Surrender the Sea

by Marylu Tyndall

  Noah’s heart went out to him. Luke and Weller pressed in on either side of Noah and gave him a look of trepidation.

  “Let us proceed. Read the charges,” the captain shouted.

  As the master at arms read from a list of offenses, a flash of red caught Noah’s eyes. Miss Denton stood by the larboard railing at the break of the quarterdeck, trapped by the conflux of crewmen. Terror screamed from her expression, and Noah wondered if it was the close proximity of the sea or the proceedings that frightened her.

  “. . . and threatening a shipmate with a knife,” the master at arms concluded.

  The captain eyed the man with disdain. “What do you say for yourself, Mr. Bowen?”

  Mr. Bowen shook his bucket-shaped head and dared to glance at his captain. “No, sir. I only found the knife on deck an’ picked it up.”

  Blackthorn edged beside Noah. “This won’t be pretty.”

  “Sentence has not yet been pronounced,” Noah reminded him.

  “It will be. And soon. I ne’er seen the captain turn down an opportunity to flog one of ’is men.” Blackthorn shifted the muscles across his back. “I got the scars t’ prove it.”

  Noah eyed his back as if he could see beneath his shirt. “For what?”

  “Insubordination t’ an officer. At least that’s what they said.”

  The captain grumbled and turned to Lieutenant Reed. “Lieutenant Reed, did this man attack his shipmate with a knife or not?”

  The lieutenant’s jaw twitched. “I cannot say, Captain. I was not present.”

  The captain turned to his right. “And you, Lieutenant Garrick.”

  The man licked his lips. “Yes, Captain. I saw it plain as day.”

  Captain Milford scanned the crew. “Will anyone speak up for this man?”

  Though mumbles coursed through the crowd like distant thunder, every sailor kept his gaze lowered and his mouth shut.

  “I will not tolerate brawls aboard my ship, Mr. Bowen. Save your fighting for the French, should any of the cowards show their faces out at sea.” He withdrew his hat, spurring the same action from his officers and crew. Then in a blaring voice devoid of all sentiment, he read the Articles of War appropriate to the offense. At their conclusion, he turned to the boatswain. “One dozen lashes should do it, Mr. Simons.”

  The prisoner visibly jerked as if he’d already been lashed. His whole body began to tremble—a tremble that Noah felt down to his own bones.

  Three men lifted the main hatch and attached it to the gangway with its bottom fast to the deck. Two marines led Mr. Bowen to the grating, stripped him of his shirt, and tied his hands to the top of the iron frame. Silence consumed the ship. Only the angry thrash of water and the groans of shifting wood screamed their protest of the proceedings.

  The sun, high in the sky, lanced the crew with burning rays. Yet no one moved. Sweat slid into Noah’s eyes and he blinked. He glanced at Miss Denton. Her hand covered her mouth. Her eyes were wide with horror. Go below, you foolish woman. No need to see this. As if she read his thoughts, she turned and shoved her way through the crowd then disappeared below.

  Noah wished he could escape as easily. Though he understood the need for discipline aboard ship, he had no stomach for cruel torture.

  The captain snapped his hat atop his head. “Do your duty, Mr. Simons.”

  The bosun’s mate took the cat out of a red sack and stepped forward, pushing the crew back to make room for his swing.

  He raised his arm and flung the cat across the man’s back. A howl that reminded Noah of the cry of a wolf shrieked from the poor soul. Jagged ribbons of red appeared on his back.

  Beside Noah, Luke fisted his hands and crossed them over his chest, his face mottled in anger.

  Noah surveyed the crew. Weller was nowhere to be seen. Good.

  “Is there nothing we can do?” he asked Blackthorn.

  Blackthorn shook his head. “It’s the way of the navy. If you step in, your fate will be the same.”

  The cat whistled through the air and landed with a snap upon the man’s back once again. The crew remained silent, almost as if they saw their own future flashing before their eyes.

  Another strike tore at the man’s flesh. The sails thundered above them.

  Noah turned around. Fury tore through him. He’d never valued his own country and the justice and freedom for which she stood more than he did at this moment. Why had he so flippantly allied himself with a people who restricted others’ freedom, who stole innocent men from their ships and enacted such cruelty without censure?

  Mr. Bowen’s howls of pain speared the air, sealing the conviction forming within Noah. He would find a way off this ship. He would be free again and when he was, he would spend the rest of his life defending his country against the sharp whip of tyranny.

  ♦♦♦

  Marianne fluffed the captain’s mattress to remove the lumps and smooth the feathers—just as he liked it—while in truth, she’d rather fill it with large, jagged rocks. She couldn’t help but wonder how the man who had been flogged fared. No doubt he would not be lying in his hammock tonight—at least not on his back. Though thankful she’d escaped witnessing the event, she had not been able to escape the man’s heart-piercing howls. Howls that infiltrated every wooden plank and beam until the very ship seemed to scream in defiance. Dropping to her knees, she had prayed for him, for that was all she knew to do. It seemed so inadequate.

  She stood and placed a hand on her aching back and peeked at the captain sitting at his desk mumbling to himself. It had been a long day. She prayed he would dismiss her shortly and take to his bed. Especially since she doubted she could curtail her anger toward him given his actions today.

  A knock sounded on the door. Her hopes dashed when at the captain’s bidding, three officers entered, Lieutenant Garrick and Lieutenant Reed among them. They stood at attention before Captain Milford’s desk and removed their hats.

  “You summoned us, sir.”

  Leaning on the door frame of the sleeping cabin, Marianne glanced at the captain. After his evening meal and usual three glasses of brandy, plus the laudanum the surgeon had just poured down his throat, it was a wonder he could sit up. Yet he rose from his chair as alert as if he’d just arisen from a sound night’s sleep.

  He straightened his white waistcoat. “We shall be arriving in Antigua in seven days, gentlemen, where I expect to receive my orders. At that time. . .”

  He continued on with further instructions regarding watches and shore leave, which Marianne shrugged off in light of the first piece of information. Excitement set her head spinning. They would make port soon. Surely that fact would aid Noah in formulating his escape plans.

  Turning around, Marianne busied herself laying out the captain’s night shirt and cap while she listened for any further news that might be of use. But there was nothing of note save that very few of the men would be allowed a brief time ashore.

  “Now go on. I need my sleep.” The captain dismissed them with a wave of his hand. Lieutenant Garrick’s brows lifted when he saw her. He gave her a wink that slithered down her spine before he followed his friends out the door.

  Marianne approached the captain. “I’ve laid out your nightshirt, Captain, and fluffed your mattress. Is there anything else I can do for you?” Anger stung her tone, but he gave no indication that he took note of it.

  Instead, he sank into his chair, his face twisted with thought. Then he raised hard eyes upon her. “Anything else?” He cursed. “Odds fish, can you tell me why my men rebel against me?” He slammed his fists on his desk. Marianne jumped.

  “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”

  “That blasted Bowen.” He reached for his glass, then leaned back and sipped his brandy.

  All through the afternoon and evening, he’d been muttering about the flogging earlier that day. Why? Guilt? Marianne doubted it. His anger suggested another conclusion. Perhaps he feared the disrespect of his men. Perhaps he feared losing control of
his ship.

  Gathering her courage, she took a step forward. “I do not believe he meant to defy you, Captain.”

  “Defy!” He jumped up and began pacing before the stern windows, rubbing the glass of brandy between his hands. “Mutinous dogs. How dare they conspire against me?”

  Marianne tensed. “Sir, I am unaware of any conspiracy.”

  Before she even finished the words, he circled the desk. His gray eyes flashing, he stormed toward her. The smell of brandy and the fish he’d had for dinner filled her nose. He eyed her up and down. “You are probably a part of it.”

  The ship canted. Stumbling, Marianne grabbed onto the edge of his desk. The lantern flickered, casting eerie shadows over his face. She swallowed and determined not to flinch, not to show him that her stomach had just dropped to the floor. “You know that’s not true, Captain.”

  His expression loosened like the unwinding of a tight rope. He released a sigh. “You think me harsh, don’t you?”

  Yes, I think you are a mad, cruel man. She bit her lip to hold back the truth lest she find herself at the end of a cat-o’-nine tails. But it snuck out anyway. “Yes,” she said, then braced herself.

  The captain let out a loud chuckle. He lifted his glass in her direction, the alcohol sloshing over the sides. “I like you, Miss Denton. Honesty. Quite refreshing.”

  “If honesty is what you want, Captain, I have plenty of it.” She dared to take the opportunity to acquaint him with her opinion of the injustices she’d witnessed.

  He walked to the stern window and stared out into the black void of night. A spray of twinkling stars beckoned her from the darkness.

  At his silence, she continued, “Mr. Bowen did not receive a fair trial today and you know it. You never gave him a chance to defend himself. And his punishment was far too cruel.”

  He swung around. A spray of brandy slid over the lip of his glass. His face scrunched. “What do you know of keeping discipline on a ship this size?”

  Marianne stared wide-eyed at him, hoping he wouldn’t charge toward her again.

  Facing the stern, he snapped the brandy into his mouth. He attempted to set his glass down, but he missed his desk, and it crashed to the floor in a dozen glittering shards. As if unaware of the mess, he turned to examine his plants, brushing his fingers over their leaves.

  A lump formed in Marianne’s throat. The captain was a harsh man to be sure. But at times like these when he was in one of his dark pensive moods and well into his cups, he seemed more like a little boy than a man. A broken, lonely little boy. Grabbing one of her dusting cloths, she knelt by the desk and began to carefully pick up the shattered pieces.

  “You are a good woman, Miss Denton. Not much of a steward, if I do say so.” He chuckled. “But kind, quick-witted, completely agreeable. Your tranquil mannerisms and feminine gestures soothe an old man’s soul.”

  Marianne halted, stunned by his compliments. She was surprised that they affected her so, for she gulped them in like a starving woman long deprived of food. Unbidden tears burned in her eyes. Blinking them back, she continued picking up the glass pieces, afraid to look up into his face. Afraid to discover he only taunted her.

  “You are generous and wise and honest,” he continued. “Qualities difficult to find among ladies these days.”

  A tear slid down Marianne’s cheek and landed on a glass shard. She picked it up. The sharp edge caught her finger and sliced her skin. Pain shot into her hand. She dabbed the blood with the cloth and picked up the few remaining pieces. In all his years, her father had never once spoken a word of praise to Marianne. He had not been a cruel father—had never raised his voice at her, had never impugned her character. He had simply not been the type of man who freely offered his approval. So she found it ironic that this man who could be so cruel could also speak so highly of her.

  Bundling the cloth around the glass, Marianne wiped her face and stood. She had never known her father’s opinion of her. She had never known whether he was proud of her. And not until this moment did she realize how desperate she was to hear any approbation at all. She set the cloth down on the desk and raised her gaze to the captain.

  He smiled and shifted his eyes away uncomfortably, but she sensed no insincerity in his expression.

  He leaned on the window ledge and gripped his side. “I don’t feel too well.”

  Marianne darted to him just in time to catch him before he fell. His weight nearly pushed her to the floor, but slowly she managed to lead him to his sleeping chamber.

  “Perhaps some sleep will make you feel better, Captain.” She eased him onto his mattress.

  “Yes, yes. Quite right. I need to sleep.” He plopped his head down on his pillow and lifted a hand to rub his temples.

  With difficulty, Marianne managed to swing his massive legs onto the mattress, and then she stared down at the man who, with his eyes closed, looked more like a gentle old grandfather than the captain of a British war ship.

  Memories assailed her of another time, long ago, and another man. A man very dear to her. As she gazed upon the captain, he slowly transformed into that man—her father, Mr. Henry Denton, home late from a night of drinking and gambling.

  Shaking the bad memories away, she removed the captain’s boots one by one, unaware of the tears sliding down her cheeks until one plopped onto her neck. How many nights had she done this same thing for her father? How many nights had Marianne cared for him when her mother had been unwilling? How many nights had Marianne gone out with one of the footmen to drag her father from a tavern and bring him home?

  Too many.

  Until that last night when he didn’t come home at all.

  The captain mumbled and patted her hand. “That’s a good girl. A good girl.”

  Grabbing the wool blanket, Marianne laid it atop him and tucked it beneath his chin. She batted the moisture from her face. Would she ever stop missing her father? Would she ever forgive him for leaving her?

  Resisting the urge to plant a kiss upon the captain’s forehead as she’d done with her father, she turned to leave.

  “I should have been a farmer, you know,” he stuttered, his eyes still closed.

  Marianne took his hand. Rough, sea-hardened skin scratched her fingers. His eyelids fluttered and he moaned. A farmer? Yes, she could see him as a farmer. Yet instead of fertile ground to till and tender plants to tend, he plowed His Majesty’s ship through tumultuous seas and raised rebellious boys to be officers. No wonder the man was miserable and half-crazed. He had missed his destiny.

  “You still can be a farmer, Captain. You still can.” But her words fell on deaf ears as the captain started to snore. She released his hand and blew out the lanterns in his cabin, then left him to his sleep.

  Pushing her sorrow away, she made her way down the passageway. She must find Daniel and give him the news about Antigua.

  She didn’t have far to go as she nearly bumped into the young boy when he came barreling down the ladder from the quarterdeck. She ushered him into her room. “I have news to give Noah,” she whispered as she lit a lantern and sat upon her bed.

  He plopped beside her. “Aye, that’s why I was headin’ t’ see you.”

  “How did you know?” She eyed him quizzically. He grinned. “Oh, never mind.” She leaned close to him. He smelled of brass polish and gunpowder. “Tell Noah that the captain expects to make port in Antigua in seven days, will you do that?”

  His white teeth gleamed in the lantern light. “Yes, Miss Marianne, I will. That’s good news.” He grabbed her hand. “Maybe that is where we are supposed to escape.”

  “Perhaps. I don’t know. I don’t see how we can with all these sailors and marines guarding us.”

  “That’s okay, miss. God knows, and He can do anything.”

  Marianne sighed and brushed Daniel’s hair from his face. She wished more than anything that she possessed his faith. “We shall see.”

  “You don’t trust God, do you, Miss Marianne? You don’t trust i
n His love.” He leaned his head on her shoulder. “Oh, Miss Marianne, you must. You simply must.”

  “I’m trying, Daniel.” She swung her arm around him and drew him near. “It’s just so hard when nothing but bad things happen to me.”

  “How do you know they’re bad?” He pushed away from her.

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “You can’t know what God’s purpose is for the things that have happened until you see the end. It’s like the end of a good story, miss. Everything looks real bad until you get to the last chapter.”

  Marianne couldn’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm, but inside, the wisdom of his statement jarred her to her core.

  “I best be gettin’ back. That Garrick’s been keepin’ a strict eye on me.” With a grin, he slipped out the door, leaving her alone with only the slosh of the sea against the hull for company.

  With a huff, she lay back on the bed and tried to calm her nerves. But Daniel’s words kept ringing through the dank air of the cabin, refusing to be drowned out by the sounds of the ship.

  How do you know?

  Chapter 17

  Noah leaned his aching back against the hull and propped his elbow on the mess table. With a bit of pork stew and weevil-infested tack in his belly, and the anticipation of a good night’s sleep, he wouldn’t have expected the angst tightening his nerves. Perhaps it was the vision embedded in his mind of Mr. Bowen’s torn flesh and with it, Noah’s increased urgency to escape this British prison.

  “How do you fare, Luke?” he asked his first mate who’d been too busy shoveling food into his mouth to talk.

  Luke released a heavy sigh and stretched his shoulders. “Better than Mr. Bowen.”

  “I’ll say.” Weller grunted from his seat beside Luke.

  Next to Noah, Blackthorn stared blankly at the bottom of his mug.

  Noah pointed toward Luke’s empty dish. “Apparently this slop transforms into a king’s fare when you haven’t eaten for three days.” He shoved his own half-eaten meal away. His nose wrinkled as the bitter smell rose to join the stench of hundreds of unwashed men.