Emily would surely consider Mrs. Kettle the better companion for you.”
“Ha, ha. You can be very humorous when you are half-seas over, old fellow.”
“Old fellow? The last time we checked you were older than me by a good five years, Mr. Austen.”
“Maybe so, but one would never know it the way you’re conducting yourself, as mournful and out of sorts as if you already stand knee-high in the grave.”
Leander stared into his empty mug. “I – I know so little of her. She has dropped tantalizing hints here and there, but despite this, I find myself no closer to knowing whether she is actually a wealthy man’s daughter, destined to marry one of King George’s silly, aging sons, or a beautiful, intelligent dairy maiden who chooses to remain secretive so she would have us all believing she is well-born.”
Leander’s words jolted Fly into recollection, as if someone had just struck a match to a candle in his brain. He frowned, trying to remember something Bun Brodie had said in his interview in James’s cabin, three long days ago, after the battle with the Liberty – something about a woman named Mrs. Seaton who had been travelling with him on board the Amelia, bound for Upper Canada in the company of a serving woman and the arrogant Mr. Seaton, and who had suffered the misfortune of falling into the hands of Thomas Trevelyan. Was it possible – ? Could she be – ? Fly considered sharing this information with his friend, but upon studying his distraught countenance, decided against it. It could wait. He smiled and tried to be jovial.
“Would it matter to you where she came from? Shakespeare’s Juliet discovered her Romeo was from an opposing house, the son of her father’s sworn enemy. It made no difference to her.”
Leander regarded his friend sadly. “I should like it if my life were to turn out somewhat differently than Shakespeare’s young lovers.”
“It’s been too many years since you loved and were loved. Why, you’ve forgotten all joy in life. Come, now, you have much to offer.” Fly gave him a good looking-over. “You’re young, strong enough – perhaps a bit too thin – occasionally funny, and despite your aged mannerisms and bookishness, you have been labelled as being ‘well formed.’”
“Well formed? By whom?”
“None other than Mrs. Kettle, who is known to take up a spyglass to us while we bathe in the sea.”
Leander shrugged and raised his grog mug. “Well then, here’s to Mrs. Kettle.”
“Furthermore,” said Fly, “you have something most men do not: an education, and a brilliant one at that. You could make a decent living anywhere. Make a move, before you become weak and infirm, or are altogether extinguished. Go and live. I could offer you my cabin, or, better still, post a marine sentry outside your berth on the orlop deck.”
“You are truly filthy minded.”
“Aye. That I am.”
Just then Gus Walby came flying up the ladder to the poop deck, swinging a lighted lantern before him. “Mr. Austen, sir.”
“Mr. Walby?”
“No lights burning down below, sir.”
“Fine, thank you. Now extinguish your own. We don’t want any enemy frigates learning our position.”
“Sir,” Gus said, dousing his flame.
“And you can check again in an hour. Old Bailey Beck’s been known to leave his hammock late in the evening to strike a match and play cards with Morgan and Jacko.”
“I will, sir. Until then, may I seek your permission to go to the hospital and read with Emily for a bit?”
Fly angled his cheery countenance towards his drinking companion. “That is up to our doctor.”
“Yes, yes, of course you can, Mr. Walby.” Leander felt a twinge of envy.
“Sir!” Gus broke into a tremendous smile and hurried off.
Leander looked after him wistfully. Fly laughed and clapped him on the back. “Come, now, mask your devotion and let us drink to life.” Seeing Weevil standing near the Isabelle’s waist, Fly called out to him. “You there!” The cook’s assistant came running. “Fetch a bottle of your best French wine and take it … take it to my cabin.”
“Right away, sir,” said Weevil before dashing off.
Fly lowered his voice to Leander. “Let us continue our refreshments below in privacy. Otherwise, the men will lose any respect they may hold for me when I break into a drunken song.”
Reluctantly Leander left the comfort of the bench to follow Fly, and as the two carefully negotiated the steps down to the quarterdeck, the beacon that shone from the lighthouse on Cape Hatteras vanished from view.
8
Monday, June 14
7:00 a.m.
(Morning Watch, Six Bells)
THE CRY OF THE BOSUN'S MATE was loud and penetrating. “All hands ahoy! Up all hammocks ahoy!”
Emily opened her eyes to find a light patter of rain falling outside her open gunport and her ocean views obscured by a dense fog. She could hear the men dropping down from their hammocks on the decks below, and outside her curtain, Osmund Brockley fidgeting and clearing his throat. Barely had she time to pull her blanket around her and utter an invitation to enter when he burst through the canvas carrying her breakfast tray, babbling like an undisciplined child in need of attention.
“Mornin’, Miss. Dr. Braden ordered breakfast early fer ya as he thought ya might like to meet with young Magpie in the galley before the men are piped into breakfast. Ya’ll find Biscuit cursing by his stove in there; otherwise, it’ll be quiet and ya can have a private word or two. Mind ya, not for long. The duty cooks usually come in around seven bells.”
“Thank you, Osmund. You can set the tray down on the stool. I’ll eat later.”
Osmund unloaded the tray and stood back to regard her with his peculiar round eyes and blank expression, reminding Emily of a sailor who had taken a few too many knocks to the head. It never ceased to astonish her that he actually possessed some abilities in the hospital.
“We’re busting to know, Miss, why ya’ve asked fer a private interview with young Magpie,” he said.
Emily’s eyes rounded in surprise. “Are there no secrets to be had on this ship?”
“Oh, no, Miss. We all know one another’s business on the Isabelle.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Brockley, but I shan’t be divulging all mine this morning.” Seeing him squirm with curiosity, Emily hid her amused expression and looked about for her clothes. She’d last seen them hanging from the wooden peg on the post by her feet.
“My clothes! They’re gone.”
“Aye, Miss, but ya see it’s Monday – Mrs. Kettle’s laundry day – and on account of Dr. Braden disliking the way Meggie blows in here and causes
