They watched the heron circle and fly off.
“It means we are not far from the coast.” Tom pointed with his chin toward where the bird disappeared.
“Surely we are not near New Orleans,” Charlotte said. Only yesterday Captain Thatcher had said they were south of Florida.
Tom frowned. “Not yet.”
A strange expression moved over his face. It seemed to grow darker, as if his thoughts bothered him. He glanced to the side. “You should be resting today, Charlie.”
She wasn’t quite ready for the conversation to be finished, not when the dark look remained. “And you should as well.”
He shook his head. “I didn’t swim yesterday. Just floated.”
“When we reach New Orleans, I will teach you to swim.”
He raised his brows, and something very near a smile pulled the corners of his lips. “Not in New Orleans. The whole place is a swamp. Gators, cottonmouths . . . you’ll not see me in that water.”
Charlotte smiled. She’d seen her share of snakes and even a few alligators near her parents’ farm. But the large reptiles weren’t considered a threat. They avoided humans, and if one was foolish enough to come near a populated area, it was turned into a pair of boots for a rich gentleman before it even knew what happened.
“Well, you must learn somewhere. But we will avoid the swamp.”
Tom held out a hand, and when she took it, he enclosed her small hand in his larger and shook, giving the first real smile she’d seen on the man. “You have a deal.”
***
The next evening Charlotte leaned over the boiling pot in the galley. Satisfied the meal was finished, she scooped fish stew into a bowl and set it onto a tray beside a cup of grog and a few biscuits. She carried the supper through the lower deck to Captain Thatcher’s quarters. She hadn’t spoken to him since the day before, when she’d returned his trousers. Remembering the afternoon in his cabin, her haircut, and the intimate nature of their conversation made her pause. She was not entirely certain how to act around the captain now that he’d shared such personal things with her. She found herself feeling a funny mixture of apprehension and anticipation at seeing him again. Balancing the tray on her hip, she raised her hand to knock but stopped when she heard raised voices inside.
“The beam simply cannot be repaired with the supplies on board,” Captain Thatcher was saying. “We’re running out of options.”
“Plenty of beams in New Orleans,” Mr. Dobson said.
Charlotte thought she could hear Captain Thatcher let out a frustrated breath and imagined him rubbing his eyes. “If we arrive in Barataria Bay with a damaged ship, Lafitte will charge us double to fix it and tax the cargo while he’s at it. With the impending invasion . . .”
“Possible invasion,” Dobson interjected.
“The English will attack,” Captain Thatcher said. “It’s just a question of when. And I don’t want that when to be while we are there. We need to get in and out of the city as quickly as possible.”
“But Pensacola?” Mr. Ivory’s voice piped up. “The Spanish won’t be friendly toward us after the skirmishes with the American armies.”
“All in the past,” Alden said. “I have contacts in Pensacola. Good people.”
“And what if we arrive and the entire British navy is amassing in the harbor?” Mr. Ivory said.
“If it makes you more comfortable, we’ll drop anchor to the west of the city—avoid the harbor altogether and leave ourselves an easier escape. It does mean dragging a heavy beam overland, however. And if we see any sign of trouble, we’ll land in Mobile instead.”
Charlotte’s skin went cold. Not Mobile. The city was less than forty miles from her home and deep in Red Sticks territory. And Pensacola—that’s where the Red Sticks got their weapons. She wished she could burst into the room and tell the men to avoid both cities. She leaned closer, hoping someone would offer another option.
“You know what the English will do, Captain,” Mr. Ivory said. “What we stand to lose—if they don’t blow us out of the water first.”
“I understand the risk, gentlemen,” Captain Thatcher said. “But we have no other choice. We can’t risk another storm with the deck in this shape. The repairs need to happen as soon as possible, and Pensacola is the closest city.”
“Understood,” Dobson said.
“I understand your reasoning as well,” Mr. Ivory said. “But that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“I don’t like it either.” The captain’s voice sounded pensive. Or maybe discouraged. Charlotte couldn’t fully tell.
She knocked, and when the door opened, she acted surprised at seeing all of the men gathered. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Captain. Mr. Turley told me you wished to take supper in your quarters tonight.”
He accepted the tray, setting it onto the chair since papers and maps covered the desk, the berth, and the trunk. “Thank you, Charlie.”
She hadn’t seen the captain since the day before when he’d cut her hair. A flush rose from her chest, even though he spared her hardly a glance. Hurrying back to eat with her messmates, she considered what she’d overheard. What had Mr. Ivory meant? What did they stand to lose? Had he been speaking about the cargo? Or would the English confiscate supplies? Weapons?
She sat beside Tom, who showed her the bird pictures in his notebook. He was a talented artist, and she was pleased to see a larger picture of a puffin. Once she had Will, perhaps she’d take him north, somewhere far away from the Creek tribes, and they would watch puffins all day long.
That night as she tried to fall asleep, the worried voices of the captain, quartermaster, and boatswain haunted her.
Why had the men sounded so worried when they’d discussed Pensacola? Would the crew be safe there? If the English were amassing a fleet to attack America, was anyplace safe?
Chapter 10
Alden spread the roll of parchment over his desk, holding it flat with his hands. He tapped his finger on the dot that marked Pensacola. The ship should be in sight of the Florida coast anytime now.
He rolled his neck, kneading out the stiffness from days of strain. The plan to stop in Pensacola for lumber was not optimal, but he couldn’t think of a better one. He’d thought through the contingencies of every option, discussed them with Dobson and Mr. Ivory until the men were so tired of the speculation that they’d thrown up their hands and told Alden they’d do whatever he chose.
But how could he choose for the entire ship? He was responsible for the men’s safety, but during wartime there were simply no guarantees.
He sighed. When he’d dreamed as a child of captaining a grand ship, he hadn’t taken into account the difficult decisions he’d have to make, thinking only of the adventure and exciting destinations that awaited him.
The advantage to Pensacola, aside from the city’s closeness to their current location, was familiarity. He knew the city. He had friends there—one in particular whom he knew he could trust. Well, mostly.
He leaned back in his seat. Though he considered Sebastián Delgado a friend, he’d not seen or spoken to the man for years. And so much had happened between their countries in that time. Pensacola was technically in enemy territory, although Alden had traded peacefully with the Spanish settlers for years. But for all he knew, the English controlled the city and the harbor now, in which case, he was leading his men into danger.
Alden rubbed his eyes and turned back to the map, tracing his finger west along the Gulf Coast.
Alden had considered Mobile, a logical choice, as it was in the American territory of Mississippi. But sailing to Mobile worried Mr. Ivory. The city sat at the very top of an enormous bay. If the English had taken the city and controlled the bay, Alden and his crew would not know until they’d sailed far up into it. By then retreat would be impossible.
He studied the map, wishing some new place he hadn’t thought of would mater
ialize. But it remained just as it had been every time he’d pored over it.
If the English were indeed gathering in the Caribbean, they could be in any of the cities or even on an island somewhere. And not knowing their location made every port a risk.
Alden stood and paced across the small space. He’d already decided the greatest risk to his crew was sailing with a damaged beam and deck. If they met another storm, the pumps couldn’t work fast enough to empty the lower deck and hull. Their cargo and supplies would be ruined and the ship damaged further. And even more concerning was the structural integrity of the vessel. A damaged beam was not to be taken lightly.
A knock sounded—an appreciated distraction from his concerns. He would almost welcome a trivial complaint or dispute. He opened the door and discovered Dobson and Tom Stafford on the other side. Both men wore concerned expressions, and Alden thought he might have to reconsider his wish for a distraction.
“Might we have a word, Captain?” Dobson glanced behind him and leaned closer. “In private?”
Surprised and a little apprehensive, Alden opened the door wide. “Of course.”
The men entered, turning to the side to scoot past him in the tight space.
Alden closed the door behind them. “You’re recovered from your mishap the other day, Stafford?”
“Aye.” Stafford shuffled his feet, a strangely childlike action for such a large person. He was unsettled, making Alden even more curious. Stafford was a steady man. In fact, in the years he’d known him, the man had never complained or caused any trouble.
Alden waited, but neither man seemed to wish to begin the conversation. He clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat. “Well, then. How can I help you gentlemen?”
Dobson and Stafford shared a glance.
Stafford looked down at his hands.
Dobson cleared his throat. “Yes, you see, Captain . . .” He looked to the side and cleared his throat again. “Stafford came to me this morning with a . . . question. No, it was rather a concern, one that’s been on my mind as well.”
Alden looked at Stafford, but the larger man didn’t meet his eye.
Alden wasn’t going to wait all day for the two to muster the courage to voice their worry. He had a ship to manage. “Out with it.”
“Captain, we think Charlie is a girl.”
Alden looked between the men and barked out a laugh. “Of course she’s a girl.” He’d wondered how long it would take for others to realize what to him had been evident from the start.
The two stared at him.
Dobson’s mouth actually fell open. “You knew?”
Alden shrugged. “Well, it is fairly obvious.”
“Those men at the docks in Savannah.” Dobson scowled. “They were looking for a girl. They were looking for Charlie.”
“They were . . .” Stafford’s lip curled, and an angry frown darkened his eyes. Identifying the repulsive men’s profession was unnecessary. Alden was glad not to be on the receiving end of Stafford’s glower. He almost felt sorry for the men in Savannah. If Stafford ever came upon them, Alden couldn’t imagine them leaving the encounter in one piece.
“You sent them away to protect her . . . ,” Dobson said slowly. “That is why you kept her on, even though you intended to dismiss her from the crew.”
Alden nodded as the men put together the pieces.
“I’m mighty glad you did,” Stafford said in a quiet voice.
Dobson frowned. “What should we do, Captain? Don’t know if the other crewmembers would approve of a woman on board the ship. Some are suspicious, and others might . . . take advantage of the situation.”
Alden tensed, realizing again the protection Charlie’s disguise gave her and how afraid she could become if she was revealed.
“We should continue exactly as we have been—treat Charlie as we would any crewmember. She has certainly proven herself deserving in that respect.”
Stafford nodded.
Dobson pursed his lips, looking thoughtful.
Alden spoke slowly, wanting the men to understand the importance of what he was saying. “We will keep Charlie’s secret and keep her safe. Do you understand?”
“Aye, aye, Captain.” The two stood straighter, their expressions looking solemn. Alden knew they’d not take the charge lightly.
***
Alden led a party of his crewmembers through the tall grass along the Florida coastline. He’d left the rest of the men behind under the command of Dobson to guard the ship, bringing Yancey and Day to select a beam; Stafford, Marchand, and Allred to help the carpenters carry it; Mr. Ivory to oversee the purchase; Paulo Nogales, who was fluent in Spanish; and Charlie. Alden had received curious looks from the crew when he’d selected Charlie to accompany them. Of course, she would serve no practical purpose on the errand. She could hardly carry a heavy beam five miles over sandy ground. But Alden preferred having her close, where he could keep an eye on her. And he thought she might like to visit the city.
Most of the men walked in silence, but he could hear Charlie and Stafford chattering away. Alden slowed to listen.
“I thought it was a duck,” Charlie said.
“Definitely a cormorant,” Stafford said. “Just watch . . .”
Alden glanced to the side, looking over the mossy pond as they passed. A fat black bird swam toward the far bank.
“It still looks like a duck,” Charlie said.
Alden glanced back. The tone of her voice sounded like she was teasing. The sound made him resentful of Stafford, a feeling he shook off immediately. Why should he begrudge the man a friend? The chill in the air and the long walk were making him bad-tempered.
He looked to the right, admiring the view of the sea from the white sand beach. The sea was tranquil today, and with the clear sky, it was a magnificent aqua color. A pity the weather was so cold this winter. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets.
“There,” Stafford said. “See that?”
Alden looked back toward the bird. It stood on the bank, holding its wings outstretched but bent down at a strange angle.
“What is it doing?” Charlie asked.
“Unusual, isn’t it?” Stafford said. “Don’t know why they stand like that. But it makes them easy to identify.”
“A cormorant,” Charlie said. “I would never have known.”
“If we are lucky, we will see a blue heron,” Stafford said. “Some are enormous—almost as tall as you, Charlie.”
Alden’s sullen mood remained.
The party neared the city, and he led them inland, wanting their approach to be less obvious, especially if the English had scouts watching the beach. Though they tried, they couldn’t completely avoid the swamps, but he’d prefer an encounter with a gator or a wild pig to one with an English battalion.
He motioned for Marchand to take the lead. The Cajun used a long stick to poke into the ground as he walked, determining the best route. At times he claimed they were following a path, but Alden thought one bit of the swamp looked the same as every other.
The cold fortunately kept the insects away. Marchand assured the group again and again that alligators didn’t hunt in the winter, but the men still held their weapons at the ready, startling and cursing when they spotted one of the large reptiles or even a log that looked like one. Marchand also explained the difference between a bayou and a swamp, but after so many hours slogging through the marshland, Alden didn’t care what the place was called. The air was heavy and wet, and combined with the cold, Alden felt like a heavy, damp blanket covered him.
There were, however, an abundance of waterfowl in the swamp and in the tall trees overhead, much to Charlie and her friend’s delight.
Stafford identified quite a few from their calls, pointing them out in the undergrowth or the trees.
Charlie asked question aft
er question about the various birds, which the large man appeared delighted to answer.
Alden had never seen the sailor so friendly. He supposed diving into shark-infested water after a person could soften a gruff disposition. He was grateful Stafford took the responsibility of Charlie’s care seriously. But that didn’t ease his irritability over their newfound friendship.
“We should keep quiet,” Alden told them, though he knew very little chance existed of them being overheard this deep in the swamp.
They pushed on, beneath trees heavy with moss and over rotted logs, sometimes retracing their steps when the route they followed was blocked. The trek led them over enormous tree roots and through heavy, wet underbrush, until all of them were sweaty and exhausted.
Grimacing at the muck on his boots and having no idea how much farther they had to go, Alden was nearly ready to risk walking on the beach, but when he emerged from a patch of tall grass, Marchand motioned him forward.
The Cajun pointed to a rise ahead. “We should be able to see ze harbor from atop zat hill.”
They waited for the group to regain their strength and then started up the rise, crouching when they reached the top.
Alden let his gaze travel over the harbor and the city, trying to discern whether it was safe for a group of Americans to enter. The city appeared quiet. But on the island at the very tip of the harbor, Fort Barrancas was nothing but a charred ruin. What had happened?
Alden looked around for any clue as to the situation. Ships bobbed in Pensacola Harbor, but they were fishing boats and private vessels. Only a few Spanish Navy sloops and one galleon were among them.
“No English ships,” Marchand said.
Alden nodded. “And no American ships.” He lifted his chin to the remains of the fort. A Spanish flag flew over rubble of blackened rocks and wood. “I’d feel better if that flag had white stars and red stripes, but at least it’s not the Union Jack.”
He turned to the group of men, still uneasy about entering the city with no knowledge of how relations stood between their countries. “The English have departed, and I take that as a good sign. But be on your guard, and stay close.”
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