“Emily?” James’s eyes grew large. “What the devil was she doing in the sail room?”
“I don’t know, sir, but Magpie’s crying, saying it’s all his fault. And … and he’s been taken to the master-at-arms.”
“Magpie?” cried James. “With the master-at-arms? You’re telling me Magpie assaulted Emily?”
“No, not Magpie, sir. Him. He hurt her badly.”
“Speak plainly, Mr. Walby. We cannot follow your ramble,” said Fly kindly, extending an arm towards a chair. “Here, sit a while and begin again.”
“I’ll stand, thank you, Mr. Austen,” said Gus, trying to gather himself together. “The thing is, sir, that while we were on deck for the burial, Emily was attacked in the sail room.”
James’s faded blue eyes hardened and he took a step closer to the small midshipman. “And who was it that attacked her?”
Gus took a deep breath. “Mr. Lindsay. Octavius Lindsay, sir.”
12:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, One Bell)
AFT ON THE LOWER DECK near the gunroom, Octavius Lindsay languished on the floor, his feet bound in shackles that were fitted to the deck and to an iron bar. Behind him stood a scarlet-jacketed marine sentry, concentrating on the nothingness in front of him. As most of the crew were still at their dinner, there was no one else about, except Meg Kettle, who sat curiously in the shadows, mending shirts. Hearing determined approaching footsteps, Octavius looked up, his eyes swollen and watery, to find Captain Moreland, Mr. Austen, and Gus Walby standing over him, wearing stern expressions.
“Kindly wait by the fish room hatch, Mr. Walby,” said Mr. Austen. The young midshipman nodded and chirped “sir” but did not move as far along the deck as he’d been instructed.
James hardly recognized the miserable heap of humanity on the floor before him as his haughty first lieutenant. There was a bleeding gash on the side of Octavius’s head, and his features were twisted in anguish and fear. He resembled a young boy who’d been tormenting his younger sister and was about to face a severe reprimand from his intimidating father. James felt a muscle twitching in his cheek as he said sharply, “I am truly disillusioned, Mr. Lindsay. I can find nothing of the senior officer in you.”
“Captain, please, show mercy, sir. Please don’t send me to my death.” Octavius dropped his head between his knees and began blubbering incoherently.
“I don’t know whether to despise you or to pity you.”
Octavius began rocking back and forth on the floor, and in a voice choked with terror sobbed, “Please, sir, don’t hang me. Give … give me fifty lashes, flog me around the fleet when we return to England, just please … I don’t want to hang.”
James’s blue-veined hands flew to his mouth and he shut his eyes as if in pain. A moment later he cried out, “For God’s sake, man, what were you thinking? What could you possibly have been thinking?”
“You are a friend of my father’s,” Octavius beseeched him. “He can make you a rich man when this war is done. I’ll see to it. I’ll personally see to it. Just don’t put me to death.”
“Mr. Lindsay, you are familiar with the Articles of War by now,” James said, reaching out to steady himself against the nearest post. “I may have no choice.”
“I didn’t know it was her. I swear I didn’t know it was her.”
James straightened himself. “What nonsense! You’ve despised that woman from the moment she came on board.”
“I wouldn’t have harmed her. I thought … I thought – ”
“You thought what?” snapped Fly.
Octavius hid his humiliation with his hands. A wrenching silence followed, broken only by the prisoner’s guttural sobs. Captain and commander turned their backs to him and moved away while Gus Walby braved a few steps towards them, still keeping a respectable distance.
“What will you do with him, sir?” Fly asked in a steely voice.
“I don’t know,” said James wearily. “Given the seriousness of his offence and the fact that he is an officer, his punishment will have to be decided by a court-martial. We have no choice but to wait until we reach Halifax. Only there will we find enough captains and perhaps a few admirals willing to sit and determine his fate.”
“Shall we leave him here in the bilboes with the marine?”
“Aye, for now. It’ll be sufficient punishment keeping him here for all to see and taunt. Would you go ask Osmund Brockley to see to his head wound? I need time to think.” James placed his right hand on Fly’s shoulder.
“Are you well, sir?” asked Fly, alarmed by the ashen colour of James’s face.
“I am in desperate need of some fresh air.” Together they left the gun deck, leaving behind the forgotten Mr. Walby.
Meg Kettle, who had been silently mending her shirts in the shadows, waited until the captain and Mr. Austen were long gone. She then perked up and laughed at the young midshipman, who stood gaping down at the prisoner as if he were a spectacle at St. Bartholomew’s Fair.
“’Ave ya bin able ta figure it all out, Mr. Walby?”
Gus looked surprised, as if he’d only then just noticed her sitting there. His lips parted, indicating to Meg that he might speak. Instead, he clamped his mouth shut, turned suddenly on his heels, and hurried away. Meg stood up to address the pathetic prisoner on the floor and made a sucking sound with her tongue. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. Thee men, if they didna despise ya before, will be despisin’ ya now. Why ya just put a nail inta yer own coffin.”
1:30 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Three Bells)
ACCOMPANIED BY A MARINE SENTRY, Fly climbed down the ladder from the foc’s’le deck and into the hospital. The room was as quiet as a crypt. Osmund tiptoed around with his chamber pots and bandages. Mr. Crump had nothing amusing to say. Along with Biscuit and several seamen who were crowded round the galley entrance, he kept a silent watch on the thin sheet of canvas that separated them from Emily, as faithfully as if he were above deck combing the seas for an enemy sighting. On a stool next to a slumbering Magpie, who was now in his new hammock, Gus Walby sat clutching Fly’s sister’s novel, Sense and Sensibility, evidently hopeful that he would soon be invited to enter Emily’s sacred corner. Near Gus sat Morgan Evans, who respectfully pulled his knitted hat from his shaggy-haired head and saluted the moment Fly glanced in his direction. The wounded sailors – those who could – sat upright in their beds and saluted him in turn, though immediately afterwards their focus darted back to the canvas.
“Where’s Dr. Braden?” Fly asked the cook when his boot-clad feet were firmly planted on the hospital floor.
“In with thee wee lass, sir.”
“You are rather subdued, Biscuit.”
Biscuit hung his orange head. “Outta respect for thee lass, sir.”
Fly waved his arms in a dismissive gesture at the men lingering round the galley entrance, and in a muted voice ordered them away. “Back to work, back to work, all of you vagabonds. The last thing the doctor needs is to have you all underfoot.”
“Mr. Austen, you’ll let us all know how she fares?” pleaded an old sailor.
“I will. Now out you go.”
Fly waited for the “vagabonds” to clear out before making his way to the canvas curtain where Leander, having heard him come in, stood ready to greet him. It did not escape Fly’s notice that his friend appeared haggard and uncharacteristically dishevelled, that his brow was furrowed in worry, and that his lips were set in a grim line. “Come in,” said Leander quietly. “It’s all right. She’s