“Never fear, Colonel. I know these seas like a pirate knows his booty.” And without further ado, Captain Barclay turned away and cupped his mouth. “Sharpshooters to the tops. If they get any closer, fire at will!” He stormed toward the quarterdeck, muttering, “Those bedeviled muckrakers!”
James slung his musket over his shoulder and started for the ratlines when Blake clutched his arm. “But your hands.”
“Only when I see blood.” Grinning, he grabbed the rope and swung himself up. “I spent my childhood hunting. I’m actually a crack shot. Never miss,” he yelled as he continued climbing above.
Several orange flashes drew Blake’s gaze to the enemy frigate. Blood drained from his face. They had fired a broadside. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He dove to the deck, hands over his head. Not that it would do any good. In battle, getting hit or not hit was a matter of chance. He’d seen men get their heads blown off on either side of him while he suffered not a scratch. After that, Blake had decided that either God did not exist or He simply didn’t care about the affairs of men.
The crunch and snap of wood and chink of iron rang across the ship like death knells. Yet no screams sounded.
Blake would never forget the screams.
“Those blaggards!” The captain spat before marching across the deck to inspect the damage. A portion of the fore rigging hung in a tangle of slashed rope, and part of the gunwale was shattered. But the ship still sped onward. Jumping to his feet, Blake leaned over the railing where a smoking hole rent the hull.
“Above the waterline.” The captain slapped his hands together. “Steady now, men. We’ll be at the shoals soon! Martin, trim sails to the wind!”
Blake gazed at the oncoming frigate, angry foam exploding at her bow. Men lined her decks, hovering around cannons. Their captain stood on the foredeck, pompous arms crossed over his brass-buttoned blue coat. Blake could make out the gold band on the captain’s hat, feel his determination span the sea to swallow up Blake’s hope. He gazed at the sun now dropping in the western sky. He hoped the captain was right, for another expertly aimed shot might fell one of their masts.
And then all would be lost.
Shaking his head, Blake returned to man the swivel. The next few hours sped by in a chaotic jumble of cannon shots, shouts, maneuvering, veering, sails thundering, sea roaring, and muskets peppering until the muscles in Blake’s legs felt like pudding and his heart sank like iron. The ache in his left leg joined the ever-present one in his right, which now felt like someone held a branding iron to it. At least he’d not had any episodes to add to the mayhem. Perhaps, as he had hoped, the more distance he put between him and the war, the more his memories would fade.
But what did it matter? The frigate was nearly upon them, and the islands were nowhere in sight. Captain Barclay’s assured tone had faded to one of gloom as he paced the deck, uttering curse after curse. Even the most hardened sailors’ faces paled in horror.
Clouds lined the horizon like gray-uniformed soldiers, fringed in red and gold by the setting sun. The frigate swept alongside the New Hope, not thirty yards away, giving the signal for them to put the helm down and heave to. Dark smoking muzzles of a dozen guns gaped at Blake from their main deck.
“Reload!” Blake urged his crew to hurry while they had a clear shot. He could not give up now! Not when his life was at stake. But Captain Barclay’s loud “Belay all firing!” rang from the quarterdeck, freezing the sailors in place.
Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Blake stared at the captain, seeing on his face what he’d already heard in his voice. They were defeated. He swept his gaze to the Union frigate where one of the officers stood staunchly on the quarterdeck, a speaking cone raised to his mouth.
“Rebel ship, surrender or die!”
CHAPTER 8
Blake spun on his heels, his face hot and pinched. A flash of blue caught his eye, and he glanced to see Eliza standing against the quarterdeck. How long had she been there? Fear overtook his anger. Even now Union sailors were preparing to board and search the ship. Blake’s fate was set in stone. Eliza’s was not. Nor were the passengers’. Their future depended on the kindness and mercy of the Union captain. Something Blake hadn’t much faith in at the moment.
Still, though his journey had come to an end, there might be a chance for the rest of the colonists. The thought of them thriving in freedom in Brazil would bring him a modicum of comfort when the rope cinched around his neck.
Terror clawed up his throat at the thought. He coughed and drew a deep breath. He must focus. He must do all he could to ensure the future success of the colony.
While the captain issued orders for the white flag to be raised and all sails to be lowered, Blake blasted out his own orders. “Parson Bailey.” He approached the preacher, who had crept above when the firing ceased. The poor man stood against the main mast, face stricken and Bible clutched to his chest.
Blake wondered if he could trust anyone who had such tiny, shifting eyes. But the man was a preacher, after all. Reaching into his pocket, he handed the parson a key and leaned to whisper in his ear, “Go to my trunk. Find the four large leather pouches. We need to hide them.” For within them lay the future of the colony—every cent and dollar each passenger had paid, along with Blake’s own dwindling fortune.
Blake would gather the money himself, but the Yankees would be here any minute, and he could not ensure the safety of both money and passengers—the single ladies being his top priority at the moment. He’d seen firsthand the abuse they endured beneath the hands of angry Union soldiers.
Parson Bailey took the key in his trembling hand. Sweat dotted his forehead. “What do they contain?”
“The wealth of our colony. Our very future.”
“Where should I hide them?” he asked, avoiding Blake’s gaze.
Good question. Blake scanned the deck and hailed Captain Barclay, who immediately approached and stopped before them. Once Blake posed the question, the captain’s understanding gaze shifted from the key in the parson’s hand back to Blake. “I have a secret compartment in my cabin.” He glanced at the frigate, where the sailors were lowering a boat. “Quickly, I’ll show you, Parson.”
The two men slipped down the companionway, giving Blake a chance to speak to Eliza. She stared at the frigate off their port side, the heaving of her chest the only indication of her fear.
Frowning, he approached her. “I told you to go below.”
“Would it have made a difference?” Her voice was strong, controlled, as if being attacked by a Union frigate was an everyday occurrence.
Blake shook his head. What he wouldn’t give to have more time with this astounding woman. He raised his hand, wanting to touch her, to remember the feel of her skin, but hesitated at the impropriety. When her eyes gave him no resistance, he gave in and caressed her jaw with his thumb. So soft. He would remember it forever.
She closed her eyes. Thick lashes fanned over her cheeks like silken threads floating on cream. “They’ll take you back to hang, won’t they?” she said on a sigh.
“Yes.”
She sucked in a breath and gazed up at him, alarm tightening her features.
He wanted to tell her how astonishing she was. He wanted to tell her he’d never forget her, but Angeline dashed up to them in a flurry of gingham and angst. “What is happening?” Her voice emerged in a high-pitched squeak.
Easing an arm around her new friend, Eliza drew Angeline close. “It will be fine.”
She exchanged a glance with Blake, prompting him to add, “Nothing to worry about. It will be over soon enough, and we shall be on our way.”
However, their assurances seemed of no avail as the poor lady suddenly took to trembling. “But they fired upon us. Do you suppose they’re after someone in particular?”
Yes, me. Blake offered a feeble smile. “Perhaps. Yet I’m sure you are safe in that regard, miss.”
Still, the lady’s face showed no relief. Even Eliza’s whispers of comfort bore no effect
on the poor woman as her fearful gaze locked on the frigate. Her behavior mimicked the terror raging through Blake’s own gut—as if she, too, feared being arrested.
That same terror now threatened to blast away his resolve to remain in control—to ensure the safety of the colonists before he was hauled away in irons. His vision clouded. Flames shot toward him from all directions. He clenched his fists and shook them away. Across the deck, he spotted Hayden and called him over.
As the stowaway approached, his green eyes widened at the sight of Angeline then squinted in confusion. Soot blotched his skin in grays and blacks from his face down his neck and arms.
“Hayden,” Blake said, drawing the man’s gaze from the woman. “Find Sarah, the woman with child, and stay with her. If you are asked, you are her husband.”
Hayden nodded, swung a musket over his shoulder, and after one last glance at Angeline, headed below.
“James!” Blake swung in the direction he’d last seen the doctor and nearly bumped into the man. James’s bronze eyes burned with anxiety amid a face flushed and streaked. “Can you look after Miss Angeline? It would be best if she were married, if you get my meaning.” Blake raised a brow.
Angeline turned her face from the doctor as if embarrassed. “No, that’s quite all right. There’s no need for that.”
James nodded his understanding. “I’ll take care of her.” He took a spot beside her and extended his elbow. “Stay close to me, miss. There’s nothing to worry about.”
The lady uttered a trembling sigh but finally looped her arm through his.
Blake faced Eliza. “I’ll be happy to step in as your husband if you have no objection.”
He thought he saw a hint of a smile lift her lips before she nodded shyly. The entire scene would have been delightful if his head weren’t thrumming like a drum.
And he weren’t about to be captured and hanged.
The captain returned from below and nodded toward Blake before he faced the frigate and scowled. “In all my years as a blockade runner, I ne’er was caught. Until now, after the war is over. Blast them Yanks!”
Across the agitated sea, two jolly boats filled with Union sailors headed their way. The crew of the New Hope lined the deck, awaiting their guests, rifles and pistols in hand.
“I’m not letting those Yanks take us back!” one sailor shouted.
“We have no choice.” Captain Barclay marched forward, hands on his waist. “Lower your weapons at once!”
A shot fired above them. All eyes snapped to the tops where a lone gunman straddled a yard, musket in hand.
“Stand down, Gibbs!” Captain Barclay bellowed, his alarmed gaze shifting to the frigate. “D’you want to get us all killed?”
The man swung through the shrouds and slid down the backstay to the deck with a thud. “Sorry, Cap’n. Was an accident.”
But the men in the jolly boats had already stopped rowing, their muskets at the ready. Aboard the frigate, sailors loaded one of the Parrott rifles lining the deck.
Blake’s world exploded. The sound of the sea and wind and shouts of men all faded into the background, replaced by the roar of explosions and the pop pop pop of hundreds of muskets. A scream curdled in his ears. Was someone hurt? He crouched, holding his head against the blaring noise. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Cannon blast after cannon blast rocked the dirt beneath him. The crack of pistol and musket rained down on him. Why wouldn’t they stop? He dared a glance over the deck, and instead of wooden planks and hatch combings and masts, a field of tall grass spread in every direction. Mist hovered over it like a death shroud. Lifeless bodies in twisted formations littered the mud. Something warm and wet dripped from Blake’s fingers. He looked down. Blood pooled in his palms.
Somewhere in the distance a female voice called his name. That was the last thing he remembered.
The warning shot flew over their bow and plunged into the sea on the other side of the ship. Its deafening roar still vibrated in Eliza’s ears when she noticed the colonel had collapsed to the deck, his hands over his ears. Kneeling beside him, she laid a hand on his back. He jolted and shouted, “No! Jeremy!” Sailors and passengers crowded around, confusion and fear mottling their faces. Beyond them, the captain shouted toward the frigate, attempting to persuade them that all was well.
The colonel moaned. His eyelids twitched, and his jaw was clenched so tight, Eliza feared it would burst.
James, the doctor, felt the colonel’s face with the back of his hand.
“What’s wrong with him?” One of the sailors who’d manned the gun with the colonel leaned forward, hands on his knees.
Captain Barclay shoved the crowd aside. “Clear away! Assume your positions! We are to have visitors soon.” He spotted the colonel and halted. “What’s the meaning of this? Odd’s fish, is he shot?”
“No Captain.” Eliza exchanged a glance with the doctor. She had a good idea what was happening to the colonel, and from the look in James’s eyes, he agreed with her assessment.
“Jeremy! Jeremy!” the colonel shouted, planting his forehead on the deck.
“Let’s get him below.” The doctor rose and pointed to a few sailors, who grabbed the colonel by his feet and shoulders and carefully lowered him down the hatchway ladder.
No sooner had Eliza followed them into the sick bay than she heard the grinding thump of boats slamming against the hull, and soon after, the pounding of boots on the deck above.
“Take care of him, Mrs. Crawford.” James gave her an unsettled look. “I must look after Angeline.”
“Please do take care of her,” Eliza said. “She seems quite out of sorts.”
Nodding, he took off, leaving Eliza alone with a delirious man and her own nerves strangling her senses. Lowering herself into the chair beside the colonel, she took his hand in hers. “Oh God in heaven, please save us. Please don’t allow the Yankees to do us harm or steal from us. Enough of this war.” She swatted a tear from her cheek and straightened her shoulders. “Enough!”
Leading an unusually calm Sarah up from below decks, Hayden ushered her to the starboard railing where the Yankee captain had ordered the passengers to line up for inspection. He’d found her in her cabin, kneeling awkwardly—due to her condition—before a chair, hands folded on the wooden seat. Though an admirable attempt to be sure, her appeal to God most likely vanished in the air above her, for Hayden believed the Almighty had wiped His hands of His creation long ago.
With a smile, the lady had taken his hand, expressing gratitude for his chivalry, and followed him above. Now she stood beside him, examining the proceedings with no trace of fear on her face.
“Never fear, God is with us,” she whispered.
Hayden repressed a snort and scanned the pompous bluecoats strutting across the deck while their captain questioned Captain Barclay. Thank goodness he recognized none of them. It would not do well to cross paths with any navy officers he’d dealt with in his past. Nor would it do to cross paths with any civilians he’d done so-called business with either. But of course, what would they be doing on a navy frigate? He faced Sarah. “I am not afraid, madam. What astounds me is that you seem not to be as well.”
“As I said, God is with us.” She pressed a hand over her rounded belly. Plain brown hair held back in a bun framed an equally plain face. Yet her eyes, the color of the sea, exuded a serenity and kindness that made her almost attractive. For a woman bulging with child, that was. A bit too prissy for him, however, with her high-necked gown and continual chatter of God.
The doctor slid beside them, arm in arm with Miss Angeline, a woman whose comely face and copper curls were not easily forgotten. Even if the last time Hayden had seen them was on a WANTED poster in a police station in Virginia. Which would explain why her hands were now shaking and her breath came hard and fast. Whatever she’d done, it was none of Hayden’s business. Besides, he’d probably done far worse. Still, he should inform her she had nothing to fear from the navy, but there was no reason to destroy her ruse. A
long with his.
Just when these people were beginning to accept him.
Unfortunately, none of them was his father. Hayden had spent the last three days inspecting every inch of the brig, searching each passenger’s face for the one that matched the tintype he’d carried in his pocket for fifteen years. He doubted Mr. Ladson had lied to him about his father heading to Brazil. The man’s limited intellect and shoddy foresight forbade him the ability to swindle someone like Hayden. Besides, he had no reason to do so. Which meant Hayden’s father either was taking a later ship or had changed his mind. Either way, Hayden was on the voyage for the long haul. Once at Rio de Janeiro, he would inquire with the authorities and discover if his father had already arrived. If not, Hayden would give him a month to show his face before he set sail for home.
His gaze shifted to the Scotts, who were hovering around their pretentious sprite, Magnolia. He’d never seen such silken, ivory curls. She was a stunner, he’d give her that. Until she opened her mouth.
The brig lopped over a wave as Union officers gathered weapons from grumbling sailors and began loading them into their boats.
“Wait. We will need those in Brazil.” James stepped from the line, drawing attention his way.
A lieutenant approached, measuring him with disdain. “And you are?”
“James Callaway.” He moved in front of Angeline as if he could hide such beauty from the man. The officer peered around the doctor, assessing the lady with hungry eyes. Clasping her hands together, she lowered her gaze.
“Did you serve in the Rebel army, sir?” The lieutenant addressed James, who was squinting at the sun’s reflection off the two gold leaves and silver anchor on the officer’s blue cap.
“I’m a preacher.”
Hayden coughed, hiding a rising snicker. Preacher, indeed. Yes, he’d heard James preach before. And witnessed his hypocrisy shortly afterward—a hypocrisy that put the final straw in the haystack of Hayden’s unbelief and set it ablaze. The good news was the man didn’t seem to recognize Hayden from the one time he’d slipped into the back of his church on that cold night in January.
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