Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper
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was thinking,” mumbled James, half asleep already, “ perhaps it is time to interview Emily again.”
“My sentiments exactly, sir.”
9:00 a.m.
(Forenoon Watch, Two Bells)
MAGPIE'S MOANS AWOKE EMILY, who had been sleeping on the stool next to his hammock, her cheek resting against the post closest to his head. She stood up to stretch the knotted muscles in her back, wincing as her swollen foot touched the cold, wet floor, but when Magpie’s remaining eye popped open to find her standing watch over him, her smile was warm.
“How’re you feeling?” she asked, reaching out to touch the bit of his forehead not covered in bandages to check for signs of a fever.
Magpie moved his lips, but was unable to give Emily more than a whimper of pain.
“Is there anything you need?”
His ghostly face brightened a bit.
“What is it? A cup of water, perhaps?”
Magpie lifted a corner of the blanket currently covering his body, and whispered, “Me special blanket.”
“Is it in the sail room down on the orlop deck?”
He nodded.
“Right, then. I will go fetch it as soon as I am able.”
A look of alarm suddenly crossed Magpie’s features, and he tried raising himself up on one elbow.
“Lie still,” Emily gently admonished him. “I know. You are worried I’ll be severely punished if Captain Moreland should catch me down on the orlop.”
“Aye,” he said, gritting his teeth as he lay back down upon his pillow.
Emily’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “The men will soon be summoned to the burial service on the main deck. I will go then.”
He gave her a feeble smile and closed his eye.
The minute Magpie slipped into sleep, Emily parted the canvas curtains to survey a scene of bedlam in the hospital. Four more men had died that morning, and their bodies were being carried from the hospital by Maggot and Weevil, whose linen shirts were soaked in sweat. One of the dead men was the teenaged lad who had helped Emily carry Magpie to her bed yesterday, the one who had claimed, “Only got lead in me leg, but I don’t feel it none.” Emily’s chest knotted in emotion as she said a prayer for the poor young man.
The groans and wails of the injured resonated around the cramped quarters. Some of the men hollered profanities while others mumbled senseless remarks in their stuporous sleep. The air was rank with body odour, bitter medicines, and festering wounds. Moving amongst the chaos and the cots, administering food, medicine, and words of comfort were Leander, Osmund, and two loblolly boys whom Emily had never seen before. Leander was pale, moving slowly, his cream-coloured shirt once again splattered with blood. Behind his round spectacles, his blue eyes were red-rimmed.
Seeing her, he said, “I’m afraid, Emily, this is not the most pleasant place at the moment.”
“Your gaol is full, Doctor, and as I refuse to bunk in with Mrs. Kettle, you’re stuck with me.”
Mr. Crump, ever ready with his quick wit, piped up. “Ya wouldn’t be gittin’ any peace at all if ya was bunked in with dear Meggie Kettle.”
Emily, far from being affronted, smiled at Mr. Crump. “I’ll take my chances here in the hospital, thank you.”
“Safest place fer ya, Miss Emily. The men here, even if they had a hank’ring to jump ya, are incapable of doin’ so.” He patted the stump of his amputated leg.
Leander frowned at the saucy landsman. “Mr. Crump, your tongue is liable to get you tossed from my hospital.”
Mr. Crump’s hand flew to his mouth and his eyes widened. “I’ll hold it then, Doctor.”
Emily turned to Leander. “If you don’t soon get some sleep, you’ll end up a patient yourself.”
He smiled wanly. “And if I do, would you give me rum and laudanum and an occasional cup of water?”
“No. As punishment for allowing yourself to get sick, I would bestow that honour upon Mr. Brockley.”
Leander threw up his slim arms. “In that case, I am going. I’m going to get some sleep.”
“You’re welcome to my corner, although the floor in there is wet, so you’ll have to sleep on the stool next to Magpie.”
He dipped his hands into a basin of pink water and dried them on a square of cloth. “Thank you, but I have a cabin down on the orlop deck. Unless we do battle again in the next few hours, Osmund should be fine with his charges. And Mr. Evans, as he still possesses all of his limbs and faculties, has promised to watch out for you while I’m gone.”
Morgan saluted Emily from his cot, but his eyes did not meet the compassionate light that shone from hers. She turned away from Morgan and lowered her voice. “How is he, Doctor?”
“Very low. He has said nothing since his coming here.” Leander fumbled in his pockets for his cabin key, unaware that the letter he had been writing in the night to the enigmatic “Jane” had slipped out and onto the damp hospital floor. Emily was about to pick it up when Osmund, carrying a bucket of body wastes, crushed it with his large foot.
“What about Miss Emily, Doctor? Whose bed is she gonna sleep in now Magpie’s in her cot?” Osmund stood there with his fetid bucket, licking his thick lips, awaiting the doctor’s reply.
A flush of colour crept into Leander’s white face. “That, Mr. Brockley, is not your concern. Keep your thoughts focused on your tasks or I’ll send you packing along with Mr. Crump.” Having said that, he meandered slowly through the maze of hammocks towards the galley door.
With Leander gone, a hush fell upon the hospital. Emily could hear her footsteps on the floorboards as she squeezed her way through the hammocks, offering a drink of water to those with parched lips, aware that several pairs of curious eyes had locked onto her every move. She was frantic to rescue Leander’s letter from the floor, but didn’t dare, in case any of the men had witnessed it falling from the doctor’s pocket. Like a hovering hawk about to go in for the kill, Osmund stood awkwardly by, still holding his bucket, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as he watched her.
“Mr. Brockley,” came a firm voice from one of the hammocks behind Emily, “we could all breathe a bit easier if you would please take that which you are holding and dump it over the side of the ship.”
Osmund awakened from his reverie and sprang into action. Grunting an apology, he tripped his way up the ladder, sloshing some of the bucket’s contents upon the rungs. It was Morgan Evans who had spoken. Smiling, Emily refilled the water cup and went to stand next to his head. He looked up at her like a shy schoolboy and took the cup from her hands.
“You are very kind to me, Mr. George,” he said quietly.
“And you have been nothing but kind to me, Mr. Evans,” she whispered. Seeing a shadow of a smile pass over his face, she pulled the nearest stool up to his bed. “I have been told that you were the one who rescued me from the sea.”
“It was my pleasure, Mr. Geo … ma’am! But I can’t take all the credit. It was Mr. Walby who first spied you through his glass.”
“Perhaps it was, but Mr. Walby might have laboured in vain to pull me from the fallen mizzenmast and into the cutter, now wouldn’t he?”
A shot of red rushed into Morgan’s unshaven cheeks, which set Mr. Crump howling in mirth.
“Oh ho, Miss, ya made Morgan blush like a maiden,” he laughed, scratching the stump of his leg. “Be careful what ya be sayin’ to him; otherwise, he’ll think ya fancy him.”
Morgan pulled the pillow from beneath