Come Looking For Me (5 page)

“That was his name.”

“Did you … did you … at any time overhear the extent and nature of
his
war orders?”

“No, but I suspect they were comparable to yours, Captain Moreland: to sink or take a prize all enemy ships along the Atlantic coast.”

The men exchanged glances, then regarded Emily with expressions of curiosity.

James's left leg bounced up and down as he resumed his questioning. “How was it you came to be Trevelyan's prisoner?”

Emily hesitated. She lowered her glance, and stared at the bandages on her hands.

“I would appreciate your answer before sunrise.”

“Sir … please … I do not want … I do not wish to speak of that morning.”

“Very well, then,” James said unhappily. “Was there anyone else, besides yourself, taken prisoner?”

Emily's lips quivered, her eyes still on her hands.

James inhaled in exasperation.

“May I, sir?” asked Fly. James settled back on his stool and gave Fly his assent with a wave of his hand. Quietly, Fly tried a different tack. “I assume it was Trevelyan who attacked your ship, Emily.”

She nodded.

“What kind of ship were you on?”

“I'm not certain.”

“A large ship-of-the-line? A frigate? A merchant vessel, perhaps?”

“I am guessing … it was most likely a merchant ship, Mr. Austen.”

“Bound for … ?”

Emily looked up suddenly, and tossed her head, as if trying to recapture her previous confidence. “Upper Canada.”

“What was this merchantman carrying?”

“Besides human beings? I do not know.”

“Guns … soldiers … food supplies?”

Emily shrugged helplessly.

“With whom were you travelling?”

“Companions.”

“Companions? And did your companions have names?”

“Does it
really
matter, Mr. Austen?” challenged Emily. “Surely their names are of no consequence to you.”

Angered, James rose from his stool. “That is for
me
to decide.” He studied her a moment. “Was this merchantman of yours conducting some sort of reconnaissance mission?”

“How would I know?” Emily snapped, adding with sarcasm, “Perhaps her hold was crammed with crates of gold.”

James's voice rose in response to her impertinence. “There must have been
some
reason why Trevelyan attacked your ship?”

“My guess is … he attacked it for no other reason than the British colours flew from her topgallants.”

“What was the name of your ship?”

Emily turned towards the darkening sea beyond the open gunport. “I – I don't remember.”

“
That
I find hard to believe,” muttered James harshly.

“Sir, as passage was booked for me, I did not concern myself with the ship's name.”

James drew nearer to her cot. “Would you perhaps remember the name of this unknown ship's captain? Surely you were acquainted with him. If you could provide me with
this
detail, I may then be able to deduce – ”

At that moment, Leander placed his hand gently on James's shoulder and said, “Sir, I think we best allow Emily more rest.”

James rubbed his eyes, causing the baggy bits to redden. “For God's sake, might we at least know who you
really
are and why you were on a British merchant vessel?”

“Sir, I have told you,” Emily said in a tone that pushed the boundaries of civility. “I am from Dorset. My parents' names were Henry and Louisa George. They are now both deceased. My father was once a farmer. I was on – what I believe was – a merchant ship. We were bound for Upper Canada. If I have displeased you, I am sorry, but I do
not
know Trevelyan's reasons for attacking my ship,
or
why I was taken prisoner.”

James gave Emily a cold stare. “I find it hard to believe, young lady, that
you
are the daughter of a Dorset farmer.” He threw aside the curtain and stalked out.

With frustration etched on his face, Fly followed, shooting a glance at Leander and mumbling, “We have learned
nothing
at all of importance.”

From their hammocks, the sailors – those who were conscious – followed with interest the captain and the commander as the two of them marched across the hospital room and stomped up the ladder.

“Doctor,” Mr. Crump called out, “I swear this be more excitin' than doin' battle with thee French. It does wonders to ease thee pain of losin' me leg.”

“Aye,” said the sailor swinging next to him, “a bit o' melodrama makes me not mind missin' out on me can o' grog, bein' in here.”

The wounded sailors craned their necks in an effort to see the patient lying in the cot beyond the canvas. Leander studied the two of them over his spectacles with consternation and heard them grumble their disappointment when he yanked shut the crack in the curtain.

* * *

EMILY SENSED LEANDER standing next to her cot long before he spoke. “I would like to re-dress your wound when you're feeling up to it.”

“Now is as good a time as any,” she said despondently, turning over so he could reach her bandages. Slowly, his skilled hands removed her soiled dressings and cleaned away the blood and ooze. She closed her eyes to the warmth of his freckled hands on her skin and listened to the
Isabelle
as she cut through the roiling waves, almost forgetting the searing pain where the ball had entered her body.

“If I'd been left in the sea yesterday, Doctor, I would not have minded.”

Leander gazed at her long hair, the golden waves spread across the white blankets of her bed reminding him of a field of wheat.

“Well, perhaps you have a great deal more living to do.”

She said nothing more until he had finished applying fresh bandages.

“May I speak plainly … as patient to doctor?” She rolled over to look up at him. Leander peeled off his spectacles and placed them in the top pocket of his black apron. “Is there any reason … any reason at all why I must tell you every last detail about myself?”

Surprise registered on his handsome face. He lowered himself upon the stool that the captain had earlier occupied and pulled it closer to her cot.

“Not unless you're a spy for President Madison or you're working for Napoleon himself.”

“I assure you I am neither, Doctor.”

“And your presence on the
Isabelle
will, in no way, harm the crew.”

“I cannot think how it could.”

“If you could recall the name of your ship or its captain, it would certainly assist Captain Moreland.”

She met his gaze steadily.

“Otherwise, you may keep your history to yourself.” He rose to leave, then paused by the curtain. “But you should know this: Captain Moreland plans to put you ashore the moment we arrive in Halifax harbour. And if that is not agreeable to you, you must decide how you will answer him.”

Once the
Isabelle's
crew had been fed their breakfast, they fell to work on the repairs that could not be achieved at sea. For a few hours now, the sounds of hammering and good cheer had reverberated around the ship as it bobbed gently on the clear waters.

“Sir, what about a new figurehead?” asked Mr. Alexander as Captain Moreland, in the company of Octavius Lindsay, surveyed the ongoing repairs to the ship's waist. “Shall I ask Morgan Evans to carve you a new one?”

“I think not, Mr. Alexander. There isn't time for fixing a new one, and besides, I find them rather ostentatious and outdated. Just smooth out the sides where our figurehead once rested.”

“What about painting, sir? The ship needs painting,” insisted Octavius.

“I thought you were in a hurry to see Halifax, Mr. Lindsay. Painting will only further delay us.”

“But, sir, we don't want the Americans to think our navy is old and inferior.”

“But, Mr. Lindsay, we are old and rapidly becoming inferior.”

“With all respect, I never expected to hear you say such a thing.”

“Mr. Lindsay, we've lost more sea battles and men in this new war than I care to count. Too many years of war are taking their toll. If we're not quick and attentive, the
Serendipity
will come upon us again and this time there will be
no
retreating.”

“What would Lord Nelson have said, sir, if he'd heard you utter such defeatist words?”

“Young man,” said James, inspecting his new mizzenmast, “Nelson has been gone for eight years.”

Octavius's face fell as the older man brushed by him to look over the rails. A pinnace from the
Amethyst
, which was anchored nearby, was approaching the
Isabelle
carrying four officers.

“Now come with me, Mr. Lindsay, to greet our guests,” shouted James. “Let us find out what news is about in the few days since we were last here. Prepare for their landing, lads. Down with the ladders.”

* * *

AT THE END of the forenoon watch, the bell sounded eight times. Leander and Fly sat on the poop deck bench by the stern and taffrail, drinking cups of black coffee as they observed the sailors climbing down from their four-hour watch on the new mizzenmast and topgallant. As the winds blowing from the south were warm and humid, both men had shed their jackets.

“I much prefer my coffee with milk,” said Fly, grimacing before he gulped his hot drink.

“I overheard Biscuit threatening to hang himself if he cannot find a goat in Bermuda.”

Fly chuckled. “Let us hope he meets with success.”

Leander set down his coffee cup to untie his cravat. “Is James in his cabin with his visitors from the
Amethyst?
”

“He is. I am anxious to hear what news they bring.”

“I hope it's good news and will improve James's humour. I fear he is wearying of war.”

“We're all weary,” said Fly, growing pensive. “I miss the days when we battled for the prize and sailed it back triumphantly into Portsmouth Harbour. I miss the pleasure of opening the enemy's hold of riches and thrilling the crew with fistfuls of shillings at the end of their tour. This war's a hard one and there've been precious few rewards. These American ships are smaller, they carry fewer guns, and there's seldom any treasure to be gotten from them – when we do get them, that is. They're very good, these Americans. Their crews are fresher and their ships have been built with the best timber from these new American forests. They fight differently, too. Not like the French. Of course, as so many of them hail from England, they understand our tactics and our motivations. We've been softened by our numerous victories over the French.” Fly held out his cup to be refilled by Weevil, who stood silently by with a silver coffee pot.

“Last night, when you questioned Emily, the name Thomas Trevelyan seemed to startle James,” said Leander. “Am I right?”

Fly nodded. “I too caught his reaction, but he's a private person, our captain, and he's not spoken of it since.”

“Are you acquainted with the name Trevelyan?”

Fly sipped on his second cup. “I am not, but our navy's a large one, with thousands of men, thousands of officers. I did question Mr. Harding, as he has sailed with James before. He felt ‘Trevelyan' had a familiar ring to it. In fact, Harding thought he might have had something to do with a bit of objectionable business – back in '04 – involving James and the
Isabelle.
”

“What sort of business? What do you mean by that?”

“Why, the very torment of every last one of our sea captains – a mutiny.”

Leander leaned back to regard Fly. “Captain Moreland? A mutiny? I cannot imagine his men rising up against him.”

“My sentiments exactly. Unfortunately, Mr. Harding could provide me with few details of the affair. He said he'd once heard a rumour about it, but nothing more.”

“But, a mutiny … would the details not have been made public?”

“In this case … apparently not; otherwise, I am sure
I
would have heard tell of it.”

“So, it is possible that there is some connection between Trevelyan and this affair of '04?”

“Aye, and if there is, I am certain we shall find out in time.”

Fly handed his cup and saucer to Weevil, thanked him, and lifted his face to receive the warmth of the sun. Leander followed suit. For a few minutes they were silent, enjoying the working seamen's chatter and the squawks of the seagulls circling the harbour.

“Your lady patient … how does she fare?”

“She still lies in my cot, sleeps a great deal, and is greatly troubled, I fear.”

“During your examination …” Fly hesitated. “Did you find if she is carrying a child?”

Leander grinned. “Although it was unnecessary to examine her that fully, I can tell you she is not.”

“If she stays on this ship much longer that may change.”

“Have you been away from your wife too long, Mr. Austen?”

“I believe we've all been away from attractive women far too long, including you, Doctor.” Fly clapped him on the back.

“We haven't been
that
long away from England.”

“Yes, but you, my friend, have been far too long without a wife.”

Leander looked out to sea.

“My sister, Jane, is still without a husband,” continued Fly. “Brother Charles and I think you would make her a splendid husband. I know she's older and may not be able to provide you with ten children, which is what I intend to have, but you won't find a more amiable, intelligent companion anywhere.”

“I don't believe Jane would be contented with a ship's physician who earns a few shillings a day and prefers the sea to setting up shop in an English parish.”

“Perhaps you'll not always feel that way. Of course you know the Austen family would embrace you wholeheartedly.”

“Maybe it's time you look elsewhere for dear Jane.” Then, more cheerfully, Leander added, “But I am enjoying her
Sense and Sensibility
immensely. Although I do not possess his purse, I find myself sympathizing with her character Colonel Brandon. I must write to tell her so.”

Fly's brown eyes narrowed. “You're reading a woman's novel? Such a great departure from the poetry of Robbie Burns and the stories of Walter Scott you claim to enjoy! And here I thought I had loaned the volumes to Gus Walby for Emily.”

“You did, but I often listen in when he is reading aloud to her. It is my hope your sister's book will draw Emily out.”

“You were saying she is troubled.”

“Not being able to trust Osmund Brockley alone with her, I have spent my nights in the hospital. I have hung a cot near hers …”

“Outside or inside the canvas?”

Leander pulled a face. “For the past two nights she's had nightmares and awakened with a cry.” He did not tell Fly he'd given her laudanum to return to sleep.

“The ship she was on when the
Serendipity
attacked …”

“She claims she cannot remember. I simply do not know.”

“How is it Mr. Walby's gained access to our guest?”

“The boy is twelve and missing his mother. I'm hoping it will help him to be around such a woman, even if she is a troubled one. A bond is forming between them already. She's freely told him how she jumped from the
Serendipity's
broken windows to make her escape. Perhaps, between Mr. Walby and your sister's book, we'll gradually learn more about the mysterious Emily.”

A sudden breeze tugged at Leander's black felt hat, compelling him to push it down further onto his forehead. “Tell me, Fly, how is it your bicorne stays on your head in these winds? I've yet to witness an officer losing his hat to the sea.”

Fly slapped his knees. “That's my secret, my friend … Mr. Weevil, we're done with coffee. Some red wine now, if you please.”

“You say you have little news of the war, gentlemen?”

“There is not much to report, I'm afraid,” said Mr. Prickett, eyeing the iced spice cake that Biscuit had baked from fresh provisions sent in from shore early that morning. “We've not been long from England.”

“Aye, and we've yet to meet an enemy ship,” said Mr. Bridlington, addressing the ceiling of the cabin as he spoke, “which makes the sailors very restless indeed for some action.”

“What brings you to Bermuda?”

“We're to escort those three East India merchant vessels you saw anchored in the harbour on a round trip from Portsmouth to Bermuda to Halifax and finally on to Quebec.” Captain Prickett snapped his fingers at a young servant boy standing quietly behind the first lieutenant's chair. “You there … a piece of that cake wouldn't go amiss.”

The servant boy jumped to do his bidding.

“What do the merchant vessels carry?” asked James.

As Captain Prickett's mouth was soon full of cake, Mr. Bridlington answered for him, his eyes, once again, turned to the ceiling. “Supplies of all kinds: livestock, tools, munitions, troops … they even carry passengers bound for Upper and Lower Canada. Hardy fools, I say, leaving England at a time like this.” He made a sucking sound with his red lips.

“So you've seen no one on your travels?”

“Aye, we did stop for a visit with the captain of the
Expedition
a few days out from Portsmouth. Captain Uptergrove was his name …”

“William Uptergrove!” James's tired features sprang to life. “I served with him at St. Vincent. And he's still commanding the
Expedition?
Why, he's as old a relic as I am! And where had old Uptergrove been?”

“On a re-supplying mission to our interests in the Caribbean. He was able to provide us with the only war information gathered thus far.” Captain Prickett shovelled another bite of cake into his mouth. “According to Uptergrove, we're not making much of an impact over here. Why, we've only eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates trying to accomplish a variety of tasks: protecting the St. Lawrence, blockading American ports, escorting British merchant ships, hunting down enemy frigates – to name a few.

“Furthermore,” said Captain Prickett, spraying bits of cake onto the oak table, “it is believed that up to ten per cent of the United States Navy consists of men of British origin. The question is: are they deserters or were they pressed into the service by the Americans?”

Mr. Bridlington clasped his delicate hands under his chin. “We're not faring much better on land. The number of our regulars is very low indeed. We are forced to fight alongside Indians. Quite frightening, really!”

Captain Prickett wiped his whiskered mouth with a napkin and examined the plates of unfinished food set before him. “We must soon finish our business with Old Boney; otherwise, this Yankee campaign will be our undoing.”

Biscuit came into the cabin with the silver coffee pot.

“Ah, coffee would be nice. And I'll have more beef and potatoes. Your beans are quite good too, Moreland. We won't be seeing fresh vegetables again for a time.”

Amusement registered in James's faded blue eyes.