She slipped a bit closer, allowing his large body to block the wind. Something about the man made her feel safe—a masculine assurance, confidence, and protectiveness that dripped from every pore and hovered in the air around him. And she hadn’t felt safe in quite some time. Besides, she could stare into those piercing, gray eyes for hours—the ones that now looked at her with adoration. Adoration she didn’t deserve. “I fear you may be right, Colonel. Though my fortitude has caused me much trouble through the years.”
A mischievous twinkle crossed his eyes. “I should like to hear of your daunting adventures, someday, Mrs. Crawford.”
Did any man have a deeper, more symphonic voice? It resonated through her in low, soothing tones that melted all her defenses. She backed away and lowered her gaze. “I would never want to disparage your good opinion of me, sir.”
He took her hand in his. “You never could.”
She tugged it away. What was she doing? She’d never been the flirtatious type. Perhaps three days of navigating wobbling decks and cleaning up vomit had warped her good senses. Senses that told her there could never be anything between a Southern colonel and a Yankee by marriage. Unless … after hearing her story, after hearing her reasons, perhaps there was a chance he would understand, a chance he could see beyond her past.
Another chill struck Eliza, and she hugged herself as the ship thrust into the fog bank. Gray roiling mist enveloped them, condensing in drops on the woodwork and lines.
“Stand by to take in royals and flying jib!” Captain Barclay’s orders ricocheted over the deck. “And light the lanterns fore and aft!”
Colonel Wallace gripped the railing and gazed at the gray curtain. “Odd. Very odd.”
Most of the passengers scrambled below out of the cold as deathly silence devoured the ship. Even the creak of wood and purl of water against the hull sounded hollow and distant. Above them, the tips of masts disappeared as they poked through the head of the vaporous beast.
Sailors stood on deck, wide-eyed. Some climbed aloft to adjust sails. Moses, Delia, and her two children hunkered together beneath the foredeck. Eliza couldn’t blame them for not wanting to join the others below, considering their attitude toward the former slaves. Turning, she clutched the railing. Droplets bit her hands and spread a chill up her arms as white foam licked the hull beneath her.
Motion drew her gaze to Mr. Graves, who was still leaning against the foremast, one boot crossed over the other as if he hadn’t a care in the world. A satisfied smirk sat upon his lips before he began to whistle. The eerie tune snaked over the deck, sending the hair on Eliza’s neck bristling even as the mist thickened, obscuring him from her view.
Heavy moisture coated her lungs, making it hard to breathe. She felt the colonel stiffen beside her as his intent gaze took in the fog on both sides of the ship. He cocked his ear and closed his eyes as if listening for something. The lines on his forehead deepened.
Something was wrong. Eliza knew it. One glance at the colonel told her that whatever it was, he sensed it too.
He took her hand. “You should get below, Mrs. Crawford.” His tone brooked no defiance. With a nod, she turned to leave when jets of yellow and red flashed in the distance.
“A shot! All hands down!”
CHAPTER 7
Once again Eliza felt the colonel’s firm body against hers. This time, instead of landing on top of her, he’d forced her to the deck and pressed her head against his chest while he hovered over her like a human shield. Cocooned within a barrier of warm muscles, all she could hear was the thump thump thump of his heart.
Or was that the crew diving to the deck?
An ominous splash quivered the air around her. Curses flew. A blade of sunlight cut through the fog, piercing the wooden planks to Eliza’s right. Pressing a hand on her shoulder—no doubt to prevent her from standing—the colonel rose and glanced over the ship. She felt the loss of his body heat immediately. Along with his masculine scent—both replaced by a chilled wind that smelled of fear and cigar smoke.
“Stay down,” he ordered before marching to the quarterdeck, parting a fog that was already scattering beneath the sun’s rays. Eliza peeked at Captain Barclay, his face a mass of angst as he raised the telescope to his eye.
“Lay aloft and loose fore topsails!” The captain’s shout broke the eerie silence, startling Eliza. Immediately, sailors jumped up and dashed in all directions. Their bare feet thrummed over the wooden planks, sounding far too much like war drums on the battlefield.
“Man the weather halyards and topsail sheets!” Captain Barclay’s booming tirade of orders continued. “Helm-a-starboard! Steady now!”
Rising to her feet, Eliza peered behind them, squinting as sunlight shoved away the mist. Off their larboard quarter, the ship they’d seen earlier burst out of the fog, foam flinging from her bow and the American flag flapping at her foremast.
She was heading straight for them.
“Bloody Yanks!” One sailor shouted as he passed Eliza and leaped into the ratlines.
The deck buzzed with sailors dashing here and there, clambering aloft or grabbing lines. Hayden, their resident stowaway, emerged from below, followed by James and a few other male passengers.
“Do you have shot for your guns, Captain?” The colonel’s face had tightened like a drum, his eyes focused.
“Aye.” The gruff seaman pointed forward where some men were removing canvas from two small guns on either side of the foredeck. “I only have these four-pounder swivels, as you can see.” His hardened gaze swept to the oncoming ship. “We are a civilian ship, not a privateer. Those white-livered curs!” He slammed his fist on the quarter rail and barreled down the ladder.
Pressing his wounded side, Hayden led a group of men to the captain. “What can I do?”
In the mayhem, Eliza seemed to have been forgotten. She faced the oncoming ship as it rose and plunged through the sea, its ivory sails gorged with wind. Not a speck of fog remained anywhere. Instead, golden streams of sunlight poured upon the New Hope as if highlighting their position for all to see. For the Union ship to see. What did they want? More importantly who did they want? Fear curdled in her belly at the thought they were after the colonel.
Perspiration slid down Eliza’s back. The ship pitched over a wave, and her feet skipped across the deck. Above her, sails caught the wind in a boom nearly as loud as a cannon. She’d heard more than her share of the monstrous beasts on the battlefield and seen the devastation they could wreak, but she had never been in the middle of a battle. Especially at sea.
The brig swung to port. Her timbers creaked and groaned as the ship tacked away from their enemy. The railing leaped toward the sky. Eliza clutched it lest she tumble across the deck. Her mouth went dry. Why didn’t the blasted Union leave them alone? Hadn’t they done enough damage?
The ship righted again. Wind whipped strands of Eliza’s hair into her face. She brushed them aside just in time to see a yellow flame jet from the Union ship.
“Hands down!” the captain yelled, but Eliza had already anticipated the command and lowered herself to the deck planks. The smell of dank wood and tar filled her nose. A heavy body pressed against her back, barricading her from danger. The colonel again. She knew his scent, the feel of his steely muscles.
The snap and crack of wood split the air. Curses ricocheted over the brig. Captain Barclay loosed another string of orders, something about tacks and sheets and the helm. But Eliza was more concerned that someone may have been injured. Thankfully, she heard no screams.
“Go below, Mrs. Crawford.” Colonel Wallace’s breath wafted on her cheek before he jumped to his feet and assisted her up. Gone was the warmth in his gaze. Instead, steel coated his eyes, his mannerisms, even his voice. He’d slipped into command, ready for battle, as easily as one slipped on a coat.
“Can you manage a ship’s gun, Colonel?” the captain asked, stealing the colonel’s gaze from Eliza.
“I can.”
“Then t
ake command of one of them. My boys are bringing up shot, gunpowder, and a fire wick.”
The colonel nodded, gestured with his head for Eliza to go below, and leaped up the foredeck ladder.
“I can handle a cannon as well.” Hayden jerked hair from his face.
“And I can handle a pistol or sword.” James joined him, standing before the captain.
“And us too!” several of the male passengers shouted.
Captain Barclay nodded in approval. “Very well, arm yourselves, men. I hope”—he stared at the Union ship—“we’ll not be gettin’ close enough to use them.”
Sails thundered. The deck rose as the ship thrust boldly into the next roller, sending white spray aft. It swirled around Eliza’s ankle boots before escaping through scuppers, joining a sea that roared against the hull as if it too had joined the fierce call to battle.
Clinging to the railing, Eliza faced the enemy ship. Closer now. She could make out the naval officers manning the gun at the bow.
“Get below, Mrs. Crawford!” Captain Barclay’s voice startled her, and she swung around, nearly bumping into the beefy man. He sent her a warning glance before he charged across the deck, blaring orders as he went.
Eliza knew she should go below. But she had never been very good at obeying authority. Besides, she’d rather be blown to bits on deck than die below cramped in the rank belly of the ship. Or worse, sink to the bottom of the sea with no way to escape.
Balancing herself on the heaving deck, she headed toward the companionway but slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck instead. From there she had a good view of the front portion of the ship. The colonel included. With his shoulders stretched taut, his body stiff, and his face like flint, he commanded the men working on the cannon with authority, assurance, and determination. Wind flapped his shirt as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, ready to do his duty. Here was a man accustomed to getting dirty in the trenches right beside his men. A rarity among other colonels Eliza had met.
Movement caught her eye, and she spotted Graves slinking around the foremast. Why hadn’t he gone below with the other passengers? Or better yet, if he was going to stay on deck, why wasn’t he helping, arming himself? Instead, he leaned against the mast and began to whistle as if he were taking a Sunday stroll.
“Fire as you bear, Colonel!” The captain bellowed, pacing across the oscillating deck, his hands clamped behind his great coat. How he maintained his balance was beyond Eliza. Sails roared as they sought the shifting wind then snapped their jaws upon finding it. The brig jerked and listed sideways. Foamy seawater clawed at her larboard bulwarks. Yet still the Union ship gained.
Eliza drew a shaky breath and clung to the wood of the quarterdeck. If they couldn’t outsail the frigate, what was to become of them? Would they be sunk to the depths, or would the Union navy escort them back home? Where Eliza would face a lifetime of scorn and hatred. And what would become of Colonel Wallace? Surely his fate would be worse than hers. Even as he filled her thoughts, his voice drifted her way.
“Fire into her quarters. On the uprise, men!” he shouted. Raising spyglass to his eye, he studied the enemy. “Steady now. Steady.” He lowered the scope. “Fire!”
One sailor tapped a wick to the gun’s touchhole, and Eliza covered her ears. Boom! The deck quivered beneath her feet. Smoke swept over her. Coughing, she batted it away. “Oh Lord, please save us,” she muttered, only now remembering to pray. Fiddle! Why did she always wait until things were beyond hopeless?
Blake peered through the gray smoke as the all-too-familiar blast of gunpowder assailed him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting as memories crept out from hiding. No, not now! He must maintain control. Shoving them back, he gazed toward the enemy as the New Hope‘s shot plopped impotently into the sea just yards from the frigate’s hull. Too short. But in line for a good hit. Blake frowned. He was an expert at cannons. But on solid land not on a heaving ship. How did the navy do it? Still, luck had smiled upon him, for his timing of the rise and fall of wave had not been too far off.
“Good shot, Colonel.” One of the sailors turned, his face lined with soot.
“Not good enough. Reload!” Not that they had much chance against a U.S. frigate armed with what appeared to be Dahlgren guns and 32-pounder Parrott rifles. Besides speed, of course. Being smaller, the New Hope should be able to outrun a frigate. Blake shifted his gaze to the captain and his first mate leaning over a flapping chart held down by pistols. It would seem from the captain’s expression, he was of the same mind.
“Max, Simmons,” Captain Barclay shouted at two passing sailors. “Have you seen my sextant, protractor, and Gunter’s scale?”
The men shrugged. “Last I saw, they was in your cabin.”
“They aren’t there.” Captain Barclay scratched his beard, frowning. “Get below and search for them at once!” The two men dropped through a hatch while the captain returned to his chart.
The navigation instruments were missing? Along with the damage to the compass? Blake’s gaze darted to the frigate as a cold fist slammed into his gut. The Union must suspect war criminals were on board. Otherwise, what reason would they have for so intent a pursuit? And if they caught and boarded them, they’d no doubt discover Blake’s identity and haul him back to Charleston to be hanged. He’d never go to Brazil. Never have a chance to escape the memories of war. Never pursue the rising interest he had in Eliza.
Wind tore at his collar, tossing his necktie over his shoulder. The brig slid into a trough, and Blake braced his boots on the deck. He glanced back at the captain.
Orders, Captain! What are your orders? Urgency spun his heart into a knot. Oh how he longed to take command! But he knew nothing of sea battles. And he began to wonder whether Captain Barclay did either. Though the man appeared calm, he seemed trundled in uncertainty as his gaze sped from the charts to the Union frigate and then behind him to some distant spot on the horizon. Regardless, he must make a decision. And fast! On land, Blake would already be spouting orders. But he knew no such order to give here. Except to go faster!
The ship bounced, and he caught his balance. The sailors fumbled with powder bag and priming rod as they reloaded the gun. Amateurs. The men in his regiment would have had it loaded already.
Blake glanced over his shoulder where Hayden stood at the ready in command of the other swivel gun. They exchanged a nod. The stowaway’s confident demeanor and his readiness to not only jump into the fray but take the lead elevated Blake’s opinion of him. Clearly he’d served in the military. And then there was James, the doctor-preacher, standing before a group of brave passengers and sailors all armed with musket, swords, and pistols. Even Moses, the freed slave, stood among the pack, receiving no complaint from the others at his presence. Blake didn’t have time to be amazed as a thunderous blast shook the sky. He ducked. The air sizzled. The shot zipped by his ear. Wood snapped. Splinters flew from the damaged foremast.
More explosions sounded. Distant and muted. Coming from everywhere, yet only coming from within him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his hands over his ears. No! Wails of agony pierced his skull. Flashes of light and dark traversed his eyelids, luring him into a nightmarish stupor. But he couldn’t let them. Grinding his fists to his thighs, he punched to his feet, forced his eyes open, and inhaled a burst of salty spray. The cool seawater slapped him back to the present—slapped his gaze to the hole the last shot had torn in the foremast.
Too close. Far too close. Anger rippled up Blake’s spine. He wiped the sweat from his face, leaving soot on his shirt. He would not allow one Yankee to set foot on board this ship! Not only for his sake but for the colony. The Yanks would steal all their goods, take him and probably others prisoner. And God knew what they’d do to the women. No, not on his watch.
“Loaded and ready, sir,” one of the sailors said.
Blake swung about. The Union frigate dipped and bowed over the churning waves as if nodding its glee over an impending victory
. Closer and closer she came. If only she’d present more than her narrow bow, Blake may be able to fire a shot that would do some damage.
Captain Barclay had abandoned his charts and marched across the deck, gazing aloft at the sails. A volley of orders spewed from his mouth. Sailors scampered above, and soon the New Hope veered to larboard, sending a curtain of spray into the air. Blake stumbled across the deck to the captain. “What is the plan?” he shouted over the roar of the sea just as a hail of grapeshot peppered the deck, punching holes in the sails above.
The men ducked. All except the captain. Instead, he frowned at his damaged sails then lowered his gaze to Blake. “The plan, Colonel?” He snorted. “Why, to tuck our scraggly tails and run!” His grin revealed a single missing tooth Blake had not noticed before. Yet at his lighthearted tone, armed sailors and passengers turned to listen. Hayden joined them from the foredeck.
Captain Barclay scanned the anxious faces. “We are faster than a frigate. If we fill all our sails, we can outrun them.”
“But to where? They’ll follow.” Hayden cast a harried glance at the frigate as if he, too, had something to fear from the Union.
The captain’s eyes flashed. “We are near the Bahamas, Mr. Hayden. There are hundreds of shoals off the windward islands. I expect our friends won’t be followin’ us, or they’ll risk bein’ grounded.” He winked.
James quirked a brow. “How can you be sure?”
“Because I was a blockade runner in the war. Why, once I slipped through a fleet of Union war ships surroundin’ New Orleans. Slunk right past them as if we were a ghost ship. By the time they saw us, we were too close to the shoals for them to follow. Never fear, gentlemen.”
“But your instruments,” Blake shouted into the wind. “Are we heading in the right direction?” He searched the captain’s dark eyes for any hint of uncertainty but found only confidence.
Forsaken Dreams Page 8