Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Now? When I’m ready to set sail?” Luke smiled. He had no desire to further humiliate this man. Why didn’t the beef wit simply count his losses and go?

  A maroon hue, as red as the plume fluttering atop Lieutenant Tripp’s shako, crept across his face. “So, it’s true what they say then?”

  “And what is that?”

  “That without your rum, you are a coward. A miserable sot who preys on innocent women and cheats at cards.” His thin lips began to tremble. “A coward who sat back whilst his parents were butchered by savages.”

  Fury seared through Luke. His vision blurred. In two strides, he flew up on the bulwarks and leapt onto the dock. His crew tossed cheers behind him. All except Biron, who shouted for him to stop.

  Fear flooded the lieutenant’s eyes. He took a step back. Luke clutched the hilt of his cutlass, intent on teaching the man another lesson, when the flutter of a lacy parasol floating atop a blue muslin gown caught the corner of his eye. Drawn to the vision like a drowning man’s glimpse of land, he halted.

  Miss Channing strolled down the wharf, a sour-faced dandy at her side.

  Relief softened Lieutenant Tripp’s features. He glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at Luke, his face as hard as granite once again.

  His right eyelid took on an odd twitch before he spun on his heels and marched down the wharf, causing it to wobble beneath his anger. He halted before Miss Channing and her gentleman dandy.

  Luke grabbed the hilt of his sword again and started for them. If Tripp dared to lay a hand on her …

  No sooner had Cassandra turned down the dock where Destiny was anchored than she spotted Mr. Heaton and another man in a military uniform engaged in what appeared to be a heated battle. Dressed in black breeches stuffed within tall Hessian boots, a white shirt, and black waistcoat, Mr. Heaton stood before his ship as if he, alone, would defend the vessel to his death. Cassandra’s heart jolted at the sight of him then seized when she saw him grip his cutlass and start for the man. But then his eyes locked upon hers and he stopped. A smile curved his lips, and he bowed toward his adversary as if they were the best of friends.

  The man, whom Cassandra could now see was a lieutenant in the army, charged her way. Oblivious to all, Mr. Crane continued the incessant chattering he’d smothered her with since they’d left the house, only ceasing when the lieutenant halted before them and cleared his throat.

  “Are you Miss Channing?” The lieutenant’s face was pink and bloated, and his eyes skittered here and there, unable to focus.

  “I am.”

  “I understand you have invested in this privateer?”

  Cassandra’s gaze shot behind the man to Mr. Heaton, who stormed toward them as if he’d changed his mind about not killing the lieutenant.

  The man glanced over his shoulder. His eyelid twitched. “You have made a grave error, miss.”

  Mr. Crane chuckled. “As I’ve been trying to tell her—”

  “Mr. Heaton is a failure and his privateer will be a failure as well,” the lieutenant interrupted then straightened his coat and marched away before Cassandra could answer him, leaving ill tidings swirling in his wake.

  Cassandra shuddered, wondering why he would say such a thing. His words of doom thundered over her, much like the dark clouds churning above, making her feel like a little girl alone in the midst of a storm—a storm that could sweep her and her family out to sea.

  A growl bellowed from the sky in confirmation of her fears.

  Until she turned to face the confident look on Mr. Heaton’s face. Pushing Mr. Crane aside, he took up a stance between her and the departing lieutenant. “Did he harm you, Miss Channing?”

  A sense of being protected overcame her—a feeling she hadn’t felt in quite some time. It warmed her from head to toe. “Why, no.”

  “He merely told her the truth.” Mr. Crane’s chortle spun Mr. Heaton around. He eyed the man as if he were a bothersome gnat. “And you are …?”

  “Forgive me,” Cassandra interjected. “This is Mr. Milton Crane. He is the proprietor of the Register.”

  “Hmm,” Mr. Heaton huffed. “You are too early, sir.”

  “Early?” Mr. Crane’s face scrunched.

  “To report on Destiny’s outlandish success.” Luke faced Cassandra and winked. She felt her knees weaken. Then he waved off Mr. Crane, saying, “Come back in a month,” before he proffered his elbow to Cassandra.

  Shifting her parasol to hide her grin, she accepted Mr. Heaton’s arm.

  Mr. Crane’s footsteps followed them. “You mistake me, sir. I am escorting Miss Channing.”

  As they approached the ship, Cassandra spotted a man hanging over the bow, putting the finishing touches on the word Destiny painted in bright blue on the hull.

  “I see you have come armed,” Mr. Heaton said.

  “Mr. Crane?” Cassandra said. “My mother insisted he accompany me.”

  “I was referring to your parasol, miss.” His dark eyebrows rose above a grin. “Him”—he gestured over his shoulder—“I can handle.”

  Cassandra’s giggle was instantly silenced when she halted and found the eyes of at least two dozen rather shabby-looking men latched upon her from the deck of the Destiny. Swallowing down a lump of unease, she threw back her shoulders. These men were in her employ and the sooner she made that clear, the better.

  After leaping onto the ship, Mr. Heaton turned to assist her. Ignoring his hand, she closed her parasol, clutched her gown, and stepped onto the teetering deck. She would show this man and his crew that she was not some delicate flower to be plucked and squashed. Yet even as she lifted her chin in victory, the deck tilted and she stumbled. Mr. Heaton gripped her elbow to steady her.

  Refusing to look at the grin that was surely on his face, Cassandra turned to inform Mr. Crane that he need not wait for her when he tumbled onto the deck behind her and took his spot at her side.

  An older gentleman approached them.

  “Mr. Biron, assemble the men, if you please,” Mr. Heaton ordered.

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” The man blew a whistle, sending the men on deck and the ones pouring from the hatches scrambling to form a straight line from bow to stern.

  While she waited, Cassandra took the opportunity to study the ship. The chips in the bulwarks had been repaired, the wooden deck had been stripped and recaulked, the broken spoke on the capstan was restored, lines were coiled neatly beside belaying pins, and the brass atop the railheads, wheel, and belfry gleamed. She gazed upward to see that one of the sails had been replaced with fresh canvas. The scent of tar and wood filled her lungs.

  She dared a glance at Mr. Heaton standing before his men, fists at his waist, dark hair blowing in the breeze, his shoulders stretched with the authority of a captain. She couldn’t recall smelling rum on him as he’d escorted her to the ship. Could it be the man intended to keep his promise? For the first time, Cassandra allowed a smidgeon of hope to form within her that Mr. Heaton might prove his reputation wrong and become a great privateer.

  As if in defiance of that hope, an icy wind tainted with the sting of rain whirled around her, and Cassandra drew her pelisse tighter about her neck.

  “Gentlemen, may I introduce to you Miss Cassandra Channing,” Mr. Heaton shouted after all the men had assembled. “She is half owner of this privateering venture.”

  Crane snorted then coughed into his hand.

  “And”—Mr. Heaton’s dark gaze snapped to Mr. Crane—“she is here to inspect our fair vessel.”

  Then leading her to the bow, he proceeded to introduce each crewman. Some barely glanced at her, their faces reddening at the introduction. Others brazenly took her in as if she were a sweet pastry—their salacious scrutiny promptly squelched by one look from Mr. Heaton. The stench of unwashed bodies permeated the air, but she resisted the urge to draw a handkerchief to her nose.

  One man dared to spit to the side and say, “Bad luck to have a woman investor.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Crane’
s annoying voice buzzed from behind Cassandra.

  Ignoring him, Mr. Heaton started for the sailor as if he intended to shove him back, but Cassandra stayed him with a touch to his arm. “Well, I hope to prove you wrong, Mr. Nelson.” She smiled, and the sailor seemed befuddled for a moment before he smiled back.

  “And this is Biron Abbot, my first mate.” Luke stopped before the older gentleman, a rough but kindly looking man who reminded Cassandra of Reverend Drummond. He dipped his gray head. “A pleasure, miss.”

  The ship lurched over a wave, and she pressed the tip of her parasol onto the deck to keep her balance.

  Mr. Heaton moved to the next man. “And Mr. Joseph Keene, my boatswain.”

  Cassandra nodded at the handsome man who was at least fifteen years her senior. Dressed in colorful silk and lace, he looked more like a pirate than a sailor. His disarming smile, coupled with the mischievous twinkle in his eye, did nothing to dissuade her opinion. He took her hand and placed a kiss upon it as the jewels on his fingers glinted in the daylight.

  Mr. Heaton pushed between them, breaking the contact, and moved on to the next man. “Mr. Zachary Ward, my gunner.”

  Completely bald to the top of his head, yet with a veritable lion’s mane flowing down the back, the man presented such an odd sight that Cassandra would have laughed if he wasn’t looking at her with hatred burning in his eyes.

  She took a deep breath and shifted her parasol into her other hand. She would not let him intimidate her. “Are you familiar with cannons, Mr. Ward?”

  “Aye, miss. Was in the American navy, I was.”

  “Indeed, why are you still not enlisted?”

  “Cashiered, miss, for blasphemy and drunkenness.” His tone held no remorse.

  Cassandra turned to Mr. Heaton. “You seem to be among friends.”

  A hint of a smile played on his lips.

  “Of all the …,” Mr. Crane announced with alacrity. “This is preposterous. These men are not fit to sail this ship. Surely you can see that, Miss Channing.”

  Ignoring him, Cassandra studied the gunner. “But I sense you have changed your ways, Mr. Ward?” Her approving tone stripped the defensive wall away.

  “That I have, miss.” He dipped his head.

  She leaned toward him with a smile. “Good for you, sir.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Crane whispered over her shoulder. “These men are wastrels and thieves. Why, they’ll do nothing but rob you blind.”

  Cassandra cringed. Though she tried to prevent Mr. Crane’s words from affecting her, they crouched around her budding hope like a pack of wolves around a newborn lamb. Mainly because there was truth in his assessment. Indeed, these men were not the finest gentlemen she’d encountered—probably not the finest sailors either—but Mr. Heaton was the captain and for now she must trust his judgment.

  Luke scowled. “The lady has a mind of her own, Mr. Crane. Please allow her to use it.”

  Cassandra shot him a curious gaze. She had never heard a man declare such a thing. Did he mean it, or was he simply trying to slip into her good graces? Yet when his eyes locked with hers, they held understanding, not insincerity.

  Turning his back to Crane, Mr. Heaton took Cassandra’s arm and moved her to the next man. “Mr. Samuel Rogers, my quartermaster.”

  The young boy’s wide grin reminded Cassandra of her brother Matthew. Nothing pretentious, no pomposity or hidden meaning lurked in his expression. His long sandy hair was pulled behind him in a tie, and his sparkling blue eyes held a thirst for adventure.

  “Aren’t you a bit young to be going on such a dangerous journey?” she asked him.

  “No, miss. I was born on a ship. Spent me whole life in the navy till I quit last year to become a privateer.”

  Cassandra couldn’t help but admire his enthusiasm—the same she’d seen in her brothers before they’d left to fight in Canada. Did fate have the same thing in store for this young man? “But doesn’t war frighten you?”

  “No, miss. I love fightin’. I hope to be a pirate someday.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance.

  “A pirate. Good heavens!” Mr. Crane chortled. “Surely you’ve heard enough, Miss Channing.”

  Cassandra spun around. “I have not, sir. If you have, I suggest you leave.”

  A gust of wind tossed his neatly combed hair into a spin even as his mouth tightened into a thin line. “I am only looking out for your interests.”

  “Look out for them in silence, if you please.” Cassandra turned around to find Mr. Heaton gazing at her with a mixture of ardor and amusement.

  He led her onward. “And lastly, Mr. Nyle Sanders, our purser.”

  With tablet in hand, the small man—who, with his pointy nose and tiny dark eyes hidden behind a pair of spectacles, reminded Cassandra of a rat—greeted her kindly, with nary a glance her way.

  “Dismissed!” Mr. Abbot shouted. Cassandra jumped at the abrupt command then watched as the men dispersed as quickly and haphazardly as they had assembled, their bare feet pounding over the wooden deck.

  Mr. Crane grabbed Cassandra’s arm and drew her to the side. “Miss Channing. Please end this charade. Anyone can see that this is nothing but a ship of villains and reprobates. Do not be so naive to assume you’ll see a penny’s return on your investment. I urge you to demand your money back and flee this ship of doom at once.”

  Luke grabbed the hilt of his sword, longing to slice off Mr. Crane’s annoying tongue. It was either that or Luke feared he might toss the man overboard. This dandy was nothing but a puffed-up, implacable fribble.

  “Too late, Mr. Crane.” Miss Channing released a sigh of annoyance. “The money has already been spent. So, you see, your complaints do nothing but cause me discomfort.”

  “Well, I certainly did not mean …,” Mr. Crane stuttered. His cheeks swelled, but before he could finish, Miss Channing swept her pretty face toward Luke, her auburn curls dancing over the fur trim of her pelisse.

  And with her sweet smile, all thoughts of murdering Mr. Crane vanished.

  In fact, Luke had been amazed at how well she handled herself in front of the motley group of vagrants he called a crew. About as civilized as a band of hungry bears, they were likely to frighten even the most stalwart of women. Yet Miss Channing had greeted each one of them as if they were members of the town council. She neither shrank back from their licentious glances nor took offense at their snide comments. Lud, instead of passing them by with a lift of her nose as he had expected, she’d even asked them questions that went beyond her interest in them as an investment.

  “Will you show me the armament you purchased, Mr. Heaton?” Her smile reached her eyes, and at that moment he believed he’d show her anything she wished.

  “Armament, ha!” Mr. Crane tugged on his cravat. “I doubt you could have procured anything decent for this waterlogged tub.”

  Luke gave the man one of his most imperious gazes, the kind that sent men cowering in the taverns. It had the same effect on Mr. Crane. Clearing his throat, he moved to the other side of Miss Channing.

  Luke waved at the carronades mounted on the starboard railing. “As you can see, I purchased eight carronades, four on each side.” He pointed toward the other group lining the port side of the ship. “And one lone nine at the prow.”

  “Is that all?” Mr. Crane snorted with disdain. “Hardly enough firepower to catch a fishing boat, let alone a merchantman.”

  Enough was enough. Luke’s gaze landed on the broken railing, and he found himself suddenly glad the lazy crewmen had not followed his orders to fix it.

  “No, Mr. Crane. We also installed two eighteen pounders belowdecks. You can see their muzzles jutting out from the gun ports if you look over the starboard railing.”

  “Eighteen pounders! Preposterous! On a schooner?” Mr. Crane snorted.

  “See for yourself.” Luke shrugged one shoulder and gestured with his head toward the railing.

  Stomping toward the spot, Mr. Crane peered over th
e edge. “You taunt me, sir. There is nothing there.”

  Miss Channing’s brow furrowed.

  “Of course there is.” Taking a spot beside the buffoon, Luke pointed over the side. “Can’t you see them?”

  Mr. Crane leaned on the faulty piece of railing. With an exasperated sigh, he angled the top half of his body over the side. Crack! Snap! A chunk of the wood broke from the railing and dropped into the bay.

  Mr. Crane’s arms flailed before him. His eyes bulged. He let out a broken shriek as he toppled over and splashed into the dark water below.

  CHAPTER 9

  Cassandra stepped inside the captain’s cabin and took in the masculine furnishings. A sturdy oak desk guarded the stern windows. Charts, a logbook, quill pens, a quadrant, and two lanterns spread across a top that was marred with divots and stains. Rows of books stood at attention on two shelves to the right, a mahogany case filled with weapons lined the opposite wall, and one velvet-upholstered chair stood before the desk. The smell of tar and whale oil and Mr. Heaton filled her nose as he ducked to enter the room behind her. Mr. Abbot followed on his heels, wearing a smirk that had lingered on his lips ever since Mr. Crane had fallen overboard.

  And though Cassandra tried to stifle her laughter, another giggle burst from her mouth at the vision of Mr. Crane being pulled from the bay by a fisherman. Afterward, he had simply stood there, dripping like a drowned possum and shaking his fist in the air before he turned and marched away.

  “You really should have tossed a rope over for him.” Cassandra turned to face Luke.

  A mischievous glint flashed in his blue eyes. “Why? He had overstayed his welcome.”

  “You are incorrigible,” she huffed.

  “So I am told.”

  Mr. Abbot chuckled. “I fear you have made another enemy.”

  “A growing list.” Mr. Heaton rubbed his right palm. Pink scars lined the skin, making Cassandra wonder what had happened to cause them.

  “The men are asking when we will set sail,” Mr. Abbot said, lingering at the open door. Thunder shook the ship as the tap tap of rain pounded on the deck above.