Captain Of My Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  A sob caught in her throat and she gripped the shroud to keep from falling.

  Oh, dear God, Brendan . . . forgive me. . . .

  “I’ll not bargain with the likes of you, Merrick!” Crichton was shouting. “Nor will I come aboard that schooner till my flag streams from her gaff! Do you hear me, Merrick? Now, haul off or so help me God, this boy’s death will be on your conscience!”

  Brendan’s resolute stance never wavered, though he was swinging the speaking trumpet around his wrist a bit faster. Again he brought the instrument up. “Now, Crichton—”

  “I said I won’t bargain! Shear off, now, Merrick!”

  Brendan took a deep and steadying breath, his mouth so dry he could barely speak. Gravely he turned to Liam. “Do as he says.”

  “By the count of three!” Crichton shouted.

  Young Jake began to sob.

  “Now, Liam,” Brendan said tensely.

  “But, Cap’n, ’twill take more’n three seconds just to—”

  “I said do it!”

  Too late. A shot rang out in the tense stillness. Birds rose shrieking from the trees, and a great cry of horror went up from Kestrel’s deck as the boy collapsed at Crichton’s feet, his body twitching once, twice, before going still.

  Silence. Someone breathed a curse. Brendan shut his eyes, and Liam saw his lips moving, as though in prayer.

  “Brendan—”

  “Go ahead, Merrick!” Crichton grabbed Hezekiah, drew another pistol, and shoved it against the seaman’s temple. Tears streamed down the old man’s leathery cheeks as he stared at the dead boy, and in his eyes was the quiet acceptance of a man with no hope. “Stay here as long as you like! This one’s next, and then it’ll be Ashton!”

  No one except Abadiah Bobbs, standing near Freedom, heard Mr. Starr’s cry from high above.

  Brendan raised the speaking trumpet, slowly, as though it were of great weight. He was no longer swinging it. His eyes were hard, his shoulders rigid with fury. “I don’t believe you have Ashton any more than you believe I’ll be content to let the matter rest here! I’ll haul off, but only to spare the life of Mr. Simmons. Yours, Crichton, I will not spare when next we meet!” Only Liam, standing beside him, saw his captain’s hand trembling as he brought his speaking trumpet down, the savage anger with which he thrust it into his pocket to hide its shaking from his crew.

  “Mr. Wilbur!” he called loudly, so that Crichton could hear him. “Let her fall off, then trim for close haul on the larboard tack!”

  “I’ll kill him, Brendan,” Liam swore, slamming his meaty fist into his palm. “By God an’ the devil, I’ll see him in the hell where he belongs—”

  But Brendan had already turned away.

  Onshore, a triumphant Crichton breathed a sigh of relief, watching with awed fascination as sails blossomed on the schooner’s nose and her great mainsail began to fill. She turned gracefully away, her sleek underside showing and her guns pointing toward the clouds as she heeled. She was beautiful. Magnificent. Crichton’s hands grew sweaty on the pistol and his heart hammered in his chest. Sweat broke out beneath his arms and he stared at her as a starving man would a wedding feast. And then he remembered Sir Geoffrey’s promise of flag rank, and saw that promise fading to dust as the schooner drew away. . . .

  “Merrick!”

  Another few moments and the breeze would push her around the headland, send her out of reach—

  “Merrick!”

  Her captain turned, every inch the capable commander he’d been four years ago, except now the stamp of experience had replaced the recklessness of youth. No longer mirth in those Irish eyes; now nothing but the steely determination and hard anger of a man who’d been pushed too far.

  Crichton yelled into his speaking trumpet. “I’ve changed my mind! I’ll make a deal with you, Merrick, on my terms! You don’t believe I have Ashton? Let me show you aboard my ship and I’ll prove to you that I do!”

  Brendan raised a hand, as though to control the schooner’s moves, and her crew, in the midst of hauling the jib sheet over, paused.

  “Don’t listen to him, Brendan!” Liam warned, desperately gripping his captain’s sleeve.

  Challenge burned in Crichton’s milky eyes. Triumph. “Come aboard Viper and speak with Ashton yourself! He’s been asking about you! And after you’ve seen that he still lives, I’ll return him in exchange for one of your own. A prisoner of war for a prisoner of war, Merrick!”

  “Brendan, don’t!” Liam cried, for he knew whom Crichton wanted.

  Thirty feet away, Mr. Starr jumped to the deck and was caught by Abadiah Bobbs who fought to keep the little gunner from racing to the captain. But Brendan was oblivious to the struggle. He thought of his friend and fellow captain, helpless in the hands of this evil monster. He thought of the woman he loved back in Newburyport, the woman who believed the worst of him, the woman who had turned her heart against him. He looked at Crichton, standing there on the beach with a pistol against a Yankee’s head and a dead boy at his feet, and saw the only way to save that friend . . . and win back that woman’s heart.

  What did he have to lose, besides his life? A life that would be meaningless without Mira Ashton.

  He turned back to the rail. Even Kestrel seemed to have guessed his intent; now, she protested violently, trying to take the wind in her teeth and run with it before he could respond to Crichton’s invitation.

  “Your decision, Merrick!”

  Kestrel was moving farther away, as though on her own. Brendan stared hard into those translucent eyes. Then he grinned and turned jauntily to his lieutenant, his hands steady now as he unbuckled his sword belt, removed his pistols, and handed them to his horrified friend. “You always wanted a ship of your own, Liam,” he joked. “Well, here you go. Take good care of her for me.”

  “Brendan, I beg o’ ye, don’t do it!”

  “She’s a bit spirited with the wind across the beam. Mind you don’t set the topgallant when it shifts or she’ll give you a devil of a time—”

  “Brendan, don’t!”

  “Jesus,” someone muttered.

  “What is he, insane?!”

  Forward, Dalby collapsed in a dead faint.

  But Kestrel’s captain was already striding past the helm, past his horrified crew, past the guns that could have sent Crichton to the hell where he belonged. Beneath the shadow of the schooner’s great mainsail, he paused. “Ready the boat and dress it out with full ceremony. I’m going across to the frigate.”

  A silence like the tomb fell over the ship.

  Woodenly the men did as they were asked. Not because they wanted to, but because their captain commanded it.

  Mira, desperate to free herself and stop Brendan from sacrificing himself to such madness, struggled against Abadiah’s grip. “Let him go, Mira!” he said hoarsely. “The man has his pride! You go and reveal yourself, you’ll strip him of the last shreds of it!”

  They watched as the boat was swung over the rail, lowered to the skipping waves.

  Sickened, Liam slammed below and, in the privacy of his cabin, buried his face in his great, hamlike hands while the tears leaked between his fingers. Mira, standing helplessly beside Abadiah, cried bitter tears of agony.

  In the depths of her keel, in the song the wind made as it whined mournfully through her shrouds, the beautiful Kestrel wept.

  And many miles away, the great Willard clock in the Ashtons’ front hall stood silent.

  Chapter 25

  What Kestrel’s anguished crew saw as their captain left the schooner’s deck was a tall and handsome man, laughing and confident and unafraid, who made a joke or two as he walked to the gunwales, and stopped there, briefly, to doff his hat to them, the ship, and her second-in-command for what all of them knew to be the last time. By trading himself for Captain Ashton, he was going to his death, and every man aboard the schooner knew it. Dalby, huddled in the bows and clutching his chest, was retching uncontrollably; Kestrel’s marines grouped around the r
ail as though determined not to let him pass; and Kestrel herself bucked and writhed on the choppy seas, fighting John Keefe’s steady hand as he forced her closer and closer to where Viper stood anchored a scant mile away.

  Mira, standing miserably on deck with a chicken that had been destined for the soup pot in her arms, stroked the rooster’s sleek, iridescent feathers and choked back the tears as Brendan turned his back on them and resigned himself to his fate. Stop him! her mind screamed. To hell with his damned pride! Stop him now, before it’s too late! She started to run forward—and was snared once again by Abadiah’s firm hand. Her friend shook his head. The captain had his pride. If she stopped him, she’d not only make him look like a coward in front of Crichton, she’d deny him the chance to redeem Kestrel’s name in Newburyport’s eyes.

  It never occurred to her that he was doing this to redeem himself in her eyes.

  And so she pushed her fist against her mouth and watched him climb down the Jacob’s ladder, her heart breaking into a thousand pieces. Pain made it hard to breathe, and nausea filled her stomach. Yet she also knew that no one was more capable of rescuing Matt, if indeed her brother still lived, than this gallant captain with the winsome Irish grin. No one knew Crichton as he did. He was the only chance Matt had.

  A group of seamen waited in the boat below, their faces long and solemn; as one, they took up the oars and rowed him away. From his silent crew. From his ship, still fighting the helmsman’s hand. From her.

  “God bless you,” she whispered brokenly as she stood alone at the rail. The wind caught her braid and ruffled the thick tuft at the end. “Oh, Godspeed, Brendan. . . . I—” Her voice caught on a sob. “—I love you.”

  Liam joined her, his eyes hopeless and haunted as he watched the little boat carry his friend and captain farther and farther away. He reached out, silently took her hand, and gripped it hard.

  “Crichton’ll kill him, ye know,” he said quietly, his throat working and his gaze fastened on the departing boat. Brendan never looked back, and Mira swallowed hard to keep from crying. Oh, God, why, oh why, hadn’t she apologized for the way she’d doubted him? Treated him? Rejected him? Would she ever feel those sinewy arms around her again, look up into those laughing Irish eyes, hear sweet Gaelic endearments whispered in her ear?

  Would she ever see him alive again?

  “Oh, Liam ...” She looked up at him, the tears magnifying her eyes in her pale face. “Why is he doing this?” She gripped his hand. “Why?”

  Above, a yard creaked in protest. The deck moved restlessly beneath her feet. And the big Irishman just stared once more at the now distant figure in the boat.

  “Because yer brother was his friend, lassie.” He turned then, looked down at her. “And friends don’t leave friends to bastards like Crichton.”

  She bit down hard on her lower lip, squeezed her eyes shut, and turned her streaming face skyward. And then, unable to hold back the emotion any longer, she buried her face in her hands and sobbed brokenly.

  Clouds rolled in from the west on a freshening wind, promising rain by nightfall. Kestrel, restless and uneasy, began to drift toward a neighboring island as though she sought to dash herself against the shoals that girded it. With a curse, Liam ran aft, bawling orders to the boatswain. It didn’t sound quite right to hear him doing it when it should have been Brendan.

  “Hands aloft to loose the tops’ls! Right lively now, here comes the wind! Hold her steady, Mr. Keefe!”

  Kestrel moved uneasily, reluctantly answering her helm and fighting them every step of the way.

  “I said steady, John! God Almighty. ...”

  Mira raised her head. She could almost sense the schooner staring after her creator and captain like a faithful dog, trying desperately to swing her bowsprit on the now distant boat. She heard John Keefe swearing, then Liam, as he pounded forward to take the tiller himself; she heard the angry slatting of lines above, the protesting creak of spars and masts. Head bowed, Mira gripped the rail in trembling hands, and felt her soul, her own agony, traveling down through her fingers and merging with that of the schooner.

  And for the first time, she felt a strange kinship with this other female of Brendan’s—this other female of wood and canvas and wind. The tears stopped, and bewildered, she closed her eyes and allowed herself to feel the presence, the soul, of the ship around her.

  His ship.

  “Kestrel,” she said softly. “Oh, Kestrel. . . .”

  Above, the wind hummed, caught the topsails, and sang a poem through lines, shrouds, and stays.

  “We can’t let this happen,” she whispered, staring off in the direction Brendan had gone. “You see, he’s . . . my captain, too. And I . . . I love him.”

  High overhead, the wind whined through stays and shrouds.

  But you deserted him. Were faithless when I remained true.

  Mira froze.

  He’s going to his death. Not because of me. Because of you. . . .

  Because of you . . . you . . . you . . .

  With a sob, Mira jerked her hands from the rail and fled below.

  ###

  The welcome that HMS Viper gave the Royal Navy’s long-lost flag captain was a mocking one, and Brendan, emerging through the entry port and stepping onto her deck as the sun sank into the sea, knew it. Marines with immaculate red coats, blue-and-white-clad officers, pigtailed seamen; all watched him with awe, for he was something of a legend. The thought merely increased his uneasiness. Through long habit he almost doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, turned, and faced Captain Richard Crichton as his old enemy came forward, his hard smile triumphant, his eyes glowing with a strange light.

  “Captain Merrick.” Crichton hadn’t changed much over the past several years; he was a bit broader through the waist, perhaps, but that was all. “How nice of you to join us.” His eyes gleamed as he glanced off toward where Kestrel’s lights glimmered on the waves. “And how bloody noble, too. Imagine, sacrificing yourself to save a friend. My, my, what is this world coming to?” Again that hard grin. “Myles! Please see to it that my steward brings a pot of tea down to us in my cabin . . . My former flag captain and I have much to discuss.”

  “And Captain Ashton?” Brendan said tightly, gripping his hands together behind his back.

  “Oh, I’ll have him brought up shortly. He’s been a spot of trouble, you know. Typical Yankee. Hotheaded and quite difficult to handle. But I have my methods for dealing with recalcitrants, Captain Merrick. Just as I have them for dealing with deserters.”

  Brendan tensed, but remained the picture of calm.

  “Myles? Please bring the Yankee up and send him back to the schooner. Both of them, in fact. The old one isn’t worth the time it takes to restrain him. Captain Merrick and I shall be in my cabin. Please see that we’re not disturbed.”

  With an elaborate flourish, Crichton swept his hand before him. “After you, sir.” He gave a humorless grin, and when Brendan hesitated, drove his pistol brutally into his spine. “Oh, and Myles? One last thing. Please rig up a halter to the foreyard, would you? I feel that a lesson in the punishment of deserters is long overdue.”

  Myles, ever protective of his captain’s image in the admiral’s eyes, protested, “But, sir? I thought Sir Geoffrey wanted Captain Merrick delivered to him alive.”

  “Just do as I say, damn you. You know I don’t like to be kept waiting.” He smiled coldly, eyes glinting beneath the shadow of his hat, and turned to Brendan. “As you have kept me waiting for four long years, Merrick.”

  Wordlessly Brendan glanced a final time at Kestrel, anchored so close, yet so far. Desperate fear rose up in him. Then Crichton’s pistol was jabbing into his spine again and they were moving. Down the hatchway. Down into the depths of the ship.

  Down, he knew, into hell.

  ###

  With grim resolution, Liam had carried out his captain’s last order and brought the schooner to windward of the anchored frigate, where her chances of escape were far greater than
if she’d lain helplessly to leeward of the swift square-rigger. Not that Liam had any intention of fleeing if it came down to a fight—and neither did Kestrel, who showed him her sweet side as she glided to a new anchorage a quarter mile away from the bigger ship and settled down for the night to wait.

  But if a fight ensued, nothing short of Brendan’s absent Irish luck would save them, for Viper, built of solid Sussex oak and boasting thirty-two guns on her deck and twin nines mounted in her forecastle as chasers, was the schooner’s superior in both stoutness and firepower.

  But not spirit.

  Dusk came, and the last light of the day glowed red on the horizon. Waves slapped endlessly against the hull, and timbers, masts, and yards creaked uneasily. Someone started a chanty to try and raise the gloomy spirits, but one sharp glance from Liam and the voice went dead.

  And so the decks lay quiet, the glow from a pipe here and there the only spot of light in the gloom. Another hour passed. Two.

  And still they waited.

  The watch changed. Fergus carried a lantern aloft and hung it in the shrouds; Liam ordered the gunports silently opened and Kestrel’s armament run out. The schooner fidgeted uneasily. Then, from across the water, they heard sounds. Oars biting into waves, lifting, dripping, biting again. Grunts and curses and voices. As one, the crew ran to the rail and stared out into the darkness.

  “Boat ahoy!” Liam called, his voice tight with apprehension.

  “Kestrel!” came the reply. “Stand by for Captain Ashton!”

  Mira collapsed against Abadiah Bobbs and would have fallen if not for his steadying hand beneath her elbow. “Matt,” she cried, the night wind cooling her wet cheeks. “Matt!”

  The Jacob’s ladder was lowered amid frantic activity and excited voices. Muffled curses drifted up to them, and groans as someone wrestled with a great weight down there by the feeble glow of a lantern. Mira pressed her fingers to her mouth and tried to see.