Freedom's Price

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by Christine Johnson


  The morning after the height of the storm dawned with an unusually refreshing breeze and brilliant blue skies. The seas that had tossed Catherine and her shipmates so terribly yesterday had calmed to even swells. They’d never had to abandon ship.

  She arose late that morning to find the Justinian limping along with crew and passengers intact. To the west, a sliver of darker color hinted at land, certainly no closer than yesterday morning. The remaining sails caught the breeze, but they were too few and ragged to pull the laden ship at any speed.

  After a sleepless night and a painfully small breakfast of stale biscuit and salted pork, Catherine and Mrs. Durning surveyed the damage from just outside the main cabin. The sun’s brilliant light cast everything in cheer, as if the storm had not occurred. The wreckage above deck told a different story. The ship’s boat sat on deck, tangled in its moorings, never having reached the ocean below.

  “Oh my,” Mrs. Durning exclaimed. “Look at that mast.”

  The tallest mast—the mainmast, Catherine believed—had snapped off a few feet above the deck. The rigging had been cut away, and the crew was busy salvaging what they could.

  “What will we do now?” Mrs. Durning’s brow pinched with concern.

  The second mate, whose name eluded Catherine, stepped toward them. “Put into port, ma’am. Miss.” He dipped his head slightly to recognize them. “The mast must be replaced.”

  “Are we near Jamaica?” Mrs. Durning asked.

  “No, ma’am. The storm blew us off course.”

  “Then where will we stop?” Catherine interjected. “And how long will repairs take?”

  “Perhaps Nassau, but the captain will make that decision. If you’ll excuse me, I have duties to attend to.”

  A cry of “ship ahoy” drew everyone’s attention to the forward lookout.

  The mate’s brow furrowed as he clambered up the ladder to the quarterdeck, where he withdrew his spyglass.

  Catherine looked again in that direction and spotted a triangular blot of black on the horizon. Black sails? Or was it a trick of the morning light? Unaccountably a shiver raced down her spine. They’d seen many a vessel during the voyage, especially since reaching the Caribbean Sea, yet this one was different. The nervous tension of mate and crew betrayed that this ship signaled trouble.

  Mrs. Durning grasped her hand in a fierce grip. “It’s pirates. I know it is. They can say what they want, but I’ve read the stories. There are still pirates in these waters.” She trembled. “What would they do to us?”

  Catherine had no answer, for she had read the same tales but presumed them pure fancy. What if the stories were true? “I will speak to the mate. He will reassure us.”

  Since the officer had not yet finished directing his men, she waited at the base of the stairs. When he made no move to acknowledge her, even after he finished giving instructions, she called up to him, “Sir!”

  He glanced down. “I have duties to perform, Miss Haynes.” He then called out instructions to the sailors on deck.

  A few climbed the ratlines, but most manned winches. Over the course of many tedious minutes, the Justinian slowly changed course. By then, the sailing vessel had grown much closer. Its sails weren’t black, as Catherine had first surmised, but its hull was. From this distance she could see no flag flying from its rigging. Again she shivered. The Spaniards still plied these waters, as did slavers from Africa. She could think of no reason for them to intercept the Justinian unless a war had begun or mischief was planned.

  Regardless, the dark ship was heading straight toward them, and they could not outrun it.

  “Wake the captain,” the second mate barked to one of his men, who instantly scurried down the stairs and into the cabin.

  Mrs. Durning squeezed Catherine’s hand. “My George will take care of everything.”

  Catherine had once held that sort of faith in her father. Papa had always taken care of her. He’d ensured she had the finest gowns and attended the best balls for her Season. When she’d refused every suitor, he’d understood why she would not marry a man who could not inspire a love like the one Papa had for her mother.

  “Oh, Papa,” she whispered. Would today be her last?

  Mrs. Durning patted her hand. “You still miss him terribly, but it will grow less with time.”

  Catherine supposed it would. After all, Maman had retreated into the fringes of her memory, though she could still recall every agonizing moment of her mother’s last night. She had been sent to her room to sleep, but the black mood in the house had kept her awake. She paced the room and finally slipped out to tiptoe to Maman’s bedchamber. The door was closed, and the doctor murmured words she would never forget: “It won’t be long now.”

  She had run down the stairs and hidden in the library, as if all those books could somehow shield her from what was to come. When Papa found her later, he didn’t attempt to extract her from beneath Maman’s writing desk. Instead, he settled in his wing chair and picked up his Bible. Minutes passed in silence save for the turning of the page. Unable to bear it, she came out of hiding and climbed onto the chair beside him. He’d simply held her. Though he’d never said the words, she knew. Maman was gone.

  Mrs. Durning let go of her hand as the captain came on deck. “What is it?”

  The captain’s worried expression softened. “Nothing to be concerned about, but why don’t you take Miss Haynes into the cabin. She looks a bit pale.”

  Catherine was not about to faint, not over some unknown ship. This was clearly an attempt to get them off deck. Why? She turned back to the approaching ship. She could now see the silhouette of men on its decks. Still no flag. At this rate the unknown ship would soon overtake them. She looked up to see that the Justinian was not flying the ensign either. Had Captain Durning taken it down, or had it been lost during the storm?

  “Was the ensign flying this morning?” she asked Mrs. Durning, who tugged at her elbow in a vain attempt to draw her into the cabin.

  “Goodness, I don’t know. I suppose it was. Why?”

  That might explain the unknown ship’s reluctance to reveal its country of origin. She leaned over the rail, squinting at the approaching vessel. It had sleek lines, beautiful really, and did not display the usual ravages that the sea took upon those ships bold enough to sail her. Surely it had endured the same storm, yet it looked as fresh and clean as if it had just come out of the shipyard.

  Did Captain Durning suspect treachery? Was that why he’d suggested they retire to the cabin? Catherine hesitated. She preferred to face an enemy in open air, not cower belowdecks, but Mrs. Durning had paled so much that she might well swoon.

  Catherine took the woman’s hand. “Let’s go inside. I would like to rest. Perhaps the cook would serve tea in the officers’ dining saloon?” From that room Catherine could position herself to see the vessel’s approach and ascertain whether they ought to bolt themselves in their quarters or not.

  The cook grumbled at her untimely request for tea but obliged with a pot and two cups. Mrs. Durning located sugar in her husband’s stores, but milk had vanished from the tea service weeks ago. Catherine relished the idea of sipping proper tea—with milk—once she reached Chêne Noir, the Lafreniere plantation in Louisiana.

  Catherine positioned herself so she could keep the approaching ship within view. Mrs. Durning sat opposite her and dropped a nip from the sugarloaf into her teacup.

  “That’s better.” Catherine sipped the tepid tea. “The sun is rather hot in these climes. I wonder how long it will take to repair the mast.” She hoped the change of topic would distract Mrs. Durning from the idea of pirates.

  “Mr. Durning will take care of that.” Mrs. Durning dropped another chunk of sugar into her cup. “I suppose if a new mast is available, then it will not take all that long.”

  “I hope so.” The bulk of Catherine’s fifty pounds had gone toward passage and the provisions she would need while traveling. Naturally her cousin Roger had held her to the letter of t
heir agreement, without a pence more.

  “On the other hand, we should be prepared for a long stay. Mr. Durning will provide for me, of course. Do you have means, dear?”

  Had her concerns been that obvious? “That will depend on how long the delay is. Did your husband ever encounter this before?”

  “Once. They were dismasted off the Cape.” Mrs. Durning stared into space, a plump finger tapping her chin. “Three months’ delay, I believe.”

  “Three months!” Catherine’s funds could not last three months. “I must get to New Orleans.” From the city, it was a short distance to Chêne Noir, according to Maman.

  “You could always seek passage on another ship. After all, you would have taken a second ship from Jamaica to New Orleans.”

  “The fares might be much higher from Nassau.” Perhaps all she had left.

  A jolt drew her attention to the window. The black-hulled ship had come alongside. She flew to the window, Mrs. Durning in her wake.

  The sailing ship was much smaller than the Justinian, perhaps half its size or less. The sails were a somewhat dingy color, not the black that they had appeared to be on the horizon. The dark hull, however, gleamed. At the wheel stood an older man in rather ragged clothes. A pirate?

  She scanned the rest of the small crew. The men ranged from a lad of perhaps fourteen to a weathered old salt, but the man who captured Catherine’s attention looked to be in command. Tall and smartly dressed, he stood in direct contrast to his crew.

  Mrs. Durning pressed close. “That one’s too handsome to be a pirate.”

  Catherine couldn’t rip her gaze from the dark-haired gentleman in fine trousers, leather boots, and a navy blue frock coat. Though he issued orders with precision, proving he was in command, he was far younger than she had first presumed. He looked around her age, perhaps a couple years older. His skin had been bronzed by the sun, yet he carried himself with the confidence of a nobleman. If he was indeed a pirate, she would not mind at all being taken aboard his ship.

  “He doesn’t look evil,” she murmured.

  Just then the man’s gaze caught hers, and an impish grin curved his lips, as if he was accusing her of snooping on him. Not one to look away, Catherine stared back imperiously. He held her gaze a long minute before answering the Justinian’s hail.

  His confidence took her breath away. She spun from the window and headed for the dining saloon doorway.

  Mrs. Durning trailed after her. “Where are you going?”

  “To find out precisely who he is.”

  The woman’s eyes widened. “What if he isn’t . . . respectable?”

  “Then I shall discover that fact at once.”

  “But you might fall into harm. Aren’t you afraid?”

  Catherine mirrored the confident captain’s grin. “No, but if he makes one wrong move, he will regret it.”

  2

  Tom dragged his gaze from the gorgeous woman in the aft cabin window of the dismasted barque. He had business to attend to, and it didn’t include gawking at pretty ladies. The crew of the Justinian had not lowered a ladder. Either they intended to refuse pilotage, or they feared him. Regardless, protocol required he make vocal contact and show his credentials to the master. By his estimation, that would be the older gentleman in the fine wool uniform.

  He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Do you require assistance, Captain?”

  “We do not,” a rangy crewman, likely one of the mates, shot back.

  “You’re dismasted.” It always helped to point out the obvious. “And soon to sail onto the reef.”

  That drew the master to the rail of the quarterdeck. “I am well aware of our condition and course.”

  “Then you know how treacherous the reefs are.”

  The master scowled. “As you can see, we’re making good progress on the fore and mizzen sail. With winds light, I foresee no difficulties.”

  Reluctance to accept assistance was usual. Tom seldom found an eager master unless the ship was in dire straits. That was not the case with the Justinian. The barque could limp into Key West on her own, but maneuverability would be lessened with the reduction in sail. One small miscalculation could send the ship onto the reef, but no master liked to be told what to do, especially from a man half his age.

  So Tom tried an approach that appealed more to the man’s heart than his skills. “Are any of the passengers or crew ill or injured? I can take them speedily ashore. Key West has fine physicians and a marine hospital.”

  As anticipated, that gave the master pause. After stiffening slightly, he consulted with the rangy mate. Perhaps someone aboard was ill.

  Tom waited.

  The response came as predicted. “We need no assistance.”

  Tom was down to his last ploy—helpfulness. Coupled with a broad grin, it generally disarmed the most suspicious master. “Closest port to your position is Key West. Shipwrights there can replace your mast. The best channel for a ship your size lies beyond a narrow gap in the shoal, unmarked. Sail past Sand Key lighthouse on a northeast bearing, avoid the reef, and search for the opening.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement.”

  “If you later decide you need a pilot . . .” Movement along the rail drew Tom’s attention. The pretty lady had appeared, bareheaded, on deck. The sun lit her auburn hair on fire. Unlike the usual fashion, pulled up under a bonnet or hat so no one could see it, she let the thick mane of curling locks flow around her shoulders. The sight took every thought from his mind.

  “You’re a pilot?” the master shouted. “Licensed?”

  Tom refocused on the man. “Licensed by the federal court in Key West, Judge Marvin presiding. You may examine my credentials if you wish.”

  The captain still looked wary, but he ordered the ladder thrown out.

  While Tom waited for the crew aboard the Justinian to secure the rope ladder, he glanced again at the lady. She was still looking at him. He smiled. She cocked her head, a rare assurance in her manner, as if she was in full command of the situation.

  “Ready, mister,” the rangy mate called out.

  Again Tom had to draw his attention to the task at hand. Gazing at a pretty woman had best wait until port, though he wouldn’t mind learning who she might be. A gentlewoman surely, maybe even a duchess. This was a British vessel. The thrill of possibility increased at each rung of the ladder.

  The rangy crewman held out a hand to help him over the bulwark and onto deck. “Welcome aboard, sir. I’m Mr. Lightwater, first mate, and this is Captain Durning.”

  Tom tugged his coat into place and stuck out his hand. “Tom Worthington, master of the James Patrick and licensed pilot.” Seeing as the Justinian did not require salvage, he didn’t mention his wrecking license. “Pleased to meet you, Captain. Mr. Lightwater.”

  Captain Durning did not crack a smile. “Your papers.”

  Tom reached in his inner coat pocket for his leather wallet. Once more his gaze landed on the pretty woman, who had drifted near. This time she gave him an impertinent little grin.

  The captain cleared his throat.

  Tom opened his wallet and withdrew the pilot license and handed it to Captain Durning. The man read it with care before handing it back.

  “It appears to be in order. If you are who you say you are.”

  That carried suspicion to a new level. Tom merely nodded, smiling. “You may certainly proceed without a pilot. If you do happen upon the reef, I am also licensed as a wrecker.”

  The woman laughed.

  The master’s complexion darkened. “I am fully capable of handling this ship.”

  Again Tom nodded, keeping the pleasant smile. “Indeed you are. Only a highly skilled master could come out of that storm with his vessel still afloat.”

  As expected, the master’s outrage eased.

  “As pilot, I am simply aboard to offer navigational counsel, which you may accept or reject.” Tom named his fee. “You will find it the lowest rate out of Key West.”


  “That seems reasonable,” the woman interjected, her melodic voice as captivating as her fiery hair.

  The master’s attention snapped away from Tom to land on her. She could not have known how ill-timed her comment was. “Mr. Lightwater, please escort Miss Haynes to her quarters.”

  Her eyes widened, and Tom suspected a protest was about to be unleashed, but then an elderly woman stepped to her side. The woman’s stout carriage and confidence placed her as someone with authority, definitely not the pretty lady’s maid.

  “I happen to agree with Catherine. I, for one, do not care to end up wrecked on a reef.”

  Catherine. So that was the lovely woman’s given name. Since she bore no physical resemblance to the older woman, Tom surmised they were friends rather than relations.

  The master blanched and stammered that they were never in danger.

  The matron was not appeased.

  Tom stifled a snicker. That explained the woman’s authoritative manner. She was the master’s wife. A wife often held command, especially where the family’s safety was concerned. His mother certainly had, even before Pa lost his ship.

  Tom bowed before the women. Perhaps this time away from wrecking the Isaac Allerton would prove worthwhile after all. “Tom Worthington at your service, ladies. Pilot, captain, and wrecker.”

  Though the master muttered something about modern-day pirates, Mrs. Durning warbled about his fine manners.

  Catherine Haynes, on the other hand, jutted out her perfectly proportioned chin. “Did you not leave off the superlative, Mr. Worthington?”

  He cocked his head, keeping that grin in place. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

  “Ship pilot extraordinaire. As well as the least expensive and most mannered.”

  “I can’t challenge that assessment.”

  “Pride goeth before a fall.”

  Ordinarily Tom would take offense, but he’d never enjoyed such delightful sparring. “I assume you know that from experience?”

  As anticipated, that drew a scowl. Before she could level another barb, Captain Durning’s bark of laughter stilled her tongue.

 

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