Chapter 13

 

Marianne set the tray of pea soup, roast chicken, and tea down on the captain’s desk. “Your dinner, Captain.”

He grunted and tossed down the documents he studied then eyed her above the spectacles perched on his nose. “You’re late.”

“The cook extends his apologies, Captain. He is behind on his duties today due to his gout acting up again.”

“Addle-brained sluggard.” Captain Milford tore off his spectacles and leaned his nose over the food. “Smells like pig droppings.”

“I can take it back if you like.’

“No, no. I’ll eat it.” He waved her off. “If I waited for a decent meal around here, I’d starve to death. Dismissed.”

Relieved to leave his presence, Marianne swerved about.

“Belay that!”

She froze.

“My cabin deck is dirty.”

Marianne slowly turned to face him, forcing down her frustration. “Captain, I spent an hour this morning on my knees scrubbing and polishing each plank. I assure you it is as clean as it can possibly get.”

He narrowed his eyes and rose to his most ominous height. His chair scraped over the wooden floor, sending a chill down Marianne’s spine. Grabbing a bottle from his shelf, he poured himself a drink and took a sip. “Are you telling me that I don’t know my own deck?”

A giggle rose in Marianne’s throat at the absurd question. She forced it down, fairly certain this man would not find the same humor in the situation. “I was unaware, Captain, that one could become quite so intimate with one’s deck.” She’d meant to say the words in a lighthearted tone in hopes of bringing levity to the situation, but her voice carried more sarcasm than witticism.

His face mottled in anger, and he marched toward her. Every muscle in Marianne’s body tensed. Why couldn’t she keep her snide comments to herself? She felt his gaze boring into the top of her head, yet she kept her eyes leveled upon the gold buttons lining his white lapel. His chest heaved beneath them. Would he strike a woman? Would he lock her in the hold? She had no idea what to expect from this capricious man.

Releasing a brandy-laced breath that sent the hair on her forehead fluttering, he stepped back. Then he swung about and stormed back toward his desk. “And my uniform was not laid out properly this morning, miss. . .miss. . .”

“Denton, Captain.” Surely he knew her name after a week.

“Yes, Denton.” He plopped back into his chair and gripped his side as if it pained him. “My last steward was much better.”

Marianne clenched her hands into fists. Her ring pinched her finger, bringing along with the pain, familiar feelings of inadequacy. She’d never worked so hard in her life for so little appreciation—as the muscles in her legs and back could well attest. “I am still learning, Captain.” Her voice came out as though it were strained through a sieve.

“Nevertheless,” he barked, his gray eyes firing. “I do not tolerate slothfulness on my ship.”

Slothfulness? Of all the. . .

“And what is that gash on your head?” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

Shocked by his sudden interest, Marianne dabbed the tender scar. “A crate fell on me aboard the merchant ship. Knocked me unconscious, which is how I came to be—”

“You should have my surgeon look at it.” He interrupted with a wave of what could only be construed as disinterest in her tale.

Marianne shuddered. She had seen the man he called the ship’s surgeon. “I would prefer that he didn’t.”

“Preposterous.” He frowned. “You will—”

A knock on the door interrupted them, but before the captain could respond, it opened to reveal the object of their discussion. The pale man with a perpetual gleam of sweat on his brow angled his head around the door, reminding Marianne of a snake spiraling from its hole. “Time for your medicine, Captain.”

With barely a glance her way, he slithered past her. In fact, since she’d come aboard, not once had the physician acknowledged her presence during his frequent visits to the captain’s cabin.

“Good, good,” Captain Milford mumbled. “You are dismissed, Miss Denton.”

Marianne turned to leave but not before she saw the surgeon pour something from a flask into the captain’s drink. A sharp odor, one she was quite familiar with from her mother’s medications, bit her nose. Laudanum.

Tucking the information away, she slipped down the companionway, determined to use these precious moments of freedom to go above deck. She’d been stuck below for a week attending the captain’s every whim, and she desperately needed to feel the sun on her face. And maybe catch a glimpse of Noah. To see how he fared, and Luke and Mr. Weller as well.

Squinting against the bright sun, she emerged onto the main deck to a gust of chilled wind and the stares of myriad eyes.

“Back to work!” The crack of a stiff rope sliced the air, drawing her gaze to one of the petty officers who raised his weapon to strike one of the sailors again. Swallowing her repulsion, she scanned the ship, searching for Noah and his crew, but none of their faces appeared from among the throngs of seaman. Fear crowded her throat. Were they imprisoned below? Above her, at the rail of the foredeck, a line of marines stood at attention, their red and white uniforms crisp and bright, their golden buttons gleaming in the sun.

Threading her way through the bustling crew, Marianne made her way to a spot at the port side railing just beneath the foredeck where no sailor worked. Turning her back to the sea, she swept another gaze across the deck and was rewarded when Luke’s coal-black hair came into view. It shimmered in the hot sun like a dark sea under a full moon as he—along with a row of men—tugged upon a massive rope.

“Heave!” a sailor shouted.

Moist with sweat, Luke’s face reddened. His features twisted with strain as he yanked on the stiff line.

Lieutenant Garrick dropped down from the quarterdeck and headed toward the row of men. “Mr. Kane, what have I told you about being too soft on the crew?” he shouted. “Why, my mother could pull a line harder and faster than these wastrels. This one in particular.” He pointed straight at Luke.

Luke, his hands still gripping the line, slowly raised a spite-filled gaze to Lieutenant Garrick. Marianne’s breath halted. Don’t say anything, Mr. Heaton. Please don’t say anything. For she had heard how cruel the British could be.

“See the way he looks at me?” Lieutenant Garrick gave an incredulous snort. “An officer in His Majesty’s Navy. Strike him, Mr. Kane. Strike him every time he dares look you in the eye..” A insidious smile crept over Garrick’s lips like an infectious disease.

Luke faced forward again. The muscles in his jaws bulged, but much to Marianne’s relief, he said nothing.

Mr. Kane shook his head. “Aye, aye, sir.” And proceeded to lash Mr. Heaton across the back with his braided rope. Luke did not flinch, did not move. Not even a wince crossed his stern features.

With a satisfied grin, Lieutenant Garrick sauntered away, head held high.

Marianne swung about and clung to the railing. Better to face the sea than watch that horrible man strut about like a despotic peacock. The sun cast a blanket of azure jewels over the water. Marianne’s palms slid over the railing. Her knees wobbled as her fear hit her full force. How could something so beautiful be so deadly?

Her head grew light as a bell rang twice from the forecastle, announcing the passing of time on the watch. One o’clock from what she had learned.

“Aloft there, trim the foretopsail!” a sailor shouted.

Shielding her eyes, Marianne glanced upward. Men lined the yards of the foremast at least eighty feet above her. And right in the middle of them stood Noah, his bare feet balanced precariously over a thin rope. His stained blue jacket and brown trousers flapped in the wind as he clung to the yard in front of him. A large man standing next to him leaned over and said something. Noah’s gaze shot to Marianne. Her heart flipped in her chest. Though she could not make out his expression, she sensed no anger emanating from him. In fact, just the opposite. An unexpected bond kept their eyes locked onto one another like an invisible rope, a rope Marianne did not want to sever for the odd comfort it brought her. Odd, indeed. Coming from a man who had more reason to dislike her than ever before, and she, him, for his unwillingness to bring her home and marry her.

The ship plunged over a swell, but despite her fear, she kept her gaze upon him. The smells of salt and fish and wood filled the air and twirled beneath her nose. The dash of the sea against the hull accompanied by creaks of tackle and wood chimed in her ears. Yet, she could not tear her gaze from him. He looked well, unharmed. And she wanted more than anything to talk to him.

“Ease away tack and bowline!” a man shouted from below. And the lock between them broke as Noah swerved his attention to his task, inching over the footrope. Inching slowly over the footrope. Very slowly. While almost hugging the yard. Was he frightened? Lord, please protect him up there.

“Quite dangerous in the tops, you know.” A familiar voice etched down her spine, and Marianne lowered her gaze to the superior smirk upon Lieutenant Garrick’s face.

“Noah is a capable seaman.” She replied, taking a step away from him. He followed her as if they danced a cotillion at a soiree.

“You do say?” He glanced up again, his black cocked hat angling toward the sails. “He doesn’t seem too steady on his feet, if you ask me.”

“I don’t believe I did ask you, Lieutenant.” She gave him a sweet smile, instantly regretting her unrestrained tongue.

He dropped his gaze, sharp with malice, and eyed her from head to toe.

Marianne shuddered.

“Heave to!” One of the master’s mates bellowed. The sharp crack of a rope sounded, and Marianne looked up to see the man whom Garrick had spoken to earlier following out the lieutenant’s orders across Luke’s back. Mr. Heaton’s muscles seemed to vibrate beneath the strike. She cringed.

“Life can be quite difficult aboard a British Frigate, Miss Denton,” Lieutenant Garrick said his eyes narrowing into slits.

A gust of hot wind blasted over Marianne. The loose strands of her hair flung wildly about her. She brushed them from her face and stared out to sea, hoping her silence would prompt the annoying cur to leave.

“Especially for a woman.”

Perspiration dotted her neck.

He lifted a finger to touch a lock of her hair.

Raising her jaw, she stepped out of his reach. “What would you know of being a woman, Lieutenant?”

“Oh, I know much about what women need.” The salacious look in his eyes made her skin crawl. “Sleeping on a lumpy mattress, no proper toilette, clean gowns, or decent food.” He clucked his tongue. “Not befitting such a lady.”

“Pray don’t trouble yourself over it, Lieutenant. I shall survive.” And much more happily if you scurry away to the hole from which you came.

He leaned toward her, his offensive breath infecting her skin. “Yet you can do so much more than that, miss.”

Bile rose in her throat. “And how would I do that?”

He lifted one shoulder and scratched the thick whiskers that angled over his jaw down to his pointy chin. “Kindness, Miss Denton. Kindness to a lonely man like myself.”

His words drifted unashamed through her mind, shocking her sense of morality. Did he mean what she thought he meant? Unaccustomed to such vile advances, or any advances at all for that matter, she nearly lifted her hand to slap him, but thought better of it. Instead, she directed her stern eyes upon his. “My Christian kindness I offer to everyone, Lieutenant Garrick. Any further affections will never be yours.” There went her mouth again.

His gaze snapped to the sea, his jaw twitching in irritation. “I perceive you are unaware to whom you speak, Miss Denton. Perhaps I should enlighten you.” He gave her a caustic grin. “My family possesses more land and wealth than you could ever hope to see in your rustic, underdeveloped colonies.” He gazed at her expectantly as if waiting for her to swoon with delight.

Marianne fought down her rising nausea. “How lovely for you, sir. But, I fear you waste your time boasting of your fortune to me. Unlike the sophisticated haut ton in London, I place more value on honor and dignity than title and money.”

“Savage Yankees,” he spat, his face reddening. “If we were not on this ship, the strictures of polite society would not allow me to even speak with you, let alone offer you my attentions.”

“Then I shall pray we reach port soon so you will forced to forsake such a silly notion.”

“Lieutenant Garrick!” Captain Milford’s booming voice stiffened Garrick immediately. “Report aft!”

Garrick frowned. His eyes narrowed and beads of sweat marched down his pointy nose. “We shall see, Miss Denton. A few weeks on board a British frigate might persuade you otherwise. But, mark my words, I am not a patient man.” He gripped her chin between his thumb and forefinger until pain shot into her face. Then releasing her with a thrust that sent her face snapping to the side, he marched away.

Another blast of wind tore over her. A sail above cracked in a deafening boom that seemed to seal her fate.

Marianne threw a hand to her throat, trying to check the mad rush of blood. Lecherous swine. She stilled her rapid breathing and gripped the railing.

Oh, Lord, a mad captain, a ship full of enemies, a lecherous lieutenant. . .

And no one to protect me.

 

♦♦♦

 

Noah slid his aching bones onto a bench and leaned on the mess table. Dangling from two ropes attached to the deckhead, the oak slab swayed beneath his elbows. But he didn’t care. Anything was better than swaying to the hard, fast wind up in the yards. Though he had tried to hide it, his legs still wobbled like pudding long after descending the ratlines and jumping to the main deck where he had resisted the urge to bow down and kiss the firm planks beneath his feet.

Luke eased beside him while Mr. Weller took the opposite bench. From amongst a crowd of howling, jabbering men, Blackthorn emerged and slapped a platter filled with salted pork, mashed peas, hard tack, and a bowl of steaming slop into the center of the table before he took a seat beside Luke. Noah sniffed, hoping a whiff of the food would prod an appetite that seemed to have blown away with the wind, but all he smelled was the foul body odor of hundreds of men.

Dinner was the best part of the day, according to the crew, most of whom swarmed the large space below deck that also served as their berth. Now, with hammocks removed and tables lowered from the bulkheads, hundreds of sailors crammed into the room, gathered with their messmates, and stuffed food into their mouths while they shared their day’s adventures, told jokes, and relayed embellished tales of the sea.

Noah wanted no part of it. Nor did he ever want to go aloft again. A week in the tops and his fear had not subsided one bit. He glanced at his first mate and gathered, from the strained look on his face, that he fared no better.

“How goes it?” he asked Luke as he reached up and grabbed the mess pouches from hooks on the bulkhead and flung them on the table. The men opened them and pulled out their utensils.

Grabbing a hardtack from a pile, Luke took a bite and winced—Noah guessed—at the hard-as-stone shell around the biscuit. Luke tossed it down. “Great, if you call spending the day in the blaring sun heaving lines pleasurable.”

“Try spending the day spit polishing the guns.” Weller moaned.

“You’re going t’ have to toughen up, lads,” Blackthorn said. “This is your life now. The sooner you accept it, the better.” He dipped a ladle into a kettle of foul-smelling stew and slopped some into Noah’s bowl.

The putrid smell of some type of fish rose with the steam and stung Noah’s nose. Perhaps it would suffice to soften his hardtack. Yet when Noah dipped his biscuit into the steaming concoction, it remained as hard as a brick. His stomach pained, and setting the biscuit aside, he tipped the bowl and drained it as quickly as he could. At least it was warm.

Along with the shouts and laughter assailing him from all directions, Noah sensed the piercing gazes of several pairs of eyes. He looked up to see men from the surrounding tables periodically staring at Noah and his friends as they made comments to their companions. Not pleasant comments, he surmised, from the disdain knotting their features.

“Ignore them.” Weller grabbed his share of salted pork and plopped it onto his plate. “Some don’t take kindly to us bein’ Americans.”

Luke gave a sordid chuckle. “And here I thought we were British deserters.” He downed his stew as Noah had done and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“They know exactly who we are.” Blackthorn poured liquid from a decanter into tin cups. “An’ most o’ them lost family in the Revolution.” He set a cup before each of them. “One cup o’ beer for each of you.”

The ship canted to port, sending the lantern above their table swaying like a drunk man. Waves of golden light pulsated over the dreary scene.

Mr. Weller cast a glance around him and mumbled under his breath.

Noah eyed his gunner with concern. “I’ll get you out of here, Weller, I promise.” Though at the moment, he had no idea how he would accomplish such a feat.

“I place no blame on you, Cap’n.” Weller tugged at his scarf. “I knew the risks when I signed on wit’ yer crew.” He gulped his drink then wiped his mouth on his stained sleeve. “Best not to make promises ye cannot keep.”

Noah’s stomach shriveled. Is that what he was doing? Promising something beyond his reach, beyond his ability? The permanent etch of disappointment lining his father’s face rose to crowd out Weller’s visage.

Why can’t you be like your brother? Why must you fail at everything?

Noah swallowed and stared into his cup, longing to see his brother in the liquid reflection, rather than his own face staring back at him. What would Jacob do? No doubt something heroic.

Blackthorn scanned the raucous crowd of sailors as if searching for someone. “Like I said, square up, lads and get used to it. I’m afraid you’re here to stay.”

Grabbing his cup, Luke downed the beer in two gulps then slammed it down with a thump. “Square up, you say? Any more squaring up and my back will turn to leather.”

Noah ground his teeth together. He’d thought he’d seen the petty officer whipping Luke repeatedly. He glanced behind Luke at the red stripes lining his shirt. “What did you do to deserve that?”

“Nothing.” Luke stretched his back and winced. “That weasel Garrick ordered me to be lashed every time I looked the master’s mate in the eye.”

“So don’t look him in the eye,” Noah said.

A mischievous grin toyed with Luke’s lips. “It cannot be helped, I’m afraid.”

Noah shook his head and chuckled. “Your insolence will be the death of you yet.”

Blackthorn squeezed his cup between his bear-like hands. “Sink me, you’d be smart to stay away from Garrick. Don’t look at ’im. Don’t speak to ’im. Just do your duty.” He lowered his chin. “He’ll beat a man senseless for the smallest infraction.”

Two tables down from them, the men’s voices rose in ribald laughter as if they’d heard his declaration. A look of pained understanding passed between Weller and Blackthorn.

Noah leaned forward and studied the beefy man. “You?”

Blackthorn shifted his dark eyes toward Noah—eyes filled with restrained defiance. He nodded. “These Brits are a cruel breed.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Weller lifted his cup.

Noah remembered seeing Garrick speaking to Marianne earlier that day on deck. The drink soured in his throat. “Lieutenant Garrick, would he hurt a woman?”

Blackthorn gave a cynical snort. “I’d tell your lady to steer clear o’ ’im as well.”

“Confound it all, we must get out of here.” Noah swore under his breath.

A midshipman passed the table, offering them a callous glance. They all grew silent.

“I was like you when I first came here,” Blackthorn whispered after the man was out of earshot. “Rebellious, bold, determined to escape.” He craned his neck forward and eyed them each in turn. “You best get that thought out of your mind straight away. They’ll either beat the life out o’ you so you don’t want t’ live no more, or they’ll kill you.” He thrust his spoon at them. “An’ that Garrick had it out for me from the beginnin’.”

Noah took a bite of pork as he pondered Blackthorn’s statement. His jaw ached from trying to chew the tough meat. No doubt the man had suffered much during the year since he’d been impressed. But despite his declaration, Noah had no intention of being a guest on this ship that long.

“Do your best to avoid Lieutenant Garrick’s bad side, Luke.” If only he could give Miss Denton the same warning. Noah gulped down his beer. The pungent liquid dropped into his belly like a rogue wave. “We’ll be off the ship soon enough,” he added, hoping to offer the encouragement his men needed to go on, even if he didn’t believe it himself.

Blackthorn groaned and shifted wide eyes over the room. “Don’t be talkin’ like that. We could all be flogged for desertion even at the mention of it.”

“Blasted Yankees!” A curse shot their way from the agitated crowd.

Noah eyed Mr. Weller. With his eyes downcast, he had taken up the habit once again of mumbling to himself—the same trait he’d had when Noah found him at Kingston after he’d escaped His Majesty’s Navy the first time. Guilt churned in Noah’s gut.

Luke downed his stew and tossed the bowl onto the table, adding, “What did you do before your career in His Majesty’s Navy, Blackthorn?”

“Me?” Blackthorn chuckled, revealing his two missing teeth. “As I told yer cap’n here, I was taken from a merchantman out of Savannah.” He released a heavy sigh. “Where I left a pretty wife, heavy with child.” Again, he surveyed the crowd around them as if looking for someone.

“Indeed?” Luke seemed as surprised as Noah had at the revelation.

“Aye, a good Christian woman—a true saint she be—who redeemed me from”—he cleared his throat—“me prior life.”

Luke’s eyes lit up. “Ah, a sordid past? I’m intrigued.”

“Nothin’ I’m proud of, t’ be sure.” Blackthorn scooped some mashed peas into his mouth. “Some o’ the things I did haunt me worst nightmares. But then again, if I’d stayed in that”—he scratched his thick chest hair—“profession, I wouldn’t be in me present situation. An’ I wouldn’t have met me dear, sweet Harriet, either.”

The ship tilted. Bowls and cups slid over the sticky table, but no one seemed to care. Noah rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck. Shouts and curses speared toward them from a group of sailors in the distance where a heated argument began.

A young lad wove through the crowd and headed for their table. Blackthorn’s eyes latched upon the boy like a lifeline in a storm. His shoulders lowered. “Daniel, where you been?” He mussed the boy’s brown hair and urged him to sit opposite him, beside Weller.

“I’m well.” The boy’s smile took in everyone at the table.

“You weren’t at mess for near seven days.” A twang of worry spiked Blackthorn’s voice.

“I’ve been taking my supper with Miss Marianne.” He gazed proudly up at the burly man.

“Miss Denton?” Noah’s heart leapt. He’d been desperate for information regarding her wellbeing but had found no one who could tell him anything.

“Aye.” Daniel nodded and grabbed a biscuit. “Helping her learn how to be the cap’n’s steward.”

A steward? Noah couldn’t help but grin. She must be having as tough a time adjusting to servitude as he was to the tops. “How does she fare?”

Daniel bit into the biscuit, crumbs flying from his mouth. “She’s well. I like her. She’s nice.” He said the words with such innocent conviction, it startled Noah.

Nice? Not exactly the way he would describe Miss Denton. Nevertheless, his body tensed as he forced the next question from his lips. “Has the captain. . . Has she been harmed?”

“No sir. He works her mighty hard, but no harm will come to her.”

Noah released a breath.

“The cap’n ain’t like that,” Blackthorn added. “He’s no abuser of women.”

Despite Lieutenant Garrick’s behavior, perhaps Noah’s belief in the honor of British officers stood true. The realization only reinforced his desire to seek an audience with the man. Surely the captain would see reason to release them once the situation of their impressments was explained to him in detail. But every time the captain had been on deck, Noah had been in the tops, and when he wasn’t in the tops, he was forbidden to wander the ship. The only time he was free to slip away was in the middle watch of the night between the hours of midnight and four in the morning, and he dared not disturb the captain’s sleep.

Blackthorn scooped some pork and mashed peas onto a plate and shoved it in front of Daniel. The boy grabbed a chunk of meat and took a bite. He shifted in his seat and his gaze suddenly flew toward Noah. “Oh,” he said as if just remembering. “I have a message for you from Miss Marianne.”

Noah flinched.

“She says she’s sorry. And she wants to know if there’s anything she can do to help.”

Sorry. Was she truly sorry for all the pain she had caused them or was she simply sorry that she endured that pain along with them? Renewed anger coursed through Noah’s veins, but he forced it back. Anger over the past would not serve them now. He must focus on the future. Perhaps Miss Denton could help them. She not only had the captain’s ear, but she would be privy to his private conversations.

“Tell her to keep her ears open. Will you do that?” he whispered across the table.

‘Yes sir.” Daniel’s eyes sparkled in the lantern light. “You can trust me.”

“Good boy. Report back to me what she tells you. And keep it to yourself.”

Weller mumbled as Daniel shifted the mashed peas around his plate.

Blackthorn groaned. “I don’t want you puttin’ the boy in danger.”

“I’m only asking him to tell me what he hears.” Noah cupped the back of his own neck. “There’s no harm in that.”

A fiddle chirped in the distance, the twang keeping cadence with the creak and groan of the ship. Men began to clap and sing to the music.

“I’ll be okay, P—Mr. Blackthorn,” Daniel said. “These men have come here to help us.”

Noah blinked. “What do you mean?”

Daniel straightened in his seat. “God told me in a dream that a lady and three men would come and rescue us from this ship.”

Luke chuckled and stared into his empty cup as if in doing so, he could conjure up more beer.

Blackthorn reached across the table and mussed the boy’s hair again. “What’s got into your fanciful head now, boy?”

Daniel giggled but then shrugged. “I’m just telling you what God told me.” He took a sip of his drink. “And then you came.” He glanced at Noah with a confidence that inferred he would accept no other explanation for their capture.

“Well, I can assure you being impressed into the Navy was not my idea.” Noah offered.

“No sir. It was God’s.”

Noah eyed the boy. If what the boy said was so, then he had even more things to be angry at God about.

“If there is a God, He has abandoned us.” Weller muttered loud enough for all to hear. “For I know fer a fact, the Almighty would ne’er set foot on a British war ship.”

“There is no God, Mr. Weller.” Luke’s bitter tone startled Noah. “There cannot be. Not in a world as unjust as this one.”

Yet his first mate’s declaration sparked a memory in Noah’s mind. He paused to study his first mate. “I thought your parents were missionaries.”

“My parents are dead.” Luke scowled and rubbed the scar on his ear.

Blackthorn shook his head. “Sink me, you’d all believe in God if you met me wife. The sweetest spirit I ever came across.”

Noah’s thoughts took an odd drift to Marianne. “I assure you gentlemen,” He plopped a piece of pork into his mouth and instantly regretted it as the unsavory clump hardened in his throat. He forced it down. “There is indeed a God. But I have found Him to be a harsh taskmaster. One who does what He pleases and yet who is impossible to please himself.”

“Sounds like your father.” Luke snorted.

Noah slouched back into his seat, allowing the perverse connection to settle into his reason. He opened his mouth to respond when the air filled with blasphemies.

“Blasted Yankees!” a man yelled.

“Ill-bred rebels!” another brayed. Noah looked up to see a mob forming around them. “My pa died in your revolution.” A particularly hairy man with pock marks on his face leaned his hand on the edge of the table.

Luke slowly rose. “And how is that our fault, you callow fool?”

The man spit into Luke’s bowl.

Noah stood and held an arm out, restraining his first mate from charging the man.

“That one is uglier than a pig struck with a hot iron.” Another man beside the first pointed at Weller. “Don’t ye Yankees know how to handle your guns?”

The mob laughed.

Confound it all, now Noah was getting angry. “He lost his fingers on one of your British ships. Therefore, it is your master gunner’s incompetence which should be called into question.”

The pockmarks on the man’s face seemed to deepen. He grabbed the platter of their remaining pork and tossed it against the bulkhead. The chunks of meat fell to the floor with heavy thumps. “You’ll see,” the man said in a loud voice. “We’ll beat you ignorant dawcocks an’ send you runnin’ to hide behind yer mama’s skirts.” He clipped his thumbs inside his belt. “Then maybe I’ll be the new major o’ one of the barbaric outposts ye call a town.” He glanced over his friends and they all joined him in laughter. “An’ yer mama can clean me shirts.”

Luke grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him backward through the mob. He stumbled and crashed into a mess table. Shouts and jeers erupted from the men, none too pleased when their meager stew spilled over the table from the overturned pot. They shoved the man back toward Luke.

The pock-faced man collected himself. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist across Luke’s jaw.

Shouts assailed them from neighboring tables as men rose from their meals to witness the brawl. Wide-eyed, Weller struggled to his feet.

Blackthorn grabbed Luke by the arm. “Let it be.” His voice held more than a warning. It held terror.

“Please, sir.” Daniel headed toward Luke, but Blackthorn pushed the lad behind him.

Noah barreled forward. He must stop this madness before the officers took note.

Luke’s dark eyes narrowed into seething points. Jerking from Blackthorn’s grip, he raised his fist. Noah shoved himself between Luke and his assailant and grabbed Luke’s hand in mid air.

“Let me at him, Cap’n.” Luke struggled.

Noah shook his head and forced down Luke’s arm with difficulty.

“I told ye all Yankees are milksops,” the other man chortled and his friends joined in.

“What have we here?” The stout voice of a marine sergeant scattered most of the rats back to their tables. The officer’s boots thumped authority over the deck.

“Nothin’, sir.” Blackthorn stepped forward. “Just a disagreement.”

“And as usual, I find you in the middle of it.” The man gave a disgruntled moan. “Anxious to meet the cat again, Mr. Blackthorn?”

Blackthorn’s jaw stiffened. “No sir.”

“That American insulted our navy, sir.” The pock-faced man pointed at Luke. His voice transformed from one of spite to one of humble subservience.

The marine stopped and eyed Luke. “He did, did he?”

“An’ we couldn’t let it go without speaking up for King George’s navy.”

In lieu of a hat, he placed his hand over his heart. “Long live the king.”

“To the king!” A muffled toast echoed half-heartedly through the room.

Noah clenched his fists. Surely this officer would see reason. “Sir, if you please, this man approached our table and insulted us without provocation.”

“I care not what was said.” The marine sergeant adjusted his cuffs. “All that concerns me is who struck the first blow?”

“He fisted me first, sir.” The pock-faced man gestured again toward Luke. The rest agreed.

“I protest.” Noah thrust his face toward the man.

“Regardless.” A malicious grin writhed upon the marine’s lips. “Perhaps we need to teach you barbaric Americans who is truly in command. “Come with me.” He pointed toward Noah and Luke. “The captain will decide your just punishment.”