a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain’t never been in the company of a lady before.”
“Oh, we’re in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat’s ribbed bottom.
“Hey, yer gettin’ me clean pants all wet.”
“Just row, Bailey. Yours may be wet, but mine are all bloody. I’ll have a fight on my hands with Mrs. Kettle to get her to launder them again for me.”
Bailey winked as he picked up the oars. “Might as well enjoy the feel o’ that woman in yer arms. May be a while ’fore ya has another one.”
By the time their boat was hoisted up to the Isabelle’s stern, word had spread that a woman had been found in the sea. Those men not on duty below deck, or in the hospital having their wounds tended by Dr. Braden, poured onto the deck to watch the spectacle. Gus was also there, having delivered his message to a grumbling Mrs. Kettle and returned in a flash.
Octavius Lindsay stood alongside the starboard rail, watching the proceedings. He sniffed and swung around to address Commander Austen. “The Admiralty, with few exceptions, does not allow women on our war ships.”
Commander Francis “Fly” Austen was an imposing man of nearly forty years who had been present at many of the celebrated navy battles, although, to his disappointment, not Trafalgar. He stared at the woman Morgan Evans cradled in his arms. “You forget, Mr. Lindsay, we have Mrs. Kettle on our ship.”
“Is Mrs. Kettle a woman? I hadn’t noticed, sir.”
“It appears this woman is not as wide in the beam as our Mrs. Kettle. It might be rather pleasant having her on board.”
“With – with all respect, sir, we are fighting a war.”
“Aye … that we are.”
Octavius sniffed again. “Well, I will make sure she is put off at the first port.”
Mr. Austen raised one eyebrow. “I don’t believe that will be your decision to make, Mr. Lindsay.”
The moment Morgan Evans stepped out of the skiff and onto the poop deck, Emily opened her eyes to find hundreds of seamen lining the rails, craning their necks in her direction. In her weakened state, she could not discern individual faces; everything seemed a blur of blue frock coats, red uniforms, checked shirts and scarves, legs in white trousers, heads in bicornes and felt hats. She gazed skywards to find that even those perched on the rigging platforms and yardarms had paused in their tasks. It was so quiet on the ship that Emily heard nothing but the wind beating the sails. No one spoke. No orders were shouted. Each man seemed latched to his allotted space on the deck. And when her rescuer spoke, his voice was disembodied and distant, as if it came to her in a dream.
“You’re on the Isabelle now, ma’am,” he whispered. “You should be safe here.”
Emily looked up at him. He was a young man of nineteen, perhaps twenty years, with dark shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a funny woollen hat that resembled a large sock. With a nod of her head she thanked him, then she shivered and sank back against his chest.
7:30 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)
CAPTAIN MORELAND took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the hospital. It stank of medicines, vomit, and coagulating blood. Every hammock held a wounded seaman, and crowded on the floor were a dozen more waiting to be seen by the doctor. The younger ones were snivelling, the older ones swearing, and some of those in between recited verses from the Bible.
In the middle of the mess, Dr. Leander Braden, dressed in a soiled shirt that had been clean that morning at breakfast, quietly worked on those with the worst wounds. James Moreland hated entering this part of the ship after a battle. The wounded reminded him of his own seafaring sons, now grown up and sailing on separate, distant ships, on distant seas, and he could not bear witnessing the removal of the sailors’ shattered limbs or knowing that hideous scars would disfigure their youthful faces.
Noticing James’s grave countenance, Dr. Braden wearily gave instruction to his assistant. “Brockley, continue stitching the man’s wounds – and for God’s sake, be gentle.” He left the operating table, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, and made his way over to where James stood.
“How many did we lose, Doctor?”
Leander wiped his hands on his black apron, then raised his arms to steady himself on the low ceiling. “Eighteen, including young Patrick and George.”
James groaned. “And how many wounded?”
“Seriously? Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had a chance to count.”
James fell silent awhile. “I have great admiration for you, Lee. You handle this bloody business so calmly. I’m afraid it makes me quite insane. I suppose when I was younger I could bear it better. I’m just …”
Leander looked at him over his round spectacles. “You have me all wrong. I don’t handle it well at all. I do know that given more skilled assistants and a decent supply of medicine we could save a lot more lives. Grog and a few instruments for amputating limbs are simply not enough.”
James shook his head sadly. “Our men are fortunate to have you. Most of our ships are plying the seas without any kind of surgeon. We are overburdened. These wars have gone on far too long.” He glanced over at Leander’s inept assistant, Osmund Brockley. “I must let you get back at it, for I am guessing Brockley is quite lost without your guidance.”
“The man has no skill whatsoever.”
“Yes, I am sorry about that. Now, I’m off. I must discuss repairs with the carpenters.” James had just turned to leave when he remembered the main reason he had come to the hospital in the first place. “We pulled a young woman from the water. Young Walby spotted her. She must have jumped from the Yankee frigate. Well, Lee, when you have time … she requires medical attention.”
“James, I can hardly tend to a woman in this space. She would have no privacy here.”
“Morgan Evans has taken her to my quarters and Fly Austen is attending her there. She can come down here when your hospital has cleared.”
“Any idea who she might be?”
“No, but I can assure you she’s not a common prostitute,” James said, mounting the ladder that would take him to the fo’c’sle deck.
Intrigued, Leander returned to his gruesome tasks. Several able seamen had lead in their legs, and the sailing master would have to have his foot amputated. As always, it would be arduous extracting lead and lopping off limbs with the ship tossing from side to side.
8:00 p.m
(Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)
IN THE GATHERING GLOOM James Moreland, accompanied by the ship’s carpenters, Mr. Alexander and Morgan Evans, combed every square inch of the vessel to assess the damage. The mizzenmast was a broken stump, its top half lost at sea, the weather decks were littered with piles of splinters, and the figurehead below the bowsprit had been completely blasted away. The hull had suffered a few minor blows and the bilge had taken on a good deal of seawater.
“Can
