Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper

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СКАЧАТЬ have not yet made that decision,” said James.

      “But having a woman like her on board, sir …”

      Leander looked up quizzically from his supper. “Yes, Mr. Lindsay? The problem with that is … ?”

      “Why, the men will become unruly. They will fight over her.”

      Leander frowned. “But I understand they have Mrs. Kettle to look after their needs.”

      “Doctor, you may be older than thirty, but surely you can see through those spectacles of yours.”

      “Mr. Lindsay … the woman is injured. Removing her to shore would be unwise.”

      “Ah, our doctor does have eyes. More wine please, Biscuit.” Octavius waited until his goblet had been refilled. “And would she not receive better medical attention in a proper hospital?”

      “In Halifax, yes,” said Leander. “The conditions in Bermuda do not impress me.”

      “But we’re fighting a war, Doctor. She can only get in the way. Why not leave her in Bermuda and allow a merchant ship to carry her home to England?”

      Running a finger around the edge of his wine glass, James piped up. “She’s an attractive woman, Mr. Lindsay – that is evident to us all – but no man shall harm her or neglect his duties as a result of her presence on this ship; otherwise, they’ll be duly punished. No. She’ll remain with us until such time as we reach Halifax. In the meantime, we must find out who she is.”

      “What if she’s a spy?” Octavius ventured unhappily.

      There was a roar of laughter that rivalled the thunder of the sea beyond the windows, and the men unanimously agreed that the wine had gone to Octavius’s head.

      “Perhaps you’ll be fortunate enough to discover if our guest has appetites to rival those of Mrs. Kettle’s,” quipped Fly. “And, should this be true, I daresay you’ll be parting with a good portion of your pay.”

      While his messmates snickered, Octavius rolled his eyes and muttered, “You’re quite a boor, Mr. Austen.”

      “Tell me, Doctor, when might I be able to speak with her?” asked James. “She may have valuable information regarding the Serendipity.”

      “Ah, so my spy theory holds weight, does it?” cried Octavius, lifting his chin.

      “Perhaps, Mr. Lindsay,” James said patiently. “Either way, she may be able to tell us whether or not there were any Royal Navy deserters on board that American ship.” He looked over at Leander and repeated his question.

      Leander clasped his hands and regarded him over his spectacles. “The young woman is exhausted, James. I would suggest, at the very least, we give her a few days of rest.”

      “I will wait twenty-four hours, Doctor. No more.” James drained his wine goblet, then twisted his neck to face Biscuit, who stood behind his chair, awaiting orders. “I am wondering, Biscuit, if you could put more thought and effort into our supper tomorrow evening.”

      “Ah-hah, war rations and we’re complainin’, sir! I could pilfer all o’ yer rum rations and boil up sauces to hide thee poor quality o’ thee meat then, heh?”

      James smiled as he poured himself more wine and raised his glass. “Gentlemen! To our native land, to the health of our King George and to our indispensable cook.”

      “Our native land.”

      “King George’s health.”

      “Our cook.”

      The men lifted their goblets in toast and broke into mirthful laughter.

      2

      Wednesday, June 2

      7:00 a.m.

      (Morning Watch, Six Bells)

      AT SIX BELLS the next morning, Leander Braden rose from his hammock to resume his duties in the small hospital in the forepeak of the Isabelle’s upper deck. He and his assistant, Osmund Brockley, had completed their operations on the battle-wounded the night before, having had to amputate three legs, two hands, and one foot, in addition to closing forever the eyes of many young men. But at this early hour, there were still six seamen with a multitude of injuries, in various states of consciousness, groaning and twitching in their troubled sleep, who required Leander’s care and attention.

      The hospital air was heavy with the putrid smell of medicines, blood, excrement, and festering wounds, despite Osmund having thrown open all of the nearby gunports. It aggravated Leander’s crushing exhaustion and the creeping stiffness he felt in his shoulders. With a sigh, he settled at his desk to begin making notes in his medical journal, but he could not concentrate. He gazed over at the old sails that Morgan Evans had rigged up at one end of the hospital for the comfort of Emily, his newest patient, and for several minutes he allowed himself to wonder who she was, and why it was she had jumped from the Serendipity.

      Leander had just managed to return his attention to his journal when Biscuit and his assistants, Maggot and Weevil (so named for their weekly task of drawing the maggots and weevils out of the biscuit barrel), entered the hospital ward from the galley next door, bearing bowls of porridge and plates of sea biscuits.

      “Biscuit,” Leander called out sternly as the cook tiptoed towards Emily’s corner, “you may leave the food here with me and I’ll make certain she gets it when she wakes up.”

      “Ah, but Doc, I got up real early to make fresh biscuits for thee lass. I’d likes to present ’em to her. There ain’t no weevils burrowin’ in ’em.”

      Leander held his gaze.

      “Ah, but Doc, I was below deck cookin’ up yer supper when Morgan brought her on board.”

      “We’re dyin’ for a wee peek,” said Maggot. Behind him, his brother, Weevil, nodded eagerly.

      “All in good time, men. Now I insist you all leave.”

      But the three interlopers stood rooted to the floor.

      Leander frowned. “You wouldn’t want to catch a contagious fever now, would you?”

      The possibility of catching something did the trick. Biscuit and the brothers, suddenly remembering urgent duties elsewhere, dropped Emily’s breakfast feast on top of Leander’s journal – spilling his inkwell – and shoved at one another as each tried to be the first to exit the hospital. No sooner had they fled, however, than Lewis McGilp, the coxswain, sauntered in from the galley.

      “Yes, Mr. McGilp?” asked Leander, still frowning at the annoyance of his spilled ink.

      “It’s my throat, sir. It’s mighty sore,” he said, looking sheepish.

      “Come in then and I’ll examine you.”

      Lewis hopped up on the operating table, opened his mouth, and said, “Ahhhh” just as Octavius Lindsay climbed through the hatch from the fo’c’sle deck, straightened his frock coat, and took off his bicorne hat.

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