Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  A cannon boomed in the distance, followed by a spray of musket shot. Luke wondered how the troops had fared that day. He wondered why the British fleet had not attacked the fort. He wondered where Lieutenant Tripp had gone.

  Most of all, Luke wondered if he’d ever get out of this cell.

  He thought of Noah’s and Reverend Drummond’s words that God had a plan. He snorted and ran a hand through his hair. Not a plan for Luke. No, there was no divine purpose for his life. Luke was a failure. And he infected everyone he touched with his disease.

  He spun around and barreled the other way, striking the wall with his fist. Pain lanced up his arm. He rubbed it as he stared at the rainwater pooling on the stones by his feet. Storming toward the door, he pounded on the thick wood. “Let me out!” But no one came.

  Thunder shook the timber and stone. Sweat streamed down his back. This cage was as fitting a place as any to die, he supposed. For he felt as though he’d been in a cage his entire life—a cage of emptiness and failure. A cage he’d built from each bad decision and wayward deed, a prison that kept him trapped in an empty existence.

  Darkness as thick as tar rose from the corners and slithered on the floor. Luke watched it with detached curiosity. He was either going mad or dying. He preferred the latter.

  Failure, failure.

  Worthless, worthless.

  The voices stabbed him like a thousand devilish prods. A cold mist enveloped him. He sank to the floor. Rainwater seeped into his breeches.

  And he knew.

  He knew that if he gave in to the darkness he would die.

  He closed his eyes. “God, help me.” But thunder muted his voice. Exhaustion tugged at him, and he felt himself falling into an empty void.

  God, if You’re there, help me.

  Seconds passed, minutes maybe, as rain pounded above and wind whistled past his window, laughing at him. But then, a warm glow illuminated his eyelids. Luke looked up. A man—no, some otherworldly being—stood just inside the door. White light rippled out from him in glittering waves. Luke’s blood turned cold. Holding up a hand to shield his eyes, he tried to make out his face, but the glow was too bright. Yet … recognition struck him. “I know you.”

  The man nodded.

  “Who … who are you?”

  The being drew a massive sword from a scabbard at his hip, sending a chime ringing through the air that was instantly set aglow.

  Luke shrank back against the cold stones. His ear began to throb. He rubbed it as flashes of memories filled his mind.

  One in particular—the shining man with his sword drawn, standing in front of a burning house.

  Luke stared at the man aghast. “You were there.”

  Again the man nodded. And sheathed his sword with a resounding scrape of metal.

  Gripping the stone wall behind him, Luke inched his way to standing. Flames filled his cell, devouring his family home. Little John in his arms. His mother’s scream and … “You stopped me. You cut me!” Luke grabbed his ear.

  “You were persistent.” The man’s voice sounded like the rush of a waterfall, drowning out the sound of the storm.

  Luke’s skin grew clammy. His breath escaped him. He had not failed to save his parents! Their deaths were not his fault. The revelation gripped him, breathing life into his soul. Yet anger took the place of fear. “Why?” he cried out. “Why did you stop me?”

  “To save you and John. It was not your time.”

  “And it was my parents’ time?” Luke fisted the wall.

  The being nodded. “Their task was complete. Yours and John’s were not.”

  “What task?”

  “Good works which the Father predestined for you to do before you were born.”

  Now Luke knew he had surely gone mad. “Me? Good works? You got the wrong man.”

  The glowing being said nothing, but Luke thought he saw a smile on his blinding visage. “The Father wants you to know you are greatly loved.”

  Thunder bellowed. The stones quaked, and Luke closed his eyes. The glow dissipated. Jerking alert, Luke glanced over his cell. All was dark again. A dream. Just a dream.

  Greatly loved.

  The words shot through the hard crust around Luke’s heart, dissolving it.

  No, not a dream.

  “You’re real, God.” Luke swallowed. “All this time, You’ve protected me and John. You stayed with me through all my wanderings. All this time, I thought I failed my parents. But it was meant to be. Everything was meant to be.” Clenching his fists, he hung his head. “I’m sorry for not believing, for not seeing.”

  Dawn’s glow showered in through the tiny window and surrounded Luke in glittering light. Where had the night gone? What seemed only minutes must have taken hours. A presence filled the cell. A strong sense of peace and love.

  The squeaking of a rusty hinge met his ears. He looked up to see the door of his cell ajar. Thunder bellowed. No, not thunder. He knew that sound. It was a cannon blast. The menacing whine of an incoming shell flew overhead.

  Before an explosion rocked the fort.

  CHAPTER 33

  Clutching her skirts, Cassandra followed John up the ladder and emerged onto the main deck of the sloop Minden. Ever since they’d boarded the American truce ship the morning before, heavy rains had kept them cooped up below. Cassandra hadn’t minded. Together, she and John had read the Holy Scriptures and talked about the things of God and Cassandra’s newfound faith. They’d also talked of Luke, how John and he had lost their parents in a savage fire, and how Luke had been forced to care for John since he was but a babe. Every story John told Cassandra about Luke, about his love for John, the way he’d provided for him and their housekeeper all these years, flew in the face of her initial impressions of the man. Though she didn’t completely understand why Luke had taken to drinking, gambling, and womanizing, John’s obvious admiration and love for his brother spoke volumes as to the man’s heart. Though lately, she needed no aid in attesting to the same.

  Heavens, she had no idea he even had a brother. Neither Marianne nor Noah had mentioned it. If they had even known. And a crippled brother at that. Though now as she watched the lad ascend the ladder, hobbling slightly, she realized his physical impediment had not limited him nearly as much as her spiritual one of rebellion had limited her.

  She stepped onto the main deck to a burst of rain-laden wind and drew a deep breath, hoping to rid her lungs of the musky air below. Black clouds churned above them, mimicking the dark waters of the Patapsco River that slammed against the hull of the tiny ship. Throwing out her arms to catch her balance on the teetering deck, she peered into the gloom. Surrounding them, dark hulls rose like dragons from the deep, the sharp teeth of their masts stabbing the low-hanging clouds.

  The British fleet in all its majestic and terrifying glory wound tight like a pack of ravenous wolves ready to spring on innocent Baltimore.

  John took her hand and led her portside, where her fellow prisoners huddled in deep conversation. She gripped the wet railing. A chill seeped through the moist wood into her hands and up her arms. In the distance, the massive stars and stripes billowed proudly above Fort McHenry, daring the British onward. Daring them to try to steal the freedom represented in that grandiose flag.

  Sorrow burned in her throat, her eyes, her gut. She could not bear to see her country fall. And would she ever see Luke again? Would she ever be able to tell him she understood why he’d betrayed his country? And that she loved him more than anything? She sighed. That was in God’s hands now. She was no longer alone. Her life and the lives of her loved ones were in the capable hands of Almighty God. Ah, such sweet comfort even in the midst of troubling times.

  Troubling indeed—and harrowing—confirmed by the British marines, resplendent in their red coats and white breeches, with long muskets in their hands as they lined the deck of the Minden. Though an American ship originally, the sloop had been seized by the British and all those upon it were now prisoners of this horrid war.
As their punishment, they were being forced to watch the British attack their country, their city. Helpless to do anything.

  Terror seized Cassandra’s throat. Bowing her head, she whispered a plea to God to spare her city and her country.

  A man eased beside her. “I see we are of the same mind, madam. Only divine intervention can save us now.”

  Opening her eyes, Cassandra stared at the modishly attired man. “How did you know I was praying?”

  “The look on your face, pleading yet peaceful, reflecting heaven’s glow.” He smiled.

  Cassandra felt a blush rising.

  “Forgive me, I’ve embarrassed you. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sir Francis Scott Key.” He bowed elegantly. “At your service, madam. I had heard a woman prisoner had come aboard.”

  “A pleasure, sir.” Cassandra put a protective arm around John. “I am Cassandra Channing of Baltimore.”

  He dipped his head, and his eyes lowered to John. “Your son?” He gazed up at Cassandra. “No, you are far too young. Brother?”

  John giggled. “No, sir, I am John Heaton, brother to the great privateer Luke Heaton.”

  “Ah, a privateer! Courageous fellows, all! We owe them the highest gratitude.”

  Distant musket fire splintered the air, drawing Cassandra’s gaze to the stretch of land alongside the Patapsco River.

  Mr. Key followed her gaze, worry twisting his features. “Word is our American troops have retreated from North Point.”

  “God be with them,” Cassandra said.

  “Indeed.” He faced her again. “Pray tell, how is it you and John find yourselves prisoners of the British navy?”

  Cassandra proceeded to relay their harrowing tale, with John piping in now and then filling in the more colorful details.

  “Fascinating, indeed.” Mr. Key rubbed his chin. “A most daunting position. I cannot say I wouldn’t have done the same thing in Mr. Heaton’s shoes.”

  Lightning flashed silver over his somber expression.

  “And how did you come to be here, Mr. Key?”

  “Ah, not so adventurous a tale as yours, miss, I’m afraid.” He took a step back and motioned for two men, who had been conversing to his left, to come forward. He introduced them as Dr. William Beanes and Colonel John Skinner, an American agent for prisoners.

  “Colonel Skinner and I boarded this ship, raised a white flag of truce, and went in search of our dear friend Dr. Beanes, who had been taken prisoner,” Mr. Key explained. “As it turns out we found him on board Admiral Cockrane’s eighty-gun flagship, the HMS Tonnant.”

  “Indeed?” Cassandra turned to Dr. Beanes, a humble-looking man of small stature. “You are not a military man, sir. May I ask why the British kept you prisoner?”

  He cocked his head. “For the crime of tossing some rather unruly British soldiers in jail.” His gentle smile gave no indication of the hardship he had no doubt endured.

  Thunder quivered the gray sky. The ship canted. Clinging to John, Cassandra gripped the railing as a foam-capped wave slapped the hull, showering them both with salty spray. Wiping the moisture from her face, she turned to Mr. Key. “I see your mission was somewhat successful.” She wondered what magic they wielded to achieve such a feat when Luke had tried everything in his power to free a boy who had done nothing.

  “At first not,” Mr. Key said. “But we were finally able to persuade General Ross, a rather reasonable fellow as far as the British go.” His features sank. “I heard the poor man was killed at North Point.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, we seem to have managed only to move Dr. Beanes from one prison to another. And got ourselves captured as well.”

  Colonel Skinner gazed toward Baltimore. “And now we’re forced to witness the invasion of our country.”

  Musket fire popped in the distance. Thunder shook the tiny ship as she rode upon another swell. Cassandra glanced over the morbid scene.

  “I wonder where Luke is,” John said.

  She drew the boy close. “Pray for him, John. And pray for our country.”

  Shouts echoed through the gloom from the British ships. Cassandra could make out the shapes of sailors scampering about the deck, hovering over cannons like bees over nectar—deadly nectar.

  They were preparing to fire on Baltimore.

  Luke stared at the open cell door, too shocked to move. Had the angel opened it or had the explosion jarred the lock? Either way, Luke knew he had not been dreaming. He had seen the angel, heard his words, and through them, God had released Luke from a different kind of prison—one Luke had created for himself out of unbelief and failure.

  Another thunderous explosion shook the building, and dust showered him from above. Darting from his cell, down the gloomy hall, he emerged into the empty guardhouse then out into the courtyard of the fort. Officers brayed orders. Soldiers stomped across the ground, mud flinging from their boots, their faces masks of fear and torment. Militiamen and citizens stormed in and out of the open front gate.

  Open, with no guard in sight.

  In the mayhem Luke would have no trouble slipping out unseen. Ducking into the shadows beneath the building’s overhang, he lowered his head and started toward the entrance. Yet with each thud of his boots, something tugged at his heart, urging him to stay. To fight. Even if it meant his death.

  Hadn’t the angel said Luke had important works, good works to do? Perhaps this was one of them. Perhaps everything that had happened was meant to bring him to this spot.

  At this time.

  He halted. He was tired of running. Tired of running from God, tired of running from himself. And tired of failing. Anger stormed through his veins. The British had impressed him into their navy, whipped his back, stolen his brother, made Luke into a traitor, kidnapped the woman he loved, and now they were intent on stealing his freedom.

  And he was not going to let them succeed without a fight.

  Searching the yard for someone in authority, he spotted a colonel standing by the bunkhouse directing a band of militiamen. Fear surged through Luke. Would the man recognize him? Yet, some invisible force nudged him forward even as peace registered in his heart. He must do this. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he was supposed to help defend the fort. Regardless of whether they tossed him back in his cell, he had to try. Snapping the hair from his face, Luke dashed into the rain and halted before him.

  “What can I do to help, Colonel?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed as another explosion split the sky. “Who are you, sir?”

  “Luke Heaton, privateer.”

  “Very good, Mr. Heaton.” The man dismissed the militiamen. “Can you handle an eighteen-pounder?”

  “Aye, sir.” Relief brought a smile to Luke’s lips.

  “Then report to Captain Nicholson and the Baltimore Fencibles on the shore battery.”

  Luke hesitated, thinking of the incoming British fleet. “Have you sunk any ships in the bay to bar their passage?”

  The colonel huffed. “Where have you been, man? We sunk several merchant ships yesterday. I assure you, the Brits will get no farther than they are, at least not by ship.”

  With a nod, Luke started off, glad to be helping, glad he had not been thrown back in his cell. As he marched out of the fort, over the moat, and around to the battery, rain stung his face. White-hot lightning etched across the gray sky.

  Please, God, give me strength and wisdom and protect this fort and this city. Though his whispered prayer felt odd on his lips, peace as he’d never known washed over him. Approaching the man he assumed to be Nicholson, he glanced at the ominous barricade of British warships perched in the dark waters just three miles from the fort—like a line of soldiers, well armed, their faces like flint, their determination unyielding. He wondered if Cassandra and John were among them. Sorrow crushed his heart as an orange flash shot out from the lead ship, followed by a thunderous boom. Soldiers across the field froze. Some ducked. A splash of water flung toward the sky where the shot fell short of land.

 
Luke reported to Nicholson and was immediately put to work loading and priming an eighteen-pound messenger of death. At least he hoped it would deliver that resounding message to the Brits. The next several hours passed in a melee of commands, screams, and explosions. Giving up on its single shots, the British fleet began firing several bombs into the air at once, raining deadly hail upon the fort and the men defending it. Fortunately, most of the shots missed the fort. Yet their impact on land and sea did not fail to shake the ground as well as Luke’s nerves. And though he and his crew returned fire as rapidly as they could, their shots always fell short of the row of ships.

  British mortar bombs continued to pound them even as the wind and rain assailed them from all sides. Hours passed as Luke, sweat laden and sore muscled, went through the methodical motions of working the gun. Bending over to catch his breath, he inhaled a gulp of smoke-laden air. It stung his nose and throat. He backed up, coughing, and bumped into a passing soldier.

  “Luke.” The man’s incredulous voice spun Luke around. Noah stared at him, eyes brimming with shock from within a soot-encrusted face. Blackthorn stood by his side.

  “What in the blazes are you doing here?” Noah asked.

  “I could ask you the same,” Luke said, gripping his friend’s arm. “Did you rescue John and Cassandra?”

  A group of militiamen stormed past. Shouts filled the air.

  Noah shook his head, sorrow filling his eyes. “Without you, we had no idea where to meet the frigate.”

  Of course. Luke released his friend. He hadn’t thought of that.

  “Blackthorn and I came to help the fort.” Noah scanned Luke as if he expected him to disappear at any moment. “I’m very glad to see you alive, my friend.”