17
Tom was glad to leave the city. The light winds made their journey upriver a slow one. Though the James Patrick was a swift sloop with copious sail and a shallow draft, they battled current and wind direction that forced them to tack from side to side. The relatively short distance would take until well past nightfall.
The slow progress also gave them ample time to view the ragged shoreline buttressed by levees. The springtime river clearly flooded over the lands where the levees were low or had failed, and planters kept the houses far from the riverbanks. All manner of vessels dotted the shores. Many were steam powered and paddle wheels. They weren’t subject to the vagaries of the wind, like sailing craft.
“Keep a lookout for a black clipper ship,” Tom told Rourke. He itched to pull out his spyglass, but he was manning the wheel.
“Black hull?”
“She might even have black sails.”
“Do you know its name?”
Tom shook his head. “Boyce never told me that. I doubt they’d keep it the Rachael Deare. But I’ll recognize its lines.”
Though Rourke looked skeptical, he shouted the order up to Jules, who was perched in the lookout. “But most of all watch out for snags and logs.”
They’d already come close to hitting one of those.
“Shoal!” Jules called down almost at once. He pointed to larboard, and Tom steered in the opposite direction.
Rounding this shoal took them close to the starboard bank. As they drew near, Tom realized that the shoreline wasn’t as unbroken as it had appeared. A small cut led off the main waterway, creating a miniature harbor. The perfect place to hide a ship. The trees were tall there and would conceal even the mast of a sizable sailing vessel.
He turned toward the mouth of the cut.
“Where are you going?” Rourke demanded.
“To that little cove. It would be perfect for hiding a ship.”
Rourke lifted his spyglass, peered at the shore, and then collapsed it with a snap. “You think it’s there?”
“We haven’t seen it yet, and you heard what the stevedores said, that it had come upriver earlier today. Probably while I was sitting in Lafreniere’s office.”
“Perhaps they were wrong. Boyce did say it wouldn’t arrive for a week.”
“He said it was due within the week. That’s entirely different. Besides, it won’t hurt to look.”
“Unless we run aground. It’ll take a lot of work to kedge us off a sandbar.”
Tom had helped in his share of kedging operations, usually for a stranded vessel that they’d hoped to salvage. If the master insisted on being hauled off the reef, they would use anchors and line to ever so slowly winch the ship free. On the ocean, the rise and fall of the tide had to be taken into account. If the ship had grounded at low tide, high tide might bring relief or at least an easier procedure. Here, there was no chance of rising water except due to rain. It hadn’t rained more than a smattering here and there since he and Catherine had arrived.
Catherine. The thought of her almost made him forget his father’s ship.
She was stuck in the house with DeMornay. Every moment delayed meant one more minute in the man’s clutches. On the other hand, Tom had waited ten long years to avenge his father. It was finally within reach. He must chance looking in the cove.
It would take only a few minutes longer. Surely she could hold out.
In spite of Catherine’s wishes, DeMornay stuck to her like a scratchy burr. Oh, he allowed her to enter the hall first and greet her neighbors, but he followed on her heels and made the introductions. Anyone could easily assume he was courting her. His overly solicitous manner only made things worse. Soon the glances her way had clouded or become suspicious.
She could think of no way out.
At first, the younger gentlemen begged a dance, but once the quartet began playing, none of them approached her. Apparently their interest had been corrected by concerned relations.
“Would you care to dance, Miss Haynes?” DeMornay bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand.
At least he hadn’t used any familiarities when addressing her, but she feared it was only a matter of time. Dancing together would both encourage the suit that he was apparently making and the rumors that were doubtless forming.
“No, thank you. I don’t care to dance.”
He retracted his hand. “I’m amazed you insisted on attending if you do not dance.”
“It’s an opportunity to meet my neighbors.”
If only she could speak to them without DeMornay listening to every word. She fiddled with the clasp on her bag. How could she get away from him long enough to speak to someone—anyone—in peace?
“Shall I take you home?” he asked.
She shook her head. That would not help her purpose. If no one would come to her, she must go to them—once she’d freed herself from her jailer. “I would like some punch, however. It is quite hot in here.”
Since they were standing on the opposite side of the room from the punch bowl, he would have to step out of earshot.
He must have realized that at the same moment, for his expression tightened. He held out his arm. “Of course. Allow me to escort you.”
She gritted her teeth. Would he never give her a moment alone? She fanned her face. “I believe I shall sit.”
An elderly gentleman drew near. “Then allow me to lead you to an open chair that my wife is saving.” It was Judge Graham.
Catherine beamed at him. “I would be much obliged.” She took his arm. “Perhaps Mrs. Graham would like punch also. Would you fetch two glasses, Mr. DeMornay?”
Even his stoic expression couldn’t hide his annoyance.
Without waiting for a response, she and the judge moved to a small grouping of chairs. Thankfully, DeMornay did not follow.
The judge, however, guided her slightly to the left. “Would you care to take a turn on the veranda? The night air is cooler.”
“Thank you. I would like that very much.” She glanced back to see DeMornay navigating through the dancers. His back was to her.
“Perhaps we might escape while your shadow is occupied,” the judge suggested.
He whisked her through a hallway just a few steps away and out of view of DeMornay. Moments later, they exited the building onto a broad veranda populated by a few couples who hung in the shadows. A single lamp lit the doorway. None illuminated the grounds, where the carriages waited. The drivers gathered on the far side of the conveyances, laughing and jesting and sharing tales.
“The far corner is unoccupied,” the judge noted, “if it doesn’t trouble you to spend a moment or two in the company of an older man.”
Catherine laughed. “An older and happily married man, if my observations are correct.”
“They are.” He directed her toward the corner of the veranda. “From here we have a view of both the rear door and anyone approaching from the front.”
Though he named no one, she knew who he meant.
Once they settled in the corner, she asked, “Might I ask how a manager can gain control of a plantation? Is it common?”
“It’s not uncommon for an owner to place confidence in his manager. However, most planters live on-site.”
“Not my cousin Henry Lafreniere.”
“Ah, your cousin, is he?”
She nodded. “My mother and Uncle Henri were siblings, though he was older than her by a decade.”
“I see. Then they were not close.”
Catherine thought back. “Maman said he was selfish and ambitious. She wanted nothing to do with him.”
The judge nodded. “Men—and women—can change over time.”
“I hope so, but can they change their true nature?”
Judge Graham chuckled. “A good question that many have asked.” He sobered. “Miss Haynes, I believe I have something that belongs to you.”
“To me? Did I leave something behind on the ferry?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. Your uncle left a document in my care, to be given to you if you ever arrived at Black Oak.”
Her jaw dropped. “Then he knew of me.”
“Apparently your mother sent letters to her mother.”
“Maman,” Catherine whispered. “Then they knew. All that charade about a tomb, and they knew she was alive.”
“I suspect so, but the charade, as you call it, had already taken place.”
Catherine sighed and closed her eyes against the foolishness of the situation. If only Grandmama or even Uncle Henri had acknowledged the truth, this schism in the family might never have occurred. The family would still control the plantation and would not have given authority to a man who did not merit it.
“That’s why you invited me to the dance.”
“It is,” the judge responded.
“You have the document with you?”
“It is too large for you to hide on your person—and from your shadow.” The judge glanced toward the rear entrance. “Perhaps you could come to my office.”
“Not without DeMornay. He follows me everywhere.”
“Then there is no time when you’re alone?”
It took only a moment for her to answer. “In the late morning. By then he has ridden out to the sugarhouse and far fields to check on the workers.”
“Then I will meet you at Black Oak during that time. Tomorrow?”
She nodded. “Can you tell me now if I have any claim to part of Black Oak?”
He shook his head. “Later. In the daylight.”
Catherine looked into the inky blackness that surrounded them. Anyone might be listening, especially DeMornay.
The judge stepped deeper into the darkness. “Good evening, Miss Haynes. You would do well not to mention our conversation to anyone.”
The moment he left, DeMornay arrived. “It’s not wise to go outdoors alone.”
Though it might have been caution from a caring relation, from DeMornay it only tightened the chains binding her.
“This is it.” Tom perched on the gunwale, ready to jump from the James Patrick to the deck of the black ship. “It’s my father’s ship. I’m sure of it.”
“It’s growing dark, and you haven’t seen the ship in ten years. You were much younger then.” Rourke had expressed skepticism from the moment Tom insisted they explore the cove.
“I’d know the Rachael Deare anywhere. It’s her.”
The James Patrick drew near. Another couple feet and Tom could make the leap.
“Ahoy!” Rourke called out.
Tom whipped around. “Why did you do that?”
“What if someone’s aboard?”
“There isn’t anyone, or they would have come on deck the moment we approached.” The crew of the James Patrick had been as noisy as a New Orleans street. Rourke’s shout sealed that the ship was unoccupied.
Tom sprang off the gunwale and landed on the black ship’s deck.
No one came racing above decks to challenge him. Nonetheless, Tom kept one hand on his dagger.
“She’s moored to the trees ashore,” he reported. “Probably anchored as well.”
“What do you intend to do?” Rourke called across the narrow gap.
Soon the crew of the James Patrick would have the two ships lashed together, as if undergoing a salvage operation.
“Sail her out of here.” That response came to mind first, though Tom had no idea what he would do then.
“And leave Miss Haynes to her own defenses?” Rourke pointed out.
Tom swallowed his disappointment. He mustn’t act rashly. He needed to take everything into account.
“The owner might take offense,” Rourke added, “and send the law after you.”
“Then he will put his own thievery on display. I have the documents proving Pa owned this ship.”
Rourke crossed to join Tom aboard the black ship. “Suppose the thief is no longer the owner?”
That possibility had never dawned on Tom. Mornez—or DeMornay, if that was his true name—might have sold the vessel. Except . . .
“Boyce all but said that DeMornay is the owner.” He stared at the huge tree just inland from the riverbank. It looked familiar. At last he recognized it as the blackened oak that gave the Lafreniere plantation its name. “Moreover, we’re practically on Black Oak plantation. If I’m not mistaken, that’s the tree marking the boundary. This is Pa’s ship.”
“Then why hide it now, all these years later? The landing is a short distance away.”
“Because DeMornay knows I’m here and will look for it.”
“Or this cove offers better protection than the landing,” Rourke mused.
Tom bristled at Rourke continuing to offer alternatives. “I can show you proof, a mark I made when a lad.”
“You think it would still be there?”
“Even Pa never found it.” Tom moved to the quarterdeck. Railings would be sanded top and bottom. Not the underside of the bottom step. He dropped to the deck and lay down to examine it. “Can I use your lantern?”
Rourke handed it over.
Tom had to hold the light close to make out the initials he had carved into the wood as a boy. TW, with the W upside down atop the T like a crown.
He scooted aside. “It’s there. My initials.”
He explained the configuration to Rourke, who took a look.
The man groaned as he rolled to a sitting position. “Then it is your father’s ship, but you can’t stoop to stealing it.”
“Stealing from a thief isn’t stealing.”
Rourke got to his feet. “Is that what the Good Book says?”
Tom knew better. Theft was theft in God’s eyes. No conditions.
“There’s nothing you can do tonight anyway,” Rourke pointed out. “We don’t know these waters well enough to take an unknown vessel downriver in the dark.”
“You expect me to leave Pa’s ship when I’ve just found it?” The very idea galled Tom. “It’s been ten years. I can’t just leave.”
“Can’t you? What is more important? Doing what’s right or ensuring justice on your terms?”
Something pricked Tom’s conscience. He shook it off. “Justice has gone unserved for too long. From what I’ve heard, folks around here will welcome real justice.”
“They will appreciate it even more when they can see that justice carried out before their eyes, not in the dead of night.”
Sometimes Rourke could be too overbearing.
“I have to do this,” Tom insisted.
Rourke clapped a hand on his shoulder. “I understand, but you can’t sail this ship by yourself, and I won’t lend you any of my crew. We will take this to the proper authority.”
“By then it could be too late. Even now DeMornay might be planning to move the ship.”
“Then we will find it, but we must not stoop to thievery.”
“He destroyed my father.”
“Will taking this ship bring your father back?”
“No, but—”
Rourke cut him off with a single uplifted finger. “To whom is your allegiance, Tom? No man can serve two masters. You know that well.”
“I’m not after money.” But Tom knew what Rourke meant. Though the Scripture referred to the love of money, it could apply to anything that took precedence over God. Such as revenge. “It’s not a sin to seek justice.”
“How do you plan to find it?”
Tom ran a hand along the well-polished rail. He’d looked for Pa’s ship for so long. Now that he’d found it, Rourke was asking him to give it up.
“You know the right course,” Rourke urged, “and where the wrong one leads.”
He would not demand that Tom abandon his vengeful plans. Instead, he laid out the consequences.
Tom’s resolve began to crumble. “Prison, pain, death.”
“Seek life, son.” Rourke added the final blow. “Miss Haynes needs you.”