Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, holding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”

      “Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

      “Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”

      Gus saluted and ran off.

      “Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I’ll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”

      He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”

      With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.

      * * *

      THE CARPENTER’S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the Serendipity were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman’s favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the Isabelle, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.

      “Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”

      With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff’s wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman’s face

      “She’s lovely!” he gasped.

      “She ain’t no cookin’ woman.”

      “Look at her finery: blue velvet and silk. I’ve never met a woman who wore such clothes.”

      “Aye! Though she’s a bit ragged, she’s a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain’t never been in the company of a lady before.”

      “Oh, we’re in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat’s ribbed bottom.

      “Hey, yer gettin’ me clean pants all wet.”

      “Just row, Bailey. Yours may be wet, but mine are all bloody. I’ll have a fight on my hands with Mrs. Kettle to get her to launder them again for me.”

      Bailey winked as he picked up the oars. “Might as well enjoy the feel o’ that woman in yer arms. May be a while ’fore ya has another one.”

      By the time their boat was hoisted up to the Isabelle’s stern, word had spread that a woman had been found in the sea. Those men not on duty below deck, or in the hospital having their wounds tended by Dr. Braden, poured onto the deck to watch the spectacle. Gus was also there, having delivered his message to a grumbling Mrs. Kettle and returned in a flash.

      Octavius Lindsay stood alongside the starboard rail, watching the proceedings. He sniffed and swung around to address Commander Austen. “The Admiralty, with few exceptions, does not allow women on our war ships.”

      Commander Francis “Fly” Austen was an imposing man of nearly forty years who had been present at many of the celebrated navy battles, although, to his disappointment, not Trafalgar. He stared at the woman Morgan Evans cradled in his arms. “You forget, Mr. Lindsay, we have Mrs. Kettle on our ship.”

      “Is Mrs. Kettle a woman? I hadn’t noticed, sir.”

      “It appears this woman is not as wide in the beam as our Mrs. Kettle. It might be rather pleasant having her on board.”

      “With – with all respect, sir, we are fighting a war.”

      “Aye … that we are.”

      Octavius sniffed again. “Well, I will make sure she is put off at the first port.”

      Mr. Austen raised one eyebrow. “I don’t believe that will be your decision to make, Mr. Lindsay.”

      The moment Morgan Evans stepped out of the skiff and onto the poop deck, Emily opened her eyes to find hundreds of seamen lining the rails, craning their necks in her direction. In her weakened state, she could not discern individual faces; everything seemed a blur of blue frock coats, red uniforms, checked shirts and scarves, legs in white trousers, heads in bicornes and felt hats. She gazed skywards to find that even those perched on the rigging platforms and yardarms had paused in their tasks. It was so quiet on the ship that Emily heard nothing but the wind beating the sails. No one spoke. No orders were shouted. Each man seemed latched to his allotted space on the deck. And when her rescuer spoke, his voice was disembodied and distant, as if it came to her in a dream.

      “You’re on the Isabelle now, ma’am,” he whispered. “You should be safe here.”

      Emily looked up at him. He was a young man of nineteen, perhaps twenty years, with dark shaggy hair and a pleasant smile. He wore a funny woollen hat that resembled a large sock. With a nod of her head she thanked him, then she shivered and sank back against his chest.

      7:30 p.m.

      (Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)

      CAPTAIN MORELAND took a deep breath and plunged into the depths of the hospital. It stank of medicines, vomit, and coagulating blood. Every hammock held a wounded seaman, and crowded on the floor were a dozen more waiting to be seen by the doctor. The younger ones were snivelling, the older ones swearing, and some of those in between recited verses from the Bible.

      In the middle of the mess, Dr. Leander Braden, dressed in a soiled shirt that had been clean that morning at breakfast, quietly worked on those with the worst wounds. James Moreland hated entering this part of the ship after a battle. The wounded reminded him of his own seafaring sons, now grown up and sailing on separate, distant ships, on distant seas, and he could not bear witnessing the removal of the sailors’ shattered limbs or knowing that hideous scars would disfigure their youthful faces.

      Noticing James’s grave countenance, Dr. Braden wearily gave instruction to his assistant. “Brockley, continue stitching the man’s wounds – and for God’s sake, be gentle.” He left the operating table, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling beams, and made his way over to where James stood.

      “How many did we lose, Doctor?”

      Leander wiped his hands on his black apron, then raised his arms to steady himself on the low ceiling. “Eighteen, including young Patrick and George.”

      James groaned. “And how many wounded?”

      “Seriously? Maybe twenty-five. I haven’t had a chance to count.”

      James fell silent awhile. “I have great admiration for you, Lee. You handle this bloody business so calmly. I’m afraid it makes me quite insane. I suppose when I was younger I could bear it better. I’m just …”

      Leander looked at him over his round spectacles. “You have me all wrong. I don’t handle it well at all. I do know that given more skilled assistants and a decent supply of medicine we could save a lot more lives. Grog and a few instruments for amputating limbs are simply not enough.”

      James shook his head sadly. “Our men are fortunate to have you. Most of our ships are plying the seas without any kind of surgeon. We are overburdened. These wars have gone on far too long.” He glanced over at Leander’s inept assistant, Osmund Brockley. “I must let you get back at it, for I am guessing Brockley is quite lost without your guidance.”

      “The man has no skill whatsoever.”

      “Yes, I am sorry about that. Now, I’m off. I must discuss repairs with the carpenters.” James had just turned to leave when he remembered the main reason he had come to the hospital in the first place. “We pulled a young woman from the water. Young