01 - Captured Dreams

by May McGoldrick

  “They’ve seized the vessel?”

  “Not officially. But they took our books,” Nathaniel said with some heat. “They are calling it an inspection. They claimed that as of today—this afternoon, in fact—every ship coming into port will be treated the same. But I know that is a pack of lies, for as one foul-smelling whaling ship and two other merchant vessels tied up at the Long Wharf an hour after Captain Preston brought the Thistle in, and there has been no ‘inspection’ of those bloody ships.”

  Pierce had expected the authorities to begin clamping down for some time now. And he was prepared for it.

  “Do not fret, Nathaniel. They’ll find nothing. After Ebenezer’s men finished unloading his cargo last night, the eight empty casks were filled with sea water. Preston assured me that those are well mixed with the other casks that really do contain wine. The books record that portion of the shipment as forty-five pipes of wine. So unless those soldiers decide to tap every barrel, they shall find everything in order aboard the Thistle.” Pierce put a calming hand on his friend’s shoulder. “And even in the extreme case that they do exactly that, the blame can easily be placed on those thieves in Madeira who loaded the shipment.”

  “All well and good for the Thistle, Pierce, but I am not talking about this one shipment.” Nathaniel pulled a chair closer to the desk and sat down, opening the first of the ledgers. “I think their plan is not so much to inspect what we have now, but to question every tides man and sailor who gets their wages by us. They shall ask and ask until somebody says something that does not agree. And then they shall be at our throats.”

  “Our men have withstood this kind of scrutiny before. They will do just fine.”

  “Perhaps, but that is not all of it!”

  Pierce planted both hands on the desk. “What else is going on?”

  “I was delivered a letter tonight that the customs officials wish to see the books for the Thistle’s last four crossings. This takes us back over a year. They want to see everything from the time that you yourself became fully involved with the business.” Nathaniel thumbed back the pages on the ledger to the date. “They also wish to see what we have in our offices for our other five vessels, going back again to the same time period.”

  “We supplied those books each time a ship came to shore. They should already have all this information.”

  “They claim that the governor has ordered them to collect the information again. They also claim this is to be standard procedure for everyone involved in trade.”

  “That is a blasted lie, if ever I heard one.” Pierce turned around the book Nathaniel had already opened and looked down at the entries. During each crossing this past year, the Thistle and her sister ships carried weapons among their cargoes. But the ledgers showed records of wine and paper from England, molasses and sugar from the Caribbean. “You’ve been keeping perfect books. They cannot seize any of the ships based on those.”

  “The vessels are not my concern, Pierce. But you are,” Nathaniel said quietly. “There is an open investigation in progress, but there is also a concealed one. All the men who were arrested and taken to the Castle after your meeting with Ebenezer at the Anchor were asked one thing…to describe MacHeath.”

  “The Sons of Liberty will never inform on me, and no one else has enough information to put a rope about my neck.”

  “But I believe there is someone else. You told me yourself that Miss Edwards saw you last night. If she saw you, others might be able to identify you, as well.” Nathaniel pushed the books aside. “Pierce, I think you should find some excuse—preferably one having to do with business—and go away for a time.”

  “What about you?”

  “I am known to be just the money man in our partnership. Everyone knows you run the operations of the business. The worst they could do to me is to seize all the ships we have in port. But I have enough friends here and in Parliament that will swear to my loyalty to the Crown…and to my lack of interest in colonial politics. I might get slapped on the hand if they catch you, but you are the one they shall hang.”

  Pierce had no fear of the consequences of being caught. He knew the dangers of becoming involved. When he had come to America, he’d done so to put behind himself the guilt he carried over his brother’s life and Emma’s death. Settling in Boston, he had formed a partnership with Nathaniel, an old and trusted friend, and had poured his money and his energy into shipping. He had worked ceaselessly to make his fortune. In the meantime, he had found a sense of commonality with the rebellious citizens of his new home. He had witnessed the demonstrations, heard of the injustices, seen people from all walks of life fighting for the right to take charge of their own destinies. And he had found a home in their cause.

  What Pierce had gained from his time here was a sense of belonging to a place and its people. Their cause was now his cause, and it was one he believed in.

  The most difficult part of all Nathaniel had said tonight was that the time was quickly approaching where Pierce and his younger brother David could soon face off. They each stood on different sides of a line.

  Pierce had lost one brother. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared to lose the other one.

  “You need to go away, Pierce. You might go to the Caribbean. I can spread the word that our business required you to go.” Nathaniel pressed. “Stay away until these bastards start to look to someone else.”

  “I shall think aboutit,” Pierce said finally. “Even if I decide to go, however, it shan’t happen before we take the Gaspee. And that is only three days away.”

  CHAPTER 13

  No matter where she ended up in a month or in a year, Portia could not ignore the excitement that surrounded her in Faneuil Hall today. Hundreds of people were crowded inside the building. From every class of work they came—lawyers and teachers, tradesmen and servants, sailors and laborers. There was even a number of women in attendance. Portia was familiar with many of the faces after attending so many of the town meetings. She had even learned some of the names. They all came with the same purpose…to make their voices heard as to what was to be their future.

  Each time, different proposals were presented, and votes taken on resolutions that had been drafted. The voices were strong. Over the past nine months, she had the opportunity to hear many speakers, though Sam Adams was undeniably the most forceful of the leaders. The message was clear, and the crowds always rose to action. These Bostonians were united in their fight against a common enemy.

  As always, Portia started out of the hall when she realized that the meeting was about to end. She did not want to get caught in the exchange of insults that regularly took place between the exiting crowds and the British soldiers stationed around Dock Square following these events.

  “This is the last place I should have thought to find you on such a beautiful afternoon, Miss Edwards.”

  Portia’s heart skipped a beat when she turned and found Pierce descending the steps behind her.

  “Mr. Pennington.” She realized she shouldn’t have been surprised. Because of his shipping business, his interest in these meetings was only natural.

  He lowered his voice. “I was disappointed to receive your note this morning, canceling our appointment tonight.”

  Portia twisted the ribbon of the small handbag around her wrist. She had sat up for hours last night thinking of the consequences of going to his house alone. This was exactly what Mary had been warning her about. There could only be one thing that would happen between them. This man’s attentions were the forbidden fruit. And as much as she was hungering for a taste of what she knew he was offering, she couldn’t allow herself to fall. She had written her note of apology first thing this morning and had slipped it beneath the door of his office on Long Wharf, since she didn’t know exactly where he lived.

  “With my new position, there was no way I could find the time…and I did not think it would be appropriate.” Her mind went blank. She could not remember what excuse she had finally used in the
letter.

  “I understand perfectly. In fact, ‘twas thoughtless of me to pressure you to come.”

  “No, you did not pressure me.” Portia let out a frustrated breath and told herself to accept the gesture. “Thank you. Thank you for understanding.”

  “Will you allow me to walk with you now?”

  Portia wished that there was a way she could stop the heat from climbing up her cheeks. “Of course. I am honored, sir.”

  They walked a while in silence.

  “Are you fond of Boston politics, Miss Edwards?”

  “I find it intriguing,” she answered honestly.

  “So ‘tis not your first time listening to the local rabble rousers.”

  She shook her head, relieved that he was moving on from the subject of his rejected invitation.

  “But you left the meeting early.”

  “I learned my lesson this past winter. After one meeting, I was leaving with everyone else after the speakers had concluded, and I was mistakenly pelted by a snowball intended for one of the redcoats. As a result, I slipped on a patch of ice on the street and had a ghastly bruise for a week.”

  “That is terrible, but how do you know you were not the intended victim?”

  “My twelve-year-old rescuer confessed to it while walking me home.” She rubbed the spot of the old injury on her forehead. “The poor child was more troubled by his mistake than I was hurt.”

  “It serves him right.” He placed a hand in the small of her back, directing her to one side, so others in a hurry could pass by. “I am amazed you continued to come back after that.”

  Portia gave a small shrug. “Hits and bruises are a part of life. They have little effect in knocking me off the path.”

  His smile lit a fire in her stomach. And she felt Pierce’s hand caress her back once before falling to his side. As they continued along the cobblestones of Dock Square, two well-dressed women were coming in the opposite direction, their children and servants trailing after them. As they passed, she became keenly aware of the appreciative glances of the women at the man beside her.

  Portia thought, though, that there was so much more than just his handsome features and his height that set him apart. He had charm and personality and, as Bella had told her, was apparently well known to the women of Boston. She tried to put a little distance between them, but Pierce took her arm, keeping her at his side while pausing to exchange greetings with three men that she knew were members of the South End Caucus.

  “So you too are a regular attendee,” she commented once the three men had moved along the street.

  “I enjoy watching progress. I appreciate what these men are trying to do.” He looked around at the hustle and bustle of people. He lowered his voice. “And I like the way they are going about it.”

  “That is a very interesting position, considering their tactics must be costing you money every time Parliament imposes another penalty on Boston and its people.”

  “There are some things more important than money.”

  “I agree with you, Mr. Pennington.”

  “But I must tell you, attending thse meetings causes me pain when I consider our defeat in Scotland fighting for the same thing.”

  “These people have the advantage of still claiming the rights of Englishmen. Not so, with the Scots.”

  “Very true.”

  “And I should imagine that your countrymen have found ‘tis far more difficult to voice one’s discontent living beneath the heavy hand of British military justice.”

  “I think you are a bona fide radical, Miss Edwards.” He turned and nodded toward the pairs of redcoats positioned on the corner of every street. “But that heavy hand is attached to a long arm. We shall have to wait and see how Mr. Adams and his friends succeed in their struggle.”

  She realized they were moving toward the Long Wharf.

  “Do you believe they can succeed?” she asked, deciding to walk a little further with him.

  “Of course. These men, or their ancestors, all came to this land to start anew. The leaders are impressive for their intelligence. Their rank among the leadership comes naturally from their talent and ambition rather than from heredity or personal status that ultimately flows from the Crown or Parliament. Many seek freedom and independence that they believe all deserve. And most important of all, they are not financially dependent on England.”

  “The colonists have no need of English rule, but England needs the colonists’ wealth,” Portia commented.

  Pierce sent her a surprised look. “Beautifully put.”

  “But no speech can defeat the British army. As much as I personally detest violence, I believe that the colonists’ grievances will never be addressed until ordinary people are armed.”

  There was a hint of suspicion in his glance, but he quickly looked away. As he did, he took her hand and forced Portia to stop, allowing a team of horses to pull a wagon filled with casks past them.

  “An interesting observation. But where would you hear this? At the parsonage? Or has Captain Turner shared some of his insights on colonial rule?”

  “Neither. The Higgins family makes it a rule never to comment on politics. And Captain Turner and I do not share any level of confidence where he might voice an opinion such as this with me.” She looked out at two British battleships that lay at anchor close to Long Wharf. “This is my own personal observation. I do not believe Mr. Adams or Mr. Otis, or even Dr. Franklin himself will have any effect on the King.”

  “There is no doubt in my mind that you have the blood,” he said quietly, leading her across the street.

  “The blood?”

  “Jacobite blood. The blood of your forefathers,” Pierce said appreciatively.

  Portia didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t accustomed to receiving compliments, but this was definitely praise unlike any she had ever heard. She was also surprised that he had remembered what she had told him about her past. He obviously did not consider it trivial. She chose silence as they continued to stroll down the street, meanwhile she became intensely aware of Pierce’s hand continuing to hold hers. For the sake of propriety, she tried to gely free it, but he entwined their fingers instead.

  “So tell me Miss Edwards, what other political views have you been secretly storing in that pretty head of yours?”

  “When it comes to my own views of politics, I fear I am not very good at being secretive.”

  “Then let us just hope that you use good judgment in choosing those with whom you discuss politics. I would not recommend sharing those views with Captain Turner or with your new master, Admiral Middleton.”

  “I am very well aware of that, sir,” she said quietly. “I have my opinions, but I am not a fool.”

  He gently squeezed her hand. “I know that.”

  His words, his touch, his attentions created a havoc inside of her, flustered her. Still, she didn’t want this time with him to end too quickly. She enjoyed talking to him. At the same time, she worried about the appropriateness of a woman sharing what she thought with someone outside of the family. She was treading on unfamiliar ground.

  A middle-aged couple strolled by, and she noticed the judgmental glare the woman directed toward their joined fingers. Portia quickly withdrew her hand and looked away. They were standing at the end of Long Wharf, and she could see the building that she knew held his shipping offices.

  She frantically searched for something to say, fearing he would ask her to go to the offices with him. “I am surprised to hear you express your dissatisfaction about the situation in Scotland. I believe this is the first time that you have mentioned anything about your country.”

  “’Tis our country, is it not?”

  “Yes, I suppose so. At least, that is what I have been told.” She looked down the line of shops on the wharf and the various signs hanging above the doors. “There is a distinct difference, though, when one thinks of their country and can put faces and names to it. In my case, ‘tis difficult to claim it as my ow
n when I have no family that I know of there. No connections. No memories. Not at all like what you have been blessed with.”

  A deep frown etched his brow. “Have you ever been to Scotland?”

  “Only once…in the company of Mrs. Higgins. She went to visit her family in the Highlands.”

  “What did you think of it?”

  “‘Tis a vast and beautiful land. But I was surprised not to find many people working the land. ‘Tis so sad what is happening there.”

  “You are talking about the clearings.”

  Portia nodded and made the mistake of looking up again. The way his gaze studied every inch of her face made her heart beat even faster.

  “I shouldn’t be surprised if you had a view on that, as well.”

  “I do, but I would very much prefer to save that for another place and a different time. I am certain you do not encounter many women who, with so little knowledge, are as full of opinions as I am. To be perfectly honest, though,” she said quietly, “I would not wish to frighten you off with my prattle.”

  “Frighten me? Never. Intrigue me? That you alredy have.”

  “I believe this is your clerk, sir.”

  Portia gestured along the waterfront. Sean, Pierce’s office clerk, was running toward them with a bundle of papers under one arm.

  “You are correct. I fear I have some business that requires my attention for a few minutes. If you would care to wait, then perhaps we could take a ride and continue—”

  She shook her head, stopping him. “I do appreciate your offer. But I cannot.”

  “Of course,” He said, sounding actually disappointed. “The same excuses that you offered in your letter apply now. And why is it exactly that you wish to spend no time in my company, if I may ask?”

  At that moment the clerk approached them, but Pierce sent him on immediately to the offices.

  “You were saying?”

  “The letter…well…” Her words trailed off helplessly.

  “I was hoping you would be candid with me. But as you wish.” He gave a polite bow. “I hope I am fortunate enough to cross paths with you again at a town meeting. Good day, Miss Edwards.”