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 we refit at sea, gentlemen, or should we return to Bermuda?”
“I think it best we return to port, sir,” said Mr. Alexander. He was a man of fifty years, balding, with a gentle face. “We’ll need a few days to fix her up, and with these waters swarming with enemy ships, if one were to surprise us now…”
“We’re only a day and a half from Bermuda, sir,” added Morgan, clasping his woollen hat in both hands.
“Your call, gentlemen.” James called out to the coxswain at the helm. “Set a course, Mr. McGilp – south by southeast. Back to Bermuda it is.”
Lewis McGilp nodded and began cranking the ship’s wheel about. “Aye, sir, south by sou’east.”
“Thank you, Mr. Alexander, Mr. Evans. That’ll be all.” The carpenters saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Left alone, James wandered to the ship’s bow where he rubbed his eyes, unbuttoned his blue frock coat, and dreamed of the green meadows around his Yorkshire home. Eight years ago he had officially retired from the Royal Navy. At that time, having had enough of the seas to last his lifetime, he chose to move away from the coastal regions of England. Now he longed for those expanses of green in the north of his homeland.
England had been at war with Napoleon and France on and off since 1793, and now they had become embroiled in yet another military conflict, this one with the United States. The American president, Mr. Madison, had declared war on Britain in June of 1812, citing grievances that included the British navy’s habit of seizing American seamen and forcing them into service on their ships. But as James saw it, his navy was guilty of nothing more than searching out British deserters who had taken employment on American vessels, or fellow countrymen who had actually been pressed into the American navy. Regardless of the reasons for the animosity between the two countries, it remained that the British navy was so seriously short of officers, seamen, ships, and supplies that it could not effectively fight this new, distant war. As a result, James, at the age of sixty, when he asked for nothing more than a few years to enjoy his family, his farm, and his books, had been ordered by the Admiralty to take command once again of his old ship, the Isabelle, and to sail the western Atlantic waters, halting all enemy ships to seek out deserters and fellow countrymen alike, and to prove to the world that the mighty British navy still ruled the seas.
James stayed near the bowsprit for some time, staring out at the black waves, listening to the Isabelle crashing through the heavy waters. The intensifying winds slapped the fore topsail above him. He looked up to the men on the foreyard and called out to them in a booming voice that rivalled that of his bosun’s mate waking the crew in the morning. “Careful, lads. We don’t want anyone falling now. The doctor has his hands quite full at the moment.”
He was greeted with laughter and salutes.
The quartermaster turned over the sand glass and the bell was rung four times. In the shadowy darkness, James watched his men climb down the thin ratlines from their high posts while others climbed up to begin their four-hour watch. He took a deep breath of the briny air and slowly made his way to the wardroom.
8:00 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)
MEG KETTLE STOMPED into the captain’s quarters in a huff. She had seen the woman pulled from the water, seen the way the crew looked at her, and heard what they were saying about her. Meg was not happy.
Fly Austen was waiting for her in a red-velvet wing chair. Behind a sheet of sailing canvas, the woman was asleep in the captain’s cot.
“Ah, Mrs. Kettle. Thank you for coming.”
“I see she rates thee captain’s bed,” Meg hissed.
“There
