NIGHTFALL, as those members of the Isabelle’s crew not on watch began making their way to the weather decks with their flutes and fiddles for a bit of entertainment, James Moreland and Fly Austen entered the hospital with the purpose of speaking to Emily. With the help of Osmund Brockley, Leander had moved his remaining patients so that their hammocks hung as far from the canvas curtain as possible, affording the captain and his commander some privacy during their interview. Fly came bearing a can of grog and handed it to Emily, saying, “Compliments of our cook, who, I might add, was crestfallen he couldn’t deliver it to you personally.”
Sitting up in her cot with several extra pillows at her back, Emily quipped, “Is this to loosen my tongue before the interrogation?”
“Aye, we had thought it might help,” Fly confessed.
James stepped towards her cot, his arm extended. “James Moreland, ma’am. We did meet last night, but it was … well, you were …”
“A bit disoriented?” said Emily, shaking his hand. “I am sorry for that. How do you do, sir?”
Leander slipped through the curtain and stood quietly next to Fly just as James asked, “And how are your injuries tonight?”
“Much as they were last night, sir.”
“Leander assures me you will make a full recovery.”
“I am very thankful to Dr. Braden,” she said, keeping her eyes on the captain, who pulled up a nearby stool and dropped down heavily upon it.
“You were on the American frigate, the Serendipity.”
“I was.”
“How long were you their … guest?”
Emily gave a wry smile. “I was their prisoner, sir.”
James cleared his throat. “Their prisoner, then.”
“I cannot say for certain … three weeks, maybe four.”
“Were you mistreated?”
Emily’s voice went icy. “Yes. Every day.”
Avoiding her eyes, James pressed on. “How was it you managed to escape?”
“I jumped out the stern windows, which you conveniently blew out with your cannon fire.”
Emily saw a flicker of amusement cross Fly’s face. Her eyes drifted to Leander, who stood watching her, one fist held to his lips. For a moment his blue eyes locked with hers.
“Were you shot before or after you jumped?”
“After, sir.”
“Any idea who was it that pulled the trigger?”
“I believe his name was Mr. Clive.”
James shifted on his stool. “You are a British subject?”
“I am.”
“And your home?”
“Dorset, sir.”
“Your father’s name?”
“My father died three years ago.”
“His name?”
Emily was slow in answering. “Henry … Henry George, sir.”
James paused in his questioning, his eyes narrowing as if he were running the name Henry George through his mind. Finally, he asked, “His occupation?”
“He was a farmer.”
“A farmer,” echoed James flatly. He took a deep breath. “And your mother?”
Emily’s lips disappeared into a thin line. “She died when I was very young. I do not remember her at all.”
“But you do remember her name?”
“Yes, of course. It was Louisa.”
“Do you have any other family?”
“No … sir.”
James studied her, a small frown playing between his brows. “How old are you, young lady?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
“Did you ever hear tell of any Englishmen on the Serendipity?”
“I was locked in the captain’s quarters and never once allowed beyond their confines. I was neither acquainted with the crew, nor those that Captain Trevelyan kept in his gaol.”
James glanced up sharply. “Trevelyan?”
“Yes, sir.”
The colour drained from James’s face and there was a slight waver in his voice. “Captain Thomas Trevelyan?”
“That was his name.”
“Did you … did you … at any time overhear the extent and nature of his war orders?”
“No, but I suspect they were comparable to yours, Captain Moreland: to sink or take a prize all enemy ships along the Atlantic coast.”
The men exchanged glances, then regarded Emily with expressions of curiosity.
James’s left leg bounced up and down as he resumed his questioning. “How was it you came to be Trevelyan’s prisoner?”
Emily hesitated. She lowered her glance, and stared at the bandages on her hands.
“I would appreciate your answer before sunrise.”
“Sir … please … I do not want … I do not wish to speak of that morning.”
“Very well, then,” James said unhappily. “Was there anyone else, besides yourself, taken prisoner?”
Emily’s lips quivered, her eyes still on her hands.
James inhaled in exasperation.
“May I, sir?” asked Fly. James settled back on his stool and gave Fly his assent with a wave of his hand. Quietly, Fly tried a different tack. “I assume it was Trevelyan who attacked your ship, Emily.”
She nodded.
“What kind of ship were you on?”
“I’m not certain.”
“A large ship-of-the-line? A frigate? A merchant vessel, perhaps?”
“I am guessing … it was most likely a merchant ship, Mr. Austen.”
“Bound for … ?”
Emily looked up suddenly, and tossed her head, as if trying to recapture her
