Chapter Twenty-Three

“This way, miss.”

Having convinced Agatha to remain at home, Lily followed the soldier across the cluttered deck of the prison ship, determined to act unruffled by the filth and barefaced stares. What absolute squalor. A dozen emaciated wretches toiled in the scorching sun under the watchful gaze of armed sentries. The deplorable army couldn’t see fit to adequately feed the half-starved prisoners. As she neared the passageway to the hold, an incredible stench rose, so overpowering it forced her to press a perfumed hanky to her nose.

The Jersey, one of a dozen obsolete and damaged ships, housed the overflow of captives. In comparison, the Providence appeared stellar and pristine. Wouldn’t Mulworthy gloat? As despicable as the man was, even he would find the putrid conditions and malnourished men deplorable.

Sickened and helpless to provide any aid or comfort, she marched on past wounded men who bore open sores and ragged shirts stained with sweat and blood. On the heels of her guide, she descended to a lower level. The light was inadequate but enough to illuminate further decay and vermin. A rat with a hairless tail scuttled along the baseboard. Overpowered by the stink of rot and sickness, she pressed the linen tighter to her nostrils, unable to fathom how the British sanctioned this hellhole. Awash with queasiness and unease, she entered a windowless room pointed out by the soldier. A lantern blazed on the table. He motioned for her to sit in one of the two plain wooden chairs.

“I need to see the basket.” Suspiciously, he ogled the goods she tucked protectively to her side.

“Of course.”

To be treated like a common criminal who sneaked contraband in a gift of much needed rations raised her hackles. Once again, she realized the shift of her allegiance. A few days ago, King George held her complete support. The sacrifices of Papa and Griffin had muddied and strained her loyalty. The situation between England and the Colonies was more complex than she previously believed, and the right and wrong of a person’s actions more difficult to judge. As a shocked witness to this travesty, she could understand why people called the King a tyrant.

“God forbid I should sneak a pistol or sword aboard.”

The sour man glowered.

“Those poor, sick men might rise up in revolt and steal all the maggoty cheese from the larder.” She placed the wicker parcel on the table and stripped away the towel. “You’ll find fruit, nuts, bread and ham.” For a better view, she angled the container. As though her effort lacked substance, he dragged the basket closer and jammed a hand inside.

“Apple brandy,” she explained as he took the bottle.

He uncorked it and sniffed. “This isn’t allowed.”

What a lie.

“You have your orders.” No doubt, the fellow would consume the wine by nightfall.

“Five minutes,” he grumbled. He stuffed the bottle inside his jacket and left her alone.

Five minutes to visit Papa. Such a short time when there was much to say and years to cover. How often she’d prayed for this moment, waited and waited. At last, the time had arrived, and it left her palms sweaty and her nerves jittery.

She sank into one of the chairs at the table. Tense fingers curled in her lap. What would he say? Would he be as thrilled to see her as she would him? For the hundredth time, she imagined the sheer joy of their reunion vivid on his face. Barely able to breathe for her excitement, she inhaled a nose full of rank air and winced.

When the door rattled, she startled.

A strange disheveled man with a scruffy beard stood in the doorway. Oily and haggard, his grimy, ill-fitting clothes sagged on his thin frame. Straggly gray hair brushed the top of his slumped shoulders. A beggar, she thought, one of those poor souls who lived every day on the edge of death. Uncertain what to say, she searched his eyes and caught a familiar, unmistakable twinkle.

“Papa!” She shot from the chair and seized him in a tight hug. His bones felt brittle as a twig and as precious as anything she’d ever held. A sharp odor of sickness and stale sweat rose from his body.

“My child. My baby.” His voice cracked. With surprising strength, he held her at arm’s length and studied her with a clear, steady gaze that hadn’t changed over the years. A patchwork of wrinkles creased his forehead. Only a trace of the youthful, ebony hair remained in his brows. “You look so bonny. Just like your mama.”

Tears arose, and she floated on a cloud of happiness. She kissed his cheek. The reek of his skin tasted bitter on her lips. Scratchy whiskers rasped her face.

“Come, sit down.” Hands trembling, she led him to a chair, worried his spindly legs might collapse.

“I can’t believe it.” He cupped her chin, his fingers skeletal. “How did you get here? How did you find me?”

A high, quick laugh tumbled out, tinged with the pent-up anxiety of the last few days. “I knew, Papa. When your letters stopped, I knew something was wrong.”

“Dear Lily. You remain as tenacious and loyal as ever, fiercer even than your mother. I should have realized you’d find a way to do battle on my behalf.” As he’d done countless times in the past, he tweaked her nose, a playful gesture left over from her childhood.

“This place…” He glanced about. “I can’t mail letters.”

“I understand.”

“If I had written, I would have begged you to stay in London.”

Her smile fell away. “You don’t want me?” All at once, she sounded like the frightened, unlovable child about to board the ship to England. Hurt and confused, she couldn’t understand why he’d sent her away.

“Of course, I want you.”

The earnest words boosted her spirit.

“With this bloody war, the civil unrest, I didn’t want you to get hurt.” He caressed her cheek and sighed.

Did he not understand that every day without him hurt? “I love you, Papa.”

“And I love you.”

Of course, he loved her. What a fool she’d been to doubt his sentiments. “You’re my family, Papa. My home.” She’d always known home wasn’t London or Uncle Percy. It had taken the present to make things more certain. “If we aren’t together now, when will we ever be?”

He dropped his gaze and wove his fingers together over the table. Dirt stained the skin folds in his knuckles. “I wasn’t myself after your mother died.”

The flat, monotone quality of his voice stirred her worry. Here it comes, she thought, the explanation for their years of separation. While in London, it remained a constant question, a persistent ache and fear, one in which she could never bring herself to seek clarification in a letter.

“When she died…”

The foul smell and the noise of the ship fell away. Only Papa remained and the need to hear and understand.

“I plunged into darkness, into a black well so deep I couldn’t escape.”

She clasped his hands and refused to let go. “You don’t need to explain.”

“I must, Lily. You need to understand, particularly under the circumstances. It’s all I’ve thought about, being here and you so far away.” His troubled gaze skirted over the stark surroundings, the mildewed walls, the rough plank flooring, his fear he might die in this dungeon etched in his lined face. “I felt only pain—my pain, irrespective of anyone or anything else. It was selfish.”

“Papa, don’t. You were sick.”

“I thought if I could work, it would bring me to my senses…yet I couldn’t think straight.”

Day after day, Lily had gone to his study door, only to find it locked and Papa unavailable. “You tried, Papa.”

“It wasn’t right. I failed you.” Slowly, as if weighted by an enormous burden, he hung his head and eased his hands from her grasp. “When this tiresome conflict with England arose, I had to do something, to make things better. I thought sending you to my sister Charlotte was the answer. Can you ever forgive me?”

“It’s over, Papa.” She swiped away the wetness on her cheek. “We’re together. It’s what matters. That and your return home.”

The poor man was not the man of years ago. The former professor had withered away in mind and body. No longer did he possess full cheeks or a rounded belly but bony knobs on his collarbone grimed with dirt and sweat.

“Papa, please tell me you didn’t sign your name to…”

He silenced her with a slight lift of a hand, and her spirit sank with foreboding. “Yes, I did sign the document.”

“It’s so foo—” She reddened.

“Foolish it might be, but necessary.”

“Why? You aren’t interested in politics.”

He shrugged. “I never spoke politics in front of you. It doesn’t mean I didn’t read and form my own opinions.”

Lily studied the new species sitting before her.

“Your mother and I discussed politics often.”

She didn’t remember any of this. Of course, she’d been a child. “You’ve always been so loyal to the King.”

He cocked a brow. “Have I?”

“I just assumed.” Somehow, those absolutes she believed of him no longer rang true.

He flicked a nervous glance at the door, and lowered his voice. “This is not the place to debate such matters. In the full analysis of ideas, being out from under the capricious whims of one single man makes sense.”

Lily stared and tried to absorb this new man whose liberal attitudes would take time to appreciate. “You’ll be hanged as a traitor.”

“Do you think I’m a traitor?”

She nibbled her bottom lip, thinking. It was clear he no longer considered himself an English subject. America, his new country, held his allegiance. “No, you’re not a traitor. You’re a man who believes in a different political ideal.”

Just like Griffin.

“The tides of change cannot be stopped,” he said. “We’ll win this war and with it a new country.”

An overload of new information boggled her mind. Griffin and Papa subscribed to beliefs for which each would gladly die. Their convictions had the ring of truth and righteousness. Only a fool would turn against the truth. She must trust and believe.

“Enough about me. How are you, dear girl?” No sooner had he asked than he began to cough. His bony back rounded with his efforts. Helpless, she watched in fear as his thin shoulders heaved.

“You’re sick,” she cried and felt his clammy forehead. “Have you seen a doctor?”

After a bark of sarcastic laughter, he swiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “A little cough. It’ll soon be gone.”

“In a place like this?” Sickness and death could roll through a ship like a hurricane. “I won’t lose you, Papa.”

“Try not to worry about me.”

How could she not? Nevertheless, she took a smidgen of relief from his reassuring smile.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

Her cheeks heated as Griffin wafted in her head. For a few weeks, she had been happy.

“My happiness isn’t important. We have to get you off this ship.” Her fretful gaze slid to the door monitored by the guard outside. Though she knew it wouldn’t work, she considered throwing her thin cloak around him, a disguise to hustle him away from this hell.

“Why won’t you declare it was all a mistake—suggest some enemy signed your name?”

“Lily.” His rough voice scratched. “I won’t be a coward to save my neck. Many people make greater sacrifices every day.”

Again, the similarities to Griffin came to mind. “I need you,” she whispered.

He skimmed a thumb over her cheek. “You’ll always be my little girl.”

“Oh, Papa.” She threw herself at him while the tears washed once again over her cheeks. This heartbreak couldn’t be real. As she clutched at his bony shoulders, afraid to let him go, she murmured words of hope.

Through her sobs, someone said, “Your time is up, Miss.”

No. It couldn’t end here.

Determined hands gently pushed her away. “It’s time to go, Lily.”

Through a hazy gaze, she memorized his face and form and the fragile bend in his spine—all so different from the vital man in his wedding portrait.

In the doorway, the guard exuded an air of impatience. “Come along, madam.”

She glared at the soldier who seemed devoid of any sympathy. “I won’t abandon you, Papa.”

He kissed her forehead. “Don’t worry. Once the war is over, we’ll be together.”

She gaped at his maddening confidence. He could be dead in a week, from starvation if disease didn’t claim him first.

With an odd mix of bravado and gravity, he shrugged and smiled.

“There’s food in the basket.”

They hugged one last time.

A few labored steps took her across the small room. At the door, she hesitated. “I love you.”

“And I, you.”

Gulping back a sob, she whisked through the door, unable to bear his tears.

If he didn’t get off this ship soon, he was as good as dead. They both knew it.