Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Hit the deck!” Mr. Keene yelled. The crew halted and stooped, arms braced over their heads.

  The shot splashed impotently off their starboard bow.

  Luke gripped the railing. “Bring us athwart her stern, Sam!”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

  Stomping across the main deck, Biron spouted orders that sent the men aloft to trim the sails to the wind.

  “Aim for his rigging, Mr. Ward,” Luke shouted.

  “Aye.” With a crazed look in his sharp eyes, and his hair flailing about in the wind, the gunner looked like the ghost of some ancient sea battle.

  The ship tacked to starboard. Sails thundered above. Luke spread his boots on the heaving deck and took up a position behind the guns. He squinted as the sun glinted off the polished brass. Biron came up alongside him, dabbing his neckerchief across his forehead.

  As Destiny came around, bringing her larboard guns to bear, the stern of the brig rose from the sea like a barnacle-encrusted whale. Crewmen scurried around a stern chaser perched on her railing. But they would be too late. Luke hoped. Though he couldn’t be sure. For one well-placed shot could damage his rigging beyond repair. A blast of hot wind struck him even as the low rumble of thunder laughed at him from the horizon.

  “On my command, Mr. Ward.”

  The gunner distributed the burning punks to the men at each gun.

  Destiny leveled out keel to stern as she glided past the brig.

  “Fire!” Luke yelled.

  Smoldering sticks flew to touch holes atop the guns. Four deafening roars shook the ship from stem to stern, flinging a broadside of grape and langrage at the merchantman. A wall of gray smoke crashed over Luke, stinging his eyes and stealing the air from his lungs. Coughing, he spun about, cupped his hands, and shouted aloft, “Unfurl tops!” Then charging onto the quarterdeck, he turned to Sam. “Hard to starboard, Sam.”

  “Hard to starboard, Cap’n,” the boy repeated and the ship jerked, the deck canted, and Luke clutched the quarter rail to keep from falling. White foam hungrily licked the starboard railing. The blocks creaked and groaned from the strain.

  Another ominous boom! sounded behind them. Luke turned to gaze at the enemy. A spiral of smoke drifted from her stern. The shot struck a rising wave twenty feet off their larboard quarter. Luke’s crew cheered.

  Raising the scope, Luke studied the brig. Sailors raced frantically across her deck. Her main topmast was shot away. Rigging and sails cluttered the deck below.

  “Bring her about, Sam.” Luke lowered the glass. “Let’s give the British another taste of American hospitality.”

  Sam’s eyes sparkled. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Several minutes passed as Destiny maneuvered for another round. The ship creaked and complained like an old woman, yet she held tight beneath a full set of sail. Pacing the main deck, Luke gazed at the men in the tops adjusting canvas then down at Mr. Ward’s gun crew as they prepared the starboard guns and elevated the quoins beneath the gun breeches to aim once again for the brig’s rigging.

  The eyes of every crewman shot to Luke, awaiting his next command. This time, not a trace of doubt could be seen within them. You always fail. The insidious voice clawed over Luke’s soul, tugging on his newfound confidence.

  No. Drawing in a deep breath of air tainted with gunpowder, Luke lengthened his stance. No. Not this time.

  Destiny swooped athwart the brig’s stern once again. Only this time, the enemy was ready. Luke could make out her crew lighting the touchholes of two stern chasers.

  “Fire!” Luke bellowed just as two yellow flashes speared out from the brig.

  Boom boom boom boom! Destiny’s four carronades belched black madness, sending wave after wave of thick smoke back over the deck. The timbers trembled beneath Luke’s boots. Coughing, he shouted orders to veer to larboard. The direful swoosh of shot sped past his ears, parting the haze and striking wood with an ominous crunch. More shots screeched past him like hail. The sound of canvas ripping filled the air. A scream of agony. Luke’s heart clenched. Fear crowded in his throat.

  When the smoke cleared, he marched to the railing and glanced over the main deck. He spotted Biron.

  “Damage report.”

  White eyes, stark against a black-sooted face, stared up at him. “A few tears in the sails and rigging, sir, and the aft bulwark is crushed. Mr. Rockland’s arm was nicked. Nothing else of note.”

  Luke nodded, relieved, then raised his scope and found men dashing over the enemy brig in a state of frenzy. Their entire main mast had cracked and fallen in a tangle of sailcloth cordage and shattered spars, spreading over their deck like a giant spiderweb of confusion.

  Luke snapped the hair from his face and smiled. “Bring her about, Sam! Stations for the stays!”

  Luke had her. One more broadside and the British merchantman would be his.

  Destiny hauled on the wind as the brig began firing once again—the Englishmen shooting wildly and hitting nothing but sea. Which meant they were desperate and frightened. Good. Luke marched across the deck as the ship flew through the heavy seas, plunging into the rollers and shooting spray into the air in brilliant showers. Soon they came within fifty yards alongside the brig.

  Mr. Ward’s brows raised in anticipation.

  “Hold on. Steady now,” Luke said.

  Mr. Keene crossed his arms over his embroidered waistcoat, a smile of victory on his face.

  “But they’re preparing to fire on us, Cap’n,” Mr. Ward said.

  Luke’s glance took in the men aboard the brig, frantically buzzing around their guns. But Luke was a gambling man. And he gambled that in their haste, the brig’s gun crew wouldn’t hit their target. The seas had grown rough and their shot must be timed perfectly with the roll of the waves. They would waste it, and then Luke would have them.

  He hoped.

  He rubbed the sweat from his scarred palm and gripped the railing.

  The thunderous growl of the brig’s three guns sliced the darkening sky. But the shots sped overhead and landed in the churning waves off Destiny’s larboard side.

  “Fire!” Luke yelled and the carronades roared, pummeling the brig with yet another broadside of grape shot.

  Smoke once again clouded Luke’s vision, but distant screams of agony accompanied by the crack and snap of wood told him their shots had hit their mark. When the haze cleared, he smiled at the sight of the Union Jack being lowered in surrender.

  The air returned to his lungs. Wiping the sweat from the back of his neck, he felt the tension slip from his body. He had won his first battle. If there was a God, Luke would thank Him for the victory.

  If there was a God.

  A cheer rose from his crew as all eyes shot to him. “Let’s hear it for Captain Heaton!”

  “Hip hip hurray. Hip hip hurray!”

  Though his insides swelled at their approval, Luke raised his fist in the air. “For America!”

  “For America!” they shouted in unison.

  “Put the helm down and bring us alongside her, Sam,” Luke ordered.

  Biron slapped Luke on the back. “That’s some fine sailing, Luke. Your first prize.”

  Luke stared at the brig as she lowered her sails. “I hope there’ll be many more.”

  Luke gazed out the stern windows in his cabin, rising and falling over the moonlit horizon. The tap tap of rain struck the glass and slid down in chaotic streams. Though the rough seas had not abated, he and his crew had still managed to board the brig, assess her damage, round up her crew, and inventory the cargo.

  Mr. Sanders cleared his throat, and Luke spun around.

  The purser adjusted his spectacles and read from a parchment in his hand. “Glass, white lead, coffee, flour, sugar, silk, Holland duck, burgundy wine, and rum, Cap’n.” Greed sparkled in the man’s oversized blue eyes.

  “That should bring us a fair price.” Biron commented from his seat in the velvet-upholstered chair. “Not to mention selling the brig itself.”

&n
bsp; “Aye.” Mr. Keene rubbed his jeweled fingers together. “I’m beginning to like this privateering.”

  “Me too!” Sam punched the air. “You sure took it to those Brits, Cap’n. I never seen anything like it.” Admiration beamed in his eyes.

  Biron passed a stern look over the three men standing in a line before the captain’s desk. “We aren’t in this trade just for the money, gentlemen. Our country is at war. And each British merchantman we capture means less money in our enemy’s coffers.”

  Thunder rumbled in the distance as the ship pitched over a wave, swinging the lantern hanging on the deck head and casting shifting shadows over the cabin.

  Luke nodded and circled his desk. “I quite agree.” Though he needed the money—needed it desperately—he hated the British tyrants even more. “We must do our part to frustrate the plans of the enemy or one day we will wake up and find our liberties stolen from us.”

  Mr. Sanders continued staring at the list, clearly unmoved by the patriotic speech. “Would you like me to add up the value of the cargo and conjecture on what we can expect to receive?”

  “If you wish, Mr. Sanders.” Luke leaned back against his desk and crossed his booted feet at the ankle.

  The slight man pursed his thin lips. “We may not get what we hoped. The government takes a huge share in custom duties, I’m afraid.” He looked up and tugged on his cravat. “Perhaps we should appoint one of the men as prize master and send him and the ship to port while we capture another one.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sanders,” Luke said. “You are dismissed.”

  With a scowl, the purser scurried from the cabin.

  Mr. Keene cocked his head toward the door. “The man makes a good case, Cap’n. Why not continue the hunt while your luck is high?”

  “Not luck, providence, Mr. Keene,” Biron interjected in his usual confident tone.

  Ignoring him, Luke sighed. “Because I have matters to attend to at home first.”

  Sam’s face twisted into a pout, and Luke raised a hand to silence him. “I promise we will set out again within the month.”

  “What matters could be more important than money?” Mr. Keene cocked a smile that made him seem more callow than one would expect of a man over forty. “Ah, I know.” He pointed a finger toward Luke, flinging his soot-stained sleeve through the air. “A woman?”

  Luke flattened his lips. “None of—”

  “If it is a woman,” Mr. Keene interrupted, “my dear captain, might I remind you that the more money you have, the more women you can attract.”

  Sam chuckled at the man’s display, but Luke studied Mr. Keene as an uncomfortable feeling of familiarity swamped him. “It depends on what type of women you wish to attract.” Luke said the words before he even knew from what cultivated corner of his conscience they had hailed, for he certainly had never been meticulous about the sort of female companionship he had kept before.

  Biron smiled his approval.

  Luke cleared his throat. “Mr. Keene, will you do me the honor of taking command of the British merchantman?”

  Mr. Keene’s dark eyes flickered. “Of course, Cap’n.”

  Sam fidgeted in his spot as if he could hardly stand still. Though Luke knew what the boy wanted, he hesitated to send him along with Keene. The man’s company could only besmirch Sam’s innocence. But Luke couldn’t keep the two apart forever. “Sam, you may go with him as his second in command.”

  “Thank you, Cap’n.” The lad grinned. Mr. Keene grabbed him by the neck and fisted a hand playfully over his hair the way Luke often did with John.

  A longing to see his brother filled Luke’s soul until it ached. A mist covered his eyes, and he turned to gaze at the charts spread across his desk. “Biron, as soon as we are done here, divide the prisoners between the two ships and lock them up below.”

  Sam’s laughter faded. “Where are we heading, Cap’n?”

  “We’ll sail for Wilmington first thing in the morning and sell the ship and cargo there.” Luke faced forward again.

  “And then?” Mr. Keene shifted his stance. “The crew is asking.”

  “We’ll find a place to anchor safely. I’ll assign a few men to stay with the ship and the rest are free to head over land to Baltimore. Unless the men prefer to stay in Wilmington until I return. It’s up to them.”

  Keene’s eyebrows leapt. “To spend our shares on women and wine.”

  Samuel grinned and threw his shoulders back. “Aye.” His voice came out deeper than normal.

  Mr. Keene chuckled. “You’re too young for such pleasures, boy.”

  “No, I’m not.” Sam shot a glance at Luke. “Am I, Luke? You took up drinking and gambling at my age, didn’t you? I heard you tellin’ Biron.”

  Luke shifted uncomfortably on the edge of his desk. Suddenly his vile habits didn’t seem so appealing. In fact, they sickened him. Concern rose within him for this young, impressionable lad. Associating with crude sailors would do nothing to produce the qualities esteemed in a true gentleman. And for some reason Luke wanted more for the boy. In truth, he suddenly wanted more for himself.

  “Mr. Keene is right, Sam. You’ll go home and visit your mother and father. I’m sure they are anxious to hear how you are faring.” No, he would not have Sam fritter away his time and money drinking and womanizing, ending up an empty-handed failure in ten years.

  Just like Luke.

  Sam frowned and scuffed his shoe over the deck. “Yes, sir.”

  Mr. Keene grabbed the boy by the arm, winked at Luke, and headed out the door.

  After they left, Biron opened his mouth to say something when a knock on the door sounded. A sailor entered, bottle of rum in hand.

  “Mr. Sanders’s compliments, sir. He sent over a crate of rum from the brig.” The sailor set the bottle on Luke’s desk.

  At the sight of the amber liquid, Luke’s throat became a desert. “Thank you, Mr. Willis. That will be all,” he managed to squeak out.

  With a nod, the sailor left and closed the door behind him.

  Luke rubbed his stubbled jaw. The rum teetered in the bottle like liquid gold with each movement of the ship. He hadn’t had a sip in over two months. During the first week, he’d trembled so badly, he’d thought his brain would shake loose. Didn’t he deserve a drink after winning the battle today? After all he’d endured?

  Biron quirked a brow. “You promised her.”

  Luke nodded.

  Thunder growled outside the windows. Wind whipped pellets of rain against the glass as if God, aware of his weakening resolve, was warning him to stay away from the tempting liquid.

  Or perhaps it was just a portent of coming doom. For the mantle of success that lay temporarily across Luke’s shoulders was sure to slip off soon enough.

  CHAPTER 12

  Cassandra laid the back of her hand over Hannah’s forehead. Heat radiated from the child. Still feverish. Hannah moaned, and Cassandra wrung out a cloth in the basin and dabbed it over the little girl’s face and neck before laying it atop her forehead again. Streams of bright sunlight rippled over the bed in defiance of the sickness within, highlighting Hannah’s damp red curls as they formed delicate patterns across her neck. The little girl turned her head on the pillow and let out a ragged sigh.

  Dexter, lying across the bed at Hannah’s feet—where he’d remained since she’d taken ill—lifted his head at the sound but then laid it back down on outstretched paws with a moan.

  The tap of Cassandra’s mother’s slippers as she paced at the foot of the bed joined Hannah’s mumbles and Margaret’s whispered prayers in a grim melody that only further darkened Cassandra’s spirits.

  “Oh, what are we to do?” her mother said.

  Cassandra turned in her chair to see her mother wringing her hands then spinning about to cross the room again. Fair curls, which were usually strung tight around her face, hung loose over her cheeks. Her blue eyes skittered to and fro from within a pale, droopy face, and though it was nearly midday, she still wore he
r nightdress and robe.

  Cassandra approached her, touching her arm, halting her in her worrisome trek. “She will be all right, Mother. Don’t vex yourself so.”

  Margaret stopped her prayers and looked up from where she knelt on the other side of the bed as if expecting Cassandra to share some profound revelation.

  But Cassandra had none. In truth, she didn’t know whether Hannah would survive. It had been three weeks since she’d taken ill, and although she had seemed to be recovering the past few days, last night after the medicine ran out, the poor girl had taken a turn for the worse.

  Her mother’s lip quivered. “How do you know that?” Tears glistened in her eyes. “I have lost my husband and most likely both my sons. I cannot lose my daughter.”

  Margaret gazed lovingly at Hannah then bowed her head again over her open Bible.

  No! Cassandra stomped her foot. There would be no further tragedy in this house. Not if Cassandra had anything to do about it.

  She took hold of her mother’s shoulders. “You won’t lose her, Mother. Hannah is strong. She will recover.”

  “But Dr. Wilson said there was nothing he could do. She needs the medicines.” A tear spilled from her mother’s eye. She batted it away. “And we can’t afford any more.”

  Drawing her mother close, Cassandra wrapped her arms around her. The scent of jasmine swept the foul odor of illness from Cassandra’s nose—if only for a moment—as her mind spun, seeking an answer. But there was none. She had run out of money weeks ago.

  Margaret raised her head. Her misty eyes found Cassandra’s and they exchanged a sympathetic glance, making Cassandra wonder how her maid fared reliving a tragedy that must be so fresh to her heart.

  “The silverware.” Cassandra stepped back from her mother.

  The elderly woman wiped her swollen face. “What do you mean, dear?”