Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

warning, a feeling as dark as the room engulfed her and tears began spilling from her brown eyes. Clutching the miniature to her breast, she buried her face in the quilt and wept bitterly for the happy young woman she once had been. She wept for the walls and willow trees of her childhood home, for her lost girlhood of yesteryear, and for those she loved, now lying lonely and forgotten in churchyards and unmarked graves. Emily lay there, twisted into a fetal position, choking up suppressed emotions until she heard the distant, disturbing sound of splashing water as the dead bodies of the seamen were entrusted to the sea.

      Realizing there was little time left before the service ended and the men returned to their stations below deck, Emily bolted upright to dry her tears on the sleeves of her checked shirt. She shoved the miniature into her trousers pocket alongside Leander’s untouched letter, scrambled to close up Magpie’s chest, and slipped the quilt under one arm. Just as she was about to rise to her feet, there came a whooshing noise behind her and the sail room went black.

      She heard him before she could see him, his breathing heavy, his breath laced with rum and the essence of unwashed teeth. He let out a low laugh that stopped her heart, and then he started towards her, the heel of his boots scraping the floorboards. It was a minute before her swollen eyes could adjust to the gloom, but without the lantern light she could only make out a grey, sinister shape. She dropped Magpie’s blanket and froze, remembering another murky figure that had once come towards her in the dimness of the lower decks, intent on harming her. A rat crawled about on her as if she were a heap of trash. Shuddering in revulsion, she opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The boots came closer and another menacing laugh pierced the silence.

      “There’s nowhere to hide,” whispered a thick voice.

      In her numbed horror, Emily shrank back upon the pile of tattered sails, unable to think clearly. The sail room was far too narrow to avoid the looming shape before her, and she had nothing on her with which to fight. No pistol, no cutlass, not even a hairpin. He jerked at the buttons on his coat, one tearing from the fabric and clattering to the floor, much as the gold-framed miniature had done earlier, then he stepped closer to her to fumble with the flap on his trousers.

      “There’ll be no snivelling,” he said, breathing rum down her neck. He shoved her backwards upon the sails and jumped on her, his sudden weight snapping her head back against Magpie’s oak chest. She cried out in pain as he tore at her shirt and trousers.

      “Shut up, shut up,” he hissed, forcing her to roll over onto her stomach. His guttural sounds and unwashed stench caused bile to rise in Emily’s throat and anger to burn in her breast. An image of Magpie’s workbench with its awl and mallet rose in her tortured mind. If she could just reach it. Her right arm was pinned under his knee, but with her left she thrashed out, frantically grabbing at the blackness around her, praying her hand would soon find the bench. Her movements angered him, and she felt a draft of air as his fist rose and crashed down upon her face. This time she screamed, with such fierce volume it hurt her own ears.

      “Damn you to hell!” He tensed up, as if listening for approaching footsteps, and as he did so, Emily’s fingers closed around the awl. She swung the pointed instrument about wildly before bringing it down hard upon her assailant. He growled like a cur, throwing her against the wooden pole, her back striking the metal tackle. Before she could recover, his heavy hands were on her neck, crushing the life from her. Her small hands had not a chance of prying his hellish ones from her throat. Helplessly she lay there, fighting to stay conscious by focusing on a pinpoint of light that shone like a beacon behind the grotesque creature crouched over her. She heard the shuffle of feet and voices rising in pandemonium, and soon several more lanterns swayed in the sail room. Cursing and sputtering, her assailant was pulled from her and dragged into the shadows. Released, Emily turned away from the men who crowded into the room, holding their lanterns high and gaping down at her as if she were a wonder from the ocean’s bottom. She curled up into a ball next to Magpie’s workbench, gasping for air.

      Above the sailors’ nervous mutterings, Emily heard a terse, wrathful command. “All of you – get out. Get out! Now!” There was a scurry of footsteps as the room emptied. Then the same voice, firm, but gentler this time, said, “Mr. Evans, take that man to the master-at-arms.”

      “May I carry her to the hospital first, sir?” came Morgan’s voice.

      “No! I shall carry her myself.”

      “Aye, sir.”

      With the sailors gone, peacefulness permeated the sail room, though Emily, her face hidden in her arms, sensed there were those who remained behind. She heard the subdued words, “Mr. Walby, close your mouth and avert your eyes,” and felt a pair of slender arms about her, lifting her bleeding head from the floor, covering her bruised, quaking body with the pond-green quilt that lay forgotten nearby. Into her ear the reassuring voice whispered, “It’s all right now. He’s gone.”

      Opening her eyes, she saw Gus Walby standing over her, his chin trembling, his eyes shining with tears. The man who held her said, “Run ahead, Mr. Walby, and ask Osmund to move Magpie from her cot. Then alert Captain Moreland of what has taken place here.”

      Gus bolted from the sail room like a whirring ball of lead. A second glance upwards revealed what Emily already knew. It was Leander who watched over her, his arms that comforted her. A wave of relief passed through her and she relaxed her head against the warmth of his body.

      11:30 a.m.

      (Forenoon Watch, Seven Bells)

      WITH THE COMPLETION of the burial service, Captain Moreland and Fly Austen trudged to the wardroom in search of a glass of wine before the other officers came in for their noon dinner. They stood, goblets in hand, by the galleried stern windows while Biscuit, who was supposed to be laying silverware on the table, buzzed around them like a horsefly, delighting in describing the meal he had prepared for them.

      “Mutton chops – just thee way ya likes ’em, soused herring from me secret store o’ pickled delicacies, cheese I bin hoardin’ since we set out from Portsmouth, butter and toast, and I’ll serve up a big pot o’ tea fer ya. And then I’ll bring in some cold pie and more wine to round things off.”

      James cast his cook a look of incredulity. “You’re draining our stores of victuals at an alarming rate, Biscuit. Do you suppose there’ll be anything left to eat when – and if – we ever arrive in Halifax?”

      “Without a doubt there will be,” said Fly, hiding a yawn, “for Biscuit either sets a feast before us or he sets out to starve us.”

      Biscuit scratched his crusty beard. “Ah, it’s to cheer yas up, Cap’n. Ya bin down o’ late.”

      James stared out the windows at the grey monotony of crested waves that rolled past the Isabelle and was reminded of the dead young men he had given to the sea an hour earlier. He would have to write to their families and break their mothers’ hearts; grapple with himself to find the words to describe their brave sons’ last heroic moments on earth. It was a task he abhorred. The truth was, their sons were victims of a senseless war, killed by guns manned by men who were in all likelihood English compatriots. The bulk of his letters would be sent to England, but some would be postmarked Ireland, Denmark, and Prussia, and one would have to find its way to Brazil.In the end, they would find their way to all of the mothers on different continents, connected by grief, weeping for their common loss. James’s chest felt heavy and his head ached. He felt an overwhelming desire to sleep. Finally he spoke again. “I should like to have a few days of blessed monotony. No battles, no punishments, and dear God, no more deaths.”

      Knowing their captain and his state of mind, Fly and Biscuit said not a word. Fly sipped his wine pensively while the room grew quiet, with only the occasional tinkling sound as Biscuit finished laying the silverware. Not five minutes later, young Walby appeared breathless outside the wardroom and snatched his navy-blue cocked hat from his blond head.

      “What’s yer business here?” demanded Biscuit, going to the door. “The cap’n and Mr. Austen is busy.”

      Gus looked watery-eyed past Biscuit to the men standing by the windows. “Captain,