“Thank you, I’ll manage with Mr. Magpie.”
Hobbling along the fo’c’sle deck with her walking cane, Emily drew no stares. The doctor’s straw hat hid her long, fair hair, and the baggy trousers and waist-length jacket Magpie had fashioned for her disguised her female form. She had supposed her blue silk shoes would be a dead giveaway, but no one seemed interested in her feet. Moreover, Gus had assured her that several of the men were new to the Isabelle, and thus many faces were still foreign to one another.
As if reading her thoughts, Magpie piped up, “Ya’ll get away with it today, ma’am, but tonight at supper they’ll be askin’ me the name of the sailor I was walkin’ with at noon.”
“Do you not get leisure time?”
“Aye, but they don’t usually see the likes of Magpie up on the poop deck.”
“In that case, let’s just sit here.”
Emily and Magpie perched themselves upon two overturned barrels alongside the starboard railing of the ship’s waist, and there fell quiet to appreciate the scenes around them. The decks were teeming with sailors – toiling, talking, taking leisure – reminding Emily of a busy street in London minus the coiffed ladies in their bonnets and redingotes. High on the yardarms, the men stood precariously on their footropes, letting down the sails in preparation for their return to the sea. Those on the mast platforms watched the empty horizons for enemy sails. They were like birds in a mountain nest, isolated and free. She longed to be up there with them and determined she would be once her ankle and shoulder had healed.
Following Magpie’s gaze out over the square, stone buildings in the dockyard and the low, mossy-green hills of Ireland Island, Emily noticed there was only one other ship in port beyond the Isabelle, a small two-masted vessel with an unusually bright red hull. HMS Amethyst and the three East India merchantmen, of which she’d overheard Dr. Braden speaking to Mr. Harding in the hospital earlier, must have departed, she thought. Emily had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Amethyst’s Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington, as their manners and fondness for the Isabelle’s food had apparently provided Captain Moreland with a good amount of entertainment.
Pulling her eyes away from the thickets of mangrove and hedges of oleander that lay beyond the naval buildings, Emily was surprised to find Magpie studying her face with interest, much as Captain Moreland and Fly Austen had the night of their interrogation. Quickly he looked away, furtively slipping a gilded object into his trousers pocket, and turning his attention to the stretch of new canvas that whispered above his head.
“What is that you have there?” Emily asked, referring to her tantalizing glimpse of gold.
“Aw, it ain’t nothing,” said Magpie, still looking at the sail. He pointed upwards. “Ain’t she a beauty, ma’am? I sewed her meself.”
“Yes,” Emily said absently. It was her turn to study him. His eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with long black lashes, and his dark curls blew with abandon in the warm breeze. His little fingers were stained black and his leather shoes had lost their heels, but his trousers, shirt, and red necktie were all clean, and the stitches around the patches were neat and even. There was a catch in her throat as she asked, “Where did you live before joining the navy, Magpie?”
“In London, ma’am. I was a chummy, a climbin’ boy.”
“A climbing boy? Do you mean you cleaned chimneys?”
“That I did. Still can’t get the soot out o’ me nails.”
“What a horrible time you must have had.”
“Oh, aye, and I had a mean boss – Mr. Hardy was his name. He stood around eatin’ meat pasties while I climbed the dark flues. And if I didn’t wanna go up, he’d prick me feet with a pin. I’ve burns on me legs and arms, and me lungs don’t take kindly to colds.”
“How did you ever escape Mr. Hardy?”
“I didn’t jump out o’ no windows, ma’am,” he said with an impish grin. “Nay, I was climbin’ at a big house one day and I had a fall. Bruised meself badly. The man o’ the house was kind enough to give me water and let me rest awhile on his couch. He gave Mr. Hardy a terrible tongue lashin’ on account o’ me bad treatment, and ordered Mr. Hardy to leave his house at once, sayin’ I would be stayin’ with him. Imagine me surprise! His wife was kind too. She give me the best dinner I’ve ever eaten and told me to eat up ’til me sides busted. I remember it still: roast o’ pork an’ potatoes, a kind o’ mint sauce, biscuits, cheese, and a baked bread puddin’.” He sighed at the memory. “It was grand. After dinner the man asked me if I wanted a postin’ on a sailin’ ship. Said he was a big gun in the Royal Navy and could get me a post if I was keen. Course I didn’t wanna go back climbin’ so I jumped at the chance.”
“Who was this saviour of yours?”
There was mischievous glint in Magpie’s eyes and his thin chest swelled as he proudly said, “He was called the Duke o’ Clarence.”
Emily’s mouth fell open. “The – the Duke of Clarence? Our King George’s son?”
“One ’n’ the same, ma’am.”
“That is astounding!” Her dark eyes danced as she clapped together her bandaged hands in merriment. “Imagine you making the acquaintance of the Duke of Clarence.”
Magpie’s smile vanished. “Why? ’Cause I ain’t nobody?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean it in that vein, Magpie. I just think the poor duke has long been criticized for his lifestyle and politics and here he’s shown true kindness to the Isabelle’s sail maker.”
“D’ya know him too, ma’am?”
Emily shrank back on her barrel. “No. I’ve just read about him in the newspapers. That is all.”
For a moment Magpie’s almond eyes watched her, as if expecting her to say more, but when she did not, his expression changed and he peeked up shyly at her. “Do ya like the clothes I made fer ya, ma’am?”
“Your handiwork is truly exquisite! I look every inch a sailor now, do I not?” Emily leaned closer to him. “Everything is perfect and yet … I cannot guess how it fits me so well.”
“Dr. Braden helped me guess yer … yer proportions, ma’am.”
“Did he now?” Emily grinned pensively.
“Magpie! Why aren’t you below sewing our sails?”
The low voice startled Magpie, who sprang off his barrel to salute the young man with the bandaged left hand who stood before them.
“You don’t have to salute me,” the man said.
“Aye, but I do, sir. Yer a carpenter’s mate and higher on the scale than me.”
“Nonsense,” the carpenter’s mate replied. His hair was long and shaggy, and beneath his knitted hat, which resembled a long sock, his tanned face was familiar. He jerked his paint-splattered thumb towards Emily.
“Who’s your pal, Magpie?”
The boy faltered, his eyes darting nervously between Emily and the carpenter’s mate.
“Mr. George, midshipman, at your service, sir,” Emily said loudly, raising a fist to the brim of her straw hat in salute.
The young man looked wary as he returned the salute. “How do you do? Morgan Evans is my name … sir.” His stare flickered beneath her face and settled on her silk slippers. “You must be one of the new ones on the Isabelle. Welcome aboard,