Come Looking For Me (11 page)

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.

“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.

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.”

“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.