“I still need to do my duties. The lower deck must be swabbed after the meal, and with less men to do the work . . .” Charlotte spoke halfheartedly. She was reluctant to leave Captain Thatcher.
Marchand gathered the bucket of bloody clothes and the surgical kit. “Your most important duty is to care for our commander.” He opened the door and then turned back, glancing down. “Your clothes will need to be cleaned as well.” He pointed with his chin toward the sea chest. “The captain will have spare trousers for you to wear.”
When he left, Charlotte made certain the door was closed and peeked into the sea chest. She snatched out the trousers she’d worn before and closed the lid quickly, not wishing to intrude on the captain’s privacy, and hurriedly changed from her own blood-soaked trousers before Marchand returned.
While she rolled down the too-wide waist, the sound of the captain’s voice made her jump and spin around. Her cheeks burned at the thought that he’d been awake while she changed her clothes. But his face was turned away, and when she got closer she saw his eyes were shut. He was muttering in his sleep.
Charlotte knelt back on the deck. She brushed the curl from his forehead, noting that his skin was cool. “Hush now,” she said, in the same singsong tone her mother had used when she or Will had been sick. “Rest yourself and heal, Captain.”
Marchand returned with a bowl of stew, a biscuit, and a tin cup and indicated for her to eat. He showed her a small bottle. “Laudanum,” he said, pulling out the stopper. “Only a few drops now and again at sunset.” He lifted Captain Thatcher’s head, dripping two drops onto his tongue. Then he held a cup of water for the captain to drink. When he swallowed, Marchand laid the captain’s head back down.
“He feels cold,” Charlotte said. “Should he be covered? Or will it bring on a fever?”
“Keep him warm,” Marchand said. He yawned and rubbed his neck, bending his head from one side to the other.
Charlotte noticed his eyes were red. “When did you sleep last?” Charlotte asked.
Marchand didn’t answer.
“You were on night watch,” Charlotte said. She took the bottle from him. “Go on, now. It is time for you to sleep. I will care for the captain.”
Marchand gave a small smile. “Do you give orders now, Charlie?”
She shook a finger at him. “Mr. Dobson and Captain Thatcher would tell you the same thing. You need to sleep.”
The Cajun man yawned again. He glanced at the captain.
“I will wake you if anything changes,” she said, giving him a push toward the door.
“Aye, aye, Charlie.” He looked pointedly at the bottle in her hand and then wrapped her fingers tighter around it. “It is all we have.”
“I understand.” Charlotte made certain the stopper was tight and then slipped the bottle into her pocket.
Marchand pointed to the tin cup. “And he must drink. As often as possible.”
He started through the door, but Charlie stopped him. “Was anyone else hurt?” she asked. “In the cannon fire?”
“No, Charlie.”
She let out a relieved sigh.
Once Marchand had gone, Charlotte closed the portholes to the cool breeze and hung the lanterns from the hooks on the deckhead. She covered Captain Thatcher with the wool blanket on his berth, tucking the edges around him, and deciding he was not warm enough, she put aside her scruples about trespassing on his space and opened the sea chest wide. Inside she found two more carefully folded coats.
As she took them out, she saw a small pile of books. One was a Bible, one had to do with winds and sea currents, and the last appeared to be a picture book of India. She didn’t investigate, already feeling as if she’d been too nosy. But she wondered about the books. Had the Bible been a gift from his mother? Or a friend? Was the captain interested in India? Charlotte realized she knew hardly anything about the man. She closed the sea chest, feeling a guilty relief that it hadn’t contained a painting of the beautiful Marguerite LaFontaine. She draped the coats over him and held his head up as Marchand had done, dribbling a bit of water into the captain’s mouth and waiting for him to swallow before laying his head back.
She sat on the chair, feeling utterly exhausted. How much time had passed since she was awoken by Mr. Dobson’s whispered command of “Beat to quarters”? She listened to Captain Thatcher’s deep breathing, thinking the laudanum must be taking effect. She hoped he felt no pain and no worry about his crew or the condition of the ship.
And what was the condition of the ship? She’d heard and felt a cannonball’s impact somewhere. She had no idea of the extent of the damage, but she would take it as a good sign that the ship wasn’t filling with water.
She rested her head back, touching the pendant at her neck, and her throat tightened. Tom. In the chaos she’d lost track of her friend. If only she could have bid him farewell, told him what his friendship meant to her . . . The tightness turned into a choking, and she covered her face with her hands so her sobs wouldn’t wake the captain.
What was Tom doing on the HMS Falcon? Were his new messmates cruel to him? Did he have to swab the decks? Or was he climbing aloft to the upper yards where he belonged? Was he looking for sea birds to add to his book? Did he miss her?
That feeling of helplessness as a person she loved was pulled from her arms, the ache and desperation it left behind, was becoming far too familiar, and her heart couldn’t handle the strain. It was simply too much.
***
Charlotte jolted from sleep. She blinked, getting her bearings as her heart calmed and her familiar nightmares receded. Overhead, a lantern swung. She glanced around, pulling herself into a sitting position. She’d fallen asleep on Captain Thatcher’s sea chest.
From his berth, Captain Thatcher watched her.
She grimaced, imagining she’d cried out in her sleep. “I’m so sorry, Captain. I woke you, didn’t I?”
“Could have been you.” He shifted, wincing, and his already-pale face turned even whiter. “Or it could have been this infernal hole in my shoulder.”
He rubbed his eyes. “My head feels like it weighs a hundred pounds. Did you give me the laudanum? We have only a small amount on board.”
“Stay still.” Seeing that he was trying to sit up, Charlotte brought the cup. “Marchand said you need to drink since you lost so much blood.” She held up his head as he drank and then eased him back carefully.
Captain Thatcher groaned, closing his eyes. “I really didn’t think he’d shoot me.”
Charlotte pulled up the blanket to cover his shoulders. She touched her hand to his forehead. He didn’t feel fevered.
“Did they take Stafford?” Captain Thatcher asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “And Mr. Gardner.”
His eyes squeezed. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
Her eyes burned. “You have no reason to apologize.”
He opened his eyes, taking a moment to focus. “I led us into danger. I didn’t protect my crew.”
“You couldn’t have predicted—”
“It’s my job to predict. As the captain I am responsible.” He clenched his jaw tight.
Charlotte worried becoming upset would hinder his recovery. She considered giving him more laudanum but didn’t know how long it had been since sunset. She thought she should wait until Marchand approved another dose. She sat on the chair. “Marchand said you purposely diverted the man’s attention from the rest of the crew to protect us.” Charlotte spoke in a calm voice meant to soothe. The captain’s eyes were drowsy, and she hoped he would fall back asleep. His cold skin and pale face worried her. “You acted very bravely.”
A small smile pulled at his mouth, and he closed his eyes again. “Apparently Marchand—and you—have a much higher opinion of me than does Captain Sir Percival Alfred Harrington.”
Charlotte settled back into the chair
, sliding down to rest her head against the back.
Captain Thatcher’s eyes opened again. “Who’s Will?”
She didn’t ask how he’d heard the name. She must have said it in her sleep. “My little brother.”
“He was at Fort Mims as well?”
“Yes.”
Alden winced. “How old was he?”
“He was seven years old. Now he’s nine.” Seeing the question in his gaze, she continued. “We were both captured but, soon after, separated.”
“And you’re searching for him.”
Charlie folded her arms. “I heard the other group was being taken to New Orleans. So that is where I must go. I have to find Will. I pro-mised him.”
Captain Thatcher’s blinks became longer. “I know . . . people in New Orleans, Charlie.” His voice sounded slurred. “I will help you find your brother.”
His eyes closed, and this time he didn’t blink them open. His breathing deepened.
Once she was utterly and completely certain he was asleep, Charlie brushed a kiss on Captain Thatcher’s forehead.
Chapter 14
Alden stretched his arm, pulling his coat around his back and over his shoulder. He grimaced at the pain as he twisted. Where was Charlie? She knew just how to adjust the sling or maneuver his sleeve without sending bursts of pain through his shoulder. After another painful attempt, he just fastened the clasp at the neck.
He sat back on the berth, feeling light-headed from the exertion of putting on his coat and frustrated with himself for not healing quicker. It had been three days, after all. How long did one require to mend from a fancy little pistol’s bullet wound? He rubbed his eyes, feeling sullen. He hadn’t slept well the night before, and he blamed the restlessness on Charlie’s absence.
Since the moment Captain Harrington’s bullet had dropped him to the deck, Charlie had scarcely left his side. She and Marchand had even fashioned a small pallet—or rather a nest—of blankets so she could sleep on the scant deck space in Alden’s quarters and remain near should he need her during the night.
She had returned the day before to her regular duties. And while she checked on him often, he missed her constant presence. He’d grown used to the sound of her breathing and the little noises she made in her sleep. He glanced at the deck, feeling guilty. The space was so small, he didn’t think anyone but Charlie—or perhaps a beagle—could have slept comfortably in it.
He stood again, pushing a hand against the bulkhead as his head swam. He ran a hand through his hair, wishing Charlie were here to comb it and tie it back. He didn’t like to appear unkempt in front of his crew. He wanted them to have confidence in their leader, especially after being boarded by the enemy. A captain with unmanaged curls who couldn’t even put on his own coat was hardly inspiring to morale.
The lower deck was empty, save for the night watch crew snoring in their berths. When he emerged onto the main deck, he glanced around to assess, but the sunlight made his headache flare. Keeping his gaze downward, he made his way to the stern and climbed up the steps to join Dobson and Mr. Ivory on the quarterdeck.
“Good to see you up and about, Captain.” Dobson moved his hand as if to slap Alden’s shoulder, but fortunately, he stopped before making contact.
“Morning, Captain.” Mr. Ivory picked up a bundle that leaned against the quarterdeck rail and started to pull it apart.
“What in blazes is that?” Alden’s headache wasn’t letting up, and he was irritated to see the strange bundle of what appeared to be broom handles and canvas on his quarterdeck, which he expected to be kept in pristine condition. He leaned against the rail.
“Charlie found it in a storage closet.” Mr. Ivory set the contraption onto the deck. It was a chair. “Thought you’d need a place to sit.”
Alden sneered at the chair. “I am not an invalid, and a captain does not sit on the quarterdeck.”
The instant he finished the sentence, Charlie joined them. “Captain, you’re up early. I didn’t expect you to be dressed and on deck.” She took his arm and gave a tug. “Come, have a seat.”
Alden sank into the chair, surprised to find it so comfortable. He rubbed his eyes, deliberately avoiding the gazes of the quartermaster and the boatswain, both of whom he fully expected to be repressing a laugh at his expense. If only his head would stop spinning.
“You’re still a bit pale.” Charlie bent down to look at his face. “But much improved.” She unhooked his coat and removed his sling, sliding his wounded arm carefully through the coat sleeve, then retied the wrappings. “I’ll return in just a moment with some breakfast.”
As she hurried below Alden glanced up at the other two men. Mr. Ivory looked away quickly, and Dobson coughed into his hand to hide his smirk.
Alden was too fatigued to feel angry, and he knew they were still worried about his health and would not tease. He was fully aware that the swabbie was being a mollycoddling nursemaid, but the thought of making light of the situation or defending it was exhausting. He lifted his head, the motion making him dizzy. Walking onto the deck had taken all of his energy, and he wasn’t certain how he was going to make it back down to his cabin. He imagined he could rest in this chair for a long time. Perhaps even take a nap in the sunlight.
He looked back to the main deck, squinting as he appraised the state of the ship. The hole in the deck was fully mended, thank the heavens. Mr. Yancey and Adam Day were painting the gunwale on the portside, where he’d been informed the Belladonna had taken a hit from the Lark’s cannons. That the ship was in one piece and none of the crew injured—except for himself, of course—was nothing short of a miracle.
Charlie brought a bowl of mush and a cup of grog, but instead of setting it onto Alden’s lap, she handed the tray to Dobson and spread a blanket over the captain’s legs instead.
Alden opened his mouth to protest the treatment. If he’d had enough blood for a blush, he was certain his face would be red with embarrassment. A captain should command respect from his crew, inspire confidence, and here he sat wrapped in a blanket, eating mush.
“The crew is pleased to see you on deck.” Charlie tucked the blanket beneath his legs. “Everyone has been so worried.” She set the tray onto his legs. “It is a comfort to all of us to have you back where you belong.”
She left, and Alden took a drink. Her words were exactly the comfort he’d needed. Perhaps it was encouraging for the men to see that he was recovering. Even if the healing was frustratingly slow.
“We’re approaching the city, Captain,” Dobson said. “A decision must be made soon. By tomorrow at the very latest.”
Alden nodded, chewing on the thick mush. He and Dobson had discussed at length over the past days precisely how to approach New Orleans. As Alden saw it, they had three options.
If they were to land at Barataria Bay, the Belladonna could berth safely among the small islands. Jean Lafitte and his men would see to all of their needs. Lafitte would help to smuggle the tea into the city and even sell it. At a cost, of course. Alden liked the idea of the pirate’s protection, but the bayous between Barataria Bay and the city of New Orleans could take days to cross, even in the preferred barges, pirogues. The water would be low in the winter, impeding their passage further, and the weather was unseasonably cold this year. Alden worried he was in no condition for the journey.
A further concern was the recent discord between Governor Claiborne of Louisiana and the Barataria pirates. Jean and his brother, Pierre, had already been jailed once, and Alden had no way of knowing if the governor had followed through on threats to drive the Baratarians from the bay.
Another approach to the city was from the east, through Lake Borgne. But this route posed problems as well. The lake would be low this time of year, and again reaching the city would require travel through miles of cold bayous. And Alden didn’t like the idea of leaving the Belladonna unprotected in the large
lake.
He imagined Andrew Jackson’s defenses were already set in the swamps leading to the city, making the passage even more difficult.
The most obvious route, of course, was directly up the Mississippi River. The ship would berth in a safe port, and entering the city proper would require no extra travel. But his primary concern in that approach was the English invasion. If the city had already been taken, his ship would be seized as a spoil of war, and he had no idea what would happen to his crew. They might even be fired upon on their approach.
But, as Dobson had argued numerous times, the English could be anywhere. They did not know the enemy’s strategy. Perhaps they had taken the lake already, or Barataria Bay. There seemed to be no safe answer.
“We’ll take the river,” Alden said. “If we are fortunate enough to reach New Orleans ahead of the English, we’ll be able to help in the city’s defense.”
Both men looked at him with surprise.
Alden shrugged his one shoulder. Until three days ago, he’d been primarily concerned with the wellbeing of his ship, the selling of the cargo, and preparations for another voyage. He’d sought to avoid the conflict completely, having experienced quite enough of the war in Washington City. But recent events had changed his mind.
Dobson nodded, relief filling his expression. He was a loyal first mate, not allowing his personal feelings to color the decisions made in behalf of the crew and the voyage. But Alden knew the man was anxious to get home to his family.
Alden sent away the breakfast tray and settled fully into the chair, closing his eyes and listening to the sound of the waves against the ship’s hull. And as he fell asleep he allowed himself to imagine how satisfying it would feel to accept Captain Harrington’s surrender.
***
Hours later Alden sat heavily on his berth. He’d managed an entire day on the deck and even taken a meal with the crew. And doing so had taxed his energy more than he would have believed possible. His head ached, his shoulder throbbed, and he felt like every time he opened his eyes, the room spun around him.
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