Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle Read online

  To my mother, Marie Isabelle Evans,

  and my grandmother,

  Isabelle Fleda McCubbin Moreland (1904–1985),

  who listened and selflessly gave of their time.

  War of 1812

  Admiralty Orders to

  Captain James Moreland of HMS Isabelle:

  Seek and destroy all enemy frigates along the coast of North America.

  Search the crew for deserters.

  Sink the ship or re-flag her for England.

  1

  Tuesday, June 1, 1813

  Early Afternoon

  Aboard the USS Serendipity

  “SAIL, HO!”

  Emily awoke with a start. Loud voices sounded overhead on the weather decks and a drum rolled in the distance. Rubbing her eyes, she looked around at the sumptuous furniture and large galleried windows of the cabin, and, with a fresh pang of fear, remembered Captain Trevelyan. She was a prisoner on his ship, the USS Serendipity. For how long she had been in captivity, she was not quite certain. Still vivid in her mind was that dark morning when Trevelyan had seemingly come looking for her, taken her from her ship at gunpoint, then forced her to watch as its groaning timbers were set afire. But had that been three weeks ago, or four? And did time really matter anyway? It had done little to lessen her guilt and grief. Her days were all the same. The views beyond the windows were all the same. There was no sight of land out there … only sea.

  The voices grew louder. The crew moved swiftly on their decks, shouting orders to one another. Beyond the thin walls of the cabin Emily could hear Trevelyan speaking to one of his young servants. She climbed out of her cot and crept to the door, opening it a crack to listen.

  “Captain Trevelyan, sir, they’re sayin’ there’s a man-o’-war two points off the larboard.”

  “My spyglass please, Mr. Clive.”

  “Is it one of ours, sir?”

  Trevelyan squinted through his spyglass for some time. “Take a look for yourself.”

  “She’s British, sir.”

  “British, yes, but she’s not just any ship, Mr. Clive. That’s the Isabelle.”

  “The Isabelle, sir?”

  “She has seventy-four guns and two decks, the lower one equipped with a full battery of thirty-two-pounders. Been in service for over thirty years …” Trevelyan lowered his voice. “And I’ve been waiting for her for almost nine.”

  “A seventy-four, sir? She’ll have a large crew, then.”

  “I doubt it, Mr. Clive. Britain has been warring far too many years now. My guess is she is horribly undermanned and what crew she possesses will be poorly trained, made up of thieves and lunatics from the emptying of English prisons.”

  “Did ya once serve on the Isabelle, sir?”

  Trevelyan was slow to reply. “I know her well, Mr. Clive. Now get to your station. And if you see Lind, ask him to come to my cabin straightaway.”

  Thinking Trevelyan would sweep into his cabin at any moment, Emily hurried back to her cot. But no one came, not even a crew of sailors to take down the cabin’s surrounding bulkheads in order to utilize the cannon housed inside. For what seemed like hours, she lay still, trying to shut out the noises of the Serendipity’s men readying themselves for battle, fixing her attention on the ship’s gentle rise and fall on the waves. Finally, just as she felt herself drifting back to sleep, the sound of heavy footsteps jolted her upright. Trevelyan came through the door, pulling off his bicorne hat. He scratched his straw-coloured hair and stared long and hard at her.

  “Out of your cot, madam. There will be no laying about this afternoon. In a matter of minutes the cannons will be sounding.”

  Emily climbed out and stood, looking away from his cadaverous face.

  “At this moment, the crew is lighting our guns against the enemy,” Trevelyan continued. “Therefore, as it won’t be convenient for you to wash my shirts or polish my silver today, I shall give you a pistol so you can help shoot a few of King George’s men.”

  “I will not take up arms against my countrymen.”

  “You may have no choice.”

  “I doubt you would trust me with a pistol in my hand. Our definition of enemy differs … sir.”

  Trevelyan smirked and turned to reach for his sword, which hung on the wall by his own cot. Emily searched the water beyond the windows for a glimpse of the Isabelle.

  “If you’re figuring this will be your escape, you can forget it. The Serendipity may be a smaller ship, but she’s faster and more easily manoeuvred. Of course, you have already seen evidence of her capabilities against larger ships with more guns.” He sheathed his sword with a violent thrust.

  Emily looked at him with dead eyes.

  There was a swift knock at the door.

  “Enter!” said Trevelyan. Lind lumbered into the cabin, a coil of thin rope in his hands. He stank like a barnyard. Emily grimaced as he approached her.

  “Tie her up, Lind.” Trevelyan eyed Emily’s tattered clothes, then added, “In my latrine.” He moved towards her, gripped her face in his scarred hands, and forced her to look up into his dark eyes. “I’ll see you afterwards, once we have our prize.” Releasing her with a shove, he added, “Perhaps then we could order you a bath.”

  Emily’s eyes widened. There was a sick sensation in the pit of her stomach. Whatever did he mean by such an odd remark?

  Replacing his hat, Trevelyan gave a low laugh and left the cabin.

  Almost immediately, the first round of guns fired from the Serendipity. The blasts shook the ship’s walls and floorboards. Through the rattling windows, the Isabelle came into view, close enough for Emily to see her open gunports and her gun crews huddled around the short-barrelled carronades on the weather decks. The sight of the British colours flying from her mainmast and stern caused Emily’s chest to tighten.

  Boom, boom, boom! The Isabelle fired back. The Serendipity’s hull shuddered with each blow. Emily had to steady herself against Trevelyan’s desk. All the while, Lind slowly unwound his rope and laughed, showing her his collection of mossy teeth, then with one sudden motion he lunged forward and grabbed her around the waist.

  “No use in fightin’ me, lass. Old Lind will win,” he cackled, leering at her. “I’m gonna tie ya in thee toilet and then I’ll go searchin’ out thee captain’s private store o’ rum. We might as well enjoy ourselves while thee lead flies.”

  Emily rammed an elbow into his soft belly. As he keeled over, she made a dash for the door.

  “If ya figure on goin’ out there,” he snarled, clutching his middle, “ya’ll be meetin’ up with thee captain’s marines. And I don’t ’spect they’ll be as gentle with ya as old Lind will be.” Beads of sweat rolled down his florid face as he straightened himself and brandished the rope.

  The two warships were in full battle now. The crack of the cannons and carronades was deafening, and the smoke from their barrels poured into the cabin. There was a confusion of orders and men’s frantic replies. Emily could hear the screams of dying men, and she prayed that British grapeshot would find its way straight through Trevelyan’s torso. Coughing, she watched Lind starting towards her again. He was grinning.

  “Be a good girl and let old Lind tie ya up nice and tight.” Licking his lips, he leaped at her, grabbed her wrists, and jerked her towards him. Emily kicked him in the knee as hard as she could. The exertion propelled her backwards onto the floor of the latrine just as the windows behind Lind exploded, blowing him onto the cabin floor with a terrible thud. A hail of glass shards ripped into him. He lay there stunned, his eyes bulging from his torn face, his outstretched arms slippery with blood.

  Emily bolted from the latrine and struggled to push Trevelyan’s desk against the door, hopi
ng it would hold against any marines lying in wait. Lifting her skirt to avoid the spreading pool of Lind’s blood, she hurried to the windows and seized a large fragment of wood to smash out the bits of jagged glass still lodged in the frames. The Isabelle was so close …

  Between the ships, which were lying broadside to each other, floated a swirling mass of debris: barrels, bits of mast and rigging, segments of timber, a legless goat, and dead seamen. Emily surveyed the scene for a moment, then peeled off her silk slippers, stuffed them into her spencer-jacket, and tucked her skirt up into her drawers.

  Behind her, Lind exhaled a long moan. She swung around to find him sitting up, wiping blood from his face. His head resembled a chunk of slaughtered meat. Despite his wounds, he seemed in no mood to give up. Spying Emily, he began crawling towards her, his right arm reaching, his torn fingers opening and closing crab-like before him. Emily clambered into the window frame and was almost away when Lind managed to grasp her foot. She held onto the frame, oblivious to the glass that cut into the palms of her hands, and kicked until her foot struck his mangled face.

  “Damnable woman!” he rasped, collapsing on the floor.

  Over the gunfire and Lind’s howling complaints, there came a clattering racket near the door. Looking up, Emily realized the cabin’s bulkheads were at last being taken down. In a matter of seconds the room would be swarming with men and marines. She braced herself for the jump, hesitating a moment to give Lind one last thought. “Perhaps, Mr. Lind, when Trevelyan is done battling, he can order a bath for you.”

  With that, she plummeted over the ship’s stern. As she hit the water, she struck a length of broken mast. Her right ankle erupted in pain, snatching her breath away. The sea that engulfed her was cold, and red with blood spilled from the sailors who bobbed on the waves next to her, their faces burned or maimed, their sightless eyes turned towards the warring ships. Emily felt a clutch in her stomach; her heart raced uncomfortably. Shutting her eyes to the horrors, she tried swimming, but her escape had left her exhausted and the chilly saltwater that washed over her torn hands forced her into submission. She held on tightly to the broken mast and allowed the waves to carry her.

  Over her head flew cannon balls and whirring chain and bar shot that punched devastating holes in the ships’ hulls and sliced through their sails and rigging. Sprays of wooden splinters fell like dangerous rain. Emily quickly ducked beneath a section of fallen sail, hoping to protect herself. Amidst the screams of war, she could hear the distinctive voice of Captain Trevelyan, and peering through a hole in the sail, up through clouds of cannon smoke, she saw him, his face obscured in shadow, standing over her like Goliath on the side of his ship.

  “Shoot her, Mr. Clive.”

  Forgetting her pain, Emily frantically began pushing aside bodies and debris from her path. Oh, God, swim, swim, she urged her poor limbs. The Isabelle loomed large, the long barrels of the lower guns seemed almost within reach. She could see the barnacles that clung to the waterlogged timbers and the bits of oakum wedged into the cracks, and while she kicked her way towards safety, she was aware that he still hovered over her.

  Swim, swim.

  Several minutes had passed now since Trevelyan ordered her execution, and hope began to burn in Emily’s young breast, but as she raised her hand from the water to touch the side of the Isabelle, a ball of lead struck her from behind. This new pain was unimaginable. Gasping, she flailed about, striving to concentrate on the solid timbers that shuddered before her. Once again, she tried reaching out to them, but her vision blurred and her strength evaporated. With a cry of frustration, she felt herself, and the fragment of mast to which she clung, drifting slowly away into a blackened void.

  Early Evening

  Aboard HMS Isabelle

  TWELVE-YEAR-OLD MIDSHIPMAN Augustus Walby, or Gus, as he was known in shipboard circles, stood by the starboard rail of the Isabelle’s quarterdeck, surveying through his spyglass the battle carnage that lay in the water. Sensing someone standing next to him, he turned to find Captain James Moreland, a tall, thick man with yellow-white hair, faded blue eyes, and a sad face. The captain laid a hand on Gus’s shoulder and silently peered into the settling smoke.

  “You have the keenest eyes of anyone on this ship, Mr. Walby. Please keep a lookout for any of our men who have fallen overboard and may still have life in them.”

  “Aye, aye, sir. Can you tell me, sir, has the Serendipity retreated or do you think that she is simply going to turn around for another go at us?”

  Captain Moreland grunted. “My guess is they are running away, Mr. Walby. We managed to shoot away a good deal of their yards and rigging. If they continue fighting they’ll have nothing left with which to sail.”

  “Should we not go after them?”

  “We’ve troubles of our own. It might be wiser to repair ourselves before fighting them again.”

  “Sir, one thing I don’t understand … the Serendipity’s a frigate, is she not?”

  “She is.”

  “Why, then, would she take a shot at us when she is smaller and has far fewer guns. We did nothing to provoke her, did we, sir?”

  “We did not,” the captain replied, watching her retreat. “However, Mr. Walby, we are in American waters and we are the enemy. Most likely their captain is a brazen young fellow.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Gus touched his hat in a salute.

  Overhearing the captain, First Lieutenant Lord Octavius Lindsay, a bad-complexioned youth with greasy hair, stepped forward. “Will it be necessary to return to Bermuda then, sir?” he asked.

  “I must consult with our carpenters first to learn the extent of our damages.” Captain Moreland paused to shout an order to the men working high up on the yardarms. “Sails up, men. Slow her down. And remember, one hand for the ship, one for yourself.”

  “But we would lose much time if we had to return to the island,” said Octavius.

  “In a hurry to take an American prize, are we, Mr. Lindsay? Or is it the prospect of shore leave in Halifax that has you impatient? I am hoping we can make our repairs at sea; however, we cannot fight this war with a crippled ship.” Captain Moreland ran his large blue-veined hands along the rail, then continued on down the quarterdeck with Octavius following on his heels.

  Gus Walby lifted his spyglass to his eyes once again and slowly moved it along the sea’s surface, searching for survivors. There were plenty of dead men bouncing lifelessly on the waves like grotesque channel markers. Gus was relieved that he could not identify their remains. Already, some of the hands had set out in the ship’s small boats and cutters to retrieve the bodies of their mates so that they could be given a proper burial at sea. The lucky ones who had survived their first fight unscathed rushed to clear the slippery decks of the dead and wounded. There was a terrible sound of moaning and sobbing as those still living were lifted and carried down to the hospital on the upper deck.

  Suddenly Gus cried out. Through his glass he could see someone moving about on the waves, one arm gripping the remains of a mast, the other extended, as if beckoning to the Isabelle. He called out to Captain Moreland.

  “Sir! You might find this of interest.”

  Retracing his steps, the captain took Gus’s glass from him.

  “At three points, sir,” said Gus, “floating on a piece of masting. I – I believe it’s a woman.”

  Captain Moreland gazed through the glass for a long while before chuckling and calling out, “Mr. Evans, Mr. Beck, if you please, gentlemen. Have the skiff lowered into the water. It seems a lady escaped our enemy ship.”

  “With all respect, sir,” interjected Lord Octavius Lindsay, “our repairs are minimal. We can still sail. Shouldn’t we at least try to make a run after that American frigate rather than stopping to pick up some laundress?”

  Captain Moreland’s eyes hardened. “You surprise me, Mr. Lindsay – in more ways than one.” He brushed past his first lieutenant to oversee the lowering of the skiff. “At three points, men, hol
ding onto our fallen mizzenmast, no doubt.”

  “Should I get Dr. Braden, sir?” asked Gus, running behind the captain, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

  “Not just yet, Mr. Walby. My guess is our poor doctor already has far too many patients in his hospital at the present time. However, you could run down to the orlop deck and tell Mrs. Kettle I would like a word with her.”

  Gus saluted and ran off.

  “Mr. Evans,” said Captain Moreland, “once you have rescued the lady, take her immediately to my cabin. I’ll have Commander Austen meet you there and stay with her until Dr. Braden has a chance to see her. Now then, off you go.”

  He turned back to Octavius. “Mr. Lindsay, go down to the hold and check on the amount of water in the bilge.”

  With a scowl on his face, Octavius set off to the bottom of the ship.

  * * *

  THE CARPENTER’S MATE, Morgan Evans, and his buddy, Able Seaman Bailey Beck, were lowered into the darkening waters. In the distance, on a pink-and-purple horizon, the tall sails of the Serendipity were gradually disappearing. Although the wind had been in the woman’s favour, nudging her bit of debris in the direction of the Isabelle, the men still had to row out a long way. Bailey held the oars while Morgan leaned over the side to pull her from the sea. She whimpered as he lifted her from her mast.

  “Careful now, Morgan,” said Bailey. “She may have grievous wounds.”

  With the woman safely in his arms, Morgan inched backwards until he felt the skiff’s wooden seat, then slowly sat down. All the while his eyes never left the woman’s face

  “She’s lovely!” he gasped.

  “She ain’t no cookin’ woman.”

  “Look at her finery: blue velvet and silk. I’ve never met a woman who wore such clothes.”

  “Aye! Though she’s a bit ragged, she’s a lady, all right. And I bet ya ain’t never been in the company of a lady before.”

  “Oh, we’re in a jokey mood, are we?” Morgan kicked at the water sloshing about in the boat’s ribbed bottom.

  “Hey, yer gettin’ me clean pants all wet.”