Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Noah stretched his arm over the back of the settee and smiled. “We shall see.”

  Luke tore his gaze from the knowing look in his friend’s eyes. Despite all of Luke’s past mistakes, his shortcomings and blunders, this time he could not fail.

  Gripping the shears, Cassandra strolled through the solarium studying each gardenia plant as she went. It had been two weeks since she’d signed over the last of her family’s fortune to the town rogue. She nearly laughed at how silly that statement sounded. She would laugh at the absurdity of it all if her stomach weren’t tied in knots and her blood ringing in her ears. A condition that had started that morning when a messenger from Mr. Heaton had summoned her to inspect the new privateer, Destiny, that afternoon.

  Surely it was a simple case of nerves brought on by the critical nature of her investment and not the fact that she would see Luke Heaton within an hour. For the sooner the ship set sail, the sooner her chances of catching a prize and the sooner the money would start flowing in. Then Cassandra could pay off her creditors. She didn’t know how much longer Mr. Newman would extend her account at the mercantile or Mr. Sikes at the chandlers or Mr. Roberts at the cobblers or if Mr. Kile at the Bank of Baltimore would call in the loan she took out against their property. If any of them demanded payment before her investment with Mr. Heaton paid off, her family would be on the streets.

  Stopping, she clipped a dead branch from one of the plants then stooped to cut off a faded flower. She wished she could rid herself of her problems as easily. Drawing a deep whiff of a fresh blossom, she brushed her cheek over its soft petals. The sweet fragrance filled her lungs, luring her eyes closed as she dreamed of happier days when her father was alive and both her brothers were home. Gregory, two years her senior, had inherited their father’s flaming red hair and the temper to go with it. But he always came to Cassandra’s defense on any issue and never allowed gentlemen callers unless he’d first scrutinized them at length. And Matthew, sweet docile Matthew, who, though only a year older than Cassandra, possessed the wisdom of an ancient scholar and the kindness of a saint. How many evenings had they curled up together in her chamber as children with a candle and a copy of their favorite book, Keeper’s Travels in Search of His Master, reading late into the night of grand adventures in foreign lands?

  The loud clank of the solarium door followed by childish squealing jarred Cassandra from her memories. She opened her eyes to a flash of blond hair and a flutter of petticoats as Darlene darted past her then wove in between a row of plants and disappeared. Hannah barreled in after her, her wide blue eyes scanning the room.

  “Darlene, Hannah!” Margaret’s voice flew in from outside.

  Setting down the shears, Cassandra fisted her hands at her waist. “Now, you girls know you’re not allowed in here.”

  Giggles burst from the far corner. Ignoring Cassandra, Hannah dashed toward them. Dexter loped into the solarium fast on the girl’s heels as she threaded in between two of Cassandra’s newly planted sprouts. The clumsy sheepdog bumped into a wooden table. The pot sitting atop it teetered. Cassandra stretched out her hands toward it as a scream stuck in her throat.

  Dexter’s bark joined screeching laughter from the far end of the solarium as the pot crashed to the floor, sending chips of clay, clods of dirt, and the small plant shooting over the stone tiles.

  Cassandra halted. She heard Margaret’s gasp behind her. Silence swept the children’s laughter away, replaced by the patter of feet and paws as the two girls and Dexter slowly emerged from behind a row of plants, a look of dread on their faces.

  “Oh miss, I’m so sorry.” Margaret knelt by the broken pot and began to pick up the pieces. “We’re sorry, Cassie,” Darlene said, her chin lowering.

  Hannah stuck her thumb into her mouth and nodded as her eyes filled with tears.

  Cassandra laid a hand on Margaret’s arm. “Never mind that now. I’ll take care of it.” She turned to chastise the girls, but Darlene grabbed Hannah and darted out the door, leaving only Dexter to take the brunt of her anger. He gave a rueful whine.

  Margaret’s pudgy cheeks reddened. “I was trying to collect them for their studies, miss, but they got away from me.”

  “It’s quite all right, Margaret.” Cassandra sighed. “I don’t believe General Smith himself could corral those girls.”

  As Margaret’s laughter filled the room, Cassandra glanced out the mist-covered windows. “Where is Mrs. Northrop?”

  “In the house.” Margaret clutched Dexter’s collar and led him out the door. “Which reminds me, Mr. Crane arrived just a moment ago and your mother is asking for you.” Sympathy deepened her tone.

  A sour taste filled Cassandra’s mouth, and she doubted it was due to the overcooked oatmeal she’d had for breakfast. “Well, I simply can’t stay and socialize. I’m meeting Mr. Heaton at his ship in an hour.”

  “Indeed? Are you sure it’s safe to be alone with him?” Margaret teased.

  “Of course. He’s my new captain. I must trust him.” She had to trust him.

  She didn’t trust him.

  “Besides, we won’t be alone. His crew is there.” Cassandra stepped out and closed the door.

  “I shall pray for your safety, miss, and for God’s wisdom,” Margaret said.

  “Thank you, Margaret. I suppose your prayers couldn’t hurt.” Though she doubted they’d do much good either.

  Back in the house, an odd smell coming from the kitchen curled Cassandra’s nose. Waving it away, she drifted past the library on her way up to her chamber. Whispered voices drew her gaze into the room where she spotted Mr. Crane and Mrs. Northrop, their heads bent together in some sort of parley. What on earth would Mr. Crane have to say to the housekeeper? Cassandra halted by the edge of the doorway to listen, but she couldn’t make out their words. What did it matter, anyway? She should thank the housekeeper for keeping the man occupied and away from Cassandra. And perhaps giving her a chance to sneak out without speaking to him.

  Hurrying up the stairs to her chamber, she checked her reflection in her dressing glass, donned her gloves, grabbed her fur-lined pelisse and parasol, and tried to make a quick exit out the front door before her mother noticed.

  “You would simply not believe what this war has done for newspaper sales.” Mr. Crane’s tone blared like a dissonant trumpet from inside the parlor. “Our sales have increased a hundredfold. Everyone is scrambling for recent news from the battlefronts.”

  Halfway across the open doors, Cassandra tiptoed onward, not daring to peek inside the room lest she draw attention her way.

  A teacup rattled on a saucer. “Oh Cassandra, dear. Where are you going? Mr. Crane has come to call on you.”

  Cassandra closed her eyes, silently chastising herself for not leaving by the back door. Pasting on a smile, she spun around. “I have an errand to run, Mother.” She nodded toward Mr. Crane, who had risen from his seat with a rather baffled look on his face. “Mr. Crane, how nice to see you.”

  “Alone?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” Cassandra replied, stepping just inside the room. “Mr. Dayle is otherwise occupied and it is broad daylight. I will be quite safe, I assure you. Now, if you don’t mind.” Cassandra turned to leave.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear.” Her mother’s harsh tone turned her back around. “You are being quite rude. Come and sit for a while.”

  “I fear I cannot, Mother. I have an appointment.”

  “With whom?”

  Cassandra bit her lip. She had not told her mother of her investment yet. Had not wanted to vex her overmuch. But perhaps this would be the best time. With company present, her mother would surely not dive into her usual hysterics, and perhaps Mr. Crane could help allay her fears.

  “With Captain Heaton,” Cassandra blurted out. “I’ve invested in his privateer and they are to set sail on the morrow.”

  Mr. Crane flinched.

  Her mother’s jaw fell open and appeared to be stuck in that position. Leaning back o
n her chair, she threw a hand to her forehead. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  Cassandra took a deep breath. “I did. And it will pay off, you’ll see. I guarantee we shan’t have any further troubles.” Yet she heard the uncertainty in her own voice.

  “Mr. Luke Heaton?” Mr. Crane seemed to have found his voice, although it came out slow and garbled. “The scoundrel Heaton? The man who drinks and gambles his money away?”

  Cassandra lifted her chin. “Yes, that’s the one.”

  Her mother picked up the small bell from the table beside her and rang it profusely. “I need some tonic.”

  Straightening his gray waistcoat, Mr. Crane approached Cassandra wearing the look of a schoolmaster instructing a foolish child. “This is quite preposterous, Miss Channing. Why would you go to such lengths when the solution to your problems stands before you?”

  Cassandra forced a smile. “You are too kind, sir, but as I said before, I cannot in good conscience accept your offer.”

  “Stubborn girl.” Her mother rang the bell again. Its shrill ding ding ding hammered on Cassandra’s guilt. “Do you see why my nerves are strung tight, Mr. Crane? Perhaps you can talk some sense into her?”

  Mrs. Northrop appeared in the doorway. Her eyes locked with Mr. Crane’s before she sped to her mistress, bottle of tonic in hand.

  As she poured a splash into the elderly woman’s tea, Mr. Crane eased his fingers over his neatly combed hair. “Well, the least I can do is escort you to your appointment.”

  “That isn’t necessary.” Cassandra moved to her mother and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I shall be back within the hour, Mother.”

  Picking up her cup, the older woman sipped her tea then waved Mrs. Northrop off, avoiding Cassandra’s gaze and instead seeking out Mr. Crane. “Yes, sir. Please do accompany my daughter. With your business sense, perhaps you can assess the terrible risk she has placed on our entire family and determine some way of escape.…”

  “But, Mother …”

  “I insist.” Her mother slammed down her cup. Some of the golden tea sloshed over the rim and pooled in the saucer.

  Cassandra’s stomach sank. “Very well.”

  Grabbing his hat from the sofa, Mr. Crane set it atop his head. “It will be my pleasure.”

  Cassandra gripped her parasol and followed him out the door. Oh, bother. Mr. Crane and Mr. Heaton together in the same place?

  It was going to be a very interesting afternoon.

  CHAPTER 8

  Spreading the chart over the binnacle, Luke pointed at the spots where various shoals and sandbars transformed the Chesapeake Bay into a dangerous maze.

  Biron Abbot shook his head. “It’s not the shoals that bother me, Cap’n. It’s those bloody British. How are we to slip past twenty of His Majesty’s finest ships?”

  Luke gazed up at the gray clouds rumbling across the sky. The welcome sting of rain filled his nostrils. “You’re the praying man, my friend. Why don’t you ask your God to keep this storm up through the night? Or better yet, pray for a fog so thick not even the Royal Navy will dare to stir a wave to chase us.” Luke chuckled.

  “Aye,” young Samuel Rogers interjected from Luke’s other side. “And if they should spot us, we can batter them with grapeshot and sail away ’fore they can catch us, eh, Cap’n?”

  Luke couldn’t help but smile at his new quartermaster. A few golden whiskers on the boy’s chin joined his stiff stance as proud evidence of his budding manhood. At only seventeen, the boy had more experience at sea than most of the men Luke had managed to recruit—bribe would have been a more fitting word. Yet the lad’s experience had not tempered his youthful enthusiasm and courage. Qualities much desired in a successful privateer.

  Although at the moment, Samuel behaved more like a midshipman as he stood at attention before Luke. Old habits died hard, Luke supposed, for the lad had served aboard the USS Syren for eight years.

  “A tempting idea,” Luke replied. “Yet I have no desire to engage an enemy warship.” No, he’d already attempted that foolhardy feat when he’d been Noah’s first mate on board the Defender. And they’d barely escaped with their lives. An act of God, Noah had called it. Luke shook his head. More like good fortune that the USS Constitution had been there to pick them out of the sea. Good fortune that always seemed to come Noah’s way.

  But never Luke’s.

  No, Luke would not count on God or good fortune but on his skill and determination. It was all he had left.

  From his spot on the quarterdeck, he surveyed his ship, where most of his crewmen were hard at work putting the finishing touches on the vessel: scrubbing the newly caulked deck, polishing the brass, tarring the lines, greasing the mast. Aside from young Samuel, Luke had been unable to convince any decent sailors to join him. Consequently, he had resorted to hiring criminals, drunks, and gamblers—men just like him. He only hoped they’d perform with bravery and skill when the occasion called for it. But, perhaps like him, they saw privateering as their last chance to turn their life around, to make a fortune and a respectable name for themselves.

  To stop a legacy of failure.

  A stream of men carried crates and barrels filled with supplies for the journey, from the wharf onto the main deck then down the open hatch into the hold. Luke’s gaze landed on two crewmen standing at the prow of the ship, talking—the two men he’d asked to fix the loose railing on the starboard waist.

  “Biron, order those men back to work at once.”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Biron leapt down the quarterdeck ladder with more agility than his fifty-two years should have allowed and began barking orders.

  A chilled wind rose from the bay and swirled about Luke, dragging down his spirits. Thunder growled in the distance as the weight of responsibility sank heavy upon his shoulders. Not only was this his first voyage as captain with ultimate authority on board the ship, but it was a voyage in which he must succeed.

  For Miss Channing’s sake, for John’s, and for his own.

  Luke folded up the chart and handed it to Samuel. “Take this below to my cabin.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” The boy saluted.

  “No need to salute me, Sam. You are no longer in the navy.”

  He saluted again then laughed at his own mistake before darting away.

  Dark clouds stole the remainder of the sun, portending a storm that would bring Luke the cover he so desperately needed to slip past the British blockade. Though his ship had been ready for two days, he and his crew had been forced to wait idly in the bay while a fortune beckoned to him from the sea. So, when Luke had spotted a tempest brewing on the horizon that morning, he thought it best to summon Miss Channing for her requested inspection. Not that he hadn’t wished to summon her before. In fact, he’d been unable to get the infernal woman out of his thoughts since that fateful night when he’d saved her from those ruffians. He glanced over at the spot where he’d first seen her across Pratt Street hurrying past the Hanson warehouse. A vision of her pummeling one of the scoundrels with a brick filled his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile. Yet as he continued to stare at the spot, his smile sank into a frown as another figure emerged—a tall man dressed in a dark-blue tailcoat with red collar and cuffs and a black crown shako on his head—marching straight toward Luke as if he were marching across a battlefield.

  Luke cursed under his breath. Lieutenant Abner Tripp. What did the man want now? Glancing around for a bottle of rum, Luke cursed again when he remembered he hadn’t brought any on board. With a groan, he made his way to the main deck just as the lieutenant halted on the wharf beside the ship, his fists stiff by his side, and his narrowed eyes seething at Biron, who was demanding to know his business.

  “What is the meaning of this, Heaton?” Lieutenant Tripp shouted.

  Luke snapped the hair from his face and approached the port railing. “The meaning of what?” He gave him a cocky smile.

  “The meaning of using my ship as a privateer.”

  “Your ship?” Luke
rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “If I recall, I won her from you in a game of Piquet.”

  Swerving about, Biron shook his head. No doubt as a warning for Luke to stop goading the man.

  Which Luke would be happy to do if the rodent would simply leave.

  Instead, the lieutenant took up a pace along the wharf, glancing over the ship’s masts, sails, rigging, at the crew working, and finally landing on one man in particular who hung over the port side, painting the new name on her bow.

  “You called her Destiny? Bah!” He ceased his pacing and gripped the pommel of the army saber hanging at his side. “You have no destiny, sir, but to die penniless and alone in your own besotted vomit.” Spit flew from his mouth.

  Luke’s hand twitched beside his cutlass, longing to draw it once again on this buffoon. “I would watch what you say, Lieutenant. My temper has limits. Surely you have not come to receive a twin on your other cheek?”

  Chortles burst behind Luke as a spike of white lightning lit up the sky.

  Lieutenant Tripp rubbed the pink scar angling over the left side of his face, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

  Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “I would assume you’d be happy to see your former ship put to good use against our common enemy.”

  “I will only be happy, sir, to see you and it at the bottom of the ocean. You stole my ship and all my money.” Wind tore over the lieutenant, fluttering the fringe of the gold epaulette capping his left shoulder.

  “Won,” Luke corrected him as the ship rose over an incoming wave.

  “My fiancée left me.”

  “I fear I cannot take credit for that, Lieutenant.”

  More laughter sprang from behind Luke. Even Biron’s face cracked into a smile.

  Lieutenant Tripp’s long, pointy nose seemed to grow in length, and his hand dropped to his saber once again. “I demand satisfaction, sir.”

  Silence overtook the ship as the crew stopped their work and gazed expectantly at the brewing altercation.