“I’m sorry, Noah,” she said.
He marched toward her. “No time for apologies, miss. You need to get below.”
She shook her head. “I caused this, and I will accept the consequences of my action.”
Grabbing her arms, he peeled her from the mast and led her to the ladder. “Do as I say for once, Miss Denton.” She ceased struggling and lowered her chin.
Noah halted. “Muster the men amidships, Mr. Heaton,” he ordered Luke, who was strapping on his own weapons. His first mate’s eyes met his. No fear, only anger seared in his dark gaze, making Noah glad for the first time that he’d chosen such a courageous man for first mate. For never had he needed the man’s bravado and stalwart spirit more than he did now.
He urged Marianne down the ladder onto the main deck. She trembled, and his anger diminished. Despite her guilt in causing their present predicament, she must be more terrified than he. “Get below, Miss Denton, and you will be safe.” Yet he heard the uncertainty in his voice. “Hide in—”
He was interrupted by a bellow from below. “Drop the manropes!”
He turned to Marianne. “Do as I say.” Then he nodded for his men to oblige. Fear rose to join his anger for the lady. He had no idea what type of man this captain was, but he had heard stories of innocent women being captured from merchant ships as well as men.
Seven sailors, followed by ten marines clambered over the bulwarks and landed with resounding authority on the deck of the Fortune. A man dressed in white breeches and a blue coat that sported three gold buttons on the cuffs sauntered toward Noah. “Good morning, Captain. I am Lieutenant James Garrick, first lieutenant of His Majesty’s ship, Undefeatable. This is Mr. Jones, our senior midshipmen.” He gestured toward a boy no more than twenty, standing beside him as he shifted slitted eyes over Noah’s crew.
Noah lengthened his stance, trying to use his height to intimidate the shorter man. “Why has your captain stopped my ship, Lieutenant Garrick? We are but simple merchants. Our countries are not at war.”
“War?” The man snickered “We need no war to reclaim what is ours.” He glanced over the crew and waved a hand to his men. “Search below and be quick about it." He smiled. "You've got deserters from his Majesty's service in your crew, and by God, I'll have them.”
♦♦♦
Marianne backed against the break of the foredeck. She hoped to hide behind the swarm of Noah’s sailors crowding the deck. She could not go below. Not when this invasion was all her fault. What if Noah or one of his men were to get hurt—or worse, killed? How could she live with herself? If there was any way to prevent bloodshed, she must stay above to offer her hand—or her reason. Oh Lord, forgive me for putting everyone on this ship in danger. Why have You allowed the British to capture us? Her thoughts sped to Agnes, and she prayed the woman would remain out of sight. And Mr. Weller as well. Poor Mr. Weller.
Noah stepped forward, the purple plume of his hat waving in the breeze. His blue eyes turned to ice as he glared at the lieutenant. “I am Captain Noah Brenin, and I do not welcome your visit, sir. In fact, I protest this pretense as piracy. I can assure you my crew are all Americans and you, sir, are wasting your time.”
Mr. Heaton and Mr. Hobbs took positions on either side of Noah, sentinels guarding their captain.
“Indeed.” The lieutenant fingered sideburns that extended down to his pointy chin. “If that is so, we shall be gone before you know it. Now assemble your men in the waist, if you please.”
Noah gripped the hilt of his sword. “You have no right, sir.”
Marianne held her breath. The wind stopped as if pausing to view the unjust spectacle below. Perspiration slid down her back. Along with her admiration of Noah’s courage, rose fear for his safety. Please, Lord. Do not let them fight.
“Ah, but we do, captain.” The lieutenant held out his hand. “I’ll take that sword and your pistols, too.”
Noah scowled and crossed his arms over his chest.
“And your officers as well.” The man’s glance took in Mr. Heaton and Mr. Hobbs. “And anyone else who has the stupidity to believe they can best His Majesty’s Navy,” he shouted to the crew.
Mr. Heaton’s eyes narrowed. He fisted his hands, and for a moment, Marianne thought he would lunge at the man.
Noah raised his hand, holding him at bay. “If this is a friendly visit, Lieutenant, what need do you have of our weapons?”
“Ah, defiance, but what would I expect from you rebel Americans?” Lieutenant Garrick aimed his pointy finger toward his ship where the muzzles of fourteen cannons, primed and ready to fire, gaped at them from the frigate’s deck. “Any resistance will be met with force, Captain.”
Even from where she stood, Marianne could see the muscles in Noah’s jaw tense. “Would your captain kill his own men to prove a point?” he asked.
“If he had to.” Lieutenant Garrick shrugged. “But I assure you. . .” He thumbed toward the line of marines standing in formation behind him. “I would have no trouble quelling any dissention and escaping this”—with lifted nose, his glance took in the deck—“rotted bucket you call a ship before we sink her to the depths.” Again, he held out his hand and Noah, his eyes simmering, drew his sword and handed it hilt-end to the infuriating man, nodding for Mr. Heaton and Mr. Hobbs to do the same.
Noah stepped to the center of the deck. “Line up, men!”
Marianne’s heart sank. Was there nothing to be done?
The sailors shuffled into tattered lines around the mainmast. Their eyes skittered about as their fearful mumblings drifted to Marianne on the wind.
The royal marines, resplendent in their red jackets and white pants marched forward to face the sailors, their black boots thumping over the deck. The bayonets at the tip of their muskets reflected the sun’s rays in blinding brilliance. Lieutenant Garrick, a tall, angular man with a pointy nose to match his chin, took up a pace before the men. He called for any who were British subjects to step forward. When none did, he began addressing each man.
Marianne watched in horror as the British scoundrel questioned the crew regarding their nationality and date of birth. All the while Noah’s face grew a deeper shade of purple. “I assure you, lieutenant, these men are no more British than you are an American.”
Ignoring him, the lieutenant turned as the soldiers he had sent below leapt onto the deck, dragging Agnes and Mr. Weller with them. Agnes tore from the British sailor’s grasp and slapped him on the arm. “How dare you, you beast!”
The man raised his hand to strike her. Marianne screamed. Mr. Hobbs flew at him, his face mottled with rage. He crashed into the sailor and toppled him to the ground. Noah marched toward the brawl. The British sailors laughed as the two men tumbled over the deck. Agnes threw her hands to her mouth. Marianne dashed to her side and clung to her arm. The older woman trembled as her husband punched the British sailor across the jaw. The man fell to the deck. “You’ll not be touchin’ me wife, mister.” Mr. Hobbs wiped the blood from his cut lip and stood.
The marines turned in unison to aim their muskets directly at him.
Noah halted.
Marianne’s throat went dry. Surely they wouldn’t shoot him. The grin that had taken residence on Lieutenant Garrick’s lips during the altercation faded and he snapped his fingers. “Assist Mr. Cohosh to his feet, and”—he pointed toward Mr. Hobbs—“string that defiant traitor up on the yardarm.”
♦♦♦
Noah froze. A blast of hot wind struck him. His blood pooled in his fists. No. He would not allow his friend, the man who had been more a father to him than his own, die such a cruel death.
Agnes let out an ear-piercing wail. Marianne clung to her, but she seemed to be having difficulty keeping the woman from falling. Her pleading eyes met his.
Two of the marines grabbed Matthew’s arms.
“I protest, sir!” Noah pushed his way over to the lieutenant. “This man was only defending his wife.”
“Protest all you like, captai
n. This man has struck a sailor in His Majesty’s Navy, and he must pay the price.”
“This man is not a British citizen, nor in your navy, and therefore does not fall under your twisted justice.”
Lieutenant Garrick’s eyes flashed. “Nevertheless, it can serve as a warning to you all.”
Marianne stormed toward the pompous man. “Lieutenant. You will do no such thing!” she said with an authority that belied her gender.
With raised brow, the lieutenant swerved to face her. Noah tensed. What was the foolish woman doing drawing attention to herself?
She put her hands on her hips and gave the lieutenant one of her I-know-far-better-than-you looks that always made Noah’s blood boil.
“And what have we here?” The man’s eyes swept over her. “Ship’s cook? Seamstress?”
Noah gestured from behind the British officer for her to stop and say no more.
She glanced at him but continued nonetheless. “I am Miss Marianne Denton, the captain’s fiancée.”
Noah blew out a sigh and shook his head.
“Ah, even better.” The lieutenant grinned, glancing at Noah.
“Please sir, do not harm this man. I beg you.” The limp sails flapped thunderously above them, adding impetus to Marianne’s demand.
“And what will you offer me in exchange?”
She narrowed her eyes. “I have nothing to offer you, sir.”
Noah stepped forward before Miss Denton dug her own grave and all of theirs as well with her unstoppable mouth. “Ignore the woman, lieutenant. She’s mad with fever.” He gave her a stern look and pushed her behind him, but not before he saw the fury in her eyes.
“I am not—”
“Now, I insist you leave my ship at once.” Noah interrupted her. “You have found no British deserters.”
“But I have not finished.” Lieutenant Garrick said in an incredulous tone, peering around him at Miss Denton. “Besides, I need to inquire after your citizenship, Captain and your first mate.”
“We were both born in Baltimore. I in 1786 and he in 1784.”
The lieutenant stared at him for a moment, shifting his eyes onto Luke. Then he shrugged. “I don’t believe you. In fact, from today forward you and your first mate can consider yourselves British seamen.”
Panic squeezed the blood from Noah’s heart. “This is outrageous sir! We are Americans.”
“Americans.” The word spit like venom from Lieutenant Garrick’s lips. “Nothing but rebellious British colonials.” He flung his hand through the air.
Luke charged toward the arrogant man, fists curled and ready to strike. The marines snapped their muskets in his direction. Noah leapt in front of him and forced him back.
The lieutenant laughed. “You will soon learn proper discipline under the strict rule of Captain Milford.”
He turned toward Miss Denton. “And I believe I’ll take you up on your offer, miss. In exchange for this man’s life, you will come with me.” He gestured toward Matthew who stood beside his wife, his arm draped over her trembling shoulders.
Miss Denton’s eyes grew wide and she swallowed.
“Leave her be!” Noah barreled toward the man, his only thought to save Marianne, but the point of a bayonet pierced the skin on his chest, halting him. A red spot blossomed on his white shirt, and he took a step back.
Lieutenant Garrick gave him a look of disgust. “No, I will not leave her be. The captain is in need of a new steward. The last one fell overboard during a storm. Quite tragic.”
Miss Denton’s face paled as white as the sails.
“Yes, I believe she’ll do quite nicely.” Garrick shifted his gaze to Noah. “That is unless you prefer me to hang this man of yours?” He wrinkled his nose in disdain at Matthew.
Behind the lieutenant, Miss Denton shook her head furiously at Noah. He blinked. She willingly exchanged her life for Matthew’s—a man she barely knew?
The lieutenant scanned the crew one more time. The creaking of the ship and flap of canvas filled the silence as each man held their breath and avoided his gaze.
His eyes latched upon Mr. Weller. “You look familiar to me.”
“I don’t know you, sir.” Weller’s face remained a stone, save for the sweat glinting on his scarred cheek.
Noah’s stomach knotted.
The lieutenant eyed Mr. Weller up and down, his gaze landing on his missing fingers and the scar on his face. “A gunner, perhaps?”
“I never been in your navy.” Mr. Weller spat to the side.
“Your accent betrays you, sir.” Lieutenant Garrick gestured for his men to grab Mr. Weller as well.
Shock replaced the fear on Weller’s face as two marines clutched his arms and dragged him to the railing. Yet he didn’t struggle. Instead, his expression turned numb as his lifeless eyes raked over Noah in passing.
A marine grabbed Marianne’s arm. He dragged her to the bulwarks. She winced and began to tremble as they approached the railing, but the soldier took no note. Every fiber within Noah itched to charge the man as Luke had done, to fight this incredible injustice, but he knew it would only cause bloodshed.
There was nothing he could do.
“Oh my poor dear,” Agnes wailed after Marianne.
Sweat slid into Noah’s eyes, stinging them. He glanced one more time over his shoulder at the remainder of his crew, their eyes reflecting both their relief at not being chosen and their fear for him. Matthew took a step forward, Agnes leaning in his arms. At least they had been spared. Matthew nodded his way. A look of understanding passed between them, and Noah knew the man would care for his ship and if possible, find a way to rescue them.
It was the only hope Noah could cling to as he swung over the bulwarks and dropped into the boat that would take him, his men, and Miss Denton to a fate worse than death.
Chapter 11
Sandwiched between two officers—Lieutenant Garrick walking before her and another man behind—Marianne descended a set of wooden steps beneath the quarterdeck and proceeded down a gloomy passageway aboard the Undefeatable. Familiar smells burned her nose--moist wood, tar, and the sweat of men, of hundreds of men from what she’d seen above deck.
Each step sent her heart crashing against her chest. A thousand horrifying visions of her future flashed like morbid captions across her mind. Unlike Noah, she did not entertain the notion that any honor existed among these British officers. She had heard the stories of their atrocities inflicted upon American sailors—and she believed them. A shudder overtook her. She stumbled and the man behind her nudged her forward.
She thought of Noah and Mr. Heaton. What horrors were they presently facing? And Mr. Weller. Poor Mr. Weller. But she hadn’t time to contemplate their fate, as hers was about to be revealed. At the end of the passageway, a man dressed in a red coat, white breeches, with musket in hand, guarded a door she assumed to be the captain’s. Lieutenant Garrick knocked. A gruff “Enter” followed, and Garrick swept open the door, ducked beneath the frame, and ushered Marianne inside. A massive oak desk faced her and behind it, tearing spectacles from his rugged face, rose a man whose height caused him to lean slightly forward lest he bump his head on the ceiling—or deckhead, whatever they called it. Thick black hair, veined with gray, sprang from the confines of a ribbon at the back of his neck as if unwilling to be restrained. He shifted his broad shoulders beneath his dark blue coat, causing the golden threads of his epaulettes to quiver.
Lieutenant Garrick doffed his hat. “We found three deserters aboard the ship, Captain Milford.”
The other officer took a position just inside the door.
Marianne swallowed, searching the captain’s eyes for any trace of kindness or decency, but all she found was an intelligence that astounded her and a cruel indifference that frightened her to the core.
He tugged on the sleeves of his coat, the three golden buttons at the cuffs glimmering in the sun’s rays that streamed in through the stern windows.
Sensing a hesitancy in the man
, Marianne stepped forward. “If I may, sir. They were not deserters, you see—”
“You may not, miss!” the captain barked, forcing the remainder of Marianne’s words into a clump in the back of her throat.
“Very good, Mr. Garrick.” He shifted gray eyes onto his first lieutenant. “See that they are settled and given their assignments.” He rounded the desk, keeping his eyes on Marianne. “And who might this be?”
Lieutenant Garrick lifted his chin. “I thought she would do nicely as your new steward, Captain.”
“Indeed?” The captain appraised her as one might a piece of fine furniture or a prize horse. Marianne shifted beneath his impertinent perusal and dared a glance at Lieutenant Garrick behind her.
Gone was the smug façade he’d worn on board the Fortune. Instead the man kept his eyes leveled forward and his back straight. “Since we lost Jason in the storm,” he added with a tremble in his voice.
The officer’s stance of temerity before his captain caused a new gush of fear to rise within Marianne. What sort of man was this Captain Milford?
“I’m aware of that, Mr. Garrick. Do you take me for a fool?” The captain snapped, spit flying from his mouth. Then as quickly as his fury had risen, his features softened and he grabbed a lock of Marianne’s hair and rubbed it in between his fingers. He lifted it to his nose. “Has she any training?”
Marianne stiffened. “I would appreciate you not speaking about me as though I were too ignorant to understand you, sir.”
The captain’s gray eyes chilled, and for a moment she thought he would strike her. But then he broke into a chuckle. Lieutenant Garrick smiled.
The captain speared him with a sharp gaze “That will be all, Mr. Garrick. Attend to the new recruits.”
With a salute, Garrick turned and left.
“No, you remain, Mr. Reed.” Captain Milford’s words halted the other officer.
Marianne’s breath grew rapid. Determined not to show her fear, she met the captain’s gaze without wavering. Interest flickered in his eyes as he circled her, one hand behind his back. Arrows of sunlight beamed through the stern windows and angled across a cabin much larger than Noah’s aboard the Fortune. The bright rays skimmed over the desk, the chairs, and a bookcase holding numerous tomes, decanters, and glasses. Two unlit lanterns swung from hooks on the deckhead. A sleeping chamber took up the far left corner. Conspicuously absent, however, were the cannons. Marianne had always heard British captains kept cannons in their cabins, ready for use. Also odd was the row of potted plants that lined the stern window casing.
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