Stunned, Charlotte gaped at Captain Thatcher. She had no idea he’d guessed this detail from her past. Realizing the men were both watching her reaction, she blinked and turned her gaze to Sebastián. “I was at Fort Mims,” she said quietly. She held herself tightly to keep from shaking.
“A survivor.” Sebastián tipped his head, studying her. “You did not hear what happened after?”
Charlotte shook her head.
Sebastián settled back in his chair. “In the spring General Jackson and his army, along with Lower Creeks, Cherokees, and the Tennessee Militia took their revenge for Fort Mims at a Red Stick fortification on the Tallapoosa River. Horseshoe Bend.” He took a drink. “The tribe was obliterated—all the warriors were killed, the women and children were taken prisoner, and the chiefs surrendered. It was a massacre.”
Charlotte stared at her plate, taking in Sebastián’s story and sorting through the myriad of emotions it elicited. She should have felt relief. A part of her did. The Upper Creek Indians had threatened the settlers in the Mississippi Territory for as long as she could remember. The saying “The good Lord willing, and the Creeks don’t rise” was second nature to those who lived in daily fear of the hostile tribes.
But she thought of the frightened faces peeking from their shelters on the outskirts of Pensacola—the women who’d watched their loved ones killed and taken away just as she had. Along with the relief Charlotte felt a deep sadness. Her eyes burned, and she rubbed them with her fingers. The terror that to this day woke her in the night with a racing heart and paralyzed her with panic . . . knowing others had to feel it as well, had to live with the aftermath . . . She choked back a sob.
“Charlie . . . ?” Captain Thatcher pulled a handkerchief from his coat and held it out.
“It is the innocent who suffer when governments fight,” Sebastián said in a quiet voice.
Charlotte swallowed away the tears and wiped her face. “I just didn’t know . . . it was . . .”
“A shock,” Captain Thatcher said. “I’m sorry.”
She took a few deep breaths. The man she was pretending to be had openly wept twice in one day. She needed to control herself if she was to maintain her identity—hold the emotions in until she was alone. She cleared her throat and drank the cool juice.
Sebastián took a bite of the toasted bread and then used it to point at the captain. “Now that you are fully informed of martial affairs in the area, tell me, Alden . . . what is it you have in your cargo hold? It must be something of great value, if you’d risk sailing through a war zone.”
Captain Thatcher pulled his gaze from Charlotte. He gave a smile, though it looked forced. “Tobacco, a little sugar, coffee . . .” He shrugged.
Sebastián lifted his brows, looking away. His expression indicated he didn’t believe the captain was telling the full truth. “You’ll never sell the sugar. Not in New Orleans or anywhere. The entire coast has more sugar than we know what to do with, thanks to the English.” His eyes narrowed. “I know you. There is more.” He spoke thoughtfully, and then his eyes went suddenly wide, and he leaned back in the chair, laughing. “You have a woman in New Orleans.” His gaze flicked to Charlotte.
She stared, shocked at the Spaniard. He had no idea the hurt his words caused.
Captain Thatcher went stiff. His expression shifted around as if it wasn’t certain which emotion to take on. After a quick moment he smiled, shrugging as if modesty prevented him from answering.
“You always did follow your heart instead of your brain, Alden.” The Spaniard wagged a finger. “Not a particularly wise habit for a man in your profession. But it makes me even fonder of you.”
The captain’s smile didn’t waver, but he swallowed hard.
Still grinning, Sebastián looked at his pocket watch. He snapped it closed with a click. “Qué lastima. An hour has passed already.” He stood. “Night will fall soon, and your men will be waiting.”
“A pity indeed,” Captain Thatcher said, standing as well.
Charlotte followed them from the courtyard through a large kitchen. The woman she’d seen before gave Sebastián a cloth sack.
He handed it to Charlotte. “For the crewmembers who remained behind.”
“Gracias,” Charlotte said. She lifted the strap over her head and inhaled the smell of fresh bread from inside. She grudgingly admitted to herself that the gesture was very thoughtful.
They left through a rear exit and wove through the streets of the town, toward the harbor.
Sebastián stopped at a bridge that spanned a small stream. He pointed along the road toward where it curved behind a cluster of trees. “Your men will be waiting in the trees,” he said, glancing up the road behind. “The patrols do not come this far from the city. You can follow the road safely.”
Captain Thatcher extended his hand, but Sebastián ignored it, grasping his friend’s shoulders and kissing his cheeks as he had when they’d first arrived. “Until we meet again, mi amigo.”
He turned to Charlotte, and she pulled back, bracing herself and praying he wouldn’t kiss her as well. “A pleasure to meet you, Charlie.”
“And you, señor.”
Giving a final wave, Sebastián spun and walked back toward the city.
They watched him go and then turned, following the road in the other direction toward the trees.
“You do not like him,” Captain Thatcher said.
She scowled. “He is likeable, but I don’t trust him. Just because he’s handsome and has a grand house and a shiny ring doesn’t mean his intentions are unselfish.”
“Handsome?” Captain Thatcher said.
Charlotte turned red. She shrugged, reminding herself again that as a man she should hardly mention such things. “Some might think so.”
He pushed together his lips, glancing back at the city behind them. “Sebastián Delgado is rather . . . slippery. But he has been a good friend.”
“You don’t trust him either,” she pointed out. “That is why you didn’t tell him Nogales speaks Spanish. You wanted to make certain he wasn’t telling his men one thing and you another.”
“Just a precaution.” He looked at her. “You don’t trust many, do you, Charlie?”
She considered. When was the last time she’d truly trusted? As a captive she’d learned quickly that people—even fellow prisoners—would betray her in an instant if they stood to gain. She’d become cautious, weighing all of her words and actions, lest they were turned against her.
“Your trust has been broken, hasn’t it?” he said. “You’ve been hurt.”
“I trust you.” She said the words without thinking then gasped, wishing she could catch them and push them back into her mouth. What was she thinking, speaking so intimately? “And Tom and Marchand,” she amended, hoping to soften the intensity of her declaration.
“It is a start,” he said.
Charlotte needed to change the subject—immediately. “You knew about Horseshoe Bend.”
“I did.”
She frowned. “Then, why did you ask Señor Delgado to tell me about it?”
“Like I said, I’d heard only rumors. I knew his account would be accurate. The man is a magnet for information. And I wanted you to hear it.”
His reasoning made sense, but why had he gone to the effort just so she could hear the story? Why had he kept her behind instead of sending her with the rest of the crew? It must be because of her spell of panic in the road; he wanted to help her heal from the trauma. Her chest grew warm, but her thoughts were still confused. And the numerous emotions of the day were taking their toll. She needed to think.
“How did you know I was at Fort Mims?”
He tapped his temple and winked. “Captain’s intuition.”
Charlotte smiled, but she did not ask further questions. She had plenty to ponder as the crew walked back along the moonl
it beach.
Chapter 12
The door to Alden’s quarters banged open. In an instant he went from sound asleep to standing on the deck, fully alert. Charlie! His first thought was that something had happened to the girl. He blinked in the darkness, seeing the outline of the quartermaster standing in the doorway.
“Captain!” Fear laced Dobson’s voice. “You must see this.”
Alden glanced at the porthole opening. Dawn was near. He’d have woken soon anyway to take the bearing to calculate the ship’s latitude. “What is it, Dobson?”
“Warship,” Dobson said. “Two points abaft the beam, starboard. Too dark to see her colors.” He was already out the door, headed back to the upper deck.
Alden pulled on his trousers and boots and rushed to join him, snatching up his coat from its hook as he passed. Above decks, sunrise was in its full splendor. Soft clouds blushed lavender and rose, and hints of waves were beginning to glimmer in the east. A glow on the horizon showed the sun would be up within a quarter hour. Normally this was Alden’s favorite time of day. The sea was calm, the sky indescribably beautiful, but marring the scene was the dark silhouette of a ship, right where Dobson had said. The vessel was near enough that there was no doubt its crew had seen them as well.
Dobson stood with Marchand and Nye—fresh from their night watch—at the starboard rail. The men stared anxiously toward the top of the unknown ship’s main mast, waiting for light to illuminate the colors of the ensign.
Alden studied the ship: three-masted, square-rigged, and from the size of it, he judged the vessel to be a corvette, smaller than a frigate, with likely no more than twenty guns on her deck. Sleek, fast. A favorite of the English and American navies alike.
“No running lights, Captain,” Nye said. “Or we’d have spotted her sooner.”
Alden muttered a curse. Sailing at night without running lights to alert other ships of one’s position was either foolhardy or, in this case, showed a devious arrogance. The vessel’s inhabitants, whether English or not, hoped to come upon ships unawares in the darkness. Their intentions could be nothing short of malicious.
“Do you think she’s English, Captain?” Nye asked, a tremble in his whispered voice.
“Pray she is not,” Alden answered.
The sky lightened gradually, and the four men kept their gazes upon the limp piece of cloth that would reveal the ship’s origin and thereby determine the Belladonna’s destiny. Alden’s stomach turned with worry, and his mind with different scenarios. If the ship was indeed English, he had no doubt Belladonna would be boarded. If she was Spanish, French, or even a privateer vessel, he didn’t imagine there was much chance they’d be left alone with a salute and a wish for a happy voyage.
He thought through various plans, his eyes flicking to the tell tail, a hanging light rope that indicated the wind’s direction. The unidentified ship was upwind, which made outrunning her the Belladonna’s best option. And they would be ready to do so before the ship was close enough to be a threat.
“Make ready to hoist the sails,” Alden said. “On my command. But silently.”
Dobson left to wake the crew.
For the next few moments, shadows moved about the Belladonna’s deck, climbing aloft, running along the yards, and loosening knots. The only voices were whispers, but in them Alden still heard worry.
Finally a beam of sunlight broke the horizon, brilliant as it shone over the rippling water.
A breeze fluttered the ship’s ensign, and Alden’s stomach dropped. The Union Jack.
He squared his shoulders. There was no choice but to outrun her. “Set sail,” he called, not bothering to remain silent. With the morning light, the English sailors had no doubt seen them as well. They would recognize the set of the canvas, and the Belladonna’s course would be known immediately.
The sails dropped, swelling with the northeast wind as they were adjusted to the right angle.
“Captain! Off the port bow.” Dobson pointed.
Another ship sailed toward them from the southwest—directly in their path. The second ship was downwind, and her progress would be slower as she tacked back and forth in a zigzag motion. But she was definitely moving in their direction.
A cannon blast sounded, sending men scrambling as the first ship fired a warning shot across their bow.
“Lie to!” Alden yelled the order to bring the ship to a stop. He balled his fists and glared toward the English ship. Smoke from the cannon blast blew toward him. He clenched his teeth. “And prepare to be boarded.”
The English ships drew closer, and the crew of the Belladonna could only watch, glancing nervously between the two ships and one another. The morning meal was forgotten, and the night watch didn’t go to their berths. None of the deckhands began their morning duties. And Alden didn’t bother to give orders. Dread settled heavily onto the crew, dispelling the frantic energy they’d felt moments earlier as they’d prepared to flee, and they all waited silently. Charlie stayed close to Stafford’s side, her eyes wide with worry.
The nearer ship drew alongside, just over fifty meters off the starboard.
Dobson offered a spyglass, and looking through it, Alden saw the golden letters on the arch board that read Falcon. The HMS Falcon. He recognized the name. The ship had been stationed at Fort Albion, an English fortification in Chesapeake Bay on Tangier Island. Both Alden’s pride and his ship been wounded when Alden and his brother, Jacob, had joined Joshua Barney’s flotilla to attack the island nine months earlier.
Alden paced, watching as dinghies filled with redcoat marines were lowered over the side of the Falcon. The English sailors took their time, knowing the Belladonna had no choice but to wait.
One man stood in the bow of the lead ship, the brass buttons and epaulets gleaming against his blue coat and identifying him as a captain.
Alden turned to the portside, looking through the glass toward the Falcon’s sister ship, HMS Lark. She drew nearer, but sailing against the wind kept her moving at a slow rate. Unfortunately, she was still within firing range.
He motioned for Dobson to join him at the portside rail and spoke to the quartermaster in a low voice. “Hopefully all they’re after is supplies. The instant they leave this ship, bear away. Use the wind and aim directly for the Lark.”
Dobson nodded, squinting toward the ship off the portside. “Aye.” A glint came into his eyes. “We’ll overbear her. Steal the wind from her sails.”
“It will give us an advantage, though a brief one. They’ll be windbound until they adjust their sails.” He ran a finger over the rail. “And a head start is all my beauty needs to outrun those corvettes. Neither will fire when the dinghies are still in the water or when we are still between. They won’t risk shooting one another.”
“A good strategy, Captain.” Dobson nodded. “We should sustain, at worst, minimal damage.”
Aiming the bow directly for the Lark would make the Belladonna a narrower target. They’d be more difficult to hit, especially if the Lark was still on a tacking course.
Alden grimaced, his hand tightening on the rail, wishing he could protect the ship and the crew on it. “Let us strive for no damage.”
The Belladonna’s crew drew back toward the stern as English marines armed with cutlasses and muskets clambered over the side and boarded the ship. The redcoat soldiers aimed their guns, bayonets shining, at the frightened sailors.
Alden was furious. “Cowards,” he muttered through clenched teeth. They’d brought the larger weapons—utterly impractical for boarding a ship—for no reason other than to frighten his crew.
Charlie shook as she held on to Stafford’s arm.
“Stand down,” Alden called. “You can see we offer no resistance.”
“You, sir, are hardly in a position to be giving orders,” said an arrogant voice. The Falcon’s captain stood on the deck, one hand in his jac
ket’s breast and the other lying limply over his sword as if he were posing for a portrait. The man was young for a captain, in his early forties, Alden guessed. His powdered hair was held back in a silk ribbon, his uniform immaculate. The captain glanced around the deck, his gaze lingering on the spot where the deck was still undergoing repairs. He sniffed and brushed lint from his jacket sleeve.
Alden folded his arms. “There is no excuse for honorable men to point bayonets at unarmed sailors.”
The captain waved a hand, and the marines stood to attention, weapons held at their sides. He crossed the deck to Alden, walking with graceful steps, and Alden didn’t consider that assessment of his movements to be a compliment.
“You must be the leader of this . . . ah . . . company.” He motioned toward the crew with a jerk of his chin.
“I am.”
The English captain looked back to the marines. “It’s doubtful they carry anything of value.” He motioned toward the companionway with a flick of his fingers.
Half the redcoat soldiers went belowdecks while the others remained to guard the Belladonna’s crew.
The stuffy captain turned back to Alden, giving a sniff as if he were quite bored with the whole process of raiding and plundering merchant ships. “And what is your name, sir?”
“Alden Thatcher, Captain of the Belladonna.”
“Charmed.” He glanced over Alden with a curled lip. “Captain, are you?” He smirked at the title, bent his wrist, and touched his fingertips to his chest. “Captain Sir Percival Alfred Harrington, at your service.” He spoke the words slowly, letting Alden know they were important.
Alden kept his arms folded and simply watched Captain Harrington. He was no doubt expected to bow or show some sort of deference to the man’s name and title, but he didn’t care one fig who the man was or how important he thought himself. He just wanted the prancing buffoon off his ship.
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