“Well formed? By whom?”
“None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”
Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here’s to Mrs. Kettle.”
“Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”
“You are truly filthy minded.”
“Aye. That I am.”
Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”
“Mr. Walby?”
“No lights burning down below, sir.”
“Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don’t want any enemy frigates learning our position.”
“Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.
“And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck’s been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”
“I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”
Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”
“Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.
“Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.
Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the Isabelle’s waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook’s assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”
“Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.
Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”
Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.
8
Monday, June 14
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”
Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.
“Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”
“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”
Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed some abilities in the hospital.
“We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.
Emily’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”
“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the Isabelle.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.
“My clothes! They’re gone.”
“Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes a rumpus with the men, he asked her to fetch yer clothes late last night whilst ya were sleeping.”
“Why, I didn’t even receive certain articles of clothing back from last week’s washing.”
“Oh, they were probably ruined or lost during the exchange of gunfire with the Liberty,” Osmund said, licking spittle from his thick lips.
Emily neglected to tell him that it was her chemise that had never been returned, for fear of being told that a sailor or, worse still, Mrs. Kettle herself, had filched it as a souvenir.
“I cannot very well sit in the galley with Dr. Braden’s nightshirt on.”
Osmund broke into his characteristic donkey-braying laughter. “Aye, Miss, although it would provide a fine spectacle for all the men first thing in the morning.” Seeing her glower, he quit laughing and smartened himself up. “Ah! And it’s a bit damp today with the mists and everything. It wouldn’t do fer ya to catch a cold.”
“My blue jacket and white trousers, the ones Magpie made for me … would you know of their whereabouts?”
Osmund nodded. “The doctor told me where I’d find them.” He lumbered over to the cupboard and with a grunt of satisfaction pulled out the neatly folded clothing, tossed them upon Emily’s cot, then banged the cupboard door shut.
“And where is Dr. Braden this morning?” Emily felt her face grow hot, for no other reason than having spoken aloud his name.
“With the captain.”
“Is Captain Moreland still unwell?”
“The doctor’s not saying much, but none of us have seen him since he first took with fever. All’s I know is Mr. Austen is worrying hisself sick that we’ll be attacked again whilst the captain’s ailing. Mr. Austen’s ordered extra men on every watch, especially with the Isabelle sitting idle in these fogs.”
Emily began pulling her blue jacket on over Leander’s nightshirt and tried to ignore the anxious feeling that sent her heart beating out of control and twisted her stomach into reef knots. “Will we be able to sail again soon?”
“I hear there’re more repairs to be made, Miss, and then we’ll have to wait fer the right winds to carry us away.”
“Surely no one would fire upon us when we do not pose a threat?”
“We’ll know soon enough now, won’t we, Miss?”
“Please tell Magpie I’ll meet him in a few minutes,” she said, her voice cracking.
“Right, Miss, but if it’s secrets ya have to tell the lad, speak ’em quietly.”
“Why