Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

“Under the circumstances, Emily, I will ask that you find your own way back to the hospital. Go to the hatch on the fo’c’sle. The ladder down will bring you to your destination.”

      * * *

      EMILY WAS ABOUT TO MAKE her painful way down the ladder when she spotted Gus on his way up. Clutching his bicorne hat and cutlass, he beamed up at her, his eyes swimming with excitement. “There’s been a ship sighting, Em. Dr. Braden asked me to find you. He wants you to get back below.”

      “Do we know yet? Is it an American warship?”

      “We can’t be sure. Please! Just get below. The worst place to be is above deck.” He scurried off, securing his hat upon his blond head.

      Emily stepped back as dozens of men now began pouring up the ladder, tripping over one another in their haste and articulating a variety of emotions:

      “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name …”

      “Goddamned Yankees.”

      “We’ll slice ’em up nicely.”

      “Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done …”

      “Move along. Git yer arse out of me face.”

      “England expects every man to do his duty. England expects every man …”

      “Now let ev’ry man drink off his full bumper, and let ev’ry man drink off his full glass; we’ll drink, be jolly and drown melancholy …”

      “On earth as it is in Heaven …”

      “And here’s to the health of each true-hearted lass …”

      Once safely returned to the hospital, Emily found Leander and Osmund clearing away the clutter on the desk. Osmund, his thick tongue hanging out of his mouth, grabbed a roll of bloodstained cloth and plunked it down hard on what would now become the operating table. Leander opened it and began arranging his surgical equipment. He glanced up when Emily entered.

      “What can I do?” she asked quietly.

      Leander spoke rapidly. “Sit down on the floor in the corner. Make certain the gunport is closed up and stay clear of it.”

      Emily slid the straw hat off her head, her wheat-coloured hair tumbling down around the shoulders of her checked shirt. Feeling faint and headachy, she limped towards the canvas curtain.

      “Doctor Braden,” pleaded Crump from his hammock, “please let me get up, sir. I’m willin’ to fight.”

      “Mr. Crump, you have just lost your leg. You must wait until Mr. Evans has time to fit you up with a new one.”

      Mr. Crump grumbled like an active volcano, cursing saints Peter and Paul.

      “Emily …”

      She whirled about to find Leander holding out a pistol to her. “Take this. If it’s an American warship, you may need it.” Catching her expression of anxiety, he softened his tone. “I suspect you know how to use it.”

      6:30 p.m.

      (Second Dog Watch, One Bell)

      CROUCHED ON THE FLOOR of her small corner, as far away as was possible from the gunport, Emily heard the echo of one bell. It had been some time since Fly Austen climbed down the ladder to the hospital to inform Leander that it was indeed a Yankee frigate and to make ready for the wounded.

      “Fly, as there are only two of us here,” Leander had said, peering over his spectacles at his friend, “please try to make short work of it.”

      “Shall I send in Biscuit? He claims to know something of medicine.”

      “I forbid it. His smell alone will surely do me in.”

      Fly had laughed as he ascended the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck.

      Emily was surprised they could joke at a time like this, especially when her own heart had been thumping uncomfortably for the past two hours. Her legs were already cramped from crouching, and her ankle throbbed. The waiting was agony. Why weren’t the guns firing?

      Leander suddenly pulled aside the curtain and held up a lantern. “Are you all right?”

      “I’m terrified.”

      “I have a shot of rum here for you. It might help.” He bent his long frame to hand her a small cup.

      Emily downed it, ignoring the burning sensation as it passed to her stomach. Leander shook his head as he looked down upon her. “I’m afraid by the time we reach Halifax, you will not only be a laudanum addict, you will also have developed a fondness for grog.”

      “And I will entirely have you to blame.” Emily handed him back the cup with a sigh. “Then, of course, if Captain Moreland is obeyed, I shall have nothing to look forward to, with the exception of my cot, grog, and laudanum.”

      “Your interview did not go well?”

      “It was horrendous. Captain Moreland is being quite unfair, particularly to the men with whom I was sitting yesterday – suspending their grog rations amongst other things. He has even gone so far as to punish poor Magpie for not escorting me back here before returning to his duties. I will soon have many enemies on the Isabelle, the worst of them that vile Mr. Lindsay, although where that man is concerned, I do not give a fig.”

      “I can assure you that for every one enemy you may have on the Isabelle, you have two hundred friends.”

      Emily lifted her face to him.

      “You surely know,” continued Leander hesitantly, “it wasn’t me who informed Captain Moreland of your whereabouts yesterday.”

      “I know.”

      The guns began thundering at last. The ship’s timbers shuddered and shook, knocking Emily up against the clothes cupboard beside her. Leander was hurled backwards, but was saved from a fall by the wooden post supporting the bottom end of her hammock. Steadying himself, he seized the blanket from her bed and tossed it to her.

      “Here, place it over you. If the hospital is hit, you may escape the inevitable flying splinters. Stay down and stay safe.” He soon vanished, taking the lantern light with him.

      Alone in the dark she whispered, “And you too.”

      * * *

      CLOAKED IN THE SMOKEY CLOUDS of gunfire, the Isabelle’s crew seized the battle respite to regroup and clear the decks of their fallen comrades. The heart-wrenching wails of the wounded and their pleas for help were everywhere – on the damaged decks, high up in the twisted ropes, and in the agitated waters between the two ships. Amidst the butchery and blood waddled Mrs. Kettle, lifting her skirts to the gore underfoot, cussing in a clamourous voice that surely could be heard on board the enemy frigate.

      “It’s brutes they are, them Yankees!” She inspected the freshly cleaned shirts and trousers not yet collected from the drying lines that crisscrossed the fo’c’sle, now all sooty, blood-splattered, and full of holes. “And they would ’ave to pick me laundry day to shoot their cannons at us.”

      “Next time, Mrs. Kettle, you will take down all the laundry the moment we see a sail on the horizon … as you were instructed to do,” admonished Fly, slipping along the starboard railing. He was heading towards Gus Walby, who had his spyglass focused on the enemy ship’s stern. “Mr. Walby,” he hollered above the roar of the wind, “can you tell me the name of the ship?”

      “It’s the Liberty, sir. The Isabelle did a fine job of raking her. Why, her stern windows have been completely blown away.”

      “If we were lucky, President Madison himself would have been standing in front of those windows.”

      “We had the advantage of the weather gauge, didn’t we, sir?”

      “We did, but she still managed to inflict plenty of damage. Look! Look up at our sails.”

      “Slices