Mr. Harding shifted his weight onto his one foot. “And this is a cursed place to do battle. With very little effort, she could force us back upon those damned shoals.”
“We’ll not do anything to provoke her,” said James determinedly. “We’ll wait and see if she fires the first shot.” In the company of Mr. Harding, he moved on down the starboard gangway to dispense words of encouragement to the gun crews and yell out final orders to the men and marines in the tops.
Fly pulled out his own spyglass, mumbling words of encouragement to himself, to stay buoyed before the men. Breathe out, Austen. Remember that Nelson succeeded by breaking with our rigid naval tactics. Perhaps, if we want to save our necks, we should follow suit and try putting our collective imaginations to task. Lifting the glass to his eye, he studied the looming ship that was still three or four miles away. He could see her cutting a good bow wave beneath her elaborately carved red-and-gold figurehead. Her hull was black with a stripe of ochre-yellow that followed her gunports. The squares of her foresails, plumped up by the strong northeast breeze, glowed in the sun’s rays that peeked through the clouds, and resembled large pillows in slipcovers of gold. He watched the tiny figures of the seamen bustling about the decks and climbing the standing rigging to the tops. Near the bowsprit, he was certain he could see the captain himself, a corpulent man in a cocked hat, standing amongst a group of officers. Aware that the whirling mists were finally receding, Fly kept the glass to his eye and made a mental note of the number of guns she possessed. All the while, along the corridors of his mind, there was a pricking sensation – something was familiar about this large ship.
Nearby, the sailors who nervously awaited their next round of orders – Mr. McGilp gripping the Isabelle’s wheel, the marines with their muskets ready and aimed, the gun crews and powder monkeys clustered around the great guns on the starboard side of the fo’c’sle, poop, and quarterdeck – never expected to see Mr. Austen, in one sudden movement, toss up his spyglass and throw back his head to howl with laughter.
“Captain Moreland, sir,” he called out, addressing all those sweating, eager faces that looked his way, “I invite you to take another look through your glass.”
* * *
EMILY CAST OFF THE GARMENTS Magpie had laboured to make for her and wiggled into her clean, less formal checked shirt and trousers, determined she would not cower in her corner waiting for the cannons to shake the ship’s sides and the agonizing cries of the mutilated men to echo in her ears. When Gus and Magpie had left her to resume their nautical duties, she had attempted to calm herself by re-reading passages of Jane Austen’s novel, but it was no use. The words in Leander’s letter haunted her thoughts and only served to stir up envious emotions for the talented author of Sense and Sensibility.
Leaving the security of her corner, she entered the hospital room with trepidation, worried lest there be further talk on the subject of Leander’s stolen letter. When the drums had beat to quarters, she had heard great commotion beyond her curtain, but she had not dreamed that every last man had heeded the call, from the marine sentry and Mr. Crump to Osmund Brockley and the loblolly boys. Leander’s desk had been transformed into an operating table, with the familiar bloodstained sheet and neat line of surgical tools spread out upon it, and Leander himself was sitting hunched over in the desk chair, scratching notes into his medical journal with a quill pen. Uneasily, Emily stood before him like a child before a stern teacher. “Please, Doctor, I am in need of an occupation.”
He pressed his lips together and regarded her over his round spectacles, and without saying a word, lifted up a bucket of bandages by his feet and handed it to her. Emily knew he meant for her to roll them in preparation for their next round of patients. She searched about for the nearest stool, sat down with her bucket, and set about to work, relieved to be doing something useful and delighting in the pleasant musky smell of Leander’s closeness. From her seat, she furtively watched his fingers fly over the pages of his journal and his slim shoulders stir in his clean muslin shirt and striped waistcoat as he exercised stiffening muscles, hoping that eventually he would set his eyes upon her.
“I gather my interview with Captain Moreland has been postponed.”
He paused in his writing, but did not look up. “It has.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” she said, hating herself for stating the obvious.
As the silence between them continued, Emily grew more and more jittery, and the pandemonium over their heads seemed at once remote and unreal. At last, Leander lay down his pen. “I thought perhaps you might find respite in reading Jane’s book.”
She eagerly smiled up at him. “It is not the same without the company of Gus Walby.”
“I see,” he said absently, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.
“Besides, I cannot help feeling jealous of Jane Austen.”
“Why is that?”
Her cheeks turned scarlet. “Because her … her book is so finely crafted, her writing so true. Her accomplishments are an inspiration to all women.” Leander nodded thoughtfully before returning to his journal. “And because,” she added quickly, “she so obviously holds your affections.”
The flash of his eyes on her made her shaky and her words tumbled out of her mouth. “Doctor, please, you must believe me. I did not steal your letter. I found it on the floor of the hospital a week back. Osmund Brockley had already stepped on it with his clumsiness and spilled all forms of liquid upon it. It would have been lost altogether had I not picked it up before setting off for the sail room to fetch Magpie’s blanket and placed it in my pocket, and when … when I was forced to return to my cot it remained in my pocket, safe, but altogether forgotten. I swear to you … I did not read it.”
Leander shut his journal and leaned back against the wooden spindles of his chair, assuming the aspect of a judge about to exact a punishment. Before long, an expression of amusement brightened his face. “If I were to believe you, Emily, can you tell me truthfully that you wouldn’t – at some point – have been tempted to read it?”
She laughed nervously. “Honestly? I cannot tell.”
All the clamour and confusion that had crashed above their heads for so long ceased abruptly, as if the peacefulness of the hospital had permeated the entire ship. Together Leander and Emily raised their eyes to the wooden ceiling and strained their ears to catch a sailor’s footfall or vociferous bellow.
Emily fidgeted with the bandages in her lap, certain that Leander could hear her heart beating. “Why is there no sound?”
“There is often an eerie calm before battle.” He set his eyes once again upon Emily, a sober glint having replaced his one of earlier enjoyment. “You asked Mrs. Kettle to return to you something that was yours. If it was not my letter to which you referred, may I ask what it was?”
Emily was slow to answer, for her mind was muddled. It was tortuous trying to ignore the fact that a Yankee frigate was swiftly bearing down on them, and yet she keenly felt Leander’s humiliation at having Meg Kettle scornfully read aloud his letter to Jane. She needed to make amends.
Somehow.
“Mrs. Kettle found two things in the pockets of my trousers early this morning. The first was your letter, the second was a portrait … a miniature … of me.”
“Of you?” Leander leaned forward in his chair. “Did you carry it concealed from us when you first came on board?”
“No! No … the amazing thing is, I found it in Magpie’s sea chest, wrapped in his blanket.” She watched his face closely. “You see, Doctor, our little sail maker has discovered who I am.”
His eyes searched out hers. “And who might that be, Emily?”
With trembling hands, she set aside the bandages and stood up to pace the hospital floor, too worried to meet his stare. “You have most likely