Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Hurry up, there, boy!” the man behind her yelled, shoving her forward. Thankfully before Mr. Abbot saw her. Navigating down the companionway ladder was no easy task, especially with one’s hands full. Alone, she may have toppled into the darkness below, but the burly men before and after her cushioned her against a fall.

  Following the men down another level, Cassandra squinted into the darkness of the hold where only a single lantern swayed from a hook on the deck head. Across a vast expanse of muck and crates, empty-handed men ascended another ladder above. A putrid stench rose up from the depths like some viper to strike her, filling her nostrils and lungs with the smell of mold and waste and something else indescribable. She coughed. Some of the men looked her way. She lowered her head. A man she recognized as one of Luke’s crew, Mr. Sanders, directed the men where to deposit their loads. Cassandra scanned the shadowy hold. Toward her left, beneath a low beam, was a section where the light did not reach. If she could slip away undetected, she could find a place to hide.

  Mr. Sanders stopped two of the workers and demanded they lower the crate they carried. “Open it. I want to see what it contains.” His squeaky voice echoed over the waterlogged hull.

  Cursing, the men slammed down the container. The screech of the lid being pried off sent a tremble through Cassandra.

  While the rest of the men stopped to watch, Cassandra inched backward into the shadows.

  “What is this? Bolts of fabric! We did not purchase this, nor have we need of it. Take it away.” Mr. Sanders waved his hand then made a mark on his document.

  Cassandra continued backing up. Fear prickled her skin. Her boot struck something hard, sending a thud through the air and an ache through her feet. She halted. But no one looked her way. Setting down her box, she retreated into the darkness at the rear of the ship and ducked behind a large crate.

  Hours later, after the men had left and the hold groaned with a full load of supplies, Mr. Sanders grabbed the lantern and ascended the ladder, leaving Cassandra in a darkness so thick it seemed to ooze over her. Two questions began to weigh heavy on her mind. Had she lost a grasp on all good sense and reason? And what was she going to do about the pattering of little feet advancing toward her?

  CHAPTER 29

  Light from the lantern high up on the foremast flickered over the signal flags flapping from Destiny’s gaff. Signal flags that gave Luke and his crew free passage through the British blockade.

  Flags that marked him as a traitor.

  He gripped the quarter railing. Frustration and anger bunched a tight knot in his jaw. Hot wind sped past his ears, tainted with the fury of yesterday’s storm. He gazed upward. No stars dared to peek at them from behind the black curtain that hung over a sea transformed into molten coal.

  “We’ve brought enough supplies for near the entire fleet,” Biron commented as he leapt onto the deck beside Luke. “Let’s pray we find Captain Raynor in a good humor.”

  Luke tightened his lips. “If not, I can think of no other way to rescue John without putting him in danger.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for this, Luke.” Biron placed a hand on Luke’s back.

  “Who can I blame for it, God?” But no, Luke wasn’t the sort to blame God or anyone else for his failings. It was his own fault.

  Biron frowned. “It was God who saved our grand capital yesterday.”

  “Lud. You refer to the sudden storm?” Luke snorted. “Not that unusual of an occurrence.”

  “But one that just so happened upon Washington when she was being burnt to the ground.” Biron chuckled.

  Luke rubbed his ear. “A mere coincidence.” He thought of Cassandra and wondered how she had fared through the tempest. It had taken all his strength to keep from calling on her. But Luke didn’t want to face her again as a traitor. No, the next time he faced her, he wanted to be the man of honor he saw reflected in her eyes.

  “I’ve discovered”—Biron lifted his hat to scratch his head—“that many of what we call coincidences are actually God’s mighty intervention.”

  The hull of a ship loomed several yards off their port bow. Part of the British fleet. Despite having passed through the blockade several times, Luke could not shake his uneasiness at the sight. “Coincidence or not, at least the Almighty spared Destiny in the storm.” He couldn’t say the same for many of the ships anchored in Baltimore Harbor.

  “Quick thinking on your part, Captain, to move her away from the other ships and tie her to multiple pilings with lines long enough to handle the surge.”

  Luke nodded. He’d learned from the best, Noah Brenin.

  “God spared us, indeed.” Biron sighed.

  Luke gave his friend a disbelieving glance. “If God spared us, then why did He allow the storm to destroy many of Washington’s buildings?”

  Biron shrugged. “Still, the British were sent packing. And Washington is in American hands again.”

  “Indeed.” Luke folded his hands across his chest. “And now they are more angry than ever. Which gives me little hope for my negotiations with the infamous Captain Raynor.”

  Whom he would see within four days at their normal rendezvous spot two miles off the coast of Virginia. Destiny’s sails thundered as they caught the windy remnants of the harrowing storm, sending the ship careening over a wave. Bracing his boots on the deck, Luke snapped the hair from his face and took a deep breath of salty air. Somehow, he knew deep in his soul that this was his last chance. His last chance to end his traitorous activities.

  His last chance to rescue John.

  Cassandra had lost track of time. And days. Her world had morphed into nothing but undulating darkness, creaks and groans of madness, a stench that made her toes curl, and the constant assault of rats. The fresh water in her knapsack had run out yesterday, along with the dried beef and bread she’d brought. Willing to risk getting caught rather than dying, she had finally ventured out of the hold late last night when the cessation of footfalls and voices told her that most of the crew was abed.

  She hadn’t realized how much she missed the wind and the air and the sky until she stepped onto the upper deck and made her way to the port railing, sinking behind the small boat latched to its moorings on the deck. There, she had gorged on a dried biscuit she’d found in the galley. It sank like a brick into the stale water mixed with beer she’d previously poured down her throat. Regardless of her pathetic meal, she wished she could have stayed on deck all night, but it was too risky. After a few hours of breathing in the fresh sea air, she had slumped below to her putrid abode.

  Now, as she crawled to sit atop the highest crate she could find, she wondered at the sanity of her decision. What if they were to get into a real sea battle and cannon shot pierced the hold, flooding the ship and sending her to a watery grave?

  The thunder of footsteps above, along with the peal of a bell, told her that another day had dawned. Another day of hunger clawing at her belly, thirst scraping her throat. Another day of kicking away rats while she sat on her hellish throne. Another day in which her mind dove deeper into madness.

  Luke’s authoritative timbre drifted down from above, sending a traitorous leap through her heart. She longed to go to him, feel his arms around her, and hear him reassure her of his innocence. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t allow her affections to take root until she knew the truth. Bringing her legs to her chest, she laid her head on top of her knees and prepared for the heat that accompanied the rising sun. Already perspiration formed on her brow. She wiped it away and tried to concentrate on the whoosh of water against the hull, a soothing sound in its constancy and bland melody.

  But suddenly the sound lessened. The purl of water transformed into jarring splashes. And the plod of feet and the shout of men increased above her. Cassandra sat up, tilting her ear toward the deck. More shouts. Luke’s powerful voice filled the dank air, and the ship slowed even more. Why were they stopping? Shouldn’t they speed up at the sight of a potential prize? Or perhaps they sailed back into
Baltimore. She wished it were so. Because that would mean Luke was no traitor and she would soon be home! Finally, after several minutes, the ship came to a near stop. Only the gentle rise and fall of the deck and the sound of waves lapping against the hull told Cassandra they were still at sea. She was about to descend from the crate when something thumped against the ship, nearly toppling her to the floor. Something massive. A groan echoed through the hold. The timbers creaked in complaint.

  Men’s voices grew louder as dozens of footfalls thundered down from above. Cassandra leapt from her perch and dove into the shadows just as light filled the hold and a group of sailors descended, one of whom hooked a lantern on the deck head. Peering from her hiding place, Cassandra watched as the men hefted crates, barrels, and sacks onto their backs and climbed back up the ladder.

  Confusion twirled her crazed mind into a frenzy, unwilling to land on the only possible explanation. Blood pounded in her ears. Her heart refused to settle. Just as well. Because if it did, Cassandra was sure it would break in half. An hour passed as she waited and watched while the crew carried all the cargo up the ladder. Men’s voices, including Luke’s, crowded the air above her. She had to know what was going on. She had to make sure her suspicions were true.

  On shaky legs, she ascended the ladder, nearly falling twice in her weakened condition. Continuing past the sailors’ berth, which was empty, she made her way up the companionway ladder onto the main deck. Bright light brought her hand up to shield her eyes as she scanned the scene. Destiny floated hull-to-hull alongside a larger ship, grappled together with tight lines. Lifting her gaze, Cassandra saw the Union Jack flying from the head of the larger ship’s main mast. A British frigate. The air escaped her lungs, and she leaned on a nearby barrel to keep from toppling to the deck.

  “What is all this?” A distinguished-looking man standing at the frigate’s railing waved a hand over the barrels and crates crowding Destiny’s decks. His British accent grated over Cassandra’s ears.

  “I propose a new bargain, Captain.” Luke’s voice responded from somewhere atop the frigate’s deck. Confirming Cassandra’s fears. Anger scoured through her—searing, thrashing, all-encompassing anger. Anger at Luke’s betrayal. Anger that she had fallen in love with a traitor. Anger that he had made her an accomplice in such a despicable deed.

  She barreled forward, weaving through the maze of cargo and shoving aside sailors who stood in her way.

  “A bargain?” Captain Raynor laughed. “I don’t bargain with rebels.”

  Luke grimaced and glanced at John, who stood just below the quarterdeck ladder. He looked well, tired and thinner, but well. Facing the captain again, Luke resisted the urge to punch the supercilious smirk off his face. “Yet you have already bargained with this particular rebel, sir. Hear me out, I beg you.”

  The captain glanced at his first and second lieutenants, flanking him on the main deck of the frigate, and huffed his impatience. He gave Luke a look of boredom. “Make it quick.”

  “All of these supplies, which are enough to feed you and at least five ships like yours for more than a month, including several hundred bottles of rum, I offer you entirely without cost.” Waves, slapping the hull, laughed at Luke’s offer.

  Captain Raynor studied him. “Unless you have come to your senses and wish to throw your lot in with the victors of this war, I cannot see why you would make such an offer, sir.”

  “I make it on the following conditions.” Luke tried to steady his voice, tried to drown out the urgency screaming in his head. “That you return my brother to me, and I give you my word I will quit privateering.”

  Captain Raynor gave a scoff of surprise as if Luke had asked for a chest of gold. “Your word, sir?” This time the lieutenants as well as some of the crew standing nearby chuckled. “What is the word of an American worth?”

  The frigate rose over a swell. Luke adjusted his footing, refusing to answer the man’s absurd question.

  Captain Raynor grimaced and tipped his cocked hat against the rays of the rising sun. “Besides, what is to stop me from absconding with all of these supplies and keeping your brother as well?”

  “Nothing but your honor, sir.” Luke hoped that Captain Raynor held his honor in high esteem, or at least his pride. For the captain certainly wouldn’t want to be seen breaking a gentleman’s oath in front of his entire crew.

  Captain Raynor narrowed his eyes.

  Hope began to stir within Luke. He was about to restate his terms when a familiar female voice sprang over the frigate’s bulwarks like a grappling hook.

  “You are a traitor, Luke Heaton! A traitor and a cad. How dare you sell supplies to our enemies?”

  Luke closed his eyes, wishing the voice away, hoping it came from his tortured conscience and not from the source that frightened him the most. Scuffling sounded from below on Destiny’s deck. Then Biron’s disbelieving groan confirmed Luke’s worst fears. Opening his eyes, he approached the railing and peered over the side. There, struggling in Biron’s and Mr. Keene’s grasp, stood Cassandra—in breeches and shirt, of all things—her auburn hair flailing in the breeze, and her eyes pointed at Luke like two loaded cannons.

  Captain Raynor grinned. “Friend of yours, sir?”

  Shock stiffened Luke, followed by terror. How did she get on board? Why was she dressed like a man? But there was no time to find out.

  “Yes … No,” Luke mumbled, facing Raynor. “She’s the ship’s cook. Ignore her. She’s quite mad.” He leaned over the railing. “Mr. Keene, if you would escort Miss Channing below.”

  The boatswain nodded and headed toward the companionway with Cassandra in tow when she tore from his grasp and shoved her way toward the rope ladder.

  “Bring the woman up here. I’d like to meet her.” Captain Raynor’s words fired into Luke’s gut.

  Luke waved a hand through the air. “She’s nobody, Captain, ignore her.” He cringed at his own pleading tone.

  A tone not missed by the captain of the HMS Audacious—he grinned. “Yet she seems to be quite surprised at your nefarious activities, no?”

  Luke saw Cassandra’s red hair pop above the bulwarks as she hoisted herself over the railing. She landed on the deck with a determined thump. Catcalls rang across the ship before the master’s mate silenced the men. Ignoring them, Cassandra approached Luke, her icy stare lancing him before she scanned the assembly of British officers, sailors, and marines crowding the deck.

  Did the woman fear nothing?

  Spotting the captain, she charged toward him. Two midshipmen grabbed her arms before she got too close.

  “Is this man selling you goods, Captain?”

  Luke’s throat closed. Heated wind slapped him in the face.

  “Why, yes, madam, he is.” The captain seemed to be enjoying himself immensely.

  Tearing free from the midshipmen’s grip, Cassandra marched toward Luke. Raising her fists, she pounded on his chest. He allowed her. He deserved it. Each blow caused his heart to shrink a bit more until he wondered if there was anything left.

  The crew of the Audacious, however, found the scene much to their amusement, as laughter bounced through the air.

  Finally, after her anger was spent, Cassandra bent over in a sob.

  Luke grabbed her arms and drew her close, whispering in her ear. “This isn’t as it seems, Cassandra. Go back to the ship.” But she jerked from him, too disgusted to even meet his gaze.

  “Very good. Very good.” Captain Raynor clapped his hands together as if applauding a performance. “And who, may I ask, are you, miss?”

  Sweat slid down Luke’s back. Do not tell him. Keep your mouth shut. His gaze found John, still standing by the quarterdeck, and looking as frightened as Luke felt.

  Drawing a breath, she lifted her shoulders and faced the captain. “I am Cassandra Channing from Baltimore.”

  Luke shook his head. The ship groaned over a swell, mimicking his silent moan within.

  “Ah,” the captain said. “And might I as
sume you weren’t aware of this man’s … activities?”

  “You assume correctly, sir.” She grimaced and pointed a finger his way. “For I would have shot him myself rather than allowed him to trade with the likes of you.”

  “Gentlemen”—the captain gestured toward Cassandra—“behold the ill-tempered shrews these colonies breed.”

  The men seemed more than happy to obey the order as all eyes took Cassandra in as if she were the feast at a royal ball. Only then did Luke notice that the breeches she wore revealed far too much of her feminine curves.

  Captain Raynor smiled. “As it happens, I’ve been in dire need of a decent cook for quite some time. Mr. Milner over there”—he flicked a hand toward a man on his right—“can’t boil a chicken without making it taste like tar.”

  The grimy cook lifted one shoulder and smiled.

  A metallic taste filled Luke’s mouth. The sun beat down on him, lashing him for failing once again.

  For the first time, fear took residence on Cassandra’s features, as if she’d only just awakened from a dream. “I am no cook, Captain.”

  “Indeed? Regardless, you would make a lovely addition to our ship.” Pompous victory rang in the captain’s tone. “And from the look in Captain Heaton’s eyes, you are much more than a cook to him.”

  “She is nothing to me,” Luke growled, desperate to say anything to save her.

  Cassandra shot him a pained glance as Biron eased over the railing to join them.

  “Then you won’t mind if I borrow her?” Removing his hat, the captain dabbed a handkerchief over his forehead. “All the more incentive for you to return with more supplies. I do say, my men and I are becoming quite accustomed to eating fresh food.”

  Grumbles of assent thundered through the crowd.

  Luke clenched his fists. His fingernails dug into his skin. “John is more than enough incentive.”