Surrender the Heart

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Aye.” The boy beamed and flung dark hair from his face. Clear brown eyes shone with an invitation for friendship.

  An invitation that, despite her circumstances, Marianne couldn’t help but accept.

  For the next two hours, Daniel instructed Marianne in the fine art of being a captain’s steward. The list of duties was exhausting. Not only did Captain Milford want his meals brought from the cook on time, his uniforms delivered to the laundry and returned promptly, and his daily attire laid out each morning, but also the floor of his cabin scrubbed, his rug shook out, his desk and shelves dusted, and the silver on his sword hilts, chalices, and trays polished every day.

  “What of these plants?” Marianne asked Daniel as she glanced over the assortment lining the stern window frame. From what she knew of horticulture, one was a strawberry bush, one a lime tree, another a patch of onions. The others she could not name.

  “Oh no, miss.” Daniel’s eyes widened. “You must never touch those. Only the captain cares for his plants.”

  “A curious thing to see on a ship, is it not?”

  “Aye miss. But the cap’n is a curious man, if you ask me.”

  Yes, she had noticed. “How do you know so much about caring for the captain?”

  “I used to help the captain’s last steward a bit.” Daniel’s voice sank. “Before he fell overboard.” He shrugged. “An’ I guess the captain’s partial to me.”

  “I can see why.” Marianne pressed a hand over an ache in her back and glanced out the stern windows. The distant horizon rose and slipped beneath the frame as the ship traversed each ocean swell. Though rays of sunlight brightened the entire cabin, making it almost cheery, they also increased the temperature. Withdrawing a handkerchief from her sleeve, Marianne dabbed at the moisture on her neck and thought of how miserable it must be on deck in the direct sun.

  “Have you seen my friends?”

  Daniel opened a jar of some type of oil and dribbled some onto a soiled cloth.

  He nodded. “Are they well?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “Can you get a message to them for me? To the tall one with the light brown hair.”

  Daniel’s eyes lit up. “Aye, the cap’n?” The smell of lemons and linseed filled the room.

  “Yes.” Marianne bit her lip. No doubt Noah would still be so furious that he would not wish to hear a peep from her, but she needed to know how he and the others fared. She’d never forgive herself if something happened to them. “Can you tell him I’m sorry and ask him if there’s anything I can do?”

  Daniel nodded his understanding as he knelt to scrub the floor.

  Marianne plopped beside him and grabbed another rag. “How old are you, Daniel?”

  “Eleven.” His voice rang with pride.

  “What are you doing on board this ship?” She poured oil on the rag and mimicked Daniel’s method of polishing the deck. “Is your father aboard?”

  He halted for a minute, then continued scrubbing. “I was impressed, same as you.”

  “Impressed? Stolen?” Her fears began to rise for the boy. “You’re an American?” Why hadn’t she noticed the absence of the distinct British lilt?

  He beamed. “Aye, from Savannah.”

  The poor lad. Marianne laid a hand on his shoulder. “Where are your parents?”

  “Back home, I suppose,” he said without looking up from his task.

  Marianne stood, her indignation rising with her. “How can the Royal Navy steal little boys away from their parents? Have they no shame?”

  “I was on a merchant ship, same as you.” He shrugged and gave her a peaceful smile, completely at odds with the alarm she felt. “It is the way of the Royal Navy, miss.”

  “That does not make it right,” she huffed. “What do you do here on board?”

  Rising to his feet, he lengthened his stance. “I am a powder boy, miss.”

  Marianne drew a sleeve over her damp forehead, wincing when she touched her wound. “Powder boy? What does a powder boy do? I thought most gentlemen no longer powder their wigs.”

  “No, miss.” He giggled. “I run the powder to the guns when we’re in battle.”

  Gunpowder? She thought of Mr. Weller. “But isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Aye.” His eyes widened once again as if he were about to tell her a grand secret. “Just a fortnight ago, when we was firing upon a French warship, an enemy shot crashed through the gun deck and my friend William had his face blown clear off.”

  Marianne threw a hand to her mouth, both at the gruesome event and the casual, unfeeling manner in which Daniel relayed it. The things he must have seen. The horror and bloodshed. How unconscionable for so young a boy. Yet he seemed not to bear the fear one might expect. In fact quite the opposite.

  “He’s in heaven now.” Daniel announced with a calm assurance that reinforced her impression. He stood.

  “We must get you off this ship at once.” Marianne drew him to her breast.

  He pushed her back and gazed up into her eyes. “I know, Miss Marianne. That’s what you came for.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” She brushed the hair from his face.

  “Why God sent you.”

  “Sent me? I don’t understand.” Had the poor child gone mad in his imprisonment?

  Yet the clarity in his brown eyes spoke otherwise. “Yes, miss.” He smiled. “God told me there’d be a lady and three men coming to rescue me.

  “And here you are.”

  Heart stuck in his throat, Noah eased his bare feet out onto the foretopsail footropes. The yard he gripped shuddered in the wind, and his sweaty fingers slipped over the rough wood.

  “New to the top?” the man called Blackthorn said as he made his way out across the yard ahead of Noah.

  “You could say that.” Noah barely managed to squeak out the words before a blast of wind tore them away. Instead of the light steady breeze, interrupted by occasional gusts below, the wind here in the tops remained constant and strong like the persistent front line of an enemy attack.

  An attack in which Noah believed he would be the first casualty.

  “I thought you was the cap’n.” Blackthorn said.

  “I was … I am.”

  Blackthorn chuckled. “Sink me now, ain’t never heard of a captain afraid of heights.”

  Despite Noah’s attempts to hide it, the horror strangling his gut had obviously taken residence on his face.

  “Ah now, you’ll get used to it. Just don’t be lookin’ down. Keep a firm grip on the jackstays and beckets and make sure you have a good step before you take it. You’ll do fine.” He slapped Noah on the back, causing him to grip the yard tighter.

  “Sorry,” Blackthorn muttered.

  As Noah and the other four men spread upon the footropes, waiting orders from below, he ignored Blackthorn’s advice not to look down. He hoped to catch a glimpse of Miss Denton, if only to see how she fared. Had the captain harmed her? Had he locked her below? Such a brave lady. If she were as frightened of the water as Noah was of heights, she possessed far more courage than he imagined, for he could not stop the trembling that had gripped him since he leapt up into the shrouds.

  His eyes latched onto the captain standing by the binnacle, feet spread apart and hands clasped behind his back. Both the commanding tilt of his nose and the three gold buttons on his cuffs gave away his rank. At least he wasn’t below with Miss Denton.

  “Strike the foresail!” The order bellowed from below, and the men began to loosen the lines keeping the sail furled.

  “What is your opinion of the captain?” Noah asked Blackthorn.

  The huge man, who looked more like a bear balancing on a high wire than a sailor accustomed to the topmast, leaned casually against the yard as if he were leaning against a railing below.

  “Milford?” He angled toward Noah’s ear. “Crazy ole rapscallion, if you ask me. Some say he’s been at sea so long he’s gone mad. He can be as vicious as a rabid wolf one minute and kinder than Sain
t Joseph the next.” He scratched the hair sprouting from within his shirt. “Trouble is, you never know which one you’re gonna get.”

  Noah loosened the first knot and moved to the next one. The edges of the thick sail began to flap in the wind. He swallowed and tried to steady his hands. “Do you think he would harm a woman?”

  “Ah, you’re thinkin’ of your lady friend.” Tearing through a stubborn knot, Blackthorn shook his head. “I don’t think so. As long as she does what she’s told.”

  Noah grimaced. The woman never did what she was told!

  He studied the captain. The man carried himself with a commanding, capable presence, albeit with an overdone pomposity. But surely that went with the position. Noah could not conceive that a British officer and a gentleman would imprison simple merchantmen against their will, let alone an innocent woman. As one commander to another, Noah intended to reason with him the first chance he got. And if that didn’t work, there was always the possibility of escape.

  Lieutenant Garrick popped on deck from below, the usual scowl twisting his thin lips.

  Blackthorn cursed under his breath. “I’d stay away from that one, if I was you.”

  Noah inched his way across the ratline. His sweaty feet slipped over the swaying rope, and he gripped the yard. Following Blackthorn’s gaze, Noah snorted as Garrick leapt upon the quarterdeck and took a stance behind his captain. “I believe I’ve had my fill of Lieutenant Garrick already.”

  “Ambitious and cruelhearted.” Blackthorn grumbled. “If he had ‘is way, half the crew’d be keelhauled.”

  “Let go clewlines and buntlines!” ordered the man below, and the mastmen began lowering the lines that would free the sail to the wind.

  Noah pointed toward another man in a lieutenant’s uniform who took his post beside Garrick. “What of him?”

  “Reed? He’s a good egg, for the most part, I suppose.” Blackthorn loosened a line and part of the sail dropped, flapping in the wind. “Just a bit full o’ hisself, if you ask me. His father’s a member of Parliament, they say—which is why he got this commission.” The wind whistled through the gaps of two missing teeth on his bottom row. He snapped his mouth shut. Though towering over Noah’s six feet and with the muscle to match his height, Blackthorn’s easy manner and kindness made him appear less threatening.

  “You’re not British,” Noah said.

  “Me? No. Pure American I am. From Savannah, Georgia.”

  “Impressed, then?”

  “Aye, a year ago. I was a waister on a merchant ship. Captain took me an’”—he hesitated and looked down—“me bosun.”

  “A year?” Noah stared at him aghast. “You haven’t tried to escape?”

  Blackthorn’s dark eyes seemed to lose their luster. “Aye, we did. Or at least we tried. I was flogged, but the cap’n tossed me bosun to the sharks. God save his soul.”

  “Let fall! Sheet home!” More orders from below.

  But all Noah heard was Blackthorn’s words flogged and tossed him to the sharks. And his terror-stricken heart shrank. “But I hear people desert the navy all the time.”

  Blackthorn gave him the measured look of a man who had traveled a particular road more than once. “They don’t ever let their eyes off us Yankees.” He released the sail. The canvas lowered further, slapping furiously at the wind’s attempt to conquer it. But it fought a losing battle, for air soon filled every inch of the sail with a thunderous roar, stretching it taut and snapping the lines.

  “No, you best accept your fate, Mr. Brenin. There ain’t no way off this ship.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Marianne set the tray of pea soup, roast chicken, and tea down on the captain’s desk. “Your dinner, Captain.”

  He grunted and tossed down the documents he studied then eyed her above the spectacles perched on his nose. “You’re late.”

  “The cook extends his apologies, Captain. He is behind on his duties today due to his gout acting up again.”

  “Addle-brained sluggard.” Captain Milford tore off his spectacles and leaned his nose over the food. “Smells like pig droppings.”

  “I can take it back if you like.”

  “No no. I’ll eat it.” He waved her off. “If I waited for a decent meal around here, I’d starve to death. Dismissed.”

  Relieved to leave his presence, Marianne swerved about.

  “Belay that!”

  She froze.

  “My cabin deck is dirty.”

  Marianne slowly turned to face him, forcing down her frustration. “Captain, I spent an hour this morning on my knees scrubbing and polishing each plank. I assure you it is as clean as it can possibly get.”

  He narrowed his eyes and rose to his most ominous height. His chair scraped over the wooden floor, sending a chill down Marianne’s spine. Grabbing a bottle from his shelf, he poured himself a drink and took a sip. “Are you telling me that I don’t know my own deck?”

  A giggle rose in Marianne’s throat at the absurd question. She forced it down, fairly certain this man would not find the same humor in the situation. “I was unaware, Captain, that one could become quite so intimate with one’s deck.” She’d meant to say the words in a light-hearted tone in hopes of bringing levity to the situation, but her voice carried more sarcasm than witticism.

  His face mottled in anger, and he marched toward her. Every muscle in Marianne’s body tensed. Why couldn’t she keep her snide comments to herself? She felt his gaze boring into the top of her head, yet she kept her eyes leveled upon the gold buttons lining his white lapel. His chest heaved beneath them. Would he strike a woman? Would he lock her in the hold? She had no idea what to expect from this capricious man.

  Releasing a brandy-laced breath that sent the hair on her forehead fluttering, he stepped back. Then he swung about and stormed back toward his desk. “And my uniform was not laid out properly this morning, miss … miss …”

  “Denton, Captain.” Surely he knew her name after a week.

  “Yes, Denton.” He plopped back into his chair and gripped his side as if it pained him. “My last steward was much better.”

  Marianne clenched her hands into fists. Her ring pinched her finger, bringing along with the pain familiar feelings of inadequacy. She’d never worked so hard in her life for so little appreciation—as the muscles in her legs and back could well attest. “I am still learning, Captain.” Her voice came out as though it were strained through a sieve.

  “Nevertheless,” he barked, his gray eyes firing. “I do not tolerate slothfulness on my ship.”

  Slothfulness? Of all the …

  “And what is that gash on your head?” He leaned back in his chair and sipped his drink.

  Shocked by his sudden interest, Marianne dabbed the tender scar. “A crate fell on me aboard the merchant ship. Knocked me unconscious, which is how I came to be—”

  “You should have my surgeon look at it.” He interrupted with a wave of what could only be construed as disinterest in her tale.

  Marianne shuddered. She had seen the man he called the ship’s surgeon. “I would prefer that he didn’t.”

  “Preposterous.” He frowned. “You will—”

  A knock on the door interrupted them, but before the captain could respond, it opened to reveal the object of their discussion. The pale man with a perpetual gleam of sweat on his brow angled his head around the door, reminding Marianne of a snake spiraling from its hole. “Time for your medicine, Captain.”

  With barely a glance her way, he slithered past her. In fact, since she’d come aboard, not once had the physician acknowledged her presence during his frequent visits to the captain’s cabin.

  “Good, good,” Captain Milford mumbled. “You are dismissed, Miss Denton.”

  Marianne turned to leave but not before she saw the surgeon pour something from a flask into the captain’s drink. A sharp odor, one she was quite familiar with from her mother’s medications, bit her nose. Laudanum.

  Tucking the information away, she
slipped down the companionway, determined to use these precious moments of freedom to go above deck. She’d been stuck below for a week attending the captain’s every whim, and she desperately needed to feel the sun on her face. And maybe catch a glimpse of Noah. To see how he fared, and Luke and Mr. Weller as well.

  Squinting against the bright sun, she emerged onto the main deck to a gust of chilled wind and the stares of myriad eyes.

  “Back to work!” The crack of a stiff rope sliced the air, drawing her gaze to one of the petty officers who raised his weapon to strike one of the sailors again. Swallowing her repulsion, she scanned the ship, searching for Noah and his crew, but none of their faces appeared from among the throngs of seaman. Fear crowded her throat. Were they imprisoned below? Above her, at the rail of the foredeck, a line of marines stood at attention, their red and white uniforms crisp and bright, their golden buttons gleaming in the sun.