Surrender the Dawn

by Marylu Tyndall

  Blackthorn ducked beneath another explosion. “We heard you were arrested.”

  “You heard correctly,” Luke shouted and ran a sleeve over his forehead, marring the white cotton with soot. He leaned toward them. “Do not worry, neither of you were implicated.”

  Noah’s brow folded. “How did you get free?”

  “God set me free, my friend.” Luke gestured above.

  The eerie whine of a bomb sailed overhead.

  “It’s a long tale.” Luke ducked as the explosion shook the ground. “For another time.”

  A passing corporal pointed toward Noah. “Brenin, Blackthorn, with me!”

  Noah clasped Luke’s arm. “Take care, my friend.”

  “You too.” Luke returned his grip.

  After Noah and Blackthorn rushed off, Luke faced the British fleet. More shots fired from the ships in rapid succession, pummeling both land and sea, like an angry giant pounding on a door. Behind him, one of the bombs met their mark on one of the fort’s buildings. The ground trembled. Luke crouched as a shower of stone stung his back and screams of agony battered his ears. When nothing but raindrops struck him, Luke rose, swiped off the debris, and returned to his duties.

  The sergeant in charge of the gun Luke was assigned to lowered his scope. “They have rocket launchers on board their sloop. How are we to withstand such a force?” His eyes grew vacant with terror.

  “We keep fighting, sir.” Luke hefted another iron ball into the mouth of the cannon. He faced him with a look of defiance. “We do not give up.”

  The sergeant nodded and released a ragged sigh. “Indeed.” He glanced down at an empty bucket. “Mr. Heaton, go fetch some more powder bags.”

  Grabbing the container, Luke headed toward the fort when a firm hand on his shoulder flung him around.

  Lieutenant Tripp. With black smudges on his face, rain dripping from his chin, his uniform torn, and a look of shocked abhorrence twisting his features. “What are you doing here, Heaton?” he shouted over the noise.

  Luke’s stomach folded in on itself. “I’m helping to fight, Lieutenant.”

  Explosions thundered the sky. Rain slammed down on the mud, skipping over the puddles. “How did you get out of your cell?” The lieutenant’s eyes seethed hatred. “It doesn’t matter, you will come with me now!” he barked.

  An eerie whine coiled around Luke’s ears. He glanced up to see the flame of an incoming shell. Too close. Far too close.

  “Get down!” He shoved Tripp. Eyes wide, the lieutenant’s arms flailed as he tumbled backward several feet before toppling to the ground. Leaping, Luke dove and covered his head with his hands.

  The bomb landed on one of the battery guns. Mud and pebbles quivered against Luke’s cheek. A scream of torment rent the air. Scraps of iron and flesh lashed his back.

  After a few seconds, Luke raised his head. Two men lay dead, another severely injured, and the gun they’d been using was nothing but a smoking pile of sheared metal. Men swamped the scene, attending to the dead and injured. The shouts, the blasts, the pounding rain—every sound seemed to drift into the distance beneath the thumping of Luke’s heart and the ringing in his ears. He shook his head.

  Three yards to his right, Tripp struggled to his knees, brushing mud from his shirt. Their eyes met. Blood sliced a red line on his right sleeve. Gripping his arm, the lieutenant nodded begrudging thanks to Luke and then ambled back to his post.

  CHAPTER 34

  Staring at the same spot she’d been looking at since the shelling began, Cassandra gripped the railing of the sloop until her knuckles whitened. Though the sun had long since set, darkness could not hide the constant bursts of orange and scarlet flaming from the British fleet, nor the arc of glittering fire that spanned the sky and exploded in showers of red-hot sparks above Fort McHenry.

  Her legs ached from balancing so long on the heaving deck. Her head throbbed from the endless roar of cannons. Her throat and nose stung from the incessant smoke that filled the air. But most of all her heart broke for the lost lives of the brave soldiers at the fort.

  John slipped his hand into hers. “It will be all right, miss.” His comforting tone did nothing to assuage her fears.

  “I don’t see how.”

  Beside her, Mr. Key and his companions’ shouts of defiance and victory had long since faded into shocked silence, broken only by groans of defeat.

  It didn’t help that every time it appeared that a British bomb had hit its mark, the marines guarding them shouted “huzzahs!” of victory, making Cassandra feel attacked from both front and rear.

  “Egad, how much can the fort take?” Mr. Key exclaimed. “They’ve been firing rockets at them for nigh on twenty-three hours!”

  “I didn’t realize the British could house so many bombs aboard their ships,” Dr. Beanes added.

  The third man, Colonel Skinner, grabbed a backstay and slunk down to sit on the railing with a moan.

  Cassandra took up a pace. “It is unbearable to sit idly by and watch our city, our country under attack.” A blast of wind engulfed the ship in smoke. Gunpowder stung her nose. Coughing, she batted away the fumes.

  “I quite agree, miss.” Mr. Key propped one boot on the railing and held a handkerchief to his nose. “But we must not give up hope.”

  Boom boom boom caboom.

  Another barrage thundered the air. Violent flames surged from the fleet, flashing a sinister glow upon the British ships before darkness swallowed them up again. Bombs riding on streams of fire sped toward the fort. Explosions, barely distinguishable from the thunder growling its displeasure from above, rocked the peninsula.

  “What is to become of us?” The deck tilted, and Cassandra hugged John, drawing him close. He trembled, and she knew he was thinking of Luke. As was she. “Never fear. You know how resilient your brother is. I’m sure he is all right.”

  She hoped he was. Prayed he was. John said nothing.

  Cassandra could not imagine living under British rule. Though her grandparents had suffered during the Revolution, and her mother was but a child during the fighting, Cassandra had been born into freedom. The freedom to elect those who would represent her in government, the freedom to speak out in defiance of injustice, the freedom to choose her own way. She sighed. Perhaps she had taken that freedom for granted too long.

  Another round of rockets roared through the air. One crashed onto the ground—either near or on the fort, she couldn’t tell which. The deafening explosion plunged a dagger into her heart. She hugged John tighter as Mr. Key offered her his hand. “Shall we pray for our country, Miss Channing?”

  Wiping her tears, she slid her hand into his and bowed her head.

  Hours later, Cassandra leaned back on a barrel one of the men had rolled over for her to sit on. John stood by her side, while Mr. Key and his friends lined the starboard railing, frozen in shock. Each bomb bursting over the fort reflected the red glow of horror on their faces. Cassandra’s hope had long since given way to despair. She placed a hand on her aching back. There was no way Fort McHenry could survive such an onslaught of rockets. So many she’d lost count. Hundreds, even thousands. Yet neither the darkness nor the distance allowed them to determine how much of the fort had been destroyed.

  Or how many men had lost their lives.

  Fierce wind whipped around her, tearing her hair from its pins and thrashing the wet strands against her neck. She didn’t have the strength to brush them away. The sloop rose over a wave. Gripping John, Cassandra clung to the barrel as she dropped her sodden shawl into her lap. She no longer noticed the chill that iced her bones.

  Only the chill that penetrated her heart.

  “I wonder about the land invasion,” she said absently.

  Mr. Key turned toward her. Lantern light oscillated over his haggard features. “I’ve heard no musket shot for some time.”

  “What if the Brits are ravaging Baltimore as we speak?” Cassandra’s voice cracked. She fought back tears. What of her mother and sister
s? And Marianne and Rose and poor little Jacob? What would the monsters do to them?

  Approaching her, Mr. Key took her hands. “We do not know that. We must trust God and not speculate on the worst.”

  “I agree, Miss Channing,” John said. “God is in control. Besides, Luke is in town. He won’t let those nasty Brits come anywhere near his friends.”

  Cassandra smiled at the boy’s trust. “But what can one man do?”

  “One man and God can change the world, Miss Channing,” Mr. Key said as another volley of cannon fire drew their gazes to a fiery glare arching over the black sky. He shifted his shoulders beneath his coat, dripping with rain. “Besides, the fact that the ships are still firing is a good sign.”

  “How so?”

  “It means they have not taken the fort.”

  “Of course.” Cassandra hadn’t thought of that.

  “It’s when the bombing stops that we need to be concerned.” He rubbed the back of his neck.

  Cassandra peered into the thick darkness. Though the storm had subsided, a light mist settled in the air, cloaking the scene in a surreal gray mirage. Above them, the heavens revealed a sparkling serenity of stars that defied the proceedings below. Even so, the night dragged on interminably, and Cassandra began to wonder if she’d ever see the light of day again.

  Another broadside from the fleet released its fury.

  The ship teetered, creaking and groaning as if it were just as tired as they of the nightlong onslaught.

  “Look.” John pointed east. “Dawn is coming.”

  Cassandra lifted her chin to see a brushstroke of golden light paint the horizon.

  Dr. Beanes approached the railing. “We shall know soon enough, then.”

  Slowly rising, her eyes locked upon where she knew the fort stood, though she still couldn’t make it out.

  Several minutes passed. Cannon fire punched the air. All coming from the British fleet. Silence hung over the fort. But what did that mean? Were all the Americans dead? The guns destroyed? Had the British landed and stormed through the town?

  Nothing but the creak of the ship and the chuckles of marines playing cards answered Cassandra’s frenzied questions.

  Grabbing a halyard, Mr. Key leapt up on the bulwarks, straining to see in the distance. “Look for which flag flies above the fort. If the Union Jack, we are doomed.”

  Cassandra swallowed. Her breath crowded in her throat. She drew John to her and together, they focused their gazes into the darkness.

  A darkness that soon transformed to gray. Shadowy objects formed in the distance. The warble of birds greeted the dawn as if no slaughter had taken place overnight.

  Boom! The British ships fired again.

  Cassandra’s heart seized. She felt John tense beside her.

  Then the sun burst over the horizon in all its glory, chasing away the darkness. All eyes peered toward the fort, whose buildings now formed before them.

  Mr. Key laughed. Then he chuckled, ecstatic joy bursting in his throat. “I see her! She’s sodden and limp, but yes, ’tis the stars and stripes!”

  He leapt down and grabbed Cassandra’s shoulders. “We’ve held them off!”

  Stunned, Cassandra could only stare at him. The air thinned in her lungs as tears of joy filled her eyes.

  Mr. Key embraced his friends.

  “I told you, Miss Channing.” John looked up at her and smiled.

  She brushed wet strands of hair from his forehead. “Yes, you did, John. Yes, you did.”

  “Colonel Skinner,” Mr. Key said. “Go below, if you please, and find me a pen and something to write on.”

  “Of course. Whatever for?”

  Mr. Key gazed at the fort. “I must write about this. A poem, a song, explodes in my head, I can hardly contain it.”

  Within minutes, the colonel returned. “There is no pen to be found, sir. I did find this envelope, but no pen.”

  “No pen?” Mr. Key looked stricken.

  The colonel shook his head and frowned.

  “Blast it all!” Grabbing the envelope, Mr. Key spun around.

  A faint remembrance jarred Cassandra. Turning her back to them, she lifted her skirt and reached into the pocket of her petticoat for the quill pen and ink jar John had given her. Amazed, she smiled at John and handed them to Mr. Key.

  “Where did you get these?” he asked.

  Cassandra swallowed as the realization struck her. “God provides, Mr. Key.”

  “Indeed, He does.” He kissed her on the cheek then laid the envelope on top of the bulwarks, dipped his pen in ink, and began to write.

  Luke sank to his knees as the first rays of light shot over the horizon, scattering the gloom and stirring the mist hovering over the water. Wet mud seeped into his breeches. He wiped the grime and sweat from his brow with his torn sleeve as he noticed the splatters of blood on the fabric. Not his. But the blood of the injured he had carried to the infirmary. How many, he had lost count. Wind slapped strands of his hair against his cheek. He jerked them away and glanced up at the American flag hanging proudly over the fort.

  They had won!

  They had repelled an invasion from the greatest naval power in the world. And Luke had been a part of it. As the sun crested the horizon, he bowed his head and thanked God for the victory and the privilege.

  “Luke Heaton praying?” Noah chuckled as he and Blackthorn came up on either side of him.

  Struggling to his feet, Luke smiled, despite the fact that every muscle and bone in his body screamed in agony. “Miracles do happen.”

  Noah raised his brows. “War brings many men to their knees.”

  “It was long overdue.” They exchanged a knowing glance.

  Before Luke could stop him, Noah clutched him in a manly embrace. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  “An’ me as well,” Blackthorn growled. Removing his hat, he slapped it against his leg.

  “They are sailing away!” A shout came from the tower, and one by one, the men who had sunk, exhausted, to the ground where they stood, rose to their feet and inched toward the shore.

  White sails, gleaming in the sunlight, appeared on the yards of the British ships like snowy clouds. And within minutes, the ships grew smaller in size.

  The fort’s morning gun fired, sounding rather dull compared to the onslaught that had met Luke’s ears throughout the night. Above them, men lowered the storm flag and raised the massive American ensign above the fort. A band began playing “Yankee Doodle.”

  Luke glanced at his friends covered in mud and ashes, their shirts and breeches torn and sopping wet. “Aren’t you both a sore sight?”

  Tossing his arms over both Luke’s and Blackthorn’s shoulders, Noah drew the trio together. “Aye, but we are alive. And God is good to give me such friends.”

  Uncomfortable with the emotional exchange, Luke backed away as “hip hip hurrays” trumpeted from the exhausted troops. Hats flew into the air and congratulations abounded over the shore battery.

  Luke glanced at the departing British fleet. Even amid the triumph and gaiety that surrounded him, his heart collapsed in pain. What of Cassandra and John? Were they still on the HMS Audacious, and if so, where was the ship? He had failed to rescue them, and they were lost to him forever.

  Noah laid a hand on his shoulder. The joy on his face faded to sympathy, and something else. Determination. “We’ll find them.”

  Luke nodded, though he saw no possibility of that now. Especially if he was locked up and tried for treason. He scanned the crowd. No sign of Lieutenant Tripp. But he would have to face the man sooner or later. And be tossed in his cell once again. No less than Luke deserved. He should be grateful to God he’d been allowed to help defend his great city. To pay a small recompense for his traitorous deeds.

  “What of my crew?” he asked Noah. “Were they rounded up?”

  “No.” His friend shook his head. “I’m told your Mr. Keene made a deal with Tripp. Only you were to be charged.”

  Another th
ing to thank God for. Though Keene’s betrayal stung Luke hard.

  The sun shot ribbons of golden light over the murky waters of the Patapsco River, dividing the mist like the Red Sea. Luke squinted. Oh God, please save Cassandra and John. And, whether locked up or free, have Your will in my life. He could hardly believe he prayed such a prayer. That he could submit his future to a distant God. No, not distant. He rubbed the scars on his hand. Always with Luke.

  Blackthorn shifted his stance. “I’ve never seen so many shots. I thought it would never end.”

  “I spoke with Major Armistead.” Noah tugged his muddy cravat from his neck. “Last count, near eighteen hundred bombs were fired our way. Four hundred landing within the fort.”

  “How many dead?” Luke was afraid to ask. “Only four.” Noah blew out a sigh. “Can you believe it? Several wounded, but only four dead.”

  Blackthorn shook his head. The brawny man touched a wound on his forehead and winced. “It’s a miracle.”

  “Indeed,” Noah said, squinting into the rising sun. “Against such overwhelming forces, only God Almighty could have prevailed.”

  Shifting his boots in the mud, Luke followed Noah’s gaze, though he was blinded by the light. He thought of the angel. He thought of destiny. Of freedom and God’s love. And he realized that he’d been living in the darkness for far too long.

  Noah gestured beyond the fort. “Let’s go home, shall we?”

  Luke swallowed as his old familiar friend—failure—begged entrance into his soul. “I don’t know if I can.”

  Noah flattened his lips. “Let us find out.”

  They made their way around the side of the fort where Major Armistead and several of his officers stood together looking like a pack of sopping stray dogs. Yet despite their disheveled appearance, relief softened the taut lines on their faces. At the edge of the group stood Lieutenant Tripp, mud streaked over his uniform, one boot missing and the epaulette on his left shoulder hanging in tatters.

  Bile churned in Luke’s empty belly.

  Noah swung an arm over his shoulders. “Better to face him now.”