Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper
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grasp, “for I’ll not tolerate a grumpy cook at the breakfast table.”
Detecting a twinkle in Mr. Austen’s eyes, Biscuit quipped, “And fer yer kindness, sir, I’ll be servin’ ya up some marmeelade with yer fresh sea biscuits in thee mornin’.”
Fly stared after Biscuit’s comical wavering shape until the night’s blackness had swallowed him whole. He then turned back to Leander.
“Did you check in on James this evening?”
“I did. His fever is gone, but he’s not recovering as fast as I would have hoped.”
“Will he recover?”
“If he could rest for a week without interruption, his health may be restored.”
Fly looked out upon the faint purpling shadow of low-lying land and the glimmer of light coming from the Cape Hatteras lighthouse a few miles south from where the Isabelle lay anchored. “Our lives on this ship are as uncertain as that beacon on Hatteras – never knowing from one day to the next when we may be shining or flickering or extinguished altogether.” His dark eyes flashed in the night as he glanced about to seek out any eavesdroppers. “We’ve been sitting here for five days now, adrift in enemy waters, as helpless as a wounded whale while we patch up our ship to make her seaworthy once more. Our captain is ill and our men tired. Moreover, we have forty-odd prisoners of questionable origins along for the ride, who, despite the fact that we feed them from our pitiable rations and have given a few of them some form of occupation, may rise up against us when next we meet a belligerent Yankee frigate.”
Leander searched the night sky until he had located the moon – a slice of pale orange drifting through silvery clouds – at his back. He set down his mug and sighed. “And you’re wondering, in all this, where our enemies are hiding?”
Fly nodded. “My guess is that when we cut the Liberty loose during the storm, she ran aground south of us, on these flat Carolina islands, or was dashed upon these shoals, and all hands were lost at sea. I expected someone to come looking for them and … for us.”
“Are you certain of our position?”
“I know of no other lighthouse in this vicinity, although one can hardly call it a lighthouse. Its light is so dim and unreliable, it does little good for those of us on the sea.”
“Then we are not far from Norfolk, Virginia.”
“Correct.”
“Is there not a large base there?”
“There is. We’ve spotted sloops and schooners, and, strangely enough, that odd privateer with its ostentatious red hull – the one that was anchored beside us in Bermuda – but, so far, no warring frigates.” Fly took a long draught from his mug. “I have an uneasy feeling.”
Leander slouched down on the bench and allowed his head to fall back against the railing. Fly followed suit, past caring for the officer-like behaviour necessary in front of those dark figures who stood dreaming on duty far above him on the gusty yards. As the bell tolled the late hour and the Isabelle rose and fell rhythmically, lulling Fly and Leander into a stupor, they grew melancholy, listening to the mysterious mutterings of the velvety sea.
“You know, old fellow, you are as easy to read as one of my sister’s stories.”
Leander roused himself. “How’s that?”
“I can see a change has come over you.” As Fly’s alert eyes bore into his blue ones, Leander felt the dreaded red creeping up his neck. “Why, back in my days on the Canopus, our doctor was a veritable cussing idler who left most of his work to his mates and loblolly boys. He never kept any notes on his treatments, and if anyone dared come down with a suspicious fever, he avoided the sick bay altogether.”
“Your point?” asked Leander, avoiding Fly’s bright stare.
“You, on the other hand, are always on duty, always at your desk, always in the hospital. When did you last lie about above deck wearing a sun hat to protect your fair, freckled face, reading your beloved Burns and Scott? Or join the officers in the wardroom for a drunken singsong after supper?”
“I am doing that very thing now.”
“No, tell me, when?”
“Between battles and lopping off arms and legs, there’s been little time for that kind of leisure.”
Fly craned his neck up into Leander’s face. “Mind you, the audacious Dr. Willen of the Canopus did not have a woman lying in one of his hospital hammocks, wearing his nightshirt, and depending on him for rehabilitation and amusements. If he had, he might have found reason to spend longer hours there.”
As Leander was at a loss for words, Fly’s voice softened. “I see it in your eyes, friend. I hear it in your words, and detect it in your actions and occupations. You are besotted with our gentlewoman.”
Under the controlling powers of grog, Leander could not hide the sheepish grin that took hold of his mouth. “I fear she has awakened emotions in me I never thought I would feel again.”
Fly’s features fell. “Ahhh! So there is no hope left for my sister Jane? You would have her remain a spinster in Chawton cottage and leave her with no other company than my other sister, Cassandra, and my poor old mother?”
“Must I humble myself to remind you, Fly, that I am no worthy suitor for any woman?”
“Pshaw! Hogwash!”
“I’m a lowly physician floating in the Atlantic on a wounded ship.”
“It’s well known you’re a common butcher, but a good one at that.”
Leander paid no attention to Fly’s remark and went on sullenly. “I have very little money to my name, and my permanent address is a dark corner on the Isabelle’s orlop deck.”
“Does your desperation spring from the fact that in your heart you know it’s me Emily desires and not you?”
Leander pulled a face and gave Fly an emphatic, “No.”
“And why not? She doesn’t know I’m happily married to my Mary, and have a daughter and three sons waiting for me on the Isle of Wight.”
“No, perhaps not, but if your marital status was otherwise, 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.