Seven pounds.” Nathaniel Mason charged toward the platform, shoving his way through the unruly throng. “Seven pounds.” Even as he bellowed the amount, he wondered if he had lost his mind. That was over half of the coin in his money pouch, and he needed all of it to purchase his supplies for the return trip to Charles Towne.
The stout man on the platform beside Miss Hope swung about and glared at Nathaniel as if he were naught but an annoying bug. His hand froze in midair, a gold coin clenched between his stubby fingers. “What is the meaning of this?”
The auctioneer’s eyes glinted with greedy amusement as he doffed his tricorn and swept it through the air with a bow of deference. “Seven pounds from the gentlemen in the blue waistcoat. Do I hear eight?” He raised a questioning brow toward the man beside him before surveying the grumbling mob.
“I wouldn’t pay eight pounds fer me own mother!” a man in front of the crowd cackled, eliciting squawks of laughter from all those around him.
“Eight.” The red-faced man continued to count out his coins into the auctioneer’s open pouch as if no opposition could prevent him from carrying out his task.
Shoving through the horde of sweaty, cursing men, Nathaniel leapt upon the platform. “Nine pounds,” he shouted above the clamor and allowed his gaze to brush over Miss Hope.
When he’d first seen her from across the street where he’d been arranging with a merchant to load the man’s goods aboard ship, his heart had plunged like a stone into his boots. Though the woman resembled Miss Hope in hair and color of skin, he could not believe it was the lady he knew from Charles Towne—not so far from the safety of her home, not in such slovenly condition, and certainly not being sold as an indentured servant. But as he approached the throng, he recognized the familiar golden hair with a hint of red, and those glistening eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea that had mesmerized him back home.
And his heart had rammed into his ribs.
How had she come to such dire straits? Kidnapped. The word blasted through his thoughts. ‘Twas the only explanation. White women brought a handsome price in the islands, where they were in short supply. And Miss Hope’s particular beauty would lure many a slave trader to steal her from her home, take her far away where no one would know her, and sell her to some lonely, desperate plantation owner. In these savage lands, most people looked the other way at such injustices. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been strolling down the streets of Charles Towne attired in a fine taffeta gown, her arm entwined around that of a marine.
And if he recalled, tossing her snooty nose in the air at him as well.
Like she always had. Belittled him. Ignored him. Treated him as though he were dung on the street.
You owe her nothing.
But now those crystal blue eyes locked upon his as if he were her only lifeline in a storm threatening to drown her beneath its waves. Dirt smudged her face and neck. Dark circles tugged the skin beneath her eyes. Her hair hung loose in tangled nests upon a stained and tattered gown. “Mr. Mason.” She managed to whisper his name, and that one whisper held all the desperation and pleading he needed to continue.
“The lady is mine, sir.” The rotund merchantman gave Nathaniel a cursory glance. “I have already made a bargain with this man, and as you can see I am sealing it with my payment.”
“Aye, let’im have her,” a lanky man from the crowd barked at Nathaniel. “Garrison ain’t had no lady in years.”
Laughter roared across the mob like a sudden thunderstorm, and the merchantman’s face blossomed in a mad dash of crimson. He shot the man a vicious glare before continuing to count his money.
“Me vote goes t’ the young sailor,” another shorter man bellowed. “He looks like he’s been out t’ sea far too long an’ needs a wench t’ warm his bed.” He surveyed the chortling mob. “Who’ll care to place a wager on him?”
An onslaught of bets saturated the air like a tropical downpour.
Nathaniel shoved his way between Mr. Garrison and Hope, guiding her behind him, and faced the auctioneer. “Is the auction closed, sir?”
“Nay.” The man grinned. “Not as long as the bidding continues.” He wiped spittle from his chin. “Truth be told, I may get to my drink early today.”
“Then I believe the last offer was nine pounds.” Nathaniel reached for his money pouch.
“Ten.” Mr. Garrison waved Nathaniel off and snapped open his pocket watch. “Best that or leave.”
Nathaniel glanced over his shoulder at Hope, whose moist eyes sparked with fear, then out on the bay where his ship rested idly in the turquoise waters. He’d come to St. Kitts to fill her hold with tobacco, sugar, cotton, rum, herbs, and salt—a shipload of cargo to take back to Charles Towne. He had lined up willing merchants and farmers, and if all went well, he stood to pocket a huge profit for his trouble. Enough to purchase another ship for his burgeoning fleet.
His gaze settled back on Hope. Tears now spilled from her eyes, winding slick trails through the dirt on her cheeks. “Please help me, Mr. Mason.”
Facing forward, Nathaniel swallowed a lump of emotion he could not describe. He doffed his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Eleven.”
It was all he had.
“Twelve.” The man uttered the word without hesitation and scratched beneath a wig as stiff as his resolve. He shot an annoyed look at Nathaniel. “I intend to have her, sir. I suggest you stand down.” He snapped his watch shut and returned it to his pocket.
Nathaniel rubbed his eyes. What should I do, Lord? He couldn’t leave this lady in the lecherous hands of these men, but he had nothing else to offer. Nothing, except his … Nathaniel snapped his gaze back to his ship—the ship he had built with his own hands, the ship he had spent four years working as a carpenter to pay for and another year to build.
He clutched his side where an old wound began to burn.
What is the value of a ship compared to a human life?
The auctioneer tapped his boot on the wooden platform. “Can you best the offer or not, sir?”
A burst of blood rushed to Nathaniel’s head. His lungs collapsed under the weight of what he knew he must do. He gasped for breath amidst the air saturated with the stench of human sweat and the sting of rain. He faced the auctioneer, avoiding Miss Hope’s desperate eyes. “I offer … I offer you my merchant brig,” he spit out the words before he changed his mind, then he clenched his fists, not believing the words still hanging on the wind.
The auctioneer’s eyes widened, and he studied Nathaniel as if to ensure he was not mocking him, but Nathaniel knew not an ounce of humor would be found on his expression.
“Which one is it?” The auctioneer gazed out upon the water.
“’Tis the two-masted brig, there in the center, by the East Indiamen.” Nathaniel pointed toward the pride of his fleet as his heart sank. “The one with the blue cross painted on her stern. I built her myself.”
“Ah yes, I see. She’s a beauty.” The auctioneer slapped Nathaniel on the back. “I’ll take her.” He poured Mr. Garrison’s coins back into the man’s hand, then glanced at Miss Hope. “Though I daresay I fear I am getting the best of our bargain.” He chuckled.
A collective gasp shot from the horde of men, followed by renewed profanity and further feverish wagers.
Mr. Garrison squeezed his hands over the clanking coins and thrust them toward the auctioneer. “I do protest, sir. He cannot offer his ship. This is unheard of.” His cheeks budded in patches of purple and red, and his dark eyes darted between the three of them like grapeshot searching for a victim.
Nathaniel couldn’t move his feet. Every part of him seemed numb save his pounding heart and the odd buzzing filling his head. Had he just sold the Blue Triumph, his best merchant ship?
And for a woman who did naught but spurn him at every turn.
She wasn’t spurning him now. The taut lines in her face had softened, and she smiled up at him with thankfulness and admiration.
He tore his eyes from her. He must think. He could still change his mind. Save his ship and walk away. He clenched his jaw, then his fists, until his nails bit into his skin. Maybe the pain would return his senses to him. He released a long sigh, hoping it would stifle the sinking feeling that dragged upon his heart. It didn’t.
Of course there was no other choice. O God, give me a way out.
The auctioneer faced Mr. Garrison. “Counter the offer, sir, or I suggest you take your money and leave.”
“I am not authorized … I mean to say, I cannot …” he blubbered and removed a handkerchief to dab the sweat from his neck. After firing one last angry glance their way, he turned and waddled down the stairs, cursing his way through the laughing rabble.
Groans emanated from the men who had lost their wagers as the clank of coins rang through the humid air.
Miss Hope clutched Nathaniel’s arm with a grip that said she would not easily release him. A month ago such attentions would have pleased him, but under the present situation, nausea bubbled in his gut.
The auctioneer swatted at the crowd to dismiss them. “Be gone with ye. I’m done for the day.”
Cursing, the men dispersed while Nathaniel begrudgingly made arrangements with the auctioneer to transfer the ship to his care.