fellow named Butterfield, I believe.” James gave Gus a sardonic smile. “As he is no longer a threat to us, let him stay with his diminished crew.”
“Did he surrender his sword to you, sir?”
“I did not ask for it, Mr. Walby.”
Gus shivered again. “And the ship, sir? Mr. Austen would like to know what your orders are regarding it?”
“Unlash her, let her go,” said Captain Moreland with surprising calmness. “She’s in no shape to sail far, and I’m afraid we’re in for a spell of bad weather. I cannot trust this night to spare skilled men to take her a prize.”
Gus tried to hide his disappointment. “Anything else, sir?”
“Aye, take what weapons you can, then let them all take their chances in the storm. I can do no more for them.”
Gus made a hesitant salute, then spun around and began retracing his steps to the ladder leading to the quarterdeck. James called him back.
“Mr. Walby?”
“Sir?”
“Here, take my coat,” he said, unbuttoning his Carrick. “It will be long on you, but I believe you will wear it well.”
“What about you, sir?” Gus said, coming forward eagerly to accept the heavy coat.
“I need to rest awhile. I’ll be in the wardroom. Tell Mr. Austen to meet me there at six bells before breakfast, and ask him to bring with him that one fellow who admitted to being an Englishman.”
Gus slid proudly into the captain’s Carrick, fingering its large brass buttons.
“Now, Mr. Walby, tell me … can you remember all that?”
“Aye, sir!” Gus grinned. With a second, more serious salute, he negotiated the slippery ladder, careful not to trip on the long coat’s hem, and soon vanished into the shadowy confusion on the main deck. For several minutes James watched the activity below him. The scarlet-jacketed marines had positioned themselves at intervals along the larboard railing, their muskets still pointing at the enemy ship in case there was any further resistance. Mr. Harding hobbled about, pressing his hat to his head, shouting through his speaking trumpet so the men on their lofty footropes could hear his orders.
“Main staysail only. Reef all others.”
The men’s replies to the sailing master were lost to the wind and the snapping sails.
Already the carpenters were at work on repairs. Mr. Alexander was carving a new crossjack yard while Morgan Evans was rebuilding the belfry. Others would be occupied below deck caulking holes with oakum and pitch. James watched as Morgan moved his tools to allow the quartermaster to strike the unharmed bell five times.
Scurrying about with a large basket under one arm was Meg Kettle, visibly muttering as she tried to gather up the last of the men’s laundry.
Infernal woman, thought James. Never does she follow orders. Pity a blast of Yankee grapeshot – or British for that matter – didn’t find her backside when the guns were firing.
His eyes shifted to two midshipmen perched on the capstan, watching the progression of the American seamen onto the decks of the Isabelle. If he’d had the energy, James would have yelled out to them to “stand tall on the deck,” but at this late hour he could only feel relief that the boys had survived the encounter with the enemy.
In the faint illumination cast by the dozens of lanterns hung from the rigging, James could see the slant of the rain. He was thankful for the darkness, thankful that it hid the bloodstains on the decks and the faces of the men who had fallen during the engagement. He averted his eyes from the place on the fo’c’sle, near the small boats, where a silent, still row of sailors lay, and instead looked upwards to view the tangle of ropes and ruined sails. The Liberty had forty-four guns on board, no real match for his seventy-four-gun ship, even though he did not possess enough gun crews to man them all. Still, she had inflicted plenty of damage to the Isabelle. He shook his head in frustration. Yet again they would have to refit, but where could they go? Bermuda was out of the question this time. Draining the last of his coffee, he leaned into the wind and crossed the poop deck to the railing opposite the side where the two ships were lashed together. There he stared into the foamy waves that beat against the Isabelle’s hull. It was late. A storm was approaching from the east and there was still so much work to be done. James tightened his grip on the railing and stared into the cold wet blackness.
5:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Two Bells)
EMILY STIRRED AS THE ECHOES of two bells entered her sleep. She opened her eyes and felt the Isabelle being tossed about on a rough sea. Having slept on the damp floorboards of her little corner, she awoke in some pain: her back was stiff and her ankle and shoulder ached. In the darkness, she raised herself slowly, stretched, and, steadying herself against Leander’s clothing cupboard, tiptoed over to open the gunport, only to close it up again when a heavy spray of saltwater poured in, soaking her shirt. She stopped to listen to the sounds on the ship. It was hauntingly silent after the explosions and screams and pandemonium of a few hours ago. She could hear the wind howling and the crash of the waves and Magpie’s steady breathing as he slept in her hammock.
It had been near midnight when Leander had finally been able to examine the lad. He had removed the ruined remains of his left eye and bandaged his small head, and as Magpie slipped into a laudanum-induced sleep, he had turned to Emily saying, “It is always infection that I fear …”
Now, at this early morning hour, aside from the occasional snore or whimper from the wounded sailors swinging in hammocks or curled up on thin blankets on the hospital floor, all was quiet beyond her canvas curtain. There was one lantern still burning. Its dim light revealed Leander writing at his reclaimed desk, the surgical instruments having been rolled up and stowed away. Making notes in his medical journal again, Emily guessed. He looked up and pulled off his spectacles when she emerged from her corner.
“Doctor,” she said in whispers, picking her way towards his desk, “it’s five in the morning. Have you had no sleep at all?”
“A brief nap.” He suppressed a yawn. “How is Magpie?”
“Sleeping soundly, poor fellow.” Emily glanced down at Leander’s journal to find that he was not writing medical notes at all, but a letter. Gently she reached out to take the pen from Leander’s right hand. “There is a blanket on the floor by his hammock. It is yours. Go and get some sleep. Your … letter can wait.”
Willingly, he folded it up, tucked it into the pocket of his breeches, and smiled up at her. “Strangely, I am not tired. Later it will hit me.” He leaned back in his chair. “I could use some fresh air, though.”
“I’m guessing we’re in the midst of a storm.”
“This is nothing. I have known far worse,” he said, rising to stretch his back. “No, Emily, that blanket is yours. You of all people deserve more sleep. I won’t be gone long.” Leander detected an expression he could not discern in her dark eyes. “Perhaps I should not leave you here alone with so many wounded?”
“No, Doctor, that doesn’t concern me.” She took a step closer to him, looking up at his handsome face. “I should like to come with you.”
“It
