He left before Emily could reply. She watched him lean down to exchange a few words with the young midshipman, and then he disappeared down the main hatchway. Gus stretched his neck around to seek her out, and once he had spotted her in Dr. Braden’s oversized coat, sent a warm smile her way.
“Back to work. Back to work, men,” Fly Austen ordered as he stomped through the crowd of loafers still lining the rail, all of them staring forlornly into the brightening sea as if hoping that somehow Mr. Alexander would appear in the water within rescuing distance of the Isabelle. Fly waved his arms madly about to break them up, but there was no harshness in his voice.
Six sombre bells sounded around the suffering ship and from some unseen location a ghostly voice cried out, “Fifty fathoms! Grey mud.” Nearby a sailor repeated the words.
Emily sidled up to Gus, whose fair hair was dark with dampness, and whispered, “Mr. Walby, I heard Captain Moreland speaking of shoals near Cape Hatteras. Are we in danger?”
“Aye, it’s a worry. It’s not just any shoals, though, Em. It’s the Diamond Shoals. The sands in these parts are constantly shifting and extend more than ten miles from the Cape. I’ve only heard tell of them, but I do know plenty of ships have foundered here. There’re no natural landmarks on shore, except for the lighthouse, and its light is rarely burning. As well, there are strong currents here, and the currents, along with this northeast wind, are forcing the Isabelle towards those shoals.” Seeing a look of alarm cross her pretty face, he added, “Don’t worry, Em. You’re sailing with a good lot.”
Trying to oust the ruined rudder and the useless sails from her mind, Emily swallowed her fear and put on a brave face. “For so young a man, your nautical knowledge is impressive.”
“Ma’am!” Gus was so happy to hear praise, he did not dare tell her that Mr. Harding had only yesterday taught him all this. He hung his head backwards to inspect the sails that still cracked liked whips above him. “I think the winds have started to die down a bit. In fact – ” His voice rose an octave.“In fact, I’m sure of it.”
Hearing his words, James and Mr. Harding both gazed upwards. “You’re quite right, Mr. Walby.” James stared out upon the lonely spot where Mr. Alexander had been swallowed by the sea. “But what a price we’ve paid for this bit of luck.” Sighing, he turned to Mr. Harding. “Should God spare us on this day and we’re lucky enough to avoid the shoals, drop the anchors the moment the lead comes up with sand and begin making those repairs. I’ll be in my cabin with Mr. Austen and the first of our prisoners.” James leaned closer to the sailing master and lowered his voice. “In the meantime, tell the officers on watch to keep a sharp lookout. The wind has cruelly tossed us into unknown waters. Let’s hope no one’s waiting for us.”
The captain’s ominous words caused Emily’s knees to grow weak. An image of a shadowy uniformed figure filled her thoughts, leaving her despairing as she began making her way back to the hospital. She held the hood of Leander’s coat close to her face as she jostled her way through the sailors hurrying back to their stations, unaware that Octavius Lindsay, who stood in conversation with three sailors in her path, had seen through her disguise; his penetrating eyes singled her out as she headed towards the ship’s stern and crawled along the starboard rail to the ladder down.
Thankful that the northeast winds had subsided and she could get her footing, Emily soon discovered she was following on the heels of Fly Austen, who was leading a shirt-clad prisoner from the Liberty towards Captain Moreland’s cabin. The prisoner was a giant of a man with impressive arm muscles and a dishevelled copper-coloured pigtail that hung down his stooped back.
“I will ask our cook to bring you a mug of hot coffee for your interview,” said Fly to the man, “although I daresay you’d prefer wine.”
“A can o’ grog wouldn’t go amiss, Mr. Austen, sir. It soothes all that ails a man,” replied the prisoner in a low gravelly voice as distinctive as the British colours that flew from the Isabelle’s stern and mainmast. Emily stopped suddenly in her tracks to stare after them. Her heart quickened and her mouth went dry.
She was acquainted with this prisoner.
7:30 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Seven Bells)
BISCUIT SET DOWN A TRAY laden with hot coffee, sea biscuits, and strawberry jam upon the Captain’s rectangular table. “I’ll have thee stove warmed up in no time, sir, now that thee wind’s abatin’. Will ya be wantin’ a proper breakfast?”
“Thank you, Biscuit. A bowl of oatmeal would be most welcome.” James shifted in his chair to look at the prisoner. “What about you, Mr. Brodie?”
“I’ll gladly accept whatever’s put in front o’ me,” he said, eyeing the biscuits hungrily.
“Well, I’ll be!” exclaimed Biscuit. “Yer a Scotsman!”
“That I be, frae bonny Scotland.”
“It’s obvious ya ain’t no Yankee.”
“Thank you for pointing that out,” said James with some humour.
“Maybe later, after they’re done interrogatin’ ya,” Biscuit went on merrily, “we can raid thee grog barrels together and speak of thee auld country.”
Mr. Brodie gave his countryman a toothless grin.
“Biscuit! See to your cooked breakfast.”
“Sir.” Biscuit bowed and reluctantly left the cabin.
Fly poured James and Mr. Brodie a mug of coffee, then one for himself. He downed it as quickly as a shot of whiskey. In the grey morning light that filtered in through his cabin’s windows, James could see that Fly’s face had aged overnight. The whites of his eyes were red, and his complexion was pale and puffy.
Leaning back in his chair with his mug of coffee, James stifled a yawn and tried to assume a more serious attitude. “Tell us, Mr. Brodie, where were you born?”
“In Girvan, Scotland, sir, in thee year of our Lord, 1789.”
“And how long have you been a seaman?”
“I joined thee Royal Navy when I was ten. Worked me way up to captain o’ thee maintop. Sailed on thee Victory with Lord Nelson himself. I was there when he was shot at Trafalgar in ’05.”
Fly could not help the wave of envy that swept over him. “You are lucky, Mr. Brodie. That is an honour of which few men can boast.”
“We all admired Lord Nelson, but …” He turned his copper-haired head to look at Captain Moreland. “I admired you more, sir.”
James straightened in his chair and set his mug down on the table. “You once sailed with me?”
“That I did. Before thee Victory, I was thee sail maker on thee Isabelle.”
James’s face twitched. “I thought my memory was still sound … I do not recall a man such as yourself.”
“I was still a young lad. Early ’04 it was. We was on blockade duty at Brest, off thee coast of France.”
Fly watched James’s face drain of its colour, much the way it had when Emily had first mentioned the name of Thomas Trevelyan.
“I believe it was your last voyage, sir, before ya – well, before ya retired,” continued Brodie. “Ya’ll remember … ya was commandin’ thee Isabelle at Brest along with King George’s son, thee Duke o’ Wessex. As I recall it, sir, Wessex scared thee lot o’ us.”
“I’ve heard tell that Wessex was a harsh disciplinarian and notorious for swearing like a tinker,” said Fly, glancing at James. “Am I right, sir?”
James picked up his mug and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. He gave a slight nod, but made