Chapter 12

 

Marianne followed the officer called Reed, a tall, polished man with neatly trimmed coal-black hair, out of the captain’s cabin and down two doors to a room even smaller than the one she’d been given aboard the Fortune.

“The steward’s quarters, miss. At the captain’s orders, a fresh gown left by one of the sailor’s wives has been laid out for you on the bed. I suggest you put it on.” His deep voice held the monotonous tone of someone either terribly bored or in complete control of any errant emotions.

She swung to face him. “Mr. Reed, I beg you. Surely you can see I do not belong here.” She searched his eyes for a speck of compassion. “I am but an innocent lady, born and raised in Baltimore.”

A hint of disdain crossed his gaze. “That you were born in Baltimore, I will not question. That any of you seditious Americans are innocent, I refuse to believe.” He lifted a haughty brow and looked above her as if the sight repulsed him.

“We won our freedom from Britain honorably and fairly. Or do you insist that all peoples bow before your great nation?”

“Not all. Only those who owe us the very debt of their existence.” The whomp of sails thundered above and the ship canted. Marianne gripped the door frame for support, and Reed gave her a look of annoyance. “Though it appears you are no stranger to servitude, I doubt you are accustomed to the quality of service the captain requires.”

“How dare you? You do not know me, sir.”

“Guard your tongue, miss. I am an officer and will be addressed with respect.” He waved a hand through the air. “I’ll send Daniel to instruct you in your duties.” And with that, he nudged her inside, and closed the door.

Marianne slumped onto the thin, knotty mattress and hung her head. A beam of sunlight struck the ruby in her ring and set it aglow. She twisted it and thought of the day her father had given it to her for her twentieth birthday. He had looked so dapper in his maroon coat and brown trousers with the tips of his styled hair grazing his silk cravat. It was the only time Marianne felt as though he approved of her, if only a little. She could still picture her mother sitting in the chair by the hearth, holding Lizzie against her breast—just a year old at that time. A warm glow, akin to the one within her ruby, swept over Marianne at the memories. They had been a happy family once.

Falling to her knees, she dropped her head onto the mattress. Why, God, why? I don’t understand. What purpose could it have served to take Papa from us? Tears blurred her vision. And now this? Captured and enslaved on a British war ship. Help me understand.

The deck tilted and Marianne’s knees shifted over the floorboards. A splinter pierced her gown and into her leg. A pinprick of pain shot up her thigh. Yet no answer came from God. The booming crack of sails above and the crush of water pounding on the hull were answer enough. God had a plan, of that she was sure. However, it was surely a plan that did not consider her or her family’s happiness.

“Oh Lord, please take care of Noah and his men. It’s my fault they are here,” she sobbed. The rough burlap scratched her face, and she lifted her head into her hands. Tears slid down her cheeks and dropped onto the coverlet, forming darkened blotches. “And if You can spare a moment, please look after Mama. I miss her so much. Please do not let her die.” The tears flowed freely now and her body convulsed beneath a flood of them until she had none left.

 

♦♦♦

 

“Miss! Miss!” A child’s voice drifted over Marianne. “Miss!” Someone tugged on her arm. “Miss, wake up!” Marianne searched through the fog in her head, trying to remember where she was.

The British ship!

She snapped her eyes open to a face so sweet and innocent, she thought she might have died and gone to heaven. If not for the ache in her head and the cramps in her legs—and the teetering of the ship beneath her as it sailed through the deadly sea.

“Who are you?” Marianne struggled to sit, then rubbed her eyes.

“I’m Daniel, miss.” He glanced out the half-opened door. “Sorry t’ disturb you, but the captain will be wantin’ his cabin attended to before his noonday meal.” With brown hair the color of cocoa and eyes as bright as lanterns in a dark sanctuary, the boy’s presence seemed to scatter the forebodings of doom that had consumed her cabin.

“What time is it? How long have I been asleep?” Marianne pushed the hair from her face.

“’Bout an hour, miss.” Daniel smiled, revealing a perfect set of white teeth. “I came by ’efore but figured you needed the rest due to being impressed an’ all.” He said the words as if this sort of thing happened all the time. Well, perhaps on this ship, it did.

He clipped his thumbs into the waist of his oversized blue breeches. “We best be hurryin’, miss.”

“Very well.” Marianne struggled to stand, then leaned her hand against the wall to steady herself as the ship rolled. She pressed down the folds of the maroon gown she’d donned. A scandalous color, to be sure. But she didn’t wish to vex the captain by not accepting his gift. “I suppose you’re here to instruct me in my duties.”

“Aye.” The boy beamed and flung dark hair from his face. Clear brown eyes shone with an invitation for friendship.

An invitation that, despite her circumstances, Marianne couldn’t help but accept.

For the next two hours, Daniel instructed Marianne in the fine art of being a captain’s steward. The list of duties was exhausting. Not only did Captain Milford want his meals brought from the cook on time, his uniforms delivered to the laundry and returned promptly, and his daily attire laid out each morning, but also the floor of his cabin scrubbed, his rug shook out, his desk and shelves dusted, and the silver on his sword hilts, chalices, and trays polished every day.

“What of these plants?” Marianne asked Daniel as she glanced over the assortment lining the stern window frame. From what she knew of horticulture, one was a strawberry bush, one a lime tree, another a patch of onions. The others she could not name.

“Oh no, miss.” Daniel’s eyes widened. “You must never touch those. Only the captain cares for his plants.”

“A curious thing to see on a ship, is it not?”

“Aye miss. But the cap’n is a curious man, if you ask me.”

Yes, she had noticed. “How do you know so much about caring for the captain?”

“I used to help the captain’s last steward a bit.” Daniel’s voice sank. “Before he fell overboard.” He shrugged. “An’ I guess the captain’s partial to me.”

“I can see why.” Marianne pressed a hand over an ache in her back and glanced out the stern windows. The distant horizon rose and slipped beneath the frame as the ship traversed each ocean swell. Though rays of sunlight brightened the entire cabin, making it almost cheery, they also increased the temperature. Withdrawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her neck and thought of how miserable it must be on deck in the direct sun.

“Have you seen my friends?”

Daniel opened a jar of some type of oil and dribbled some onto a soiled cloth. He nodded.

“Are they well?”

“Aye, miss.”

“Can you get a message to them for me? To the tall one with the light brown hair.”

Daniel’s eyes lit up. “Aye, the cap’n?” The smell of lemons and linseed filled the room.

“Yes.” Marianne bit her lip. No doubt Noah would still be so furious that he would not wish to hear a peep from her, but she needed to know how he and the others fared. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to them. “Can you tell him I’m sorry and ask him if there’s anything I can do?”

Daniel nodded his understanding as he knelt to scrub the floor.

Marianne plopped beside him and grabbed another rag. “How old are you, Daniel?”

“Eleven.” His voice rang with pride.

“What are you doing on board this ship?” She poured oil on the rag and mimicked Daniel’s method of polishing the deck. “Is your father aboard?”

He halted for a minute, then continued scrubbing. “I was impressed, same as you.”

“Impressed? Stolen?” Her fears began to rise for the boy. “You’re an American?” Why hadn’t she noticed the absence of the distinct British lilt?

He beamed. “Aye, from Savannah.”

The poor lad. Marianne laid a hand on his shoulder. “Where are your parents?”

“Back home, I suppose,” he said without looking up from his task.

Marianne stood, her indignation rising with her. “How can the Royal Navy steal little boys away from their parents? Have they no shame?”

“I was on a merchant ship, same as you.” He shrugged and gave her a peaceful smile, completely at odds with the alarm she felt. “It is the way of the Royal Navy, miss.”

“That does not make it right,” she huffed. “What do you do here on board?”

Rising to his feet, he lengthened his stance. “I am a powder boy, miss.”

Marianne drew a sleeve over her damp forehead, wincing when she touched her wound. “Powder boy? What does a powder boy do? I thought most gentlemen no longer powder their wigs.”

“No, miss.” He giggled. “I run the powder to the guns when we’re in battle.”

Gunpowder? She thought of Mr. Weller. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

“Aye.” His eyes widened once again as if he were about to tell her a grand secret. “Just a fortnight ago, when we was firing upon a French warship, an enemy shot crashed through the gun deck and my friend William had his face blown clear off.”

Marianne threw a hand to her mouth, both at the gruesome event and the casual, unfeeling manner in which Daniel relayed it. The things he must have seen. The horror and bloodshed. How unconscionable for so young a boy. Yet he seemed not to bear the fear one might expect. In fact quite the opposite.

“He’s in heaven now.” Daniel announced with a calm assurance that reinforced her impression. He stood.

“We must get you off of this ship at once.” Marianne drew him to her breast.

He pushed her back and gazed up into her eyes. “I know, Miss Marianne. That’s what you came for.”

“Whatever do you mean?” She brushed the hair from his face.

“Why God sent you.”

“Sent me? I don’t understand” Had the poor child gone mad in his imprisonment?

Yet the clarity in his brown eyes spoke otherwise. “Yes, miss.” He smiled. “God told me there’d be a lady and three men coming to rescue me.

And here you are.”

 

♦♦♦

 

Heart stuck in his throat, Noah eased his bare feet out onto the foretopsail footropes. The yard he gripped shuddered in the wind, and his sweaty fingers slipped over the rough wood.

“New to the top?” the man called Blackthorn said as he made his way out across the yard ahead of Noah.

“You could say that.” Noah barely managed to squeak out the words before a blast of wind tore them away. Instead of the light steady breeze, interrupted by occasional gusts below, the wind here in the tops remained constant and strong like the persistent front line of an enemy attack.

An attack in which Noah believed he would be the first casualty.

“I thought you was the cap’n.” Blackford said.

“I was. . .I am.”

Blackford chuckled. “Sink me now, ain’t never heard of a captain afraid of heights.”

Despite Noah’s attempts to hide it, the horror strangling his gut had obviously taken residence on his face.

“Ah now, you’ll get used to it. Just don’t be lookin’ down. Keep a firm grip on the jackstays and beckets and make sure you have a good step before you take it. You’ll do fine.” He slapped Noah on the back, causing him to grip the yard tighter.

“Sorry,” Blackthorn muttered.

As Noah and the other four men spread upon the footropes, waiting orders from below, he ignored Blackthorn’s advice not to look down. He hoped to catch a glimpse of Miss Denton, if only to see how she fared. Had the captain harmed her? Had he locked her below? Such a brave lady. If she were as frightened of the water as Noah was of heights, she possessed far more courage than he imagined, for he could not stop the trembling that had gripped him since he leapt up into the shrouds.

His eyes latched onto the captain standing by the binnacle, feet spread apart and hands clasped behind his back. Both the commanding tilt of his nose and the three gold buttons on his cuffs gave away his rank. At least he wasn’t below with Miss Denton.

“Strike the foresail!” The order bellowed from below and the men began to loosen the lines keeping the sail furled.

“What is your opinion of the captain?” Noah asked Blackthorn.

The huge man, who looked more like a bear balancing on a high wire than a sailor accustomed to the topmast, leaned casually against the yard as if he were leaning against a railing below.

“Milford?” He angled toward Noah’s ear. “Crazy ole rapscallion, if you ask me. Some say he’s been at sea so long he’s gone mad. He can be as vicious as a rabid wolf one minute and kinder than Saint Joseph the next.” He scratched the hair sprouting from within his shirt. “Trouble is, you never know which one you’re gonna get.”

Noah loosened the first knot and moved to the next one. The edges of the thick sail began to flap in the wind. He swallowed and tried to steady his hands. “Do you think he would harm a woman?”

“Ah, you’re thinkin’ of your lady friend.” Tearing through a stubborn knot, Blackthorn shook his head. “I don’t think so. As long as she does what she’s told.”

Noah grimaced. The woman never did what she was told!

He studied the captain. The man carried himself with a commanding, capable presence, albeit with an overdone pomposity. But surely that went with the position. Noah could not conceive that a British officer and a gentleman would imprison simple merchantmen against their will, let alone an innocent woman. As one commander to another, Noah intended to reason with him the first chance he got. And if that didn’t work, there was always the possibility of escape.

Lieutenant Garrick popped on deck from below, the usual scowl twisting his thin lips.

Blackthorn cursed under his breath. “I’d stay away from that one, if I was you.”

Noah inched his way across the ratline. His sweaty feet slipped over the swaying rope, and he gripped the yard. Following Blackthorn’s gaze, Noah snorted as Garrick leapt upon the quarterdeck and took a stance behind his captain. “I believe I’ve had my fill of Lieutenant Garrick already.”

“Ambitious and cruel-hearted.” Blackthorn grumbled. “If he had ’is way, half the crew’d be keelhauled.”

“Let go clewlines and buntlines!” ordered the man below, and the mastmen began lowering the lines that would free the sail to the wind.

Noah pointed toward another man in a lieutenant’s uniform who took his post beside Garrick. “What of him?”

“Reed? He’s a good egg, for the most part, I suppose.” Blackthorn loosened a line and part of the sail dropped, flapping in the wind. “Just a bit full o’ hisself, if you ask me. His father’s a member of Parliament, they say—which is why he got this commission.” The wind whistled through the gaps of two missing teeth on his bottom row. He snapped his mouth shut. Though towering over Noah’s six feet and with the muscle to match his height, Blackthorn’s easy manner and kindness made him appear less threatening.

“You’re not British,” Noah said.

“Me? No. Pure American I am. From Savannah, Georgia.”

“Impressed, then?”

“Aye, a year ago. I was a waister on a merchant ship. Captain took me an’”—He hesitated and looked down—“me bosun.”

“A year?” Noah stared at him aghast. “You haven’t tried to escape?”

Blackthorn’s dark eyes seemed to lose their luster. “Aye, we did. Or at least we tried. I was flogged, but the cap’n tossed me bosun to the sharks. God save his soul.”

“Let fall! Sheet home!” More orders from below.

But all Noah heard was Blackthorn’s words flogged and tossed him to the sharks. And his terror-stricken heart shrank. “But I hear people desert the navy all the time.”

Blackthorn gave him the measured look of a man who had traveled a particular road more than once. “They don’t ever let their eyes off us Yankees.” He released the sail. The canvas lowered further, slapping furiously at the wind’s attempt to conquer it. But it fought a losing battle, for air soon filled every inch of the sail with a thunderous roar, stretching it taut and snapping the lines.

“No, you best accept your fate, Mr. Brenin. There ain’t no way off this ship.”