When she reached the deck, the salty mist from the storm shrouded the scene before her. The wind caught her hair, flinging it in stinging tangles against her face. Men scrambled to tie lines against the gale, their faces grim and determined. The ship swooped up against a monstrous wave, then slammed down, jarring her spine. Nature’s fury would have its way with her—with all of them. Did she want to die locked in a darkened cabin? Or facing her fate head on?
Perhaps even helping to stave off that fate?
She huddled against the rail, trying to stay out of the sailors’ way as they slid by on the slippery deck. One stopped to yell something to her, gesturing toward the ladder, but she couldn’t hear him over the roar of the wind and the sea. He gave up and continued to his task. Rain pelted, blowing drenched hair into her eyes, blinding her.
Suddenly, arms encircled her, lifting her off her feet.
“Jenny—get below,” Jonathon raged.
“I can help—.” She gulped as the wind captured her breath.
He plunked her down near the top of the ladder, pointing down toward the cabins. “Now,” he bellowed.
Lightning flashed.
“I can help, Uncle Jonathon—.” She stood with her feet spread wide to balance against the swaying ship.
“You will be in the way. I can’t be worried about you while I’m trying to navigate this storm.”
“But …” Her words were swallowed by a roar of thunder.
“This is an order! You must do as I command.” He loomed over her. “I told you this voyage would be dangerous—God’s blood, I don’t know what Constance was thinking to call you back.”
“She didn’t.”
He stood, gaping at her. It was as if nature continued her fury all about them, but they were locked in a silent, endless space. His eyes blinked. He blinked again. “What?”
She couldn’t contain the lie any longer. “Mother didn’t beg me to join her in New York.” She had to shout to be heard over the crashing waves, the teeming rain.
His eyes narrowed, growing darker. His nostrils flared.
“I’m sorry I lied to you. But I need to go to Father. If I don’t, he’ll die.” Memories of a rushing carriage, of Kathryn’s scream, of the crashing hooves flooded her mind. Thunder clapped nearby, and she covered her ears, cowering. She straightened, resuming her stance. “I must be there.”
Jonathon’s face was as stormy as the skies. “Go!” He jabbed his finger toward the ladder.
She scrambled back down and stomped to her cabin. I could help. Surely, I could manage some task up there. After stripping off her leather shoes, she flipped the quilt back, yanked it over herself, and tucked it in tightly. She lay on her back looking up at the wooden beam above her. I cannot die down here. I must reach Father.
The pitching of the ship increased as the afternoon darkened. She was barely able to discern the objects in her cabin in the faint light. While the throbbing in her hands waned, the discomfort in her stomach increased and she reached beneath the bunk for the chamber pot. Her stomach retched as she emptied its contents. Lying back, she closed her eyes, trying to stem the dizziness, but it only worsened. The ship undulated with the surging waves, tumbling her back and forth in the bunk. Her stomach heaved again. She longed for a drink of water, but she would have to go topside to get it.
The ship’s violent swaying and lurching lasted for an hour, during which time Jenny was sure she had emptied any trace of food from her stomach. Gradually, the pitching subsided and she could lie flat on her back in stillness. Grateful for the reprieve, she dozed off. With the fear of death subsiding, her thoughts turned to Andrew. What was he doing at that moment? She threw one arm over her closed eyes. Thinking about him sharpened her misery. She had to accept he was gone from her life.
She finally submitted to sleep.
Jenny woke to a soft tapping on her cabin door. Disoriented, she slowly opened her eyes and scanned her surroundings. Her stomach ached with the distress of her seasickness but still managed to send out sharp hunger pangs.
The tapping sounded again.
“Miss Sutton?” Mr. Gates’s voice was quiet, and she suspected he was trying to balance checking on her with not wanting to wake her if she were asleep.
“Come … cough …” Her throat flamed with dryness. She tried to clear it, but she was so parched she couldn’t raise any moisture. She tried again. “Come in.” As she rolled over on the cot, she was assaulted by the stench of her vomit. She covered her mouth and nose with the quilt.
The door slowly opened and Mr. Gates peered around it. If he noticed the stench, he made no sign. “I wasn’t sure if I heard you or not.” He smiled as he entered carrying a basin and ewer, a flannel cloth draped over one arm.
She had never seen such a beautiful sight. She edged up on the cot to receive the welcome offerings.
Mr. Gates took a pewter mug from a cupboard built into the wall. The water sloshed as he poured it. She relished the sound. When he handed the drink to her, it was all she could do not to seize it and guzzle it down.
He read her mind. “You’ll want to sip it for a while, missy. Too much too fast will have you heaving into this again.” He picked up the chamber pot and carried it to the door where he handed it off to a cabin boy. Ridding the cabin of the odor was a blessing, and Jenny sent up a silent prayer of gratitude for this man who so reminded her of Father. She sent up another silent prayer that Father was all right … and that no more storms would delay their arrival in New York.
Returning to her side, Mr. Gates dipped the flannel cloth in the water and patted her face. Too weak to protest, she surrendered to his ministrations. He dabbed water on the blisters on her palms and applied the ointment he’d used before. The sweet smell of the herbs soothed her, amazing her at how quickly she improved.
“Here, lass. Eat this slowly.” He handed her a biscuit.
She took it gratefully and nibbled a small bite. Her stomach protested but then settled. She smiled her thanks.
“If you are up to a stroll on the deck, it might help you gain your strength faster,” Mr. Gates said.
Jenny nodded, sipping the last of the water. He assisted her to standing, and she took his arm. Lightheaded, she swayed, but he steadied her, waiting for her to regain her balance. Slowly they left her cabin, heading for the deck.
The onslaught of fresh sea air invigorated her, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the cool, salty air. Mr. Gates cupped her elbow with his hand as they wandered the deck. She gaped in shock. Men were lying in various states of distress. A man with a white cotton cloth wrapped around his head was curled in a fetal position, moaning, as seeping blood streaked the fabric scarlet. Several voices merged in an eerie chant of “water” and “please help me.” Another man sprawled on the deck, with his leg twisted obscenely in the wrong direction, his eyes glazed with pain. Two crew members tended them, tying tourniquets, bandaging wounds and applying splints. Ropes that had been neatly coiled were now tangled together. Barrels that had lined the deck had tipped and scattered, some still rolling back and forth.
“Mr. Gates, you are needed among these men much more than escorting me for a stroll.” She edged her elbow from his hand, feeling foolish. “Please, return to your crew. I will be fine.”
Mr. Gates beamed with gratitude. “Aye, missy. That would be a fine thing—if you’re certain.”
She stood taller. “I am certain.”
He tipped his hat and hurried off.
Jenny perused the men near her. These were the less injured who didn’t require wounds stitched or splints applied. She crouched beside a crewman bandaging an arm.
“How can I help?”
He looked at her in surprise then nodded. He showed her how to wrap the bandage to keep it in place. She learned quickly and followed him along the line of injured. Little did these men realize how much they were helping her. She was able to stop worrying about the two men she loved most—for a while at least.
Andrew hefted the sad
dle onto Shadow’s back. Jonathon had often allowed him use of his finest horse, and since Jonathon was at sea with Jenny, Shadow was his surest chance to make the trek to New York. He checked his saddlebags one last time before leading his mount out of the stable. He halted.
Randy leaned against a tree.
Andrew snugged the cinch strap. “I made it quite clear last night …”
“Aye, you did, lad. And I wondered if your conscience bothered you enough to change your mind.”
Andrew resisted stretching against his weary muscles caused by lack of sleep for just that reason. “No.” His voice cracked. He swallowed. Then the image of Jenny sailing away on the Destiny came to mind. He knew she would not return. If he didn’t find her, they would be parted forever. And the damn British were not going to keep him from the woman he loved. His blood grew hot at the thought and he clenched his fists.
Throughout the colonies, the stronghold of Parliament had ruined many lives. People he knew were so indebted to Britain that they’d committed suicide. Taxes were high and representation of colonial interests, nil. He had been fighting for the Patriot cause, and this journey would allow him to do more. It could also cost him his life. But what was life without Jenny? Randy’s plan was solid. Following it, he could help the cause and get to Jenny safely … he hoped.
“Do you remember the lobsterbacks in your home, what one almost did to your sister, Emily? Didn’t you lie abed with a bullet wound from a British rifle while they took over Brentwood Manor?”
“I’ll do it.” His throat was dry, the words quiet.
Randy studied him.
He cleared his throat, standing taller. “I’ll do it. I’ll follow the route you’ve planned.”
Randy pushed off from the tree and unrolled the piece of parchment, revealing the map. “Here’s the route to Alcott’s farm. Any questions, lad?” Randy couldn’t hide his concern, making Andrew more nervous than he had been. He would be riding through British-held areas carrying information that would prove him a traitor.
“No. I have all of your instructions.”
Randy retrieved a saddlebag propped against the tree. He tucked the map into a secret pocket. “Good man.” He slapped Andrew on the arm, which, delivered by any other man would have been a tap, but Randy almost knocked him off his feet. “You’ll be fine, Andrew. Keep to the roads I mapped out, and if you hear someone approaching, slip into the trees.”
Andrew nodded. Turning, he mounted Shadow.
“Godspeed,” Randy said.
Andrew touched the front corner of his hat and galloped off.
The sun beat down on his back as he rode, his linen shirt already damply clinging to his skin, but a refreshing breeze cooled him against the humid July air as he flew down the road leading out of Yorktown. The obstacles ahead would not deter him. He had to find Jenny. He had to keep her safe.
Wispy clouds streamed past the full moon as Jenny finished helping with the wounded crewmen. Her black hair hung in ringlets, clinging to her face and neck. As she stood and stretched, her spine cracked with released tension.
Because the deck was wet from the storm, it was safe to light the firebox for cooking, and the scent of a wood fire and sizzling pork drifted to her. Her stomach ached for food, and she salivated at the aroma. The biscuit she’d nibbled earlier was all that had filled her since being seasick.
She removed the white cotton shawl from her shoulders, or what was left of it. She’d ripped half of it into strips to bind up wounds and create splints. Taking the jagged remnant, she wiped her neck and face, her tired arms feeling like lead weights. She tucked the damp fabric in at her waist.
“Jenny, you must eat something.” Jonathon stood behind her. When she turned, he handed her a pewter plate filled with pork, potatoes, peas, and a hardtack biscuit. Carrying his own plate, he took her arm and led her to a row of crates. They sat down to eat dinner.
She leaned over the food and inhaled the sweet aroma. Her stomach growled mightily. Her hand flew to her mouth as her face grew hot. “Excuse me.”
Jonathon threw her a half smile. “That’s the most beautiful sound I’ve heard all day.”
She looked down at her plate, mortified.
“We all shall get to know one another quite well on this voyage. It is the cost of sailing in close quarters. You’d best get used to the natural rhythms and sounds of our bodies. None of us will notice because we’re so used to it. And the crew will be far less discrete than you.”
She smiled, relieved at his words. “Thank you, Uncle Jonathon.” She looked down at her plate. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
His silence was more difficult to bear than any rebuke. She poked at the food, her appetite gone. After several minutes, she couldn’t endure it any longer.
“I’m so sorry …” She choked then swallowed.
“To say I’m disappointed in you would be an understatement. Your actions above deck today diverted me from a dangerous task. Having to make an extra stop to deliver you to safe guides delays my mission.”
Now she was silent. Save for sneaking a sweet biscuit or pulling Kathryn’s hair, she had never lied—never about something of such great consequence. But she felt she had no choice.
“I must help Father.”
“And so you shall. But you have put others at risk. You need to know the ramifications. Now eat. Keep up your strength, for you have a long journey ahead.”
A crewman approached and handed them each a tankard of ale. She resisted the urge to guzzle hers to assuage her parched throat. They ate in silence for a while. She barely tasted this simple fare. Guilt could do that. In the absence of a proper napkin, she retrieved the remains of her shawl. Jonathon took it from her and studied it.
“Perhaps you can atone for your deception. You’ve ruined your shawl. I shall fetch you another.”
She looked around. “Do you keep a supply of fresh shawls on the Destiny, Uncle Jonathon?”
“No. But I do have one I would like to give you. Wait here.”
She wiped the remaining gravy with the last of her hardtack and sipped the last drop of ale. As the ship gently swayed, she was lulled into drowsiness. Leaning against a burlap sack of beans, she dozed for a moment. Voices carried on the cool night air, and from the opposite end of the ship, a deep bass voice rose in the darkness singing a sea chanty.
The song pierced her heart with its sweet melancholy. Tears stung her eyes. Her time together with Andrew been so brief—just the months she’d lived at Brentwood Manor with Uncle Jonathon and Aunt Emily. But they had fallen in love quickly. Andrew always swore he thought she was an angel when he first saw her. It had been a drenching rain the day she’d arrived at Brentwood Manor, and he had braved the storm to sprint out to her carriage with an umbrella. She smiled at the memory, but the smile dissipated. She would never see him again.
“Jenny.”
Jonathon towered over her. She scrambled to sit up, knocking her plate to the deck. Jonathon stooped to retrieve it.
“Thank you.”
He nodded and unfolded a shawl the shimmering periwinkle color of a peaceful sea. She gasped as it reflected beams of light from the lantern above them. When she touched the fabric, it was like running her hand along a warm stream, smooth and silky. Ivory and gold threads ran through the blue silk like waves lapping the shore.
“Uncle Jonathon, it’s beautiful,”
“I’d like you to have it. But with it comes a favor. A favor for a favor, if you will.” His gaze burned into hers, punctuating the significance of his request.
She fought down a flutter of apprehension.
“Your father is under suspicion by the British now, and so will you be when you arrive in New York. But you can be of great service to the Patriot cause if you are careful. What I ask you to do is simple but of great import. Do you understand?”
She nodded. Crossing her arms, she hunched in to ward off the chill that ran through her. She remembered standing with Father on King Street in Boston
when British soldiers fired into the crowd. Five people were killed and the soldiers were acquitted. From then on, Father had cautioned that British power would grow in the colonies, and he’d vowed to work against it. Now he lay seriously injured because of his stance. “I will do whatever I can to help the Patriot cause. It was a British sympathizer who injured Father.”
“Since you are willing to risk this journey, I will ask this of you. The first Sunday you are in New York, wear this shawl to your church service. A man named Laurence Montclair will introduce himself and inquire as to your father’s health. He will say that your shawl is as blue as the water off the cape. If he does not comment on your scarf, simply answer his inquiry about your father.” Jonathon paused, allowing her time to digest this. “If he does comment on your shawl …” He paused again, scanning the deck of the ship.
“What, Uncle Jonathon? What do I do if he comments on this shawl?” Part of her didn’t want to know. Deep inside, she sensed that what he was going to ask of her would have significant consequences, not just in her life but in the life of a young country fighting for its freedom.
Jonathon looked back at her. “You do not have to do this.”
“Well, first I must know what ‘this’ is, mustn’t I?”
He inhaled deeply, then nodded. “If he comments on your scarf, you are to give him this.” He reached into his long coat and drew out a letter. Made of parchment, it was folded in thirds and sealed with scarlet wax imprinted with a “B.” He looked to the west. “There will be another as soon as I have information on the armada. The Despatch sails to New York ahead of us, so we will rendezvous with them. I will send word to Montclair to expect you … if you are willing.” He didn’t give her the letter, merely held it for her to see … to decide.
She didn’t want to take it, didn’t want to take this step that might lead to others, surely to risk. Should she be caught delivering this letter, or even caught in possession of it, she would be guilty of treason. But isn’t this what Father had been fighting for when he was injured? Isn’t this what Jonathon had been fighting for, almost died for? People were risking their lives for freedom.
Love's Courage Page 3