Easing an arm around her, Hannah drew her close, but Emeline leapt up, stumbled over the shifting deck, flung open the door, and barreled into the companionway. She supposed proper ladies didn’t barge on deck in the middle of battle either, but if she were going to die, propriety made no difference.
Hannah’s shouts followed behind her but were quickly muffled by the mayhem above. Emeline emerged into a scene of such chaos, blood, and destruction she nearly retreated back to her cabin. She would have retreated if a cloud of black smoke hadn’t completely enveloped her, stealing her breath and stinging her eyes. Coughing, she batted it away, when a sailor rammed into her. She stumbled to the side. Hannah grabbed her arm before she fell and dragged her against the quarterdeck as the metallic scent of blood combined with gunpowder sent bile into her throat.
Men scurried back and forth, following the captain’s orders. Gun crews swarmed the ten cannons—or guns, as they called them—on the port side, reloading them with shot and powder. A charred hole smoked from the starboard railing. A huge gouge had been blasted from the main mast between main and topsail. The enormous pole whined and teetered, remaining upright by a mere breath and a prayer. Splintered wood, stained with blood, showered the deck, slicing the bare feet of the sailors as they hurried past. Above, sails flapped impotently in search of wind. The brig slowed.
Curses showered on them from above where the captain stood.
“They’ve got the weather edge, Cap’n, and coming fast on our port quarter!”
An agonized moan drew Emeline’s attention to a sailor sprawled over the deck by the foredeck ladder. Before Hannah could stop her, she gathered her skirts and dashed toward him, dropping to her knees at his side. A spear of wood protruded from his neck while blood gushed from a wound on his head. She scanned the scene, looking for anyone to assist her in bringing him below, when another boom split the sky. The sailors crouched.
Was this the end? Would she die aboard this ship? Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out all other sound and slowing time. Thump … thump … thump. Sailors moved across the deck as if wading through oil. The captain was shouting something, his lips opening and closing ever so slowly, but his words sounded hollow and muffled. Emeline glanced down at the injured man and blinked, trying to regain her senses. Grabbing his hand, she closed her eyes. “Oh God, help us.”
A splash sounded and the clamor on board resumed.
Emeline peered over the railing to see the British ship coming alongside with the muzzles of at least fifteen guns mocking them from its side.
A confident voice bellowed over the water. “This is His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Marauder. Lay down your arms and surrender at once or be blown to bits!”
First Lieutenant Owen Masters took a position beside his captain on the main deck of HMS Marauder in preparation to receive the prisoners on board. Though the American merchant brig had put up a good fight, in the end they were no match for one of His Majesty’s frigates. At least that’s what Owen kept telling himself … that there had been nothing he could do to save them—not without exposing himself. Yet now as he watched the last of the cutters rowing their way, he cursed under his breath. Thus far, the Marauder had not captured an American prize, and hang it all, this complicated things.
Just when he was finally in a position to be of use to his country, now he had prisoners to protect.
The boat thudded against the hull, and a group of marines moved to stand on either side of the entry port, arms at the ready. Second Lieutenant Benjamin Camp, whom Captain Blackwell had sent to inspect the American ship, leapt on board first, approached his captain, and handed him documents. Captain Blackwell quickly perused them. His subsequent “Humph” indicated they now had proof that the American ship was indeed a privateer.
The privateer’s captain and his officers clambered up the ladder and onto the main deck. Hatred burned in the American captain’s eyes as he jutted out his chin. More sailors leapt on board behind him.
Beside Owen, Captain Blackwell eyed the prisoners with disdain. “Welcome aboard His Majesty’s frigate Marauder.” He held up the documents. “I see you are the privateer Charlotte out of Baltimore.”
“We are but merchants, Captain”—their captain approached, his face moist with perspiration and red with anger—“returning from Calais with a cargo of—”
The remainder of his words were blown away in the wind as all eyes shifted in unison to the entry port where a woman was helped aboard by one of the prisoners. Not just any woman, but the most stunning creature Owen had ever seen. Apparently, by the gaping mouths and wide eyes of those around him, his opinion was shared by the crew. Sunlight glittered topaz in hair that dripped like sweet honey along her elegant neck. A modest gown of blue taffeta clung to a slight figure that exuded elegance and femininity. Men instantly drew close to help her aboard, but instead, she turned to assist an injured sailor behind her. A bloody bandage seemed to be all that held his neck to his head, and the tenderness with which she led him to the side made Owen swallow. She assisted three more injured men on board before she finally lifted eyes the color of emeralds to scan her surroundings. And the terror he saw within them made him want to dash to her side and offer his comfort.
An older woman climbed on board and joined her, followed by the last of the Americans and the ten British sailors who had accompanied Ben. Forty Americans in all. They’d left another forty on board the brig to be transported to a prison hulk in Plymouth—just enough men to be contained and not risk a mutiny.
The ship rolled over a wave as a blast of wind flapped a loose sail but offered little respite from the searing sun.
Captain Blackwell cleared his throat and addressed the American captain again. “You are no merchantmen, Captain. I have your letter of marque in hand.”
“If you please,” the American captain began with a smile that seemed to cost him dearly. “I’ll agree to the letter, but we have made no use of it. As you can see, it is dated two years past, and since then, we have found no reason to attack British ships. In truth, we were conveying the ship owner’s daughter back home.” The gruff-looking man with a chest the size of a water barrel gestured toward the beautiful lady. “Then we were headed back to the West Indies.”
“To pirate.”
“To trade. As is our profession.”
“Hmm. Eighty men. A large crew for a merchantman.” Captain Blackwell chuckled and some of the sailors joined him.
The American captain’s weather-lined face was devoid of amusement. “There are many dangers in these waters.”
Captain Blackwell eyed the man from head to toe, then cast a cursory glance over the American crew. “Nevertheless, consider yourselves prisoners of the Crown. And your ship a prize of war.”
The hot sun poured molten heat upon them, and the American captain wiped a sleeve over his forehead. “I assure you, we are no such thing!” He waved a hand toward the young lady. “Would a man allow his daughter to be escorted on a privateer?”
“A foolish man would, I’d say.”
“I assure you, Captain. Mr. Baratt would never put his only daughter in danger.”
“Then perhaps he should not have put her on a privateer during wartime.”
Defeat lined the American captain’s face as he shifted his stance. “What are you to do with us? With my brig?” The man glanced behind him at the Charlotte, where midshipmen prepared her to set sail.
“You will be put to work on board this ship until I can escort you to a prison hulk in Canada. Meanwhile my prize crew will sail your brig to Plymouth to repair and refit her for service. Royal Navy service,” he added sharply.
Sailcloth flapped impotently above them as grumbles traveled among the prisoners. From the looks of defiance on their faces, Owen believed that if they were armed, they’d brave an attack, even outnumbered six to one.
That’s the spirit! He’d not seen another American since his rendezvous with a supply boat off the coast of Wilmington, North Carolin
a, a month past, and their presence brought a surge of patriotism.
“Dimsmore,” Captain Blackwell addressed the marine first lieutenant. “Lock the prisoners below. Lieutenant Masters”—he turned to Owen—“see that the injured are taken to sick bay.”
“And what of the ladies?” Owen gestured toward the two women backed against the railing as if they would rather jump overboard than face their fate. The younger one still attended the injured men by her side.
“Hmm.” Blackwell rubbed his chin. “They do present a problem.”
“A very eye-pleasing problem,” Second Lieutenant Benjamin Camp whispered to Owen from his other side. The two shared a smile.
Dimsmore began rounding up the prisoners as Captain Blackwell made his way toward the women. He halted before them, and the younger one raised her brazen gaze to his. Though Owen detected a slight quiver in her lips, determination sparked in her eyes.
“Do you know medicine, miss?”
“A bit, Captain,” she said without emotion.
“Good. We lost our ship’s surgeon two weeks past. Lieutenant Masters, have one of the marines escort this woman and her companion”—he glanced at the older woman curiously—“to sick bay to attend the injured. Keep guard over them there. Then find them a cabin separate from the other prisoners.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Blackwell glanced up at the sun. “Raise all sails, Mr. Masters, and proceed to our destination. I’ll be in my quarters.” With that he spun on his heels and marched away.
Owen turned to face his friend. “Take us out, full and by, Mr. Camp.”
“Aye, aye, full and by.” Ben turned and began ordering the crew as Lieutenant Dimsmore shoved the prisoners down a hatch. The marine’s cold eyes passed over Owen as they so often did, but this time, a malicious smile curled one side of his mouth. Certainly, the vile man did not suspect anything. Owen had been more than careful.
Shrugging off the thought, he scanned the crew. “Mr. Yonks, Mr. Manson, Mr. Denrick,” he shouted, drawing the attention of three sailors. “Escort the injured to sick bay at once.”
“Americans too, sir?” Manson asked.
“All the injured.”
Above him, topmen unfurled sheets while sailors on both larboard and starboard watches hauled on the ties and halyards. Soon the lowered sails grabbed the wind like ravenous dogs, and the ship jerked to larboard. A cloud swallowed up the sun, offering them a reprieve from the heat.
A feminine shriek drew his gaze to the women where Denrick yanked the injured American from the younger lady’s arms to drag him below.
“You’re hurting him, you fiend!” Grabbing the injured sailor’s shirt, she tugged him back, and for a moment the poor man pivoted back and forth like holystone over the deck.
Owen gripped her wrist and wrangled her from the man’s shirt before nodding for Denrick to take him away. “You will attend to him soon enough, Miss … Miss …”
She jerked from his grasp and backed away. At least as far as the railing would allow. The older woman wove an arm through hers and faced Owen like an avenging angel.
“Miss Baratt,” the younger woman finally said, her green eyes sparking at him with both fear and anger.
“Very well, Miss Baratt and Miss …?” Owen lifted his brows at the other woman.
“Mrs. Keate, quartermaster’s wife.” Proud brown eyes flared at him from within a round, kind face.
“There is naught to fear. We are gentlemen here.” Owen glanced over the marines standing nearby and selected one he trusted. “Mr. Blane, take these women to sick bay and stand guard over them.”
“Naught to fear, you say?” Miss Baratt snipped. “There is much to fear. We are now prisoners of war, are we not?”
“We do not harm women.”
Mrs. Keate huffed. “Not wha’ I hear.”
The comely one said nothing, merely stared out at sea before those incriminating eyes met his again.
Blane nudged them from behind. “This way, ladies.”
Owen cursed under his breath as they were led belowdecks. How could he protect these innocent women? More importantly, how could he protect them and himself?
All while doing his job as an American spy.
CHAPTER 3
Arm in arm with Hannah, Emeline glanced over the filthy space that passed for sick bay and did her best to force back her tears. The marine, Mr. Blane, gave them one last shove from behind before he took his post against the bulkhead. Other sailors carried the injured—most of whom were moaning from their injuries—and deposited them on sailcloth laid across the floor as if they were naught but sacks of wheat.
Emeline held a hand to her nose as the stench of stale vomit and gun smoke as well as other indescribable odors assailed her. To her left, a cabinet full of what appeared to be medicines stood against the bulkhead. Beside it, chisels, hammers, saws, and every imaginable blade hung along the wall.
A table made from barrels shoved together with a bloodstained slab of wood on top stood in the center of the room. It wasn’t really a room, but just the end of a long deck—second level down—that opened to a row of cannons still run out for battle.
In all honesty, it looked like a medieval torture chamber rather than a place where men were healed.
Even the ever-stout Hannah trembled beside her.
Why, God, why? When I promised I would behave.
She hadn’t time to ponder the answer as a sailor flung the worst of the injured onto the table. “Here you go, miss.” He gave her a salacious perusal before he left.
Groans of agony reached for her from all around, pleading with her to do something … anything to ease their pain.
Emeline’s breath came swift as she leaned toward her friend. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Hannah.”
“You did a fine job ‘elping the men on board the Charlotte.” Hannah patted her hand.
Emeline gulped and stared at the saw hanging on a hook. “But I did not have to cut off any legs!”
“Let’s see wha’ needs to be done first.” Hannah squeezed her hand and gave her a nod of confidence that did naught to ease Emeline’s nerves. “ ’Sides, I thought you loved adventures, Em. Think of this as jist another one.”
“I love exciting adventures, not deadly ones.”
“Posh!” Hannah snorted. “If there weren’t no risk, you wouldn’t need faith.”
But Emeline didn’t need faith. She already believed God rewarded those who obeyed.
And punished those who didn’t.
Nevertheless, she must do what she could for these poor men. Pushing aside fear for her own predicament, she rolled up her sleeves and approached the sailor on the table. He was British with a splinter the size of a sword blade stuck in his leg. Perspiration dotted his forehead, and his chest rose and fell erratically beneath a blood-splattered shirt. Wild eyes met hers as she examined the wound.
“You will be all right, sir.” She attempted a smile. “Nothing a few stitches won’t fix.”
This seemed to allay his fears as he breathed out a huge sigh and nodded.
His confidence in her—though based on naught but his own foolish hope—gave her strength, and she got to work. With Hannah’s help, she found needles, twine, laudanum, bandages, and several herbal tinctures. There were six injured sailors: two British and four Americans. Thank God, none of them required actual surgery. Regardless, the next several hours passed in a blur of removing splinters, cleaning out wounds, stitching gashes, and applying bandages.
All while trying to see in the fading light of a flickering lantern and maintain balance on a heaving deck.
An ache etching across her lower back and bloodstains splotching her gown, Emeline moved among the hammocks—where the marine had hoisted the injured after she tended them—offering them whiskeytainted water.
As she did so, she also offered each a smile, even the two British sailors. One of them had barely a whisker on his chin, and she imagined he had a mother back home worried si
ck for the safety of her boy. The other—Thornhill he’d given as his name—was the first man she’d ministered to. Well into his fifties with a bulbous nose, arms as thick as masts, and a whitecap of hair atop his head, he had followed her every movement when she cleaned out the gaping wound on his leg. Yet nary a shriek, cry, or wince gave indication of his pain.
She set the ladle down on the table and rubbed the back of her neck. Now that the crises for these men were over, her own crisis rose to tighten around her heart. She was a British prisoner on board a British man-of-war during wartime. Could things get any worse?
A dozen possibilities rampaged across her mind—imprisonment in one of those dreadful prison ships, endless enslavement on board this ship, transport back to England to be tried as a traitor, abuse at the hands of her enemies, or perhaps—her heart nearly failed her at the thought—even ravishment.
Oh God, I’m so sorry for whatever I’ve done to deserve this.
If she had known what would happen, she would have jumped overboard that morning. Like Jonah tossed into the sea to save the ship from calamity, perhaps she could have spared the crew of the Charlotte from enduring a punishment meant only for her.
Standing on the quarterdeck, feet spread apart for balance, Owen squinted against the sun slipping behind the American coastline to his left. Per his captain’s orders and the fleet’s command, they had sailed on a north-northwestern course all afternoon toward the Chesapeake, where they were to team up with Admiral Cockburn’s fleet blockading the bay. Captain Blackwell had come on the bridge once or twice to check on things, but otherwise he remained below as was his way. Unless of course, they came across another ship. That he trusted Owen with the command of the Marauder never failed to make him smile. If the captain only knew …
“Two points to larboard, Mr. Pardy,” Owen commanded the helmsman then turned to the master. “Take in fore-topsail, if you please.”
The master began braying a string of orders, sending sailors scrambling to task.
The Liberty Bride Page 2