Come Looking For Me (3 page)

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 not full of maggots, are they?”

“Not at all, sir. These are some of me finest … reserved only for thee captain and his officers, and for lovely lassies pulled from thee rollin' waves.”

Fly laughed. “I must admit, when they're not full of maggots and weevils, your sea biscuits are very good, very good indeed.”

“It's thee pinch o' sugar and shot o' rum I puts in 'em, but don't tell no one.” Biscuit tried for another look at their guest. “And I brought her a cup o' grog. Should bring her round.”

“That's very kind of you, Biscuit.”

“Oh, and sir, there won't be no milk in thee coffee tonight.”

“And why not?”

“We lost our goat today. Poor Lizzie. Her legs were clean shorn away by Yankee grapeshot and I had to pitch her into thee drink.” Biscuit lingered, hoping Commander Austen was in a talkative mood.

“She's not going anywhere, Biscuit. You'll see her soon enough.”

“Right then, sir, let me know if she needs anythin' else.”

“Some of your best wine wouldn't go amiss.”

Biscuit saluted and slipped through the door.

* * *

AN HOUR LATER, Dr. Braden came to the captain's cabin carrying his black medical chest. Fly, with a glass of wine in his hand, greeted him at the door with a bow.

“Is that allowed when you're on active duty, Mr. Austen?”

“Probably not, but there's been no sign of James for hours. It seems he's turned his quarters over to our lady.”

Leander Braden angled his head towards the washtub in the corner of the room. It contained a few inches of green, brackish water. “Is the tub for her or you?”

“Her, of course, although Mrs. Kettle did make a fuss about having to lug it up here.”

“I am sure she would have.”

“You've changed your shirt, Doctor,” said Fly. “The last time I saw you … you were covered in gore from head to toe.”

Leander reddened and moved in through the canvas to stare down at the lady's pale, sleeping face. “Do you know the extent of her injuries, Fly?”

“James gave me strict orders not to touch her. However, it appears she's broken her ankle and has a ball of lead in her shoulder.”

“I cannot examine her in the cot. Help me move the desk in here.”

Swiftly the two men cleared James's desk of his maps and papers, and then pushed it behind the canvas. As they eased their guest out of the cot and onto the desk's hard surface, Emily opened her eyes with a start.

“Fly, if I'm to operate, I'll need some sand on the floor – the sea's a bit rough.”

“Right away, Doctor.”

“And if you could send word to Mrs. Kettle telling her I require her assistance here.”

With a grin, Fly saluted his friend and set out on his mission.

Emily's dark brown eyes watched the doctor. Despite her condition, she noted that his auburn hair was thick and wavy, and that he wore his sideburns long on his handsome face. Behind his round spectacles, his eyes were intelligent and as blue as the sea.

“Do you have a name?” he asked.

“Emily,” she answered weakly. “And you?”

“Leander Braden, ma'am. I'm the ship's physician. We have only one other woman on board … Meg Kettle is her name. I'll need her to help you undress. I'm afraid you've taken some lead in your shoulder and I must get it out as quickly as I can. While we wait for her, may I begin cleaning your wounds?”

Emily nodded and watched as he dipped a cloth into the cold water of her bathtub and wrung it out.

“It looks like you scratched yourself badly on some glass.”

She didn't answer him. Instead, she winced and looked away while he cleaned and dressed the cuts on her hands.

Fly soon returned with sand for the floor. His eyes immediately fell upon Emily.

“This is Commander Francis Austen, Emily,” said Dr. Braden. “However, we all call him Fly, being he's as annoying as the common housefly.”

Emily was too exhausted to return their cheerful smiles.

Mrs. Kettle came huffing and puffing into the room. “Let's get this over, Doctor. I 'ave me chores to do.”

The men exchanged knowing glances.

“Mrs. Kettle, I must examine Emily's ankle and shoulder. Her jacket must be removed as well as her stockings.”

Mrs. Kettle rolled her eyes and planted her puffy hands on her wide hips. “It ain't in me duties to be undressin' young ladies for yer examination.”

“Since you are the only other woman on this ship, I have no other alternative.”

Mrs. Kettle yanked the canvas shut behind her. “Off with yer clothes. The doctor needs to be lookin' at ya.” She pulled at Emily's blue velvet spencer-jacket, causing her to cry out in pain.

“Careful, Mrs. Kettle, please. She is grievously injured,” Leander called out, wishing he had given more thought to the wisdom in summoning the laundress in the first place.

“I wonder if she's that gentle with the men in her cot,” whispered Fly.

Leander looked disapprovingly at his friend over his spectacles.

“Right then, Doctor, she's ready fer ya,” said Mrs. Kettle, coming from behind the canvas curtain.

“Thank you for sharing your invaluable time.”

“S'pose I didn't 'ave a choice now, did I?” She opened the door. “Make sure ya check her female parts.”

Dr. Braden raised his eyebrows.

“If she's been roamin' thee seas with Yankee sailors she's likely with child. And if she hurled herself overboard, she likely didn't fancy thee father.”

“Lobscouse, sir.” Biscuit plunked down a pot of unsavoury-looking stew in the middle of the table. “Ya'll be lucky to get anythin' tonight, Lord Lindsay. Think of yer buddies we gave up to thee sea this afternoon.”

“It's all part of the service,” Octavius retorted. “I wouldn't be surprised we throw your old bones overboard before this war ends.”

“And what would ya do without yer old cook to boil yer porridge for ya and serve up yer rations of grog, eh?”

“Aye, you have a good point there, Biscuit,” said Fly Austen. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed as a result of his previous partaking of spirits in the captain's cabin. “Do try to stay clear of enemy fire.”

“If they come after old Biscuit, I'll cut 'em up with me cutlass.”

“That's if you can see them coming,” snorted Mr. Spooner, the stout purser.

“I'll have me one eye lookin' at 'im and me other lookin' for 'im,” said Biscuit, dishing up the mixture of salted meat, potatoes, biscuit bits, onions, and pepper.

The men laughed, then rushed to guzzle a glass of wine before having to taste Biscuit's supper.

James mentally counted his dinner guests. There were only six seated around the mess table; normally there were eight who dined together. “I know our sailing master, Mr. Harding, having lost his foot, is recuperating in the hospital, but where is our doctor? Still at work?”

“Operating on our lady's shoulder in your cabin, sir,” said Fly, passing the wine to Mr. Spooner.

“You gentlemen begin without me.” James pushed back his chair and stood up. “Biscuit, while I'm gone, replenish the decanters.”

He walked up one deck to his quarters, now a makeshift operating room, and quietly stepped inside. Osmund Brockley, whose large tongue hung out of his mouth as he beheld Emily's bare shoulders, was pinning her arms to her sides. Leander swabbed the gaping hole in her right shoulder and picked up a large prong-like instrument.

“James, would you mind giving Emily the rope?”

“Have you given her anything to dull the pain, Lee?” James whispered, feeling very warm all of a sudden.

“Laudanum and rum.”

Emily readily accepted the piece of rope from James and bit down on it as hard as she could. Tears of agony streamed from her dark eyes as the doctor entered her wound in search of the lead. Her body tensed as she endured the pain. Osmund grunted as he tightened his hold on her.

“There now, I've got it,” Leander said, triumphantly holding up the offending ball. “We'll just clean and bandage you up and let you get back to sleep.”

Emily smiled wanly before closing her eyes.

James waited until Leander was done before motioning him into a corner of the room.

“Now that you've looked her over, what's the word?”

“She has a broken left ankle, and severe cuts on both hands. She's dehydrated and half starved. Her bullet wound, however, should heal up nicely.”

James pursed his lips as he listened. “Well, dinner is on the table in the wardroom. It looks quite unpalatable, but you should take time for some refreshment.”

“I don't dare leave her alone with Osmund. He's been making very strange sounds. There's no telling what that man might do.”

“Yes, quite. I don't like the look of him.” James scratched his head. “Should we ask Mrs. Kettle to sit with her?

“Heavens, no,” said Leander. “Given the chance, she'd toss our guest overboard.”

“In that case, would you allow me to call up Gus Walby?”

“By all means! Young Walby's a most trustworthy fellow.”

James hesitated a moment, then gave Leander a sheepish grin. “But first, let us have her removed at once to your hospital. I'm afraid I would not be setting a good example to the men if she were to stay alone with me in my cabin.”

Above deck, despite the sadness of the day and the repair work that had to be done, James allowed those hands who hadn't rushed to their beds in exhaustion to gather as usual for a bit of entertainment. Biscuit played his fiddle and the young sail maker, Magpie, his flute. The men clapped and cheered as Morgan Evans hopped up on an overturned crate to lead them in singing an ode to grog:

While up the shrouds the sailor goes,

Or ventures on the yard,

The landsman, who no better knows

Believes his lot is hard,

But Jack with smiles each danger meets,