The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury

by Lisa Norato

  It was true, Johnny reflected. Nurse Hastings had never actually retired that night, but waited in the shadows of the garden with Lady Eleanor’s cape, while the dinner progressed.

  Johnny waited a safe distance away on the outskirts of the forest. Should something go awry and the lady and her nurse get caught, he would be able to report back to his captain.

  But they hadn’t gotten caught, and Johnny had led them into the woodlands.

  “And what more ingenious plan than to disappear in plain sight, eh?” boomed the stalwart voice of Captain Moon. “Seems you’ve already figured it out. But perhaps what you don’t know is that I had my vessel waiting in the river. It all transpired quickly. We’d no time to waste, you see. I do believe we must’ve sailed off before you noticed Eleanor had gone missing. You didn’t know she was possessed of such spirit and courage, did you? No, of course not, and that worked to our advantage. You never took the time to get to know her as a person. You didn’t care. You couldn’t see past her beauty and what an asset it was to you. That was your mistake. Eleanor left Sutherland Hall with only the clothes on her back, because she wanted nothing to remind her of where she’d come from.”

  Johnny felt no better than a blind eavesdropper, standing there powerless. He longed to see the expression on the earl’s face. Anger and injustice on Lady Moon’s behalf roiled inside him, along with his own intense dislike of Lord Treybarwick, and he clutched his walking stick with both hands as though preparing to use it as a weapon.

  Captain Moon noticed, obviously, for he touched Johnny on the arm. A brief contact meant to calm and reassure Johnny that he had the situation in hand.

  “Eleanor liberated herself,” the captain readdressed the earl in a controlled voice. “She rejected the life you’d planned for her and chose her own happiness. And now she resides in a far better place, a place where no sorrow can ever touch her. She is beyond your reach. You shall never hurt or intimidate her again.”

  Johnny had heard there were bruises on Lady Eleanor’s limbs. It had always been Nurse Hastings’ job to attend them. Lord Treybarwick had been careful to keep evidence of his physical abuse out of sight. He never touched the lady’s face or arms where it would mar her appearance in a gown.

  It was probably best Johnny hadn’t known who he was saving when he helped the Vulture’s sole passenger into his rescue boat. Had he known “Mr. Gregory’s” true identity at the time, he’d have been sorely tempted to let the sea claim him.

  “The past is dead, Treybarwick,” said Captain Moon, “and as for the present, you are unwelcome in Duxbury. What did you hope to accomplish by coming here? Did you think I would let you anywhere near my wife? You’ve wasted your time in coming.”

  “Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Captain. This is far from over. Eleanor was dead to me long ago, but there is still the honor of the Treybarwick title to defend. Eleanor’s loss cost me the fortune I was counting on. Your romantic deceit quite ruined me. I’d no choice but to sell off property to cover my debts, including my London townhouse. Gone went my reputation among the ton and my welcome at my club, in addition to my credit at any other gambling establishment. I’ve been reduced to a modest country life in what is now a deteriorating estate. One by one, the bulk of my staff had either departed or been let go, until I was left with little choice but to sail to America alone. Did you think I would let you get away with that? Did you believe time would make a difference? That I would forget and forgive? No, you have insulted me and brought shame down upon my good name. I knew you’d never come to me, so I have come to you … to demand satisfaction.”

  The sound of movement. Whatever transpired, it resulted in a gasp of horror from Captain Moon.

  Cold dread snaked up Johnny’s spine.

  “If we were in England, I would suggest pistols at dawn, but here in barely-civilized America we shall make do with a duel at mid-morning,” said the earl. “I have no second and yours, unfortunately, is blind.” The Cornishman gave a hollow chuckle. “How poetic is justice, is it not?”

  “What’s happening?” Johnny asked, although he was beginning to get a very dark picture for himself.

  “The wretch has pulled a pistol from his greatcoat,” said Captain Moon. “A duel? You are not only evil, you’re mad.”

  “Perhaps I am at that,” came Lord Treybarwick’s cool reply.

  Johnny feared the apprehension in the captain’s voice and knew the weapon was aimed at his loyal friend.

  “This engraved flintlock has been in my family for generations. Why, my own great grandfather once dueled — successfully, I might add — with the set,” Lord Treybarwick said. “However, I have brought just the one. Ten paces on three?”

  “I have no weapon,” Captain Moon said. “This isn’t a duel. It’s murder!”

  “Alas, Captain. I have no sympathy.”

  Johnny froze in disbelief and horror. Then, when he would have charged the earl in hopes of wresting the weapon from him, an open palm hit his chest, knocking him backward.

  “Stand back, Jon,” Captain Moon ordered. “This is my fight, nor yours. Do not harm the boy, Treybarwick. This is between you and me.”

  Johnny regained his footing and lifted his walking stick in a defensive hold.

  “Fire — one… .” He heard the earl pacing away. Each footstep echoed.

  Sweat dripped from Johnny’s knitted wool cap into his unseeing eyes. Was there no one about to help them?

  “Two… .”

  “Cease this, madness, Treybarwick,” Captain Moon said. “You’ll never get away with what you are threatening to do.”

  Would the earl shoot? Or did he simply wish to frighten them? The blood ran cold through Johnny’s veins and thrummed in his ears, as he forced himself to concentrate on the earl’s movements.

  “Three.”

  The click of a pistol’s hammer rang in the quiet. Johnny raised his walking stick like a spear and hurled it toward the sound, as the earl cried “Present!” in a voice enraged with over twenty years of insult and self-pity.

  Johnny was aware of several things happening at once. Flint hit metal with a sharp bang, firing a heavy lead ball through pistol’s barrel. The earl grunted as though struck with the walking stick. Then, boom! The pistol discharged in an ear-splitting blast, giving off a shower of sparks.

  The blast brought Johnny back to the explosion at Pilgrim Light, when all he knew was extreme terror, a ringing in his ears and the feeling he had just taken his last breath.

  Chapter 21

  The acrid stench of gun smoke burned in his nostrils and clogged his throat, dry and choking. Johnny’s heart lurched in his chest, squeezing into a tight knot that stole his breath. A cry of pain rent the air, and there came the sound of a body dropping. He’d not been hit, but it would seem his throw had not entirely deflected the earl’s shot.

  “Captain? Captain Moon!”

  With a primal cry of outrage, he blindly rushed the earl, hurling himself like some wild beast. He grabbed hold of the villain’s legs, and they fell crashing to the muddy road with a thud and a splatter. A heavy object hit the ground beside them.

  Johnny clawed blindly for a stronghold on the fellow, fueled by rabid anger, but the earl pulled his leg free and kicked Johnny in the face with the heel of his boot. The strike barely missed his eye and sent Johnny’s head reeling back.

  Stunned, he heard the earl scramble to his feet and beat a hasty retreat.

  Cowardly tyrant.

  Johnny sneered in disgust and lifted his head, sending a sharp stab of pain to his bruised cheek. He was fairly certain Lord Treybarwick had dropped his weapon and fled.

  Johnny raised himself, disoriented in his panic. He crawled forward on hands and knees searching the cold, moist ground. “Captain, where are you?” His voice rose to the timbre of a frantic bellow. “Answer me, I beg you.”

  He cocked his head in the direction he thought he’d heard a moan, uncertain whether he’d actually heard anything other than a wh
istle of wind through the pines, the distant hawking gulls. His mind raced in a muddle, his sense of direction skewed. Johnny couldn’t seem to regain his bearings or determine from where the noise had come.

  He knew only that Captain Moon was in distress.

  Smoke filtered into his airways. His hand touched scorching hot metal. The barrel of the flintlock burned his palm and Johnny gasped in recoil.

  “J-Jon,” called the weak, breathless voice of Captain Moon. “Are you injured?”

  “I am unharmed. And you? Have you been struck?”

  “I … I fear so.”

  Bile rose in Johnny’s throat. “I’ll find you, sir. Hold on.” He crawled back toward the voice and the captain’s labored breathing. “Where have you been hit?”

  “Left side. I fear it is bad, Jon.”

  Johnny discovered him lying face down. Lifting him from beneath the arms, he rolled the captain gently then maneuvered behind him to prop up his great, immobile weight and support his head. He touched his dear friend’s brow and wiped away beads of cold sweat.

  Johnny pulled off his cap and felt for the wound, knowing he’d found it when the captain groaned. He apologized for the discomfort as he pressed the wadded wool into Captain Moon’s side. Blood soaked through almost immediately onto Johnny’s hand, leaving behind its metallic scent.

  Throwing his walking stick had deflected the earl’s shot from Captain Moon’s heart — if that was where the earl had been aiming, as Johnny had assumed it was — but had the captain suffered a mortal wound regardless? He prayed not.

  Captain Moon drew a slow, arduous breath through his mouth, a prolonged, shaky sound. Upon exhaling, he grabbed Johnny’s arm in a tight hold. “I underestimated Treybarwick. Lady Moon understood how desperate a man he was, and time has only made him more so. Don’t make the same error, Johnny. I leave it up to you now. Protect Iris for me.”

  His voice seemed to fade away.

  “We shall get through this, sir. Together. I shall fetch aid. Hold on,” Johnny urged, trying to keep his voice from breaking down.

  The captain’s grip weakened. His hand fell away. The effort to speak had drained him and his body grew lifeless in Johnny’s arms. Beneath the soft, trimmed beard, the captain’s face felt feverish to the touch. Johnny attempted to revive him. “No, Captain. Awake, please. Think of your daughter.”

  Johnny turned sightless eyes heavenward. A tear leaked onto his cheek. Lord, spare the captain, I pray. Give us strength. Show me what to do. Help me to do as he asks. Show me how am I to protect Iris from a villain I cannot see, when I have failed to protect her father? Help us.

  A dog barked in the distance. Arff! Arff! Arff! The sharp, successive barks grew louder, closer, ringing though the chill air as if sounding an alarm. Snow! Johnny could hear her tearing down the road towards them.

  He called out to her and was soon greeted with the sound of her heavy panting followed by her hot breath in his face. He hugged her, thankful, but she pulled away to sniff the captain. With a whine, she began to lick his face.

  Johnny shooed her away, wondering how to make her understand she needed to go for help. He estimated they were nearly halfway to town. Was he better off to leave her with the captain and try to find his way back to Nook House on his own?

  The Labrador had her own ideas. She sat down beside her master and let out a piercing howl.

  Ahh-oool! Ahh-oool!

  The mournful sound echoed down the lane to greet the alarmed Nook folk who followed in Snow’s wake to investigate the disturbance. There was no mistaking the rush of footsteps of what sounded like a group. From a distance, one fellow called, “We heard gunfire. Has someone been injured?”

  “Come quickly,” Johnny shouted. “Captain Moon has been shot!”

  *

  “Captain Moon has been shot!”

  Later, Iris would not remember anything of the moments following that horrifying announcement but the sound of her own screams. Before that, there had been the heavy clip-clop of horses’ hooves pounding down the drive. A wagon pulled up to the keeping room door with great urgency, and a group of men entered with her father’s body stretched across a long, wooden plank.

  He was bloodied, ashen-faced and still as death.

  Snow bounded in after them. Earlier, she had followed Peter when he’d left to collect more firewood, only to return now with bloody red streaks marring her white fur.

  Iris lost all control. Hysteria took over. Disbelief paralyzed her. She was no longer inside her body but seemed to be watching events unfold from a distance. Voices buzzed around her. She yearned to tell her screaming self to be quiet so she could hear the exchange of conversation.

  Who would shoot Father? He looked so pale. Was he alive? Did she hear Hetty say she could not locate a pulse nor detect his breathing? Had anyone been dispatched to collect the doctor?

  Someone tried to console her by pulling her into an embrace, as Iris watched her father being carried toward the borning room. At once, the holy spirit of the Lord came upon her. Grace, like a drop of rain, touched the top of her head then flowed down over her, washing away her numbness and restoring her presence of mind.

  Iris burst into action.

  She ran ahead to bar their way. “No. Upstairs, please. I want him in his own room. He’ll be more comfortable there.”

  The men hesitated. Iris came into the realization of which fellows carried her father and found herself staring at the four forlorn faces of Benjamin Bliss, Joseph and Alan Bowden, a Nook neighbor and his teenage son, with Uncle Alden supporting the rear. All of them gaped wide-eyed, immobilized by surprise.

  “You heard my girl,” Hetty shouted at them. “Upstairs. Quickly now!”

  They snapped to her bidding, carefully backing up and then turning the makeshift stretcher toward the hallway entry. She got the impression they weren’t holding much hope and were respecting her wishes more for her sake than for her father’s, Hetty included.

  Iris shouted to Peter to bring firewood and kindling. Then she scurried on ahead, leading the way down the lengthy passage to the front of the house and up the grand central staircase. The men turned the stretcher sideways and began the slow, deliberate climb. Iris rushed to the top with Peter, progressing down the hall to halt before the eight-paneled door of the empty bedroom her parents once shared. The room Father had abandoned and yet the place where he belonged. Inside the chamber they had shared as man and wife, surrounded by reminders of his beloved, would bring him comfort and hopefully give him strength.

  Pressing down on the wrought-iron latch, Iris opened the door and entered. Peter followed obediently, bearing an armload of kindling.

  The room remained relatively warm with the dying embers of a fire the young man had lit earlier. Iris had spent some time here airing out the chamber, freshening a bowl of evergreens and generally sorting through her mother’s belongings in search of a clue as to why Mama would have been in possession of a ring like that of Mr. Gregory’s. A total stranger. To Iris’s recollection, his name had never once been mentioned during her lifetime.

  “Stoke the fire, Peter, please.” she said while she hurried over to the large four-poster bed and rolled back the floral coverlet.

  On her way to the window to close the draperies and darken the room, she noticed Peter slumped over the grate, shoulders shaking.

  She went to him and found him crying.

  He was frightened, as was she.

  Iris placed a hand on his back and he lifted his delicate, boyish face to hers. Mink brown hair fell soft and wild into his glistening eyes. “What’s happened to Captain Moon? It’s something bad, isn’t it?”

  Iris could not answer. She had a difficult time controlling her own tears. She could hear the men coming down the hall with her father. “We must be strong and do what is needed of us. Right now, I need you to build a warm fire for the captain. Can you do that?”

  He exhaled on a sob, nodding. “Yes, my lady.”

  She stepped asi
de as they carried in her father and laid him on the bed. Snow crept in after them. For the first time in over a year, Father’s snowy white head touched the fine linen pillowcase lovingly embroidered by her mother’s own hand.

  Only the grace of God kept Iris standing upright.

  Hetty entered in a breathless whoosh with Alice on her heels, both women carrying an armload of bandages, cloths and medicinal bottles. Immediately, the old nurse began barking out orders. “Mr. Webster, please bring that dog downstairs and keep watch for the doctor. Take young Mr. Bowden with you, and while you’re at it, might as well set a pot of water to boiling. Dr. Huxham will be in need of it, and we must be ready for him when he arrives. The rest of you men stay here. I’ve need of your strong arms. Now, Alice, pass me those smelling salts.”

  Iris sent a horrified Peter from the room but remained herself to watch them work. She prayed feverishly under her breath as her father’s great coat was removed then diverted her gaze as Hetty cut away his bloody garments and the fellows helped to carefully remove them. Cloths were immediately applied to stop the blood flow. Iris felt faint and grabbed hold of the mantel for support. In the dark room, firelight flickered over her father’s once merry red cheeks, now sunken and nearly as white as his hair.

  The smelling salts had produced no effect, so Hetty began to wash his face with spirits of Hartshorne.

  Iris was moved to action at the sight. “Oh, Hetty, please allow me.” She debated whether ’twas best to leave the nursing to the more experienced Hetty, but she could not. Iris had to do something or she’d go mad.