Second Summer of War by Cheryl Cooper

Author:Cheryl Cooper
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2014-01-07T00:00:00+00:00

Sunday, August 22

Noon

At Sea

The nights proved to be so bitterly cold that the men were forced to huddle with one another to keep from perishing, but during the daylight hours, if the sun dominated the skies, their existence in the skiff was tortuous. To safeguard his freckled skin and hot head against the sun, Leander dipped his coat into the sea and wrung it out before slipping his arms into it, and then wrapped his muslin shirt around his head like a turban.

“I’d do the same, Doc, but if we’ve a chance o’ bein’ spotted I’d best keep me shock o’ hair unbound,” said Biscuit, reaching instead for his flask of grog. “That way we might be perceived as a burnin’ vessel, and someone might come lookin’.”

Leander’s weary gaze slid past the single mast and four-sided lugsail — with which the eighteen-foot skiff had propitiously been fitted out — toward the squared-off stern where two of their three companions lay asleep, curled up and half-naked under a makeshift roof of knotted shirts and trousers, while the third, who had barely said a word since the storm, kept wetting the sail to hold the light wind. Leander was thankful that not one of them had been lost; it was already more than he could bear, this gnawing fear, this drifting around in the Atlantic, wondering if there was any chance for survival, and, if not, would they all starve or be slowly roasted to death. Admittedly, he was strangely comforted by the presence of Biscuit, as the cook seemed genuinely nonchalant about their circumstances and, having no spirit for conversation, he was content to listen to Biscuit’s endless chatter, even though, after almost a week of it, the man had now taken to repeating himself and his seafaring yarns.

“When the Isabelle was set afire, and we lads, along with Mr. Austen, were bobbin’ about, we had no food, no drink. Ach, we were a sorry lot. So I decided that won’t be happenin’ on the Amethyst, and hid a pail o’ salted pork and dried beans in every boat fer this kind o’ occasion. Of course, I couldn’t stash the grog away.”

“Why is that?”

“At night the lads on watch would sniff it out, and be sportin’ grog blossoms in the mornin’, the kind Mr. Austen would be sure to spot.”

“Grog blossoms?”

“Ya know, when yer all flush-faced from drinkin’.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I grabbed nothin’ prior to leavin’ the sinkin’ Isabelle, so this time I made sure we wouldna go thirsty.” Biscuit helped himself to a carefully measured swig before passing off the flask to Leander, who, in turn, slid it along the boat’s ribbed bottom toward the taciturn coxswain.

“I’m grateful for that which experience has taught you. It would be dire indeed if it weren’t for your beans and pork, and flasks of grog. I don’t think we would’ve survived long on handfuls of rainwater.”

“Truth is, Doc, I’m always carryin’ a full flask hidden in me shirt. Ya won’t be tellin’ that to Mr.

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