Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Sam, alter course slightly to the east,” Luke ordered. “We’ll lose them during the night. And Biron, inform the night watch to keep the lanterns cold, if you please. We don’t want to give them anything to shoot at, do we?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” both men replied.

  Untying John, Luke ushered the boy down the companionway to the captain’s cabin. After a rather tasteless meal of dried meat and hard biscuits, Luke assisted John with his studies—another thing he’d promised Mrs. Barnes he would do. After going over mathematics, literature, and shipboard navigation, Luke tucked John into the captain’s bed. “You’re much smarter than I ever was, little brother. I was never very good at my studies.”

  “I know. Mrs. Barnes told me.” John smiled.

  Laughing, Luke tapped John on the nose, pride welling up in him. “You’re also going to be a great sailor and a good captain.”

  “I told you I could do it.” The young boy nodded.

  “And you were right. I should have trusted you.”

  “I take after you, Luke.” John grew serious. “You’re a great captain. Mom and Dad would be proud.”

  Emotion burned in Luke’s throat as he pulled the quilt up to John’s chin. He doubted that was true. If his parents could see the way Luke lived his life, it would no doubt break their hearts. All the things they had warned him to stay away from, he had run out and done anyway. The gambling, drinking, the womanizing. And all the things they had told him were important, reading his Bible, praying, working hard, and trusting God, he had not done. Why? Rebellion against their rigid rules, he supposed. But it went much deeper than that. Right into the depths of their faith. Where had their devotion to God gotten them? Burned alive in their own house. But Luke didn’t blame God for that. How could he blame someone who didn’t exist? No, their deaths were on Luke’s head. He could have rescued them, but he didn’t. Instead, he had stood there like a coward.

  A sudden ache sliced through his right ear, and he reached up to rub it.

  “Get some sleep, John.” Luke stood. “You never know what tomorrow will bring. Perhaps we’ll catch a prize!”

  John gave him a wide grin then turned on his side and closed his eyes as if obeying Luke would make it come true.

  By the time Luke made it to his desk, John’s deep breathing filled the cabin. Ah, to be an innocent child again and fall asleep without a care in the world. Sinking down onto the stern window ledge, Luke propped up his boot and gazed out the windows onto the ebony sea beyond. Boisterous laughter and a ribald ballad drifted down from above, reminding Luke that everyone—but him and possibly Biron—was enjoying some rum tonight.

  Infernal woman. He leaned his head back on the bulkhead. Infernal, wonderful, beautiful woman. Though it had been weeks, his lips still burned with the passion of her kiss, her taste. The way she had melted at his touch and groaned in pleasure. She had wanted him to kiss her. And he had been unable to stop. Just as he was unable to stop thinking of her now. Did he have a chance to win her affections? He had not thought so until that night. But a seed of hope had wiggled into the hard soil of his heart—albeit a tiny seed—that a woman like Cassandra could love a blackguard like him.

  “Captain!” Rough hands gripped Luke’s arms. “Get up.”

  Luke rubbed his eyes and opened them to see a worried look on Biron’s lined face.

  “What is it?” He sprang from the hammock.

  “It’s the frigate, Captain.” Biron shot a glance out the stern windows where the sun’s rays were just intruding into the cabin and then at John, still sound asleep on the bed.

  “She’s fast on our tail.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Clutching her gown, Cassandra dragged her tired legs up the stairs to her chamber. She’d been woken far too early that morning when Darlene, Hannah, and Dexter had burst into her room chasing each other in a game of privateer versus British merchantman. With sticks as swords, hairbrushes as pistols, and Dexter’s thunderous barks serving as cannon blasts, the trio had pounced on her bed, oblivious to Cassandra’s sleeping form. After chastising them, Cassandra had given in to their sobs and gathered them up on her rumpled coverlet where the three of them, and Dexter, had engaged in a renewed battle, only this time using pillows—the likes of which had quickly become casualties of war in a snowstorm of feathers. Cassandra had insisted they all help Mrs. Northrop clean up the mess, but now as Cassandra entered her chamber, she spotted one rebellious feather peeking at her from beneath the bed. Stooping, she picked it up and brushed it over her chin, a smile lifting her lips. Just to see Hannah well again was worth the mayhem.

  A scraping sound jerked Cassandra’s gaze to her dressing bureau in the far corner where Mrs. Northrop stood gaping at her, a look of terror on her face.

  “Mrs. Northrop, whatever are you doing in here?”

  The housekeeper waved both hands in the air. “Just searching for more feathers, miss.” Her voice quaked and her gaze skittered across the chamber. “Oh, I see you’ve found one.” Dashing toward Cassandra, she plucked it from her hand and rushed out of the room.

  Cassandra stared after her. The woman’s behavior was becoming more and more peculiar with each passing day.

  The shrill ding ding ding of a bell shot through the open door, followed by her mother’s pathetic howl. Then Darlene’s boisterous laughter, accompanied by Hannah’s yelp, barreled through the window from outside.

  Perhaps the entire house was mad, after all.

  Cassandra wandered to her window and sat on the cushioned ledge. Shafts of afternoon sunlight angled across the side of the house and over the top of the solarium below. The leaves of birch and maple trees fluttered in the breeze as pink Virginia creeper circled their trunks. A hot summer breeze caressed her face, swirling the scent of wild mint and thyme beneath her nose. A bell tolled from the docks, and her thoughts drifted to Mr. Heaton. He’d been gone two weeks. Not a day—no, if she were honest—not an hour passed that she did not think of him.

  And his kiss. The way her insides had felt like a thousand flickering candles. The look of adoration and desire in his eyes. The shameful way she had responded.

  Before she had slapped him.

  Yet even her strike had not erased the affection from his gaze or the mischievous smirk from his lips. She missed him. And she hated herself for it. A niggling fear had ignited within her these past days. Privateering was dangerous business. What if something happened to him and his ship? What if she never saw him again?

  Cassandra gazed down at the floral pattern on the cushions. She must not think of him. Nor of his kiss. She must not entertain thoughts of any attachment to the man. For he was a blackguard and a philanderer. Not a man to be counted on—trusted. Even if she accepted his courtship, he’d no doubt grow restless and abandon her. No, she could not depend on anyone, not ever again. For everyone had let her down. Even God.

  God. Reverend Drummond and Marianne had said that God had a purpose—a good purpose for everything that happened. If that was true, if God was involved in the details of Cassandra’s life, would He still listen to her prayers? Even though she had ignored Him for years?

  She bowed her head. “God, if You’re listening, please protect Mr. Heaton.”

  The sound of a throat clearing opened Cassandra’s eyes. She turned to see Margaret smiling at her from the doorway. Cassandra’s face heated.

  “Forgive me, miss. I didn’t mean to intrude, but your mother requests your presence in the parlor. Mr. Crane has arrived.”

  Cassandra closed her eyes. “Oh, bother.” Lately, the man seemed to appear wherever Cassandra happened to be: at the chandlers, the wheelwright, the seamstress, the butcher. And when she didn’t venture out, he showed up at her house. However, his usual dour mood had significantly improved these past few weeks. To the point that he was almost giddy with delight. And for some reason, that annoyed her more than his peevishness. At least he had not brought up the subject of a courtship between them again. Though if that was
not his goal, she couldn’t imagine why he continued to call on her family. Squaring her shoulders, Cassandra rose from her seat, pressed down the folds of her gown.

  “Pardon me for saying so.” The maid gave her a coy grin. “But it’s good to see you praying again, miss.”

  Cassandra flung a hand in the air as she brushed past Margaret. “I was just praying for Mr. Heaton’s safety.”

  “Well, if he’s the one causing you to talk to God again, I hope he returns to town soon.” Margaret’s words followed Cassandra downstairs and settled on her heart with equal sentiment.

  So did she. So did she.

  Before she reached the foyer, whispers slithered over her ears. Peering over the banister, Cassandra spotted Mr. Crane speaking to Mrs. Northrop at the entrance to the long hall that led to the back of the house. Mrs. Northrop nodded and sped away, while Mr. Crane strode to the foot of the stairs, his face aglow with surprise when he saw Cassandra descending.

  “Ah, Miss Channing, you look lovely this afternoon.”

  “Thank you, sir. What on earth were you speaking to my housekeeper about?”

  His lips twisted in an odd shape before he answered. “Just ordering some tea for your mother.” He proffered his arm and led Cassandra into the sitting room where her mother perched excitedly on the settee.

  “Oh, there you are, dear. Isn’t it nice that Mr. Crane has taken time away from his duties at the newspaper to call on you?”

  Not particularly. Cassandra forced a smile and took a seat beside her mother just as Hannah darted into the room, her eyes red with tears. “Mama, Darlene hit me.”

  After an embarrassing glance at Mr. Crane, Cassandra’s mother placed her fingers atop her temple. “Please, dearest, tell her we do not hit each other in this house.”

  “I did,” Hannah whined.

  Darlene tumbled into the room then stopped short when she saw Mr. Crane. “I didn’t hit her, Mother.”

  “Yes, you did.” Hannah stomped her foot and folded her arms over her chest.

  “No, I didn’t.”

  Cassandra’s mother closed her eyes and rang her bell, while Mr. Crane examined the girls with disdain before releasing a huff of impatience.

  Seeing an opportunity to relieve herself of Mr. Crane’s company, Cassandra rose. “I’ll take them upstairs, Mother.” She started toward the girls.

  “No, dear, I insist you stay and entertain Mr. Crane. I’ve invited him to stay for supper. Besides, Mrs. Northrop can take care of them.” She rang her bell again and the housekeeper appeared, a scowl on her face.

  Kneeling beside her sisters, Cassandra gave them both a stern look. “Now go with Mrs. Northrop and attend to your studies. And behave yourselves, both of you.”

  “I’m sorry, Cassie.” Darlene feigned a pout.

  “I simply cannot handle them anymore,” her mother remarked to Mr. Crane after the girls left.

  Cassandra spun around. “You never could handle them, Mother.”

  Her mother frowned. “I suppose you’re right. You were equally as difficult, but at least your father was still here to help.”

  Cassandra’s anger dissipated beneath the look of pain on her mother’s face. Taking her seat again, she placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “I’m truly sorry, Mother.”

  Her mother gave a sad smile. “You always did have a mind of your own.”

  Mr. Crane cleared his throat. “All those girls need is the firm hand of a man’s discipline.”

  “Oh, you are so right, Mr. Crane. You are so right, indeed.” Her mother’s voice came back to life.

  Cassandra leaned back in her chair, desperate to change the subject. “How is the newspaper business, Mr. Crane?”

  “Booming.” He tugged at the cuffs of his coat and sat on the sofa opposite Cassandra. A breeze stirred the curtains at the windows as the clatter of a horse and carriage ambled by on the street. “War is good for the news business, you know.”

  Her mother chuckled. “Of course it is.”

  Cassandra braced herself for another excruciating soliloquy of the happenings down at the Baltimore Register. But instead, Mr. Crane brought up a topic that had consumed Cassandra’s mind of late. “Have you heard from Mr. Heaton?”

  A moment passed in which Cassandra gazed at him in astonishment, then another moment as she wondered at his reasons for asking. He had made his abhorrence of Mr. Heaton quite clear the last time they’d been together.

  “Cassandra, you’re being rude. Answer Mr. Crane.” Her mother laughed nervously.

  “No, I have not heard from him, sir. But it’s only been a few weeks. It could be months before he returns.”

  Mr. Crane’s lips fell into a frown, and the edges of his nose seemed to droop with them. “So many of Baltimore’s privateers have never returned.” Leaning forward, he clipped the edge of the table with his forefinger and thumb while he spoke. He did not meet her gaze, though she thought she saw a hint of a smile peeking from the corners of his eyes. “The Eleanor, Phaeton, Pioneer, Tartar, all lost at sea. And the Baltimore, Cashier, Courier, Dolphin, Arab, Lynx, and Falcon all captured. Ah, the list goes on.”

  Cassandra shifted uncomfortably on her seat.

  “How true, Mr. Crane.” Her mother huffed. “But at least our share of Mr. Heaton’s first prize should last us a good long while.”

  Our share? Cassandra eyed her mother. When had it become their enterprise and not Cassandra’s foolish venture? “Regardless, Mother, there are human lives at stake. Not to mention the fate of our country.”

  “I’m sure your mother meant no disrespect,” Mr. Crane said. “I, for one, can attest to that feeling of security that comes from financial independence.” With chin extended, he draped both arms across the back of the settee like a peacock spreading his feathers. “But I do come on another matter.”

  Her mother nearly jumped from her seat as if she knew of what matter he spoke. Cassandra gazed between them, unsure if she wished to hear it or not.

  “Yes, Mr. Crane?” her mother said.

  “No doubt you’ve heard about the upcoming ball at the Fountain Inn.”

  Cassandra’s heart dropped. “I have, sir.”

  “Please extend me the privilege of escorting you, Miss Channing.” His confident smile sent a shiver through her.

  “Oh, how kind of you, sir!” Cassandra’s mother clapped her hands. “Isn’t it, dear?”

  “Very kind.” Cassandra bit her lip and avoided the man’s gaze. Her eyes landed on a tea service on the table, and confusion wracked through her. Mr. Crane had said he ordered Mrs. Northrop to bring tea. With narrowed eyes, she opened her mouth to question him when an ominous crash sounded from the back of the house. Someone screamed, and the pounding of feet echoed down the hallway.

  Cassandra’s mother moaned. Cassandra shot to her feet and tossed a “pardon me” over her shoulder at Mr. Crane before darting from the room and down the hall as she followed the sound of sobbing coming from the kitchen. She barreled through the swinging door to see Miss Thain on her knees before pieces of broken china and a splattering of red liquid. Dexter sat on his haunches, taller than Miss Thain on her knees, and grinned—if dogs could grin—bloody juice dripping from his furry chin. The smell of pea soup and dog breath assailed her. The door swung open, bumping Cassandra as her mother and Mr. Crane joined her.

  Miss Thain wiped the tears from her face. “I’m so sorry, mum. Darlene and Hannah ran through and knocked the tray from my hands. And that beast followed them in and ate the entire roast for dinner.”

  “Gads!” Mr. Crane said. “Of all the …”

  Mrs. Northrop entered the room and gasped.

  Growling, Dexter charged Mr. Crane and leapt upon him, forcing him back with two enormous paws upon the man’s pristine coat. Pristine no longer as blood from the roast, mixed with dog saliva, sprayed over the fabric with each bark.

  Mr. Crane’s face crumpled in disgust. Cringing, he crossed his arms over his face as Dexter shoved him against the wall.
“Get him off of me!”

  “Oh dear, Mr. Crane. My apologies, sir.” Mrs. Channing hurried toward him. “Dexter, get down this instant!” Her harried gaze swept to Cassandra. “Get that monstrosity of a dog off Mr. Crane and out of here at once!”

  Restraining a giggle, Cassandra grabbed Dexter’s collar, tugged him from the cowering newspaper man, and led him to the door.

  “How many times have I told those girls not to run in the kitchen or to allow that dog in the house!” her mother brayed to no one in particular.

  “Be a good boy, now,” Cassandra whispered to the dog, closed the door, and turned to see her mother nearly swooning over Mr. Crane, who had somewhat recovered from his display of cowardice. Although to be fair, Cassandra had never seen Dexter behave so violently with anyone before.

  “That was to be our supper, Mr. Crane,” Cassandra’s mother whined. “We had purchased the finest meat we could find in town. Quite expensive, you know. And now we have nothing to offer you.”

  “Do not vex yourself, Mrs. Channing.” Mr. Crane led her to a chair at the preparation table. “I am happy to eat porridge and biscuits if that is all you have to offer me.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mr. Crane.” Her mother dropped her forehead into her hand. “We would never think of serving such menial fare to such an important guest.”

  “How kind of you, madam.” Mr. Crane took a step back and examined his soiled coat. He brushed his sleeves in a panicky fashion, as if the pandemonium in the house were infectious.

  Miss Thain continued to sob.

  “Perhaps you should take Mother to the parlor, Mr. Crane”—Cassandra offered him a sweet smile—“while I straighten this mess out.”

  “Yes, very well.” He tugged at his cravat.

  “But what are we to serve for supper?” her mother asked.

  Cassandra gazed out the window where bright sunlight lit the garden in a kaleidoscope of greens, browns, and yellows. “Never fear, Mother, it is still early. Margaret and I can go to the market.”

  Clinging to the table for support, her mother stood and smiled. “Thank you, dear.” Then clutching Mr. Crane’s arm, she allowed him to lead her from the kitchen.