Sparhawk counted himself lucky. When the marines had turned him over to the guard at Castle William, the grim island fortress guarding Boston Harbor, he had feared being thrown in one of the cells beneath the thick stone walls. They were airless, windowless storage chambers for powder that a man might survive at the height of summer, but which would almost certainly prove deadly in the winter. Later he learned that such had been the admiral’s orders. But the fort was under the control of the army and the military governor, and General Gage had anticipated Sparhawk’s arrest.
On Gage’s orders James was not placed under the authority of the castle’s military commander, but in the charge of the fort major, a retired reverend and veteran of Louisbourg, who lived with his family in an apartment within the walls. Major John Phillips was the castle’s former military commander and had been accustomed to an income of two hundred pounds per annum, plus twenty or thirty guineas a year in let-passes for the shipping, and of course bribes.
The major, it transpired, had been unjustly ejected from his post in ’70, when he was in his sixth decade of life, and could not be expected to find new employment. Such was the ingratitude of the last governor, Hutchinson, that Phillips had been named fort major only after the most strenuous efforts of his friends. That he had been reduced to living on a mere hundred pounds per annum meant that he could not entertain James as befitted a king’s officer, but that he was amenable to allowing the importation of any little luxuries that James might require, or the procuring of them, for a small commission.
James was given a room in one of the guardhouses in the yard, on a corridor occupied by a customs inspector and an agent for the East India Company tea, along with their families, who had fled Boston and the Rebel mob when the trouble started and still dared not go back for fear of their neighbors. This was another indicator that General Gage’s hold upon the city was fragile indeed.
Sparhawk’s chamber was sparsely furnished, but the tea agent’s wife lent him linen, and Lady Gage sent him a basket of fresh food and other necessities, with her compliments . . . and no doubt Dr. Warren’s.
During the day Sparhawk had the freedom of the yard. At night his door was locked—a formality only. Castle Island was an impossible three-mile swim to the mainland through frigid water. Pressed sailors had done as much to escape naval service, but a man would have to be desperate to attempt it.
And Sparhawk was not desperate—yet. He had known the consequences of refusing Graves’ orders: a trumped-up charge and no doubt an unpleasant court-martial, the threat of which was meant to bend him to the admiral’s will and induce him to burn Charlestown.
He would not do it.
Graves could not prosecute him for failing to obey an unlawful order, but such was the wonder of the King’s Rules and Admiralty Instructions and the Articles of War that just by carrying out his duties as an officer with a modicum of common sense, he was almost certainly guilty of something for which he could be prosecuted.
Sparhawk’s best hope was that his sin of losing the Sally as a prize would be mitigated by his perspicacity in sending the French gold home to Boston, because there was nothing an Admiralty Court liked better than cold hard cash.
James had expected word of Sarah Ward from Gage’s spy by the end of the first week, but had still heard nothing at the end of the second. It was possible that DeBerniere had been captured, of course, but Sparhawk expected that in such circumstances he would have heard from General Gage himself.
Graves could hold him for only so long without a trial. In the meantime, Sparhawk decided on optimism. He undertook to arrange his affairs to make room in his life for Sarah Ward and her family. The tea agent and the customs inspector still conducted business from their refuge, and a boat came every day to ferry their correspondence back and forth to the city. Sparhawk wrote to his man of business instructing him to find a house suitable for a family, with access, but not too close to, the waterfront. He directed that it be furnished and provided with at least a maid and a cook. That, on account of Abednego’s least surprising confidence: She cannot cook worth a damn, my Sarah, but she packs a sea chest tight as an oyster and stitches a sail something pretty. Talks French and Latin too, but that was her mother’s doing.
And Sparhawk took up the line of inquiry he had come to Massachusetts to pursue, and wrote letters attempting to ascertain the direction of the parson who had married his parents.
In the middle of Sparhawk’s third week at the castle, without warning, the utterly forgettable DeBerniere appeared in Sparhawk’s room, sitting in the chair by the table and amusing the customs inspector’s children by sketching them and doing a very good impression of the sergeant drilling in the yard downstairs.
DeBerniere sent the children back to their mother, and Sparhawk spied the oilcloth package laid on his bed. He did not need to ask what it was. Red Abed’s shark-tooth tassel peeked from the folds.
“You were not able to find them?” Sparhawk asked.
“I am so very sorry,” said DeBerniere.
It was warm in the room, but Sparhawk felt suddenly very cold.
DeBerniere had traveled north up the coast on foot, stopping in all the port towns of Cape Ann. He had discovered the shipyards hard at work refitting American vessels “for defense.” Recruiting for such rebellious enterprises was open in the waterfront taverns, more circumspect in the finer public houses where skippers were looking for skilled men such as doctors and carpenters.
DeBerniere had found the Ward place easily enough. The central chimney, with its curious hidden stair now exposed to view, was all that was left. Fire had consumed it and two other houses in the neighborhood on the night of the riot.
Four charred bodies had been discovered the next day.
DeBerniere described the scene with an artist’s eye for detail, but in his mind Sparhawk did not see the smoking ruin of the Ward house. He saw Sarah standing on the deck of the Sally in that storm, smiling at him; and felt the sense of home and welcome she had kindled in him so briefly.
For a moment he could not draw breath; then the world came rushing back, and he realized DeBerniere was still speaking.
“A local feud,” said the spy. “Some kind of long-simmering dispute over a schooner, I was given to understand. The kind of private murder that is so easily cloaked by a civil war. They did not want to talk about it in Salem, or in Marblehead.” He produced two glasses and a bottle of something quite like whisky. “The schooner itself, naturally, has disappeared.”
Sparhawk disliked whisky but drank it anyway. DeBerniere nodded toward the cutlass laid out on the bed and said, “What was he like? Red Abed?”
She was remarkable. Loyal and brave and beautiful as a ship under sail. We ran through moonlit gardens and defied an angry mob.
“I spent an afternoon with him,” Sparhawk said. “He was old and frail, but he had forgotten more about the sea than I shall ever know.”
And I will mourn his daughter all my days.
• • •
Ned, God bless him, put on his most convincing expression of innocent puzzlement, the one he used when the last of the cream had disappeared or when a book was left lying open on its spine or out in the rain. Sarah forced herself to laugh, to smile, to put a hand on Ned’s shoulder, look young Graves in the eye, and say, “Don’t tease him, Lieutenant. He has been threatening to run away and sign aboard a king’s vessel as a common sailor if we do not let him go for a midshipman.”
“He was the ship’s boy that started all the trouble on the Sally,” insisted young Graves.
The door to the great cabin opened. A portly, jaundiced, and solemn man who had to be Admiral Samuel Graves emerged, with Trent at his shoulder. “What the devil is going on now, Francis?” the admiral demanded.
Young Graves could not contain his indignation. “That child should be in irons. He’s a pirate.”
“Francis,” said the admiral in a warning voice.
“You must be mistaken,” said Anthony Trent. “Edward is the son of a family friend and has been in school this past year.”
Ned beamed. Another dubious demigod for his pantheon.
Young Graves took a second, less certain look at Ned. “Do you know that for a fact?”
“Have you some reason to doubt my word?” asked Trent, in the same polite, edged tone he had used in the Three Cranes. And Sarah had no doubt that now, as then, he knew that the Wards were liars.
“Of course he doesn’t,” said the admiral, whose own family was as much trouble. The Graves nephews were in another mess at the moment, with two of them embroiled in feuds with Boston merchants and one of them suspected of an illegal duel with a romantic rival. Graves himself was at odds with General Gage, their wives were not on speaking terms, and the admiral had antagonized more than one of the Loyalist merchants by seizing their cargo for naval use. Samuel Graves could not afford another affair of honor right now; certainly not a quarrel with one of his own officers; especially not a known duelist like Trent.
“It was an honest mistake, I am certain,” offered Trent.
Francis Graves was hotheaded but not stupid. He saw his way out, and he took it. “As you say,” he agreed. “A mistake. It was the uncommon hair,” he added. Then he looked at Sarah. “Honey gold,” he said. “The pair of you.”
His eyes lingered, and she knew he was comparing her size and shape to that of the boy on the Sally.
Trent made their farewells and guided Sarah and Ned down the gangway.
When they reached their carriage, he put Ned up top with the coachman and closed the windows despite the heat, so that he and Sarah could be private.
“Now what was all that with the admiral’s idiot nephew?” he asked.
There was nothing to be gained by concealing the truth from Trent, who had already embroiled himself in the matter, and Ned was in too much danger.
“Lieutenant Graves was right,” she said. “He did recognize Ned. He tried to press him earlier this summer. We were homeward bound on my father’s ship when the Wasp overtook us. We were carrying French molasses, flint for ballast, and a chest of foreign gold. I took the captain of the Wasp hostage and traded the gold for our freedom. I am sorry, but Ned cannot serve aboard the Preston. If Lieutenant Graves questioned him closely, he would have the truth out of him.”
She held her breath, waiting for his reaction.
Trent leaned forward. “Sarah,” he said, “are you certain the gold was put aboard the Wasp?”
Considering that she had just confessed to an act of piracy, it was the last thing she had expected him to ask. “Yes.”
“How?”
“I carried it.” In answer to his raised brow, she said, “I was dressed as a ship’s boy when we were boarded. Mr. Cheap thought it a wise precaution. Why do you ask?”
“Because the captain of the Wasp has been arrested and will shortly stand trial. He is accused of colluding with the American smugglers to steal the French gold. That is why Admiral Graves called me here today. He needs three captains willing to serve as judges. The story circulating is that this Sparhawk conspired with the Rebels to send a chest full of flint to Boston, then buried the treasure somewhere on Cape Ann.”
“That is nonsense,” said Sarah. “Captain Sparhawk was our prisoner. And if my family had stolen a chest of French gold, we would not have come to Boston on a fish cart. The gold was on the Wasp.”
“I do not doubt it. In the last several months Admiral Graves has made a number of expensive purchases—including a vessel for one of his nephews to command—and carried out extensive repairs to the squadron. It is not unusual for an officer abroad to advance his own funds for such purposes, or if he does not have such sums, to use his own credit, in expectation of reimbursement. But there is always the danger that the Admiralty will disallow the expenses. Especially when there is an indication that they were undertaken less for the good of the service, and more for the advancement of a particular officer’s career. In this case that of Thomas Graves, one of the admiral’s nephews, who has received the Diana. The admiral has boasted that he bought her from a Marblehead merchant and that she is the largest schooner in the service—one hundred twenty tons. She has an unusually deep draft.”
“She would,” said Sarah, recognizing the characteristics. “She has a false bottom.” In answer to Trent’s questioning glance, she added, “She is not a Marblehead schooner. She is a Salem vessel.” And Sarah knew whom Graves had bought her from.
“I bow to your knowledge,” Trent said. “She certainly has distinctive lines. And she definitely cost more than the admiral could absorb himself, if, as seems almost certain, the Admiralty denies the expense. The Diana alone was seven hundred fifty pounds. Repairs to the squadron could have run several times that. If he undertook them on credit, the merchants will demand payment. If they make their case directly to the Navy Board, Graves will be ruined.”
“You think he has taken the gold from the Wasp to cover these expenses.”
“It seems quite likely. And Sparhawk, the unlucky bastard, will hang for it.”
“No,” Sarah said. “I can testify that I carried the gold aboard the Wasp.”
“And you would hang alongside him; he for gross theft and you for piracy. You cannot go anywhere near this thing, Sarah. And Ned must take his place aboard the Preston. He is old enough to learn discretion, and needs must. If he does not report for duty, Lieutenant Graves’ suspicions will be confirmed. And you will be arrested.”
He was right. She knew that. But it did not explain his behavior. “Why are you so willing to lie to protect us?” Sarah asked.
“I think you know the answer,” said Trent.
She had suspected as much. She ought to be pleased and flattered. A month ago, she would have welcomed his interest. But now all she could think of was Sparhawk. “I am very grateful—”
“Now is not the time for me to make a proposal. You might accept out of a sense of obligation. And I have not yet had the opportunity to broach the topic with your father, though I believe the canny old sea dog suspects my intention. But I ask that you will consider that we might become more than good friends.”
If she had never met Sparhawk, the answer would have been yes. But she had met him. James had done nothing to her and her family but that which his duty required. And he had gone beyond duty to rescue her brother. “This is my fault,” she said. “Sparhawk would not be on trial if I hadn’t kidnapped him.”
Trent reached across the carriage and took her hands. “Your sense of honor does you credit, but there is nothing you can do for him. This will not be a fair trial. If Admiral Graves means Sparhawk to be his scapegoat, then Sparhawk will hang. Graves has kept him at Castle William for weeks, with no outside contact. He will be transferred tomorrow to the Hephaestion, Charles Ansbach’s frigate, to await trial, but it is already too late for him to prepare a defense. And there is no defense that would save him, because Samuel Graves is the Admiralty in North America.”
Sparhawk’s words on the Sally came back to her. Dans ce pays-ci, il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres. “In this country,” she said aloud, “it is a good thing to kill an admiral from time to time to encourage the others.”
“I am sorry,” replied Trent, “but it is true. He will go the way of Byng.”