“I’ll be okay, P—Mr. Blackthorn,” Daniel said. “These men have come here to help us.”
Noah blinked. “What do you mean?”
Daniel straightened in his seat. “God told me in a dream that a lady and three men would come and rescue us from this ship.”
Luke chuckled and stared into his empty cup as if in doing so, he could conjure up more beer.
Blackthorn reached across the table and mussed the boy’s hair again. “What’s got into your fanciful head now, boy?”
Daniel giggled but then shrugged. “I’m just telling you what God told me.” He took a sip of his drink. “And then you came.” He glanced at Noah with a confidence that inferred he would accept no other explanation for their capture.
“Well, I can assure you being impressed into the Navy was not my idea.” Noah offered.
“No sir. It was God’s.”
Noah eyed the boy. If what the boy said was so, then he had even more things to be angry at God about.
“If there is a God, He has abandoned us.” Weller muttered loud enough for all to hear. “For I know fer a fact, the Almighty would ne’er set foot on a British war ship.”
“There is no God, Mr. Weller.” Luke’s bitter tone startled Noah. “There cannot be. Not in a world as unjust as this one.”
Yet his first mate’s declaration sparked a memory in Noah’s mind. He paused to study his first mate. “I thought your parents were missionaries.”
“My parents are dead.” Luke scowled and rubbed the scar on his ear.
Blackthorn shook his head. “Sink me, you’d all believe in God if you met me wife. The sweetest spirit I ever came across.”
Noah’s thoughts took an odd drift to Marianne. “I assure you gentlemen,” He plopped a piece of pork into his mouth and instantly regretted it as the unsavory clump hardened in his throat. He forced it down. “There is indeed a God. But I have found Him to be a harsh taskmaster. One who does what He pleases and yet who is impossible to please himself.”
“Sounds like your father.” Luke snorted.
Noah slouched back into his seat, allowing the perverse connection to settle into his reason. He opened his mouth to respond when the air filled with blasphemies.
“Blasted Yankees!” a man yelled.
“Ill-bred rebels!” another brayed. Noah looked up to see a mob forming around them. “My pa died in your revolution.” A particularly hairy man with pock marks on his face leaned his hand on the edge of the table.
Luke slowly rose. “And how is that our fault, you callow fool?”
The man spit into Luke’s bowl.
Noah stood and held an arm out, restraining his first mate from charging the man.
“That one is uglier than a pig struck with a hot iron.” Another man beside the first pointed at Weller. “Don’t ye Yankees know how to handle your guns?”
The mob laughed.
Confound it all, now Noah was getting angry. “He lost his fingers on one of your British ships. Therefore, it is your master gunner’s incompetence which should be called into question.”
The pockmarks on the man’s face seemed to deepen. He grabbed the platter of their remaining pork and tossed it against the bulkhead. The chunks of meat fell to the floor with heavy thumps. “You’ll see,” the man said in a loud voice. “We’ll beat you ignorant dawcocks an’ send you runnin’ to hide behind yer mama’s skirts.” He clipped his thumbs inside his belt. “Then maybe I’ll be the new major o’ one of the barbaric outposts ye call a town.” He glanced over his friends and they all joined him in laughter. “An’ yer mama can clean me shirts.”
Luke grabbed the man by the collar and tossed him backward through the mob. He stumbled and crashed into a mess table. Shouts and jeers erupted from the men, none too pleased when their meager stew spilled over the table from the overturned pot. They shoved the man back toward Luke.
The pock-faced man collected himself. Without hesitation, he slammed his fist across Luke’s jaw.
Shouts assailed them from neighboring tables as men rose from their meals to witness the brawl. Wide-eyed, Weller struggled to his feet.
Blackthorn grabbed Luke by the arm. “Let it be.” His voice held more than a warning. It held terror.
“Please, sir.” Daniel headed toward Luke, but Blackthorn pushed the lad behind him.
Noah barreled forward. He must stop this madness before the officers took note.
Luke’s dark eyes narrowed into seething points. Jerking from Blackthorn’s grip, he raised his fist. Noah shoved himself between Luke and his assailant and grabbed Luke’s hand in mid air.
“Let me at him, Cap’n.” Luke struggled.
Noah shook his head and forced down Luke’s arm with difficulty.
“I told ye all Yankees are milksops,” the other man chortled and his friends joined in.
“What have we here?” The stout voice of a marine sergeant scattered most of the rats back to their tables. The officer’s boots thumped authority over the deck.
“Nothin’, sir.” Blackthorn stepped forward. “Just a disagreement.”
“And as usual, I find you in the middle of it.” The man gave a disgruntled moan. “Anxious to meet the cat again, Mr. Blackthorn?”
Blackthorn’s jaw stiffened. “No sir.”
“That American insulted our navy, sir.” The pock-faced man pointed at Luke. His voice transformed from one of spite to one of humble subservience.
The marine stopped and eyed Luke. “He did, did he?”
“An’ we couldn’t let it go without speaking up for King George’s navy.”
In lieu of a hat, he placed his hand over his heart. “Long live the king.”
“To the king!” A muffled toast echoed half-heartedly through the room.
Noah clenched his fists. Surely this officer would see reason. “Sir, if you please, this man approached our table and insulted us without provocation.”
“I care not what was said.” The marine sergeant adjusted his cuffs. “All that concerns me is who struck the first blow?”
“He fisted me first, sir.” The pock-faced man gestured again toward Luke. The rest agreed.
“I protest.” Noah thrust his face toward the man.
“Regardless.” A malicious grin writhed upon the marine’s lips. “Perhaps we need to teach you barbaric Americans who is truly in command. “Come with me.” He pointed toward Noah and Luke. “The captain will decide your just punishment.”
Chapter 14
Marianne pushed the rag over the brass candlestick for the thousandth time. Her fingers ached. Her back ached. And the sharp scent of polish stung her nose. Her only consolation lay in the fact that everyone aboard this ship shared her suffering from overwork. Most of the sailors were young boys far from home or older men torn from their families by impressment gangs back in England. Too illiterate to read the posts sent from loved ones, they carried the missives in their pockets if only to make them feel close to those they left behind.
She stopped to steal a glance out the cabin windows, before which the captain stood, tending his plants. Outside, the lantern perched upon the stern showered a haze of golden light over the captain, highlighting the gray in his hair and making him look almost peaceful—almost.
As if to contradict her thought, he cursed and mumbled something she couldn’t make out as he moved from plant to plant with his watering jug.
Then suddenly he swung around. His eyes glazed with the mad look she’d grown accustomed these past few days. “Odds fish, aren’t you done yet?”
Marianne examined the shimmering brass. She thought she’d been done hours ago, but the man saw flaws no human being could ever see. She held the two holders up to him with a questioning look on her face, hoping her annoyance didn’t show on her features.
He set down his jug and grabbed the half-full glass of brandy he’d been nursing all night. “I suppose they will do.” His voice sounded heavy with defeat and something else. . .a hopelessness that seemed to
thicken the air around him.
Rising, Marianne set the brass holders atop his desk and tucked the cloth in the pocket of her skirt. “Captain, if I may ask a favor?”
He grunted.
Marianne had come to interpret that as permission to continue, so she took a step forward. “If you would indulge me, Captain, and if your men would approve, I could read their missives from home to them. I mean, for those who are not schooled in their letters.” Though she normally would resist doing anything to help the British, she could not fault these young impressed sailors for being aboard this warship. It was bad enough they’d been forced into naval service, but to not be able to read comforting words from home, or to have to wait for an officer’s good humor to read them… Tragic. If she must remain imprisoned aboard this ship, perhaps she could at least bring some joy to others in the same position.
Captain Milford sipped his brandy and stared at her as if she’d asked permission to sprout wings. “The midshipmen often read their letters to them. But if you wish. It matters not to me.”
“Thank you, Captain.” She turned to go.
“Stay. Sit down for a moment.” He cocked his head toward a chair, and Marianne groaned inwardly. Drat. It had been a long day. Her muscles screamed for rest.
Slipping onto a chair cushion, she stretched her aching back and waited. Only seven days of endless serving and cleaning had passed, yet it seemed like a thousand. And all she saw before her was a multitude of similar days strung together in a muddled line of misery that screamed into eternity. Though she had long ago decided against trying to understand God’s purposes—especially when one tragedy after another had struck her family—she found a need growing within her to know the reason for this current madness. She refused to believe the explanation Daniel had given that her that she had been sent to rescue him. Just the fanciful notions of a young boy.
Drink in hand, Captain Milford dropped into a chair in front of his desk. He released a long sigh and stared at the canvas rug beneath his boots. During their forced time together the past few days, Marianne had caught him staring at her more than once, not in a licentious manner, but more as if he wished to converse with her.
As if he were lonely.
“You remind me a bit of my Elizabeth.” An awkward smile rose on his lips.
“Indeed?” Marianne wondered if he was paying her a compliment or an insult. Though from the wistful expression on his face she guessed it was the former.
“She was a woman I knew once. Many years ago.” He stared off into space as if he were traveling back in time. “Smart, courageous, kind.” His eyes snapped to her. “Though you’re no beauty like she was.”
Marianne lowered her chin. Had he said smart, courageous, and kind? Yet all she heard were the words “no beauty.” Why did the flood of pain caused by such insults always drown out the compliments to her character?
“Blast it all, I’ve hurt your feelings,” he growled in a tone that carried no apology. “Women are far too sensitive.”
Marianne twisted the ring on her finger until the ruby glowed in the lantern light. “What happened to her?” she managed.
“Married the son of an earl, or so I heard.” He gulped the last of his drink and slammed the glass down on his desk. Marianne flinched. Rising, he waved a hand through the air then gripped his side. “Most likely has children and grandchildren by now.”
“I’ll warrant you have a family of your own back in England, Captain.” She realized her error too late as every line on his face tightened and his eyes flitted about the room as if in search of something.
Finally they settled on her in a cold, hard stare. “And why would you think that?”
Marianne had no response save the nervous gurgling of her stomach.
He stormed toward her. “The Royal Navy is my family, Miss Denton. Been my family all my life. Was my father’s family and his father’s family before him.”
Marianne stared down at his boots and concentrated on the exquisite shine, compliments of her hard work that morning. She didn’t want to look up at the intimidating man towering above her. She didn’t want to look into those volatile eyes, serene one minute and explosive the next. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” he bellowed. Thick hands grabbed her shoulders and yanked her to her feet.
She stared straight into twitching, gray eyes. The scent of brandy stung her nose. Gathering her bravado, she tugged from his grasp and took a step back. “It seems a rather lonely existence, Captain.” She kept her voice steady, despite her quivering belly. “And I would appreciate you keeping your hands to yourself. No gentleman would employ such crude manners.”
If he intended to strike her or lock her in irons, she preferred that he simply proceed without delay. For every time she was in the captain’s presence, she felt as though she were walking one of those thin ropes in the top yards, waiting to be shoved off to the deck below.
A tiny vein pulsed in his neck just above his black neckerchief. The hungry sea dashed against the hull and tipped the ship slightly to larboard. Marianne braced her feet against the deck and her soul against another onslaught of this man’s deranged outbursts.
Instead, he broke into a chuckle and swung about.
“The navy’s been good to me,” he continued the conversation as if nothing had happened. Perhaps to him, it hadn’t. “Why, I’ve seen exotic places most people never see. I’ve fought in glorious battles that have changed the course of history.” He rounded his desk and caressed one of the leaves of his plants. His rock-hard expression softened. “Tender precious things, aren’t they? Grew them from seeds. Just one little seed”—he gestured the size with his thumb and forefinger—“and you can grow a tree that will feed a family.”
Marianne released a sigh at the change in his demeanor. He seemed to respect those who took a stand against him, or at the very least, her courage had caused him to shift back to the calm, reasonable captain, not Captain Maniacal, who so often appeared out of nowhere.
“Perhaps you should have been a farmer,” she said.
Captain Maniacal returned. His face reddened. “Begone, Miss Denton. I tire of your company.”
Before she made it to the door, a knock sounded. The captain growled a curse that made her ears burn, then he shouted for the intruder to enter. A man dressed in a marine sergeant’s uniform gave her a cursory glance as he passed. Her heart leapt in her throat as Luke followed on his heels. His brows lifted at the sight of her, and he winked in passing. But it was Noah’s blue eyes that latched upon hers that sent her blood racing. She took a step back and leaned on a nearby chair for support. Instead of anger, she saw relief on his face as he perused her. A faint smile lifted his lips.
Behind him, another marine nudged him forward. Lieutenant Reed brought up the rear.
Noah looked well. They both looked well. She silently thanked God.
“What is this about?” Captain Milford grumbled. “Can’t a man enjoy his evening without interruptions!”
“Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” Lieutenant Reed stepped forward and saluted. “But it appears these Americans have been stirring up trouble with the crew. As well as disrespecting the Royal Navy.”
♦♦♦
It took all of Noah’s strength to stare straight ahead and not turn for another look at Miss Denton. Although she appeared well, and young Daniel had said as much, Noah longed to hear it from her own lips.
“Causing trouble, you say?” The captain’s sharp tone brought Noah’s focus back on him. A much larger man in person than he appeared from the tops, the captain took a step away from the windows, wobbled, then crossed his arms over his chest.
When the marine had first announced they were to see the captain, Noah’s hopes had lifted. At last he would have an audience with the only man who could set them free. Surely, once he explained the altercation during dinner as well as the circumstances of their impressments, this officer, this man of honor, would see reason. But now as Noah stood
before the man, the haughty lift of the captain’s shoulders and the scowl on his face did not bode well for that notion.
“Well, speak up. What happened?” the captain said.
“Captain, nothing but a—” Noah began.
“Not you, deserter!” Captain Milford barked and spittle landed on his desk.
“Captain,” the sergeant said. His voice quavered. “This man started a fight with another crewmen and insulted His Majesty’s Navy.”
Luke skewered him with a glare. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
“We are not deserters, Captain,” Noah said.
“Silence!” the captain shouted. He plopped into his chair as if it took too much strength to keep his bulky frame standing. Black hair, streaked with gray, sprang like the edges of an old broom about his shoulders. He gripped his side then turned to the Lieutenant. “What say you, Lieutenant Reed?”
“I was not present during the altercation, Captain. I have only the marine sergeant’s testimony.”
“Hmm.” Captain Milford’s tired, gray eyes focused on Luke. “A fight you say? What was the cause?”
“An insult to the navy, sir,” the marine stated.
“Did you hear this insult?”
“No sir.”
Luke grimaced. “I made no such slur, Captain.”
The captain rose and adjusted his coat. His angular jaw flexed and gray eyes, alight with cruelty, shifted over the men. Fatigue drew the lines of his tanned face downward.
“Who struck who first?” he demanded.
The sergeant coughed. “I believe it was this man who threw the first blow, sir.” He gestured toward Luke.
“Your crewman insulted our country, Captain,” Noah said, not wanting the lie to go unchallenged. “And my man here merely gave him a little shove.”
“Your country,” the captain mumbled. “You have no country but England.” He snorted and narrowed his eyes at Noah, then shifted them to Luke. He released a sigh, heavy with boredom, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Well, I shall take my marine’s word over that of these two deserters.”
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