Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “As soon as it’s dark.” Mr. Heaton stomped toward the shelves as if looking for something then halted and turned back around with a sigh. “I have an errand to run first.”

  “What errand? We have all our supplies loaded.” Mr. Abbot tugged on his red neckerchief and glanced at Cassandra. “Shouldn’t we leave while the storm is upon us?”

  “I must say good-bye to someone.”

  Cassandra’s gaze shot to Mr. Heaton. The way he’d said the words with such affection, it had to be a woman. She knew of his reputation. Of course a man like Mr. Heaton would have a love interest in town, perhaps many. Then why did her insides burn at the thought?

  Sitting on the edge of his desk, Mr. Heaton crossed his arms over his chest. “Biron, order the men to repair that railing at once.”

  Cassandra flinched. She opened her mouth to ask the elderly man to stay—to not leave her alone with this rake—but he had already slipped into the companionway. The thud of his boots soon faded beneath the caress of the waves against the hull.

  She should leave as well. She had seen the entire ship and now the captain’s cabin. There was no reason for her to stay.

  Except for the pull of Mr. Heaton’s eyes as he allowed his gaze to wander over her. Not in a bawdy way as his crew had. But as someone staring at an object of great beauty that he could never possess.

  No one had ever looked at her that way before. And it made her feel, all at once, like both a princess and a prig. As if she were precious and yet too pretentious to touch. She approached the chair, putting it between herself and Mr. Heaton, and ran her hand along the carved back. “I suppose Mr. Crane deserved the embarrassment. But do forgive him, Mr. Heaton. I fear it is only jealousy that drives his peevish behavior.”

  “So, he has some claim on you?”

  She pursed her lips, shocked at his bold question. “I don’t see how that’s any business of yours.”

  He grinned then gestured for her to sit.

  “No, I cannot stay. I should not stay.” She glanced at the door, thankful Mr. Abbot had left it open.

  Standing, Mr. Heaton approached her until only the chair filled the space between them. A space that instantly heated and crackled beneath some unimaginable force. “Do you fear being alone with me, Miss Channing?” A mischievous glint flashed in his eyes.

  Thunder growled. Though he towered over her, she did her best to lift her gaze to meet his. “Should I?” Yet she knew the tremble that coursed through her had nothing to do with fear.

  The sheen over his eyes softened, and he raised a hand to touch her face. Cassandra leapt back with a gasp.

  He frowned. “I am many things, Miss Channing, but I would never hurt a woman. In fact, I am quite fond of women.”

  Cassandra tightened her grip on the handle of her parasol. “So I’ve been told.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “My reputation bothers you.”

  “Not in the way you might think.” No, in every way possible. Even in ways she dared not admit. “I only care that you keep your focus on privateering.”

  “Fortunately for us both, I have the ability to focus on many things at once.”

  Indeed Cassandra could see many things in his eyes now—sorrow, admiration, yearning. The realization confounded her and set her heart racing. She glanced at the charts spread across his desk. “In what direction do you intend to sail?”

  A strand of his black hair slid over his jaw. Glancing over his shoulder at the desk, he eased it behind his ear. “South along the coast and then across the Caribbean trade routes. That should afford us the best chance of crossing hulls with a British merchantman.”

  Beyond the stern windows, lightning flared across the sky as rain splattered the panes, running down in silver streams.

  “And when do you expect to return?” she asked.

  “As soon as I catch a prize.”

  “Soon then, I hope.”

  A devilish grin curved his lips. “You will miss me?”

  A wave of heat flooded Cassandra. “Don’t be absurd. My interests lie purely in my investment.” She shifted her gaze to the door. “I should be going.”

  “I’ll have Mr. Abbot escort you home.”

  An odd disappointment settled on Cassandra that Mr. Heaton would not do the honor himself. “It is still light. There is no need.”

  “There is for me.”

  “Very well.” Cassandra gripped her parasol and made her way to the door. She faced him. “Then I wish you a safe journey, Mr. Heaton.”

  A touch of sadness softened his eyes. “Never fear, Miss Channing. I will protect your investment with my life.”

  “Why do you have to go?” John’s gray eyes clouded like the storm brewing outside their small house.

  Luke drew him near. “Because I must take care of you and Mrs. Barnes.”

  “Can’t I go with you this time?” John gazed up at Luke. “You said if you ever fixed your ship, I could come.”

  Mrs. Barnes sat in her cushioned rocking chair by the fireplace, sorrow furrowing her brows.

  Luke led the boy to the sofa. “Yes, I did. But not on a privateering mission. It’s far too dangerous.”

  John hung his head. “Lots of boys my age work on ships.”

  The truth of his words stung Luke. Was he being overprotective of his brother? His eyes met Mrs. Barnes’s, seeking her advice, but she continued her knitting with a gentle smile on her lips as if she trusted Luke to make the right decision. He huffed. When had he ever made the right decision?

  Grabbing John by the back of the neck, he drew him close and stared at the yellow and red flames spewing and crackling like mad demons in the fireplace. A picture of his mother running toward him formed out of the blaze, her face screaming in terror. She handed him a white bundle—a bundle that contained one-year-old John. “Keep him safe!” she shouted above the roar of the fire. “Keep him safe!” Then the inferno swallowed her up.

  That was the last thing she had ever said to him.

  No, he couldn’t risk John.

  Luke moved to the sofa and John slumped beside him.

  Pain spiked through Luke’s right ear. Ignoring it, he gave John his most authoritative look. “Yes, lots of boys your age work on ships, but they don’t go out on privateering missions on their first voyage.” Yet, perhaps it was time to teach John how to sail. To see how he could handle himself on a wobbling ship with his brace. Perhaps, in due time, it would even help strengthen his leg. “I’ll tell you what. I’ll take you out on the ship when I return.”

  John lifted his gaze, his eyes sparkling. “When? When will that be?”

  “I don’t know. But when I do return, it will be with enough money to pay off our debts and buy us all a proper dinner at Queen’s Tavern.”

  John grinned. “Did you hear that, Mrs. Barnes?”

  “I did, indeed.” The creak of her rocking chair filled the room, but she didn’t look up from her knitting. Two balls of thread, one black and one white, sat in her lap.

  “What are you making, Mrs. Barnes?” Luke asked.

  She gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it will be beautiful. You’ll see.”

  Beyond the windows, darkness swallowed up the city. Luke knew he needed to go. He glanced at the clock on the mantle—9:13. Stuck on 9:13 for the past sixteen days—ever since the night he’d first met Miss Channing. It was as if that meeting had stopped time, or perhaps it had set into motion some otherworldly clock, starting a sequence of events that would lead to his destiny, as Noah had said. Destiny, the name of his ship. Choking down a bitter chuckle, Luke shook his head. What foolishness had consumed his mind? And he hadn’t even had a sip of rum.

  Luke stood at the quarter rail, telescope to his eye, scanning the horizon off Destiny’s bow. Nothing but the fuzzy blue line dividing sea from sky met his gaze. Lowering his scope, he shielded his eyes against the noon sun and glanced up at the crewman at the crosstrees. “Are you sure, Mr. Kraw?”
r />   “Aye, Cap’n!” The shout returned. “Off the starboard bow.”

  The announcement of a sail had sparked hope in Luke—hope that had been deflated over the past two months of scanning the Eastern Seaboard for British merchantmen. So far, they had encountered three fishing boats, one whaler on his way north, a French Indiaman, one American privateer, and a British warship of eighty guns. Thankfully, they’d been able to outrun the latter. Now, five long days had passed since they’d seen anything but endless azure sea in every direction.

  Beside him, Biron gripped the railing, tufts of gray hair blowing in the wind beneath his hat. “Dear God, let it be the prey we seek.”

  The ship bucked over a wave. Luke adjusted his stance and lifted the scope once again. A crowd of white sails popped over the horizon. “There she is.”

  “What do you make of her, Mr. Kraw?” he shouted, noting that his crew had stopped their work to stare at the intruder. He hoped Biron’s prayer had been answered, for the men had been none too happy these past months. Their supplies were dwindling as quickly as their spirits, and it had become hard to discipline the unruly lot, especially without any rum for incentive. Very much appreciated, dear Miss Channing. The endless days and nights would have passed with much more tranquility and glee with a drink in hand. Luke licked his lips, searching for a hint of the spicy taste he so loved but seemed to have nearly forgotten.

  When they’d set out from Baltimore Harbor, Luke’s success in sneaking past the British fleet under cover of the storm had sent a huge wave of confidence throughout the crew. The success had not only bolstered Luke’s hopes, but had given him confidence to believe that perchance he was not destined to be a failure at privateering as he was at everything else.

  The thought encouraged him, for he wanted nothing more than to shower Miss Channing with wealth. To solve all her problems and see admiration and appreciation beaming in her eyes, instead of the mistrust and fear he constantly saw now. Ah, what a treasure she was! Hair the color of burgundy framing glowing skin that housed a pair of fathomless emerald eyes. He would sail around the world and back to possess such a woman.

  But what was he thinking? He was so far beneath her in everything that mattered—integrity, honor, education, status, morality—that it still baffled him that she had aligned herself with the likes of him.

  “Should I head for them, Cap’n?” Samuel said from his position at the wheel.

  “Not yet,” Luke said. A blast of hot air tore across the deck, cooling the sweat on his neck and brow. He gazed up at the courses glutted with wind and slapped the scope against his open palm where scars taunted him with a past failure.

  His biggest failure of all.

  The ship crested another wave and slammed down the other side, sending foam over her bow. The smell of salt and fish stung Luke’s nostrils.

  “A fair wind today. We should catch them with no problem,” Biron stated.

  Luke raised the scope again. The ship headed their way. He could make out the square shape of her hull and her three masts reaching for the sky. A good-sized ship. But was she a merchantman? And if so, was she British? For as tempting as it would be to attack any prize that came their way, Luke was no pirate. Though he had begun to think he wasn’t beyond such measures if another month passed without satisfaction.

  “Steady as she goes, Sam.” Luke glanced at Mr. Keene who was standing on the main deck. “Ready the men to go aloft, Mr. Keene, should we need further sail.”

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Mr. Keene shouted orders across the deck, the lace at his sleeves and collar flapping in the breeze. The top men leapt into the shrouds and raced up the ratlines to their posts just as Mr. Ward, the gunner, emerged from below, his eyes sparking with expectation.

  Beside Luke, Biron bowed his head in prayer.

  “Say an extra one for me, will you?” Luke whispered.

  “You can talk to the Almighty just as well as I can,” his first mate mumbled.

  Luke snorted. “God won’t listen to me.”

  “At least you’re admitting He exists.” The man continued praying.

  Luke didn’t know what he believed. If he admitted God existed, then he’d have to admit He was a cruel overlord. A God who cared not a whit for orphans or widows or the poor—or young boys with rickets. Raising his scope, he studied the oncoming ship.

  “She’s a British frigate!” The call came down on them like hail before Luke could even focus.

  His heart stopped.

  “And she’s bearing down on us fast!”

  His crew froze in place.

  “Foresheet, jib, and staysail sheet, let go! Helms a-lee!” Luke fired off a string of orders ending with, “Mr. Ward, ready the guns, if you please.” Not that they’d do any good against a frigate, but the preparation would keep up the men’s spirits. Not Luke’s. He knew exactly what he was up against. And unless he could outrun her, he and his men and his ship didn’t stand a chance.

  “So much for your prayers.” He snickered toward Biron.

  His first mate shrugged. “I suppose God has other plans.”

  “Yes, to see me destroyed, no doubt.” Luke turned and marched away before Biron responded. Taking the wheel from Sam, he turned the ship about.

  “She’s picking up speed,” Mr. Kraw yelled from the crosstrees.

  “And she’s got the weather edge,” Samuel groaned as he took the wheel back.

  Which meant she had the advantage of the wind. Sweat broke on Luke’s brow as visions of being impressed into the Royal Navy assailed him. He’d rather die than allow that to happen again.

  Releasing the wheel, Luke barreled onto the main deck as Biron barked orders to the men. The ship vaulted over a wave. Salty spray showered him, stinging his eyes. He gripped the port railing until his knuckles whitened as he gazed at the oncoming enemy. Closer now. Even though Luke had brought the ship around and raised every inch of canvas to the wind. The British frigate was a fast bird, indeed. And one that intended to swoop down and gobble up Destiny and her crew for supper.

  Just as he imagined the fowl carnage in his mind, a plume of orange shot from the enemy’s bow. “All hands down!” Luke shouted over his shoulder. His crew toppled to the deck, covering their heads with their arms. All save Luke and Mr. Ward, who exchanged a harried glance. Luke would not cower, and he assumed his gunner had seen too much action in his lifetime to be intimidated by so slight a volley.

  An ominous boom cracked the sky. The shot struck the sea just twenty yards off their larboard quarter, shooting spray at least five feet into the air. Too close.

  Far too close.

  Luke’s stomach dropped. He swung about, trying to settle his racing heart. His crew scrambled to their feet. Two dozen pairs of fearful eyes settled on him, waiting for him to issue an order.

  Waiting for him to save them.

  Luke rubbed the scars on his palm and swallowed. With each passing moment, each moment in which he hesitated, the faith in their eyes faded beneath a rising tide of terror. His own terror rose to grip every sinew and fiber of his being. Not a terror of the British, but a terror of failing these men who had put their trust in him.

  Biron approached him, concern sharpening his features. “Your orders, Captain?”

  Luke’s blood pounded in his ears. He glanced at the oncoming frigate then over at his crew.

  Another thunderous roar shook the sea, followed by a spray of seawater not ten yards off their stern.

  And anger took the place of fear.

  Anger and a determination to not fail without giving it all he had. “Lay aloft and loose top foresail!” Luke bellowed then turned to the helmsman. “Hard about, Sam!” He scanned the deck for the gunner. “Mr. Ward, man the starboard guns and be ready to fire on my order.” Though he hoped they wouldn’t have to.

  The bald man grinned, his eyes sparking like embers. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Luke faced forward. Biron took a spot beside him. “You’ll outrun them.” He gave Luke a knowing look
that defied their harrowing circumstances. Luke rubbed the wet railing with his thumb then slammed his fist on the hard wood. “Let’s hope so. This old bucket of a ship must have some fight in her yet.”

  Minutes passed like hours. Luke’s legs ached from the strain of standing on the heaving planks. Sweat streamed down his back. Tension strung across the deck as tight as the lines that held the sails in place. Aside from his occasional orders in regard to direction and positions of sails, no one spoke. When they weren’t adjusting sail, the crew kept their eyes riveted on their pursuer. The frigate fired again. No one bothered to duck this time. The shot plunged into the raging seas. Luke rubbed his aching eyes. Did they deceive him or had the iron ball struck the water farther away this time?

  Smiling, Biron grabbed Luke’s shoulder and shook him.

  “We’re outrunning them!” Samuel yelled from the wheel, while Mr. Keene slid down the backstay and nodded his approval to Luke.

  The crew shouted “huzzahs” into the air.

  Luke’s muscles began to unwind. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his moist hair and studied the frigate. The white foam curling on her bow indicated she still pursued them, but her diminishing size said she was losing the chase.

  “Fire a salute to their heroic effort, if you please, Mr. Ward,” Luke said with a grin.

  Mr. Keene chuckled. “I like the way you think, Captain.”

  The gunner happily complied by lighting his matchstick to the touchhole of one of the carronades mounted on the larboard quarter.

  The gun roared a proper adieu to the British ship, sending acrid smoke back over the crew and a tremble through the timbers. With his nose still burning from the smell of gunpowder, Luke completed the farewell with a wave of his cocked hat and a mock bow.

  The enemy responded with a guttural blast of one of their own guns before veering away.

  Minutes later, Luke raised his scope to see the frigate fading against the setting sun. Releasing a deep breath, he stuffed the glass into his belt and addressed Biron standing beside him, “Lower the royals and stays, and tell Sam to set a course three degrees south by southeast.”