The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  He approached and halted before Hannah. “And you gave this to the prisoner who escaped?”

  To her credit, the woman didn’t hesitate, didn’t even sound nervous. “That I did, Captain. ‘Twere my duty as an American.”

  “Then it will be your duty to watch him be flogged.”

  Emeline gasped.

  Hannah remained steadfast, looking straight ahead.

  “And it will be my duty, afterward, to see you locked in chains with the rest of the prisoners. Escort her to the main deck. I’ll be up shortly.” Captain Blackwell waved a hand of dismissal toward Hannah, and Emeline’s heart felt as though a thousand knives stabbed it. No, no, no! Everything within her wanted to take the blame, divulge her part in it, assume the punishment of her poor friend who had been naught but kind to her.

  But that wouldn’t do anyone any good at all. She glanced at Hannah as the marines grabbed her arms. She nodded toward Emeline, reassurance in her eyes. Not fear, not anger.

  Not the weight of shame Emeline was now sinking beneath. She lowered her gaze and faced forward, waiting for whatever came next. As soon as her friend had left, the captain approached her, his harsh expression fading like a storm blown away by a soft breeze.

  “I know that was not easy for you, Miss Baratt. Though an American, I realize the woman was your companion and friend.”

  Emeline kept her eyes on the deck by her feet. She longed to plead for mercy for Robert and Hannah, but that would only introduce suspicion. “I had to do my duty, Captain. Friend or not, she defied the Crown.”

  “You have more than proven your loyalty,” he replied staunchly.

  Which was exactly what Hannah was counting on. But what good would it do now?

  For in all probability, Emeline was never going to leave this ship.

  An hour later, she stood on the quarterdeck as the August sun shot hot arrows upon the crew assembled to witness Robert’s flogging. She’d wanted to beg off from watching the barbaric event, but in truth, she deserved to suffer for her part in it.

  To her left stood Lieutenant Masters and the captain, while beneath her on the main deck, Hannah stood between two marines. The crew of the Charlotte clustered together by the larboard railing, scowls darkening their faces, while the rest of the main and foredecks were covered with British seamen, including some up in the shrouds—like ants evicted from their anthill. There had to be more than two hundred of them.

  Perspiration dribbled down her back beneath her gown as she adjusted her bonnet against the raging sun. A marine appeared from belowdecks, hauling poor Robert above. A new set of irons scraped over the deck as he was led to stand before a hatch grating that had been lifted on its side. The sailors tossed curses and insults his way as the marine stripped him of his shirt and tied his hands and ankles to the grating.

  Emeline felt blood rush to her head, and her breath came heavy and hard.

  Captain Blackwell glanced her way. “You may go below, Miss Baratt. No need for a lady to witness this.”

  “I wish to stay, Captain,” she managed to mumble in return.

  He nodded and faced the proceedings while Lieutenant Masters eyed her curiously.

  The boatswain’s mate grabbed the cat-o’-nine-tails and looked up at the captain.

  Captain Blackwell cleared his throat and silence swept through the ship. “For the crime of attempting to escape and as a lesson to all prisoners, this man will receive twenty lashes.”

  Sailors jeered and cheered.

  The boatswain’s mate raised the whip and struck Robert’s back. Welts rose like red volcanoes on his skin. To his credit, he did not yell out, though Emeline heard Hannah shriek.

  She would do so herself. She would run down and stop the entire heinous act if she thought she could. Instead, she closed her eyes and began whispering prayers.

  Crack! The sailors continued to laugh and shout curses.

  Crack! Emeline shuddered but continued her prayers, her heart growing heavy.

  Crack! Oh, how she hated these Brits! Why did they have to be so cruel?

  Crack! Oh Lord, help Robert endure it.

  Crack! Robert finally wailed in agony.

  Crack! She heard the captain of the Charlotte shout, “Leave him alone! Enough!”

  Crack! Anger raced through her veins. Robert screamed.

  Crack! She would find a way to help defeat these Brits. She would gain information and escape, God help her!

  Sweat slid down her neck. Her head grew light, and she felt herself wobble. Lieutenant Masters grabbed her arm, but she tore from him and gripped the railing instead.

  Crack! Robert screamed again, and Hannah began to cry.

  Emeline lost count of the strikes after that and focused, instead, on her prayers, begging for God’s mercy.

  Finally, after an eternity of agony, the whip stopped.

  “Back to your duties!” the master shouted, and moans and groans accompanied the crew as they dispersed to their posts.

  Emeline opened her eyes. She wished she hadn’t, for Robert’s back was naught but a lump of curdled flesh, bloody and swollen.

  The biscuit she’d eaten that morning rose in her throat and filled her mouth with a putrid taste. She flung her hand over it and stumbled to leave.

  Lieutenant Masters steadied her with a touch to her elbow. “You shouldn’t have stayed. I’ll escort you to your cabin to rest.”

  “No!” She jerked from him. “I will tend this poor man’s wounds.”

  Something akin to admiration stretched across his eyes before he nodded and assigned a marine to accompany her below.

  Down in surgery, she drew a deep breath and prayed for strength as she gathered bandages, water, alcohol, needles, and twine, not knowing whether she’d be able to help such a dreadfully injured man.

  But she knew one thing. Even though she was a mere woman, even though proper ladies didn’t do such things, she had to do something to help defeat these barbaric monsters.

  Owen gripped the taffrail and stared at the inky-black waters of the Chesapeake. The half-moon he’d been admiring since he’d come above had been swallowed up by ominous clouds. The spice of rain filled his nostrils, along with the stench of blood he could not shake from earlier in the day. He’d seen floggings before, but never one done to a fellow American.

  He wanted to pray to God, ask Him why He allowed such injustice in the world. Ben had told him that God was in control and everything happened for a reason. But if that was true, wouldn’t God intervene more in the affairs of man, fix injustice, punish the wicked? Since Owen had seen none of that in all his five-and-twenty years, he had to conclude that God was not only distant, but perhaps even unloving. Maybe in the beginning He had intended to love His creation; however, after man fell, He abandoned them. But not before punishing them with a list of restrictive rules that kept them from enjoying the meager seventy or so years they were given.

  His knuckles began to hurt, and he loosened his grip and pounded the railing instead. How much longer would he have to endure living among his enemies? Endure their arrogance, their cruelty? He wanted to fight them, not be a part of them. Not placate them or serve them.

  Thunder growled in the distance, mimicking his anger. In truth, he hated the deception—especially to Ben and the captain. He longed to end the charade, but he hadn’t enough information. The British planned to attack Washington, yet because HMS Marauder and her men were not to take part, he still knew no specifics—date, time, or armament. There was, however, talk of an attack on Baltimore as well. Owen must discover which city they meant to attack first or his information might pull much-needed troops from one city to the other, leaving one place highly vulnerable. No, it was too risky. He had to find out more. Then he could leave. Then he would be free.

  Wind swirled about him, tugging at his hair and filling his lungs with the scent of the sea and the coming storm. The ship rose over a wave. He braced his feet on the deck and stared into the darkness, yearning for a glimpse of his
country.

  Thoughts of Miss Baratt barged unbidden into his mind. As they so often did. Baffling woman! Her insistence on viewing the flogging defied his knowledge of the weaker sex. And he knew a lot about the weaker sex. Besides, she had closed her eyes through most of it. And she had prayed. He heard snippets of her whispers in between the shouts of the men.

  Yet despite her pleas and sentiments, she had betrayed a friend when she could have kept silent. When it wouldn’t have really mattered since the damage was done. What kind of person does that and then prays for her enemies—insists on tending their wounds?

  Owen withdrew his hat and ran a hand through his hair.

  Lightning spiked a white fork in the distance as the sound of rain met his ears—droplets marching across the bay like ten thousand soldiers in formation. Like the British would soon do to Washington—unless Owen could get the information he needed and prevent this heinous attack on his country.

  Emeline missed Hannah. Missed her comfort, her bravery, her encouragement. She needed her now more than ever. Dashing toward the chamber pot, she bent over yet again and coughed. There was nothing left in her stomach to lose.

  Thankfully, Robert had lost consciousness an hour ago and was not privy to her weakness. Though she was sure the marine standing guard would spread news across the ship of her shame. No matter. The shredded mass of flesh that used to be Robert’s back was enough to make the bravest soldier cringe.

  Besides, the marine did not have to stare at it like she did, did not have to examine every inch of it like she’d been doing the past two hours. Nor was he forced to curse himself for taking part in causing it, like she’d been doing each time she laid a bandage soaked in water and vinegar across Robert’s back and had to listen to his bloodcurdling wail.

  She should not have lied, not have deceived, and at the very least, not have taken part in getting the chisel to this man.

  Was that what God was trying to tell her now?

  Returning to the table where Robert lay facedown, she dabbed a wet cloth over his forehead and cheek. When he’d been awake, she had wanted to apologize, but with the marine there, she could not have done so. Instead, she did her best to offer him encouragements—that he would heal, that the pain would diminish.

  When he’d finally lost consciousness and she no longer needed to be brave for him, the tears had spilled down her face, bursting from an endless fountain of agony and shame. She’d tossed her accounts into the chamber pot. Twice.

  The marine had smiled.

  The ship bucked and the water lapped and gurgled against the hull as if they had set sail, but she knew they hadn’t. Perhaps the sea was as agitated as she was over the barbaric incident.

  Sitting on the stool, she dipped another strip of cloth in the vinegar and lavender mixture. Only two more and Robert’s back would be covered. Then it would be best to leave him here to rest or perhaps move him to a cot where he could remain facedown.

  La! She batted her cheeks. Why couldn’t she stop crying? She’d never been one of those weak women who sobbed over every little thing.

  Thunder bellowed in the distance, thrumming through the ship’s timbers. A storm was coming. Fitting somehow.

  Brushing hair from her face with the back of her hand, she laid the last strip over Robert’s back, pressing it down as gently as she could. Then, sitting back, she examined her work. It was all she knew to do.

  Lanterns flickered as an odd breeze swept through, carrying with it the scent of rain.

  “Mr…. Mr….,” she addressed the marine. He glanced her way. “Can you move him to the surgeon’s cot to rest?” She gestured toward the wooden slab attached to the bulkhead and covered with a straw-stuffed tick she assumed was for the surgeon. “He needs to lie on his front.”

  The man snorted. “He’ll stay where he’s at, miss. He deserves worse.”

  “He’s a human being and deserves to get well.”

  The deck careened and Emeline clung to the table for support. Her medical knife clanked to the floor. Bending over to retrieve it, she wiped tears from her eyes as rain tapped on the deck above her.

  The marine only stiffened and stared forward again.

  “I will ask the captain,” she announced. “I’m sure he’ll agree with me.” Grabbing a cloth to wipe her hands, she started out the doorway when a groan preceded the marine leaping in her way and heading out the door. “I’ll see what I can do, miss.”

  She gave a stiff smile and returned to clean up the bloody rags and water and discard her vinegar solution. By the time she finished, the marine had returned with a sailor, and together they moved poor Robert to the cot.

  After they left, she remained by his side and continued her prayers, for there was naught else she could do. Now it was up to God to heal and Robert to get well. The lantern sputtered and seemed ready to go out. Rising, she grabbed it and headed for the ladder to go above. She had to get out of there, away from the stench of blood, pain, and death—away from the consequence of her foolish lies.

  CHAPTER 13

  It’s happening today, gentlemen. In fact, as we speak.” Captain Blackwell’s eyes sparked in excitement as he surveyed the men surrounding the desk in his cabin—Lieutenant Dimsmore and one of his marines, Mr. Ryne, Ben, and Owen himself.

  Owen was still trying to process what the captain had just said when the man pointed at the map spread across his desk. “Our troops should be approaching Bladensburg at this very moment.”

  Bladensburg? Just five or so miles from Washington, if Owen remembered. How could this have happened? Making every attempt to school the fury exploding on his face, Owen instead fisted his hands at his sides and sucked in a breath. “Why were we not informed of the timing of this attack sooner?” Hang it all! His voice emerged a bit too raspy with emotion.

  Dimsmore snapped his gaze to Owen, his eyes narrowing, his lips twitching.

  Captain Blackwell drew back his shoulders and turned to look out the stern windows, where noonday sun shone down upon HMS Tonnant, anchored yards off their port quarter. “Since we were not to partake of this battle, I was not to disclose specifics. Admiral Cockburn himself is joining Major-General Robert Ross in their march on the rebel capital.” He rubbed his hands together. “The Americans don’t stand a chance.”

  Standing beside Owen, Ben merely flattened his lips and nodded. Dimsmore’s excitement could not be contained as he all but leapt in place. “That is indeed great news, Captain! When is it our turn to put these rebels in their place?”

  Mr. Ryne, a young marine who followed Dimsmore around like a lost puppy, added his “Indeed!”

  An unavoidable groan escaped Owen’s lips, but he quickly covered it up by saying, “Are we to join a land invasion as well, Captain?”

  Dimsmore faced him with a snort. “You sound less than enthusiastic, Masters.”

  “Do I?” Owen thumbed the scar on his cheek. “Perhaps I am not as bloodthirsty as you, Dimsmore.” He turned to Captain Blackwell and smiled. “Though I am quite pleased we will soon be victorious.”

  The captain spun to face them. “We are awaiting further orders, which will surely come after this Washington campaign is concluded. I should know more tomorrow. In the meantime, gentlemen, we are to remain anchored here. Hence, go about your duties as usual, and hopefully we will all be celebrating soon.”

  Owen was not really a praying man, but as soon as Captain Blackwell dismissed them, he made his way to his cabin, shut the door, and spoke to God, hoping beyond hope that the Almighty was listening and that He even cared.

  After not hearing or sensing anything and feeling rather foolish, Owen went about his duties as best he could, which didn’t amount to much since the ship was anchored—ensuring order among the crew, teaching the midshipmen, and basically maintaining an authoritative presence on deck. But his thoughts and emotions were a jumbled mess, and his gaze inadvertently drifted to the shoreline just off their port bow. How many Americans were at that moment fighting for their li
ves in defense of their capital? What good was he as a spy if he hadn’t gotten the information soon enough to save Washington? What good was he doing here on board this ship if he couldn’t fight alongside his countrymen?

  The British were right. If Washington fell, it would all be over. The morale of his countrymen would plummet to the depths, and the will to fight would dissipate like the morning fog. He wanted to shout. He wanted to scream. He wanted to jump overboard and swim to shore. Instead, he smiled and nodded at Ben as they passed each other on the quarterdeck.

  Emeline couldn’t get the blood off her hands. No matter how hard she scrubbed, no matter how much soap she used, her fingers dripped red … red … everywhere. Oddly, she stood at the sink in her house on Hanover street in Baltimore, gazing at her mother’s hibiscus flowers in the yard. Beyond them, carriages, horses, and citizens strolled by, chattering and laughing as if there wasn’t a war … as if people weren’t being killed, imprisoned on British warships. As if people weren’t being flogged to near death.

  Wait. How did she get home? She gazed down at her hands. Blood dripped from the tips of her fingers into the sink. She grabbed a cloth and wrapped it around both hands, but the fabric instantly saturated red. Drip … drip … drip …

  She held it over the sink. The light coming through the window faded, and she glanced out to see a black cloud devour the sun. A grayish hue—the color of death—leeched all color from the world. Petals shriveled and dropped from her mother’s flowers as the stems drooped and wilted into ash. People and horses passing by became skeletons, their carriages rickety coffins. Yet they continued onward, talking and laughing as if death had not made a visit.

  Emeline backed away from the window, horror stealing her breath and binding every nerve until it pained her to even move.

  Robert’s face leapt against the panes, agony writhing on his features. Bam! He was struck from behind with the whip. His cheek slammed against the glass. His eyes bored into hers, questioning, pleading, incriminating …