swim, swim, she urged her poor limbs. The Isabelle loomed large, the long barrels of the lower guns seemed almost within reach. She could see the barnacles that clung to the waterlogged timbers and the bits of oakum wedged into the cracks, and while she kicked her way towards safety, she was aware that he still hovered over her.
Swim, swim.
Several minutes had passed now since Trevelyan ordered her execution, and hope began to burn in Emily’s young breast, but as she raised her hand from the water to touch the side of the Isabelle, a ball of lead struck her from behind. This new pain was unimaginable. Gasping, she flailed about, striving to concentrate on the solid timbers that shuddered before her. Once again, she tried reaching out to them, but her vision blurred and her strength evaporated. With a cry of frustration, she felt herself, and the fragment of mast to which she clung, drifting slowly away into a blackened void.
Early Evening
Aboard HMS Isabelle
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD MIDSHIPMAN Augustus Walby, or Gus, as he was known in shipboard circles, stood by the starboard rail of the Isabelle’s quarterdeck, surveying through his spyglass the battle carnage that lay in the water. Sensing someone standing next to him, he turned to find Captain James Moreland, a tall, thick man with yellow-white hair, faded blue eyes, and a sad face. The captain laid a hand on Gus’s shoulder and silently peered into the settling smoke.
“You have the keenest eyes of anyone on this ship, Mr. Walby. Please keep a lookout for any of our men who have fallen overboard and may still have life in them.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Can you tell me, sir, has the Serendipity retreated or do you think that she is simply going to turn around for another go at us?”
Captain Moreland grunted. “My guess is they are running away, Mr. Walby. We managed to shoot away a good deal of their yards and rigging. If they continue fighting they’ll have nothing left with which to sail.”
“Should we not go after them?”
“We’ve troubles of our own. It might be wiser to repair ourselves before fighting them again.”
“Sir, one thing I don’t understand … the Serendipity’s a frigate, is she not?”
“She is.”
“Why, then, would she take a shot at us when she is smaller and has far fewer guns. We did nothing to provoke her, did we, sir?”
“We did not,” the captain replied, watching her retreat. “However, Mr. Walby, we are in American waters and we are the enemy. Most likely their captain is a brazen young fellow.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gus touched his hat in a salute.
Overhearing the captain, First Lieutenant Lord Octavius Lindsay, a bad-complexioned youth with greasy hair, stepped forward. “Will it be necessary to return to Bermuda then, sir?” he asked.
“I must consult with our carpenters first to learn the extent of our damages.” Captain Moreland paused to shout an order to the men working high up on the yardarms. “Sails up, men. Slow her down. And remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”
“But we would lose much time if we had to return to the island,” said Octavius.
“In a hurry to take an American prize, are we, Mr. Lindsay? Or is it the prospect of shore leave in Halifax that has you impatient? I am hoping we can make our repairs at sea; however, we cannot fight this war with a crippled ship.” Captain Moreland ran his large blue-veined hands along the rail, then continued on down the quarterdeck with Octavius following on his heels.
Gus Walby lifted his spyglass to his eyes once again and slowly moved it along the sea’s surface, searching for survivors. There were plenty of dead men bouncing lifelessly on the waves like grotesque channel markers. Gus was relieved that he could not identify their remains. Already, some of the hands had set out in the ship’s small boats and cutters to retrieve the bodies of their mates so that they could be given a proper burial at sea. The lucky ones who had survived their first fight unscathed rushed to clear the slippery decks of the dead and wounded. There was a terrible sound of moaning and sobbing as those still living were lifted and carried down to the hospital on the upper deck.
Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the Isabelle. He called out to Captain Moreland.
“Sir! You might find this of interest.”
Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus’s glass from him.
“At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it’s a woman.”
Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a lady escaped our enemy ship.”
“With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can still sail. Shouldn’t we at least try to make a run after that American frigate rather than stopping to pick up some laundress?”
Captain Moreland’s eyes hardened. “You surprise me, Mr. Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, holding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”
“Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.
“Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”
Gus saluted and ran off.
“Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I’ll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”
He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”
With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.
* * *
THE CARPENTER’S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the Serendipity were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman’s favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the Isabelle, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.
“Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”
With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff’s wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman’s face
“She’s lovely!” he gasped.
“She ain’t no cookin’ woman.”
“Look
