Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle by Cheryl Cooper Page A

their mates. They sat in groups, reclining on benches, barrels, and sea chests, and at the tables sandwiched between the menacing carronades lying silent in their open gunports. Hanging on a hook above each table was a swinging bucket of steaming food, and nailed to the walls were racks of wooden spoons and bowls.
    Emily beheld the boisterous scene before her, relieved that the sailors were preoccupied with a variety of pursuits: gambling, arguing, singing, arm wrestling, and blowing tunes on flutes. In all her eighteen years, she had never been in a room with so many men. She could hear the thump of her heart and was shocked to admit it was not anxiety that caused its rapid beating.
    It was not long before she was noticed. One by one, the men slapped one another and gestured in her direction. They ceased their flute playing, paused in their wrestling, and quit arguing long enough to take a good long look at the newcomer with the walking cane. A strange hush permeated the mess where only moments before there had been hilarity and din. Emily could hear a whistle blowing above deck, and beyond the gunports the squawk of the seagulls. A flush crept up her neck.
    An enormous shirtless fellow with a squashed-in nose and peg leg spun around on his bucket to look her up and down. “Nice shoes, sailor,” he shouted, causing his mates to erupt into laughter. From behind the heckler, Morgan Evans’s face appeared.
    “You’re speaking to a midshipman, Jacko. I didn’t see ya salute.”
    “A mid?” Jacko’s thick features displayed shock. “I ain’t never seen a mid wearin’ blue silk shoes.”
    “It’s Mr. George.” Morgan gave Emily a respectful nod. “Sir.”
    “Ah, Mr. George, come ’ave a drink with us.” Jacko raised a hammy arm to her.
    There was more laughter and muttered remarks. It was impossible for Emily to respond as her throat had gone dry. She stood there like a gaping idiot, uncertain of what to do. Then behind her came a familiar reek, and a clap on the back that would have sent her sprawling across the floor had Jacko not caught her with one of his huge hands.
    “Come sit a while, Mr. George, sir,” said Biscuit, steering her towards Morgan’s table. “These lads here – thee ones admirin’ yer shoes – just happen to be me messmates. Shove over lads so our friend can join us.” Biscuit pushed Emily down hard on the bench, compressing her between Morgan and Jacko, then, finding a space for himself across the table from them, he snapped his fingers at the nearest servant lad. “You there, boyo, fetch me two mugs o’ beer.”
    Gradually the noise in the mess resumed as the men returned to their various amusements. Emily sat frozen between Jacko’s sweaty bare flesh and Morgan, who had quietly pulled his woollen sock off his head, while eight pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed themselves on her reddened face.
    “Mr. George’s been in thee hospital these past days and hasn’t had a drop to drink ’cause – as we all know – Doc Braden don’t allow spirits in his domain.” Biscuit took the mugs from the hovering servant boy and handed one to Emily. “Now, drink up, young lad. This stuff is sure to put hair on yer chest.” He winked his good eye at her.
    Emily sipped the horrid, watery stuff, forcing herself to swallow it rather than spit it all over Jacko, as she would have liked to do. Morgan leaned his right arm on the table and cradled his head on his upturned hand to look at her. “There’s no fear of you getting drunk if you’re going to drink your beer that way.”
    “Mr. George,” said Jacko, showing her two rows of green teeth, “ya look like a regular fop in them shoes. Don’t want the other lads thinkin’ yer a bit of a Beau Brummel now, do ya? They may get the wrong idea about ya. Now, seein’ as I’m the shoemaker here on the Isabelle, how be I knock ya up a pair o’ sensible black leathers? And if yer agreeable to partin’ with a couple o’ pounds, I can arrange