Garrett turned toward her. “Why did you order him killed?” he asked. “Your own son?”
“Matthew was a great disappointment to me,” she answered. “But he was all I had. Now I have you.”
Chapter 23
On April 23, Caroline and Garrett witnessed the marriage of Amanda and Noah by a French priest in the garden of a rented house in Port-au-Prince. Amanda wore a brocaded silk Polonaise dress of pale rose with a petticoat of deeper pink and a wide straw hat adorned with a band of island flowers. Noah was decently dressed in a gentleman’s azure-blue coat, waistcoat, and matching fawnskin breeches; and the baby, Jeremy—securely held in Pilar’s capable arms—wore identical garments.
Amanda, Noah, and Jeremy had come to Port-au-Prince to assemble a household and purchase a seaworthy sloop and supplies before returning to Arawak Island to establish a boatyard. Since finding skilled craftsmen, tools, and trained servants might take time, Noah was prepared to spend several months there.
After the brief wedding ceremony, local musicians played instruments and native women danced gaily as the bridal party was served a ten-course wedding supper beneath the flowering trees. Caroline sat beside Garrett and watched her sister’s happiness with mixed emotions.
“I wish you were coming home with us,” she said, placing her hand over Amanda’s dark one, adorned with its shiny new gold wedding band. “Jeremy should grow up on Fortune’s Gift.”
Amanda smiled mysteriously and shook her head. “No. He should grow up here on the shores of this warm sea. Don’t you hear the old songs of Africa in the drums and castanets? In the guitars and flute? Jeremy is a person of color. It is best for his future and that of the children Noah and I might have together that we stay here.”
“But I will miss you all so.”
“And I will miss you . . . and home.” Amanda squeezed Caroline’s hand. “I worry about you, going back into a war.”
“I’ll be fine.” She glanced at Garrett and Noah, who were deep in conversation about the new ship.
Cassandra was anchored in the harbor, awaiting Garrett’s orders to sail north. Falconer—Mistress Annemie—had given Garrett a half interest in the brigantine and had put the crew at his disposal. It was a generous gift, since the brigantine was only four years old and carried the finest German-made cannon and swivel guns. No amount of money could have purchased a better vessel in the Caribbean for Garrett’s purposes.
“It is in our interest that the American Colonies win their independence from England,” Mistress Annemie had pronounced solemnly before she left Arawak Island to return to her home on Jamaica. “I would prefer that, as my heir, Garrett remain here in the islands until the war is over. But since he is as stubborn as my Peregrine . . .” She trailed off, smiling proudly at Garrett. “Since I wish to protect you, naturally I want you to command the best ship in Falconer’s fleet.”
Mistress Annemie had also arranged for much of the treasure to be converted to good Spanish doubloons, louis d’ors, and English guineas. And to Caroline’s surprise, the old lady had refused payment for the Cassandra.
“I have more than an old woman needs,” she had told Caroline. “I am a simple woman with few wants beyond my charities. However, it would please me immensely if you should decide to name your firstborn son after my dear Peregrine.”
“If we ever have a son, I will name him Peregrine,” Caroline had promised. She hadn’t told anyone except Amanda about her suspicion that she was already pregnant. She had been afraid that if she did tell Garrett, he would insist that she remain behind in the islands instead of going home.
This morning, a message had arrived from Falconer in Jamaica informing Garrett that France was about to recognize the independence of the Colonies, and that Sir Henry Clinton was rumored a prime choice to replace Howe.
. . . If that happens, Mistress Annemie wrote in her spidery script, Washington must march north with all his troops to attack the British forces in New York. He will need all the support possible along the coast. Vital that you proceed north to the Chesapeake immediately . . .
“I’ll sail at the end of the week,” Garrett had told Caroline. “There are a few more arrangements that I need to make.”
Since Matthew Kay had invaded Arawak, Garrett had treated Caroline with the greatest consideration, guarding her as though she were the fortune. He had barely let her out of his sight. At night, if she awoke, she found him sitting close to her bed. But they had not lived as man and wife.
Now with fresh news of the conflict, it seemed to her as if he had already left her. The Garrett Faulkner beside her at Amanda’s wedding feast was not the man who had held Caroline with such passion that night on the balcony of Arawak House. He was the captain of the Cassandra—very much a military officer—and not the husband and lover she wanted so badly.
Even when the musicians began to play an English country dance and Garrett took her hand to lead her out onto the grass, his touch was that of a gentle stranger. She smiled at him, dipped and turned and laughed as bright blossoms rained around them like warm snowflakes. But all the while, her heart was aching.
At quarter after ten that evening, Noah accompanied Garrett to the town dock. Garrett shook his friend’s hand a last time and wished him happiness and success with his new business. Garrett turned to climb down the ladder to the waiting dory, then stopped and looked at the big black man. “It’s not too late to change your mind and come with me,” Garrett said. “I’ll make you my first officer.”
Noah laughed and shook his head. “No more fighting for me, Garrett. I’ve had my share. Just remember me when you need a solid sloop built.”
“I’ll remember you.”
“And me you. For a white man, you’ll do.”
“Take care of my Caroline, and God keep you all.” Garrett’s voice cracked, and he threw his arms around his friend. Then, without speaking again, he scrambled down to the small boat where two brass-bound chests were already waiting and signaled for the seamen to row him to the Cassandra.
Able Conner, the first officer, had already given the commands to make the brigantine ready. The tide was changing, and Garrett intended to sail on it. If the British decided to evacuate Philadelphia, he knew the Cassandra could take an active part in freeing the Chesapeake.
Caroline would be furious to be left behind, and she would consider his decision to go without her a betrayal of their agreement. He meant to make Fortune’s Gift his first stop on the bay, and he would do everything in his power to secure Reed’s release from prison, but he wasn’t taking Caroline back to the war. When it was over—if he survived—they would see if they could put their marriage back together. Until then, he owed it to her to provide for her safety.
Knowing he planned to leave her behind in the Caribbean, he’d not slept with her again. It would have been more than human flesh could bear—to hold her in his arms night after night, realizing that they would soon be separated, perhaps forever.
The deck officer, Mr. Bridger, waited by the gunnel as the sailors brought the dory alongside the Cassandra. The bosun piped Garrett aboard with proper ceremony. Garrett returned Mr. Bridger’s salute, then watched as the two chests were brought on board. He gave a few last-minute orders concerning the departure, then commanded that the chests be delivered to his quarters.
Captain McCarthy, the previous captain of the Cassandra, had taken control of Matthew Kay’s schooner Reiver. McCarthy had left the Cassandra at Arawak in such haste that many of his personal belongings were still aboard in the master’s cabin. Garrett made a mental note to be certain the items were returned to McCarthy when possible.
Garrett thought he should have been in a better mood tonight. After all, hadn’t he achieved all he’d set out to do when he’d fled the Chesapeake with Caroline? He had a stout ship underfoot, ten cannon better than he’d ever hoped to find, and a hell of a crew to take into combat.
He hesitated for a moment outside the hatchway that led to his cabin and looked b
ack over the moonlit water at the few lights still burning in the town. Faintly, over the water, came the strains of an old French sailors’ drinking song. He took a deep breath, savoring the familiar ship odors; the warm, moist air was laden with the scents of salt, new hemp and canvas, and tar.
Bloody hell! It was good to have a deck under his feet again. He’d been too long ashore, and too long away from hunting English ships.
He swallowed, trying to think of the action to come . . . trying not to think of Caroline, or the way damp ringlets of her hair had escaped from her cap and curled at the back of her neck as she’d danced with him . . . fighting the memories of her silken body molded against his . . . And once again he wished that they had met at some other time and place.
Garrett blinked away the film of moisture that clouded his vision and descended the ladder to his cabin. He threw open the door and swore softly.
Caroline was sitting on his bunk dressed only in her shift and stockings with a glass of red wine in her hand. “Good evening, sir,” she called to him. “I was afraid you’d miss the tide.”
The days sailing northward toward home and the Chesapeake were not what Caroline would have wished. Garrett had been furious that she’d come aboard without his knowledge. He hadn’t admitted it, but they both knew he’d intended on leaving her behind with Noah and Amanda.
Because the crew and ship were new to him, Garrett insisted that she remain a virtual prisoner in the cabin unless he escorted her up to the quarterdeck for a breath of fresh air. “A fighting ship is no place for a woman,” he’d admonished her. “You jeopardize my effectiveness with the men merely by being here.”
Despite her obvious invitation the night they pulled anchor in Port-au-Prince, she and Garrett had not been intimate. The captain’s cabin contained two narrow bunks; Garrett slept in one, and she in the other.
“This has nothing to do with you,” he’d explained brusquely. “What we have between us must wait until after this war is over.”
“And if it won’t wait?” she’d asked him. His only reply had been a shrug and the regret in his eyes.
She had come so close to weakness then; every feminine instinct had urged her to proclaim her condition. But she hadn’t. She’d been as stubborn and unreasonable as Garrett. And every day, she’d tried to harden her heart against him.
He’s right, she argued with herself. I will have my hands full with Fortune’s Gift. I won’t have time to worry about another man at sea during wartime. If I don’t allow myself to care, I’ll not be hurt again if he dies as Wesley did.
It was a lie. She knew it in her blood and bone. What she felt for Garrett Faulkner compared to what she had felt for Wesley was the difference between a glowing emerald and a piece of cheap green glass. Still, the lie helped her to sleep at night and made it possible to think of Reed’s safety, and the prospect of planting the river fields in late corn this year.
Fortunately, Captain McCarthy had been a reader, and he’d left two books in the desk. One was a copy of Jonathan Swift’s works, the other, Essays on Husbandry. Without the books, she would have gone mad. Garrett was on deck before first light until long after sunset.
Since he’d taken command of the Cassandra on Arawak Island, Garrett had driven the crew relentlessly. He’d ordered sails raised and lowered, cannon loaded and fired, decks scrubbed, and brass polished until the Cassandra shone like a June bride. He was a fair commander, but hard. He demanded instant obedience, and once, when a seaman was insubordinate, he gave the fellow six lashes and put him ashore at the first fishing village.
Yet, with all the work, Garrett realized that the crew needed good food, hearty drink, and time to relax. Often, Caroline would drift off to sleep to the thumps of dancing feet and the wail of the hornpipe coming from the deck above.
By the time the Cassandra reached the banks of the Carolinas, Garrett had earned the confidence of his men. The ship crossed the path of a British Royal Navy snow, exchanged cannon fire, and made the English ship turn tail and run.
Garrett shared his breakfast with his officers; the noon meal he took alone on the quarterdeck. Only at suppertime did he return to the captain’s cabin to sit and eat with Caroline. And if nights were strained times between them, the evening meal was a good time.
Supper was simple, often fish, hot bread, cheese, and fresh or dried fruit. She would listen as he told her of what the crew had accomplished, of the distance the Cassandra had traveled in the last twenty-four hours, and what the weather conditions were. Then they would discuss Caroline’s plans for the plantation, and finally, politics.
Garrett had a shrewd, logical mind, and if he had the typical arrogance of a man, at least he was willing to listen to her ideas. Often, they argued over obscure points of colony law or what Caroline felt was the unfairness of the treatment of women.
One evening, when they had finished eating and were sharing a bottle of wine, she asked him what he intended to do when the war was over.
“I don’t suppose I’ve thought that far,” he said, crossing his legs and propping his feet on the lid of one of the treasure chests. “There’s always farming. I have the land. Since my oldest brother married the Flaherty girl and went to Ireland to live, and my second brother is settled in New Castle on the Delaware, managing the family plantations is my responsibility. Faulkner’s Folly is mine, left to me by my Grandfather Perry, but it’s small compared to Fortune’s Gift—barely self-supporting. The earliest tobacco fields are wearing out, and I need to clear more virgin forest.”
“I don’t think you need to worry about money, Garrett,” she replied. “Your share of the treasure—”
“I have what I want—the Cassandra. The rest is yours, Caroline, to do with what you will. It was always yours.”
He started to pour her a second glass of wine, but she waved it away. “No, thank you. I’ve no head for drink lately,” she said. In truth, since she’d quickened with child, even a glass made her sleepy, and she’d all but given spirits up. “Mistress Annemie said that she will make you her heir. If she controls as vast a shipping empire as she says, then—”
He laughed. “I’ll waste no night’s sleep on an old woman’s promises. If she could order her only son shot, who knows what she might do? It’s enough for me that she put the Cassandra at my command. I’m not greedy. I’ve never wished to be rich.”
“But if Falconer’s estate does come to you?”
He grinned boyishly. “I’m not so much a fool to turn it down.”
“It could make you more powerful than a royal governor.”
“Could, and would, and should, honey.” He laughed again. “Together they didn’t fill the sailor’s empty sleeve.”
“It is a possibility,” she insisted. “You could become a very wealthy man.”
“Perhaps. But if I did, it’s more likely that it’s you who would become the rich widow. This war is just beginning, Caroline. It may run for years.” He exhaled slowly. “And I intend to be in the thick of it—as long as it takes, as much as it takes.”
“You’re not the man I thought you were when I first met you,” she said softly. “I thought that Garrett was more interested in a warm wench to tumble and his next card game.”
“A few years earlier, and your estimation would have been right. I was hot for independence. I once sat in on one of Patrick Henry’s speeches during a Virginia convention. Something he said stuck in my mind. ‘The battle . . . is not to the strong alone, it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave . . .’ I suppose most young bucks are eager enough for the excitement of war. But it wasn’t until the Osprey went down that gunpowder ran in my veins. I kept thinking that if we didn’t win this thing—if we didn’t drive the British from our shores—then Wesley, John, Will, and the others would have died for nothing. I just couldn’t live with myself if I let that happen.”
“But what of Noah and Amanda and Jeremy? Will there ever be a place for men and women of color in this new country? A time when they c
an be free, regardless of the hue of their skin?”
“God will it so,” he answered. “But slavery is an evil that’s been with us since biblical days.”
“It doesn’t make it right.”
“No, it doesn’t. It just makes it harder to root out.”
“Will it change in Jeremy’s lifetime?”
“Maybe. Or maybe in his son’s or grandson’s.”
“It makes no sense to me,” she replied ardently, “why so many men can fight willingly for their own freedom and deny it to a man like Noah.”
“Human nature.”
“It’s not right.”
“Keep saying so, little hothead, and maybe, after a while, some will begin to listen.” He covered her hand with his. “For now, we must concern ourselves with freeing Reed. I’ve found it best to fight one battle at a time.”
And to her great dismay, Garrett’s mention of her brother’s name brought back the memory of her vision of the fresh grave at Fortune’s Gift. She shivered. “What if we’re too late to save Reed?”
For that question, he had no answer.
Chapter 24
In the early hours of morning darkness on May 1, the Cassandra extinguished all lamps and muffled every sound aboard ship. Garrett took the wheel and whispered a prayer as his brigantine passed within two hundred yards of a British man-of-war to slip silently into the mouth of the Chesapeake Bay.
An hour later, he went below deck to his cabin and woke Caroline. “We’re home, sweet. That’s Chesapeake air you smell.”
“Already?”
She sat up and he heard the faint rustle as the linen sheet fell away. He couldn’t see her in the blackness, but he could smell the scent of gardenias in her hair. He felt his groin tighten as he imagined what it would be like to run his hands over her . . . to slide into the bunk next to her.
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