Lord Of The Sea

by Danelle Harmon

  “Permission, Captain Merrick, to come aboard!” he demanded formally.

  “As you please, Cuz,” called down the man who was now standing at the cross-trees high, high above.

  Delmore’s lips thinned. He reached for a rope and climbed aboard the ship. There was young Toby Ashton, thin, gangly, and looking at him with some apprehension. Nathan, the dying sunlight gilding his tawny hair. Two crewmen he didn’t know and of course, the beautiful Rhiannon.

  He bit down the pain he felt at sight of her.

  She was never yours to have. Somewhere, there is a woman out there for you. But it’s not her.

  “Del, my man!”

  The British captain looked up. There was his foolish cousin still standing at the crosstrees, one arm hooked around a stay and looking down at him.

  “Please come down so that I might speak to you privately, Connor.”

  “If you want to speak privately, why don’t you come up here?”

  Delmore groaned, inwardly.

  “One-Eye and I have another contest going. Ten American dollars to the man who dares to jump the highest. I’ll raise it to fifty if you care to join in.”

  “You’re out of your bloody mind.”

  “Always am. So what do you say, Del? The view up here’s fine, and the water’s even nicer.”

  Around him Delmore could hear the snickers of the American crew, and he felt Rhiannon’s expectant gaze upon him. His face reddened, and a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stood there for a moment, then walked to the rail and looked down at his men waiting in the boat below.

  “You may return to Orion,” he snapped. “I’ll be along after I conduct my business with Captain Merrick.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  He watched the boat move off, oars rising and falling, rising and falling, and turned back to the schooner. Nobody had moved. They were all watching him. Waiting.

  “Well?” Connor Merrick called down from high above. “Are you going to join me, Del? You representing Britain, me representing the United States, and not a shot needs to be fired.”

  “I’m coming up there to talk with you, not to engage in your childish games.”

  “Come on up then. How about sixty dollars?”

  “You’re mad.”

  “Seventy!”

  “Bloody insane.”

  But Delmore strode to the shrouds and removing his hat, tilted his head back. The sun was going down such that his cousin, so far above, was now nearly in silhouette.

  Waiting.

  Tight-lipped, Delmore placed his fancy over-large hat on the breech of a nearby gun and began to unbutton his coat.

  The silence around him grew deafening.

  The high, stand-up collar pressing into his jaw fell away and he felt a sense of relief and freedom. He shrugged out of the coat, and felt the sweat beginning to pour off him as though the heavy garment had kept it all contained. Carefully folding it, he laid it next to his hat.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a man with a split, scarred lip elbowing Nathan and grinning madly. Ignoring them, his mouth a tight, hard line, Delmore bent down and removed his shoes and stockings.

  I’m doing this just to make it easier to climb, he told himself. But some wild, distant, previously unheeded part of himself knew differently.

  He reached for the shrouds and began the ascent.

  Below him, the scanty American crew began to clap in appreciation, and someone let out a cheer. His cheeks reddening, Delmore kept climbing.

  And climbing.

  He found his cousin sitting on the topsail yard, eyes crinkling with good humor, the water still trickling from his loose auburn curls and dripping down his neck and shoulders.

  “A hundred dollars,” Connor said, grinning.

  The tic in Delmore’s jaw twitched one last time before a faint, reluctant smile touched his hard mouth.

  “Done.”

  * * *

  “Damned fools,” Sir Graham said irritably, watching the hi-jinks aboard the American schooner with a telescope pressed to his eye. He snapped it shut in irritation, for his head ached from the overindulgence of rum and it was hot enough to bake the burn right out of one of his mother-in-law’s ghastly, inedible cookies. “That son of yours is going to get himself killed.”

  Behind him, Brendan Merrick was sitting in a chair reading a newspaper and trying, like Sir Graham, to find any whisper of breeze out here on the verandah. His knee was hurting tonight, and he wondered if it was going to rain.

  “What are they doing now?”

  “Jumping from that damned schooner’s rigging.”

  “Good night for it,” Brendan said, and went back to reading the paper.

  “He’s going to break his fool neck.” Sir Graham wiped his sweating, pounding brow. “I say, if I ever caught one of my men engaging in behavior like that, I’d have him bloody keelhauled.”

  With a little sigh, Brendan put the paper down and joined his son-in-law at the railing. Together they watched two figures, tiny with distance, moving out along Kestrel’s fore topsail yard.

  “Come now, Gray,” said Brendan. “Weren’t you young once?”

  “A long time ago. Before I had children.”

  “They age you, don’t they? You worry about them, you fear for their futures, you do the best you can by them and no matter how old they get to be, they’ll still be your children. But there comes a time when you have to just let go, and let them be the person the good Lord made them to be.”

  Brendan picked up the telescope and put it to his eye. Into the circular field came masts, spars, water, and there, yes, his beloved schooner. He found the mainmast and brought the glass up, studying the two men so clearly revealed by the magnification.

  It was Connor, all right.

  And the other one, just peeling off his shirt and tossing it down, down, down to the deck, was—

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

  He snapped the glass shut as his son threw himself off the yard and executed a perfect dive into the sea so far below.

  “What is it?” Gray asked, reaching for the glass.

  “Why don’t we go and check on Maeve and the baby. Maybe get something to eat.”

  But Sir Graham had grabbed the glass and, as Brendan watched helplessly, was putting it to eye.

  The admiral’s roar nearly shook the paint off the railing. “Holy Christ above, is that my FLAG CAPTAIN?!”

  From somewhere on the other side of the mansion, the sudden wails of a infant permeated the air.

  “You’ve gone and woken your baby daughter,” Brendan said, taking the glass from his son-in-law’s hand. “Maeve will have your head.”

  “I’ll have Delmore’s head for this, by God! I thought he of all people was beyond the reach of Connor’s corruptive influence!”

  “Faith, lad, the night is hot enough to melt the shadows off the sun. So they’re cooling off out there? ‘Tis about time he relaxed a little and learned to have fun.”

  “Fun? He’s a damned captain in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, he can’t be jumping off yardarms like a damned fool!”

  Sir Graham stormed toward the door, but was quickly caught by his father-in-law’s hand. “Gray,” he said, and his smile was wise, patient, and full of understanding. “Life is short, and just as we welcomed a little baby into the world today, none of us ever know when the good Lord is going to come and take one of us away. Let the lad enjoy himself while he can.” He clapped the admiral on the shoulder. “It’s good for him.”

  Sir Graham just raked a hand through his hair and pouring himself a glass of lemonade, went back to the railing, watching the distant contest.

  Brendan joined him, a glass of the cool beverage in his own hand.

  The shadows grew longer as they sipped their drinks and watched the distant competitors climb higher for each dive.

  “Kind of makes a man wish he were young again,” Sir Graham finally admitted, grudgingly.

  Brendan took a last sw
allow of his lemonade. “You’re only as old as you feel.”

  “Or so they say.”

  “Whomever they are.”

  Silence.

  “Rather does look like fun. . . .”

  “Aye, now. It sure does.”

  Night was coming on now. Blessed, concealing, conspiring darkness.

  Sir Graham straightened up. He looked over at his father-in-law, and a slow, reluctant grin curved his lips as the two of them met each other’s gazes.

  Brendan smiled.

  Sir Graham smirked and rubbed his jaw.

  An hour later, when Mira went looking for them, she found an empty verandah, abandoned lemonade glasses and heard, coming from across the harbor in the direction of Kieran’s sloop Sandpiper, loud splashes, her son-in-law’s whoops and guffaws, and beloved Irish laughter that she recognized as Brendan’s own.

  She slapped at the mosquito sucking a hole in her arm and smiling, went to check on Maeve.

  All was right in her world.

  Chapter 26

  In the end, Captain Delmore Lord ended up sharing a drink, laughter, and stories of their respective childhoods with his recklessly wild American cousin in the latter’s cabin, and the subject that the Englishman had come prepared to discuss, was never raised.

  Captain Lord went back to his ship that night feeling strangely liberated, and happier than he could remember being since he was a little lad in long ago Hampshire.

  Connor Merrick went to bed that night beneath the stars, cradling Rhiannon in his arms and thinking about what she’d said about having to prove himself.

  Vice Admiral Sir Graham Falconer and Captain Brendan Jay Merrick went to bed that night aching in places they didn’t know existed, and the following morning could barely walk.

  Connor came upon them both in the library, where his father and the admiral were enjoying a morning cup of coffee.

  “Faith, that last jump really took a toll on my knee.”

  “You think your knee is bad? My shoulder feels like someone stuck a knife in it and twisted.”

  “I was stiffer than the wind out of the nor’east when I got up this morning.”

  “Well, it was your bloody idea, not mine.”

  “Nobody forced you to go, lad.”

  “You think I’m going to let my father-in-law show me up?”

  Connor walked in, frowning. “What are you two talking about?”

  “Ah, lad, just getting old. Getting old.”

  “I don’t want to hear it. It’s depressing.”

  Connor plucked a book from the shelves, flipped through it without looking at it, put it back, and sat down. Stood up. Went to the window. Came back.

  “You make a body tired just looking at you,” the admiral said. “Don’t you ever sit still?”

  “Not for long.”

  “How’s my new daughter?” his father asked, rubbing his knee. “Did she get her sea legs yet?”

  “Working on it.”

  Connor went to another shelf. Picked up another book.

  Put it back.

  Brendan glanced at Sir Graham, and shifted painfully in his chair. “What ails you, lad?”

  Connor turned, took a deep and heavy breath, and let it out. “Rhiannon’s wondering where we might live. I haven’t even given any thought to that. I’m not ready to settle down.”

  Sir Graham just looked at him and shook his head. “You should have thought about that before you tied the knot.”

  “You should have thought about that before you forced me to.”

  “Forced you to? It was your own reckless behavior—”

  “Stop it, both of you,” Brendan said wearily.

  “She also said she loves me,” Connor said, beginning to pace. “Imagine. Love! Why is it that that’s all females think about? All they want? That’s why we give them babies, so they have something to love!”

  Sir Graham leaned his forehead on thumb and finger and slid his father-in-law a quiet, sideways smirk.

  “Yes, speaking of babies,” Brendan said innocently, “I do hope you don’t waste any time on giving your mother and I another grandchild. We’re not getting any younger, you know.”

  “What?!”

  “Babies.”

  “For God’s sake, Da! Have you no shame?”

  “None.”

  “Right, I’ve heard enough. I was always told that it was the children who embarrass the parents, but you’ve managed to turn that belief on its ear. And honestly, Da, when are you ever going to get rid of that ridiculous old hat?”

  “I like my hat. Brings back memories.”

  Connor shook his head, made a noise of impatience, and strode out.

  * * *

  “That’s one hell of a mosquito bite you have on your arm, Mother,” Maeve said, watching Mira absently scratch at a reddened welt on the inside of her elbow. “Stop digging at it and it won’t itch so bad.”

  “Itch? It’s driving me bleedin’ mad. Our winters back home might not be as nice as yours are down here, but I wouldn’t trade them for your bugs. These damned— why hello, Rhiannon my dear. Why don’t you join us for a cup of coffee?”

  Rhiannon, who had come over with Connor to see the new baby, shook her head and took a seat.

  Mira eyed her in concern. “Everything all right? Fists and mittens and all that?”

  Rhiannon’s mouth dropped open and she blushed wildly.

  “Honestly, Mother, some things are best not talked about.” Maeve had been tense, irritable and of unpredictable temper for most of the time that Rhiannon had been here on Barbados, but finally looked serene and at peace as she reclined in a chair, little Grace at her breast, her thick, glossy chestnut hair pulled over one shoulder and spilling over the baby’s tiny back.

  “Well, I can tell when something’s bothering a person, and my new daughter looks troubled. What ails ye, dear? That son of mine treatin’ you all right?”

  Rhiannon was not used to such plain-spokenness. She sat down, took a deep breath, and looked at the spritely woman who was her mother-in-law in some despair.

  “I’m worried about Connor,” she said, at last. “The longer I’m with him, the less I feel like I know him. It’s as if he’s hiding something.”

  “It’s not like Con to be secretive,” Maeve said. “Though it would take a fool not to figure out what he’s been up to these past few days.”

  “Once a privateer, always a privateer,” Mira said.

  “It’s not that,” Rhiannon said. “Well, maybe it is. It’s just that he’s so—so driven. He puts all caution aside and does things that are reckless, if not dangerous. It’s as though he thinks he has something to prove. If not to the world, then to himself.”

  “Ahh, and you’re worried about him.”

  “I can’t help but be worried about him. I’m afraid he’s going to take one too many chances and end up getting himself killed.”

  Maeve’s face had gone still and she looked down at her baby, her eyes troubled. Mira noted it and rising, touched Rhiannon’s arm, indicating that she follow her out of the room.

  Outside in the corridor, Rhiannon paused. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, no, not at all,” Mira said. “But you know, my daughter has the Irish gift of the Sight. She has visions, sometimes, of things that are about to happen, and she had a dream last night about death. I don’t want to upset her.”

  “Death? Whose?” Rhiannon asked, alarmed.

  “I don’t know, and neither does she. But Maeve’s not often wrong about such things.”

  “Now you have me really worried.”

  “I don’t mean to upset you, my dear. Not much we can do about it, anyhow.”

  The two of them walked slowly down the hall. “Was Connor always like this? Even as a little boy?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid he’s always been a daredevil. Some would say, a troublemaker. Even back when he was in school we had our hands full with him.”

  “What happened?” Rhiannon asked, ea
ger for this glimpse into her husband’s formative years.

  “Well, Connor never could sit still, and he wasn’t much of a student. Had a hard time with school work, and was always gettin’ punished for fighting with the other boys.” Mira gave a sheepish smile. “Probably gets that from my side of the family.”

  Rhiannon nodded thoughtfully.

  “He was constantly bloodying someone’s nose, or gettin’ himself into one kind of trouble or another. Connor’s not stupid, but book learning came hard to him and still does . . . so he tries hard to find other ways to prove himself. ”

  “He has nothing to prove to me. I think I was already half in love with him back in England when he was rescuing all those prisoners from the hulks and endangering his own life in the process. He’s perfect just the way he is. Why doesn’t he see that?”

  “Because he will never think he’s perfect, until and unless he is his father.”

  Rhiannon grinned. “Surely, even he’s not perfect.”

  “Maybe not,” Mira said, smiling wistfully. “But he comes pretty damned close.”

  * * *

  Sir Graham’s staff put on a delicious afternoon meal of roast pig accompanied by great pitchers of planters’ punch, lemonade, and Bajan rum. Liam Doherty, who was staying aboard Kieran’s sloop Sandpiper, entertained them all with stories of his best friend’s daring and clever exploits during the American War of Independence, much to the delight of everyone in his small audience except Brendan himself, who raised a hand, shook his head, and tried to change the subject.

  “Faith, Liam, you exaggerate the details of that particular tale every time you tell it,” he said, reaching for a second helping of pork. “Your memory’s going, old man. It was only a few men we stole off that British frigate, not two dozen.”

  “Twenty-five, and there isn’t a thing wrong with me memory.”