Surrender the Heart

by Marylu Tyndall

  “You enchant me.” His words bubbled in her heart like a fresh spring, soothing the parched places and dashing the cobwebs from the corners. She longed to embrace them, believe them, and allow her heart to soar with the hope that he truly loved her.

  Yet somewhere deep down, fear arose, fear that it was just a dream, a cruel joke. He had made no declaration of affection, no declaration of intent. Perhaps he had simply been trying to allay her fears of the storm.

  “Trust me.” His last words to her echoed in her heart. And right now, she wanted to trust him more than ever.

  Blinking the fatigue from his eyes, Noah focused on wrapping his toes around the footrope as tightly as he could. He elbowed Blackthorn and nodded toward the island that had just been announced as Antigua. Never had a piece of land looked more beautiful. With its sea of green vegetation swaying in the wind and its sparkling blue harbor, the island appeared more Eden than a British outpost. Each minute brought them closer, and soon Noah made out a thicket of masts bobbing in the harbor.

  Blackthorn’s tepid grin fell short of the enthusiasm Noah longed to see. In fact, the doubt screaming from the man’s expression began to stomp on Noah’s excitement. Yet he couldn’t blame him. The last time Blackthorn had attempted to escape, he’d lost a friend and gained a flogging. But things would be different this time. Noah had made a promise to a certain special lady, after all.

  He glanced down to the object of that promise, still clinging to the larboard railing. He loved her. This woman he’d once thought to be a plain, plump, and pompous woman. But she was none of those things to him anymore. When he weighed her on the scales against Miss Priscilla, Miss Priscilla became the common shrew and Marianne the beautiful lady. How could he have been so wrong?

  She gazed up at him and smiled. His body reacted to the remembrance of their kisses.

  A gusty breeze tore over him, the sweet smell of earth and life riding atop the scent of the sea. Though Noah had long since stopped believing in miracles—especially when it came to his own life— if Daniel had indeed heard from God, then maybe, just maybe the Almighty would grace them with a miracle now. At least for the sake of the boy and his father.

  Noah glanced down at the quarterdeck where the captain stood, flanked by his officers. Two quartermaster’s mates gripped the huge wheel as they took direction from the sailing master.

  “A leadsman in the chains, if you please,” the captain bellowed, and one of the sailors dropped the lead-and-line into the water to determine its depths as they approached the harbor.

  “Hand the courses!” a command bellowed from below. “Release topsails!”

  More hands clambered above to help Noah and the others carry out the captain’s orders. The humid Caribbean air swamped around him. Sweat streamed down his back and stung his wounds. Once the courses were taken in, the frigate slowed, and calls from the forechains indicated they had plenty of depth to maneuver.

  Noah dared a glance at the burgeoning harbor—a huge, glittering, turquoise bay separated in half by a hilly spit of land. The ship canted to starboard and headed toward the right fork. He squinted against the glare of sun on wave to see the dichotomy of ornately decorated brick buildings standing beside shabby wooden taverns and primitive thatched huts—all three dotting the harbor and extending into the green hills. The clamor of bells along with the squawk of gulls filled the air. An impressive gathering of ships of the line, ensigns flying high, bowed in the water like courtiers before the king.

  “Prepare the anchor!”

  Men scrambled to remove the lashings from the anchor catted to the starboard bulwark.

  The quartermaster hoisted the ship’s flags up on the halyard. They snapped in the warm breeze.

  Noah climbed down to the deck as the order to back the foretops was given. Luke and several waisters hoisted on the lines to bring the bare yard around. As they passed what Noah assumed was the flagship, captain Milford gave the order to fire a salute and the starboard-forward-most gun roared its booming greeting.

  Marianne covered her ears, and Noah gave her a gesture she hoped would allay her fears as one after another of the guns fired until six had spent their powder-only loads. Four thunderous booms cracked the sky in response from the flagship.

  When the ship had slowed to but a crawl, Captain Milford gave the order to let go the anchor, and with a mighty splash the iron claw dove into the turquoise bay. The captain disappeared below, then emerged moments later in his full dress uniform. He climbed down into a boat that had been lowered in his absence and hoisted off from the frigate with a boatful of sailors at the oars. Excitement crackled in the air as the crew expressed their hope that they would be chosen to go ashore.

  Noah’s excitement joined with theirs. The others tasted rum and women.

  But he tasted freedom.

  CHAPTER 21

  Marianne swept through the captain’s cabin, busying herself with dusting and making sure the captain’s instruments and trinkets were in a line just as he demanded—even though everything had already been set in place. A quick glance out the stern window at the graying sky tinged with pink told her that it would soon be dark. The captain had been gone for hours and by the sound of the thrumming of feet above and the constant harping of an off-key fiddle, she guessed the crew was as anxious as she was to discover their next mission.

  She yawned and opened her eyes wide, lest her lids drop like weights to her cheeks. Though she longed to retire for the night, she must remain awake and alert enough to play the spy when the captain returned. Noah and the others depended on her for any information that would tell them the best time to make their escape.

  She had already poured the captain’s nightly port and laid out his nightshirt. Glancing over the cabin, she searched for something to occupy her time and keep her awake when thumping sounded in the passageway. The door flew open, crashing against the bulkhead. Captain Milford charged in like a drunken bull, stuttering and staggering, and entangling himself in his dark blue coat as he tried to remove it. Lieutenant Garrick and Reed followed after him on a gust of hot wind tainted with sweat and rum.

  Garrick gave her a salacious grin. Ignoring him, Marianne moved to the captain’s side and helped him ease out of his boat cloak, then she hung it up in the armoire. The captain plopped into one of his stuffed chairs and released a heavy sigh. His officers stood at attention before him.

  “What are you worthless toads still doing here?” he barked. “Go inform the crew that we are at war and will set sail as soon as the provisions are brought on board in the morning. And send up the surgeon.”

  At war? Marianne flinched. Leaving in the morning? Drat. Then they would have to escape tonight.

  “Very well, Captain,” both men said at once and then exchanged looks of disgust. For each other or for their captain, Marianne didn’t presume to know. After saluting, they hurried out and closed the door, leaving Marianne alone with the drunken man.

  Gathering her resolve, she knelt before him and tugged on his left boot. Though he was capricious, volatile, even cruel at times—not to mention half-mad—she no longer believed he would hurt her. He gazed at her with lifeless, wavering eyes. “You’re a kind woman, Miss Denton. Would that I had a daughter like you.”

  The compliment settled over Marianne like a wet blanket—cold, uncomfortable, and unfamiliar. How she had longed to hear such approbation from her own father. A sudden need to cry burned in her throat.

  “Did you enjoy your trip?” She kept her voice nonchalant and her focus on her task. One boot removed. Now for the other.

  “The food was to my liking. The company, however, atrocious.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “But surely your time with the admiral was rewarding?” Marianne grabbed his boots and stuffed them into the armoire.

  “That blowhard. He doesn’t know a great captain when he sees one. Why, I fought beside Nelson at Copenhagen. I captured the French frigate Vainqueur. Not many men can make such a boas
t.”

  “But you mentioned war, Captain. Is it true?” Marianne inched her way back to him, clasping her hands together.

  He gave a maniacal chuckle. “Aye. Your puny nation of rebels—if that is indeed from whence you hail—had the audacity to declare war on Britain a month ago. Can you believe it?”

  A surge of pride lifted Marianne’s shoulders—pride in her country, in her brave men and leaders. “I can. Since I have recently found myself beneath your unjust rule.”

  He flashed angry eyes her way and started to rise, and for a moment, Marianne feared she had stepped over the line. Then he sank back into the chair. “Never fear, we shall squash your pathetic rebellion within days.” He laughed. “And you will once again be a subject of the crown.”

  “I am subject to no one, sir.”

  “And yet it would appear otherwise.” He peered at her through half-closed eyes. “I need a drink.”

  “Perhaps you’ve had enough.” Or perhaps she should allow him his liquor. It might loosen his tongue enough to supply her with further information. Or it might knock him unconscious, which would never do.

  Wincing, he pressed a hand on his side. “Where is that blasted surgeon?” His head fell against the back of the chair, eyes closed and mouth open.

  Marianne darted to his side. She must think of something to keep him talking. “Captain, captain.” She shook his arms. “Tell me what happened to your side that it pains you so.”

  “Battle wound. Struck by a wooden spike this thick.” He lifted his head for a moment and held his hands out to demonstrate the size of a skewer that would have killed him had it struck any part of his body.

  “Oh my, Captain. How brave you are.”

  He drifted off again, and Marianne stomped her foot on the deck. She must discover his orders. Leaning forward, she whispered into his ear, “I’m sure the admiral has sent you on another important mission.”

  “Important. Balderdash!” His eyes popped open and he tried to stand. Marianne backed away and watched as he swayed like a spindly tree in a storm before falling back into the chair. “I’m to assist the HMS Guerriére patrolling the northern colonies and intercept and destroy the American ship USS Constitution. Assist!” he hissed, spittle flying from his mouth. “Me, an honored captain!”

  Marianne smiled. Resisting the urge to run and find Daniel, she gazed at the man, reeling with drink and despair, before her. The lines on his face seemed especially long, making him look older than his fifty-three years. An ache formed in her heart for him. His bitterness, discontentment, and loneliness kept him locked in a prison that was far more formidable than the ship was to Marianne.

  He lifted his head, mumbled something unintelligible, and then dropped it back again. The surgeon could not be relied on to arrive, and she couldn’t very well leave him like this.

  “Come now, Captain, let me help you to your bed. A good night’s sleep and things will look better in the morning, to be sure.” She eased her arm beneath his.

  “I don’t need your help!” He shot to his feet then tumbled to the left. Marianne reached out to catch him before he fell. His weight landed like a huge sack of grain across her shoulder, shooting pain down her back. She stumbled but managed to stay upright. A flood of alcohol-tainted breath stung her nose.

  “Well, I suppose I do need help.” He chuckled.

  The door creaked open, and the surgeon appeared beside her. “Here, I’ll take him, miss. You can go on now,” he said, wiping sweaty strands of hair from his forehead.

  Releasing the teetering man, Marianne spotted Daniel standing at the door awaiting her message, expectation flashing in his eyes. But as she stared at the surgeon’s satchel and thought of the laudanum within it, then glanced over the bottles of rum lining the captain’s shelves, a glorious thought occurred to her. A wonderful, mischievous thought. Balancing the makeshift raft on his back, Noah inched his way up the companionway ladder. He peered above deck and scanned for any watchman looking their way. Nothing but a sliver of a moon smiling at him from the horizon and a gentle breeze laden with the scent of tropical flowers greeted him. He gestured for the others to follow and crept across the deck, keeping to the shadows and clutching his only weapon, a jagged piece of wood, close to his chest. One glance behind him told him that Blackthorn, Daniel, Weller, and Luke followed close upon his heels. Not a sound, not a footstep emanated from the group as they inched toward the quarterdeck. Well past midnight, the crew was fast asleep, all save a few watchmen above.

  But he would take care of them.

  War. The words Daniel conveyed to him earlier still spun in his mind. So President Madison had declared war. A month ago Noah would have been furious at the news. A month ago his main concern would have been the success of his merchant business. But much had happened since then.

  America had every right to defend herself against the bullying tactics of Britain. And, by God, Noah would do all he could to aid his country’s efforts to shake off their tentacles of tyranny.

  Not the least of which was to escape this ship.

  A shape formed out of the darkness. Noah threw his hand up and halted as did those behind him.

  The sound of deep snoring filtered over him like a soothing balm. The watchman sat on the deck just beneath the quarterdeck ladder, his chin on his chest, fast asleep. Noah eyed the musket in the man’s grip and thought better of trying to pry it from him. Instead, he swept a glance across the foredeck where he expected to find another watchman at his post. Instead a dark mound lay crumpled beside the mast. Noah scratched his head. Though only a few men were assigned night watch when anchored at a British port, he had not expected them both to be asleep—a condition that if discovered would mean their certain death.

  Perhaps God was on his side, after all.

  He inched up the quarterdeck ladder and past the helm where another watchman lay curled in a ball by the wheel. Astounding. Shaking his head, he passed him and made out a shape by the mizzenmast. He hoped it was Marianne. After Daniel had delivered the message that they were to set sail in the morning, Noah had sent the boy back to her with the request that she meet them at the larboard stern at four bells of the middle night watch.

  As she came into view, his heart leapt. Milky moonlight trickled over her, transforming her hair into chocolate and her skin into rich cream. Instead of the fear he expected to see on her face, a catlike grin played upon her lips as she held up a dark uncorked bottle.

  “What’s this?” he whispered as the others crowded around. He set down the tiny raft.

  “It was laudanum,” she replied.

  “Was?”

  Luke chuckled.

  Marianne gestured to two empty bottles perched at the foot of the mizzenmast. “The watchmen were quite eager to have an extra ration of grog.” She smiled. “A special concoction of rum and laudanum does wonders for a good night’s slumber.”

  Noah brought her hand to his lips. “Clever, brave girl. But how were you able to steal the captain’s rum and the laudanum?”

  “The captain sleeps soundly.” She shrugged. “And I slipped the laudanum from the surgeon’s pouch while he put the captain to bed.”

  Daniel darted to her side and gave her a hug. “I knew you could do it, Miss Marianne,” he whispered.

  She returned the lad’s embrace.

  Weller mumbled something and Blackthorn, with a thick rope looped over his shoulder, took up a position at the helm, scouring the deck with his nervous gaze.

  Marianne retrieved the two empty bottles, walked to the railing, and tossed them into the water. Their splashes joined the slap of waves against the hull. Facing them, she drew a breath as if trying to gather courage from the humid air around them. “Where is our boat?”

  “There is no boat.” She inhaled a tiny breath and Noah stepped toward her. A breeze played with a rebellious curl lingering at her neck. He longed to touch it, if only to soften the words he had just spoken.

  Even in the shadows, he could see the wh
ites of her eyes widen.

  And a tiny wrinkle appear between her brows. “How are we to get to shore?”

  Noah took her hand. “We swim.”

  “But I can’t swim.” Her hand trembled and she tried to tug it from him, but he fastened his grip and led her back to the mast. Releasing her, he grabbed the tiny raft. “I made this for you. You can float on it. I’ll pull you along.”

  Marianne gazed at the tiny piece of wood—part of a crate, from the looks of it. Every nerve in her body rebelled. “I can’t possibly.” Terror constricted her throat. She couldn’t breathe.

  Daniel looked up at her. “It’ll be all right, Miss Marianne.”

  She glanced toward the port town. Nothing but a few blinking lights remained to mark the row of shops, taverns, and warehouses she’d spotted earlier in the day. Miles of water as dark as coal stretched between them and those lights. And in the middle, a maze of British warships barred their passage.