The Ruffian and the Rose

by Colleen French

  "Not an idea, thir." Bessie took a fussing baby from one of her children's arms. "But I can tell you the's been well fed. Thuckled her at my own brethst, I did. And the wath a hungry little mite."

  "How long ago did you find her and how did you know she was ours?" He kissed the little head and handed Laura gently to Ruth.

  Bessie smiled but blushed and turned away, unable to stand under the scrutiny of the handsome half-breed. "That were three dayths ago thith morning. We found you becauth of the bell and coral, thir."

  "The bell and coral?" Brock frowned. "I don't understand."

  Ruth jingled the tiny silver bell attached to the coral teething ring Keely had pinned on Laura's blanket four days ago. "The bell and coral, Masta Brock."

  He shook his head, smoothing his braid absentmindedly. "I'm not following."

  Jenny Lynn spoke up. "It was my grandmama." The girl poked her finger in and out of a small hole in her smock. "She looked at the mark of the silversmithy on the little bell. She knowd it from a candlestick she'd seen where she works sewin', so . . ."

  "So?" Brock urged,

  "So, Grandmama, she went right to Mistress Creekins's house and asked who the smithy was. Mistress Creekins said the candlestick had come from Dover so Mama loaded us into the wagon and we come here. Mama found the smithy right on the main street and he could tell us a Captain Bartholomew had the bell and coral made a fortnight back."

  "I'll be damned," Brock muttered in astonishment, turning away. "A chance in a million." He glanced at Laura cooing at Ruth. It was true what his father's sister had told him. The great Manito protects those who cannot protect themselves. Please God, please Manito, he prayed silently. Protect my wife. Protect Keely.

  "I cannot thank enough, Mistress Lassiter, Jenny Lynn." He nodded to the young girl and she giggled. "What can I do to repay you?"

  Bessie shook her head. "Nu-nuthin', thir. We exthpected no payment. We only wanted the child to be returned." She bowed her head. "I only with that I could tell you of her mama. Thith warring ith a dirty buthineth. Men do what they'd never dared before."

  Brock held out his hands. "You live on a farm?"

  Bessie shifted the baby on her lap. "We do, thir."

  "Could I speak to you, Masta Brock?" Ruth asked quietly.

  Brock followed the old servant out of the parlor and into the hallway. "Yes, Ruth."

  She lowered her voice. "Her husband is with a Tory regiment with Clinton's army. I'm sure they need food and like, sir, whether they say so or not."

  He nodded. "True enough. Have Blackie load the wagon with two sacks of flour, a hogshead of salt pork, a packet of sugar and salt, and whatever else you see fit from the larder."

  Ruth smiled, baring perfect white teeth. "Yes, sir."

  "And Ruth . . ."

  "Sir?"

  Brock slipped two silver coins from a small bag beneath his coat. "Put these in with the sugar."

  Ruth gave him a wink. "I always said you were a goodin' Masta Brock. Ain't no matter what others say."

  At that moment Blackie came bursting through the back door from the kitchen. "Master Brock! Got a message from your first officer!"

  "A message?" Brock put out his hand to accept the crumpled note.

  "Just as I was leavin', sir, a man with a peg leg come hobblin' down the dock. He said he had to speak personal to you but that Mister Jameson, he said you wasn't there and if the man didn't give him the message he was gonna cut off the man's other leg!"

  Brock grinned, unfolding the piece of foolscap. His first officer had always had a way of convincing unwilling parties. The note was in Jameson's own spiraled handwriting.

  Brock,

  The meet is tomorrow, sunset. Fools Cove on the Chester River. The Tempest is ready to get under way at your command.

  Looking up, Brock crushed the bit of paper in his massive hand. "Keely," he whispered. "The game is on."

  Chapter Twenty

  Brock stood on the quarterdeck of the Tempest, staring straight ahead as the sharp-hulled topsail schooner cut through the water at a remarkable speed. The salt spray of the Chesapeake Bay covered his bronzed face in a light mist, filling his nostrils with the scent of the sea. His midnight-black hair fell down his back, unbound and free to ripple in the leeward wind. Across his left cheekbone he wore two diagonally painted lines, one blue, one red. The blue represented the courage of his men, and the red, the blood of the enemy that would surely follow.

  The deck of the ship was alive with movement as men hastened to set full sail.

  "Leave no scallops in your staysails!" called the sailmaster's voice, which was carried on the wind. "We'll need every bit she can give us."

  Brock turned to his cousin, Tigiana, standing beside him on the quarterdeck. "I'm honored that you came, brother."

  Tigiana nodded solemnly, matching Brock's dark gaze with his own. "It is an honor that I am asked. We of the wolf clan of the Lenni Lenape are one always." He clasped his hands. "Just as our father's were one on earth and now are one in spirit."

  The bronze-skinned brave was a good head shorter than Brock, but his shoulders were broad and his biceps exceptionally well formed. He had his half-breed cousin's piercing dark eyes and high cheekbones, but Tigiana's face was distinguished by a long sloping nose and heavy eyebrows.

  Brock rested his hand on Tigiana's muscular forearm. The Lenni Lenape was a man of honor and a man to depend upon. "I know this is a bad time for you in the midst of fishing season and with your wife about to give birth, but I ask because I had no one else to ask."

  "Say no more, Brock-Forrester. You ask and I come just as you would come if I asked. No explanations are needed, not among the wolf clan."

  Brock smiled, nodded in understanding. "You will like my Keely. Her hair is the color of the autumn leaves, alive and glowing with a flame that can't be extinguished. Her eyes are as blue-green as the depths of the ocean before a great storm."

  "She is good to you, brother?"

  Brock chuckled. "We've had our misunderstandings, but she is as good to me as I am to her."

  "As long as you love her and she loves you," Tigiana said quietly. "That is all that is important in this earthly life."

  "Yes." Brock sighed, reaching for a chart his navigator held out for him. "I love her, and when I find her, we will make amends or die trying."

  Keely stood on the deck of the smuggler's vessel beside Elijah, plucking at the folds of her soiled gown. Her captor rested his filthy hand possessively on her shoulder.

  "Ye see that sailin' ship comin' this way? The Tempest, she's one of the fastest you bloody rebels have got."

  Keely shook her head, an ironic smile playing on her lips. Bloody Rebel, that was a change. Someone was actually calling her a bloody rebel. "She is beautiful," she responded.

  "Beautiful, hell!" Elijah's golden teeth flashed in the sunlight. "Her belly's full of salt pork, flour, and sugar stolen from King Georgie Porgie himself. It'll bring a pretty price when I sell it back to him for his troops."

  Keely's eyes widened. "And you call yourself a loyal English subject?" She gave a laugh. "You have no loyalties. You're nothing more than a pirate!"

  Elijah applied even pressure to her shoulder until her knees buckled beneath the pain. "Shut your mouth, woman, or I'll toss you to my crew." His beady eyes glimmered like those of the rats she'd seen below deck. "I warrant ye won't be so uppity when they finished with you!"

  "You promised to return me unharmed if my husband complied with your wishes." She lifted a hand, pointing up the Chester River. "He comes now with his end of the bargain."

  Elijah chuckled, pulling a silver flask from beneath his short red sea jacket with the buttons missing. "If this little deal works out well, the captain and I might work out a nice arrangement. Something permanentlike; I've been looking for a trustworthy supplier."

  Keely pushed a strand of hair from her mouth. "You can't do that. The agreement was the contents of the Tempest's hold in exchange for my life.
Brock would have no dealing with a man like you!"

  Elijah jerked her arm viciously. "I know where ye live now, pretty lady. I know every time your half-breed bastard husband leaves the dock." He smiled, lowering his leering face a hair's breath from hers. "Next time I took ye, I'd not be such a kind and friendly host, if you know what I mean?"

  Their eyes locked and Keely struggled to free herself from his grasp.

  The Tempest, she's closin' in on us, Cap'n," shouted one of the seamen.

  Releasing Keely, Elijah gave her a shove, forcing her to her knees. "Ye'll stay put if ye know what's good for ye."

  Holding her breath, she nodded.

  "All right, mates," Elijah shouted, walking away. "Man, your stations. Find my horn, Dickie, and let's talk to these bastards."

  Carefully Brock eased the Tempest toward the dilapidated smuggling vessel just ahead. The ancient two-masted sloop was half the Tempest's size and flying Dutch colors; across its bow its name was barely readable and missing one letter.

  Moving to the bow of the ship, Brock lifted his speaking trumpet to his lips. On board the other vessel he could make out a man in a red coat, the man he assumed to be the captain of the ragtag outfit.

  "There on board the Fanny! I want to see my wife," Brock ordered, his booming voice carrying easily between the two ships.

  A minute later the captain was holding Keely by a thick chunk of her auburn hair. "Belong to you, you red bastard?" he shouted with his own battered trumpet. "A pretty thing." He released Keely, swatting her backside with his hand. "Very nice," he shouted.

  Brock cringed as he watched Keely swing at the captain and the man cuff her back, clipping her in the chin.

  "You hurt her," Brock warned, his anger barely in check, "and I'll slit your greedy throats one and all!"

  The captain nodded, smiling, his gold teeth reflecting the sun's failing light. "Let's just get this exchange over with and get the hell out of here, Injun."

  Brock glanced at Tigiana standing beside him.

  "Don't let your anger rule you," his cousin warned quietly in the Lenni Lenape tongue. "They are without intelligence. You will best them with clear thought."

  Brock nodded, taking a deep breath before he lifted the brass speaking trumpet to his lips. "Send my wife over in a smallboat and then we will begin transporting the goods!"

  The pirate captain lifted his own horn to his mouth and laughed long and hard. "Start loading the barrels on your smallboats. When she's all here in my hold, I'll gladly surrender the lady."

  It was Brock's turn to chuckle. "I think not," he called.

  "Then what do you suggest?"

  "A plan I think we can both see safety in." Brock lifted his head to let the breeze caress his cheek. The wind was westerly off the Tempest's port bow, just as he had calculated; the tide was going out. "I will pass you on your starboard side," he continued on the horn. "You anchor here, I'll anchor a few thousand yards directly off your bow."

  The captain in the red coat nodded. "So my cannon can't reach ye and yours can't reach me. Smart Injun, you are. Must be quite a woman, this wench."

  "You will set my wife in a smallboat to the southern bank where one of my men will wait with her. To the northern shore, I will send my first mate; you will send yours," Brock paused, wetting his lips. "If there is treachery on either side, recourse will be simple enough."

  The gold-toothed captain paused in thought, spoke to a mate beside him, then nodded slowly. "Sounds fair enough to me," he shouted.

  Brock lowered his horn, turning away. He chuckled." 'Twas simple enough, Mr. Lassiter."

  It was nearly dusk when the Tempest set anchor and Brock lowered a smallboat to transport Tigiana to the southern bank of the river. All was moving as planned. The pirate ship Fanny had anchored where she sat, downwind of the Tempest. Just as Brock had instructed, Keely was rowed ashore and the first mate began rowing back across the Chester River to the northern shore.

  As Brock's men prepared silently for battle, moving nonchalantly about the deck, he ordered that one smallboat be filled with barrels and cloth sacks from below deck and be sent across for appearance' sake.

  When the first barrel was hauled up on the deck of the Fanny, Brock watched the red-coated captain shove a long blade into the top of the cask. He withdrew the knife, studied it, then smiled, holding if over his head to his crew's delight. Taking the speaking trumpet, he shouted, "Yer an honest man, Brock Bartholomew. Too bad yer a bloody Injun!"

  Brock lifted a hand to wave and turned his head ever so slightly. "Mr. Jameson."

  "Captain?" the first officer responded.

  "Is my wife safely ashore?"

  "She is, sir. Tigiana gave the signal a good ten minutes ago."

  Brock swept his leather three-cornered hat off his head, banging it on his knee. "Cut anchor!" he shouted. "Quarters, gentlemen!"

  Suddenly, the Tempest's deck was alive with movement. Men overflowed from below deck, racing to reach their stations. Topmen under the boatswain's command scurried aloft to ready extra rigging while gunners cast off the lashings of their prized carronade cannon and the assorted four-pounders that lurked behind the gunports.

  "Anchor's cut, Cap'n," shouted one of Brock's officers.

  Brock lowered his hand to the gilt-handled pistol that rested in his belt. "Good job, Larry." With long sure strides he walked the length of the Tempest's deck toward the stern. Already, the tide and the wind off the bow were pushing the Tempest straight into range to fire on the Fanny.

  "God damn it!" shouted Elijah from the bow of the Fanny. "The bloody red bastard's tricked us. Pull anchor! Pull anchor!" he shouted, kicking at Dickie as the man ran by. "She's blowing straight for us!"

  The deck of the pirate ship Fanny erupted into sheer pandemonium. Men ran and shouted, tripping and running into each other as they hastened to set sail and retrieve their anchor.

  From the southern shore of the Chester River, Keely paced the grassy bank. "What is he doing?" she demanded of Tigiana. "They're moving! Why are they moving?"

  Tigiana crossed his arms over his bare chest. "It was the plan. There are no supplies for exchange aboard." The red man smiled at his cousin's cleverness. "Only large cannon."

  "Well, you've got to get me on board!" she shouted as the first boom of a cannon echoed over the water. "I must be with my husband!"

  Tigiana shook his head. "You will stay here with me. Here where you are safe. It is what Brock-Forrester wanted."

  Keely glanced up at Tigiana's solemn red-hued face. "Is he where it's safe?" she demanded, running to the smallboat beached on the shore. "No! He isn't and I have to go to him."

  Just as Keely lifted her foot over the smallboat's bow, Tigiana's iron hand closed over her arm. "I cannot let you go," he said in the same even-toned voice. "I gave my word."

  Realizing that she obviously couldn't outwrestle the stocky Lenni Lenape brave, Keely lowered her head in mock surrender. "Very well, if you say it's what my husband wished."

  Tigiana nodded, turning to watch the Tempest as it neared the Fanny, which was still pulling up anchor. "It is. You are a wise woman to know your husband is wiser."

  Silently, Keely lifted one of the smallboat's oars and swung it as hard as she could at Tigiana's dark head. "Sorry," she muttered, cringing as the oar connected with the brave's head, making a dull thud.

  Tigiana fell to the grass without a sound and Keely dropped the oar, running to kneel beside him. Guiltily, she held her palm over his mouth. "Still breathing," she said aloud. "And no blood, just a bump." Scrambling to her feet, she pushed the smallboat into the water and waded out beside it, jumping in. A minute later, she was rowing in the direction of the Tempest and the Fanny.

  The sun hung low in the west beyond the battling ships, ablaze with the reds and oranges of near nightfall. The sky was streaked with the last rays of sunlight and filled with the sound of booming cannon and rapid gunfire.

  Praying feverishly, Keely rowed with all her might, amaze
d that she was actually making progress toward the ships . . . toward Brock.

  "Captain! Captain Bartholomew!" shouted First Officer Jameson above the din of gunfire. "You're not going to like this, sir." He saluted the American colors the Tempest flew and stepped onto the quarterdeck.

  "What is it?" Brock lowered his spyglass.

  "There's a smallboat coming for starboard side, sir. I think it's your wife."

  Brock's face paled, his hand nearly crushing the delicate spyglass. "Damnation," he groaned. "Get her aboard before they spot her and blow her out of the water!"

  "Yes, sir." Jameson sped off, ducking at the sound of cannon fire as a ball whizzed through the air.

  Out of the darkness, through the smoke of the cannon, Keely made out a rope ladder being dropped from the Tempest. The vessel was still moving, being blown by the wind downriver, but her stern was scraping the Fanny's bow.

  "Mistress Bartholomew," came a voice from the Tempest. "Mistress Bartholomew, can you hear me?"

  Keely lifted the oars from the water. "Yes! I can hear you!" she shouted above the gunfire and creaking wood.

  "You'll have to bring her up against the hull, It's the only way we can get you on board. Can you do it?" cried the voice.

  With determination, Keely lowered the oars and began to row again. All she could think of was Brock . . . his broad shoulders, his smirking grin, his long, thick, black hair. "I'm coming," she whispered. "I'm coming, Brock."

  The instant the side of the smallboat scraped the hull of the Tempest, a man came shimmying down a rope ladder and dropped into the boat. Keely recognized him as Brock's first officer.

  "You all right, ma'am?"

  Keely nodded, although her palms were bloody from gripping the oars. "I will be," she replied, wiping her hands on her skirt. "Where's my husband, Mr. Jameson?"

  "On the quarterdeck, ma'am. Do you think you can get up the ladder, or do I need to carry you?"

  Keely looked up doubtfully at the rope ladder looming above. "I can manage, sir."

  Jameson smiled in the semidarkness. "Be right behind you, Mistress Bartholomew."