have me one eye lookin’ at ’im and me other lookin’ for ’im,” said Biscuit, dishing up the mixture of salted meat, potatoes, biscuit bits, onions, and pepper.
The men laughed, then rushed to guzzle a glass of wine before having to taste Biscuit’s supper.
James mentally counted his dinner guests. There were only six seated around the mess table; normally there were eight who dined together. “I know our sailing master, Mr. Harding, having lost his foot, is recuperating in the hospital, but where is our doctor? Still at work?”
“Operating on our lady’s shoulder in your cabin, sir,” said Fly, passing the wine to Mr. Spooner.
“You gentlemen begin without me.” James pushed back his chair and stood up. “Biscuit, while I’m gone, replenish the decanters.”
He walked up one deck to his quarters, now a makeshift operating room, and quietly stepped inside. Osmund Brockley, whose large tongue hung out of his mouth as he beheld Emily’s bare shoulders, was pinning her arms to her sides. Leander swabbed the gaping hole in her right shoulder and picked up a large prong-like instrument.
“James, would you mind giving Emily the rope?”
“Have you given her anything to dull the pain, Lee?” James whispered, feeling very warm all of a sudden.
“Laudanum and rum.”
Emily readily accepted the piece of rope from James and bit down on it as hard as she could. Tears of agony streamed from her dark eyes as the doctor entered her wound in search of the lead. Her body tensed as she endured the pain. Osmund grunted as he tightened his hold on her.
“There now, I’ve got it,” Leander said, triumphantly holding up the offending ball. “We’ll just clean and bandage you up and let you get back to sleep.”
Emily smiled wanly before closing her eyes.
James waited until Leander was done before motioning him into a corner of the room.
“Now that you’ve looked her over, what’s the word?”
“She has a broken left ankle, and severe cuts on both hands. She’s dehydrated and half starved. Her bullet wound, however, should heal up nicely.”
James pursed his lips as he listened. “Well, dinner is on the table in the wardroom. It looks quite unpalatable, but you should take time for some refreshment.”
“I don’t dare leave her alone with Osmund. He’s been making very strange sounds. There’s no telling what that man might do.”
“Yes, quite. I don’t like the look of him.” James scratched his head. “Should we ask Mrs. Kettle to sit with her?
“Heavens, no,” said Leander. “Given the chance, she’d toss our guest overboard.”
“In that case, would you allow me to call up Gus Walby?”
“By all means! Young Walby’s a most trustworthy fellow.”
James hesitated a moment, then gave Leander a sheepish grin. “But first, let us have her removed at once to your hospital. I’m afraid I would not be setting a good example to the men if she were to stay alone with me in my cabin.”
10:15 p.m.
(First Watch)
ON THE LOWER DECK, Bailey Beck and the two cook’s mates, the Jamaican brothers Maggot and Weevil, gathered the few belongings of the sailors who had lost their lives earlier in the day. Their clothing and possessions would be sold off at the mast on the following day to the highest bidder, and the raised money sent home to England to benefit their dependents. The men worked by lantern-light, humming sea shanties, and fortifying themselves with the extra ration of grog Captain Moreland had ordered for them to ease the burden of their unpleasant task.
Above deck, despite the sadness of the day and the repair work that had to be done, James allowed those hands who hadn’t rushed to their beds in exhaustion to gather as usual for a bit of entertainment. Biscuit played his fiddle and the young sail maker, Magpie, his flute. The men clapped and cheered as Morgan Evans hopped up on an overturned crate to lead them in singing an ode to grog:
While up the shrouds the sailor goes,
Or ventures on the yard,
The landsman, who no better knows
Believes his lot is hard,
But Jack with smiles each danger meets,
Casts anchor, heaves the log,
Trims all the sails, belays the sheets,
And drinks his can of grog.
* * *
THE DIN ON THE WEATHER DECKS awakened Emily. For a few bewildering moments, she glanced about her tiny room – illumined by a lantern, which swung gently on a wooden peg by her feet – trying to remember how she came to be in this new place … on this new ship. Someone had placed her in a cot next to a sealed gunport, and closed off her corner with the aid of two lengths of canvas suspended over a rope affixed to the ceiling timbers. Despite the noise overhead, she could hear moaning and weeping beyond the canvas. One or two people were moving quietly about, speaking words of reassurance to those who wept. A foul stench assaulted Emily’s nose and made her stomach queasy, but she had no desire to investigate its source; she was too preoccupied with her own sorrows and discomforts. Her mouth was dry, her left ankle throbbed, and there was a vicious pain in her right shoulder. How she longed for a cool drink of water, and the luxury of a real bed and a fat pillow. How she longed to forget everything that had happened to her in the past few weeks. Unable to tolerate the pervading smells of her surroundings, she buried her nose in her blanket and prayed that sleep would soon return.
To her surprise, a little yellow-haired fellow suddenly appeared between the canvas curtains. He wore tight white pantaloons, a dark-blue frock coat, and a big grin.
“Are you feeling better, ma’am?” he asked cheerfully.
“No, actually … my whole body hurts. And I feel ill, but perhaps that is a result of the horrendous smell about this place.”
“I am sorry about that. Dr. Braden has opened all the gunports for you, with the exception of the one by your head, but I’m afraid, whether the ports are opened or not, most of the ship carries with it an awful odour.”
“Could I ask you to open this port as well? It may alleviate some of my suffering.”
Emily watched the boy closely as he worked to lift the heavy port into place. When he was done, the bracing air that instantly found her corner did much to improve her temperament.
“Dr. Braden says you broke your ankle and that you were shot in the shoulder. I hope it wasn’t one of our men that shot you.”
“It was definitely not one of yours.” She smiled up at him. “And what is your name?”
“Augustus Walby, but everyone calls me Gus. May I ask yours?”
“It’s Emily, but I should like it if you called me Em.”
