Chapter 16

 

Marianne fell onto her bed and sobbed. Her first kiss. She should be elated, filled with joy. For she had never thought any man would find her alluring enough to kiss unless it was forced upon him by marriage. Why then did she cry? Sitting up, she wiped the tears from her cheeks and tried to regain her senses, traitorous senses that had danced in a delightful flurry when Noah’s lips touched hers. Not simply touched, but caressed as if he truly cherished her.

But that couldn’t be. Especially not Noah Brenin.

Noah had not slept in nearly three nights, she reminded herself. The moonlight, the late hour, the slap of the sea against the hull, and Marianne lending a caring ear to his woeful tale, all combined to create an atmosphere, a desire that was if not imaginary, surely ephemeral. In his weary delirium, Noah had simply given in to the manly desires Marianne’s mother had warned her about.

Then why did she care?

This infuriating, reckless boy who had done nothing but make her life miserable as a child, who had shunned her and teased her until she cried herself to sleep at night. This oaf who had abandoned her at their engagement party.

Then why did she wish for something more?

Why did he consume her thoughts day and night? And why did the touch of his lips on hers send a warm flutter through her body?

A kiss. She’d been kissed at last. Marianne smiled and brushed her fingers over her lips. She had no idea it could be so pleasurable.

But in that pleasure she also sensed a power that could rip her heart in two.

♦♦♦

 

Following a line of crewmen, Noah lifted his heavy legs and climbed through the hatch onto the main deck. He rubbed his eyes against the glare of the rising sun that promised a warm day ahead. When the watchman had relieved him of his punishment at four in the morning, he could hardly believe it, for he had begun to think his penalty was more eternal than hell itself. Stumbling below like a drunken man, he had crawled into his hammock. Two hours of sleep. Two hours of precious slumber was all he’d been granted in the wee hours of the morning. But it was the sweetest sleep he’d ever had. In fact, he hadn’t even heard the boatswain’s cries “All hands ahoy. Up all hammocks ahoy,” nor the scrambling of his mates unhooking their bedding around him. Not until Weller and Luke—who had been released at the same time as Noah had—dumped him from his hammock and he fell to the hard deck below did he snap from his deep slumber.

Noah’s thoughts sped to the kiss he had shared with Marianne last night. No, it was not last night, but the night before. After she had fled the deck, the rest of that night and all the next day and night had blurred past him in turbulent shades of gray and white and black like a fast-moving storm. Visions of her maroon gown, brown hair, and full lips mingled with holystones and oak planks into a disjointed mirage that had him wondering if he had only dreamed of the kiss.

But no. He could still feel the tingle on his mouth. What madness had possessed him to taste her sweet lips? What madness had possessed her to accept his advance? Whatever the disease, he hoped there was no cure. She had responded with more passion than he would have guessed existed within her. For years, he thought her nothing more than a pretentious prig. When in reality. . . His body warmed at the remembrance. Was it possible she cared for him? Or did she kiss him out of pity or to make amends for what she had done? Since he had not seen her in over a day, he had no way of knowing.

“To your stations!” a boatswain brayed, and the crew scrambled to take their assigned watches across the deck where they would assist with the sailing of the ship or perform necessary maintenance. Normally the crew swept and holystoned the deck each morning, but due to the gleaming shine glaring from the wooden planks—thanks to Noah—he had saved them at least that chore.

One would think they’d thank Noah instead of shower him with grimy looks of contempt.

Flinging himself into the ratlines, Noah followed Blackthorn to the tops, trying to shake the cobwebs from his weary brain even as his old fear rose like bile in his throat. If he could not keep his concentration, he might end up a pile of broken bones and blood splattered on his clean deck—a tragedy after all his scouring.

“Good to ’ave you back,” Blackthorn said as they positioned themselves on the footrope.

A gust of salty wind clawed at Noah’s grip on the yard. “I’d like to say the same, my friend, but I’d rather be on the deck than up here where only birds and clouds have God’s good grace to be.” Noah tried to blink away the heaviness weighing down his eyelids.

Blackthorn smiled. The wind whistled through the gaps left by the two missing teeth on his bottom row. “Sink me, I’ll look out after you.”

Noah nodded his appreciation.

The ship pitched over a wave, and Noah gripped the yard. His feet swayed on the footrope. Every rise and fall and roll of the ship seemed magnified in the tops. His legs quivered, and Blackthorn clutched his arm. Though the morning was young, sweat slid down Noah’s back, and he wondered how he would survive the day.

The sharp crack of a rattan split the air, drawing his gaze below to where Luke and his watch mates battled a tangled rope. His first mate winced beneath the strike even as the petty officer glanced at Lieutenant Garrick at the helm. For approval? For direction? Or to plead with the lieutenant for mercy? Noah couldn’t tell. Regardless, Garrick nodded at the petty officer then chuckled at his fellow lieutenants lined up at the quarterdeck stanchions like cannons in a battlement. None joined him in his mirth.

Luke swept his gaze up to Noah. Even from the tops, Noah could see the bruises covering his face. Released from his irons around the same time Noah had been sent below, they’d barely managed to grunt at each other before they took to their hammocks.

The ship plunged down the trough of another swell, and Noah hugged the yard and curled his bare toes over the rope. After his heart settled to a normal beat, he turned to Blackthorn. “What has Luke done to incur such wrath from Lieutenant Garrick?”

“Sink me, who knows with that blackguard?” His friend spit to the side. “He hates everyone, ’specially Yankees. Before they assigned me t’ the tops, he used to have me whipped too.”

“Reef the topsail!” the order came from below. Men on deck began hauling the tackles. Noah bent over the yard to pull in the reef lines, but he had difficulty keeping his mind on his task. If he didn’t get Miss Denton and his men off this ship soon, he doubted any of them would survive.

 

♦♦♦

 

At six bells before noon, or eleven o’clock, the bosun’s shrill pipe halted the men in their work. “All hands on deck!”

Thankful for the temporary reprieve from the harrowing heights, Noah followed his crew down the ratlines to the deck below. Still slower than a fish through molasses, he always landed last on the planks. But he would wager that he was the most grateful for the solid feel of wood beneath his feet.

Captain Milford emerged onto the deck in a burst of pomposity. His crisp, white breeches, stockings, and waistcoat gleamed beneath a dark coat that was lined with buttons shimmering in the bright sun. Black hair, streaked with gray, was pulled taut behind him. Traces of strength remained in the muscles that now seemed to sag with weakness. Climbing the quarterdeck ladder, he took his spot at the railing before the helm and looked down on his crew.

The bosun piped the men to attention and called them to muster in the waist. The marines, fully decked in their red coats and white pants with bayonets gleaming formed a line before the men. The petty officers fell into jagged rows behind them, while the midshipmen and officers assembled in crisp ranks on the quarterdeck, immediately aft of the mainmast.

Captain Milford stepped forward.

Wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve, Noah lingered near the back of the mob, anxious for possible news of the ship’s destination. But instead of good news, the captain bellowed, “You shall witness a hearing and subsequent punishment of a fellow crewman. Remain orderly and in your ranks.”

Noah bristled beneath the excitement in the captain’s voice.

“Master of Arms, bring forth the prisoner,” the captain shouted and Noah’s throat went dry, hoping it wasn’t one of his own men. Relief allayed his fears when the master dragged forward a middle-aged, beefy sailor whose neck seemed to disappear beneath his head. He halted before the railing, his face lowered and the irons around his hands clanking.

Noah’s heart went out to him. Luke and Weller pressed in on either side of Noah and gave him a look of trepidation.

“Let us proceed. Read the charges,” the captain shouted.

As the master at arms read from a list of offenses, a flash of red caught Noah’s eyes. Miss Denton stood by the larboard railing at the break of the quarterdeck, trapped by the conflux of crewmen. Terror screamed from her expression, and Noah wondered if it was the close proximity of the sea or the proceedings that frightened her.

“. . . and threatening a shipmate with a knife,” the master at arms concluded.

The captain eyed the man with disdain. “What do you say for yourself, Mr. Bowen?”

Mr. Bowen shook his bucket-shaped head and dared to glance at his captain. “No, sir. I only found the knife on deck an’ picked it up.”

Blackthorn edged beside Noah. “This won’t be pretty.”

“Sentence has not yet been pronounced,” Noah reminded him.

“It will be. And soon. I ne’er seen the captain turn down an opportunity to flog one of ’is men.” Blackthorn shifted the muscles across his back. “I got the scars t’ prove it.”

Noah eyed his back as if he could see beneath his shirt. “For what?”

“Insubordination t’ an officer. At least that’s what they said.”

The captain grumbled and turned to Lieutenant Reed. “Lieutenant Reed, did this man attack his shipmate with a knife or not?”

The lieutenant’s jaw twitched. “I cannot say, Captain. I was not present.”

The captain turned to his right. “And you, Lieutenant Garrick.”

The man licked his lips. “Yes, Captain. I saw it plain as day.”

Captain Milford scanned the crew. “Will anyone speak up for this man?”

Though mumbles coursed through the crowd like distant thunder, every sailor kept his gaze lowered and his mouth shut.

“I will not tolerate brawls aboard my ship, Mr. Bowen. Save your fighting for the French, should any of the cowards show their faces out at sea.” He withdrew his hat, spurring the same action from his officers and crew. Then in a blaring voice devoid of all sentiment, he read the Articles of War appropriate to the offense. At their conclusion, he turned to the boatswain. “One dozen lashes should do it, Mr. Simons.”

The prisoner visibly jerked as if he’d already been lashed. His whole body began to tremble—a tremble that Noah felt down to his own bones.

Three men lifted the main hatch and attached it to the gangway with its bottom fast to the deck. Two marines led Mr. Bowen to the grating, stripped him of his shirt, and tied his hands to the top of the iron frame. Silence consumed the ship. Only the angry thrash of water and the groans of shifting wood screamed their protest of the proceedings.

The sun, high in the sky, lanced the crew with burning rays. Yet no one moved. Sweat slid into Noah’s eyes and he blinked. He glanced at Miss Denton. Her hand covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror. Go below, you foolish woman. No need to see this. As if she read his thoughts, she turned and shoved her way through the crowd then disappeared below.

Noah wished he could escape as easily. Though he understood the need for discipline aboard ship, he had no stomach for cruel torture.

The captain snapped his hat atop his head. “Do your duty, Mr. Simons.”

The bosun’s mate took the cat out of a red sack and stepped forward, pushing the crew back to make room for his swing.

He raised his arm and flung the cat across the man’s back. A howl that reminded Noah of the cry of a wolf shrieked from the poor soul. Jagged ribbons of red appeared on his back.

Beside Noah, Luke fisted his hands and crossed them over his chest, his face mottled in anger.

Noah surveyed the crew. Weller was nowhere to be seen. Good.

“Is there nothing we can do?” he asked Blackthorn.

Blackthorn shook his head. “It’s the way of the navy. If you step in, your fate will be the same.”

The cat whistled through the air and landed with a snap upon the man’s back once again. The crew remained silent, almost as if they saw their own future flashing before their eyes.

Another strike tore at the man’s flesh. The sails thundered above them.

Noah turned around. Fury tore through him. He’d never valued his own country and the justice and freedom for which she stood more than he did at this moment. Why had he so flippantly allied himself with a people who restricted others’ freedom, who stole innocent men from their ships and enacted such cruelty without censure?

Mr. Bowen’s howls of pain speared the air, sealing the conviction forming within Noah. He would find a way off this ship. He would be free again and when he was, he would spend the rest of his life defending his country against the sharp whip of tyranny.

 

♦♦♦

 

Marianne fluffed the captain’s mattress to remove the lumps and smooth the feathers—just as he liked it—while in truth, she’d rather fill it with large, jagged rocks. She couldn’t help but wonder how the man who had been flogged fared. No doubt he would not be lying in his hammock tonight—at least not on his back. Though thankful she’d escaped witnessing the event, she had not been able to escape the man’s heart-piercing howls. Howls that infiltrated every wooden plank and beam until the very ship seemed to scream in defiance. Dropping to her knees, she had prayed for him, for that was all she knew to do. It seemed so inadequate.

She stood and placed a hand on her aching back and peeked at the captain sitting at his desk mumbling to himself. It had been a long day. She prayed he would dismiss her shortly and take to his bed. Especially since she doubted she could curtail her anger toward him given his actions today.

A knock sounded on the door. Her hopes dashed when at the captain’s bidding, three officers entered, Lieutenant Garrick and Lieutenant Reed among them. They stood at attention before Captain Milford’s desk and removed their hats.

“You summoned us, sir.”

Leaning on the door frame of the sleeping cabin, Marianne glanced at the captain. After his evening meal and usual three glasses of brandy, plus the laudanum the surgeon had just poured down his throat, it was a wonder he could sit up. Yet he rose from his chair as alert as if he’d just arisen from a sound night’s sleep.

He straightened his white waistcoat. “We shall be arriving in Antigua in seven days, gentlemen, where I expect to receive my orders. At that time. . .”

He continued on with further instructions regarding watches and shore leave, which Marianne shrugged off in light of the first piece of information. Excitement set her head spinning. They would make port soon. Surely that fact would aid Noah in formulating his escape plans.

Turning around, Marianne busied herself laying out the captain’s night shirt and cap while she listened for any further news that might be of use. But there was nothing of note save that very few of the men would be allowed a brief time ashore.

“Now go on. I need my sleep.” The captain dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Lieutenant Garrick’s brows lifted when he saw her. He gave her a wink that slithered down her spine before he followed his friends out the door.

Marianne approached the captain. “I’ve laid out your nightshirt, Captain, and fluffed your mattress. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Anger stung her tone, but he gave no indication that he took note of it.

Instead, he sank into his chair, his face twisted with thought. Then he raised hard eyes upon her. “Anything else?” He cursed. “Odds fish, can you tell me why my men rebel against me?” He slammed his fists on his desk. Marianne jumped.

“I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”

“That blasted Bowen.” He reached for his glass, then leaned back and sipped his brandy.

All through the afternoon and evening, he’d been muttering about the flogging earlier that day. Why? Guilt? Marianne doubted it. His anger suggested another conclusion. Perhaps he feared the disrespect of his men. Perhaps he feared losing control of his ship.

Gathering her courage, she took a step forward. “I do not believe he meant to defy you, Captain.”

“Defy!” He jumped up and began pacing before the stern windows, rubbing the glass of brandy between his hands. “Mutinous dogs. How dare they conspire against me?”

Marianne tensed. “Sir, I am unaware of any conspiracy.”

Before she even finished the words, he circled the desk. His gray eyes flashing, he stormed toward her. The smell of brandy and the fish he’d had for dinner filled her nose. He eyed her up and down. “You are probably a part of it.”

The ship canted. Stumbling, Marianne grabbed onto the edge of his desk. The lantern flickered, casting eerie shadows over his face. She swallowed and determined not to flinch, not to show him that her stomach had just dropped to the floor. “You know that’s not true, Captain.”

His expression loosened like the unwinding of a tight rope. He released a sigh. “You think me harsh, don’t you?”

Yes, I think you are a mad, cruel man. She bit her lip to hold back the truth lest she find herself at the end of a cat-o’-nine tails. But it snuck out anyway. “Yes,” she said, then braced herself.

The captain let out a loud chuckle. He lifted his glass in her direction, the alcohol sloshing over the sides. “I like you, Miss Denton. Honesty. Quite refreshing.”

“If honesty is what you want, Captain, I have plenty of it.” She dared to take the opportunity to acquaint him with her opinion of the injustices she’d witnessed.

He walked to the stern window and stared out into the black void of night. A spray of twinkling stars beckoned her from the darkness.

At his silence, she continued, “Mr. Bowen did not receive a fair trial today and you know it. You never gave him a chance to defend himself. And his punishment was far too cruel.”

He swung around. A spray of brandy slid over the lip of his glass. His face scrunched. “What do you know of keeping discipline on a ship this size?”

Marianne stared wide-eyed at him, hoping he wouldn’t charge toward her again.

Facing the stern, he snapped the brandy into his mouth. He attempted to set his glass down, but he missed his desk, and it crashed to the floor in a dozen glittering shards. As if unaware of the mess, he turned to examine his plants, brushing his fingers over their leaves.

A lump formed in Marianne’s throat. The captain was a harsh man to be sure. But at times like these when he was in one of his dark pensive moods and well into his cups, he seemed more like a little boy than a man. A broken, lonely little boy. Grabbing one of her dusting cloths, she knelt by the desk and began to carefully pick up the shattered pieces.

“You are a good woman, Miss Denton. Not much of a steward, if I do say so.” He chuckled. “But kind, quick-witted, completely agreeable. Your tranquil mannerisms and feminine gestures soothe an old man’s soul.”

Marianne halted, stunned by his compliments. She was surprised that they affected her so, for she gulped them in like a starving woman long deprived of food. Unbidden tears burned in her eyes. Blinking them back, she continued picking up the glass pieces, afraid to look up into his face. Afraid to discover he only taunted her.

“You are generous and wise and honest,” he continued. “Qualities difficult to find among ladies these days.”

A tear slid down Marianne’s cheek and landed on a glass shard. She picked it up. The sharp edge caught her finger and sliced her skin. Pain shot into her hand. She dabbed the blood with the cloth and picked up the few remaining pieces. In all his years, her father had never once spoken a word of praise to Marianne. He had not been a cruel father—had never raised his voice at her, had never impugned her character. He had simply not been the type of man who freely offered his approval. So she found it ironic that this man who could be so cruel could also speak so highly of her.

Bundling the cloth around the glass, Marianne wiped her face and stood. She had never known her father’s opinion of her. She had never known whether he was proud of her. And not until this moment did she realize how desperate she was to hear any approbation at all. She set the cloth down on the desk and raised her gaze to the captain.

He smiled and shifted his eyes away uncomfortably, but she sensed no insincerity in his expression.

He leaned on the window ledge and gripped his side. “I don’t feel too well.”

Marianne darted to him just in time to catch him before he fell. His weight nearly pushed her to the floor, but slowly she managed to lead him to his sleeping chamber.

“Perhaps some sleep will make you feel better, Captain.” She eased him onto his mattress.

“Yes, yes. Quite right. I need to sleep.” He plopped his head down on his pillow and lifted a hand to rub his temples.

With difficulty, Marianne managed to swing his massive legs onto the mattress, and then she stared down at the man who, with his eyes closed, looked more like a gentle old grandfather than the captain of a British war ship.

Memories assailed her of another time, long ago, and another man. A man very dear to her. As she gazed upon the captain, he slowly transformed into that man—her father, Mr. Henry Denton, home late from a night of drinking and gambling.

Shaking the bad memories away, she removed the captain’s boots one by one, unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks until one plopped onto her neck. How many nights had she done this same thing for her father? How many nights had Marianne cared for him when her mother had been unwilling? How many nights had Marianne gone out with one of the footmen to drag her father from a tavern and bring him home?

Too many.

Until that last night when he didn’t come home at all.

The captain mumbled and patted her hand. “That’s a good girl. A good girl.”

Grabbing the wool blanket, Marianne laid it atop him and tucked it beneath his chin. She batted the moisture from her face. Would she ever stop missing her father? Would she ever forgive him for leaving her?

Resisting the urge to plant a kiss upon the captain’s forehead as she’d done with her father, she turned to leave.

“I should have been a farmer, you know,” he stuttered, his eyes still closed.

Marianne took his hand. Rough, sea-hardened skin scratched her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he moaned. A farmer? Yes, she could see him as a farmer. Yet instead of fertile ground to till and tender plants to tend, he plowed His Majesty’s ship through tumultuous seas and raised rebellious boys to be officers. No wonder the man was miserable and half-crazed. He had missed his destiny.

“You still can be a farmer, Captain. You still can.” But her words fell on deaf ears as the captain started to snore. She released his hand and blew out the lanterns in his cabin, then left him to his sleep.

Pushing her sorrow away, she made her way down the passageway. She must find Daniel and give him the news about Antigua.

She didn’t have far to go as she nearly bumped into the young boy when he came barreling down the ladder from the quarterdeck. She ushered him into her room. “I have news to give Noah,” she whispered as she lit a lantern and sat upon her bed.

He plopped beside her. “Aye, that’s why I was headin’ t’ see you.”

“How did you know?” She eyed him quizzically. He grinned. “Oh, never mind.” She leaned close to him. He smelled of brass polish and gunpowder. “Tell Noah that the captain expects to make port in Antigua in seven days, will you do that?”

His white teeth gleamed in the lantern light. “Yes, Miss Marianne, I will. That’s good news.” He grabbed her hand. “Maybe that is where we are supposed to escape.”

“Perhaps. I don’t know. I don’t see how we can with all these sailors and marines guarding us.”

“That’s okay, miss. God knows, and He can do anything.”

Marianne sighed and brushed Daniel’s hair from his face. She wished more than anything that she possessed his faith. “We shall see.”

“You don’t trust God, do you, Miss Marianne? You don’t trust in His love.” He leaned his head on her shoulder. “Oh, Miss Marianne, you must. You simply must.”

“I’m trying, Daniel.” She swung her arm around him and drew him near. “It’s just so hard when nothing but bad things happen to me.”

“How do you know they’re bad?” He pushed away from her.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “You can’t know what God’s purpose is for the things that have happened until you see the end. It’s like the end of a good story, miss. Everything looks real bad until you get to the last chapter.”

Marianne couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm, but inside, the wisdom of his statement jarred her to her core.

“I best be gettin’ back. That Garrick’s been keepin’ a strict eye on me.” With a grin, he slipped out the door, leaving her alone with only the slosh of the sea against the hull for company.

With a huff, she lay back on the bed and tried to calm her nerves. But Daniel’s words kept ringing through the dank air of the cabin, refusing to be drowned out by the sounds of the ship.

How do you know?