Emily bolted from the latrine and struggled to push Trevelyan’s desk against the door, hoping it would hold against any marines lying in wait. Lifting her skirt to avoid the spreading pool of Lind’s blood, she hurried to the windows and seized a large fragment of wood to smash out the bits of jagged glass still lodged in the frames. The Isabelle was so close …
Between the ships, which were lying broadside to each other, floated a swirling mass of debris: barrels, bits of mast and rigging, segments of timber, a legless goat, and dead seamen. Emily surveyed the scene for a moment, then peeled off her silk slippers, stuffed them into her spencer-jacket, and tucked her skirt up into her drawers.
Behind her, Lind exhaled a long moan. She swung around to find him sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His head resembled a chunk of slaughtered meat. Despite his wounds, he seemed in no mood to give up. Spying Emily, he began crawling towards her, his right arm reaching, his torn fingers opening and closing crab-like before him. Emily clambered into the window frame and was almost away when Lind managed to grasp her foot. She held onto the frame, oblivious to the glass that cut into the palms of her hands, and kicked until her foot struck his mangled face.
“Damnable woman!” he rasped, collapsing on the floor.
Over the gunfire and Lind’s howling complaints, there came a clattering racket near the door. Looking up, Emily realized the cabin’s bulkheads were at last being taken down. In a matter of seconds the room would be swarming with men and marines. She braced herself for the jump, hesitating a moment to give Lind one last thought. “Perhaps, Mr. Lind, when Trevelyan is done battling, he can order a bath for you.”
With that, she plummeted over the ship’s stern. As she hit the water, she struck a length of broken mast. Her right ankle erupted in pain, snatching her breath away. The sea that engulfed her was cold, and red with blood spilled from the sailors who bobbed on the waves next to her, their faces burned or maimed, their sightless eyes turned towards the warring ships. Emily felt a clutch in her stomach; her heart raced uncomfortably. Shutting her eyes to the horrors, she tried swimming, but her escape had left her exhausted and the chilly saltwater that washed over her torn hands forced her into submission. She held on tightly to the broken mast and allowed the waves to carry her.
Over her head flew cannon balls and whirring chain and bar shot that punched devastating holes in the ships’ hulls and sliced through their sails and rigging. Sprays of wooden splinters fell like dangerous rain. Emily quickly ducked beneath a section of fallen sail, hoping to protect herself. Amidst the screams of war, she could hear the distinctive voice of Captain Trevelyan, and peering through a hole in the sail, up through clouds of cannon smoke, she saw him, his face obscured in shadow, standing over her like Goliath on the side of his ship.
“Shoot her, Mr. Clive.”
Forgetting her pain, Emily frantically began pushing aside bodies and debris from her path. Oh, God, swim, swim, she urged her poor limbs. The Isabelle loomed large, the long barrels of the lower guns seemed almost within reach. She could see the barnacles that clung to the waterlogged timbers and the bits of oakum wedged into the cracks, and while she kicked her way towards safety, she was aware that he still hovered over her.
Swim, swim.
Several minutes had passed now since Trevelyan ordered her execution, and hope began to burn in Emily’s young breast, but as she raised her hand from the water to touch the side of the Isabelle, a ball of lead struck her from behind. This new pain was unimaginable. Gasping, she flailed about, striving to concentrate on the solid timbers that shuddered before her. Once again, she tried reaching out to them, but her vision blurred and her strength evaporated. With a cry of frustration, she felt herself, and the fragment of mast to which she clung, drifting slowly away into a blackened void.
Early Evening
Aboard HMS Isabelle
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD MIDSHIPMAN Augustus Walby, or Gus, as he was known in shipboard circles, stood by the starboard rail of the Isabelle’s quarterdeck, surveying through his spyglass the battle carnage that lay in the water. Sensing someone standing next to him, he turned to find Captain James Moreland, a tall, thick man with yellow-white hair, faded blue eyes, and a sad face. The captain laid a hand on Gus’s shoulder and silently peered into the settling smoke.
“You have the keenest eyes of anyone on this ship, Mr. Walby. Please keep a lookout for any of our men who have fallen overboard and may still have life in them.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Can you tell me, sir, has the Serendipity retreated or do you think that she is simply going to turn around for another go at us?”
Captain Moreland grunted. “My guess is they are running away, Mr. Walby. We managed to shoot away a good deal of their yards and rigging. If they continue fighting they’ll have nothing left with which to sail.”
“Should we not go after them?”
“We’ve troubles of our own. It might be wiser to repair ourselves before fighting them again.”
“Sir, one thing I don’t understand … the Serendipity’s a frigate, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Why, then, would she take a shot at us when she is smaller and has far fewer guns. We did nothing to provoke her, did we, sir?”
“We did not,” the captain replied, watching her retreat. “However, Mr. Walby, we are in American waters and we are the enemy. Most likely their captain is a brazen young fellow.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gus touched his hat in a salute.
Overhearing the captain, First Lieutenant Lord Octavius Lindsay, a bad-complexioned youth with greasy hair, stepped forward. “Will it be necessary to return to Bermuda then, sir?” he asked.
“I must consult with our carpenters first to learn the extent of our damages.” Captain Moreland paused to shout an order to the men working high up on the yardarms. “Sails up, men. Slow her down. And remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”
“But we would lose much time if we had to return to the island,” said Octavius.
“In a hurry to take an American prize, are we, Mr. Lindsay? Or is it the prospect of shore leave in Halifax that has you impatient? I am hoping we can make our repairs at sea; however, we cannot fight this war with a crippled ship.” Captain Moreland ran his large blue-veined hands along the rail, then continued on down the quarterdeck with Octavius following on his heels.
Gus Walby lifted his spyglass to his eyes once again and slowly moved it along the sea’s surface, searching for survivors. There were plenty of dead men bouncing lifelessly on the waves like grotesque channel markers. Gus was relieved that he could not identify their remains. Already, some of the hands had set out in the ship’s small boats and cutters to retrieve the bodies of their mates so that they could be given a proper burial at sea. The lucky ones who had survived their first fight unscathed rushed to clear the slippery decks of the dead and wounded. There was a terrible sound of moaning and sobbing as those still living were lifted and carried down to the hospital on the upper deck.
Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the Isabelle. He called out to Captain Moreland.
“Sir! You might find this of interest.”
Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus’s glass from him.
“At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it’s a woman.”
Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a lady escaped our enemy ship.”
“With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can