Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Darlene pranced beside him as if she were actually proud to be seen with him. Amazing. She smiled up at him, and he gave her hand a squeeze.

  A breeze, ripe with the sting of rain and salt, wafted over them. Somewhere fiddle music played, floating atop the hum of conversation, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves, and a bell chiming in the distance.

  Lifting his face to the warm sun, Luke could never remember feeling such joy. Such hope for the future. God, if You’re there and responsible for this, thank You. He shocked himself at the prayer, but since he had opened up the conversation, he might as well add, And please help me rescue John.

  He heard Cassandra groan, and he lowered his gaze just as she bumped into a man exiting the butcher’s with a wrapped package of meat in his hand.

  “Oh, Mr. McCulloch, pardon me,” she said. “Good day to you, sir.”

  The customs agent tipped his hat as his eyes shifted from her to Luke. “Good day, Miss Channing, Mr. Heaton. How fares the privateering business these days?”

  Margaret and Mr. Dayle stopped behind them.

  A curious look twisted Cassandra’s expression. “Surely you know, sir, since Mr. Heaton has no doubt declared his prizes in your office.”

  The agent’s face seemed to fold in on itself. “Miss Channing, I fear you are mistaken, for I’ve never done business with Mr. Heaton.”

  Ice coursed through Luke’s veins.

  Cassandra’s emerald eyes bore into him. “Pray tell how, Luke, do you declare the cargo you confiscate? And the ships?” She released her hold on his arm.

  The air chilled. Luke shifted his stance, feeling the loss of her touch like an anchor in his gut. “At other ports,” he explained.

  Dark clouds captured the sun, casting the street in gray shadows.

  Cassandra cocked her head. “Yet since you’ve been able to slip past the blockade, why not sell them here?”

  “I certainly cannot sail a prize British ship through the blockade.” Luke forced a smile, not meeting her gaze. The anchor clawed his insides.

  No doubt bored with the conversation, Hannah released Cassandra’s hand and poked Darlene from behind, giggling.

  “Stop it!” Darlene shouted. “Cassie, Hannah hit me.”

  Grabbing Hannah, Cassandra handed her off to Margaret.

  Mr. McCulloch’s brows scrunched. “How do you slip your ship past the blockade, Mr. Heaton? I, for one, am enamored at the skill of those few privateers able to accomplish such a feat.”

  “He’s the best captain in the world,” Darlene exclaimed, still clinging to his hand. “That’s how he does it.”

  Luke smiled at the girl. Would that her elder sister believed the same. He faced the customs agent. “That’s all it is, sir, I assure you. Skill with a bit of luck mixed in.”

  “Hmm.” Mr. McCulloch did not seem satisfied. “Well, I must be going. I need to get this pork home to the cook.” He tipped his hat again and ambled away.

  Thunder rumbled across the sky, portending Luke’s doom. He tried to shake it off but the look of suspicion glazing Cassandra’s eyes confirmed his fears.

  “I should be going as well,” Luke said, anything to avoid the censure pouring from Cassandra. “I have much to do to ready the ship to sail.”

  “Of course.” She smiled, but the light was gone from her eyes.

  Darlene tugged on his hand. “May I come and help?”

  Luke knelt and Hannah stormed into his embrace. “Not this time.”

  Darlene pouted. Luke hugged both girls and stood, risking a glance at Cassandra. “May I call on you when I return to port?”

  “You may.”

  Seizing the flicker of affection in her eyes, Luke kissed her on the cheek then nodded toward Margaret and Mr. Dayle and marched down the street. He hated lying to Cassandra. The sooner he put an end to this deceit, the better. He would appeal to Captain Raynor’s honor. He would load up his ship with as many goods as he could carry, offer to give them as a gift to the British captain in return for his brother and Luke’s vow to never again attack British ships.

  Any man possessing an ounce of decency would agree to it.

  Trouble was, Luke wasn’t sure the British captain possessed an ounce of decency.

  Hoping to escape for a few moments’ peace, Cassandra slipped down the stairway and headed toward the back door. Hannah’s and Darlene’s screams shot through the house like deviant trumpets, accompanied by the incessant clanging of her mother’s bell. How could anyone think in the midst of such clamor? And thinking was precisely what Cassandra needed.

  The nagging feeling she’d had yesterday as Luke escorted them into town had burst into a suspicion as hot and dense as the muggy air that suffocated the city. Though it was certainly possible for Luke to sail his prizes and goods into other ports, it left him precious little time to spend here in Baltimore. And how did he slip past the blockade unscathed on so many occasions? Mr. McCulloch’s questions had awakened doubts that had been squashed beneath her rising infatuation of the handsome privateer. To make matters worse, Mr. Crane’s prior accusations reappeared above the waters of her denial, reeking more of truth than jealousy. In fact, the more she thought about it, the more impossible it seemed that Luke could sail out of Baltimore, capture a prize, sail into another port, sell the goods, deal with customs, and sail home in the short duration of his recent voyages.

  But how else could he be making money? He’d sent her a fair amount in the post before the ball, along with the paperwork. Though not as much as before, the funds would last Cassandra and her family almost a year. Opening the back door, she braced herself against the sizzling heat, grabbed her skirts, and made her way around the corner of the house. Each strike of the hot sun jarred her reason awake and plunged her heart into fear.

  By the time she entered the solarium, her spirits were as heavy as the air that surrounded her.

  A yelp brought her heart into her throat and her gaze up to see Mrs. Northrop standing with Cassandra’s open chest in hand.

  Terror streaked across the housekeeper’s wide eyes. “I thought you were in town, miss.”

  Marching toward the woman, Cassandra tore the chest from her grasp then grabbed the key from her hand. “What on earth are you doing with my personal belongings? How dare you?”

  Mrs. Northrop’s swallow ran down her long neck. “I’ll be going now, miss.” She started toward the door.

  Cassandra grabbed her arm and spun her around. “You will do no such thing. I demand to know what you were doing looking through my father’s chest!”

  “Nothing.” She stared at the ground.

  Closing the lid, Cassandra set the chest down on the bench and fingered the key in her hand. Her mind swam in the confusing horror of betrayal. Then the realization hit her.

  “You.” She gaped at the woman. “You stole my money.”

  Mrs. Northrop backed away, wringing her hands. She bumped into a gardenia bush. “It was Mr. Crane. He made me do it, miss.”

  “Mr. Crane?” Cassandra shook her head. Why would the man do such a thing? Her legs weakened, and she sank onto the stool. “He wanted my family to be beholden to his charity,” she spoke her thoughts aloud. “He wanted me.” Cassandra stared at the trembling housekeeper. “Why would you agree to this?”

  “He paid me a good sum, miss. An’ I wasn’t getting my due from you.”

  “You should have come to me.”

  Mrs. Northrop’s eyes misted. “What are you going to do, miss?”

  Drawing a deep breath, Cassandra squared her shoulders and stood. “You are dismissed at once. Gather your things and leave this house by nightfall. Is that clear?”

  Tears wove crooked trails down Mrs. Northrop’s cheeks.

  “Where is the money?” Cassandra demanded.

  “I gave it to Mr. Crane. I didn’t keep any of it, miss. I swear.”

  “Very well.” Cassandra gestured toward the door. “Get out.”

  Mrs. Northrop’s bottom lip quivered. Clutching
her skirts, she tore from the solarium.

  An hour later, with the sun’s hot rays forming beads of perspiration on her brow and neck, Cassandra hurried down Liberty Street on her way to the Baltimore Register to confront Mr. Crane. Fortunately, for him, he was not there when she arrived. “But I expect him to return in a few hours, miss,” his clerk had declared. “May I give him a message?”

  “Indeed.” Cassandra waved her fan about her face. “You may inform Mr. Crane that I know he stole my money, and he will return it or face charges of thievery.”

  The poor clerk’s face had blanched considerably at her statement, but she hadn’t stayed to witness any further effects. Now, hurrying down Pratt Street, Cassandra was exhausted and overheated, but too angry to care. Darkness cruised the city, absconding with the light. She needed to get home.

  Unable to resist, she stole a glance at the wharf where Destiny was docked, hoping for a glimpse of Luke. She wasn’t ready to talk to him. Wasn’t entirely sure what he was up to. But certainly a glimpse would do her no harm. It might even help her recall how much she cared for him. Though, in that regard, her heart needed no reminder.

  What she saw halted her on the spot. There on the wharf, which sagged beneath its weight, were dozens and dozens of barrels, crates, and sacks ready to be loaded onto Luke’s ship. And still more came, carried by workers trudging down the dock. Luke’s crew scrambled across the ship as Mr. Abbot stood atop the bulwarks, directing the men in bringing the supplies aboard, whilst Mr. Sanders—if she remembered his name correctly—stood by his side, scribbling on a paper in his hand. Luke was nowhere in sight.

  Why would a privateer need that many supplies? Enough to feed dozens of privateers for a month, by her estimation. Though they did not know how long they’d be at sea, certainly stuffing the hold would allow no room for the goods they’d confiscate from the British.

  It made no sense.

  A surge of torrid wind clawed at her bonnet and stole the breath from her mouth. She gripped the brim of her hat, standing her ground.

  What was Luke up to? If she confronted him, she couldn’t be sure he would answer her. She’d accepted that he was a private man. She’d accepted that something heavy weighed upon him as Mr. Abbot had told her. What she couldn’t accept was him doing anything subversive with her money.

  Since he was to set sail on the morrow, there was only one way to find out the truth. And that was to stow away on his ship and see for herself.

  But Luke did not set sail the next day. Or at least Cassandra hoped he hadn’t. By the time she had arrived home that night, rumors rampaged through the city that British troops were marching into Washington, DC. Warning bells rang incessantly as terror held the city in its tight grip through the long hours of the night. And although some citizens bravely stood on Federal Hill to watch the distant glow of fires raging through the capital, Cassandra had stayed home to comfort her mother, who was enduring a fit of nerves at the unhappy tidings.

  Then, the following day, before anyone could recover from the tragedy and discover the fate of their great nation, the storm hit. Winds as fierce as any Cassandra had experienced stampeded over the house, seeking entrance into their shelter and flinging spears of rain at their windows. In the glow of candles, Cassandra, her sisters, mother, servants, and Dexter had huddled at the center of the house, waiting to be blown away.

  But after a few hours, the winds abated, the rain ceased, and the clouds withdrew, leaving behind toppled trees, torn-down fences, and the joyous news that the British had retreated from Washington. Margaret, who had been appealing to God all through the afternoon, gave praise for His mighty deliverance.

  Cassandra was not so sure.

  Nor was she sure why Mr. Crane had not been by to answer her accusation. Nor why Luke had not come calling to see if she and her family had suffered any injuries from the storm.

  After spending the rest of that day and most of the next one cleaning up the wreckage and helping neighbors do the same, Cassandra now stood before her dressing glass in her chamber as evening tossed shadows upon the unusually quiet town.

  “Miss, I don’t think this is a good idea.” Margaret’s reflection behind Cassandra was one of anxiety. Her normally rosy cheeks had gone pale, and her eyes sparked with fear. Cassandra gazed at her visage in the mirror. Baggy gray breeches stuffed in oversized boots, a white cotton shirt covered in a gray waistcoat and black overcoat. A red neckerchief rode high upon her neck. Atop her head a cocked hat perched. Noting a rebellious curl peeking out from the side, she stuffed it back in place, giggling at the sight.

  “Even with the bandages around your chest and the dirt on your jaw and chin, you still look like a woman, miss.” Margaret touched Cassandra’s arm. “Please don’t do this. It’s far too dangerous.”

  “Oh, bother, Margaret. You fret too much,” Cassandra said. “I’m far safer wandering about town looking like this, than dressed as a lady.”

  “What if he has already set sail?”

  “Then I shall come home.” Though she knew Luke hadn’t left yet—had heard just today from Mr. Dayle, who had ventured out for supplies, that Destiny had survived the storm unscathed and was preparing to leave that night.

  “I’ll sneak on board Mr. Heaton’s ship before anyone sees me. No one will know I’m there.”

  Margaret shook her head, the normal luster gone from her eyes. “But what if you are at sea for weeks, months even, before you discover what you wish to know?”

  “You mean that the man I love might be a traitor to our country?” Cassandra tugged her hat farther down on her head as the last rays of sunlight withdrew from her chamber. “I’ll find out the truth soon enough. Mr. Heaton doesn’t seem to be gone for more than a week or so at a time.” Which also didn’t speak well for his innocence. “If too much time passes, that will prove my suspicions wrong. Then I shall reveal myself and beg his forgiveness. I’m sure he’ll bring me home immediately.”

  “What will you eat and drink?”

  “I have enough food and water to last four days in my knapsack. Plus, I imagine there’s plenty of stored food belowdecks.”

  “What of the rats?” Margaret shivered.

  Cassandra’s belly gurgled in queasiness. “I shall have to endure them.”

  “I do not see why you cannot just ask Luke.”

  Cassandra swung around. “Do you think if he’s betraying his country—and me—that he’ll tell me the truth?” She walked to the window, nearly stumbling in the awkward boots. “No, I must find out for myself. This is the only way. I cannot”—she swallowed down a lump of heartache—“I cannot give my heart to a man who is a liar and a traitor.” She plopped down on the window seat. “All my life, I only wanted someone to depend on.”

  “You can depend on God, miss.”

  Cassandra smiled. “Such a saint you are, Margaret.” Rising, she grabbed a piece of foolscap from her dresser. “If I do not return tonight, give this letter to Mother tomorrow. It will explain everything.” At the look of horror on her maid’s face, Cassandra took Margaret’s hands in hers. “Never fear, I shall return soon. Tell the girls to behave. And do watch over them now that Mrs. Northrop is gone, will you?”

  “Of course.” Margaret nodded. “What if you discover Luke is a traitor and he …” Margaret looked away. “He …”

  “Luke wouldn’t hurt me. I don’t believe that. Fear spiraled through Cassandra, pricking at her resolve. Perhaps she should just call off the courtship and let it be. But if her suspicions were true, how could she go on spending money gained by the blood of her countrymen? No, she must find out for sure.

  “Now, go make sure no one is below so I can make my escape.”

  Margaret stopped at the door. “God go with you, miss. I shall pray for you every day.”

  Twenty minutes later, with head lowered and a knapsack strung over her shoulder, Cassandra did her best to march like a man down the muddy street. In her trek to the wharves, not a single person stopped her, most b
arely gazed at her: ladies with children hurrying home; groups of merchantmen; the chandler, Mr. Sikes, who didn’t seem to recognize her. One gentleman had even bumped into her and offered no apology. Cassandra smiled beneath the shadow of her hat, even as an odd feeling of being ignored settled on her. Odd because wherever she went she usually drew quite a bit of attention. It had never occurred to her that some people drifted through life like shadows, their presence rarely acknowledged. Pondering this, she hastened to the wharf where Destiny was anchored. She knew Luke usually set sail close to midnight and since it was no later than eight, she hoped only a few crewmen were on board.

  What she didn’t expect was the swarm of workers and sailors hauling all manner of crates and barrels onto the ship. Again. Perhaps they’d been forced to unload everything during the storm. Halting near the dock’s entrance, she searched for Luke, but he was nowhere in sight. However, in the light of several lanterns hanging from the main and fore masts, she spotted Mr. Abbot and Mr. Keene marching across the deck, bellowing orders.

  Now, how to get on board?

  Across the bay, the retreating glow of sunlight quivered over frolicking dark waters. Bare masts rose like spires of defeat into the bowl of night descending upon the city. Only Luke’s ship was a plethora of activity.

  Cassandra’s heart thundered against her ribs. It wasn’t too late to turn around and go home, sleep in her own warm bed. But if she did, she would be more fool than coward. And she would not be made a fool of, nor abandoned by some man who was even better at lying than charming the opposite sex. Or perhaps the two went together.

  Taking a deep breath as if she could inhale courage, she picked up a box that was sitting atop a barrel and hefted it onto her left shoulder. Though it wasn’t too heavy for her, the sharp edges bit through her coat as she eased into the line of men heading toward the ship. Keeping her head behind the box, she followed the man in front of her, hoping she didn’t trip on her way onto the ship. Already her boots—borrowed from Mr. Dayle—rubbed the skin on her ankles to soreness. Ignoring the pain and the fear screaming in her head, she stepped onto the teetering plank, watched it bow beneath the weight of the large man before her, then leapt onto the deck with a thud. Pain shot up her legs, and she stumbled for a second as the ship rocked.