Surrender the Sea

by Marylu Tyndall

  Marianne’s face grew hot. She pushed his hand away. “Noah Brenin, I was terrified out of my mind. I thought I was drowning. I wasn’t myself.”

  He grinned.

  “You taunt me.” She lowered her shoulders. “I’m sorry. You are right. I could have drowned us both.”

  “I shouldn’t tease you.” He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Her body warmed. “Thank you for coming back for me.”

  “I said I would.”

  “You risked everything. Your ship, your men, your life.”

  “Did you doubt that I would try?” He frowned.

  Of course she did. “Few people keep their word under such dire circumstances.”

  The afternoon sun painted his hair with streaks of gold. He leaned toward her. “It depends on the value of the prize.”

  Marianne’s breath halted. Did he mean her, or saving the Constitution? She wished she had more experience with courting. If that was even what this was. She wished her heart didn’t twist in a knot whenever Noah was near. She wished she believed that a man like him could love a woman like her. “Yes, Captain Hull seems quite taken with your performance,” she said.

  “And yours.” He frowned again. Shifting his boots over the planks, he gazed at the sparkling azure waves spreading to the horizon. “Destiny. There’s something wonderful about knowing you belong to an Almighty God who loves you. A God who has a purpose for your life. Makes the fear of dying fade by comparison.”

  Marianne could relate. She too had found her destiny aboard the Undefeatable. But Noah’s words stunned her. “Did I hear you correctly, Mr. Brenin? You speak of God and destiny as though you now believe in both.”

  He smiled. “I was wrong about both. I was wrong about many things.” He brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I have discovered God’s nothing like my father. I don’t have to perform to win His love.”

  Marianne smiled, her heart bursting with joy. “What of Jacob’s death?”

  “Part of God’s plan.” He shrugged. “I may never know His reasons until I die.”

  “I’m so happy, Noah.” She laid a hand on his arm. “I, too, have begun to trust God again.” She shook her head. “I am still shocked that He used me, a plain, ordinary woman with no special talents to win a major victory in a war for our country’s freedom.”

  “Plain? Ordinary?” Noah took her hand in his. “Woman, you are the most extraordinary creature I have ever met.”

  Tears filled her eyes. She gazed out to sea, overcome with emotion. Extraordinary? She flattened her lips. If that were true, why did her father leave her?

  Precious child. God’s voice filled her spirit.

  Beloved one.

  And the answer came to her. Her father’s problems had nothing to do with her, nor did his death bear any reflection on her value. She twisted the ring on her finger. A ray of sunlight caught the ruby and set it aflame. She had intended to sell it once. For to her, it represented the extent of her father’s opinion of her worth. But now she knew her worth. She was a child of God. Precious and beloved. No, she would not sell it. She would cherish this ring as the last memento she had from her earthly father.

  She gazed up at Noah and found him looking at her, concern filling his brow.

  “You don’t believe that I find you extraordinary?” he asked.

  “I’ve never received such flattery.”

  “Not flattery, my love.” He toyed with a strand of her hair, his gaze hovering over her lips.

  She laid a hand on her chest to still her beating heart, beating in the hope that the love she saw in his eyes sprang from his heart. “So, it was destiny that brought you back to me?”

  “Aye.” Wind blasted over them, lifting the hair at his collar. He stared at the Guerriere, her masts nothing but shattered twigs, her decks littered with tangled lines and canvas. She listed heavily to larboard, groaning in despair of her ultimate demise. One final cockboat pushed off from her hull and headed back to the Constitution. Blackthorn and Daniel waved at them from the stern.

  Noah waved back.

  “And what does destiny prompt you to do next?” Marianne pressed him. He squared his shoulders. “I believe I shall become a privateer.”

  Daft man. Ignoring her disappointment, Marianne gave him a coy smile. “Privateering? Why, Noah Brenin, if I didn’t know better I’d say you’ve turned into a patriot.”

  He gave a jaunty huff. “A few months aboard a British frigate would change even the staunchest renegade.” He grew serious. “I’ve been selfish, thinking only of my father’s business, only of our family... only of myself. America is a great country. And I sense God leading me to defend her.” He faced her, his eyes glittering. “For the first time in my life, I feel as though I have a purpose.”

  Marianne nodded, admiring his zeal.

  “To defend our nation is a privilege worth fighting for—even dying for,” he added.

  “Dying? I cannot risk losing you again, Noah Brenin.” The words came out before Marianne had a chance to check them.

  His expression softened, and he ran a thumb over her cheek. “You’ll never lose me.”

  Marianne searched those words.

  He cupped her chin, and then slowly lowered his lips to hers.

  An explosion broke the peaceful afternoon. Jerking away from Noah, Marianne swept her gaze toward the sound. Yellow and orange flames, littered with chunks of wood shot high into the air above the Guerriere.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “Captain Hull ordered the ship destroyed.” Noah gazed solemnly at the scene.

  Cheers and howls and huzzahs blared from the crew of the Constitution, then all grew quiet as they watched the British ship shudder. Streams of light ran along her hull. The quarterdeck lifted in the air. With an ominous boom, it exploded into fragments that flew in every direction. The hull split in two then reeled and staggered like a drunken man before plunging forward and sinking beneath the sea.

  Until nothing but a swirl of foam-capped waves marked the spot where once she stood.

  Marianne felt an emptiness in her gut at the sight of the mighty war ship sinking to the cold depths—never to sail the majestic seas again.

  Yet she supposed that was its destiny.

  Noah’s jaw tightened as he continued to gaze at the sight.

  Had he been about to kiss her? Her heart raced.

  He faced her, a mischievous gleam in his eye. “Now, where were we?” He leaned toward her.

  Against every urge within her, she held up a hand to stay his advance. “Regardless of what you think, I do not allow just any man to kiss me.”

  His brow furrowed. “Just any man? Have I been reduced to standing in a line of common suitors vying for your affections?”

  Marianne huffed. As if she’d ever had such a line. “Last I heard, Noah Brenin, you had no interest in marrying me.”

  “And you said you’d never marry me.” He gazed at her mouth and began his descent again. “Much has happened since then.”

  She placed a finger on his lips. They were warm and moist and made her hand tingle. “Enlighten me as to exactly what has happened?”

  His eyes lifted to hers, then backed away, a playful smirk on his face. “For one thing, we have not called off the engagement. Hence, I am still your fiancé and have every right to kiss you.” He pressed in again.

  Her finger rose. “Then you wish to marry me?”

  He straightened his stance. The adoration in his eyes threatened to turn her legs to jelly. His warm fingers pressed on her neck as his thumb caressed her jaw. “Woman, I will die if you don’t marry me.” He laid his forehead against hers. “I love you with all my heart.”

  Now Marianne’s knees became custard. His words sailed through her, squelching all her insecurities and fears. She clung to him and tilted her head up to receive his kiss.

  Warm and hungry, his mouth devoured hers, seeking, caressing, enjoying. He tasted of salt and coffee and…Noah. A w
ave of passion swept through her, tingling her toes.

  Whistles and howls from the crew pulled them apart. Marianne’s face grew hot.

  She smiled. “I love you too, Noah.” She rubbed a finger over his stubbled jaw. “I can’t wait to become your wife.”

  His breathing came hard and rapid. He drew her to his chest. “Me either, princess. Me either.”

  As commands to get the ship underway shot across the deck, Noah and Marianne stood arm in arm, and stared over the wide expanse of glistening sea that seemed to spread out before them with endless possibilities.

  The snap of a sail sounded above them.

  The ship jerked forward as the purl of the water played against the bow.

  “Do you think God has more for us to do?” Marianne looked up at Noah.

  He smiled. “I think God has only just begun.”

  Author’s Historical Note

  Captain Issac Hull of the USS Constitution was a Connecticut Yankee and the son of a Revolutionary brigadier general. He went to sea at an early age, and by 1798 became a ship master. Known for his quick thinking and natural talent for leadership, he obtained a commission as a lieutenant in the then-forming US. Navy on board the USS Constitution. During the next four years, he rose from fourth to first lieutenant serving through the Quasi-War with France. In May of 1804, he was promoted to master commandant and was appointed command of the US frigates, Chesapeake and President. But the Constitution was his favorite ship, and he received command of her again by the time war broke out on June 19th, 1812.

  On August 19th 1812, he met HMS Guerriere, an enemy frigate. In a battle that lasted nearly four hours, Hull managed to outmaneuver and pound his foe to pieces.

  (No record is mentioned of the help he received from the privateer, Defender, or that a lone woman aboard a nearby enemy frigate saved the day. But we know what really happened—wink)

  This battle marked the first time an American ship had ever defeated a British man-of-war. Hull and his crew had shattered the myth of the British navy’s invincibility and gave credibility to the United State’s fledging navy. American navy captains gained confidence from this victory and went on to win more victories at sea. There were celebrations in every American city, and Hull was hailed a hero. Congress awarded him a gold medal. Since then, five ships in the U.S. Navy have been named for Commodore Hull.

  Across the Atlantic, the British were shocked and dismayed. The London Times reported, “The Loss of the Guerriere spreads a degree of gloom through the town which it was painful to observe” Later, the newspaper stated that the British ship had fallen to “a new enemy, an enemy unaccustomed to such triumphs and likely to be rendered insolent and confident by them.”

  In one final audacious statement, the London Times said: “There is one object to which our most strenuous efforts should be directed—the entire annihilation of the American Navy.”

  Casualties

  The USS Constitution:

  Deaths: Lieutenant William Bush, Six seaman

  Wounded: First Lieutenant Charles Morris, Master John C Alwyn, four seaman and one marine

  The HMS Guerriere

  Killed: Twenty three sailors including 2nd Lieutenant Henry Ready

  Wounded: Fifty-six men, including Captain Dacres himself, 1st Lieutenant Bartholomew Kent, Master Robert Scott, two master’s mates and one midshipmen

  Excerpt from Surrender the Night

  Book 2 in the Surrender to Destiny Series

  Baltimore, Maryland, August 3, 1814

  Gong. Gong. Gong. The evening air reverberated with warning bells from St. Peter’s church. Rose McGuire halted in her trek to the pigsty and gazed across the shadowy farm. Musket fire echoed in the distance. The British were on the move again. Punctuating the unrest crackling through the air, shards of maroon and saffron shot across the western sky, bringing into focus the line of cedar and pine trees that marked the end of civilization and the beginning of the dense forest of Maryland.

  Gong. Gong. Gong. The eerie chime scraped a chill down Rose’s spine.

  She glanced back at the brick house in the distance.. Though she had yet to spy a redcoat anywhere near her farm, she should go back inside. Swallowing her fear, she emptied the bucket of slops into the pig trough, Grunts and snorts amassed in the putrid air above the enclosure, drawing her attention to her favorite pig, who waddled toward her to receive his evening scratch. Kneeling, she reached her hand in between the fence posts. “Hi, Prinney.” His moist, stiff hair bristled against her hand as he lifted his head beneath her caress and nudged against the wooden railings, while the rest of the pigs devoured their kitchen scraps.

  “You’ll miss your dinner, Prinney. Better get some before it’s gone.” Rose stood and dabbed her sleeve over the perspiration on her forehead. A light breeze, laden with the smells of hay, , and honeysuckle, brushed her golden curls across her face. Flicking them aside, she drew in a deep breath, hoping the familiar scents would calm her nerves.

  Men and their wars. She hated the war, hated the alarms, hated the violence. But most of all she hated the fear. Two years was far too long to live in constant terror of being overrun by a ruthless enemy.

  Picking up her bucket, she hastened to the barn, gazing at her tiny garden as she went. Even in the dim light, she could make out the patches of red and yellow of the nearly ripe tomatoes and the spindly silk atop ripe ears of corn. She smiled. Despite the war, life went on.

  Musket shot peppered the air. Pop. Pop. Pop. Somewhere close by, soldiers were being shot at or a settler was defending his land—somewhere close by people were dying. Fear prickled her skin. Just a few more chores and she would go inside.. Rose began humming a song her father taught her when she was young. She could still hear his baritone voice as he sang the words—words that always seemed to calm her.

  Oh fare the well, my little turtle dove,

  And fare thee well for-a-while;

  But though I go I’ll surely come again,

  If I go ten thousand mile, my dear,

  If I go ten thousand mile.

  Setting the bucket down on the dirt floor of the barn, Rose eased beside Liverpool, her milk cow. Why the song allayed her fears she could not say, for it was nothing but a lie. Her father had not even gone ten thousand miles away. Yet he had never returned. Rose shooed a fly from the animal’s face and planted a kiss on her nose, eliciting a moo from the friendly cow and a jealous neigh from Valor, Rose’s filly in the adjoining stall.

  “Don’t vex yourself, Valor. I’ll take care of you next.”

  “Rose!” Aunt Muira’s voice rang from their home across the small yard.

  Rose needed no further encouragement. She would attend to the animals later. “Coming!” she shouted as she made her way through the barn, nearly stumbling over Georgiana, one of her chickens. Squawking, the bird darted across the hay-strewn floor.

  Gong. Gong. Gong.

  Alarm gripped Rose’s stomach. Did the signal mean what she thought? Surely the British would not come this close to Baltimore. Hurrying her steps, she approached the two-story brick house. Light cascaded from the windows like the golden water of Jones falls in the summer sun, luring her inside to the warmth of the fire and comforts of home. Home. At least she had called it her home for the past five years.

  Rose stepped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. The smells of venison stew and fresh bread wafted around her as she removed her straw hat and hung it on a hook by the door. Cora, the cook, knelt over the massive fireplace, stirring something that bubbled inside the iron pot hanging over the fire.

  “There you are, Rose.” Aunt Muira, attired in a blue cotton gown with a white sash about her high waist, sashayed into the room as if she wore the latest Parisian fashion. “Didn’t you hear the alarm? For goodness’ sakes, you know you are to come inside when the alarm rings. Oh, look at you, dear, covered in dirt again.” Her jewel-laden silver earrings—so at odds with her plain attire—twinkled in the lantern light as her sharp green ey
es assessed Rose.

  Rose glanced down at her gray linen gown and saw not a speck of dirt. But then again, her aunt had a propensity for spotting stains.

  “Wash up and take off those muddy shoes, dear. Mr. Drummond awaits his supper.” With that, Aunt Muira swung about and swept from the room like a fast-moving storm.

  Cora stepped from the fireplace, hand on her back and gave Rose a look of reprimand. “Best do as she says, child.” The dark-skinned cook scowled and nodded toward the sink. Black spongy curls peeked from beneath the red scarf wrapped about her head. “You know how the misses can get when her orders aren’t carried out.”

  Slipping off her shoes, Rose skirted the food preparation table and poured water from a pitcher over her hands at the sink. “Do not think poorly of her, Cora. She only wants me to comport myself like a lady.”

  “Humph.” Cora grabbed a cloth, opened the Franklin stove and pulled out a loaf of bread. Setting it beside one that was already cooling on the table, she mumbled, “I don’t know nothin’ bout that, miss. But have you seen Amelia? I could use some help carryin’ this food into the dining room.”

  Rose dried her hands on a towel and smiled. “I have no doubt she will make an appearance when all the work is done.”

  Cora chuckled and handed her a platter. Together they entered the dining room and placed bowls of steaming stew, fresh corn, and platters of cornmeal cakes on the table.

  “Good evening, lass.” Rose’s uncle, Forbes, smiled from his seat at the table. Short-cropped gray hair sprang from his head in a dozen different directions and framed a ruddy face lined with the trials of a long life. The skin around his eyes crinkled as he squinted at the food-laden table. “Now, what have we here?”

  Rose bent and kissed his cheek, then took a seat beside him. “Lose your spectacles again, Uncle?”

  He chuckled. “Ah, they’ll turn up somewhere, I’m sure.”

  “Wherever he last placed them, no doubt,” Aunt Muira added from her seat next to her husband. “Where is Amelia?”