Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

they bring.”

      “I hope it’s good news and will improve James’s humour. I fear he is wearying of war.”

      “We’re all weary,” said Fly, growing pensive. “I miss the days when we battled for the prize and sailed it back triumphantly into Portsmouth Harbour. I miss the pleasure of opening the enemy’s hold of riches and thrilling the crew with fistfuls of shillings at the end of their tour. This war’s a hard one and there’ve been precious few rewards. These American ships are smaller, they carry fewer guns, and there’s seldom any treasure to be gotten from them – when we do get them, that is. They’re very good, these Americans. Their crews are fresher and their ships have been built with the best timber from these new American forests. They fight differently, too. Not like the French. Of course, as so many of them hail from England, they understand our tactics and our motivations. We’ve been softened by our numerous victories over the French.” Fly held out his cup to be refilled by Weevil, who stood silently by with a silver coffee pot.

      “Last night, when you questioned Emily, the name Thomas Trevelyan seemed to startle James,” said Leander. “Am I right?”

      Fly nodded. “I too caught his reaction, but he’s a private person, our captain, and he’s not spoken of it since.”

      “Are you acquainted with the name Trevelyan?”

      Fly sipped on his second cup. “I am not, but our navy’s a large one, with thousands of men, thousands of officers. I did question Mr. Harding, as he has sailed with James before. He felt ‘Trevelyan’ had a familiar ring to it. In fact, Harding thought he might have had something to do with a bit of objectionable business – back in ’04 – involving James and the Isabelle.”

      “What sort of business? What do you mean by that?”

      “Why, the very torment of every last one of our sea captains – a mutiny.”

      Leander leaned back to regard Fly. “Captain Moreland? A mutiny? I cannot imagine his men rising up against him.”

      “My sentiments exactly. Unfortunately, Mr. Harding could provide me with few details of the affair. He said he’d once heard a rumour about it, but nothing more.”

      “But, a mutiny … would the details not have been made public?”

      “In this case … apparently not; otherwise, I am sure I would have heard tell of it.”

      “So, it is possible that there is some connection between Trevelyan and this affair of ’04?”

      “Aye, and if there is, I am certain we shall find out in time.”

      Fly handed his cup and saucer to Weevil, thanked him, and lifted his face to receive the warmth of the sun. Leander followed suit. For a few minutes they were silent, enjoying the working seamen’s chatter and the squawks of the seagulls circling the harbour.

      “Your lady patient … how does she fare?”

      “She still lies in my cot, sleeps a great deal, and is greatly troubled, I fear.”

      “During your examination …” Fly hesitated. “Did you find if she is carrying a child?”

      Leander grinned. “Although it was unnecessary to examine her that fully, I can tell you she is not.”

      “If she stays on this ship much longer that may change.”

      “Have you been away from your wife too long, Mr. Austen?”

      “I believe we’ve all been away from attractive women far too long, including you, Doctor.” Fly clapped him on the back.

      “We haven’t been that long away from England.”

      “Yes, but you, my friend, have been far too long without a wife.”

      Leander looked out to sea.

      “My sister, Jane, is still without a husband,” continued Fly. “Brother Charles and I think you would make her a splendid husband. I know she’s older and may not be able to provide you with ten children, which is what I intend to have, but you won’t find a more amiable, intelligent companion anywhere.”

      “I don’t believe Jane would be contented with a ship’s physician who earns a few shillings a day and prefers the sea to setting up shop in an English parish.”

      “Perhaps you’ll not always feel that way. Of course you know the Austen family would embrace you wholeheartedly.”

      “Maybe it’s time you look elsewhere for dear Jane.” Then, more cheerfully, Leander added, “But I am enjoying her Sense and Sensibility immensely. Although I do not possess his purse, I find myself sympathizing with her character Colonel Brandon. I must write to tell her so.”

      Fly’s brown eyes narrowed. “You’re reading a woman’s novel? Such a great departure from the poetry of Robbie Burns and the stories of Walter Scott you claim to enjoy! And here I thought I had loaned the volumes to Gus Walby for Emily.”

      “You did, but I often listen in when he is reading aloud to her. It is my hope your sister’s book will draw Emily out.”

      “You were saying she is troubled.”

      “Not being able to trust Osmund Brockley alone with her, I have spent my nights in the hospital. I have hung a cot near hers …”

      “Outside or inside the canvas?”

      Leander pulled a face. “For the past two nights she’s had nightmares and awakened with a cry.” He did not tell Fly he’d given her laudanum to return to sleep.

      “The ship she was on when the Serendipity attacked …”

      “She claims she cannot remember. I simply do not know.”

      “How is it Mr. Walby’s gained access to our guest?”

      “The boy is twelve and missing his mother. I’m hoping it will help him to be around such a woman, even if she is a troubled one. A bond is forming between them already. She’s freely told him how she jumped from the Serendipity’s broken windows to make her escape. Perhaps, between Mr. Walby and your sister’s book, we’ll gradually learn more about the mysterious Emily.”

      A sudden breeze tugged at Leander’s black felt hat, compelling him to push it down further onto his forehead. “Tell me, Fly, how is it your bicorne stays on your head in these winds? I’ve yet to witness an officer losing his hat to the sea.”

      Fly slapped his knees. “That’s my secret, my friend … Mr. Weevil, we’re done with coffee. Some red wine now, if you please.”

      12:30 p.m.

      (Afternoon Watch, One Bell)

      CAPTAIN PRICKETT of HMS Amethyst drank heartily of the wine Biscuit set before him upon the rectangular oak table in Captain Moreland’s private quarters. He was a heavy-set man of fifty, with three chins and a belly that could no longer be contained within his uniform coat. His first lieutenant, Lord Bridlington, was a fair-skinned, effeminate fellow with a long crooked nose, who preferred Biscuit’s beef and potatoes to the red wine. The two men had been escorted to the Isabelle by two of their marine officers, who now waited outside the closed door conversing with the Isabelle’s purser, Mr. Spooner. Once pleasantries had been dispensed with and the men were well into their dinner, Captain Moreland leaned back in his red-velvet wing chair with a glass of wine.

      “You say you have little news of the war, gentlemen?”

      “There is not much to report, I’m afraid,” said Mr. Prickett, eyeing the iced spice cake that Biscuit had baked from fresh provisions sent in from shore early that morning. “We’ve not been long from England.”

      “Aye, and we’ve yet to meet an enemy ship,” said Mr. Bridlington, addressing the ceiling of the cabin as he spoke, “which makes the sailors very restless indeed for some action.”

      “What brings you to Bermuda?”