“What?” Amanda reflected on their conversation, pictured Mark’s perilous descent, and then flinched. “You and Henry--here?”
“Need I remind you that Papa made us wait six months to marry? You and I have more in common than you realize, as it appears that bed has seen more action than the legendary Captain Nelson. Now, you will want to read your letters, so I shall take my leave, but know that I am always here for you.” Olivia strolled to the door but paused. “And when next your lieutenant returns to our shores, impart a bit of sage advice intended to save the neck of my future brother-in-law. Tell him to use the center rungs, as Henry had them reinforced, without Papa’s notice, after my groom took a nasty spill.”
Amanda burst into laughter.
Then Olivia winked and exited, and Amanda gave her full attention to the envelopes resting in her lap. Of the seven, she noticed one had been dispatched only a sennight ago, and she ripped into the most current missive.
February 2, 1786
My darling Amanda,
While I pen this brief note, as a Packet Ship waits, and I dare not tarry, I am most aggrieved. Having received your letters and Christmas gifts, for which I am infinitely grateful, I am distressed by your lack of care for your person, which I hold so dear, and doubts concerning the constancy of my affection, which remains unchanged from our last meeting. Has the post not delivered my correspondence, faithfully dispatched, as promised? Given our separation, which I suffer as a grave wound, my love grows more fervent with each passing day, and I count the hours until I see you again. When I dock in London, and we are reunited, I shall leave you in no uncertainty regarding my ardent admiration. Like fifty men, sweetheart. But as that happy time remains unfixed, I would ask a favor. Once the sun sinks below the yardarm, locate the North Star in the night sky, and know that I will do the same, every evening, without fail, as that is the closest I may come to your embrace. Remember, I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
Forever, your Mark
Amanda peered out the window, as twilight fast approached. In a flash, she tossed aside the sheaf of letters and the brooch and ran into the hall. Veering left, she soared down the back stairs and charged into the morning room. At the terrace doors, she gazed at the heavens. Recalling what her father had taught her about navigation and the constellations, she identified the North Star and all but bounced with excitement.
“Oh, Mark. How I love you.” Wrapping her arms about herself, she willed him to hear her declaration. “And I vow I will marry you, or I shall die a spinster.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The first shot across the bow brought the Boreas hard a-larboard, and Mark slammed into the wall, as he attempted to exit his cabin. In mid-February, the ship had been re-tasked to the Antiguas to enforce the Navigation Acts, which were unpopular, to say the least, with Americans and privateers, so the attack came as no surprise.
As the boards rumbled beneath his feet, he stumbled to the gun deck and then crawled up the companionway to the waist. When the ship pitched hard a-starboard, he rolled into the rail and used it as a ladder, of sorts, to gain the quarterdeck. At the helm, Captain Nelson barked one order after another, and Mark shuffled left and then right, as men of the watch scrambled in all directions.
“Ah, Mr. Douglas.” Captain Nelson peered through his spyglass. “She bears down with ports open, as a provocative invitation. What action would you suggest?”
Puzzled by Nelson’s odd request, as the venerable naval legend required no such advice, Mark leveled the bring-em-closer and focused. “She looks familiar.”
“You have a good eye, Mr. Douglas,” Nelson stated with unimpaired aplomb and chucked Mark’s shoulder, as the vessel shook violently. “And where do you suppose you have seen her?”
“She is a thirty-six-gun, Perseverance-class frigate, with eighteen-pounders, sir.” He knew her, all right. And then a tremor of recognition jolted his hearty frame. “Bloody hell, she is the Inconstant.”
“Correction. She was the Inconstant, taken by the Americans during their revolution and, so it appears, now persists in the hands of pirates,” Nelson stated with an air of grim finality. “Such a sad sight. And yet we can only imagine the gratitude displayed by a most indebted Admiralty upon learning that you have reclaimed her.”
“What?” Mark snapped to attention. “You wish me to board her?”
“How else might you seize your first command, Mr. Douglas?” Nelson inquired calmly and then arched a brow. “Do you or do you not wish to make post?”
Then the logic behind his captain’s motives dawned, and Mark smiled with confidence. “Aye, sir.”
“Mr. Eccleston, draw the guns and load with grape, as we shall not strike her hull, but you may sweep the deck. Sharpshooters to the tunnels.” So dedicated to his duty, Nelson had not so much as flinched, when another premature blast sent water spraying over the helm. “Mr. Pelham, topsails and forecourse, only. And Mr. Douglas, prepare your assault for the broadside.”
“What is your plan, Captain?” Mark formulated an invasion, as the second and third lieutenants conveyed the orders. To win, he would need to move swift and sure.
“She will wager everything on a single barrage.” Nelson inclined his head and narrowed his stare. “So I should heel hard a-port, bump her bows, and come aft.”
“Then the lobsters should muster to board over her bow.” Mark posited additional strategy in silence. “And I should target her quarterdeck.”
“Very good, Mr. Douglas.” Nelson snickered. “And I shall bestow upon you the temporary rank of Lieutenant-Commander by sunset.”
“Then I must return to my cabin and fetch my pistols, sir.” He saluted. “With your permission.”
“As you were.” Nelson dipped his chin. “Sharply, Mr. Douglas.”
With that, Mark retraced his steps in an awkward dance with the motion of the rocking ship. In his quarters, he donned his finest coat, retrieved and checked his weapons, and then he drew Amanda’s portrait from his waistcoat pocket.
“I do this for us, darling.” His kissed her image, set the miniature on the table, made for the door, but reversed course. Grasping the sapphire and pearl encrusted gold frame, he re-tucked the small painting in the breast pocket of the waistcoat his lady had made just for him. “Either we succeed or go down, together, my love.”
In mere minutes he rejoined the men at the waist, where the Marines and the Boreans had assembled, and an eerie quiet fell over the group. The northeast trades whispered and thrummed through the rigging, in a morose audial tapestry, and the crew stationed at the guns. Tension invested the motely band of brothers, as the stakes were great. On the quarterdeck, Nelson directed the helmsman, and the Boreas heeled hard a-port.
Gazing at the sky, Mark uttered a silent prayer that he might keep his evening date with his Amanda and the North Star. Never before had he pondered the future on the precipice of close action, but never had so much depended on the outcome, as Amanda was his to win or lose. Then he closed his eyes, as his heart beat a salvo in his ears, and he invoked the guileless reflection of his lady.
In his reverie, she glowed with effuse ebullience, as she extended her arms and reached for him. Inhaling a deep breath, he imagined her dainty hands cupping his face, as she pressed her lips to his, and he could almost taste her intoxicating sweetness. At last, his pulse slowed, and he rolled his shoulders and relaxed. Buoyed with renewed strength and determination, he lowered his chin and stared at his prize.
“Stand by to board.” Nelson assessed their position, as the deck shuddered. “Fire!” Before the pirates could respond with an additional cannonade, Nelson ranged up the Boreas, and the two ships came to rest, side by side.
“And Marines away.” Mark charged aft, swung through the shrouds, and launched to the enemy craft. With his sword drawn, he severed the boarding-netting, to a hailstorm of cheering Boreans--and the fight commenced.
Musket-fire echoed, as the Marines charged the waist. On the quarterdeck, Mark s
hot a menacing pirate and struck another with the hilt of his sword. The enemy rallied and charged, and sunlight glittered on the flat of the blades, as all hell broke loose.
“Advance, Marines. Boreans, take the companionway to the gun deck.” In the lead, Mark confronted two villains, one considerably larger than the other. Given the choice, he pulled the second pistol from his waistband, dispatched the bigger of the duo, and challenged the remaining foe. “You there, en garde.”
“Lieutenant, watch out.” A soldier punched a shaggy-haired scoundrel, which had flanked Mark, as if from nowhere.
Weaving left and then right, he pushed forward. After slicing the blackguard across the forearm, Mark stuck the pirate between the ribs and moved to his next target. With a wave, he shouted, “Onward, Boreans. Make haste, make haste, as we must secure the guns.”
A sharp assessment revealed His Majesty’s soldiers and sailors far outpaced the privateers, in numbers, ordnance, and skill. But the enemy adhered not to the Articles of War, so they were ruthless in their tactics and unpredictability. When a foe leaped from a well-situated hiding place, Mark drew short. To his good fortune, he found a discarded pistol, picked it up, and pulled the trigger, felling the would-be assassin.
On the gun deck, the Marines had assumed command and quartered a pack of pirates, dispirited and sullen, as they had surrendered. With the eighteen-pounders in friendly hands, Mark guided his men, running fast and furious, down the gangway, which was spattered with blood and littered with corpses, to the mess deck for a final assault. As he had presumed, the last of the pirates had chosen the bowels of the ship to make their stand.
“Follow me.” Again, Mark charged the fray without hesitance.
The lanterns had been doused, and it seemed villains lunged from all directions, springing from the shadows in some sort of macabre gambol. Mark deflected a blade and turned aside another, but the sword slashed through his coat sleeve and his flesh, and he winced but remained steadfast. When a buccaneer caught Mark unaware, landing a blow to his jaw, he stumbled backwards, tripped over a body, but recovered and progressed, dispatching the combatant in the process.
“The hold, waist, and gun deck has been cleared, sir.” A Marine lieutenant emerged from behind, with a platoon of lobsters to offer support.
“Then position your soldiers.” Mark bashed the head of a particularly persistent privateer and then stepped aside. “Aim sharply, men. Fire.”
Gunfire rent the air, as the smell of powder weighed heavy in his nostrils, and Mark choked on the acrid smoke. But the last of the bandits yielded and surrendered their armaments. In the wardroom, a swarthy but clean-shaven pirate held high a ceremonial sword, which Mark suspected was stolen.
“The ship is yours, sir.” The blackguard scowled. “But I would have your word that my men will be treated fairly.”
“On my honor, you and your crew shall be handled according to the Articles of War, until we reach London, and you are remanded into custody, sir.” Mark spat blood, which had seeped from his injured lip. “Lieutenant Sharpe, secure the prisoners in the hold, as a makeshift guardhouse, and post a watch to rotate on the bells.”
“Aye, sir.” Sharpe dipped his chin and then elbowed Mark in the ribs. “Congratulations, Mr. Douglas.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Riding a swell of pride unlike any he had ever known, Mark all but skipped up the gangway. When he emerged on the quarterdeck, he shifted his weight and then thrust the ceremonial sword overhead. A thunderous roar erupted on both vessels, and Mark cursed the mortifying burn of a blush.
“Ahoy.” Captain Nelson saluted, which Mark returned, measure for measure. “Well done, Mr. Douglas. What is the butcher’s bill?”
“It appears we lost three marines and two sailors, sir.” He rubbed his now sore jaw. “The pirates suffered twenty-three casualties and half as many injuries.”
“Fine work, Mr. Douglas.” Nelson folded his arms. “I should compose a report, along with temporary orders, so you may depart for London, posthaste. And evaluate your stores, as we should transfer the necessary supplies to ensure your safe journey.”
“Yes, Captain.” Mark appraised the helm and then flagged a soldier. “Have Lieutenant Sharpe conduct a thorough search of the ship, as we should beware of snipers.”
“An excellent notion, Mr. Douglas.” The soldier clicked his heels and saluted.
With a sigh of relief, Mark glanced at the ever-darkening sky and shimmering twilight. Locating the North Star, he smiled.
Well, we have done it, my girl. And you had better fortify yourself, because I am coming for you like fifty men.
With naughty thoughts of Lady Amanda, warm and inviting on his wedding night, swirling in his brain, he turned just as a pirate sprang from behind a stack of lashed barrels, leveled a pistol, took careful aim, and shot Mark in the chest.
#
“No.” Amanda lurched upright in bed and gasped for air. It took a few seconds to discern she remained in her chamber, safe and sound. In a moment of raw frustration, she ripped the ancient brooch from her bodice, which tore the material, and threw the pin across the room. “I will marry my lieutenant, or I shall never wed.”
In the world beyond the windows, the seasons changed, the birds sang, and the roses bloomed, as winter yielded to spring. March had exited with an impressive gale, which matched her mood--wild, unpredictable, and sybaritic. But for Amanda, her existence had devolved into a dull routine spent primarily in her apartments, knitting scarves for her charity and lamenting the seemingly endless absence of her beloved Mark.
Only the occasional arrival of his correspondence, which the post delivered in fits and starts, allayed her torment, but she had received nothing since the first of April, and her concern for his welfare had increased by epic proportions. It was, perhaps, the insipid regimen, coupled with intense vexation, that had tempted her to nap, every afternoon, without fail, for the past sennight, with the curious piece of jewelry, loaned by her sister, attached to her garments. And to her everlasting shock and heartbreak, the same vision taunted her slumber without mercy.
“I do not care what you show me. Now and forever, I belong to Mark.” She glared at the gold bauble, resting on the floor where it landed, as if expecting it to respond to her proclamation. A knock at the door to her sitting room had her leaping from the bed. “Come.”
“Good evening, my dear.” Carrying a large box, Papa entered. “Where is Ellie, and why are you not preparing for my birthday celebration?”
“Because I refuse to attend any party, until Mark returns to London.” She averted her gaze and sniffed. “I believe I have made my preference known since the start of the Season, sir.”
“Yes, I am well acquainted with your stubborn streak, which I have indulged to the point of madness. But you will attend our fête.” He caught her in a lethal stare. “And as you scarcely have been out of the house, since the holidays, I have taken the liberty of procuring an outfit for the special occasion. So summon your lady’s maid, this instant.”
“I will not.” She folded her arms, as her father set the parcel on the chaise.
“Amanda Catherine, while you may slight me and rain any number of curses on my head, you will not offend our guests.” Papa sighed, tugged the bell pull, which signaled Ellie, and then reversed course. At the entry, he said, “Now, if you do not present yourself at the receiving line, promptly at six, I will drag you downstairs, in whatever state I find you, so you had better think twice before defying me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.” For a minute, she considered flouting her sire’s order, but she knew from past experience he would make good on his threat, so she walked to the chaise and lifted the lid on the container. Her chest seized, her gut clenched, and her ears pealed a soupçon of alarm. “Oh, no.”
The navy silk gown boasted a fitted bodice trimmed in gold piping, along with three rows of gold buttons, set at equal distances. But it was the gold braiding located at the cuffs of the long sleev
es that manifested the source of her distress, because their distinct pattern had haunted her naps for the last week. The captain’s regalia of which she had dreamed bespoke the rank of her one true knight and future husband, according to the associative lore.
“If Papa attempts to betroth me to anyone but my lieutenant, I shall flee to the Continent,” she vowed, with a clenched fist pressed to her bosom. And then she ran to the window and pressed her forehead to the glass. “Oh, Mark. Please, come back to me.”
“You rang, my lady?” Ellie skipped to the fore. “I say, what a lovely dress, and it is done in your customary military flair. You will be the talk of the ball. Perhaps I should arrange your hair in a loose chignon with a curl draped at your throat.”
“That sounds perfect, Ellie.” Resolved to persevere, Amanda sat at her vanity and studied her reflection, as her lady’s maid coiffed her black locks to perfection. Girded for the showdown she suspected awaited her in the ballroom, she pledged to stand firm in her position, as no captain, however impressive, could take her from Mark. At last, she clutched the maid’s hand. “Thank you, my dear friend. Your unwavering support, throughout the years, has meant more than you know. Now, help me into the gown.”
“Yes, my lady.” Ellie curtseyed and then fetched Papa’s gift.
Even as Ellie tied the laces, Amanda scrutinized the festooned cuffs, which portended nefarious enterprises, and she wanted nothing more than to rip the garment to shreds. After a last check in the long mirror, she marched into the hall and trudged down the stairs. In the foyer, she stood beside her mother.
“Dearest, how charming you look.” Mama kissed Amanda’s cheek. “And I am so happy you chose to join us, tonight.”
“Papa left me no alternative.” She refused to acknowledge her father. “And so I am here, but I partake of the events under duress, and I am determined not to enjoy the party.”
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