Surrender the Heart

by Marylu Tyndall

  What are You trying to tell me, Lord?

  “For such a time as this.”

  Yes, they were chasing an American warship, intent on destroying her. But what could Marianne do? She was a nobody. A prisoner. A servant. Was she supposed to take on an entire ship full of British sailors and soldiers?

  She gripped the handle of the broom until her fingers reddened. Yet hadn’t she done something similar on Noah’s ship? Disabled the entire ship all by herself? She sighed and continued sweeping. There was no cargo to ruin on board this ship. What else could she do? She searched her mind for her conversations with Weller about accidents aboard a ship. What else had he said would disable a ship?

  The tiller. Blood rushed to her head.

  “Look what you’ve done, you insufferable woman.” Lieutenant Jones stared down aghast at his dusty boots. The other men followed his gaze.

  “Egad!” Mr. Reed lifted one foot up to examine the damage as Garrick’s curse raked over Marianne’s ears. All eyes shot to her.

  She shrugged. “My apologies, gentlemen. How careless of me.” Forcing down a smile, she swept the broom over each of their boots, scattering the dust into a cloud.

  The captain cleared his throat and gave her a look of reprimand that held a promise of punishment. But that didn’t matter anymore. Marianne had a plan. And she knew exactly what she needed to do.

  CHAPTER 25

  Noah studied the oncoming sloop. His gut wrenched. From what he could tell, she carried fifteen thirty-two pounders on her main deck, six twelve pounders on her quarterdeck, and two carronades mounted on her forecastle. Twenty-three guns in all and probably more that he couldn’t see. He snapped his long glass shut. The Fortune pitched over a roller, and Noah gripped the railing. Salty mist stung his eyes. He gazed above where every inch of bloated canvas was set to the gusty breeze.

  And still the sloop gained.

  “Bring her as close to the wind as you can, Mr. Pike,” Noah ordered the helmsman.

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  The sails snapped. The ship canted to larboard as blue squalls swept over her deck. Noah balanced himself and stared at the oncoming ship. With the confidence of a mighty predator, she dashed after her prey, white spray foaming at her bow.

  “What does she want?” Matthew staggered to Noah’s side.

  “We are at war. She intends to take us as a prize.” Noah’s voice gave no indication of the fear gnawing at his gut.

  Weller mumbled beside him. A glaze of terror covered his eyes as he clutched the two fingers remaining on his right hand. “Not again.”

  Noah laid a hand on his shoulder, but the comforting words he intended to say withered on his lips.

  The Fortune crested a wave, creaking and groaning under the strain.

  “It’ll be worse this time.” Blackthorn shifted his large frame. “Especially if they discover we escaped from the Undefeatable. We’ll be hanged or sent to a prison hulk to rot until the war is over.”

  Noah shook the words from his ears. He would accept neither option. For both prevented him from rescuing Marianne and stopping the Undefeatable in its mission against the United States navy. His country’s navy.

  He surprised himself at the patriotism welling inside him.

  “She’s gaining, Captain,” Luke shouted from the main deck below.

  Noah squinted toward the sun, which sat a handbreadth over the horizon. He must stay outside the range of the British sloop’s guns until nightfall. It was the only way. “Blackthorn, take Daniel and gather some men. Go below and find anything we can throw overboard, even our food if we have to, and bring it aloft.”

  Blackthorn nodded, cuffed Daniel on the back of the neck, and dragged him along. The boy laughed at his father’s antics. Noah shook his head. Did nothing bother the young lad? Was his faith so strong that it pushed back all fear, even fear of death?

  Two hours passed. The slowest two hours of Noah’s life. An hour in which Noah’s crew proceeded to toss bars of iron, bolts of cloth, sacks of flour, and kegs of water over the side. The Fortune picked up speed. But was it enough?

  Relieving Mr. Pike at the helm, Noah took the wheel himself. He was desperate to keep busy—do anything besides standing and watching the sloop advance upon them. Weller paced the quarterdeck. Matthew dropped below to douse the fire in the stove and settle Agnes somewhere safe should a battle ensue. Luke stood like a stone sentinel at the stern railing, arms folded over his chest, staring at the oncoming ship.

  A blast of salt-tainted wind tore at Noah’s hair and shirt, bringing with it a hint of cool evening air. Darkness would be upon them soon.

  “Mr. Weller.” Noah stopped the man from his nervous pacing. “Gather the men and ready the guns, if you please.” Not that the action would matter. The sloop’s guns outranged Noah’s and could easily hit their target before Noah would have any hope of striking in return.

  Beneath the wild black hair lashing about his head, Weller’s dark eyes found Noah’s and a look of understanding passed between them. With a nod, he leapt down the quarterdeck ladder. Daniel dashed across the deck to join him, excitement in his every step, making Noah wonder whether the boy’s father would want his son assigned to such a dangerous post. But Blackthorn had jumped below again, searching for more things to toss overboard.

  “She fired a gun!” Luke bellowed.

  The lack of fear in his first mate’s voice kept Noah steady on his feet. He’d barely swerved around when a resonant Boom! cracked the air. Gray smoke curled up like a charmed snake from the sloop’s bow. The ball splashed impotently into the sea twenty yards off their stern.

  Twenty yards too close.

  “A warning shot.” Mr. Pike offered as he approached Noah. “If ye don’t mind, Cap’n, can I take back the helm? If I’m goin’ t’ die, I’d rather die at me post.”

  A weight seemed to fall on Noah at Mr. Pike’s lack of confidence. But how could he blame the man? Noah had never engaged in battle before. He pried his fingers from the wood, not realizing until then how tight his grip had been, then stretched the kinks from his hand.

  Luke sauntered toward him. “I believe they want us to stop, Captain.”

  Noah glanced at the sun barely touching the horizon. It would be at least an hour before the darkness would hide them. A very long hour. He snapped the hair from his face. “To the devil with what they want. Have the men go aloft and trim the sails to the wind again.”

  Luke gave an approving nod and shouted orders across the ship. Taking a spot at the stern, Noah raised the long glass to his eye but immediately lowered it. The sloop was so close he no longer needed it to make out the details of the ship. At least a hundred men crowded her decks. Crews hovered around the guns, petting and coaxing the iron beasts as they awaited their captain’s command to fire. The captain stood on the quarterdeck. The gold buttons on his coat winked at Noah in the setting sun, taunting him to fight, challenging him just like his brother had done when they were younger.

  Noah’s nerves burned. His blood pounded in his head. “Another hour, Lord. Just give me another hour.” He surprised himself with the prayer, but the harrowing situation called for desperate measures. If a miracle did not occur before the day was spent, Noah and his crew would be killed or captured. And Marianne would be doomed.

  With her ears tuned to the snoring that emanated from the captain’s sleeping chamber, Marianne slid open one of the drawers in the massive oak desk.

  It squeaked. The snoring stopped. She froze and listened for any movement. But only the creak of timber and slosh of water met her ears. The captain resumed his snoring.

  Drawing the lantern near, she sifted through the contents of the drawer: a quill pen, a bottle of ink, foolscap, the ship’s log, a locket, and … there it was. A key. She gripped the cold metal and drew it to her bosom. Not just any key. The key to the cabinet full of weapons in the wardroom.

  Where she planned on stealing a knife.

  It had been a fairly easy task t
o draw the location of the key from the captain, especially after several more brandies and a spoonful of laudanum. Assured of his victory tomorrow over the American warship, he had been in a most jovial humor all night long—right up to the moment he’d dropped unconscious onto his bed.

  Then she had only to wait a few minutes until his deep breathing confirmed that he was fast asleep.

  Clutching the key in one hand and the lantern in the other, Marianne tiptoed out the door, down the passageway, then descended the ladder to the lower deck. Turning a corner, she pressed a hand to her chest to still her frantic heart. The dash of water against the hull joined the pounding of blood in her ears.

  The ship groaned.

  Footsteps sounded.

  Marianne halted and backed against the bulkhead. Perhaps it was just the ship’s timbers complaining as usual. She started again, this time more slowly. A light shone from the distance. Another lantern, a candle? But then it went out. Had she imagined it? Whispers curled around her ears. Or was it the purl of the water?

  She should go back to her cabin.

  But she couldn’t. Tomorrow they planned on attacking an American ship—possibly the USS Constitution. She couldn’t let that happen. Pressing forward, she entered the wardroom. The smell of whale oil and smoke and the dried beef the officers had for dinner whirled about her nose. Lifting her lantern, she scanned the shadows. No movement came from the officer’s canvas cabins that lined both sides of the larger room. She prayed they were all fast asleep. The light reflected off the cabinet’s glass doors. She squinted. Setting the lantern down on the table, she inserted the key and turned the latch. The door swung open with an aged squeak.

  Marianne held her breath. She listened for footsteps, voices, but only the familiar hum of the ship and the snores of the officers met her ears. She perused the knives. Any one of them would do. She plucked a particularly long blade with a sharp point and lifted it toward the light to examine it. The wooden handle felt smooth in her fingers as the steel blade gleamed in the lantern light. Sliding it into her pocket, she closed the cabinet, grabbed the lantern, and dashed out the door.

  Now to find the tiller.

  She descended another level to the orlop deck. The smell of tar and human sweat burned her nostrils. Her hand trembled, and the lantern clanked. The flame sputtered then steadied. She wished her heart would do the same. With most of the crew asleep, this late hour afforded her the best possibility of completing her mission without drawing unwanted attention. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t cross paths with one of them. Her lantern light skimmed over barrels, tackles, spare canvas, and ropes. Nothing that looked like a tiller.

  The ship canted, creaking and moaning. She pressed onward. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck. Rats scattered before her arc of light, darting for the cover of the shadows. She shivered at the sight of them then entered a small space that, by her best calculation, should be directly below the wheel. She lifted the lantern to examine the room. Empty save for a stack of crates in the corner and a pile of cordage hanging from a nail in the bulkhead. She started to leave when something above her caught her eye. Two thick hemp ropes dropped down from holes in the deckhead. Strung through iron loops, they extended out along two sweeps of wood.

  The tiller!

  Reaching up, she brushed her fingers over the itchy, rough hemp. It scraped her skin. The lines were strong and sturdy and at least two inches thick.

  But still possible to cut through with a knife.

  But not yet. Since the tiller ropes could be repaired within a few days, she must wait until the Undefeatable engaged the USS Constitution in battle. And not a moment before.

  Thank You, Lord. But now, I will need Your help when the time comes. She bit her lip. Would God use her to do this important task? A task that could change the course of history? Or was she only deceiving herself?

  Time would tell.

  Turning, Marianne hurried back the way she’d come.

  And ran straight into Lieutenant Garrick.

  Noah spotted a yellow flame burst from the British sloop’s hull. “All hands down!” He dove to the hard wood.

  Boom! Cannon shot thundered across the sky. Tar and oakum filled his nostrils. He lifted his head. His crew lay scattered across the deck. Water splashed like a geyser not two feet off their starboard quarter.

  He leapt to his feet. “Clear the deck! Lay aloft and ease the topgallants!” His gaze met Luke’s as his first mate wasted no time in ordering the men to their tasks.

  The pursuing sloop crashed through the waves a mile astern. A few more minutes and they’d be within firing range. “Man the guns! Load the chain shot,” Noah commanded. At least they’d put up a fight before they’d all be killed. He fisted his hands until they ached. Confound it all. Blasted British.

  The remainder of his crew who weren’t in the shrouds or at the helm, swarmed the eight guns. With Noah’s depleted crew, two men would be forced to do the jobs of three as they took their positions. Daniel and Blackthorn took one cannon at the stern, while Noah joined Weller at the other. A bucket filled with bags of powder sat on the deck along with a pile of shot. Mr. Lothar dashed across the ship, distributing red-hot cotton wicks soaked in lye to each team.

  A gust of wind needled over Noah, carrying with it the sting of gunpowder. Off their starboard quarter, the British sloop shouldered the sea, foam cresting her bow. The Union Jack flapped at her mainmast, taunting Noah with the power and audacity of a nation who believed they ruled the seas.

  His stomach crumpled. Thoughts of Marianne drifted through his mind. His heart ached. Would he ever see her again or would she be forever doomed to a life of slavery?

  Noah gazed across his crew. All good sailors. But they weren’t soldiers. Yet despite the terror screaming from their eyes, they manned their posts with bravado. “Good job, men,” Noah said. “Steady there. Wait for my order.” Noah tried to encourage them with a tone of assurance, yet it sounded flat coming from his lips.

  A streak of bloodred sky spread across the horizon as the arc of the sun sank out of sight. A portent of their fate? Noah hoped not. He glanced above. Already the black sky descended, swallowing up any remaining light in its path. “I just need a few more minutes,” he whispered again to no one in particular. Deep down he hoped the Almighty would hear and take pity on him. At least for Marianne’s sake. And the sake of his crew. Men he was responsible for.

  The Fortune flew through the sea with everything she could set to the breeze, plunging into the rollers and sending spray back over the deck.

  One man at each gun held the burning wick, awaiting Noah’s command. He studied their enemy. Not in range yet.

  Darkness tumbled upon them. Noah peered toward Daniel and Blackthorn who manned the gun beside him. The red glow of the wick shook in Blackthorn’s hands as the giant bear of a man hovered protectively over his son. Daniel stood his ground beside the carronade— the sturdy form of a boy with more courage and faith than Noah had ever seen.

  Noah’s throat went dry. Though only a shapeless gray mass, he could still make out the sloop as she swept alongside them, a half mile off their beam. The black mouths of ten guns on her larboard side gaped tauntingly at him. His nerves clamped.

  They intended to fire a broadside.

  “Hard to starboard, Mr. Pike!” Noah shouted. He’d cut them off and try to get close enough to cripple their rigging.

  The ship groaned and heaved as the deck canted high in the air. Noah clung to the railing, Weller at his side. “On my order, Mr. Weller.”

  His gunner nodded.

  Yellow flames burst from the British sloop.

  “Fire!” Noah yelled. The boom of his guns merged with the simultaneous blasts of the sloop’s ten cannons resulting in a thunderous volcano.

  Shot whizzed by Noah’s ears. He dropped to the deck. The crunch and snap of wood filled the air. A scream of agony. The Fortune jolted. Black soot settled on him like a death shroud. He coughed.

  T
he beat of his heart drummed a funeral march in Noah’s head. He shook the fog from his brain and struggled to his knees. Agonizing screams and harried shouts fired over the deck. Noah stood. Batting away the smoke, he eyed the sloop, her sails full, her rigging tight. His shots had not met their mark.

  And still they came, veering to follow him.

  The sound of coughing drew his gaze to Blackthorn and Daniel. They staggered to their feet, but they appeared unharmed.

  Luke darted to his side, a bloody gash across his cheek.

  “Damage?” Noah asked.

  “Grainger is dead. Two others injured. Three of our guns were blown to bits, and they punched a hole in our forward hull. We’re taking on water.” Luke wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve.

  Grainger dead. Noah lowered his chin. What had he done? But he couldn’t think of it now.