Come Looking for Me. Cheryl Cooper

“It was grand. After dinner the man asked me if I wanted a postin’ on a sailin’ ship. Said he was a big gun in the Royal Navy and could get me a post if I was keen. Course I didn’t wanna go back climbin’ so I jumped at the chance.”

      “Who was this saviour of yours?”

      There was mischievous glint in Magpie’s eyes and his thin chest swelled as he proudly said, “He was called the Duke o’ Clarence.”

      Emily’s mouth fell open. “The – the Duke of Clarence? Our King George’s son?”

      “One ’n’ the same, ma’am.”

      “That is astounding!” Her dark eyes danced as she clapped together her bandaged hands in merriment. “Imagine you making the acquaintance of the Duke of Clarence.”

      Magpie’s smile vanished. “Why? ’Cause I ain’t nobody?”

      “Oh, I didn’t mean it in that vein, Magpie. I just think the poor duke has long been criticized for his lifestyle and politics and here he’s shown true kindness to the Isabelle’s sail maker.”

      “D’ya know him too, ma’am?”

      Emily shrank back on her barrel. “No. I’ve just read about him in the newspapers. That is all.”

      For a moment Magpie’s almond eyes watched her, as if expecting her to say more, but when she did not, his expression changed and he peeked up shyly at her. “Do ya like the clothes I made fer ya, ma’am?”

      “Your handiwork is truly exquisite! I look every inch a sailor now, do I not?” Emily leaned closer to him. “Everything is perfect and yet … I cannot guess how it fits me so well.”

      “Dr. Braden helped me guess yer … yer proportions, ma’am.”

      “Did he now?” Emily grinned pensively.

      “Magpie! Why aren’t you below sewing our sails?”

      The low voice startled Magpie, who sprang off his barrel to salute the young man with the bandaged left hand who stood before them.

      “You don’t have to salute me,” the man said.

      “Aye, but I do, sir. Yer a carpenter’s mate and higher on the scale than me.”

      “Nonsense,” the carpenter’s mate replied. His hair was long and shaggy, and beneath his knitted hat, which resembled a long sock, his tanned face was familiar. He jerked his paint-splattered thumb towards Emily.

      “Who’s your pal, Magpie?”

      The boy faltered, his eyes darting nervously between Emily and the carpenter’s mate.

      “Mr. George, midshipman, at your service, sir,” Emily said loudly, raising a fist to the brim of her straw hat in salute.

      The young man looked wary as he returned the salute. “How do you do? Morgan Evans is my name … sir.” His stare flickered beneath her face and settled on her silk slippers. “You must be one of the new ones on the Isabelle. Welcome aboard, Mr. George.”

      “Thank you, sir.”

      There was the faintest hint of a smile on his lips as he nodded and sauntered on down the deck.

      “Ya didn’t fool Mr. Evans, ma’am.”

      “Apparently not.” Emily watched after him until she could no longer discern his funny hat amongst the throng of sailors.

      “He’s the one what plucked ya from the sea.”

      “I thought he looked familiar.”

      “Beg yer pardon, ma’am, but if ya wanna pretend you’re a midshipman, ya don’t hafta salute a carpenter’s mate like Mr. Evans.”

      “I have much to learn …” Emily’s voice trailed off as she caught sight of a young officer standing against the quarterdeck railing, his chin raised in challenge, glaring down upon her with his dark, penetrating eyes.

      “Who’s that, Magpie?” she whispered, nodding in the direction of the insolent observer.

      “That’s Lord Lindsay, ma’am.” Magpie shivered. “I … I don’t like him much.”

      1:00 p.m.

      (Afternoon Watch, Two Bells)

      WHEN THE AIR RESOUNDED with two bells, Magpie had to resume his duties, even though, unbeknownst to Emily, he had missed his dinner to sit with her. Emily couldn’t help feeling sad. Her taste of freedom had been all too brief and she had enjoyed their discussions on naval regulations, the fine art of sail sewing, and Biscuit’s culinary repertoire. Unable to wander the decks alone, she reluctantly began her trek back to the hospital, telling her little companion he didn’t need to assist her. “I’ll have to make my own way around the Isabelle sooner or later.”

      Having successfully managed the first ladder down to the upper deck, she found herself outside the officers’ wardroom. Behind the closed door came two voices raised in anger. She recognized one as the captain’s, but was not certain of the other. Emily slowed her pace in an attempt to hear their words.

      “It’s one thing giving that woman freedom to exercise above deck; it’s quite another allowing her to trifle with the likes of Magpie and Morgan Evans on the main deck.”

      “Magpie is a boy of ten.”

      “Mr. Evans, however, is not.”

      There was a crash as if someone’s fist had found a tabletop. “Enlighten me here. I fail to understand your concerns, brought on by an abundance of grog no doubt …”

      Emily’s heart stopped when the floorboards creaked behind her. A stench of perspiration and rotting teeth struck her nose with the force of a club. A growling voice breathed down her neck.

      “Lost yer way, sailor?”

      “Aye, sir. If you please, which way to the hospital?”

      It was Biscuit, the cook, carrying a tray of wine, sweets, and goblets. He resembled a flame with his shock of orange hair standing straight up on his forehead. One of his eyes widened in delight, while the other – horribly out of alignment – searched about for her. His long grey sideburns were sprinkled with food crumbs, as were his chest hairs, which sprang from his open-necked checked shirt like a stowed animal struggling to escape.

      “Yer arse backwards, sailor. Thee hospital’s in thee front o’ thee ship and yer in thee back.” He lowered his peculiar eyes to her right foot. “Seein’ as yer crippled, would ya like me to carry ya there after I take thee wine in to Captain Moreland?”

      “I can manage.”

      “Yer an awfully pretty young sailor. I’d be watchin’ meself wand’rin’ thee decks alone, especially in yer condition.”

      “I appreciate the warning, sir.”

      Unable to endure Biscuit’s odour, Emily stumbled away from him and made for the nearest passageway. She found herself in the sailors’ mess and, uncertain of the path back to the hospital, stood there awkwardly, the room stretching dauntingly before her like a bridgeless gorge. The dinner hour was over, but several men lingered, swilling their mugs of beer, enjoying their leisure time with their mates. They sat in groups, reclining on benches, barrels, and sea chests, and at the tables sandwiched between the menacing carronades lying silent in their open gunports. Hanging on a hook above each table was a swinging bucket of steaming food, and nailed to the walls were racks of wooden spoons and bowls.

      Emily beheld the boisterous scene before her, relieved that the sailors were preoccupied with a variety of pursuits: gambling, arguing, singing, arm wrestling, and blowing tunes on flutes. In all her eighteen years, she had never been in a room with so many men. She could hear the thump of her heart and was shocked to admit it was not anxiety that caused its rapid beating.

      It was not long before she was noticed. One by one, the men slapped