“Your interview did not go well?”
“It was horrendous. Captain Moreland is being quite unfair, particularly to the men with whom I was sitting yesterday – suspending their grog rations amongst other things. He has even gone so far as to punish poor Magpie for not escorting me back here before returning to his duties. I will soon have many enemies on the Isabelle, the worst of them that vile Mr. Lindsay, although where that man is concerned, I do not give a fig.”
“I can assure you that for every one enemy you may have on the Isabelle, you have two hundred friends.”
Emily lifted her face to him.
“You surely know,” continued Leander hesitantly, “it wasn’t me who informed Captain Moreland of your whereabouts yesterday.”
“I know.”
The guns began thundering at last. The ship’s timbers shuddered and shook, knocking Emily up against the clothes cupboard beside her. Leander was hurled backwards, but was saved from a fall by the wooden post supporting the bottom end of her hammock. Steadying himself, he seized the blanket from her bed and tossed it to her.
“Here, place it over you. If the hospital is hit, you may escape the inevitable flying splinters. Stay down and stay safe.” He soon vanished, taking the lantern light with him.
Alone in the dark she whispered, “And you too.”
* * *
CLOAKED IN THE SMOKEY CLOUDS of gunfire, the Isabelle’s crew seized the battle respite to regroup and clear the decks of their fallen comrades. The heart-wrenching wails of the wounded and their pleas for help were everywhere – on the damaged decks, high up in the twisted ropes, and in the agitated waters between the two ships. Amidst the butchery and blood waddled Mrs. Kettle, lifting her skirts to the gore underfoot, cussing in a clamourous voice that surely could be heard on board the enemy frigate.
“It’s brutes they are, them Yankees!” She inspected the freshly cleaned shirts and trousers not yet collected from the drying lines that crisscrossed the fo’c’sle, now all sooty, blood-splattered, and full of holes. “And they would ’ave to pick me laundry day to shoot their cannons at us.”
“Next time, Mrs. Kettle, you will take down all the laundry the moment we see a sail on the horizon … as you were instructed to do,” admonished Fly, slipping along the starboard railing. He was heading towards Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”
“It’s the Liberty, sir. The Isabelle did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”
“If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”
“We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”
“We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”
“Slices of Swiss cheese, sir!” cried Gus.
“Quite so!” Fly cupped his hands around his mouth to yell to the men who had the unenviable task of dodging grapeshot and cannonballs high up on the yardarms. “Topsails only, men!”
“Aye, sir. Topsails.”
“Quickly now, Mr. Walby, get yourself below. The moment we come up broadside to her, the guns will be firing again.” Fly laid one hand on Gus’s shoulder. “And please do us all a favour and take Mrs. Kettle with you.”
“I will try, sir.”
* * *
ON THE GUN DECK, the air was stifling and rank with the smell of fear. The half-naked gunners were black with gunpowder. Tiny rivers of sweat carved lines upon their blackened torsos as if the men had been scratched with giant fingernails. Clustered around each of the heavy guns was a crew of six, each member with his assigned duty. One man sponged out the gun barrel to remove traces of burning powder so others could insert the new powder charge, wads, and shot, and prepare all for the gun captain, whose task it was to aim and fire the gun. The young lads called “powder monkeys” scurried about, having carried up fresh charges from the magazine deep in the Isabelle’s hold.
Striding amongst the men and the guns was James, the polished brass buttons of his dark blue jacket glinting like cats’ eyes in the gathering gloom. Already his Hessian boots were scuffed and his cream-coloured breeches covered in filth and blood. His face was red with exertion and he kept one hand glued to the silver hilt of his sword.
“Deep breaths, men. Do not shoot again until we are broadside-to-broadside. We cannot afford to lose a single shot. Aim for her hull, but remember, our goal is to cripple her, not to sink her.” He stopped his pacing to stand behind Octavius. “This time we will have our chance to board her and search for deserters. I will leave you to it, Mr. Lindsay, as I must learn what damage has been done to our Isabelle.”
7:30 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)
EMILY COULD STAND THE NOISE and suffering no longer. Streams of blood had now found their way into her dark corner. She could not see it, but she could smell it and feel its stickiness. On all fours, she crawled out through her canvas curtain into the hellish scene in the hospital. The room was clogged with bleeding, dying men whose eerie shadows were cast upon the wooden walls by the swaying light of the lanterns. Those who could stand leaned against one another, but most were huddled or lying on the floor. Every one of the hammocks was full, including the extra dozen that Osmund had hung up before the battle began. Young boys sobbed, calling out for their mothers; others groaned mournfully; most said nothing at all, presumably having already died or passed from consciousness.
“Please, Dr. Braden, please see me next. I can’t breathe, sir.”
“I’ll be with you soon, Mr. Smith. Hold on.” Leander’s voice was as calm as if he were tending to patients on a routine day.
“A drink of water … just a drink of water.”
“I want me ma …”
“I can’t see! Oh, God, I can’t see!” shrieked a hysterical boy, rocking back and forth on the floor, his face red and mutilated.
Emily’s eyes filled with tears. She had seen it all before, though it was no easier to bear this second time round. Here again was the reality of battle beyond the politicians’ rousing rhetoric and the reckless bravado of common men. Here again it lay before her – in all its dreadful glory – and she had no recourse but to face it head on. She yanked the red scarf from her neck and used it to tie back her hair. Then, crawling to the bucket of water Leander kept next to his operating table, she unhooked a cup from the bucket’s side and filled it. Balancing the cup in one hand she weaved her way through the throng of suffering sailors to the man who had pleaded for water.
She put the cup to his swollen lips and said softly, “Here, drink this.” He coughed and spit, but managed to get some down. There were no shoes on his feet, his pants had been half torn away, and a spreading bloodstain on his soiled shirt showed he had been struck in the chest. With laboured breathing, he looked up at her and said, “Thankee, Miss.” A moment later his bruised head slumped forward and he slowly slid down against her breast, his blood seeping into her clothes. Emily heard him utter a long moan and knew that he was gone.
A teenaged lad crouching nearby said, “He’s dead, ma’am.”
Emily suppressed a whimper and put her hand on the lad’s arm. “Could you help me carry him out to the galley?”
“Aye, ma’am. Only got a bit ’o lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.”
The lad hooked his strong, bare arms under the dead sailor’s limp ones and lifted him up while Emily held onto his legs. Blinking back tears, she fought to keep her stomach down as they carried him through the stifling, stinking