Come Looking For Me (35 page)

Magpie had grown weary of the women in their tight-fitting gowns, petting him on the head as if he were a puppy, or pushing him aside, and the strangers with purple noses and stale breath, shoving their queer faces into his, demanding to know how he'd come to lose an eye. More than anything, he wished to return to Prosper's brig to check on Gus and crawl into the little cot beside his. The problem was, Prosper, having been intrigued by all the talk of the booty Trevelyan was alleged to have stolen from the
Isabelle
before setting her afire, insisted on getting a look at the man firsthand before making his way back to their cutter.

Magpie sat in the front window of a red-brick tavern off a cobblestone alley near the wharves, listening as Prosper talked with a woman whose breasts were more awe-inspiring than Mrs. Kettle's. Their other crewmen had spread out to take their refreshments in opposite corners of the establishment so they could eavesdrop on the rum-soaked sailors who raised their tankards and voices in conversation and contention at their heavy square tables. Magpie's tired eye wandered around the room. Candle and lantern light danced upon the sailors' faces. Some played at cards, some drank sullenly, while others squealed with mirth as they pinched the bottoms of the female servers or pulled them down onto their laps for a kiss and a cuddle. The arched fireplaces that dominated the room lay empty. It was still so humid at this late hour that no additional warmth was required.The room reeked, filled with a pungent mixture of sweat, liquor, and brine, and Magpie was thankful for the open window next to him and the light rain that fell on the cobbled streets.

A server stopped at their table to refresh Prosper's tankard.

“Just warnin' ya, sir, we won't be servin' much longer.”

“Fine!” Prosper smiled, lifting his ruddy face from his companion's heaving bosom. “Then I won't be drinkin' much longer.” He flipped a silver coin at Magpie. “Get lost fer a bit, ya wee jackanapes. Go git me somethin' worth eatin'.” Magpie was happy to leave, not wishing to know the nature of the pranks Prosper and the woman were playing at beneath the oak table.

It was a long time before anyone paid him any heed at the bar. He was about to give up when a young black girl, busy stirring something in a steaming copper pot on a stew stove, turned her dulled eyes upon his coin.

“Ya won't git much fer that,” she said, wiping her damp brow before handing him a small loaf of bread. Magpie shrugged and stepped away from the bar with Prosper's meal – only to find a giant of a man blocking his way. He seemed to tower up to the tavern's ceiling. He was hatless, his hair the colour of harvested straw, and on his thin frame he wore a rain cloak that dripped streamlets upon the tavern's flagstone floor. In his large, scarred hands he held a mug of ale, and sharing a drink with him was another man, dressed in white breeches and polished Hessian boots. The two men were engrossed in a conversation and had no idea they had pinned Magpie to the bar. Knowing Prosper would be impatient for his supper, Magpie made an attempt to skirt around the tall man, but the moment he glimpsed the face that belonged to those breeches and boots, his eye nearly popped out of his bandaged head. Thinking his knees would buckle beneath him, he cowered against the oak bar and quivered like a mouse cornered by a cat, with no alternative but to listen to their exchange.

“Sir, when your business is done here in Charleston, where will you go next? Have you been issued new orders?”

“No, I have not. But even if I had been, I would not heed them. I am setting my own course now.” He raised his mug. “After all, with my recent success, I do not expect my actions to be questioned by Secretary Jones.”

“In what direction shall we be sailing, sir?”

“North. I plan to seek out the Duke of Clarence. My spies tell me that the minute he received word his niece had been taken prisoner after the sinking of the
Amelia,
he asked permission from his brother, the regent, and Lord Liverpool to put to sea with a few escorts and undertake a mission to rescue her himself.” The tall man gave a low snigger. “How very
admirable.”

“Will we head to Halifax then, sir?”

“Perhaps, or we just might be lucky and find the old boy patrolling the waters around Bermuda.”

“Sir, your prisoner … might I be so bold as to ask what you plan to do with her?”

The tall man gulped down his drink and wiped his mouth on the damp sleeve of his cloak. “You will know of my plans soon enough. For now, know this: so long as she is imprisoned upon the
Serendipity,
I have … insurance.”

“I am pleased for you, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lindsay. You have served me well.”

“It was and
is
an honour to serve you, Captain Trevelyan.”

Captain Trevelyan?

Hearing the name, Magpie gasped as if he'd been struck with a ramrod. That was it! He could linger there no longer. Reaching out blindly, he pushed past the two men, but in a flash Trevelyan's dark eyes were on him. He raised his arm and shoved Magpie backwards, causing him to lose his balance and trip over Mr. Lindsay's feet.

“Damnable foundling,” said Octavius, inspecting his boots as if checking for scuffs.

The minute Mr. Lindsay's eyes beheld Magpie, tremors of surprise ruffled his pimply countenance, but when he had quite recovered from shock, he seized Magpie by the shirt collar. “How the
devil
did you come to this place? Who brought you here?” His suspicious glance roamed the crowded room.

Trevelyan raised an eyebrow and hunched over to glower at Magpie, droplets from his cloak soaking into Prosper's loaf of bread. Magpie was too terrified to answer, his mind now busy imagining that Mr. Lindsay would march him down a lonely back alleyway and fix thumbscrews to his private parts to make him talk. His only hope was that Prosper would pull his face out of that woman's bosom long enough to see that he needed saving.

“This worthless mongrel was the
Isabelle's
sail maker, sir,” said Mr. Lindsay, tightening his hold on Magpie's shirt.

Magpie thought he was going to be ill.

Trevelyan was as serene as if he were greeting a friend. “Well, then, Mr. Lindsay, we must bring him back to the
Serendipity.
If we seize him up to the shrouds, he might have a few tales worth hearing.”

“Or we could treat him to a miscreant midshipman's caning, sir.”

“Better still, we could feed his fingers to the local alligators.”

Up came Magpie's stomach, his colourful, half-digested supper of oyster stew, corn pone, and plums spewed forth, splattering all over Captain Trevelyan's cloak and Mr. Lindsay's shiny boots. Both men jumped back in annoyance, knocking over a server and her liquor-laden tray. As tin and pewter connected with the floor's flags, shrieks of surprise and dismay rent the tavern air. In the chaotic din that ensued, Magpie recognized Prosper's provocative roar.

“Ya wee jackanapes, run fer it
now!”

Dumping the sodden loaf of bread into the putrid puddle frothing on the floor, Magpie scratched and clawed his way through the smelly tangle of sailors and flew like grapeshot towards the tavern's front door.

“Stop that foundling!” shouted Trevelyan behind him.

“Don't let that mongrel escape!”

“There he is! Grab hold of him!”

As he fled for his life, his terror turned his mind to mush; still, up ahead, he was able to distinguish Prosper Burgo in the mob. As if it were commonplace for Magpie to have enemy soldiers upon his heels, Prosper sat sedately at his table, one arm draped around his companion's voluptuous shoulders, his head wobbling about on his scrawny neck, his back teeth now well-afloat. Fearing he was on his own, Magpie fixed his eye on the opening tavern door as he dodged grasping hands and leapt over legs meant to trip him up. And as he bolted past Prosper, he was certain he heard him say, “I'll follow ya when thee way be clear.”

“Was that cannon-fire, Mr. Baker?”

“It were only a clap o' thunder. And it's
Pemberton.
We don't much stand on formalities round here.”

“But are you quite certain? It was so loud!”

“Common thing in these parts … thunderclaps.”

“Is Magpie back?”

“Nay! Whisht now and go to sleep.”

Alarmed, Gus lifted his head from his pillow. “Shouldn't he be back by now? What time is it?”

“Close to two bells in thee Middle Watch.”

“You don't think anything has happened, do you?”

“Nay! Yer friend's as safe with Prosper Burgo as with God.” Pemberton returned to his whittling. “Sleep now. Thee more sleepin' ya do, thee sooner ya'll be leavin' yer cot.”

“Why aren't
you
in bed, Mr. … Pemberton?”

Another rumble of thunder rattled the brig's timbers. Pemberton studied his knife. “Not sleepy. But I'll be goin' soon; me bed's over yonder. You whisht now.”

Gus closed his eyes and tried to summon slumber, but the thunder frightened him, booming all around as if the
Prosperous and Remarkable
were under siege. He turned his head to watch Pemberton work, digging and paring away at his chunk of wood, the tiny shavings falling like crumbs onto the bent knees of his beige trousers. Then, raising his eyes to Pemberton's wide, blank face, he whispered, “Would you stay awhile and talk to me? I should like to hear what became of the
Isabelle.”

With a pounding heart, Leander wandered to the part of the ship where Emily was housed. Flashes of lightning revealed the area around her cabin to be clear; no one stood guard there now. Nevertheless, in the event he was stopped and questioned, he had invented an excuse and, for insurance, brought his medical chest along. As he neared his destination, he strode past two sailors who were busy clearing the upper deck of the filth and clutter from the night's carousing. Both of them nodded in his direction, nothing on their worn-out features indicating they thought it amiss that the British doctor should be wandering near the great cabin in the middle of the night.

Leander studied the closed doors before him. Rattling snores filled the air, though he could not pinpoint their origin, as the walls of the cabins were nothing more than flimsy sheets of canvas stretched upon frames of wood. Thanks to information provided by one of his patients, Leander now knew where it was that Emily lay, and twice now he had spied young Charlie Clive coming out of her cabin, carrying a tray. He moved towards her door and quietly set his medical chest on the floor by his feet. Then, reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the package of bread and meat that Joe Norlan had kindly brought back for him from town. He knocked once and took a step backwards to listen. Inside her cabin there was movement – of that he was certain – but to his dismay the snoring suddenly stopped. Had his knock awakened a nearby officer? Hardly daring to breathe, he waited, but when nothing happened, he grew restless.

“Emily?” he whispered into the night. “Emily, it's me.”

The long-awaited reply – one word mumbled in a sleepy voice – caused him both joy and physical pain.

“Doctor?”

Faint with excitement, he called out again. “I'm right here at your door. I've – I've brought you some food.”

“Why, Doctor, was ya lookin' fer me?”

Whirling about, Leander came face to face with Meg Kettle. She stood there, one hand on her prodigious hips, the other rumpling her untidy hair, a jubilant expression pressed upon her fat cheeks. She snatched away the meat sandwich and sank her grey teeth into it. Then, producing from her apron pocket a key that she dangled before him, she unlocked Emily's door and, keeping her eyes on him, squeezed her bulk into the cabin. “Doctor,” she said, chewing with her mouth open, “it's a bit late fer me to be entertainin' visitors, if ya knows what I mean.”

Leander reddened. “This – this is
your
cabin?”

“'Tis
now,
so shove off or I'll report yer mischief to Cap'n Trevelyan when he returns.” She slammed the door in his face.

Thunderstruck, Leander remained rooted to the floor timbers, unable to comprehend this disastrous turn of events.
She
was there, a few feet from him, a bit of canvas separating them, yet he could do nothing. The two sailors were now watching him. By lantern light, Leander could see sportive smiles upon their faces. Retrieving his medical chest, he reluctantly left Emily in the hands of Meg Kettle, and with his head held high, brushed by the sailors, ignoring their mirthful clucks. His fingers tensed around the handle of his medical chest and determination burned in his breast. Sooner than later, he would find another opportunity.

“Why are you back so late?” he snapped.

Magpie hopped into his cot, drew his knees up to his chest, and pulled his thin blanket around him. In the light cast by the lantern that hung near their cots, Gus could see that Magpie's cheeks were aglow and his eye sparkled, and when he finally spoke in a loud whisper, his words tumbled out in a breathless, jumbled torrent. “Oh, sir, when we come back here, I wanted to see ya straight off, but Prosper was insistin' he change me bandages. And then he was wantin' to ask me hundreds o' questions 'bout Cap'n Trevelyan and Octavius Lindsay.”

Gus was aghast. “Trevelyan? Mr. Lindsay? Why?”

“Oh, sir, you'll never guess – I saw them, in a tavern near the docks. And Trevelyan stands eight feet high and ya wouldn't like the looks o' him. He's got the eyes o' Lucifer and his hands – they're all cut up like a farmer's plough runned him down. And Mr. Lindsay – I don't understand it, sir, 'cause the last I saw him, he were clapped in irons on the
Isabelle,
but – well, he's workin' for Trevelyan now. And ya see, while I were gettin' Prosper somethin' to eat, I heared them usin' big words I didn't understand and talkin' 'bout Halifax and Bermuda and the Duke o' Clarence comin' to rescue Emily.”

“Emily?”

“Oh, sir. She's alive. She's on the
Serendipity,
just like I guessed. Just like I told Prosper. But then I got real scared and threw up me supper all over Trevelyan and Mr. Lindsay's boots, and they didn't much like that so I had to run fer me life. And, sir, we … we had to wait 'til the wharf were clear o' Yankees afore we could get to the cutter and come back. I kept on thinkin' 'bout that dungeon, and I were so distressed, I couldn't stop me tears. Prosper told me again and again to quit me snivellin' or he were gonna feed me to the alligators. They 'ave alligators in these waters, sir, with big teeth! And I didn't like the thought o' alligators eatin' me legs. All the while it were rainin' and I had to keep hidin' and watch out for Trevelyan and Mr. Lindsay and the soldiers runnin' around, hollerin' and chasin' us with their muskets, ready to shoot us dead.” He stopped to take in air.

Gus could see Magpie's body trembling beneath his blanket. “You must slow down and tell me everything from the very beginning.”

Magpie took a deep breath and was about to try again when Pemberton's firm voice sounded in the darkness. “Lads! Pipe down! Out with thee lantern. Thee call fer hammocks up will come afore ya know it. Whisht now!”

Scurrying from his cot, Magpie quickly blew out the lantern candle and came to kneel beside Gus's head. “Sir, afore I tell ya 'bout what I saw and heared tonight,” he whispered, “I gotta tell ya 'bout the
Isabelle.
Ya gotta know it first.”

“I do know,” said Gus, glad that Magpie could not see his welling tears. “Pemberton told me everything – that is, everything he'd learned from
you.
He said you didn't know what happened to the crew, because – because you'd come away in the skiff – to find me.” Gus's throat closed up and he paused until he once again had full command of his voice. “He did tell me how you came by that embroidered hat you keep under your cot.” Gus felt Magpie's warm hand close around his forearm, beneath his splints.

“Oh, sir, I wished ya'd never had to learn the truth. I wish we was on the
Isabelle
still, sittin' in Emily's corner readin' that book and Dr. Braden smilin' upon us and Mr. Crump makin' wisecracks from his hammock. And Prosper's biscuits aren't nearly as tasty as them what Biscuit used to bake.” Magpie began to weep.

“Start from the beginning, Magpie.”

But Magpie's weeping only grew louder until at last Pemberton raised his voice in warning. “If ya don't stop yer blubberin,' I'll toss ya overboard meself, and trust me, them alligators ya don't fancy none will be sure ta find ya.”

Magpie mewled and made a dash for his cot. But soon he was feeling his way back to Gus's head. “Sir, I promise, I'll tell ya everythin' after I sleep a bit. But ya gotta know now. Come first light, we're leavin' here, and Prosper … well, he's all fired up and plannin' on goin' after Trevelyan the first chance he gets.”

“'Bout time ya woke up.”

Emily sat up in her cot, rubbed life into her face, and frowned as she surveyed the grubby hammock that was newly hung so close to her own. As if reading her thoughts, Mrs. Kettle said, “It were Cap'n Trevelyan's idea t'ave thee
ladies
bunk together.”

“Mrs. Kettle,” said Emily with restraint, “one would hardly consider you a lady.”

“Ooo, and ya think
yer
a right smart lady! Jumpin' outta ships and wearin' trousers and drinkin' with thee Isabelles and sleepin' with all thee men in Dr. Braden's hospital?”

Emily did not give her the satisfaction of a reply. She gazed past Mrs. Kettle, wishing she were alone to remember the voice that had called out to her in the night. It had seemed so real and so close. She closed her eyes for a second, pulling the coat that had been
his
up around her shoulders.

“Get a move on. Ya won't be layin' 'bout today.”

Emily threw Mrs. Kettle an impatient glance. “I'll get up when I want to.”

“Nay! Today ya 'ave work to do.”

Emily lifted her chin. “I beg your pardon?”

“It's yer punishment fer tryin' to escape last night.”

“I would have thought being forced to share my cabin with
you
was punishment enough.”

Mrs. Kettle made a snuffling sound. “Yer to do thee men's washin.”

“With you?”

Mrs. Kettle's hands found her hips. “Nay! Won't be findin' Meggie doin' laundry no more.”

“Why not? Has Trevelyan finally decided to reward you for being a traitor?”

A muscle in Mrs. Kettle's cheek quivered. “I bin given a promotion.”

“Really? Shall I address you from here on as yeoman of the
bedsheets
or perhaps as captain of the
heads?”

“Think yer comical now, don't ya?”

“Mrs. Kettle, I doubt there's a uniform on this ship large enough to fit your frame.”

Mrs. Kettle compressed her lips and flounced her hammy arms across her chest, but Emily, having no interest in hearing the details of her shipboard promotion, scrambled from her cot and pushed up the gunport. Rain and sea spray blew into the tiny cabin, invigorating Emily's warm face. She filled her lungs with the clean, salty air, and massaged her lower back as she gazed longingly towards Charleston.

“Shut that,” growled Mrs. Kettle.

“I will not.”

“Ya'll get me hammock all wet. Now shut it.”

“I will not! I cannot breathe in here. You reek like a manure patch.”

Mrs. Kettle took a menacing step towards Emily. “Ooo, if I'd a knife, I'd cut yer bold tongue from that white throat o' yers.” Emily swung round and stood her ground before the open gunport, meeting the older woman's stare dead on. They glared at each other until the whooshing sound of a tray being passed under the cabin door diverted Mrs. Kettle's wavering glance.