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?”
“We’re to escort those three East India merchant vessels you saw anchored in the harbour on a round trip from Portsmouth to Bermuda to Halifax and finally on to Quebec.” Captain Prickett snapped his fingers at a young servant boy standing quietly behind the first lieutenant’s chair. “You there … a piece of that cake wouldn’t go amiss.”
The servant boy jumped to do his bidding.
“What do the merchant vessels carry?” asked James.
As Captain Prickett’s mouth was soon full of cake, Mr. Bridlington answered for him, his eyes, once again, turned to the ceiling. “Supplies of all kinds: livestock, tools, munitions, troops … they even carry passengers bound for Upper and Lower Canada. Hardy fools, I say, leaving England at a time like this.” He made a sucking sound with his red lips.
“So you’ve seen no one on your travels?”
“Aye, we did stop for a visit with the captain of the Expedition a few days out from Portsmouth. Captain Uptergrove was his name …”
“William Uptergrove!” James’s tired features sprang to life. “I served with him at St. Vincent. And he’s still commanding the Expedition? Why, he’s as old a relic as I am! And where had old Uptergrove been?”
“On a re-supplying mission to our interests in the Caribbean. He was able to provide us with the only war information gathered thus far.” Captain Prickett shovelled another bite of cake into his mouth. “According to Uptergrove, we’re not making much of an impact over here. Why, we’ve only eleven ships-of-the-line and thirty-four frigates trying to accomplish a variety of tasks: protecting the St. Lawrence, blockading American ports, escorting British merchant ships, hunting down enemy frigates – to name a few.
“Furthermore,” said Captain Prickett, spraying bits of cake onto the oak table, “it is believed that up to ten per cent of the United States Navy consists of men of British origin. The question is: are they deserters or were they pressed into the service by the Americans?”
Mr. Bridlington clasped his delicate hands under his chin. “We’re not faring much better on land. The number of our regulars is very low indeed. We are forced to fight alongside Indians. Quite frightening, really!”
Captain Prickett wiped his whiskered mouth with a napkin and examined the plates of unfinished food set before him. “We must soon finish our business with Old Boney; otherwise, this Yankee campaign will be our undoing.”
Biscuit came into the cabin with the silver coffee pot.
“Ah, coffee would be nice. And I’ll have more beef and potatoes. Your beans are quite good too, Moreland. We won’t be seeing fresh vegetables again for a time.”
Amusement registered in James’s faded blue eyes.
“The day before we met with Captain Uptergrove, his Expedition had come upon a most mournful scene,” said Mr. Bridlington. He dropped four teaspoonfuls of sugar into his coffee cup before casting his gaze upwards. “A British merchant ship robbed and its hull beaten to a pulp most dreadfully before being burned about fifty miles southeast of Halifax. It was sinking when the Expedition first spotted it in a telescope and Uptergrove said there was a terrible carnage drifting on the water.”
James straightened in his chair. “And its crew? Were there any survivors?”
“By the time Uptergrove arrived on the scene, a good number were floating lifelessly on the water,” said Prickett, his face now flushed with good food and wine. “He was, however, able to rescue a babbling old woman, a wounded young man whose injuries had rendered him unconscious, and a child.”
“That’s all?” asked Captain Moreland. “Could the old woman provide Mr. Uptergrove with any information?”
“Apparently she had quite lost her wits. Uptergrove could only glean that they’d been bound for Upper Canada and that it’d been an American ship that had struck them before dawn.”
James became irate. “If she was a merchant ship, why the devil was she destroyed by an American warship? Stealing her crew and cargo I can understand, but such barbaric destruction I cannot.”
“Quite a mystery, isn’t it?” said Mr. Bridlington, shaking his thin face.
“How many weeks back did this occur, gentlemen?”
“Four perhaps,” said Captain Prickett, just then discharging a tremendous fart. “Good Heavens, excuse me, gentlemen. It must have been that exquisite cut of beef.”
Mr. Bridlington giggled. But James took no notice. He leaned back thoughtfully in his red-velvet chair and studied the rich colour of his wine.
4
Sunday, June 6
9:00 a.m.
(Forenoon