Chapter 26

 

“Hae ye ever made these before?” Brodie asked Frederick as they sat in the shadows behind a blacksmith’s shop, assembling the powder flasks—or grenades—that his father had taught him to make when he was young.

“Aye, but I’ve never had occasion to use them.” Now that he thought about it, his father had taught him many useful things, some of which had already saved his life. He had also taught him many unhelpful things, such as how to spew a barrage of unyielding criticism, a skill he’d learned from the many times he’d made a mistake. Captain Kent Carlton was a hard man to please, and for all of Frederick’s efforts, he had consistently failed to do so.

“Nay. Here. Like this,” Frederick took the hollow ceramic ball from Brodie. “First pour in the tar, then the gunpowder, then you stick the fuse in like this.” He coated more tar over the top around the fuse, then gently laid it aside. “The tar will make a great smoke screen,” he added, examining the one Jo had just assembled. When he’d first explained what they were making, the master gunner could hardly contain her excitement. As it was, she caught on quickly and had already made more than either Brodie or Wilson.

He smiled her way before rising and stretching his sore rib and shoulder. They’d had to “borrow” the required supplies from several shops in Fort Royal. Frederick had left enough coins in each to cover the cost. Still, guilt assailed him. But what else could he have done?

Inching around the back of the blacksmith’s shop, he peered toward the town square across the street where Reena and another prisoner hung in pillories. Three guards stood on either side of them, muskets slung across their chests, ready to fire, though he could hardly make them out now in the darkness. The moon had slunk away as if disgusted by the gruesome scene. Frederick couldn’t blame it, but he could no longer see Reena. He heard her shifting in the pillory, heard her chains rattle, her tiny moans of pain. And it took everything within him to wait, to plan, and to do things right so he’d have the best chance of rescuing her without further injury—to any of them. Yet his heart bore a palpable ache knowing she was suffering so much within his reach. He longed to tell her that he was near…to hang on, that he was coming. But he dared not. Instead, he had spent the past two hours forming a plan, gathering supplies, and making grenades.

In the meantime, the town had grown quiet as well, which was perfect for his plan.

He wandered back to the group. Wilson glanced up at him. “Cap’n, if we toss these toward those guards, won’t that bring others into the square?”

“Precisely why we aren’t going to do that. At least not at first. How many do we have?” He stooped to examine the pile.

“At least a dozen,” Jo said.

“That’s enough. Brodie, you and Jo take six and set them off as I instructed near the governor’s house two miles north, then hurry back here.”

Nodding, Brodie and Jo carefully gathered the grenades and started away.

“And don’t get caught,” Frederick whispered after them.

“Never,” Jo responded before they disappeared around the corner.

“Follow me,” Frederick ordered Wilson as they gathered the rest of the grenades and crept along the back of the blacksmith’s shop, then past the chandler, the tailor…and finally across the main street where the guards wouldn’t see them.

Oh Lord, I need your help. Help me to rescue Reena. He knew this must be God's plan or else Frederick would be on La Sirène right now, preparing to set sail at dawn to Saint-Domingue. And that gave him courage to proceed.

Halting in the shadows beside a warehouse, Frederick peeked around the corner. Naught but darkness and shifting shadows met his gaze, but then a strange light appeared—a tiny spark that grew into a glowing column. It showered over Reena in the pillory, and she looked up as if she saw it as well. Frederick couldn’t be sure what it was, but the sight gave him hope that God was, indeed, on their side. And so he waited…and waited… for the expected explosions.

Retrieving flint and steel from his pocket, he gestured for Wilson to hold one of the grenades.

And still they waited.

Minutes ticked past like hours. The column of light was still there, but Reena had hung her head again.

Boom! Boom! Boom! Air and ground reverberated with the blasts. The guards dashed from their spots into the square, muskets at the ready. Their frenzied voices filled the air with French expletives. One of them pointed down the street, exclaiming, “la maison du gouverneur!” Three more explosions punched the sky, and one of the men brayed orders that sent four of them barreling down the street.

Two remained. Good. Smiling, Frederick struck flint to steel, lit the grenade, then tossed it into the square, far enough from the guards so as not to hurt them, but close enough to flood them with smoke. The blast thundered louder than he expected. Ears ringing, he lit another and another and tossed them after the first.

Explosion after explosion rocked the night. French curses whipped the air, along with the sound of boots scrambling to and fro. A musket fired. Thick, black smoke bloated the plaza.

Drawing his cutlass, Frederick gave a nod to Wilson, and together they charged forward. He couldn’t see Reena but headed straight for her pillory. A glimmer caught his eye. A blade sliced the smoke toward his head. He lifted his cutlass just in time and met it with equal intensity. A Frenchman emerged from the fog, his face lined with soot and sweat. He whirled about and sliced at Frederick from the left.

Thunderation. He had hoped the smoke would hide him until he could free Reena.

Swooping down, Frederick rushed blindly at the man. The steel of their blades hissed in the night. Another clang in the distance told him Wilson was equally engaged.

A horn rang through the city, sounding the alarm. They hadn’t much time. Where were Jo and Brodie? Lifting up a prayer for their safety, he tilted his cutlass down in defense, then swung it back up, caught his opponent’s hilt with his tip, and snapped it from the man’s hands. Shock widened the Frenchman’s eyes as he plucked the pistol from his belt, but before he could cock it, Frederick slammed his pommel on the man’s hand. The pistol fell to the ground and the Frenchman darted away.

The smoke began to clear. Wilson shrank back from his opponent, obviously outmatched. Frederick started for him, but Brodie appeared out of the haze, sword raised, and quickly dispatched the man with a slice to his leg.

Dashing toward Reena, Frederick slammed the butt of his pistol on the bolts, tore them from the chains, then lifted the top from her head and hands. She struggled to raise her head, and he circled around to lift her up. Strips of bloody flesh crisscrossed her back.

Another alarm sounded—accompanied by the thunder of horse hooves.

“Reena.” He knelt and took her head in his hands.

Moaning, she pried her eyes open. “Freddy? What are you doing here?”

“My turn to rescue you, Kitten.”

Wilson, Brodie, and Jo appeared beside him. Jo shrieked at the sight of Reena’s back.

“Hurry.” Frederick hoisted Reena up. Then slipping his arm beneath hers, he dragged her over the cobblestones.

“Nay!” She breathed out. “Wait!”

Ignoring her, Frederick continued.

She dug her heel into the dirt. “My friend. Henry. We can’t leave him.” She gestured with her head toward the other pillory.

Brodie glanced back. “We havena time, Captain. Come!”

“Nay!” She shouted with what Frederick assumed was the last of her strength. And if he knew one thing, ’twas not to argue with the woman when she got something stuck in her mind.

Jo cursed. “He’s gettin’ what he deserves.”

“We bring him with us.” Reena’s voice lacked her usual strength, but her authority rang through. “That’s an order!”

The woman’s kind heart never failed to amaze Frederick as he gestured for Brodie and Wilson to get the man. From the moans and groans, he assumed Henry was in worse shape than Reena. In fact, it took both Brodie and Wilson to carry him across the square, then through the dark alleyways of town, stopping occasionally to avoid French troops. Frederick did not feel safe until they finally plunged into the jungle and emerged on shore to the boat Abraham had left for them.

Once aboard the Reckless, Abraham informed Frederick that, indeed, Antoine had made an attempt to board with a dozen men, but he and the crew had repelled them off successfully.

“Excellent.” Frederick turned to Brodie, climbing aboard after him with Henry in his arms. “Settle him and then grab your bag and meet me in Reena’s cabin.” A thin gray line appeared on the horizon, announcing the arrival of the sun. They needed to make their escape now lest Antoine make another attempt.

“How’s de cap’n?” Abraham must have finally seen her wounds and approached.

“They whipped her,” Frederick said then shouted across the deck, “Lay aloft and loose all sails!” The crew scattered to obey as Abraham nodded his understanding and ordered them further to task.

Sweeping Reena in his arms—being ever so careful not to touch her back—Frederick climbed down the companionway, more angry at himself than he’d been in a long while. This would not have happened if he had remained with her. Was he being selfish to want to warn his family and friends? To get as far away from her as he could?

Kicking open her cabin door, he gently laid her on her side on the bed. Then, lighting a lantern, he held it above her. Frederick was not one to cry, but his eyes burned when he saw the stripes of shredded flesh. Forcing back his sorrow, he allowed his anger to rise instead. Toward himself, but mostly toward Antoine. In the past, when Frederick’s raging temper was in full eruption, everyone in the vicinity had scattered. That old temper now entertained thoughts of murdering the villainous Frenchman in a variety of agonizing tortures.