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Monday, June 7

11:30 a.m.

(Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

BEFORE NOON THE NEXT MORNING, Meg Kettle waddled through Emily’s curtains, balancing a washbasin on one hip. Her thick face was scarlet and there were enormous sweat stains in the armpits of her beige calico dress. “Git up, git up. It’s Monday. Wash day fer ya.” She dropped the basin next to Emily’s hammock and stood, hands on her hammy hips, huffing and puffing.

Emily sat up in her bed and wiped the sleep from her eyes, unable to decipher Mrs. Kettle’s ensuing mumbled irritation as the woman headed towards the gunport, her backside swaying like a prodigious pendulum.

“We’ll ’ave to close this up,” she said gruffly. “We’re hove to, so Captain Moreland and his men kin ’ave their wash in thee sea, and it wouldn’t do fer ya to have a peek at their bare behinds. Mind ya, Mr. Austen looks fine without his britches. What I wouldn’t give ta …”

Emily’s hands shot up in surrender. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle. I’m up then.”

With a bang, Mrs. Kettle shut the gunport. She wheeled about and with her squinty eyes sized up Emily in her crumpled nightshirt.

“Well then, it’s wash day fer yer clothes as well. Gimme yer shirt and whatever’s underneath and that what Magpie made ya. I’ll ’ave ’em all back ’fore thee supper bell.”

“The supper bell? And what shall I wear in the meantime?”

Mrs. Kettle snorted. “A pair of thee doctor’s boots fer all I care.” She grabbed Emily’s jacket and trousers, which were hanging from a hook, ignoring Emily’s protests that her new clothes hardly needed cleaning at all, then trudged through the curtain, shouting over her plump shoulder, “Toss me what yer wearin’ now onto thee floor and ye can hide yerself under thee blankets for thee day.”

Out in the hospital room Emily heard Leander’s warm voice. “Being your usual solicitous self, are you, Mrs. Kettle?”

“I’m washin’ that woman’s clothes only on yer account, Doctor. If ya want me opinion, I would ’ave – ”

“As a matter of fact,” said Leander, elevating his tone, “I do not.”

With hands on her hips and a scowl between her eyes, Mrs. Kettle pounced upon Dr. Braden’s patients with a loud warning. “Ye lads keep yer trousers on whilst that woman’s walkin’ naked amongst ya.” Their heads bobbed obediently on their pillows. She waved a fat finger at Leander. “And you, Doctor – be sure to tie thee lads down in their beds while she’s ’avin’ her wash.”

“I assure you I have rope ready for just such a purpose.”

With a grunt, Mrs. Kettle bent over to scoop up Emily’s discarded clothes lying on the floor by the curtain. When she was done, she growled, “Fer all thee trouble that woman’s bin causin’, woulda bin plenty easier if we’d just pitched ’er overboard in Bermuda.”

Leander laid his slim, freckled hands on her shoulders and steered her gently towards the exit. “Mrs. Kettle, with bated breath we shall await your return at suppertime with our clean clothes.”

Sitting in her hammock with the blankets pulled up to her neck, Emily could hear not only the older woman’s cursing as she passed from the hospital into the galley, but the subsequent snickers from the men as well. Of them all, Osmund Brockley possessed the noisiest laughter, braying like a possessed animal, and when finally he had laughed himself dry, he asked of Leander, “May I take in her breakfast now, Doctor?”

“No,” came the terse reply.

Leander was soon standing before her curtain. “May I come through, Emily?”

“By all means, Doctor.”

Leander sidled in, his back to her, carrying a bundle of clothes.

“Good morning,” he said, holding the clothes up for her to see. “I managed to get these for you from the ship’s purser, Mr. Spooner. I’m afraid they won’t fit well, but they’ll do for Mondays.”

“I am quite decent, Doctor.”

There was a shy look of uncertainty on Leander’s face as he laid the new clothes by her feet and turned towards her.

“I was beginning to worry you would not speak to me again after finding me with Biscuit and his messmates.”

Leander quickly cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He looked at her over his spectacles, his blue eyes meeting hers, and drew in breath. “But – do you not remember anything of last night?”

“Last night?” Emily angled her head. “What happened last night?”

Leander hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. “You – you had a nightmare.”

His words hung in the humid air of her little corner. Emily’s eyes shifted past him to stare absently at the closed gunport.

“Perhaps I – should not have reminded you …”

“No, I remember. And you gave me some water and laudanum.” She looked back at him. “If you are not careful, Doctor, you will surely waste your entire supply of laudanum on me. And here Mrs. Kettle thinks I am nothing more than an idler. Perhaps we should tell her that you perpetually have me in a drug-induced slumber.”

Leander moved closer still to the head of her hammock. “We will tell no one of it.”

The ship rolled and he raised his slender arms to steady himself on the boards above his head. He grew suddenly sombre. “After breakfast, Captain Moreland would like to have a word with you in his cabin.”

“Am I in trouble for yesterday?”

“I cannot be sure. He said little to me, only that he wished to see you.”

Emily sighed. “Do you suppose he will banish me to his gaol cell in the bowels of this ship with the ever-affable Mrs. Kettle as my protector?”

“If the captain seeks my counsel, I will recommend you stay where you are.”

“Comforting words; however, do not forget I am only a woman.”

Leander studied the floor.

Seeing his lips move silently, Emily asked, “What is that you say, Doctor?”

He dropped his arms at his sides. “Oh, I … I wondered whether you would be able to make the trip to Captain Moreland’s cabin with that ankle of yours.”

Emily smiled at him. “I cannot leave it here.”

He smiled back. “I will ask Gus to escort you there … and back.” Reaching out to pull the curtain aside, he whispered, “Will you require assistance with your new clothes?”

“As I have lost my underclothing to Mrs. Kettle’s laundry pile,” she whispered back, “I had better try this one on my own.”

2:00 p.m.

(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)

THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN DOOR swung open, revealing Biscuit’s flaming orange head. Gus took off his hat. “Miss Emily is here. The captain is expecting her.”

Biscuit’s good eye gave Emily a thorough going over, moving from the top of Dr. Braden’s borrowed straw hat down to her bandage-wrapped ankle. She had on a pair of loose-fitting brown trousers, a checked shirt, and a polka-dotted red scarf tied at her neck. On her feet were her blue silk shoes. Biscuit chortled, and then muttered, “New slops, Mr. George?”

Gus peered up at Emily, a puzzled expression on his small face. With her eyes, she entreated that he ask no questions. From within the cabin came Captain Moreland’s insistent voice. “Thank you, Mr. Walby. I will call for you again later. Please come in, Emily. You may keep your hat on.”

While Biscuit stepped aside, Emily passed into the room, holding her breath against his sour stench. With an outstretched arm, the captain motioned her towards a red-velvet wing chair at the opposite end of the oak table from him. Fly Austen leaped up to help her settle in, placed her walking cane across her knees, and returned to his own chair on the captain’s left.

Glancing around the table, Emily found four pairs of keen eyes staring at her as if she were a curiosity at a local market. With the exception of the young officer with the bad complexion, the men all had warm smiles for her.

“You have already met Mr. Austen,” said the captain, “and I gather you made the acquaintance of our sailing master, Mr. Harding, in the hospital.”

“Yes, sir,” said Emily with a brief nod.

“But I do not believe you know our first lieutenant, Octavius Lindsay.”

Emily looked his way, feeling his dark eyes attaching themselves to her body like two black leeches. He had thin lips and greasy coal-coloured hair, and the aspect of a person who would not age well. She watched as his lips curled.

“I understand, ma’am, that you lived in Dorset. Perhaps you have made the acquaintance of my family. We have one of many properties in Dorset, my father being the Duke of Belmont.”

As Emily had already developed a distaste for the man, she replied, “How wonderful for you, Mr. Lindsay.”

Octavius raised his black eyebrows in surprise, then looked askance at Captain Moreland. With a nonchalance that irritated the younger man, James held up the decanter Biscuit had brought in for their interview.

“Would you care for some wine, Emily?”

“No, thank you, sir.”

Fly Austen addressed her amiably. “Have Dr. Braden and Mr. Brockley taken good care of you in the hospital?”

“They have both been very kind. You have all been kind to me.” Emily excluded Octavius in her glance.

“And your injuries?” asked James. “You are on the mend?”

“I am much improved these past seven days.”

“Good, good. It is our hope that you are comfortable while you are here on the Isabelle; however, Emily, your safety too is important, and you have given us some anxiety of late. As a result, we have felt it necessary to lay out certain restrictions for the duration of your stay.” James leaned back in his chair, resting his thick, intertwined fingers on the belly of his buttoned-up coat, trying to harden his facial features and inject a note of harshness into his voice. “Henceforth, you will be forbidden to set foot above deck during the day. Should you require exercise, you may take it, but only after the evening eight bells, and only with an escort of my choosing. Secondly, there will be no more mixing with the sailors. The areas on the gun decks where the men take their meals and where they hang their hammocks at night will be off limits to you.” Seeing Emily’s face fall, James felt a twinge of frustration. “You have proven yourself to be an affable young woman, but the men on my ship …” he stopped to choose his words. “I fear they will misinterpret your gregariousness.”

While James poured more wine for himself, and Mr. Harding and Fly gazed at the view beyond the cabin’s mullioned windows, Mr. Lindsay fixed a hostile stare upon Emily.

“But, sir, it was not my intention to end up in the mess yesterday,” she said. “I’m afraid I was hopelessly lost.”

“Ah, but while there,” said James, “you were imprudent enough to sit among Biscuit’s messmates and accept their offerings of beer.”

“It did not happen that way, sir.”

“Are you telling me you were forced then?”

“I was not, sir.”

James threw up his hands. “Then I’m afraid I am quite confused.”

“I understood you to be a woman of impeccable breeding,” Octavius eagerly interjected. “Obviously I was mistaken.”

Emily lifted her chin to him. “You know nothing of me.”

“Nonetheless, my good opinion of you has dropped a notch.”

“I do not care – or need – to be held in your high esteem, Mr. Lindsay.”

Octavius’s face flushed a deep red. “My father could ruin your family.”

Emily threw him a direct look. “Are you quite certain of that?”

James slammed his hand down on the table. “Enough! Mr. Lindsay, you forget yourself. You are not exempted from civility on my ship.”

With a dramatic flourish of his shoulders, Octavius jerked his face away and fumed like a schoolboy. James set his weary gaze upon Emily. “And you, young lady … unless King George himself sits on a branch of your family tree, I suggest you hold that arrogant tongue of yours.”

Emily tightened her grip on her walking cane.

Mr. Harding pursed his lips, his eyes shifting expectantly between Emily and James. Fly fingered the crystal stem of his wine goblet and gave her a small smile which she did not dare return.

“Do we understand one another, Emily?” asked James.

She was slow to respond. “Yes, sir.”

He pressed his fingertips to his temples and rubbed in circles. “The men involved yesterday,” he continued, “including young Magpie, have all heard their punishment for failing to return you safely to the hospital. They will lose their grog ration for three days, and it will be their sole responsibility to holystone the upper decks for the next four. Furthermore, unless under extenuating circumstances, they are not to keep company with you again.”

Emily’s mouth fell open in disbelief. “But that is unjust! The men did nothing wrong. They … they thought I was a man.”

“Ho, ho, ho,” said Mr. Harding, peeking up at her. “Did they now?”

Octavius threw back his dark head to laugh. “They knew exactly with whom they were toying, you foolish child.”

Emily’s eyes flashed as they fell on Mr. Lindsay. “You call me a child, yet I am astounded that someone such as yourself – with so obvious a belligerent and puerile disposition – is an officer of the Royal Navy.”

Shocked by Emily’s insult, Mr. Harding choked and dribbled his mouthful of wine down the front of his dark-blue uniform. James looked annoyed, but made no comment; instead, he simply handed the sailing master a handkerchief. Not accustomed to being spoken to in such a manner – especially by a woman – Octavius shot forward in his chair and grasped the edge of the oak table, an expression of contempt on his homely face.

But Emily did not care. She gave Captain Moreland a beseeching look. “Sir, please, I am not a leper. And Magpie, of all people, I should like to see and speak with again.”

“Magpie must learn to stay and sew his sails in his dark hole on the orlop,” said Octavius, in a low, threatening voice.

Emily stood up quickly, swaying in pain as her injured foot hit the floor. “Perhaps we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all, Mr. Lindsay, if you had minded your own business in the first place, and kept your eyes and thoughts on your sea watches and not on me.”

“Sit down, Emily,” ordered James. He turned on Octavius. “And you, Mr. Lindsay, not another word.”

“I will not, sir,” cried Emily. “Do you not see? You will have every man on this ship despise me for this … this madness. Why, you might as well just string them all up on the Isabelle’s yardarms until their necks have broken.”

The weary lines on James’s face dissolved in red anger. A deathly silence descended as if an unseen force had dropped a suffocating shroud upon the oak table. When James next opened his mouth his voice was frighteningly chilly. “We are currently fighting a war, and I have spent more of my time on your damned affairs than I have on fulfilling my orders from the Admiralty. Mr. Austen, summon Mr. Walby and have her taken back to her hospital cot. Madam – you are dismissed.”

The moment James finished speaking, the Isabelle resounded with raised voices.

“Sail ho!”

“Four points off the larboard.”

“What does she look like?”

“A large vessel, standing towards us!”

“Clear the ship for action.”

The drums sounded to beat to quarters. Emily’s head hurt so much it seemed to her that every drumbeat was a blow to her skull. Almost instantaneously, there came a knock at the door. Fly moved swiftly to answer it.

“There’s been a sighting, sir.”

“British or Yankee?” asked Fly.

“Too soon to say, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. McGilp. Have the men lower the boats. If lead is about to fly, we don’t need their scattering splinters killing us.”

“Gentlemen,” said James, trying to regain his composure. “To your stations, then. This cabin must be cleared for action.” He watched the three officers make their hasty departure, Octavius’s fiery gaze once again falling upon Emily when he rose from his chair. As they were leaving the room, James spoke again, this time, very calmly. “Under the circumstances, Emily, I will ask that you find your own way back to the hospital. Go to the hatch on the fo’c’sle. The ladder down will bring you to your destination.”

* * *

EMILY WAS ABOUT TO MAKE her painful way down the ladder when she spotted Gus on his way up. Clutching his bicorne hat and cutlass, he beamed up at her, his eyes swimming with excitement. “There’s been a ship sighting, Em. Dr. Braden asked me to find you. He wants you to get back below.”

“Do we know yet? Is it an American warship?”

“We can’t be sure. Please! Just get below. The worst place to be is above deck.” He scurried off, securing his hat upon his blond head.

Emily stepped back as dozens of men now began pouring up the ladder, tripping over one another in their haste and articulating a variety of emotions:

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

“Goddamned Yankees.”

“We’ll slice ’em up nicely.”

“Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done …”

“Move along. Git yer arse out of me face.”

“England expects every man to do his duty. England expects every man …”

“Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper, and let ev’ry man drink off his full glass; we’ll drink, be jolly and drown melancholy …”

“On earth as it is in Heaven …”

“And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass …”

Once safely returned to the hospital, Emily found Leander and Osmund clearing away the clutter on the desk. Osmund, his thick tongue hanging out of his mouth, grabbed a roll of bloodstained cloth and plunked it down hard on what would now become the operating table. Leander opened it and began arranging his surgical equipment. He glanced up when Emily entered.

“What can I do?” she asked quietly.

Leander spoke rapidly. “Sit down on the floor in the corner. Make certain the gunport is closed up and stay clear of it.”

Emily slid the straw hat off her head, her wheat-coloured hair tumbling down around the shoulders of her checked shirt. Feeling faint and headachy, she limped towards the canvas curtain.

“Doctor Braden,” pleaded Crump from his hammock, “please let me get up, sir. I’m willin’ to fight.”

“Mr. Crump, you have just lost your leg. You must wait until Mr. Evans has time to fit you up with a new one.”

Mr. Crump grumbled like an active volcano, cursing saints Peter and Paul.

“Emily …”

She whirled about to find Leander holding out a pistol to her. “Take this. If it’s an American warship, you may need it.” Catching her expression of anxiety, he softened his tone. “I suspect you know how to use it.”

6:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

CROUCHED ON THE FLOOR of her small corner, as far away as was possible from the gunport, Emily heard the echo of one bell. It had been some time since Fly Austen climbed down the ladder to the hospital to inform Leander that it was indeed a Yankee frigate and to make ready for the wounded.

“Fly, as there are only two of us here,” Leander had said, peering over his spectacles at his friend, “please try to make short work of it.”

“Shall I send in Biscuit? He claims to know something of medicine.”

“I forbid it. His smell alone will surely do me in.”

Fly had laughed as he ascended the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck.

Emily was surprised they could joke at a time like this, especially when her own heart had been thumping uncomfortably for the past two hours. Her legs were already cramped from crouching, and her ankle throbbed. The waiting was agony. Why weren’t the guns firing?

Leander suddenly pulled aside the curtain and held up a lantern. “Are you all right?”

“I’m terrified.”

“I have a shot of rum here for you. It might help.” He bent his long frame to hand her a small cup.

Emily downed it, ignoring the burning sensation as it passed to her stomach. Leander shook his head as he looked down upon her. “I’m afraid by the time we reach Halifax, you will not only be a laudanum addict, you will also have developed a fondness for grog.”

“And I will entirely have you to blame.” Emily handed him back the cup with a sigh. “Then, of course, if Captain Moreland is obeyed, I shall have nothing to look forward to, with the exception of my cot, grog, and laudanum.”

“Your interview did not go well?”

“It was horrendous. Captain Moreland is being quite unfair, particularly to the men with whom I was sitting yesterday – suspending their grog rations amongst other things. He has even gone so far as to punish poor Magpie for not escorting me back here before returning to his duties. I will soon have many enemies on the Isabelle, the worst of them that vile Mr. Lindsay, although where that man is concerned, I do not give a fig.”

“I can assure you that for every one enemy you may have on the Isabelle, you have two hundred friends.”

Emily lifted her face to him.

“You surely know,” continued Leander hesitantly, “it wasn’t me who informed Captain Moreland of your whereabouts yesterday.”

“I know.”

The guns began thundering at last. The ship’s timbers shuddered and shook, knocking Emily up against the clothes cupboard beside her. Leander was hurled backwards, but was saved from a fall by the wooden post supporting the bottom end of her hammock. Steadying himself, he seized the blanket from her bed and tossed it to her.

“Here, place it over you. If the hospital is hit, you may escape the inevitable flying splinters. Stay down and stay safe.” He soon vanished, taking the lantern light with him.

Alone in the dark she whispered, “And you too.”

* * *

CLOAKED IN THE SMOKEY CLOUDS of gunfire, the Isabelle’s crew seized the battle respite to regroup and clear the decks of their fallen comrades. The heart-wrenching wails of the wounded and their pleas for help were everywhere – on the damaged decks, high up in the twisted ropes, and in the agitated waters between the two ships. Amidst the butchery and blood waddled Mrs. Kettle, lifting her skirts to the gore underfoot, cussing in a clamourous voice that surely could be heard on board the enemy frigate.

“It’s brutes they are, them Yankees!” She inspected the freshly cleaned shirts and trousers not yet collected from the drying lines that crisscrossed the fo’c’sle, now all sooty, blood-splattered, and full of holes. “And they would ’ave to pick me laundry day to shoot their cannons at us.”

“Next time, Mrs. Kettle, you will take down all the laundry the moment we see a sail on the horizon … as you were instructed to do,” admonished Fly, slipping along the starboard railing. He was heading towards Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”

“It’s the Liberty, sir. The Isabelle did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”

“If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”

“We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”

“We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”

“Slices of Swiss cheese, sir!” cried Gus.

“Quite so!” Fly cupped his hands around his mouth to yell to the men who had the unenviable task of dodging grapeshot and cannonballs high up on the yardarms. “Topsails only, men!”

“Aye, sir. Topsails.”

“Quickly now, Mr. Walby, get yourself below. The moment we come up broadside to her, the guns will be firing again.” Fly laid one hand on Gus’s shoulder. “And please do us all a favour and take Mrs. Kettle with you.”

“I will try, sir.”

* * *

ON THE GUN DECK, the air was stifling and rank with the smell of fear. The half-naked gunners were black with gunpowder. Tiny rivers of sweat carved lines upon their blackened torsos as if the men had been scratched with giant fingernails. Clustered around each of the heavy guns was a crew of six, each member with his assigned duty. One man sponged out the gun barrel to remove traces of burning powder so others could insert the new powder charge, wads, and shot, and prepare all for the gun captain, whose task it was to aim and fire the gun. The young lads called “powder monkeys” scurried about, having carried up fresh charges from the magazine deep in the Isabelle’s hold.

Striding amongst the men and the guns was James, the polished brass buttons of his dark blue jacket glinting like cats’ eyes in the gathering gloom. Already his Hessian boots were scuffed and his cream-coloured breeches covered in filth and blood. His face was red with exertion and he kept one hand glued to the silver hilt of his sword.

“Deep breaths, men. Do not shoot again until we are broadside-to-broadside. We cannot afford to lose a single shot. Aim for her hull, but remember, our goal is to cripple her, not to sink her.” He stopped his pacing to stand behind Octavius. “This time we will have our chance to board her and search for deserters. I will leave you to it, Mr. Lindsay, as I must learn what damage has been done to our Isabelle.”

7:30 p.m.

(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

EMILY COULD STAND THE NOISE and suffering no longer. Streams of blood had now found their way into her dark corner. She could not see it, but she could smell it and feel its stickiness. On all fours, she crawled out through her canvas curtain into the hellish scene in the hospital. The room was clogged with bleeding, dying men whose eerie shadows were cast upon the wooden walls by the swaying light of the lanterns. Those who could stand leaned against one another, but most were huddled or lying on the floor. Every one of the hammocks was full, including the extra dozen that Osmund had hung up before the battle began. Young boys sobbed, calling out for their mothers; others groaned mournfully; most said nothing at all, presumably having already died or passed from consciousness.

“Please, Dr. Braden, please see me next. I can’t breathe, sir.”

“I’ll be with you soon, Mr. Smith. Hold on.” Leander’s voice was as calm as if he were tending to patients on a routine day.

“A drink of water … just a drink of water.”

“I want me ma …”

“I can’t see! Oh, God, I can’t see!” shrieked a hysterical boy, rocking back and forth on the floor, his face red and mutilated.

Emily’s eyes filled with tears. She had seen it all before, though it was no easier to bear this second time round. Here again was the reality of battle beyond the politicians’ rousing rhetoric and the reckless bravado of common men. Here again it lay before her – in all its dreadful glory – and she had no recourse but to face it head on. She yanked the red scarf from her neck and used it to tie back her hair. Then, crawling to the bucket of water Leander kept next to his operating table, she unhooked a cup from the bucket’s side and filled it. Balancing the cup in one hand she weaved her way through the throng of suffering sailors to the man who had pleaded for water.

She put the cup to his swollen lips and said softly, “Here, drink this.” He coughed and spit, but managed to get some down. There were no shoes on his feet, his pants had been half torn away, and a spreading bloodstain on his soiled shirt showed he had been struck in the chest. With laboured breathing, he looked up at her and said, “Thankee, Miss.” A moment later his bruised head slumped forward and he slowly slid down against her breast, his blood seeping into her clothes. Emily heard him utter a long moan and knew that he was gone.

A teenaged lad crouching nearby said, “He’s dead, ma’am.”

Emily suppressed a whimper and put her hand on the lad’s arm. “Could you help me carry him out to the galley?”

“Aye, ma’am. Only got a bit ’o lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.”

The lad hooked his strong, bare arms under the dead sailor’s limp ones and lifted him up while Emily held onto his legs. Blinking back tears, she fought to keep her stomach down as they carried him through the stifling, stinking hospital and out into the galley where they lay him carefully on a grey blanket near Bailey Beck, who was already at work there sewing the dead men – with an eighteen-pounder at their feet – into their hammocks for burial at sea. Emily thanked the young lad and searched out others who needed aid, this time walking rather than crawling through the sea of misery, mindless of her own cares and annoying ankle. Struggling to contain her emotions, she gave water and a comforting word to those she knew would die before Leander was able to see them.

Before long the guns boomed again. Above deck, the bellowing grew louder and fiercer so that Dr. Braden had to raise his voice in order to be heard by Osmund, who was darting nervously about the room like a fox with a pack of hounds on its heels. Emily could hear the whirr of chain and bar shot intended for the Isabelle’s rigging, and could feel the large cannonballs pounding her walls. She reached up for the ceiling boards to balance herself as she waded through the room, catching a word or two spoken by the men.

“Sounds like we be broadside to ’er now.”

“Lord, help thee lads.”

“Dr. Braden, I only got a couple ’o cut-up fingers. If ya could just bandage me real fast, I could git back to fightin’.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Morris, you will have to wait your turn,” Leander said, focusing on a lead extraction from the arm of a shrieking, thrashing, red-haired midshipman. “Mr. Stewart, if you could stay still I might have an opportunity to remove the lead ball. If not, I will be forced to send you to the back of the line, and when I see you again in about three days, I will most likely have to remove your entire arm.”

Not heeding the doctor’s words, the midshipman continued to thrash about on the table.

“A good punch to the face will settle ’im down, Doc.”

“Thank you for that, Mr. Crump, but I don’t normally adhere to those methods.”

“Ohhhh!” moaned the midshipman. “Please send for my mother. She’ll hold my hand and smooth my hair.”

Those of the less wounded sailors within earshot chuckled. “If thee lad lives he’ll ’ave trouble livin’ them words down.”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Stewart, your mother is not here with us.” When the boy did not cease his flailing, Leander finally lost his patience. “Osmund, you’ll have to sit on him.”

“Right, then.” Rolling his thick tongue around his cracked lips, Osmund hopped up onto the operating table and plunked his full weight down onto the boy’s buttocks, gripping his skinny wrists with his enormous hands. The midshipman howled and cried out for mercy, but Osmund held him fast and firmly enough for Leander to do his work.

Emily pulled her attention away from the midshipman’s plight and snatched some clean rags from the chair at Leander’s back. She then refilled the water cup and went to kneel next to the boy with the mutilated face.

“I can’t see!” he cried. “I can’t see.”

Dipping a rag in the cold water, Emily wrung it out a bit and gently began dabbing his bleeding face. His hair was matted with blood, and on his head and left cheek were oozing gashes. In the shadowy light, with some of the blood washed away, she realized, with dismay, that his left eye had been shattered.

“Is that you, m’am?”

Emily paused to study the small, torn face in her hands. “Magpie?”

“One ’n’ the same, ma’am, but not bein’ very brave, I’m afraid.” He began to sob. Emily wrapped one arm around his thin shoulders, whispering, “Hush, now. I’ll stay with you.” She then searched the room for the teenaged lad, only to find that he was sitting nearby, watching her with interest.

“Could you manage to help me again?” she asked. “I know where there’s an empty hammock.”

“Aye, ma’am.”

With his strong arms, the lad scooped up Magpie and, limping, followed Emily to her private corner. As they weaved and bobbed through the huddled throng, she felt Leander’s eyes on her. Turning her head to him, she found that he had paused in his work to send a grateful smile her way.