Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  “I’m different now. I’ve grown up,” she said out loud to the creaking timbers of the ship.

  But visions assaulted her: how she traipsed about town at night with a large-summed banknote in her reticule, invested in a privateer against her mother’s wishes, and dressed like a man and sneaked aboard Luke’s ship.

  All reckless acts that had led her to her current dire situation.

  “Oh, bother.” She hung her head as her eyes filled with tears. She had never really changed, had she? She had always done exactly what she wanted, went her own way, caused her parents grief. And not trusted anyone. In particular, God. And where had it gotten her?

  Doomed to a life of slavery.

  “But I wouldn’t have done those things if You hadn’t left me, God. I had to take care of my family.”

  I never left you.

  A chill struck Cassandra. Hugging herself, she sent a wary gaze about the tiny cabin. No doubt the many hours she’d spent alone were causing her to hear things. She set the Bible on the desk and stood to light the lantern hanging from the deck head. Its glow chased the shadows back into hiding as the room filled with the smell of whale oil.

  Yet if God was speaking to her, if He was listening, she had some things to tell Him. Her jaw hardened. “But You took my father, my brothers.”

  Silence.

  As she thought. God wasn’t there.

  Sails thundered above and the bell rang again, followed by the pounding of feet. The change of a watch, no doubt. The smells of some kind of stew permeated the thin walls, making her stomach growl. She rubbed it, regretting that she’d stubbornly turned down her noon meal. It would be at least an hour before the sailor brought her supper.

  Stubborn pride. She knew it well. Had seen it mirrored in Darlene. It was the kind of pride that made Cassandra refuse to rely on anyone else—forced her to accomplish everything herself. For if she did not trust, she would never be hurt, abandoned, or disappointed. Would she?

  Distant thunder hammered the evening sky. Or was it cannon fire? Standing on her tiptoes, Cassandra peered out the porthole at the undulating sea. Coral and crimson fingers stretched over the indigo waters in one final caress of the sun. The ship jolted. Staggering, she fell back on her bed. The lantern flung shifting silhouettes of shadow and light across the bulkheads. Dark and light, good and evil, faith and unbelief. Life was full of choices.

  Cassandra hadn’t realized until now how important those choices were.

  She opened the Bible. She didn’t know why. She’d heard plenty of passages read in church, hundreds of sermons. Flipping through the pages, she landed on James. Her eyes idly scanned the text until the word proud seemed to magnify on the paper.

  “God resisteth the proud, but giveth grace unto the humble. Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you. Draw nigh to God, and he will draw nigh to you.”

  Had God resisted her because of her pride? And her unbelief? Was it too late to draw near to Him? Would He still answer her prayers? Or had her arrogant rebellion formed an impenetrable wall between them?

  Releasing a heavy sigh, she sifted through the pages, seeking answers, stopping in Hebrews.

  “But without faith it is impossible to please him: for he that cometh to God must believe that he is, and that he is a rewarder of them that diligently seek him.”

  Instead of seeking God, Cassandra had been running from Him, thinking He was not worthy of her trust. That He, like everyone else, had abandoned her. Hope peeked out from her despair. If she diligently sought God now as His Word said, would He reward her? Would He come to her aid?

  Hadn’t Reverend Drummond told her that God would never leave her and would always provide? And what of Margaret? Still loving God. Still trusting Him after He took her only child.

  Confusion sent Cassandra’s convictions into a whirl. Bad things, terrible things still happened. And God could have prevented all of them. She glanced over the shadowy room.

  “Why didn’t You? Why did You let Papa die and my brothers leave us?”

  They chose.

  “But You could have stopped them.”

  Silence, save for the creaks and groans of the timbers.

  Seek Me. Trust Me.

  The ship rose and crashed over a swell, and somewhere a fiddle began to play.

  Closing the Bible, Cassandra pressed it against her chest. This time it felt as though she held holy words in her hands. For she knew without a doubt that God had spoken to her.

  “I want to trust You.” To know she was never alone. To know that Almighty God would always be there to help her, protect her, love her. It was too much to hope for. Too good to be true. Too much to believe. Wasn’t it?

  I Am.

  Wiping the tears from her face, she glanced over the room. An explosion of joy and peace filled the air, permeating every crack and crevice. Gooseflesh ran from her head down to her toes.

  And she knew God was there.

  “I’m so sorry, Lord.” Dropping to her knees, she set the Bible on her bed and leaned her head on top of it. “I’m sorry I’ve been proud, resisting You, not believing You loved me. I’m sorry I’ve been running from You.” Tears trickled down her cheeks, dropping onto the leather. “I’ve been a fool.”

  I love you, precious daughter.

  Several minutes passed. When she opened her eyes, moonlight spilled through the porthole, forming milky arms that curled around her in a warm embrace. And for the first time since she arrived on this abominable ship, Cassandra curled up on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.

  Laying his coat, sword, and pistol onto the table in the foyer, Luke entered the sitting room. Mrs. Barnes sat in her chair by the fireplace, knitting. Where she’d been nearly every minute since John had been kidnapped. Luke had even caught her sleeping there many a night.

  She glanced up, and a sad smile lifted the corner of her lips. “Do you think your plan will work?”

  “It has to.” Luke huffed and glanced out the window at the darkening sky. All was in place. They’d spent the past two days disguising Destiny: removing her name, painting her hull, changing the position of her cannons. Noah had managed to garner two British naval uniforms from the fort—discards from prisoners of war—and Mr. Reed was putting the final touches on forged orders for the transfer of prisoners.

  Mrs. Barnes returned to her knitting, and Luke’s gaze drifted to her open Bible on the table beside her. “We could use your prayers.” He could hardly believe he was asking such a thing. Creak, creak, creak. The rhythmic rock of her chair echoed through the room. Though the sound usually soothed Luke’s nerves, tonight it raked over them with claws of guilt and failure.

  “I have been praying,” she said. “We’ll have John back soon. I know it.”

  Marching to the window, Luke peered at the tumble of clouds forming on the horizon. “I wish I had your confidence.” He snorted. “Both in myself and in your God.”

  “Two things that must be remedied before you can truly succeed,” she said. “The latter before the former.”

  Her words stirred an odd desire within Luke for both.

  “You have good friends,” she said. “Mr. Brenin and Mr. Reed. They risk much for you.”

  “Not for me. For Cassandra and John.”

  Turning around, he strode to the sofa and took a seat across from her. Her hands dipped and shifted over needle and yarn like a conductor before an orchestra.

  “I don’t think I’ve seen you stop knitting for weeks now.”

  She laughed. “Better to work than to fret.” She spread the product of her efforts over her lap. A beautiful tapestry of white and black thread formed delicate patterns in graceful symmetry.

  “Did you intend for it to turn out so beautifully?”

  “Why yes, of course.” She stroked it lovingly. “I planned it from the beginning. It’s a blanket for John when he returns.” Her eyes sparkled assurance.

  Luke shook his head. He had not expected to see su
ch an exquisite coverlet come from Mrs. Barnes’s harried movements. Order from chaos, beauty from simplicity, dark and light molded together in a meaningful pattern.

  Could God do the same? Luke wondered.

  Could God use chaos and darkness to create beauty and light?

  Shaking the silly musings from his head, he rose.

  Mrs. Barnes’s sharp eyes found him. “I’ve smelled no rum on you lately.”

  “I need a clear mind.” He glanced at the clock, ever stuck at 9:13. “We should get that fixed someday.”

  “When John returns. But perhaps God is telling us something. Perhaps it’s not a time, but a date? It is September thirteenth in three days …”

  Stifling a chuckle at the woman’s delusions, Luke knelt before her. She set down her knitting, and he took her hands in his. “I’ll do my best to get him back, Mrs. Barnes.” He fell short of promising something he had no reason to believe he could do. Maybe he should appeal to God, after all, for it would take Almighty intervention for their plan to work.

  The prayer sat idle on his lips when a pound pound pound drew his gaze to the front door. Mrs. Barnes’s face knotted in concern. Luke stood, wondering who it could be. He’d told Noah and Reed to meet him at the ship by ten, but that was at least an hour from now.

  Stomping to the door, he swung it open to a cold chill and the sight of Lieutenant Tripp, a bombastic smirk on his face and two armed privates by his side.

  Luke had no time for his theatrics. “What do you want?”

  “I have come to arrest you, sir.”

  Mrs. Barnes gasped.

  “On what charge?”

  “On the charge of treason.”

  CHAPTER 32

  A loud clank barged into Cassandra’s sweet sleep, stirring her to consciousness. Ignoring the sound, she drew her wool blanket up around her neck and sank back into the oblivion of her dreams.

  Until firm hands gripped her arms and shook her.

  With a scream, she jerked to a sitting position, forcing her eyes open to see the red coat of a marine standing over her. “Captain’s orders, miss. He wants to see you immediately.” The shiny brass hilt of his sword winked at her in the first rays of dawn angling through the porthole.

  Of all the times for the captain to summon her, he had to choose the first time she’d been able to sleep in days.

  Yet even as she started to grumble, terror gripped her at what the man could possibly want.

  “Now.” The marine stood erect. The urgency of his tone threatened to dissolve Cassandra’s newfound faith.

  Tossing the blanket aside, she scrambled to her feet, rubbed her eyes, patted down the wrinkles of her gown, and lifted her chin. “Very well.”

  As she followed the marine onto the main deck, Cassandra couldn’t help but notice that a mood of apprehension, even excitement, had settled over the ship. Squinting at the sun rising on the horizon, she spotted the yards overhead, full of men unfurling sail. Shouted orders from lieutenants on the quarterdeck sent the remainder of the sailors scampering over the decks.

  Something was happening. Something important.

  Whatever it was did not bode well for her—or for America. As she made her way down the companionway to the captain’s cabin, dismal thoughts tortured her. Were they setting sail for England, where she’d be forever separated from her country and her family—and Luke? Or were they about to attack some American ship or worse, America itself?

  On trembling legs, she entered the main cabin. Captain Raynor, sitting behind his desk, barely peeked at her from above the document he was reading. But it was John who drew Cassandra’s gaze. Turning from his position standing before the captain, he smiled at her, sending a wave of relief over her tight nerves.

  The marine stood to attention just inside the door.

  “Miss Channing, you and the lad are being moved to an American truce ship.” The captain tore the spectacles from his nose.

  Hope jolted her heart, though she didn’t dare allow it to grow. “Truce ship?”

  “Aye.” Tossing down the papers, Captain Raynor rose to his full ominous height.

  “Then”—she gulped—“we are free?”

  “Hardly, madam. You will be guarded well. And when we succeed in our plans, you and all the citizens of your fair city will once again be subjects of the Crown.”

  Cassandra grimaced at the man’s arrogance. She squared her shoulders. “And just what are your plans, Captain?”

  He grinned, his eyes lighting up with malicious glee. “Why, my dear, we are attacking Baltimore from both land and sea. You and your city don’t stand a chance.”

  Bands of light coursed over Luke’s eyelids, like slow-moving waves at sea, passing in swells of warmth and cold. Shouts beckoned to him, jarring his memories. He moved his hand. Moist stones scraped his fingers. Something bit his neck. He swatted it. A bugle sounded. The pounding of drums thundered in his head. Snapping his eyes open, he struggled to rise, ignoring the ache in his back from sitting all night against the wall of his cell in the guardhouse. Making his way to the tiny window, he gripped the iron bars and peered into the inner courtyard of Fort McHenry.

  Soldiers from various Maryland regiments, muskets in hand and haversacks tossed over their shoulders, darted across the dirt and out the entrance of the fort. One soldier dropped his canteen and stopped to pick it up.

  “What’s happening?” Luke shouted.

  The man, who could be no older than eighteen, flung his canteen strap over his shoulder and stared at Luke. “It’s the British. They’ve landed at North Point and are marching toward the city.” His voice held a fear that registered on his face before he sped away as if it occurred to him that perhaps he shouldn’t be speaking to a prisoner.

  Which was exactly what Luke was. A prisoner. A traitor.

  Sinking back into his dank cell, he took up his daily pace. He hadn’t seen Lieutenant Tripp since the man had tossed him in here two nights ago. Last night after spending a sleepless night and an entire day listening to the pounding of soldiers’ boots and the harried shouts of officers outside his window, Luke grew desperate for news. So when a young boy brought him a crusty piece of stale bread and a mug of putrid water, Luke had begged him for information. Hesitant at first, the lad finally told Luke that some fifty British warships had sailed up the Patapsco River and anchored just three miles from the fort.

  The news had driven a knife into Luke’s gut. He’d been unable to sleep yet again, unable to do anything but pace his cell until exhaustion had pulled him to the ground in a heap. Now, the additional news of a land invasion sealed the tomb on Luke’s hope. The British were making their move. A full assault by land and sea. And although General Smith had made extensive enhancements to the fort, how could Baltimore survive against the greatest military and naval power in the world?

  Luke’s thoughts drifted to John and Cassandra. Had Noah and Mr. Reed carried out their plans to rescue them without Luke? He hoped so. It was the only thing that had kept his heart from sinking into despair—believing that they were both safe at home. The first rays of the sun made a courageous effort to shine but were soon subdued by thick, ominous clouds broiling across the sky. Stifling air, heavy with moisture and the smell of gunpowder and fear, settled, rather than swept into his cell. Thunder roared as if God was angry at the invasion. Luke hoped that was the case. For maybe the Almighty would finally intervene. Soon, rain began to fall, offering some reprieve from the torturous heat of the day. It slashed at the roof and battered the mud, mimicking the march of boots. Muffled shouts drifted to his ears, but Luke could no longer make out the words.

  Minutes stretched into hours, and hours stretched into the early evening. Luke felt like a caged animal, rage and fury churning within him. Fury at Mr. Keene for his betrayal. Though at first Luke hadn’t wanted to believe Tripp’s revelation of the man’s disloyalty, he knew there was no other explanation. How could Mr. Keene have been so careless? Drunkenness was no excuse for a loose tongue, esp
ecially when lives were at stake.

  He slapped another mosquito on his arm. Yet how often had Luke done foolish things when he’d been deep into his cups? He halted and rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck. In truth, Mr. Keene and Luke had more in common than Luke cared to admit. And watching his faults play out before him sickened Luke to the core. But no doubt, Mr. Keene was already paying dearly for his betrayal. He, along with Luke’s entire crew, had most likely been rounded up and tossed in prison as well. Luke longed to talk to Biron. His old friend always had a wise word of comfort. And Sam. Poor Sam. So young. With so much promise. The foolish lad had longed to emulate Luke in every way. Now, tossed in prison as a traitor, his wish had come true.

  Luke moaned. Was there no one in his life who had not been harmed by his foolhardy actions?

  Lightning lit his cell in bursts of eerie gray. Gripping the iron bars, Luke peered across the yard. Rain slammed against the stone window ledge and sprayed his face. He shook the water off as a band of soldiers marched by. Mud oozed down their once-white trousers, and the squish squish of their boots filled the muggy air with a determination that could be seen on their expressions. A hint of fear quaked in their voices as they waited for the first bombs to strike. Across the way, Luke spotted Major Armistead speaking to a group of officers. Earlier, Luke had overheard the man’s urgent orders to transport his pregnant wife out of Baltimore. The general probably feared he’d never see her again.

  Just like Luke would never see Cassandra. Thunder rattled the bars. Daylight retreated beneath the encroaching darkness. He stepped away from the window, wondering where she was and what horrors she must be enduring. Was she still angry at him for what he had done? Or, upon meeting his brother, did she understand his actions? Were she and John allowed to speak? A smile, the first one in days, taunted his tight lips. John would lift her spirits and encourage her. It was his way. Small consolation though it was, Luke was pleased to think that the two people he loved more than anything in the world were together.