had been near midnight when Leander had finally been able to examine the lad. He had removed the ruined remains of his left eye and bandaged his small head, and as Magpie slipped into a laudanum-induced sleep, he had turned to Emily saying, “It is always infection that I fear …”

Now, at this early morning hour, aside from the occasional snore or whimper from the wounded sailors swinging in hammocks or curled up on thin blankets on the hospital floor, all was quiet beyond her canvas curtain. There was one lantern still burning. Its dim light revealed Leander writing at his reclaimed desk, the surgical instruments having been rolled up and stowed away. Making notes in his medical journal again, Emily guessed. He looked up and pulled off his spectacles when she emerged from her corner.

“Doctor,” she said in whispers, picking her way towards his desk, “it’s five in the morning. Have you had no sleep at all?”

“A brief nap.” He suppressed a yawn. “How is Magpie?”

“Sleeping soundly, poor fellow.” Emily glanced down at Leander’s journal to find that he was not writing medical notes at all, but a letter. Gently she reached out to take the pen from Leander’s right hand. “There is a blanket on the floor by his hammock. It is yours. Go and get some sleep. Your … letter can wait.”

Willingly, he folded it up, tucked it into the pocket of his breeches, and smiled up at her. “Strangely, I am not tired. Later it will hit me.” He leaned back in his chair. “I could use some fresh air, though.”

“I’m guessing we’re in the midst of a storm.”

“This is nothing. I have known far worse,” he said, rising to stretch his back. “No, Emily, that blanket is yours. You of all people deserve more sleep. I won’t be gone long.” Leander detected an expression he could not discern in her dark eyes. “Perhaps I should not leave you here alone with so many wounded?”

“No, Doctor, that doesn’t concern me.” She took a step closer to him, looking up at his handsome face. “I should like to come with you.”

“It might be too dangerous.”

Emily’s face brightened at the innuendo. “Would Captain Moreland disapprove of you as my escort?”

His face reddened in the half-light. “You are quite safe with me, madam,” he said, looking everywhere but at her.

“Am I?”

Leander dropped his arms at his side and his eyes widened.

“Right, then,” Emily whispered with a jaunty smile. “I will take my chances.” She limped past his desk and headed towards the ladder up.

“What about your walking stick?” Leander asked when he had recovered.

“Perhaps you will lend me your arm instead,” she said, disappearing through the hatch.

A slow grin took hold of his features as he hurried to his clothing cupboard, next to the sleeping Magpie, to retrieve his two reliable raincoats. As he headed towards the ladder with the coats draped over his arm, Mr. Crump lifted his head from his pillow.

“No mischief now, Doc.”

5:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Three Bells)

BISCUIT HANDED OCTAVIUS LINDSAY and Gus Walby each a steaming mug of coffee as they stood shivering by the bowsprit on morning watch. “Drink up, Mr. Lindsay. Drink up, Mr. Walby,” he said cheerfully, trying to shield the remaining mugs on his tray from the driving rain.“Here’s thee only warm sustenance ya’ll be gettin’ fer a while. Can’t fire up me galley stove in this storm. And thee Doc says he ain’t got no time nor hospital room for anyone comin’ down with thee fever.”

“Well, he would if he rid himself of that woman,” said Octavius, wrapping his lips around his coffee cup.

Biscuit sneered, his bad eye rotating in his orange head. “And he ain’t about to do that now, is he, Mr. Lindsay?” He continued on his way, struggling against the ship’s pitching to keep his tray and himself aloft as he sought out other waterlogged seamen in need of some warmth.

Octavius grunted out a garbled reply and rounded on Gus who was still clad in Captain Moreland’s coat. “Mr. Walby, your watch ended long ago. Why is it you are still above deck?”

Gus squinted up at the first lieutenant through the rain. “You don’t mind, do you, sir? I can’t sleep.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Might I ask, sir … why you don’t like Em?”

Octavius gave a throaty laugh. “Em? You’re on a first-name basis with her?”

Gus nodded. “I read to her.”

“Can she not read herself?”

“Of course! Mr. Austen gave me the volumes of his sister’s book, Sense and Sensibility, to read to her to pass the time while she lay recovering in her cot.”

“Such rubbish! Your time and hers would be better spent, Mr. Walby, reading books on navigation and signalling, and teaching her how to use a sextant.”

Gus said no more, turning his eyes away to peer into the fierce blackness before him. He shivered in his coat, thankful he wasn’t one of those phantom figures who worked the sails, some of them at more than one hundred feet above sea level, standing in their bare toes on nothing more than an inch of rope. Yet another large wave leapt onto the fo’c’sle deck, soaking Mr. Lindsay, who scowled beside him.

“Damn and hell,” Octavius cursed, his coffee mug overflowing with saltwater. He tossed the mug and its contents over the side of the ship, and in a voice suddenly stripped of its earlier sarcasm said, “Two battles and I haven’t received a scratch. If I am so lucky to survive this war, Mr. Walby, I shall leave the navy. I detest being ruled by the Articles of War. Surely I deserve far better than cold, diluted coffee and weather such as this.”

Gus, shocked to hear such words from a senior officer, set down his mug to seize hold of a lifeline. “What would you do, sir?”

Octavius studied the young boy for a moment. “Beg my father to pay my way through law school.”

“With respect, sir, why didn’t you choose law in the first place?”

“Because, Mr. Walby, I am my father’s eighth son. He chose my career for me. I did not have a say in it.”

“Did your mother have no sympathy for you, sir?”

Octavius’s eyes grew distant. “My mother is a senseless, self-absorbed woman who cares nothing for me. She certainly did not come to my defence when I pleaded for a career in law. Why, she did not even bother to come out of the house to see me off when I left for sea. I was told she was having her hair dressed at the time.” He shook his head and took a deep breath. “Such foolish talk, Mr. Walby. Pay me no heed. I must do my rounds.”

As Octavius fought his way through the gusty winds, he brushed the saltwater from his face. Looking after him, Gus whispered, “At least you have a mother.”

* * *

“THIS IS NOT AT ALL SAFE,” cried Leander into the wind, gripping Emily’s arm as they made their way to a sheltered spot near the small boats and cutters that had once again been secured to the Isabelle’s waist.

“It’s exhilarating,” she shouted back happily, clutching the collar of her borrowed coat.

“Most of the men become seasick in this weather. You, on the other hand, seem to delight in it.”

“I loved being on a ship when I was a young girl. I was never seasick a day, Doctor.”

“Hmm! Yes, you have already mentioned something about being on ships when you were a girl, and wandering freely about on weather decks.”

Emily gave him a mysterious smile and hobbled ahead of him to sit upon a low wooden bench that was nailed to the deck beneath the protective shelter of the smaller boats. Leander sat down beside her and quietly watched her as she looked out upon the frothy waves. The wind had loosened strands of her pale hair, which she’d tied back with her red scarf. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes shone in the duskiness of early morning. She had thrust her hands into the large pockets of his borrowed coat, her small frame all but disappearing in the folds of the sturdy material, save for her blue silk shoes. Again he wondered who she was.

“Why, Doctor, if the winds would stop blowing so wildly, I’d race you up to the main topgallant.”

Leander stared at her. “Are you trifling with me? Could you … I mean … have you actually ever climbed to the main topgallant?”

Emily relaxed her shoulders, and gave him an admissive nod.

Leander could only gaze upon her in wonder. He wanted to tell her that Captain Moreland would be most interested in this bit of information, but, fearing she would cease speaking so freely, he merely said, “That’s incredible!”

“The truth is, Doctor, I was a climber almost from the time I left the womb.”

“A climber? How so?”

“As a child, I would climb anything that stood before me: a fence, a tree, a balustrade, a barn roof, even though – in doing so – I caused my poor nurses such alarm.”

“I am certain you must have,” said Leander. “But I suppose … there is something in you that does not leave me in complete surprise by this knowledge.”

“If anything, my father encouraged this kind of behaviour,” Emily went on, a wistful smile on her lips. “He was proud of my climbing feats … most likely because I was his only child, and he had wished – as all men do – for a son.”

“A son that would enter the Royal Navy rather than … than taking up farming?”

Emily avoided Leander’s inquisitive glance. “Do not worry yourself, Doctor, I shall not encourage a competition to the topgallant.”

“If you did, I would have to decline. I’m afraid I am a physician, not a sailor.”

“Perhaps not a sailor, but there must be some of the adventurer in you?”

Leander paused to consider that one. “I believe there is more of the adventurer in you than in me.”

She smiled, and a faraway look crept into her eyes.

“Now if you were to run up the main topgallant this minute,” he continued, “you might shock the sensibilities out of a few men. I understand many of them hate being up there themselves.”

“But wouldn’t it be great fun, Doctor? Captain Moreland and Mr. Lindsay would be quick to consult their Articles of War to decide just how they could punish me. Should they withhold my grog rations? Give me a cobbing or a flogging? Seize me up to the shrouds for a night or have me court-martialled?”

“Perhaps they could give you all five punishments!”

They both laughed, then fell silent, listening to the men on their watch, shouting at intervals to one another above the howling tempest.

“Heave the lead, if you please.”

“Winds from the northeast.”

“Compass reading.”

“No sounding yet, sir.”

“What is our speed?”

“We’re scudding at a rate of seven knots.”

Leander was the first to speak again. “There is a hood to the coat. It might help to keep you dry. I wouldn’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Thank you, Doctor, but I welcome the rain. It is so hot and smelly below deck. I wonder that you can work in such conditions.”

“I have done it such a long time now, I hardly notice. Then again, the quality of the air is not a priority when a man is dying on the table before you.”

Emily turned to look at him and smoothed back her hair. “Why are you a ship’s physician? You are not like other navy surgeons and physicians that I have known or heard about.”

Leander frowned at her question. “How is that?”

“You’re clever and well-educated and don’t seem to have a problem with drunkenness.”

“I thank you for the compliment, but I must confess to enjoying spirits upon occasion.”

“When you are lopping off limbs?”

“No, never upon those occasions.”

“That’s what sets you apart.” She continued to look at him, making him uncomfortable. “So … why are you on a ship, Doctor?”

For the longest time he did not reply and Emily wondered if he would prefer to follow her example and evade her question. She was about to apologize for her impertinent curiosity when he opened his lips in answer.

“I left England eight years ago, when my old friend Fly encouraged me to join the Isabelle’s crew – they being in need of a doctor as their last one had died of typhus. With Nelson and his Trafalgar victory, everyone at that time seemed caught up with navy fever, myself included. I found I quite enjoyed life at sea, despite the fact the food is often revolting and I’ve banged my head a few too many times on the deck beams.”

Emily searched his face. “Do you have no family left in England?”

“My mother and father still live in Steventon, near Winchester.”

“And you have no other family?”

Leander looked down at her young face, damp with sea spray, and the dancing tendrils of her wheat-coloured hair. “I was married once. My wife died delivering me of a son. Two months after burying her, my little boy died. I was their attending doctor, but I could not save their lives.” He watched her dark eyes grow sad and quickly added, “It was a long time ago, Emily.”

She shifted her gaze away towards the swollen waves that rose up like shapeless beasts to challenge the Isabelle. For several minutes, as if mesmerized by the harsh scene, she said nothing, but when she turned again towards Leander there was a sympathetic smile on her face.

“The woman you write to – who is she?”

“How do you know I write to a woman?”

“I – I am only guessing.”

He leaned back to stare at her in surprise. “You are an intriguing woman – one who is content to ask questions of others, but avoids answering them about herself.”

She angled her head. “Are you interested in learning something of me?”

“Every man on this ship is interested in learning something of you.”

“Good answer, Doctor! But now we are talking about you. And you were about to tell me the woman’s name.”

He raised one auburn eyebrow and met her questioning eyes straight on. “Jane. Her name is Jane.”

“Jane?”

Leander was certain there was a hint of disappointment in her voice. He could see the next question forming on her lips when Fly Austen blew past their sheltered corner.

“Leander!” he cried upon discovering his friend. “I would have thought you were snoring soundly in your hammock at this hour.” Then realizing it was Emily sitting with him, he added, “Oh! Good morning, ma’am.”

“I might have said the same about you, Mr. Austen,” Leander said.

His dark, wavy hair blowing wildly about, Fly laughed into the wind and reached out to steady himself on the nearest cutter. “I should like nothing better; however, at six bells, James wants to begin questioning the men who were brought on board. I’m on my way below to see how well our guests fared the night.” He looked from one to the other with a wide grin. “And you two are – ?”

“Out for a breath of fresh air, Mr. Austen,” Emily said quickly. “The hospital, as you can well imagine, is oppressively hot and crowded.”

Fly still grinned. “And your many patients, Doctor? Who’s attending them?”

“The ever-capable Mr. Brockley, of course.”

“Well, then, they’re in very good hands.”

A furore of voices suddenly pierced the howling wind. Those on watch, having stood silent and hidden at their posts, hastened to the larboard rail to investigate the hubbub at the front of the ship near the bowsprit.

“Man overboard!”

“Nay, men overboard!”

“Heave-to, lads; slow her down.”

“Throw ’em a barrel, a spar – anything that’ll float.”

“Can we lower a cutter fer ’em?”

“Nay, too dangerous in this weather. Heave-to.”

“It’s Morgan … one of ’em’s Morgan Evans.”

Emily’s right hand flew to her mouth and her stomach began churning in horror.

“They must have fallen from the yards,” hollered Fly. “Leander, your services may be needed. You will excuse us, Emily?”

“Certainly,” she said faintly.

Fly hurried off, pulling his way into the gale by grasping onto the larboard rail. Leander stood up slowly, as if he loathed the thought of leaving her. “I’ll first take you back to the hospital.”

“No. Please. I’m coming with you.”

6:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Five Bells)

IN THE DREARY MORNING LIGHT, Emily could see the two men bobbing on the raging sea – so small and helpless, like young birds fallen far from their mother’s nest. She stood well back and out of the way of the sailors as they hurled buckets, benches, broken spars, and barrels into the slate-grey waves, in the hopes that the men might reach one of them.

“Who else, besides Morgan, fell in?” she asked Gus, who stood next to her alongside the larboard rail, squinting through his spyglass.

“Mr. Alexander. They were both trying to fix a broken yardarm on the foremast.”

“Can they swim?”

Gus shook his head. “Most of us cannot.”

Emily’s gaze fell upon Gus’s little blond head; a mixture of excitement and worry animated his young face as he watched the carpenters through his spyglass. She thought of poor Magpie asleep in her hammock.

“I’m glad you’re safe, Gus,” she said.

He beamed up at her. “I’m glad you are safe as well, Em.”

“The men – they will need blankets when they are pulled in. Dr. Braden has a few in the hospital. Would you mind fetching them?”

Gus handed her his spyglass. “Right away!”

When he was gone, Emily shrank back from the rail and pulled up the hood on Leander’s coat, knowing the sight of her above deck was liable to cause Captain Moreland or Mr. Lindsay to have a stroke, in the event they should happen by. She said a silent prayer for Morgan and Mr. Alexander, and turned her back to the east wind to fix her eyes upon Leander, who had joined the chorus of sailors leaning over the rail shouting encouragement to the carpenters as they laboured to reach one of the floating objects.

“Morgan – the barrel – grab onto it! Swim harder, man! You’re almost there,” Leander cried. Folds of his long forest-green coat furled around his tall frame like an untethered canvas on its yard, revealing the slim curves of his legs in his brown stockings and knee breeches. And when he turned his eyes towards her, as if reassuring himself she was still close at hand, Emily felt a wonderful surge of warmth flow through her.

Still pulling on his uniform coat and looking as if he had just roused himself from his hammock, James swiftly arrived on the fo’c’sle deck and joined Leander at the rail. “Can we save them?”

“Morgan’s got a hold of a barrel,” said Leander. “Looks like he’s going back for Mr. Alexander.”

James spun around to seek the whereabouts of the sailing master. “Mr. Harding, a word, if you please.”

Mr. Harding quit his station next to Lewis McGilp at the wheel and limped over to the rail.

“Do we have any idea where we are, Mr. Harding?”

“The gale has blown us off course. We won’t have an exact location until we see the sun again and can make an accurate measurement, sir.”

“We may never see the sun again. What is your guess?”

“Dangerously close to Cape Hatteras, I’d say. Definitely off the North Carolina coast.”

“Did you try sailing into the wind?”

“We did, but the rudder received a hit during the fight, and the unfurled sails are so full of holes they are next to useless. We need to repair her, sir. It is almost impossible to steer her in her present condition.”

“Why wasn’t I awakened earlier?”

“We – you were up half the night.”

“And so was every other man on this ship.” James frowned. “If we’re smashed upon the shoals of Hatteras, we’ll all soon be sleeping.”

“With respect, sir, what more could have been done?”

“We could have prayed, Mr. Harding.”

Teetering a hundred feet above them, one arm pointing towards the western horizon, the lookout bellowed, “Land, ho! Land, ho!”

Peering into the gloom, James was certain he could see the dim outline of land in the distance. His heart quickened. “Mr. Tucker? What is our depth?”

“No soundings as of yet, sir.”

“Heave the lead lines again,” James ordered, taking a deep breath before returning his attention to his carpenters’ pitiful predicament. Morgan now had one arm locked around the barrel and another trying to hold onto Mr. Alexander, who sputtered and croaked in fear. The shouts of the men on the Isabelle became desperate and louder than before.

“They’re closer now. Throw ’em lifelines.”

“C’mon, Morgan. C’mon, now.”

“You can do it.”

“You’re almost home.”

Seeing the lifelines hit the water, Morgan released the barrel and battled his way through the waves towards them, one hand still gripping the collar of Mr. Alexander’s shirt.

Suddenly a massive, merciless wave rose up like the foot of a giant and crashed down upon the carpenters’ heads, shoving them beneath the sea’s white surface. “Good God!” gasped James, scrambling farther down the rail to watch in horror. There was an outpouring of despair on the Isabelle. Two young midshipmen standing against the rail wheeled away from the disturbing scene and wept openly. Gus reappeared, quietly gave Emily two blankets, and went off to console his distraught friends.

“Pull in the lifeline!”

Old Bailey Beck had tied a cord of rope around his belly and was being hoisted up onto the side of the ship by a couple of sailors when James guessed his intentions. Sensing his disapproval, Bailey calmly stated, “I’m goin’ in after me buddy, Cap’n, even if I die tryin’,” and with his long, white hair and dungaree shirt blowing around him, sprang from the Isabelle like a mythical druid in self-sacrifice. Feet first, he splashed into the swirling waters. When he surfaced he began paddling like a dog towards the place where the men had gone under.

“Cap’n, sir – Old Beck – he canna swim.”

“Damn fool! I don’t need the loss of another man on my conscience.”

The moment James demanded Bailey be pulled in, Morgan reappeared, crying out, gasping for air, both of his hands clenching the lifeline. Emily clutched her chest in fervid relief while yelps of delight and applause erupted amongst the onlookers – if only for a brief time. It was soon apparent to them all that Morgan was alone. The waves continued to rise and fall, but Mr. Alexander was no longer there. The celebration ceased and all became eerily silent, save for the wind’s moans and the unceasing crash of the waves that knocked about the Isabelle.

Emily inched nearer to the circle of seamen toiling to retrieve both Bailey Beck and Morgan from the water. No words were spoken, only grunts of effort heard, and when the rescued men’s feet finally touched the Isabelle’s firm deck, Bailey grabbed his buddy and held him close. “Thanks to thee Lord for sparin’ ye.”

While Morgan rested his head on Bailey’s bony shoulder, Emily could see the anguish on the young man’s white face, and his slim body shuddering from head to toe. Even with pain and misery filling his eyes, he noticed her hooded figure amongst the sailors, coming towards him with the offering of grey blankets. With trembling hands, he took them from her, glancing at her feet, and in a strangled voice said, “Mr. George. Sir.” Emily placed a sympathetic hand on his shivering arm before he and Bailey Beck were whisked away to the hospital, Morgan twisting his head around for a last look at her.

Beside her, Leander cleared his throat. This time his eyes did not meet hers. “I must return below. It would be unwise for you to linger much longer. Stay with Mr. Walby – please.”

He left before Emily could reply. She watched him lean down to exchange a few words with the young midshipman, and then he disappeared down the main hatchway. Gus stretched his neck around to seek her out, and once he had spotted her in Dr. Braden’s oversized coat, sent a warm smile her way.

“Back to work. Back to work, men,” Fly Austen ordered as he stomped through the crowd of loafers still lining the rail, all of them staring forlornly into the brightening sea as if hoping that somehow Mr. Alexander would appear in the water within rescuing distance of the Isabelle. Fly waved his arms madly about to break them up, but there was no harshness in his voice.

Six sombre bells sounded around the suffering ship and from some unseen location a ghostly voice cried out, “Fifty fathoms! Grey mud.” Nearby a sailor repeated the words.

Emily sidled up to Gus, whose fair hair was dark with dampness, and whispered, “Mr. Walby, I heard Captain Moreland speaking of shoals near Cape Hatteras. Are we in danger?”

“Aye, it’s a worry. It’s not just any shoals, though, Em. It’s the Diamond Shoals. The sands in these parts are constantly shifting and extend more than ten miles from the Cape. I’ve only heard tell of them, but I do know plenty of ships have foundered here. There’re no natural landmarks on shore, except for the lighthouse, and its light is rarely burning. As well, there are strong currents here, and the currents, along with this northeast wind, are forcing the Isabelle towards those shoals.” Seeing a look of alarm cross her pretty face, he added, “Don’t worry, Em. You’re sailing with a good lot.”

Trying to oust the ruined rudder and the useless sails from her mind, Emily swallowed her fear and put on a brave face. “For so young a man, your nautical knowledge is impressive.”

“Ma’am!” Gus was so happy to hear praise, he did not dare tell her that Mr. Harding had only yesterday taught him all this. He hung his head backwards to inspect the sails that still cracked liked whips above him. “I think the winds have started to die down a bit. In fact – ” His voice rose an octave.“In fact, I’m sure of it.”

Hearing his words, James and Mr. Harding both gazed upwards. “You’re quite right, Mr. Walby.” James stared out upon the lonely spot where Mr. Alexander had been swallowed by the sea. “But what a price we’ve paid for this bit of luck.” Sighing, he turned to Mr. Harding. “Should God spare us on this day and we’re lucky enough to avoid the shoals, drop the anchors the moment the lead comes up with sand and begin making those repairs. I’ll be in my cabin with Mr. Austen and the first of our prisoners.” James leaned closer to the sailing master and lowered his voice. “In the meantime, tell the officers on watch to keep a sharp lookout. The wind has cruelly tossed us into unknown waters. Let’s hope no one’s waiting for us.”

The captain’s ominous words caused Emily’s knees to grow weak. An image of a shadowy uniformed figure filled her thoughts, leaving her despairing as she began making her way back to the hospital. She held the hood of Leander’s coat close to her face as she jostled her way through the sailors hurrying back to their stations, unaware that Octavius Lindsay, who stood in conversation with three sailors in her path, had seen through her disguise; his penetrating eyes singled her out as she headed towards the ship’s stern and crawled along the starboard rail to the ladder down.

Thankful that the northeast winds had subsided and she could get her footing, Emily soon discovered she was following on the heels of Fly Austen, who was leading a shirt-clad prisoner from the Liberty towards Captain Moreland’s cabin. The prisoner was a giant of a man with impressive arm muscles and a dishevelled copper-coloured pigtail that hung down his stooped back.

“I will ask our cook to bring you a mug of hot coffee for your interview,” said Fly to the man, “although I daresay you’d prefer wine.”

“A can o’ grog wouldn’t go amiss, Mr. Austen, sir. It soothes all that ails a man,” replied the prisoner in a low gravelly voice as distinctive as the British colours that flew from the Isabelle’s stern and mainmast. Emily stopped suddenly in her tracks to stare after them. Her heart quickened and her mouth went dry.

She was acquainted with this prisoner.

7:30 a.m.

(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)

BISCUIT SET DOWN A TRAY laden with hot coffee, sea biscuits, and strawberry jam upon the Captain’s rectangular table. “I’ll have thee stove warmed up in no time, sir, now that thee wind’s abatin’. Will ya be wantin’ a proper breakfast?”

“Thank you, Biscuit. A bowl of oatmeal would be most welcome.” James shifted in his chair to look at the prisoner. “What about you, Mr. Brodie?”

“I’ll gladly accept whatever’s put in front o’ me,” he said, eyeing the biscuits hungrily.

“Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed Biscuit. “Yer a Scotsman!”

“That I be, frae bonny Scotland.”

“It’s obvious ya ain’t no Yankee.”

“Thank you for pointing that out,” said James with some humour.

“Maybe later, after they’re done interrogatin’ ya,” Biscuit went on merrily, “we can raid thee grog barrels together and speak of thee auld country.”

Mr. Brodie gave his countryman a toothless grin.

“Biscuit! See to your cooked breakfast.”

“Sir.” Biscuit bowed and reluctantly left the cabin.

Fly poured James and Mr. Brodie a mug of coffee, then one for himself. He downed it as quickly as a shot of whiskey. In the grey morning light that filtered in through his cabin’s windows, James could see that Fly’s face had aged overnight. The whites of his eyes were red, and his complexion was pale and puffy.

Leaning back in his chair with his mug of coffee, James stifled a yawn and tried to assume a more serious attitude. “Tell us, Mr. Brodie, where were you born?”

“In Girvan, Scotland, sir, in thee year of our Lord, 1789.”

“And how long have you been a seaman?”

“I joined thee Royal Navy when I was ten. Worked me way up to captain o’ thee maintop. Sailed on thee Victory with Lord Nelson himself. I was there when he was shot at Trafalgar in ’05.”

Fly could not help the wave of envy that swept over him. “You are lucky, Mr. Brodie. That is an honour of which few men can boast.”

“We all admired Lord Nelson, but …” He turned his copper-haired head to look at Captain Moreland. “I admired you more, sir.”

James straightened in his chair and set his mug down on the table. “You once sailed with me?”

“That I did. Before thee Victory, I was thee sail maker on thee Isabelle.”

James’s face twitched. “I thought my memory was still sound … I do not recall a man such as yourself.”

“I was still a young lad. Early ’04 it was. We was on blockade duty at Brest, off thee coast of France.”

Fly watched James’s face drain of its colour, much the way it had when Emily had first mentioned the name of Thomas Trevelyan.

“I believe it was your last voyage, sir, before ya – well, before ya retired,” continued Brodie. “Ya’ll remember … ya was commandin’ thee Isabelle at Brest along with King George’s son, thee Duke o’ Wessex. As I recall it, sir, Wessex scared thee lot o’ us.”

“I’ve heard tell that Wessex was a harsh disciplinarian and notorious for swearing like a tinker,” said Fly, glancing at James. “Am I right, sir?”

James picked up his mug and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. He gave a slight nod, but made no comment. Instead, he switched the subject. “Mr. Brodie, you were brought on board last night with forty-five other men. Do you know or recognize any of the others?”

“Not a one, sir. But I can tell ya they’ll all swear to bein’ Yankee. Hard to tell when I heard plenty o’ English tongues among ’em.”

“We’ll deal with them in our own way later,” said Fly, rubbing his face.

“How long then were you a crew member on the Liberty?” asked James.

“Two days, sir.”

“Why only two days?”

“Before that I was a prisoner on a Yankee frigate, thee Serendipity it was.”

Fly saw a slight quivering of James’s hands around his mug. When his captain said nothing in reply, he asked, “Under the command of Thomas Trevelyan?”

“Aye, Trevelyan was his name. I was lyin’ in his gaol, keepin’ company with rats whilst he did battle with yas a week back. Ya did enough damage he had to flee to Norfolk, Virginia, to make repairs, but me, I was sent straightaway to thee Liberty, ’cause their own Cap’n Butterfield had been ordered to go after ya, to give ya chase, even though ya was a bigger ship, possessin’ more guns.”

Fly and James exchanged glances.

“You said you were a prisoner on the Serendipity.” James’s voice was hoarse.

“Aye, sir.” Mr. Brodie looked again at the biscuits. Fly slid the plate under his nose and gestured for him to help himself. “Much obliged, Mr. Austen.”

“When and how were you taken Trevelyan’s prisoner?”

Mr. Brodie gobbled a biscuit before answering. “I was on an East India merchant vessel called thee Amelia, bound for Upper Canada.”

“Were you being escorted by a man-of-war?”

“Nay, thee Amelia was a large vessel with plenty o’ eighteen-pounder guns of her own.” He reached for a second biscuit and rapidly disposed of it. “We was carryin’ supplies of all kinds: farm equipment and seeds, wine, materials, linens, guns, gunpowder, you name it. As well, we had a number o’ families, mostly women and children, travellin’ to meet their military husbands posted at York, Kingston, and Quebec.”

“Go on.”

“We was nearin’ Halifax when we was attacked. About four in thee mornin’ it was. Trevelyan – he caught us by surprise – subjugated us with his guns and grapeshot, then lashed his ship to ours and boarded us. Straight off, his men killed a good number of our crew. But others, includin’ me, was tied up and hurled like sacks o’ taters onto thee main deck of thee Serendipity. We could hear thee women and children screamin’ and cryin’ below on thee Amelia. But we – we couldna do a thing.” Mr. Brodie lowered his head. “Lord, it was awful hearin’ those babies cry.”After a moment he raised his eyes to James and Fly. “Me and thee others was taken below to Trevelyan’s gaol, and later on it was, I overheard a couple o’ his men say they’d burned thee Amelia.”

James suddenly looked more alert. “How long ago was this, Mr. Brodie?”

“Can’t rightly say, sir, on account I was knocked about thee head badly. Maybe four weeks back.”

“Sir?” Fly looked at James questioningly.

“Mr. Austen, do you recall in Bermuda we were visited by a Captain Prickett and Lord Bridlington from the Amethyst? You were not present at our meeting, but they told me that about four weeks back my old friend William Uptergrove had come upon the debris of a burned merchant vessel, sitting fifty miles southeast of Halifax.” He turned back to Mr. Brodie with a furrowed brow. “Can you offer any explanation as to why your ship was destroyed and not just taken a prize?”

“I canna, sir.”

“Didn’t you say you had plenty of guns?” Fly asked in an agitated manner. “Where were your gunners? How could Trevelyan have taken you by surprise?”

“I’m afraid I dunno, sir. I was off duty at thee time and, well, thee night before I’d had a wee bit too much grog and had been makin’ rather merry. I can tell ya this – our captain was as weak as a woman, sir. He had trouble keepin’ thee men in line.”

“You said that Trevelyan took others from the Amelia besides yourself … How many?” asked James, his fingers clasped beneath his nose. Fly, cognizant of what James was getting at, looked eagerly at Mr. Brodie.

“Don’t rightly know, sir. There was twenty men in thee gaol. Maybe there was others.” Mr. Brodie quickly swallowed his third biscuit. “But this much I can tell ya. Trevelyan took a woman from thee Amelia before he burned her.”

James regarded Mr. Brodie with interest as the Scotman drained his coffee mug.

“I saw him holdin’ Mrs. Seaton roughly like and she screamin’ like a banshee.”

“Mrs. Seaton?”

“Who is she?”

“Thee lovely lass who always spoke to me whenever she took exercise above deck.”

“What do you know of this Mrs. Seaton?”

Mr. Brodie shrugged. “Not a lot. She was always askin’ thee questions o’ me. She always wore such pretty dresses and hats. Oh … I do recall this one time, when thee weather was fine, she put on men’s trousers and climbed a wee way up thee shrouds just ta say hello. Shocked thee lot o’ us.”

“Was she travelling alone?”

“Nay. There was a woman with ’er, a servin’ woman, she was.”

“Anyone else?”

“Aye, Mr. Seaton – her husband. Never spoke ta him. He had an aloof, arrogant kind o’ look to ’im.”

Fly pressed his lips together and went quiet while Mr. Brodie happily polished off the plate of sea biscuits. Through the galleried windows at their backs, the sun began to peek through the clouds, sending warm light shadows to dance upon James’s oak table.

“What became of Mr. Seaton and this serving woman?” asked James.

“Don’t rightly know, sir.”

“You said there were many women on the Amelia. Why then would Trevelyan have taken only Mrs. Seaton?”

“Not certain of that either, sir, but I can tell ya this – Trevelyan’s servant, a mongrel named Lind, came down below ta give we Amelias food. When I asked him about Mrs. Seaton, he smiled and said she was ironin’ thee cap’n’s shirts.”

A spasm of irritation crossed Fly’s face. James’s voice stayed even. “Anything else?”

“Aye. Lind said Trevelyan holds an ancient grudge against Mrs. Seaton’s father.”

James’s jaw worked as he stirred his coffee with a silver teaspoon. “And where is she now? Still on the Serendipity?”

“I’ve asked, sir … no one can say.”

James stood up suddenly, the legs of his chair scratching the worn floorboards. He stepped over to the windows to gaze out upon a calmer sea, then abruptly marched to the door of his cabin, yanked it open, and bellowed, “Call for Mr. Spooner.” At last, he wheeled about to face the big Scotsman, who quickly rose from his chair.

“You have been most helpful, Mr. Brodie. Our purser, Mr. Spooner, will see to your provisioning – clothes, a hammock, and whatever else you may need. As we’re quite short of men and our young sail maker was injured in yesterday’s skirmish, we’ll need you to begin working in the sail room. And should you possess any carpentry skills, we would surely welcome them.” He extended his right hand to Mr. Brodie who gripped it fervently.

“’Tis a pleasure to be back on thee Isabelle, sir.”

Once the door had closed behind Mr. Brodie and Mr. Spooner, James shot a glance at Fly, who was trying to snooze with one eye closed.

“Before we question the other men from the Liberty, I’d like to drop anchor and start in on our repairs.” He unbuttoned his jacket as he plunked down wearily into his wing chair. “But first – we have men to bury.” He folded his arms across his belly and closed his eyes. “So stay where you are and sleep well.”

“You too, sir.” Fly shuttered his other eye.

“I was thinking,” mumbled James, half asleep already, “ perhaps it is time to interview Emily again.”

“My sentiments exactly, sir.”

9:00 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)

MAGPIE'S MOANS AWOKE EMILY, who had been sleeping on the stool next to his hammock, her cheek resting against the post closest to his head. She stood up to stretch the knotted muscles in her back, wincing as her swollen foot touched the cold, wet floor, but when Magpie’s remaining eye popped open to find her standing watch over him, her smile was warm.

“How’re you feeling?” she asked, reaching out to touch the bit of his forehead not covered in bandages to check for signs of a fever.

Magpie moved his lips, but was unable to give Emily more than a whimper of pain.

“Is there anything you need?”

His ghostly face brightened a bit.

“What is it? A cup of water, perhaps?”

Magpie lifted a corner of the blanket currently covering his body, and whispered, “Me special blanket.”

“Is it in the sail room down on the orlop deck?”

He nodded.

“Right, then. I will go fetch it as soon as I am able.”

A look of alarm suddenly crossed Magpie’s features, and he tried raising himself up on one elbow.

“Lie still,” Emily gently admonished him. “I know. You are worried I’ll be severely punished if Captain Moreland should catch me down on the orlop.”

“Aye,” he said, gritting his teeth as he lay back down upon his pillow.

Emily’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “The men will soon be summoned to the burial service on the main deck. I will go then.”

He gave her a feeble smile and closed his eye.

The minute Magpie slipped into sleep, Emily parted the canvas curtains to survey a scene of bedlam in the hospital. Four more men had died that morning, and their bodies were being carried from the hospital by Maggot and Weevil, whose linen shirts were soaked in sweat. One of the dead men was the teenaged lad who had helped Emily carry Magpie to her bed yesterday, the one who had claimed, “Only got lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.” Emily’s chest knotted in emotion as she said a prayer for the poor young man.

The groans and wails of the injured resonated around the cramped quarters. Some of the men hollered profanities while others mumbled senseless remarks in their stuporous sleep. The air was rank with body odour, bitter medicines, and festering wounds. Moving amongst the chaos and the cots, administering food, medicine, and words of comfort were Leander, Osmund, and two loblolly boys whom Emily had never seen before. Leander was pale, moving slowly, his cream-coloured shirt once again splattered with blood. Behind his round spectacles, his blue eyes were red-rimmed.

Seeing her, he said, “I’m afraid, Emily, this is not the most pleasant place at the moment.”

“Your gaol is full, Doctor, and as I refuse to bunk in with Mrs. Kettle, you’re stuck with me.”

Mr. Crump, ever ready with his quick wit, piped up. “Ya wouldn’t be gittin’ any peace at all if ya was bunked in with dear Meggie Kettle.”

Emily, far from being affronted, smiled at Mr. Crump. “I’ll take my chances here in the hospital, thank you.”

“Safest place fer ya, Miss Emily. The men here, even if they had a hank’ring to jump ya, are incapable of doin’ so.” He patted the stump of his amputated leg.

Leander frowned at the saucy landsman. “Mr. Crump, your tongue is liable to get you tossed from my hospital.”

Mr. Crump’s hand flew to his mouth and his eyes widened. “I’ll hold it then, Doctor.”

Emily turned to Leander. “If you don’t soon get some sleep, you’ll end up a patient yourself.”

He smiled wanly. “And if I do, would you give me rum and laudanum and an occasional cup of water?”

“No. As punishment for allowing yourself to get sick, I would bestow that honour upon Mr. Brockley.”

Leander threw up his slim arms. “In that case, I am going. I’m going to get some sleep.”

“You’re welcome to my corner, although the floor in there is wet, so you’ll have to sleep on the stool next to Magpie.”

He dipped his hands into a basin of pink water and dried them on a square of cloth. “Thank you, but I have a cabin down on the orlop deck. Unless we do battle again in the next few hours, Osmund should be fine with his charges. And Mr. Evans, as he still possesses all of his limbs and faculties, has promised to watch out for you while I’m gone.”

Morgan saluted Emily from his cot, but his eyes did not meet the compassionate light that shone from hers. She turned away from Morgan and lowered her voice. “How is he, Doctor?”

“Very low. He has said nothing since his coming here.” Leander fumbled in his pockets for his cabin key, unaware that the letter he had been writing in the night to the enigmatic “Jane” had slipped out and onto the damp hospital floor. Emily was about to pick it up when Osmund, carrying a bucket of body wastes, crushed it with his large foot.

“What about Miss Emily, Doctor? Whose bed is she gonna sleep in now Magpie’s in her cot?” Osmund stood there with his fetid bucket, licking his thick lips, awaiting the doctor’s reply.

A flush of colour crept into Leander’s white face. “That, Mr. Brockley, is not your concern. Keep your thoughts focused on your tasks or I’ll send you packing along with Mr. Crump.” Having said that, he meandered slowly through the maze of hammocks towards the galley door.

With Leander gone, a hush fell upon the hospital. Emily could hear her footsteps on the floorboards as she squeezed her way through the hammocks, offering a drink of water to those with parched lips, aware that several pairs of curious eyes had locked onto her every move. She was frantic to rescue Leander’s letter from the floor, but didn’t dare, in case any of the men had witnessed it falling from the doctor’s pocket. Like a hovering hawk about to go in for the kill, Osmund stood awkwardly by, still holding his bucket, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he watched her.

“Mr. Brockley,” came a firm voice from one of the hammocks behind Emily, “we could all breathe a bit easier if you would please take that which you are holding and dump it over the side of the ship.”

Osmund awakened from his reverie and sprang into action. Grunting an apology, he tripped his way up the ladder, sloshing some of the bucket’s contents upon the rungs. It was Morgan Evans who had spoken. Smiling, Emily refilled the water cup and went to stand next to his head. He looked up at her like a shy schoolboy and took the cup from her hands.

“You are very kind to me, Mr. George,” he said quietly.

“And you have been nothing but kind to me, Mr. Evans,” she whispered. Seeing a shadow of a smile pass over his face, she pulled the nearest stool up to his bed. “I have been told that you were the one who rescued me from the sea.”

“It was my pleasure, Mr. Geo … ma’am! But I can’t take all the credit. It was Mr. Walby who first spied you through his glass.”

“Perhaps it was, but Mr. Walby might have laboured in vain to pull me from the fallen mizzenmast and into the cutter, now wouldn’t he?”

A shot of red rushed into Morgan’s unshaven cheeks, which set Mr. Crump howling in mirth.

“Oh ho, Miss, ya made Morgan blush like a maiden,” he laughed, scratching the stump of his leg. “Be careful what ya be sayin’ to him; otherwise, he’ll think ya fancy him.”

Morgan pulled the pillow from beneath his head and hurled it at Crump, hitting him in his raised stump.

“Oooh, me leg, me leg,” he cried in pain.

“At least, Crump, Morgan’s still got thee necessary parts for a woman,” said a rheumy-eyed sailor whose head was bound in bandages. “Can’t rightly tell how much thee doc had to cut away from ye.”

A storm of laughter arose from those who had been eavesdropping.

“Aye, I heard Morgan complainin’ he hadn’t had a woman in a long time,” quipped a young powder monkey with a badly burned face. “And he thinks he’s too good for the likes o’ Meggie Kettle.”

Morgan turned purple with humiliation and gripped the sides of his hammock.

“And what would a young lad like yerself be knowin’ of our Meggie Kettle?” the rheumy-eyed sailor asked the powder monkey.

“I seen what she does with the men in her cot when she ain’t at her laundry,” the little boy said, sitting up in his hammock, thrilled to be included in the men’s discussion.

As the hospital vibrated with merriment, Emily noticed Biscuit standing behind her, holding up a pitcher of grog, his old face rosy with drink and hilarity. He cleared his throat and bellowed, “Here, here, now! I bring yas all a bit o’ refreshment and what does I find? Ya’ve all takin’ leave o’ yer senses, forgettin’ yerselves in front o’ our lady guest. So yer mothers never taught ya any manners? Well, old Biscuit will have to teach yas all a bit o’ thee etiquette.”

“But I saw ya laughin’ with the others, Biscuit,” sneered the powder monkey.

“Shut up there or I’ll be fryin’ the other side o’ yer face on me galley stove.”

The banter ceased the moment Osmund returned with his empty bucket. Spying Biscuit’s grog pitcher, his eyes lit up. “Hurry up. Pour it round. One never knows how long Dr. Braden will be gone to his bed.”

Biscuit happily set about doing Osmund’s bidding, and once the attention had shifted from Morgan, the young carpenter collected the courage to look up at Emily again.

“I am truly sorry for all that.”

It was on her lips to tell Mr. Evans she had quite enjoyed the conversation – it being such a departure from the idle chit-chat that women of her class were wont to indulge in when left to their own devices in their richly-decorated drawing rooms – but she thought better of it and encouraged him instead to get some sleep.

Four bells soon sounded around the Isabelle, summoning the men from their beds and mess tables, their below-deck stations, and down from their lofty posts on the masts, to the burial service. While Emily moved among the hospital hammocks, offering a bit of solace to the injured wherever she could, she imagined the scene as the seamen – officers, marines, sailors, idlers, landsmen alike – silently assembled above deck under a mournful sky that refused admittance to the sun. There they would pray and sing hymns, and Captain Moreland, whose many duties included that of ship’s chaplain, would read out the names of the thirty-seven men killed in yesterday’s conflict. And when the sermon was over, the bodies – sewn into their hammocks with a heavy ball of lead at their feet – would be poured into the now-purring sea, there to join Mr. Alexander in his watery grave.

The moment Osmund became engaged in changing soiled dressings and Morgan’s eyes finally closed in sleep, Emily filched a felt hat from an oak hook and set out to fetch Magpie’s blanket from the sail room on the orlop deck. She paused only once, to pick up the remains of Leander’s crumpled letter from the damp floor, concealing it in the pocket of her trousers as she passed from the room.

10:20 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch)

WITH THE FELT HAT sitting low on her forehead, Emily wandered the empty decks of the Isabelle as invigorated as a child in a cave of treasures; so distracted, she was able to forget her ankle, which caused her such grief climbing down the ladders. In the distance, she could hear men’s muted voices, but no one crossed paths with her, leaving her alone to delight in exploring every shadowy storeroom, corner, and compartment. She marvelled at the cramped living conditions of the sailors, touched the chests, ditty, and duffel bags containing their meagre possessions, and stopped to pet the poor animals in their lonely stables.

“I know how you feel,” she commiserated with the female goat brought aboard in Bermuda, stroking her narrow fuzzy face. “I have a mind to take you exploring with me.” Worrying she might cause a livestock stampede were she to open the stable gate, Emily reconsidered her proposal, kissed the goat’s head, and pushed on.

The orlop deck was below water level, and had neither gunports nor windows to let in daylight. It was dark and the air was musty, heavy with mildew and brine. Little scurrying sounds on the floor around her silk shoes reminded her that she was not completely alone, and caused her some repulsion. The timbered walls beneath her steadying hands were wet and slippery, like the perspiration of a labouring sailor. She shivered, wondering if the walls were full of shipworm. In the carpenter’s storeroom, she stole a lighted lantern – comforted by the thought that neither Mr. Alexander nor Morgan Evans would report it missing – and raised its dim illumination to each closed door, searching for Magpie’s sail room. After several moments of wandering in circles, she finally found it, tucked away in the deck’s narrowing bow, between the bosun’s storeroom and the sturdy base of the foremast.

Inside Magpie’s confined quarters, she hung the lantern by the door and stood back to survey its scanty contents. Lined against the longest wall were several rolls of sail canvas, each tied up with a neat knot of rope and identified with either a wooden tally or a small square of card paper on which was written the name of the sail in black ink: sprit topsail, fore topgallant royal, mizzensail, lower main studdingsail, flying jib, main staysail. In the centre of the room was a slim wooden post with a tackle looped around its base, and beside it on the floor a clean length of square canvas. Emily could see Magpie’s needle still stuck in the fabric where he had been cross-stitching near a clew on the lower corner of the sail. Near the wooden post was a small, low bench with a series of holes in it to house Magpie’s few sail-making tools: a mallet and awl, and a thick spool of twine. In the darkest corner sat a pile of torn, tattered sails, and above that hung Magpie’s hammock.

The only personal item in the room, besides the bed, was Magpie’s chest, half-hidden in the old sails. Emily crept over to it and crouched down to read the name carved into its oaken lid: Mr. Magpie, Esq. She couldn’t help smiling as she lifted the lid. Inside was his special blanket, a pond-green square of downy quilting, neatly folded upon his hairbrushes and few articles of clothing. As she gently pulled the blanket from the chest, something fell from its folds, striking the floor and spinning away out of sight. Emily swept the sweating floorboards with her hands, over and over again, searching for the wayward object. She was about to abandon all hope of finding it when the lantern’s weak light gleamed upon a shiny something next to a roll of jib sails. She reached out for it, seized it, and brought it up to her eyes.

“Good Lord!” she gasped, staring in astonishment at the gold-framed miniature she held in her hands. It was a portrait of a young woman with dark eyes, her hair swept up on her head in a tumble of pale yellow curls adorned with pearls. Beneath her smiling lips was a collar and braided jacket of sapphire-blue velvet, and across her white throat, a single strand of pearls to match those in her hair. On the back of the tiny portrait, written in calligraphic script, were the words Princess Emeline Louisa Georgina Marie, daughter to Henry, Duke of Wessex, 1810.

Emily sank to her knees upon Magpie’s quilt, still beholding the miniature, and started to laugh, a few chuckles at first, then bursting forth into a gleeful convulsion that seized her for such a long time the muscles in her chest ached and her lungs screamed for air.

“Why our little sail maker has a good amount of explaining to do!” she cried out to the shadows that quivered about her like small nautical sprites in the lantern-light.

Emily threw herself down upon the softness of the quilt to gaze around the dank room as she caught her breath. Near her outstretched arm, two cockroaches twitched with curiosity before vanishing within the layers of tattered sails beneath Magpie’s hanging bed. Beside the door she spied a rope-tailed vermin hastening through a hole in the wall, and from the low oaken-timbered ceiling above, droplets of water splattered down upon Magpie’s chest and workbench. Without warning, a feeling as dark as the room engulfed her and tears began spilling from her brown eyes. Clutching the miniature to her breast, she buried her face in the quilt and wept bitterly for the happy young woman she once had been. She wept for the walls and willow trees of her childhood home, for her lost girlhood of yesteryear, and for those she loved, now lying lonely and forgotten in churchyards and unmarked graves. Emily lay there, twisted into a fetal position, choking up suppressed emotions until she heard the distant, disturbing sound of splashing water as the dead bodies of the seamen were entrusted to the sea.

Realizing there was little time left before the service ended and the men returned to their stations below deck, Emily bolted upright to dry her tears on the sleeves of her checked shirt. She shoved the miniature into her trousers pocket alongside Leander’s untouched letter, scrambled to close up Magpie’s chest, and slipped the quilt under one arm. Just as she was about to rise to her feet, there came a whooshing noise behind her and the sail room went black.

She heard him before she could see him, his breathing heavy, his breath laced with rum and the essence of unwashed teeth. He let out a low laugh that stopped her heart, and then he started towards her, the heel of his boots scraping the floorboards. It was a minute before her swollen eyes could adjust to the gloom, but without the lantern light she could only make out a grey, sinister shape. She dropped Magpie’s blanket and froze, remembering another murky figure that had once come towards her in the dimness of the lower decks, intent on harming her. A rat crawled about on her as if she were a heap of trash. Shuddering in revulsion, she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The boots came closer and another menacing laugh pierced the silence.

“There’s nowhere to hide,” whispered a thick voice.

In her numbed horror, Emily shrank back upon the pile of tattered sails, unable to think clearly. The sail room was far too narrow to avoid the looming shape before her, and she had nothing on her with which to fight. No pistol, no cutlass, not even a hairpin. He jerked at the buttons on his coat, one tearing from the fabric and clattering to the floor, much as the gold-framed miniature had done earlier, then he stepped closer to her to fumble with the flap on his trousers.

“There’ll be no snivelling,” he said, breathing rum down her neck. He shoved her backwards upon the sails and jumped on her, his sudden weight snapping her head back against Magpie’s oak chest. She cried out in pain as he tore at her shirt and trousers.

“Shut up, shut up,” he hissed, forcing her to roll over onto her stomach. His guttural sounds and unwashed stench caused bile to rise in Emily’s throat and anger to burn in her breast. An image of Magpie’s workbench with its awl and mallet rose in her tortured mind. If she could just reach it. Her right arm was pinned under his knee, but with her left she thrashed out, frantically grabbing at the blackness around her, praying her hand would soon find the bench. Her movements angered him, and she felt a draft of air as his fist rose and crashed down upon her face. This time she screamed, with such fierce volume it hurt her own ears.

“Damn you to hell!” He tensed up, as if listening for approaching footsteps, and as he did so, Emily’s fingers closed around the awl. She swung the pointed instrument about wildly before bringing it down hard upon her assailant. He growled like a cur, throwing her against the wooden pole, her back striking the metal tackle. Before she could recover, his heavy hands were on her neck, crushing the life from her. Her small hands had not a chance of prying his hellish ones from her throat. Helplessly she lay there, fighting to stay conscious by focusing on a pinpoint of light that shone like a beacon behind the grotesque creature crouched over her. She heard the shuffle of feet and voices rising in pandemonium, and soon several more lanterns swayed in the sail room. Cursing and sputtering, her assailant was pulled from her and dragged into the shadows. Released, Emily turned away from the men who crowded into the room, holding their lanterns high and gaping down at her as if she were a wonder from the ocean’s bottom. She curled up into a ball next to Magpie’s workbench, gasping for air.

Above the sailors’ nervous mutterings, Emily heard a terse, wrathful command. “All of you – get out. Get out! Now!” There was a scurry of footsteps as the room emptied. Then the same voice, firm, but gentler this time, said, “Mr. Evans, take that man to the master-at-arms.”

“May I carry her to the hospital first, sir?” came Morgan’s voice.

“No! I shall carry her myself.”

“Aye, sir.”

With the sailors gone, peacefulness permeated the sail room, though Emily, her face hidden in her arms, sensed there were those who remained behind. She heard the subdued words, “Mr. Walby, close your mouth and avert your eyes,” and felt a pair of slender arms about her, lifting her bleeding head from the floor, covering her bruised, quaking body with the pond-green quilt that lay forgotten nearby. Into her ear the reassuring voice whispered, “It’s all right now. He’s gone.”

Opening her eyes, she saw Gus Walby standing over her, his chin trembling, his eyes shining with tears. The man who held her said, “Run ahead, Mr. Walby, and ask Osmund to move Magpie from her cot. Then alert Captain Moreland of what has taken place here.”

Gus bolted from the sail room like a whirring ball of lead. A second glance upwards revealed what Emily already knew. It was Leander who watched over her, his arms that comforted her. A wave of relief passed through her and she relaxed her head against the warmth of his body.

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

WITH THE COMPLETION of the burial service, Captain Moreland and Fly Austen trudged to the wardroom in search of a glass of wine before the other officers came in for their noon dinner. They stood, goblets in hand, by the galleried stern windows while Biscuit, who was supposed to be laying silverware on the table, buzzed around them like a horsefly, delighting in describing the meal he had prepared for them.

“Mutton chops – just thee way ya likes ’em, soused herring from me secret store o’ pickled delicacies, cheese I bin hoardin’ since we set out from Portsmouth, butter and toast, and I’ll serve up a big pot o’ tea fer ya. And then I’ll bring in some cold pie and more wine to round things off.”

James cast his cook a look of incredulity. “You’re draining our stores of victuals at an alarming rate, Biscuit. Do you suppose there’ll be anything left to eat when – and if – we ever arrive in Halifax?”

“Without a doubt there will be,” said Fly, hiding a yawn, “for Biscuit either sets a feast before us or he sets out to starve us.”

Biscuit scratched his crusty beard. “Ah, it’s to cheer yas up, Cap’n. Ya bin down o’ late.”

James stared out the windows at the grey monotony of crested waves that rolled past the Isabelle and was reminded of the dead young men he had given to the sea an hour earlier. He would have to write to their families and break their mothers’ hearts; grapple with himself to find the words to describe their brave sons’ last heroic moments on earth. It was a task he abhorred. The truth was, their sons were victims of a senseless war, killed by guns manned by men who were in all likelihood English compatriots. The bulk of his letters would be sent to England, but some would be postmarked Ireland, Denmark, and Prussia, and one would have to find its way to Brazil.In the end, they would find their way to all of the mothers on different continents, connected by grief, weeping for their common loss. James’s chest felt heavy and his head ached. He felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. Finally he spoke again. “I should like to have a few days of blessed monotony. No battles, no punishments, and dear God, no more deaths.”

Knowing their captain and his state of mind, Fly and Biscuit said not a word. Fly sipped his wine pensively while the room grew quiet, with only the occasional tinkling sound as Biscuit finished laying the silverware. Not five minutes later, young Walby appeared breathless outside the wardroom and snatched his navy-blue cocked hat from his blond head.

“What’s yer business here?” demanded Biscuit, going to the door. “The cap’n and Mr. Austen is busy.”

Gus looked watery-eyed past Biscuit to the men standing by the windows. “Captain, sir, Dr. Braden asked me to come for you. There’s been a … a commotion in the sail room, sir.”

James came towards Gus. “What sort of commotion?”

“A fight, I mean … an assault. Emily’s hurt.”

“Emily?” James’s eyes grew large. “What the devil was she doing in the sail room?”

“I don’t know, sir, but Magpie’s crying, saying it’s all his fault. And … and he’s been taken to the master-at-arms.”

“Magpie?” cried James. “With the master-at-arms? You’re telling me Magpie assaulted Emily?”

“No, not Magpie, sir. Him. He hurt her badly.”

“Speak plainly, Mr. Walby. We cannot follow your ramble,” said Fly kindly, extending an arm towards a chair. “Here, sit a while and begin again.”

“I’ll stand, thank you, Mr. Austen,” said Gus, trying to gather himself together. “The thing is, sir, that while we were on deck for the burial, Emily was attacked in the sail room.”

James’s faded blue eyes hardened and he took a step closer to the small midshipman. “And who was it that attacked her?”

Gus took a deep breath. “Mr. Lindsay. Octavius Lindsay, sir.”

12:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

AFT ON THE LOWER DECK near the gunroom, Octavius Lindsay languished on the floor, his feet bound in shackles that were fitted to the deck and to an iron bar. Behind him stood a scarlet-jacketed marine sentry, concentrating on the nothingness in front of him. As most of the crew were still at their dinner, there was no one else about, except Meg Kettle, who sat curiously in the shadows, mending shirts. Hearing determined approaching footsteps, Octavius looked up, his eyes swollen and watery, to find Captain Moreland, Mr. Austen, and Gus Walby standing over him, wearing stern expressions.

“Kindly wait by the fish room hatch, Mr. Walby,” said Mr. Austen. The young midshipman nodded and chirped “sir” but did not move as far along the deck as he’d been instructed.

James hardly recognized the miserable heap of humanity on the floor before him as his haughty first lieutenant. There was a bleeding gash on the side of Octavius’s head, and his features were twisted in anguish and fear. He resembled a young boy who’d been tormenting his younger sister and was about to face a severe reprimand from his intimidating father. James felt a muscle twitching in his cheek as he said sharply, “I am truly disillusioned, Mr. Lindsay. I can find nothing of the senior officer in you.”

“Captain, please, show mercy, sir. Please don’t send me to my death.” Octavius dropped his head between his knees and began blubbering incoherently.

“I don’t know whether to despise you or to pity you.”

Octavius began rocking back and forth on the floor, and in a voice choked with terror sobbed, “Please, sir, don’t hang me. Give … give me fifty lashes, flog me around the fleet when we return to England, just please … I don’t want to hang.”

James’s blue-veined hands flew to his mouth and he shut his eyes as if in pain. A moment later he cried out, “For God’s sake, man, what were you thinking? What could you possibly have been thinking?”

“You are a friend of my father’s,” Octavius beseeched him. “He can make you a rich man when this war is done. I’ll see to it. I’ll personally see to it. Just don’t put me to death.”

“Mr. Lindsay, you are familiar with the Articles of War by now,” James said, reaching out to steady himself against the nearest post. “I may have no choice.”

“I didn’t know it was her. I swear I didn’t know it was her.”

James straightened himself. “What nonsense! You’ve despised that woman from the moment she came on board.”

“I wouldn’t have harmed her. I thought … I thought – ”

“You thought what?” snapped Fly.

Octavius hid his humiliation with his hands. A wrenching silence followed, broken only by the prisoner’s guttural sobs. Captain and commander turned their backs to him and moved away while Gus Walby braved a few steps towards them, still keeping a respectable distance.

“What will you do with him, sir?” Fly asked in a steely voice.

“I don’t know,” said James wearily. “Given the seriousness of his offence and the fact that he is an officer, his punishment will have to be decided by a court-martial. We have no choice but to wait until we reach Halifax. Only there will we find enough captains and perhaps a few admirals willing to sit and determine his fate.”

“Shall we leave him here in the bilboes with the marine?”

“Aye, for now. It’ll be sufficient punishment keeping him here for all to see and taunt. Would you go ask Osmund Brockley to see to his head wound? I need time to think.” James placed his right hand on Fly’s shoulder.

“Are you well, sir?” asked Fly, alarmed by the ashen colour of James’s face.

“I am in desperate need of some fresh air.” Together they left the gun deck, leaving behind the forgotten Mr. Walby.

Meg Kettle, who had been silently mending her shirts in the shadows, waited until the captain and Mr. Austen were long gone. She then perked up and laughed at the young midshipman, who stood gaping down at the prisoner as if he were a spectacle at St. Bartholomew’s Fair.

“’Ave ya bin able ta figure it all out, Mr. Walby?”

Gus looked surprised, as if he’d only then just noticed her sitting there. His lips parted, indicating to Meg that he might speak. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, turned suddenly on his heels, and hurried away. Meg stood up to address the pathetic prisoner on the floor and made a sucking sound with her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Thee men, if they didna despise ya before, will be despisin’ ya now. Why ya just put a nail inta yer own coffin.”

1:30 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)

ACCOMPANIED BY A MARINE SENTRY, Fly climbed down the ladder from the foc’s’le deck and into the hospital. The room was as quiet as a crypt. Osmund tiptoed around with his chamber pots and bandages. Mr. Crump had nothing amusing to say. Along with Biscuit and several seamen who were crowded round the galley entrance, he kept a silent watch on the thin sheet of canvas that separated them from Emily, as faithfully as if he were above deck combing the seas for an enemy sighting. On a stool next to a slumbering Magpie, who was now in his new hammock, Gus Walby sat clutching Fly’s sister’s novel, Sense and Sensibility, evidently hopeful that he would soon be invited to enter Emily’s sacred corner. Near Gus sat Morgan Evans, who respectfully pulled his knitted hat from his shaggy-haired head and saluted the moment Fly glanced in his direction. The wounded sailors – those who could – sat upright in their beds and saluted him in turn, though immediately afterwards their focus darted back to the canvas.

“Where’s Dr. Braden?” Fly asked the cook when his boot-clad feet were firmly planted on the hospital floor.

“In with thee wee lass, sir.”

“You are rather subdued, Biscuit.”

Biscuit hung his orange head. “Outta respect for thee lass, sir.”

Fly waved his arms in a dismissive gesture at the men lingering round the galley entrance, and in a muted voice ordered them away. “Back to work, back to work, all of you vagabonds. The last thing the doctor needs is to have you all underfoot.”

“Mr. Austen, you’ll let us all know how she fares?” pleaded an old sailor.

“I will. Now out you go.”

Fly waited for the “vagabonds” to clear out before making his way to the canvas curtain where Leander, having heard him come in, stood ready to greet him. It did not escape Fly’s notice that his friend appeared haggard and uncharacteristically dishevelled, that his brow was furrowed in worry, and that his lips were set in a grim line. “Come in,” said Leander quietly. “It’s all right. She’s in a deep sleep.”

Fly stared down at the quiet form in the cot. There was a hideous blue-black bruise on her face and the reddened imprint of fingers on her neck. “Does she have similar injuries elsewhere on her body?” he asked, finding himself unable to cease blinking.

Leander, his fist held to his mouth, turned his gaze from Emily and glanced up at Fly over his spectacles and nodded. Neither man spoke for a while. Beyond the open gunport, the wind had picked up and a low rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance. Above their heads, the bell sounded three times. Fly stepped closer to Leander and spoke as softly as he could so that the vigilant sailors lying in the hospital could not hear his words.

“You must know, my friend … she was not Lindsay’s intended victim.”

“What?” Leander gave Fly a bewildered stare.

“Evidently, he had not been informed that our little sail maker was wounded and lying here … in the protection of your hospital. He all but made an outright confession. Perhaps it was his distraught mind speaking … perhaps he figured his punishment would be more lenient if James and I knew the truth.”

Leander seethed with revulsion. “I’ll kill him! I swear I’ll kill him!”

“Most every man on this ship will harbour the same sentiments once they have heard of Mr. Lindsay’s exploits. But I believe it best we tell no one else of this sordid intelligence, leastwise Emily. For now, I need you to put down your fighting scabbard and come with me to the captain’s cabin.”

“Can it not wait until later? I cannot leave here just now.”

“I have brought with me a marine sentry to guard Emily in your absence.”

Detecting Fly’s concerned expression, Leander asked, “Has something else happened?”

“James has come down with a fever.”

4:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Eight Bells)

WITH AN AIR OF IMPORTANCE, Biscuit dished up bowls of mutton stew for his mates seated around his mess table on the upper deck.

“I tell ya, it was Octavius Lindsay that done it. I was there in thee wardroom when Gus told thee cap’n, and I heared it from Morgan, him havin’ seen thee mischief with his own eyes.”

“And what did the cap’n ’ave to say?” asked Bailey Beck.

“Not a word,” replied Biscuit. “Went pale as a white whale and stormed from thee wardroom with Mr. Austen in tow.”

“They’ll be stringin’ Mr. Lindsay up on the yard for his crime. That I’ll be wantin’ to see,” said Jacko, rubbing his mountainous naked belly in anticipation of his meal.

Bailey let out a snort. “No way the cap’n will give ’im death what with his aristocratic connections.”

“A floggin’ with a cat o’ nine tails would be too lenient,” Biscuit growled.

“It’ll come to court-martial,” said another of their mates.

“Nay! No time for court-martiallin’ out here,” said Jacko. “Stranded in enemy waters, in a broken-down ship? And where would we be findin’ enough British captains and admirals to do the court-martiallin’? Nay, we’ll be days fixin’ up the Isabelle just to git her sailin’ agin.”

“Morgan says Lord Lindsay didna succeed in his intentions, if ya catch me meanin’,” snickered Biscuit, handing Jacko his bowl. “And here I thought he fancied thee lads.”

“Oh, aye!” laughed his mates.

“Our Emily,” Biscuit continued, “she fought him off like a true seasoned sailor, though he knocked her about somethin’ fierce. Word is her head was bleedin’ all over thee sails and her face has an awful mean wound on it.”

Jacko punched his right fist into his left palm. “I’d like to git me hands on the bastard. I’d kill ’im with one snap o’ the neck.”

“Not before I would roast him in me galley stove,” said Biscuit, his bad eye rolling about in excitement.

“If justice ain’t dished up, why we’ll dish it up ourselves,” said Bailey. “We’ll wait til Mr. Lindsay’s on the night watch and we’ll give ’im a Jonah’s lift into the sea.”

“Or a ball o’ lead durin’ the next battle with them Yankees.”

The men raised their mugs of grog and said, “Hear, hear.”

“Who’s Emily?” asked their newest messmate. The men all turned to gape at him – a giant of a man with muscular arms and a long copper-coloured ponytail that fell a long way down his back. Biscuit cackled and placed his puny arm around the man’s thick neck. “Lads, meet Bun Brodie. Off thee Yankee Liberty, but don’t ya be holdin’ it against ’im, ’cause he’s a Scotsman. And with young Magpie losin’ half his face, he’s gonna fill in fer maker o’ thee sails.”

The men nodded politely in Bun Brodie’s direction. “Pleased to meet all o’ yas,” he said before asking again about Emily.

“She’s thee fair lass we plucked from thee sea a week or so ago,” Biscuit explained. “She’d jumped off a Yankee frigate that went by thee name o’ Serendipity whilst we was doin’ battle with her.”

“Thee Serendipity, ya say? Ya mean Captain Trevelyan’s frigate?” asked Bun before shovelling a hunk of stew into his mouth.

“One ’n’ thee same.”

Jacko smiled. “Our Emily, she’s a right spirited girl. Why, two days ago she joined us at this very table for a cup o’ beer.”

Biscuit laughed suddenly, spewing bits of stew about. “And you, Jacko, thought she was a man. Mr. George, hah!”

Red colour flooded Jacko’s squashed-nosed face. “Aye! I did think it a bit queer him wearin’ them blue silk shoes.”

“She fooled the lot o’ us,” said the sailor with the swarthy complexion and bloodshot eyes.

“Well, not me, and I don’t s’pose she fooled young Morgan either,” said Biscuit gleefully.

“Where is Morgan?” Bailey asked Biscuit. “It was him that was s’posed ta be on mess duty.”

“Probably back in Dr. Braden’s hospital, still pretendin’ to be needin’ medical attention so’s he can keep an eye on Emily.”

Bun Brodie spoke up while the men laughed. “And would ya be knowin’ this Emily’s last name?”

Jacko angled his big head and squinted at his new mate. “How come yer so curious ’bout Emily? Ya won’t get far with her, man. Mr. Lindsay already tried.” The table of men broke into grog-laced peals of laughter. “But … but we do ’ave Meggie Kettle fer ya. She’ll look after ya real nice-like in yer cot.”

“I was on thee Serendipity,” said Bun solemnly. The men quit chuckling and lowered their mugs to stare at him. “I was on thee Serendipity whilst ya was battlin’ it out.”

“Oh, nice,” said Biscuit. “So ya was takin’ shots at we Isabelles, killin’ thee lads, was ya now?”

“Ach, no, I was chained up in her hold doin’ some prayin’.”

Biscuit glanced around at his mates before settling his good eye upon Bun Brodie. “So, what d’ya know ’bout our Emily?”

“I was told there was only one lass on thee Serendipity. Her name was Mrs. Seaton. She was Trevelyan’s prisoner on account he didna fancy her father.”

“Who might her father be?”

“And what was his crime?”

Bun looked around placidly at his attentive messmates as he chewed away on his mutton stew. “I ’aven’t a goddamn clue.”