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Overview
In late September 1813, Fly Austen is ordered back to the American coast, as England’s Royal Navy has suffered a series of humiliating defeats. Forced to return to sea with a skeleton crew, Fly persuades a reluctant Leander Braden to accompany him one last time. Emily, fearing she will be left behind in Portsmouth, disguises herself as a man and steals aboard Fly’s frigate. Meanwhile, young Magpie is captured by a press gang and hustled aboard a hostile ship, only to find himself in the dangerous company of the English traitor Thomas Trevelyan.
A shipwreck, a mutiny, and a bloody encounter with American ships on the Atlantic inflict devastating consequences on all.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781459742826 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Dundurn Press |
| Publication date: | 11/13/2018 |
| Series: | Seasons of War Series , #3 |
| Pages: | 376 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.00(h) x 1.00(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Friday, September 17, 1813 Early Morning Portsmouth Harbour
Prosper Burgo's teeth rattled as he sat shivering on the planked bench of the ferryman's scow, wishing he had stayed in town rather than risk a crossing of the harbour at this late hour. The world around him was as black as Hades. The rising mists on the still water swirled around him like the wraiths of dead sailors, expelling their chilled breath down his neck. His head was muzzy, his belly putrid, and he could not tell if it was midnight or that hazy, mysterious hour before dawn. Together with losing his money, his coat, and the whereabouts of his ship, he had lost track of time.
The scow did not look reliable. She was sitting awfully low in the water, and in order for Prosper to avoid soaking his shoes in the cold bilge that sloshed about on the boat's ribbed bottom, he had to plant his feet against her peeling sides. Adding further insult to injury, the ferryman, who looked like a mean customer in his bulky oilskin coat against the flickering light of his candle-lantern, was scrutinizing him with his shifty eyes as they rowed upon the steamy water, as if he meant to turn Prosper and his pockets inside out if the fare was not forthcoming when they reached their final destination.
With a mournful sigh, Prosper's thoughts returned to that downy bed in the warm attic of the Ship's Tavern. It had been so comfortable there, so soft, so entertaining ... for a time, anyhow.
"All right then!" said the ferryman gruffly. "Which one of 'em's yours?"
Prosper felt as if he were carrying a hefty boulder upon his scrawny shoulders, the tragic result of imbibing too much of the tavern's Three Threads ale. In vain he peered into the endless sweep of darkness, trying to size up the creaking silhouettes of the ships that stood moored in the harbour.
"How should I know?" he snapped back, his voice shrill and hysterical. "In this light, they all look the same."
The ferryman stopped pulling on the oars to scowl at Prosper. "Well I ain't gonna row ya around 'til the sun comes up, so ya better figure out which one's yours."
"Keep rowin' in this general direction. I know I left her 'round here somewhere with that scoundrel, Pemberton Baker, in charge. He wouldn't have dared move her if he values his good-for-nothing life."
"Who the hell's Pemberton Baker?"
"He's me second-in-command," Prosper said crossly, praying he would soon recognize his two-masted treasure, the Prosperous and Remarkable, in amongst the surrounding jumble of ships that seemed to be mocking him, goading him on in a game of hide-and-seek.
"Yer a captain?" There was a startling amount of surprise in the ferryman's voice. "And here I figured ya might be some sort o' corsair."
Indignant to the core, Prosper raised his chin. "I'm a privateer with a letter o' marque, signed by the governor o' Nova Scotia. And me mighty brig, the Prosperous and Remarkable, has secured nineteen prizes fer me. NINETEEN o' 'em!"
"Are ya expectin' me to be impressed?"
"Damn right! And if ya succeed in findin' me ship, I'll impress ya further by rewardin' ya with a bottle o' wine, stolen from the French flagship at Trafalgar."
The ferryman gave a loud harrumph. "Ya weren't never at Trafalgar!" Prosper quickly fired back. "In me mind, I were!"
"I'll gladly take the wine, so long as it be accompanied by payment fer rowin' ya around and freezin' me arse off."
"Fine then!" muttered Prosper. "Now git rowin'."
With that the ferryman fell silent to focus on his strokes — which immensely suited Prosper's pounding head — though, sadly, the blessed peace and quiet was short-lived. As they drifted alongside the hull of a two-masted ship, on their way to study the name on her stern in the hopes that it would prove to be the elusive Prosperous and Remarkable, they were very nearly assaulted by an aggressive tongue of orange flame that, through an open gunport, whooshed out at them with sudden ferocity like a cracking whip.
The ferryman let out a long, low growl. "Ya'd better pray this particular vessel ain't yours."
Prosper's muddled brains were still trying to process what it was exactly that had nearly struck them both in the head. "Why d'ya say that?"
"'Cause this particular vessel appears to be on fire."
Darting a glance over his shoulder, Prosper saw whorls of flame spewing forth from three of the ports on the ship's gun deck — devil's arms, beckoning to those who dared to come closer. Squeals of terror erupted all around them. "FIRE! FIRE! THE SHIP'S AFIRE!" It was only then that Prosper's mind cleared sufficiently for him to fully grasp the situation. With the rising flames illuminating the position of the ferryman's scow on the harbour, he could now see the burning ship's crewmen leaping about on the weather decks, running in circles, crashing into each other in their frenzy to find an escape route. Some of them scrambled onto the bowsprit; some scurried up the ratlines, while a large number fought their way aft toward the stern where the ship's small cutter was suspended over the dark water. In horror, Prosper watched as dozens of them clambered into the tiny boat, causing her to swing wildly upon her davits. They clawed and shoved and began caterwauling, demanding to be lowered at once — as if there were someone standing by with no other purpose than to see them off safely.
As the ferryman's scow rounded the stern and Prosper was able to get a clearer view of the dangerously overloaded boat, he screamed up at them. "Holla! Ya goddamn galoots! There's too many o' yas! That cutter can't handle all o' yas at once! Ya should know better than to —"
But Prosper never finished his tirade. The ominous sound of splintering wood rent the night air. The davits snapped and gave way, flipping the boat over, dumping its shrieking occupants into the harbour much as a surgeon's mate dispenses his bucket of severed limbs over the ship's side.
"Futtocks!" cursed the ferryman, his scow spinning in undisciplined circles before he was able to navigate it away from the burning ship.
"Nay!" Prosper yelled at him. "Bring me in closer!"
"I won't! If those swimmers see us, they'll swamp us."
"Them idiots kin fend fer themselves! Take me to the side o' the ship."
The ferryman was aghast. "Wot?"
"Someone's gotta try and save her."
"I don't dare go back! My scow will catch fire. That ship ... she's — she's gonna blow up! And she'll be takin' us with her."
"Nay! Row me to that ladder yon, so's I kin climb up."
From the bulkiness of his oilskin coat, the ferryman's neck shot up. "Are ya mad? We'll both be killed!"
"I tell ya, man ... there's time!"
"I won't go nearer! Ya can't make me!"
Prosper felt confident in his convictions. "If we're lucky, we might 'ave half an hour afore the guns blow. Might be a chance to douse them flames afore that."
But the ferryman could not be swayed. "I won't ... I won't!" he cried.
Springing to his feet — beyond caring about the destruction of his shoes in the cold bilge — Prosper shoved his fox-like features into the ferryman's glistening face. "Ya either bring me in closer so's I kin climb that ladder," he hissed, "or I'll take me fist and punch another hole in yer bumboat so's ya drown along with that lot o' galoots what are suckin' up foul water through their snouts right about now."
The ferryman shut his mouth and frantically fell upon his oars, suddenly desperate to do Prosper's bidding. Breathing heavily, sounding somewhat like a frightened hog, he paused long enough for Prosper to jump onto the hemp ladder that hung down the side of the unfortunate ship, and then swiftly he pushed off, calling out as he did so: "You're a fool! A right, veritable fool!"
Prosper had already reached the top of the ladder and hooked one of his skinny legs over the ship's rail. Twisting his head around, he glared down at the ferryman and hollered back. "I might be foolhardy, but I ain't never a fool."
Forgetting about payment and the promise of French wine; thinking only of his wife and the breakfast of hot tea and rolls awaiting him, the ferryman ignored the cries for mercy from those faceless heads thrashing about in the water. Extinguishing his lantern flame, he once again took firm hold of his oars and pulled away, extricating himself from the disaster area, hoping to hide his scow somewhere in the blackness, beyond the grisly glow of the fire. As he laboured to put a safe distance between him and the hapless swimmers, he watched the flames growing ever higher on the unknown ship. They had now enveloped the base of the two masts, and were licking at the lowest of the spars. Their reach soon spread to the standing rigging ... the flames advancing up the web of ropes like an army of soldiers.
Despite the chaos and noise, the ferryman could still see and hear Prosper. He watched the fool sprinting about on the main deck; pausing amidships to bellow for water; pausing again fore and aft to scream for the same; dictating orders to and humiliating the crazed, fearful men he addressed as scoundrels and galoots and hedge-creepers. But despite Prosper's efforts, they jumped by the dozens from the upper works, willing to take their chances in the water. In the ferryman's mind, they were the lucky ones, for too many had been caught unawares below deck. Through the open gunports, he could see their arms flailing amidst the voracious flames, their hands begging for help until finally, overcome, they fell away into the fire.
The last the ferryman saw of Prosper Burgo, he was perched like a hawk on the ship's jib-boom, dark and small against the raging fire, still squawking orders — though his words were now lost in the roar — shaking first his right, then his left fist at what ... the ferryman knew not. Seconds later, the first explosion came in a shocking, deafening cloudburst of blackened red, and for a time, the hellish scene was completely — and thankfully — obliterated.
With a violent shudder, the ferryman averted his eyes and continued peacefully on his way.
Still Early Morning The Brigantine Inn, Portsmouth, England
Emily awoke with such a fierce start she was convinced an omnipotent being had shaken her bed frame and the narrow walls of her room in the inn. Another dream ... another harrowing dream, full of tormenting images! She groped for the glass of water she kept at her bedside and drank thirstily, wishing instead for a draught of laudanum, for only its calming properties could erase recollections of horseless carriages, sweating bridegrooms, and the menacing gaze of Thomas Trevelyan. Letting the empty glass fall upon her blankets, she lay back against her pillows, waiting for her eyes — fixed on the dying embers of her coal fire in the grate — to adjust to the dimness as she puzzled over the thunderous reverberation in her nightmare. She could not place the sound, could not identify it. Hartwood Hall had crumbled in eerie silence; Trevelyan's phantom pistol had not discharged, and yet the unsettling noise ... it had seemed so near, so real, as if it had occurred externally and not within the inner workings of her mind.
Emily tried to ignore the traces of her nightmare that still stalked the corners of her room, determined to leave her dejected, like a ship caught in the doldrums without its sustaining winds; instead, she tried to remember the day of the week and when it was she had last seen Leander and heard his voice. She had not been successful in recalling either when howls of alarm awoke the slumbering street beneath her windows. Leaping from her warm bed, she tripped toward her heavy curtains, tore them aside and unlocked the shutters. It was still early. Dawn had not touched the western horizon with the wick of her candle, and yet the sky over Portsmouth was bright and billowing with a fiery illumination. Emily felt a gust of the waning night's chill on her cheek, smelled acrid gunpowder in the air, and stared in bewilderment at the crowds scurrying about in circles on the cobbles of Broad Street, carrying torches and lanterns, and chattering to each other in feverish tones of distress.
Dear God! Had a munitions warehouse of Congreve rockets exploded? Were they under siege? Had fleets of French and American ships turned their cannons upon the seaside town and set homes ablaze, hoping to burn the habitants alive in their beds?
"What is it?" Emily shouted to those gathered below. "What has happened?"
From amidst the crowd that swelled in number as she awaited an answer, a breathless, obliging voice struck her ears: "'Tis a fire, Miss! A ship's gone and blown up in the harbour. There'll be dead men everywhere."
Emily withdrew, wavering in shock as she absorbed the intelligence. She gripped the window ledge — for surely the room was spinning around her, the cold floorboards buckling beneath her bare feet — and watched the fire scaling the inky sky, higher and higher, praying she was simply dreaming, entangled in another sequence of the same nightmare.
Yesterday she had learned that her friend, Fly Austen, had been promoted to the rank of post-captain and had taken command of HMS Invincible, a 36-gun frigate moored near the dockyard wharves, being quickly fitted out for duty in the American war. Dear little Magpie would be on that ship, his head of curls asleep on his pillow below on the berthing deck, and though she could not be certain of his whereabouts, for they had not met in days, there was a strong possibility that Leander was on the Invincible, as well.
That same invisible being that had shaken her awake had now enclosed her heart in its monstrous fists, crushing the life from it.
What if ...?
There was no time to light the oil lamp. She felt her way to the corner cupboard and groped through her small pile of clothes for her sailor's slops. As she dressed in the dark, frantic to find her way into the legs of her trousers, her fingers fumbling with the stubborn buttons of her checked shirt, Leander's gentle voice crept into her conscience:
"Remember, you must stay here. Unless I come for you, do not leave the inn. It is more than likely that your family has sent spies out looking for you."
"I will not go back to Hartwood Hall, Leander — ever."
"Then, please, please heed what I say. Give me your word you will not risk it."
"You have my word."
Emily squeezed her eyes shut. She slowed the task of coiling her pale-gold hair beneath a scarf, allowing the pleading voice to tear at the armour of her resolve, imagining the whisperer standing in the musky darkness beside her, his warm breath on her cheek. Pleading ...
But he had not come. And in the days since they had first been reunited, she had seen him but twice and therefore could not be certain of his whereabouts, or whether he would ever come to her again.
Beyond her room, doors opened and closed.
Questions and cries filled the hallways of the inn.
Heavy footsteps hurried downstairs.
Around her, the air thickened with smoke.
She could not stay here. It would be impossible ... not knowing.
This time, Emily would dodge Leander's protective shadow. This time, she would not heed his entreaty, despite having given him her word. Leaving him behind in the blue dimness of her receding nightmare, she quickly searched the bare floor for her shoes, knotted the scarf at the nape of her neck and faced the door. Inhaling courage, she ran out before arms — real or imagined — could stop her.
5:00 A.M. (Morning Watch, Two Bells) Aboard HMS Invincible Portsmouth Harbour
"Lower the boats!"
"Search for any survivors!"
"For God's sake, where is our bo'sun? Have him raise the men from their beds at once!"
Captain Austen was already dressed and dispensing disquieting orders to his Invincibles who were presently on duty when Magpie, the little sailmaker, arrived on the fore deck, his bandaged arm pressed against his chest, heaving in breathlessness. The shock of the explosion had nearly knocked him out of his hammock and hurled his heart into his mouth, so convinced he was that it had been the Invincible's own store of gunpowder that had blown. Quickly, he adjusted the woolly thrum cap sitting atop his head, so that it didn't weigh down quite as heavily upon the patch that covered his lost eye, and then his gaze leapt over the bulwark of Captain Austen's frigate and across the water where a burning ship lay in the harbour away from the dockyard, engulfed in large, rising volumes of smoke. The flames issuing forth from her gunports looked as hot and hellish as furnaces of coal.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Run Red with Blood"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Cheryl Cooper.
Excerpted by permission of Dundurn Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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