hear a whistle blowing above deck, and beyond the gunports the squawk of the seagulls. A flush crept up her neck.
An enormous shirtless fellow with a squashed-in nose and peg leg spun around on his bucket to look her up and down. “Nice shoes, sailor,” he shouted, causing his mates to erupt into laughter. From behind the heckler, Morgan Evans’s face appeared.
“You’re speaking to a midshipman, Jacko. I didn’t see ya salute.”
“A mid?” Jacko’s thick features displayed shock. “I ain’t never seen a mid wearin’ blue silk shoes.”
“It’s Mr. George.” Morgan gave Emily a respectful nod. “Sir.”
“Ah, Mr. George, come ’ave a drink with us.” Jacko raised a hammy arm to her.
There was more laughter and muttered remarks. It was impossible for Emily to respond as her throat had gone dry. She stood there like a gaping idiot, uncertain of what to do. Then behind her came a familiar reek, and a clap on the back that would have sent her sprawling across the floor had Jacko not caught her with one of his huge hands.
“Come sit a while, Mr. George, sir,” said Biscuit, steering her towards Morgan’s table. “These lads here – thee ones admirin’ yer shoes – just happen to be me messmates. Shove over lads so our friend can join us.” Biscuit pushed Emily down hard on the bench, compressing her between Morgan and Jacko, then, finding a space for himself across the table from them, he snapped his fingers at the nearest servant lad. “You there, boyo, fetch me two mugs o’ beer.”
Gradually the noise in the mess resumed as the men returned to their various amusements. Emily sat frozen between Jacko’s sweaty bare flesh and Morgan, who had quietly pulled his woollen sock off his head, while eight pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed themselves on her reddened face.
“Mr. George’s been in thee hospital these past days and hasn’t had a drop to drink ’cause – as we all know – Doc Braden don’t allow spirits in his domain.” Biscuit took the mugs from the hovering servant boy and handed one to Emily. “Now, drink up, young lad. This stuff is sure to put hair on yer chest.” He winked his good eye at her.
Emily sipped the horrid, watery stuff, forcing herself to swallow it rather than spit it all over Jacko, as she would have liked to do. Morgan leaned his right arm on the table and cradled his head on his upturned hand to look at her. “There’s no fear of you getting drunk if you’re going to drink your beer that way.”
“Mr. George,” said Jacko, showing her two rows of green teeth, “ya look like a regular fop in them shoes. Don’t want the other lads thinkin’ yer a bit of a Beau Brummel now, do ya? They may get the wrong idea about ya. Now, seein’ as I’m the shoemaker here on the Isabelle, how be I knock ya up a pair o’ sensible black leathers? And if yer agreeable to partin’ with a couple o’ pounds, I can arrange to put silver buckles on ’em.”
Finally Emily found her voice, though it was a good deal softer than she would have liked. “I’m afraid I have no money.” She took another sip of beer, this time a larger one, and grimaced as it went down. It tasted as if it had been brewed with Biscuit’s bath water.
The men roared.“You! A mid! Wearing silk shoes, and ya say ya ’ave no money?”
“Young fella like you must ’ave a rich family.”
“Don’t tell me they sent ya to sea without a shillin’ to yer name?”
Emily gulped down more beer and confirmed the sailors’ remarks with a nod of her head.
“But lads, ain’t Mr. George a pretty boy?” said Biscuit, raising his beer mug. “Maybe he could earn his silver buckles. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Jacko here’s fond o’ pretty boys such as yerself,” said a sailor with a swarthy complexion and bloodshot eyes.
“Mind ya’d have to keep it quiet from thee cap’n,” said Biscuit. “Cap’n Moreland don’t stand fer no mischief. If he catches ya, he’ll have ya strung up on thee yardarm.”
Morgan watched the colour drain from Emily’s face. “Pay them no heed, Mr. George.” He smacked her playfully on her right shoulder. An agony of pain tore through her body and she doubled over, but rather than cry out she hid in her beer mug and choked down the contents.
“You there, boyo.” Biscuit snapped his fingers again at the servant boy who stood nearby. “More beer fer our friend here.”
When Emily’s pain subsided and she’d caught her breath, she set down her drink and glanced up to find Dr. Braden standing over the mess table.
“Doc, what brings ya to this part o’ thee world?” asked Biscuit, his bad eye rolling in his orange head.
Dr. Braden slid his spectacles down his nose and gazed upon Emily with a look of incredulity. All eight of the sailors stared at her as she sank lower on the bench, trying to disappear behind Jacko’s mountain of flesh. “I’ve come to fetch an errant patient of mine,” he said coolly.
“Ah, but as Mr. George here’s off duty, he was gonna have another beer with us,” said Biscuit.
Dr. Braden frowned and looked around the table at each of the men. “Mr. George?”
Jacko put his slippery arm around Emily. “I’m gonna make ’im a new pair o’ black leathers so he won’t look such a fop in them silk shoes.”
Leander’s face relaxed. “Oh, I see. Mr. George. You threw me off, gentlemen, since I know Mr. George by another name.”
Emily opened her mouth to explain herself and instead emitted a magnificent burp. The men crowded around her rocked with convulsive laughter.
Morgan grinned. “We’ll have him toughened up in no time, Doc.” In disgrace, Emily pulled the rim of her straw hat down over her eyes.
Above deck, the bell rang out and a shout was issued. “All hands, sails aloft.”
The men swilled their drinks, gathered their cards, quit their benches, buckets, and sea chests, and hurried towards the nearest hatches. While Emily watched in remorse as they scattered, she noticed Mr. Lindsay, the young officer with the challenging stare, standing rigidly to one side of the door through which she had entered the mess, his beady black eyes locked on her. She shuddered.
“We’ll be leaving Bermuda, sir,” said Morgan to Dr. Braden. Then to Emily, “Come have a beer with us lads again tomorrow, Mr. George, sir.” He put a fist to his woollen hat in salute. Emily sat there, red-faced, and said nothing.
When the mess had almost cleared, Biscuit turned to Dr. Braden. “Seein’ as his ankle’s troublesome, shall I carry him back to thee hospital fer ya, Doc?”
From under her hat Emily ventured a peek up at Leander and saw his jaw working. In her woozy state, she could not be sure whether it was a flash of anger or twinkle of enjoyment she detected in his sea-blue eyes. Pushing herself up from the bench with the aid of her walking stick, she answered for herself. “Certainly not, Biscuit. Just … just lead the way, if you please.”
7:30 p.m.
(Second Dog Watch, Three Bells)
“ARE YA AWAKE, MISS?”
Against the dim light of the hospital lanterns, Emily could see the silhouette of Osmund Brockley, standing outside her curtain, holding her supper in his hands.
“I am, Mr. Brockley. Come in.”
He stooped low as he passed through the canvas, carefully cradling her bowl of jellied green soup. “Biscuit sends the pea soup with his compliments and wants ya to know he made a special pudding fer yer dessert.”
“How kind of him,” Emily said, inching her body up against her pillow. “I didn’t hear the supper bell.”
Osmund pulled a wooden spoon from his pocket, wiped it off on his apron, and dropped it into the bowl before handing it off to Emily.