Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

have no privacy here.”

      “Morgan Evans has taken her to my quarters and Fly Austen is attending her there. She can come down here when your hospital has cleared.”

      “Any idea who she might be?”

      “No, but I can assure you she’s not a common prostitute,” James said, mounting the ladder that would take him to the fo’c’sle deck.

      Intrigued, Leander returned to his gruesome tasks. Several able seamen had lead in their legs, and the sailing master would have to have his foot amputated. As always, it would be arduous extracting lead and lopping off limbs with the ship tossing from side to side.

      8:00 p.m

      (Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)

      IN THE GATHERING GLOOM James Moreland, accompanied by the ship’s carpenters, Mr. Alexander and Morgan Evans, combed every square inch of the vessel to assess the damage. The mizzenmast was a broken stump, its top half lost at sea, the weather decks were littered with piles of splinters, and the figurehead below the bowsprit had been completely blasted away. The hull had suffered a few minor blows and the bilge had taken on a good deal of seawater.

      “Can we refit at sea, gentlemen, or should we return to Bermuda?”

      “I think it best we return to port, sir,” said Mr. Alexander. He was a man of fifty years, balding, with a gentle face. “We’ll need a few days to fix her up, and with these waters swarming with enemy ships, if one were to surprise us now…”

      “We’re only a day and a half from Bermuda, sir,” added Morgan, clasping his woollen hat in both hands.

      “Your call, gentlemen.” James called out to the coxswain at the helm. “Set a course, Mr. McGilp – south by southeast. Back to Bermuda it is.”

      Lewis McGilp nodded and began cranking the ship’s wheel about. “Aye, sir, south by sou’east.”

      “Thank you, Mr. Alexander, Mr. Evans. That’ll be all.” The carpenters saluted and disappeared into the darkness. Left alone, James wandered to the ship’s bow where he rubbed his eyes, unbuttoned his blue frock coat, and dreamed of the green meadows around his Yorkshire home. Eight years ago he had officially retired from the Royal Navy. At that time, having had enough of the seas to last his lifetime, he chose to move away from the coastal regions of England. Now he longed for those expanses of green in the north of his homeland.

      England had been at war with Napoleon and France on and off since 1793, and now they had become embroiled in yet another military conflict, this one with the United States. The American president, Mr. Madison, had declared war on Britain in June of 1812, citing grievances that included the British navy’s habit of seizing American seamen and forcing them into service on their ships. But as James saw it, his navy was guilty of nothing more than searching out British deserters who had taken employment on American vessels, or fellow countrymen who had actually been pressed into the American navy. Regardless of the reasons for the animosity between the two countries, it remained that the British navy was so seriously short of officers, seamen, ships, and supplies that it could not effectively fight this new, distant war. As a result, James, at the age of sixty, when he asked for nothing more than a few years to enjoy his family, his farm, and his books, had been ordered by the Admiralty to take command once again of his old ship, the Isabelle, and to sail the western Atlantic waters, halting all enemy ships to seek out deserters and fellow countrymen alike, and to prove to the world that the mighty British navy still ruled the seas.

      James stayed near the bowsprit for some time, staring out at the black waves, listening to the Isabelle crashing through the heavy waters. The intensifying winds slapped the fore topsail above him. He looked up to the men on the foreyard and called out to them in a booming voice that rivalled that of his bosun’s mate waking the crew in the morning. “Careful, lads. We don’t want anyone falling now. The doctor has his hands quite full at the moment.”

      He was greeted with laughter and salutes.

      The quartermaster turned over the sand glass and the bell was rung four times. In the shadowy darkness, James watched his men climb down the thin ratlines from their high posts while others climbed up to begin their four-hour watch. He took a deep breath of the briny air and slowly made his way to the wardroom.

      8:00 p.m.

      (Second Dog Watch, Four Bells)

      MEG KETTLE STOMPED into the captain’s quarters in a huff. She had seen the woman pulled from the water, seen the way the crew looked at her, and heard what they were saying about her. Meg was not happy.

      Fly Austen was waiting for her in a red-velvet wing chair. Behind a sheet of sailing canvas, the woman was asleep in the captain’s cot.

      “Ah, Mrs. Kettle. Thank you for coming.”

      “I see she rates thee captain’s bed,” Meg hissed.

      “There was no other place to put her. The hospital is overflowing.”

      “If ’twere me, I doubt ya’d be puttin’ me to bed in thee captain’s cot. In thee hold with thee shingle and barrels of grog would be more like it.”

      Fly glanced over the woman’s form. She had a massive bosom and hips as wide as the ship. Her greying hair was pulled severely from her meaty face and there wasn’t an ounce of charm in her thick features.

      His reply was not immediate. “Well now, Mrs. Kettle, the captain has ordered that a bath be prepared for our guest.”

      “A bath? We ain’t in a fancy London hotel.”

      “We can spare her a bit of our fresh water,” Fly said firmly.

      “Thee lads on this ship ’ave to wash in saltwater.”

      Feeling impatient with the woman, Fly stood up. “We replenished some of our stores of freshwater recently in Bermuda, Mrs. Kettle. Freshwater will do.”

      Mrs. Kettle grunted as she folded her arms over her breasts.

      “And then there’s the matter of clothes,” Fly continued, unable to meet her cold eyes. “She’ll need a nightdress. Could you find something for her?”

      “I only ’ave one and I ain’t givin’ it to her just ’cause she’s some fancy lady.”

      “Could you maybe sew something together for her?”

      “I cleans thee clothes, I don’t make ’em.”

      “Very well then. I’ll ask Magpie to take on the job.”

      “Magpie? He sews sails!”

      “Aye, and he’s very good with a needle. I’m sure he could sew together a bit of flannel for her.”

      Mrs. Kettle snorted like a hog.

      “Well, see to the bath, please.”

      “And will ya be hangin’ ’round while she bathes?”

      “The bath, if you please, Mrs. Kettle.”

      There was a knock at the door.

      Fly opened it, putting his finger to his lips.

      The officers’ cook tiptoed in with a tray. He had a shock of orange hair, and one eye that was askew as a result of a fall from a yardarm years ago. Although he did possess a proper Scottish name, no one could remember it, or ever bothered to ask; instead, he was simply addressed as Biscuit by officers and seamen alike.

      Upon seeing the tray, Mrs. Kettle rolled her eyes. “Oh, nice, and we’re served supper in bed as well.”

      “That will be all, Mrs. Kettle,” said Fly, showing her the door.

      She waddled out, muttering to herself.

      “I have a bit o’ porridge for thee dear lass, sir,” said Biscuit, setting down his tray and trying to steal a peek through the canvas. “And some of me best biscuits.”

      “They’re