by Sarah Ladd
The oldest Sulter girl maneuvered her way into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits and set it on the table next to the bed.
Jane spoke when Amelia could not. “Thank you, Mrs. Sulter. We will be down in a bit.”
Jane had barely latched the door behind their hostesses before Amelia marched back to the window. “I can’t believe he would leave without me. He knows how strongly I feel about this.”
Jane removed her cloak and hung it on the peg next to the door. The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she joined Amelia next to the window. “I know you are upset, but I think you know the streets and docks of Liverpool are no place for you.”
Amelia swallowed. “Yes, but I—” She stopped. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She wanted Graham to be out searching for Lucy. She was not so much upset with Graham as she was with herself for not knowing what to do.
She looked over at Jane, who had stretched out on the bed. The sleepless night and long journey had taken a toll on her older friend.
She decided to keep her thoughts to herself and let Jane sleep. She sat on a chair next to the fire and contemplated Jane’s words about losing years to sorrow. There was no way to tell what the outcome of this situation would be. Perhaps Graham would find Lucy before Sunday morning. Perhaps he would not, and they would exchange the money they’d brought for her at the docks. Or perhaps something would go wrong and—
There was nothing she could do except one thing.
She looked back at Jane, who now slumbered. She crossed over to her trunk, opened it, and pulled out her small book of Psalms, the same book Graham had returned to her with the note tucked inside that changed the course of her life. At the last minute she had tossed it in on top of her clothes. Now, after her talk with Jane, she was so glad she had.
She opened the little book at random, and the words drew her in, comforting her and compelling her to read further.
O God, be not far from me: O my God, make haste for my help. Let them be confounded and consumed that are adversaries to my soul; let them be covered with reproach and dishonour that seek my hurt. But I will hope continually, and will yet praise thee more and more.
Graham sat at the table in the inn and leaned his elbows on the rough wooden table. His head hung low, but his eyes scanned the lively room, searching for anything that might be useful—a familiar face, a conspicuous character. He found nothing.
A roaring fire sputtered and hissed in a wide, open fireplace. Candles and wall sconces projected flickering light, but stale air dominated the tiny space. Strange faces, foreign voices, and the strong smell of ale surrounded him. Graham looked toward the door and spoke more to himself than Sulter. “I don’t think Kingston’s coming.”
Sulter straightened in the chair across from him. “Give him time. If Miller said he’d get Kingston here, he’ll be here.”
“You’re certain he’s trustworthy?”
“Aye. A year ago I might have spoken differently, but he’s well worth what you are willing to pay him.”
An entire evening scouring Liverpool’s streets and docks, and he was no closer to finding Lucy than when he arrived. How arrogant he’d been when making his promise to Amelia. The expression on her face had wrenched his soul, and he would have done whatever was necessary to restore the smile to her face. But unless something changed soon, he would have nothing to offer her tonight but failure.
He stifled a mighty yawn, the result of the long ride and sleepless nights. His nerves were raw, and every emotion teetered just underneath the surface. He wanted to sleep, if only for a few hours, but the visions that met him there might prove even more gruesome than reality.
He slumped in his chair. If only this nightmare would end.
The ale taunted him. The old vice knew its strength and mocked his weakness. He had ordered it for show and would drink in moderation. But his desire was to drink it and as many more that it took to dull the pain of his past and present. He tapped his fingers on the rough wooden table before taking the mug in his hand. His scar, purple and tight, flashed before him.
“So are you going to tell me what happened with that hand, or are you to leave me to wonder?”
Graham drew a sharp breath. He’d tried to hide the scar since he arrived in Darbury. But how long could he pretend it wasn’t there? He propped his elbow on the table and held his damaged hand in the air, forcing himself to look at the disfigurement. He flexed his thumb. The purple scar pulled tight with the movement.
Sulter leaned forward to get a closer look, and Graham pulled back the cuff of his coat, giving Sulter a hint of his marred forearm. The physical pain had passed. But the real pain, the guilt that flashed into his mind every time he viewed the ruined flesh, raged with unmatched ferociousness. He let his cuff fall back.
Sulter shook his head and gave a low whistle. “That’s a scar, all right. Looks like it hurt.”
“It did.”
The memory of splintering burning wood slammed Graham’s awareness. If he thought about the accident in too great of detail, the unforgettable stench of burning flesh, sea air, and gunpowder turned his stomach. And if he dared blink, he could still see the terror on the sailor’s young face just before the spar crashed to the deck.
He kept his eyes open.
“Do you know what that is, Sulter?” Graham held up the scarred hand, then let it fall back to the table. His voice did not sound like his own. “It is a constant reminder of a grave lapse in judgment.”
Sulter settled back in his chair and tented his fingers. Graham grew uncomfortable under the man’s assessing stare and looked down. He wanted to avoid the questions in the man’s eyes . . . questions he was not prepared to answer.
Stephen filled in the gap. “Listen, Graham, it has been a long time since we talked, and I can’t pretend to know what has transpired these past few years. But I’m going to tell you what is on my mind—as your friend. I have followed your career, read about your conquests in the newspapers. News travels fast when you live in a town that rises and sleeps by the stories of the sea. I know now that you lost your wife and your daughter is missing. It would be tempting for anyone, God-fearing or not, to think that God has departed. And knowing you as I used to, I would guess that is where you are.”
Graham studied the table’s wood grain. His body grew very warm.
Somewhere behind him glass shattered, and the resulting roar of laughter tapped his tense nerves. He twitched, unable to separate the sounds from those of the battle’s ghosts beating on the door, scratching to get out. Would today be the day that he spoke the words aloud and released them from the prison of his mind?
Graham stopped thinking and started talking. “The weather was unlike anything I’d seen. The fog hung so thick we could barely make out each other’s faces, let alone a ship upon the horizon. That night the crew grew raucous, and like a fool, I indulged them.” He cast a glance down at his ale. “Indulged myself as well.”
After a nervous glance around the room, Graham leaned forward. “The next morning, just as dawn broke, we spotted the frigate off the starboard bow. It engaged us first, but we outgunned them. I thought it would be an easy victory. Then”—he paused and drew his sleeve over his forehead—“chaos ensued. The men were sluggish. Tempered by the ale from the previous night. Nine men died.” He paused, clenched his jaw, and released it. “I was responsible. It should have been me.”
Stephen leaned forward, one arm on the table. “Are you God that you should decide who lives and who dies?”
Graham huffed at the ridiculousness of the question. “I am in no mood for a philosophical discussion, sir.”
“But you take responsibility for their death?”
Graham grew impatient. “I was the commanding officer. I gave the orders. I made the decisions.”
Stephen shook his head. “War is a terrible thing. Men die during war. But in both war and peace, every man’s days are numbered by God. If God wanted those nine men with him, do you think any acti
on by you would stop him?”
Graham tightened his fist around the mug. How could he make Sulter understand? “But it was a punishment. I knew better. I was—”
“You utilized poor judgment. Do you think you are the only man ever to have done so?”
“Poor judgment?” Graham released the mug and slammed his hand on the table. “Men are dead, and I am to blame.”
Sulter leaned closer, his eyes intent. “You have a choice. You can surrender to guilt and spend your days wrapped in its darkness, or you can repent and accept forgiveness.”
Graham studied the scar on his hand. God would forgive him, even though he’d failed. But could he forgive himself for the lack of discipline?
“You are a good man, Graham, a strong one. I believe God has a path for you, but how can you find it under the shadow of guilt? Instead of succumbing to guilt every time you look at that scar, you can be reminded of God’s forgiveness. When you’re tempted to dwell on past failures, you can pray. Ask God to continue to show you your path. He has one, I assure you.”
Graham could not meet his mentor’s eyes. He knew all of this. Indeed, he had asked for forgiveness many times. He had just been unwilling to accept it.
How different would his story now be if he had relied on God these many months instead of relying on his own strength to see him through?
After all, where had his strength gotten him?
Graham and Sulter were about to depart when a burly, fair-haired man approached their table. The pounding of his dusty boots on the planked floor could be heard over the noisy patrons, and the scar marring the man’s cheek made the one on Graham’s own hand pale in comparison.
Sulter’s face flashed recognition. “Ah, Cyrus Kingston. Just the man we need to see.”
The man tugged a wide-brimmed hat from his head and cast a glance at Graham before answering. “Heard ye lads have yerselves a bit of a situation.”
“Aye, we do. Kingston, meet Captain Graham Sterling, recently returned from activity off the coast of Halifax.”
Kingston nodded in Graham’s direction, his black eyes wild and intense. “You the bairn’s father?”
Graham nodded. He eyed the man, assessing every detail and searching for clues as to his character. A scruffy, reddish beard darkened his chin. Dingy clothes hung limp on his massive frame. Graham kept his voice low. “Sulter tells me you’re familiar with George’s Dock.”
The man lifted his hand to order ale before turning his attention back to Graham. “Aye. Worked the waterfront since I was a lad meself.” Kingston sat down and leaned against the table. “Got a letter, do ye?”
Graham pulled the worn letter from his pocket and slid it over the table.
Kingston’s expression was stone as he read. “Ye know who done it?”
“I have my suspicions.” Graham was reluctant to say too much. But what had he to lose? If Sulter trusted the man, he should too. “Ever heard of the Barrett Trading Company?”
Kingston took a swig of ale and leaned with his elbows on the table. “I know it.”
“Do they do much business in these docks?”
“They’ve contracted the Perseverance. Setting sail any day.”
At the ship’s name, Graham exchanged a glance with Sulter. The question smoldered on his lips, begging for release. “Do you know George Barrett or Edward Littleton?”
“Nay.”
Graham showed no reaction to the answer and took the letter from Kingston. “You’re sure it’s the Perseverance?”
“Aye.”
Graham tucked the letter back in his pocket. “I believe we are dealing with one of three scenarios. One, the kidnapper is using the dock as a decoy. Two, the kidnapper will use a ship in George’s Dock to make his escape. Or three, he plans on using a ship to dispose of my daughter and her nurse should we refuse to meet his demands.”
Kingston’s face showed nothing but blank indifference. “Could be. Or could be he jus’ knows the dock and where to hide out there. Anyways, what’s it got to do wit’ me?”
The stranger’s disinterest irked Graham. He glanced at Sulter—again. He’d never known the older captain to steer him wrong. He took a drink of ale before continuing. “I’ll wager if there is an exchange planned at the dock, then someone employed there knows about it.”
Kingston sneered. “Aye, but getting ’em to talk about it is a horse of ’nother color.”
Graham raised his eyebrow. “That’s where you come in.”
Kingston cocked his head in response. “What ye got in mind, Cap’n?”
Graham pulled a leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it on the table. “One hundred pounds to the man who gives me information that leads to the safe retrieval of my daughter and her nurse. The same to you for your assistance.”
The dim candlelight flickered off the worn surface. Kingston eyed the pouch and extended his paw-like hand. With rough fingers he opened it, peered inside, glanced over his shoulder like a greedy thief with a treasure, and leaned in toward Graham. “You got my attention, sir.” A smile cracked his chapped lips, exposing crooked, discolored teeth, and a jeer, more like a hiss than a laugh, wheezed from him.
Graham snatched the pouch from Kingston’s hand. “Good. Find out what you can and report back to me. Pay heed to happenings with the Barrett Trading Company.” He pulled out half the contents from the pouch and slid it over to Kingston. “Take this now, and I’ll see you get the rest when I have the child.”
The smell of sea and fish clinging to Kingston wafted across the table, contesting the strong scent of the smoking fire. Kingston narrowed his eyes on Graham as he crossed his arms over the broad expanse of his chest and leaned back in his chair. “Well now, I’m not so sure about that, Cap’n.” The man nailed Graham to his seat with an icy stare, all trace of a smile vanished. “See, a man can get hisself killed snoopin’ round.”
Graham clenched his jaw. He knew this man’s angle. It was one of intimidation, one he’d not cower to. He locked eyes with the man, refusing to look away. He’d not waver, nor was he prone to negotiation. But he needed help and quickly. The image of Lucy’s eyes flashed in his mind for the thousandth time. Be it the lack of sleep or pure desperation, he consented and dropped the pouch and all its contents into Kingston’s outstretched hand.
Indeed, he’d give far more to see his daughter safe.
A satisfied smile curled on Kingston’s face, puckering his scar and wrinkling his eyes. “Tomorrow, then.” He bounced the pouch in his hand before it disappeared into the folds of his rough coat. “Can’t make no promises, mind you that.” He tipped his hat with mock formality. “Sulter. Cap’n.”
“I’m not asking for promises,” Graham muttered as the character exited the pub. “I’m asking for a miracle.”
Footsteps outside the Sulters’ door demanded Amelia’s attention. She held her breath, waiting, praying, and tucked her trembling hands beneath the folds of her shawl. The rest of the house had retired several hours hence, and the clock had long struck midnight, but Amelia sat awake in the Sulters’ modest parlor, unable to find any manner of rest. The agonizing day had rolled into an excruciating night. Hours had passed with no word to offer hope or comfort.
But then the footsteps stopped, a muted voice sounded, and something rubbed against the rough wooden door. Her book of Psalms fell to the cushion beside her as she stood.
The latch lifted and the heavy wooden door swung open. Blustery wind spun through the opening. At the very sight of Graham, with his hat pulled low and his cheeks red from the cold, her optimism soared. Amelia hurried toward the door and held it open. “You’ve returned. Thank heavens!”
Graham stepped in first, the cold clinging to his wool coat. His words were gruff, his tone made hoarse by the bitter cold. “What are you doing awake?”
“I couldn’t sleep.” Her words spilled forth in jumbled anticipation. “Did you learn anything?”
It was Captain Sulter, not Graham, who stepped past her to the coatr
ack and spoke first. “We are closer, Miss Barrett. Rest assured. We will have the little one back to you in no time. Right, Sterling?”
Graham looked up from pulling off his gloves but only nodded.
Captain Sulter removed his coat and hat and patted down his thinning hair. “We’ve done all we can tonight. I suggest you get some sleep.” He clasped a hand down on Graham’s shoulder and turned a warm smile toward Amelia. “Good night, my dear.”
Amelia watched the man lumber down the corridor, leaving her alone with Graham. Her lungs refused to expand as she watched him remove his hat and greatcoat. So handsome. So strong. And he alone could help her get Lucy.
“Where are you going in the morning?” She felt her smile fade when Graham pulled a flintlock pistol from the folds of his coat and placed it on the sideboard. “What is that for?”
Graham raised an eyebrow at her. The fire’s dying embers cast a russet glow on his shadow of a beard and caught on the glint in his gray eyes. “I’m going to get Lucy back.”
She swallowed the lump of fear and stood perfectly still.
Graham crossed in front of her to the settee and dropped down on the tufted cushions. He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again and stared unblinkingly into the fire. Though weariness played on his every movement, his posture remained alert, as if at any moment he expected Lucy’s kidnapper to burst through the door.
Amelia studied him, attempting to read the nuances of his expression. Was he keeping something from her? She noted the lines on his face, the tension tightening his mouth. He’d tried so hard to protect her the past few days. Would he withhold information to keep from upsetting her further?
She sat down next to him, careful to keep a respectable distance. The urge to pepper him with questions was strong, but she held her tongue. What had Jane said? “You will have a very lonely life if you refuse to let others in because you are afraid that you will lose them.”
She pushed her hair from her face. She wanted to bring him comfort, as he had her. But what could she do?