LITMIR.BIZ

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Dr. Braden a crutch and an admonition against over-exerting himself, and left his hospital cot to resume his duties. There was much to discuss, as the Isabelle would be leaving Bermuda later that day.

      Jerking his head up, James squinted into the sun to search the decks within his sight. “I cannot see her anywhere, Mr. Lindsay.”

      “She’s standing with Gus Walby and Magpie – of all people – by the fore ladders.”

      James looked again. “I see Mr. Walby and young Magpie, but by the stars, I see no woman dressed in a corselet and chemise.”

      Octavius compressed his lips in annoyance. “Sir, the Admiralty clearly states that no woman, be she an officer’s wife or a cook, appear above deck while at sea.”

      “I’m well versed in navy rules, thank you. Need I remind you we are anchored in port?”

      The first lieutenant pointed towards the mainmast’s yardarm. “See how the men pause in their chores to watch her.”

      James and Mr. Harding both looked up, shading their eyes from the bright sun.

      “They are doing a fine job keeping their eyes in their heads and on their tasks,” Mr. Harding said, shifting his weight about.

      “Which is more than I can say for you, Mr. Lindsay.” James stared at him long and hard until Octavius looked away.

      “Sir! The men don’t have to look at Meg Kettle in the darkness of their cots. We are not all true gentlemen here.”

      Aware of the men toiling nearby, James dropped his voice. “We may have beggars and thieves from Newgate prison on board, but as far as I know there are only honourable men among us.”

      “Captain Moreland, I fear … I fear you are growing soft.” No sooner had he uttered the words than Octavius regretted them, as he watched James’s face change colour.

      “Mr. Lindsay,” James hissed through his teeth, “I will not make a scene here. Meet me in the wardroom at two bells.”

      Octavius opened his mouth, but said no more. He saluted and swiftly strode off.

      Mr. Harding waited until James’s complexion had regained its normal pallor. “Forgive me, sir … that young man … I know you’re well acquainted with his father, but that bold tongue of his deserves a flogging.”

      “Like his father, Mr. Lindsay is hotheaded and impulsive.” James’s glance locked on the young sailor who limped alongside Magpie and Gus Walby. “But he is right.”

      “How so, sir?”

      “I am growing soft.”

      * * *

      ONCE GUS HAD HELPED Emily negotiate the ladder to the fo’c’sle deck, he apologized to her. “My lesson with Mr. Austen begins shortly. I must leave you here. But you’ll be quite safe with Magpie.” His eyes brightened. “Today we’re studying the signal flags and communications at sea. It’s my most favourite subject of all.”

      “Then you must go. I’m not concerned for my safety, although I had my doubts trying to get out of the doctor’s hammock.” She gave a satisfied glance around the ship. “Just tell me, is there a quiet place where I may sit with Magpie and enjoy this fresh air?”

      “Aye, on the poop deck. You’ll find it quiet there this time of day. Unfortunately, it’s at the very back of the ship and it will mean more ladders to climb. The quarterdeck is closer, but if you’re caught loitering there, you’ll most likely be ordered to ‘shove off,’ as only officers and midshipmen may stroll there during their leisure hours. Shall I escort you to the poop deck before I go to class?”

      “Thank you, I’ll manage with Mr. Magpie.”

      Hobbling along the fo’c’sle deck with her walking cane, Emily drew no stares. The doctor’s straw hat hid her long, fair hair, and the baggy trousers and waist-length jacket Magpie had fashioned for her disguised her female form. She had supposed her blue silk shoes would be a dead giveaway, but no one seemed interested in her feet. Moreover, Gus had assured her that several of the men were new to the Isabelle, and thus many faces were still foreign to one another.

      As if reading her thoughts, Magpie piped up, “Ya’ll get away with it today, ma’am, but tonight at supper they’ll be askin’ me the name of the sailor I was walkin’ with at noon.”

      “Do you not get leisure time?”

      “Aye, but they don’t usually see the likes of Magpie up on the poop deck.”

      “In that case, let’s just sit here.”

      Emily and Magpie perched themselves upon two overturned barrels alongside the starboard railing of the ship’s waist, and there fell quiet to appreciate the scenes around them. The decks were teeming with sailors – toiling, talking, taking leisure – reminding Emily of a busy street in London minus the coiffed ladies in their bonnets and redingotes. High on the yardarms, the men stood precariously on their footropes, letting down the sails in preparation for their return to the sea. Those on the mast platforms watched the empty horizons for enemy sails. They were like birds in a mountain nest, isolated and free. She longed to be up there with them and determined she would be once her ankle and shoulder had healed.

      Following Magpie’s gaze out over the square, stone buildings in the dockyard and the low, mossy-green hills of Ireland Island, Emily noticed there was only one other ship in port beyond the Isabelle, a small two-masted vessel with an unusually bright red hull. HMS Amethyst and the three East India merchantmen, of which she’d overheard Dr. Braden speaking to Mr. Harding in the hospital earlier, must have departed, she thought. Emily had hoped to catch a glimpse of the Amethyst’s Captain Prickett and First Lieutenant Bridlington, as their manners and fondness for the Isabelle’s food had apparently provided Captain Moreland with a good amount of entertainment.

      Pulling her eyes away from the thickets of mangrove and hedges of oleander that lay beyond the naval buildings, Emily was surprised to find Magpie studying her face with interest, much as Captain Moreland and Fly Austen had the night of their interrogation. Quickly he looked away, furtively slipping a gilded object into his trousers pocket, and turning his attention to the stretch of new canvas that whispered above his head.

      “What is that you have there?” Emily asked, referring to her tantalizing glimpse of gold.

      “Aw, it ain’t nothing,” said Magpie, still looking at the sail. He pointed upwards. “Ain’t she a beauty, ma’am? I sewed her meself.”

      “Yes,” Emily said absently. It was her turn to study him. His eyes were almond-shaped, fringed with long black lashes, and his dark curls blew with abandon in the warm breeze. His little fingers were stained black and his leather shoes had lost their heels, but his trousers, shirt, and red necktie were all clean, and the stitches around the patches were neat and even. There was a catch in her throat as she asked, “Where did you live before joining the navy, Magpie?”

      “In London, ma’am. I was a chummy, a climbin’ boy.”

      “A climbing boy? Do you mean you cleaned chimneys?”

      “That I did. Still can’t get the soot out o’ me nails.”

      “What a horrible time you must have had.”

      “Oh, aye, and I had a mean boss – Mr. Hardy was his name. He stood around eatin’ meat pasties while I climbed the dark flues. And if I didn’t wanna go up, he’d prick me feet with a pin. I’ve burns on me legs and arms, and me lungs don’t take kindly to colds.”

      “How did you ever escape Mr. Hardy?”

      “I didn’t jump out o’ no windows, ma’am,” he said with an impish grin. “Nay, I was climbin’ at a big house one day and I had a fall. Bruised meself badly. The man o’ the house was kind enough to give me water and let me rest awhile on his couch. He gave Mr. Hardy a terrible tongue lashin’ on account o’ me bad treatment, and ordered Mr. Hardy to leave his house

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