fer yer worthlessness any more.”
Mrs. Kettle looked pleased with herself as she watched Octavius desperately wrestle with his irons, vainly attempting to free his legs. When finally he gave up his fight and had, for the time, buried his rancour, she slapped her knee and said, “Right, now! Set yer eyes on this here.” She placed Magpie’s oval miniature into his quivering hands and held the lantern up over his head. “Behold that smilin’ face. Now, quick, flip it round.”
Octavius wiped at his eyes with dirty fingers and stared at the miniature for some time, turning it over again and again to scrutinize the face and the inscription.
“It’s her, ain’t it?”
“Who?”
“That woman what lies in thee doctor’s cot.”
“The daughter of Henry, Duke of Wessex, one of King George’s many sons? And … and therefore a niece of the prince regent and the Duke of Clarence?” Octavius snorted like a horse. “Impossible!”
“It’s her all right and she’s some kind o’ princess.”
Octavius gave his tormentor an impatient look. “I’ll admit to a resemblance, nothing more. I happen to know that portrait painters are never very accurate in their representation of their subject.”
“Aye, I suppose yer mother would be havin’ a portrait of ya without yer red spots and limp hair.”
He disregarded the slight. “I possess a miniature of my mother and the artist has succeeded brilliantly in making her look like Boticelli’s Venus, when in truth she bears a striking resemblance to a trollop!”
Mrs. Kettle grunted and pointed to the clothing worn by the woman in the miniature. “That woman came on board wearin’ thee same blue shirt.”
Octavius peered down at the picture again. “It’s called a spencer-jacket, not a shirt. Fashionable ladies have been wearing them for some time now.”
“Oh, we keep up with ladies’ fashions, do we now? Harumph! Well, I may not know thee fancy name fer it, but I knows what I see and thee braidin’ and design on that jacket’s thee same as what that woman were wearin’ thee day she set foot on thee Isabelle.”
Octavius shook his head. “It still doesn’t prove that Emily and the daughter of the late Duke of Wessex are one and the same person.”
Mrs. Kettle snatched the miniature out of his hands and laid down her trump card. “Aye, then how do ya explain me findin’ it in thee pocket of ’er trousers?”
Octavius’s mouth opened, his lips framing a silent “O.” He drifted into a daze while Mrs. Kettle stood over him, stroking the miniature as if it were a precious, sentimental object. “Ya never know who might be int’rested in seein’ this,” she said, tempting the wheels in his head to turn. She popped the miniature into her apron pocket, gave it a wee pat, and left Octavius in the dark to consider the possibilities.
In the blue shadows of the animals’ stable, Magpie swiftly and soundlessly sank out of sight just as Mrs. Kettle’s long swishing skirts swept past him, fanning his face. With Biscuit’s milking goat complacently licking his ear, and his heart thumping madly, he listened to her heavy footsteps gradually fade away down the gun deck. In despair, he realized he had come too late in search of the miniature. Mrs. Kettle had already found it, and she was scheming to do something with it – exactly what, Magpie didn’t know, but he knew he had to warn Emily and fast. Spying a perfectly rounded lump of dung sitting in a nest of straw by the goat’s hind legs, Magpie picked the whole works up and lobbed it like a grenade at the back of Octavius Lindsay’s head.
2:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)
“SAIL HO! SAIL HO!”
“Larboard bow ahoy!”
“It’s a man-o’-war all right!”
“A mighty big one at that!”
In his cabin, James struggled to raise himself up in his cot. “Dear God! There was a time I thrilled to hear those words. Now they only fill me with dread.”
“Stay where you are,” said Leander firmly, trying to take James’s pulse. “Fly has commanded many ships in his time.”
“Hand me my clothes, Lee.”
“Your fever has returned and your pulse is weak. Please … stay where you are.”
James paid him no heed. He stumbled out of his cot and staggered over to his clothing hook where, with trembling hands, he reached for his white breeches and his blue frock coat adorned with shoulder epaulettes and brass-buttoned cuffs.
“I cannot agree to you leaving your bed in your state.”
James mopped his brow. “I’ve been too long in my bed, Lee. And I am well aware that I may never regain my strength.”
“Have you no faith in the abilities of Fly and Mr. Harding?”
“That is not the point!” he replied, with an edge in his voice; then, more gently, he added, “My men need to see me. If we are to face another battle, it will put their minds at ease to have me walk with them above deck.”
“That is all well and noble,” said Leander, pulling off his spectacles, “but I believe your men would find greater comfort in knowing your health was being restored with rest. As your doctor, I simply cannot approve of you – ”
“I will not fight Trevelyan in my bedclothes!” James glared at the doctor for a while until his anger dissipated, then, wearing a look of remorse, he carried his clothes meekly to his desk chair, where he sat down to catch his breath. Slowly he pulled on his breeches, then his Hessian boots, which stood upright on the floor beside him, and finally, his uniform coat.
Leander tucked his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket. “What evidence do we have that it is Trevelyan’s ship that approaches?”
James fumbled with his coat buttons, but finding the task exhausting, he shifted his body round to look out through the galleried windows upon the billowing misty-white sea, and fell into a dream-like state. There was something in his aspect that led Leander to wonder if James’s thoughts had travelled home to England. He watched him closely for some time.
“James, why is it the name Trevelyan strikes such fear in you? Granted, two weeks back, his guns inflicted a fearful lot of damage on us, but surely no more than we inflicted upon him.”
Beads of sweat ran down James’s sunken cheeks, and his eyes never left the sea. “He has an old score to settle with me and has waited a very long time for his revenge. I feared he would resurface again one day; I just never imagined I’d meet him in the Atlantic and find him commanding, of all things, an American ship called the Serendipity.”
Leander hoped to hear more, but when James revealed nothing further, he set about collecting his medical chest and made his way to the cabin door. “I will go and question Mr. McGilp for you – see what news there is.” Throwing open the door, he found McGilp already standing there, his fist at his forehead in a salute to his captain.
“Mr. McGilp!” cried
