Such a brave woman! A spy of all things, though quite likely she didn’t set out intending to be one. She’d no doubt made that decision on board the Marauder, doing her bit for her country, while most women would have never dared to put themselves in such danger. Sweet, brave Emeline. He’d told her he loved her, and he thought—dare he hope he saw affection returned in her eyes? What an incredible woman.
Yet if things went well, he’d never see her again. She’d have Ryne arrested, she’d tell the Baltimore militia the British plans, and then she’d go home where she’d be safe with her father. At least Owen hoped and prayed she would do that—for there was nothing to be done for his situation.
Minutes passed like hours. The heat of the day rose to near boiling then subsided as the sun lowered behind the trees. He was given no water, no food, and no break to relieve himself.
Dimsmore, still unwell from the laudanum, spent his time lying down on a bed of moss by the creek, his pistol in his grip.
Owen knew one thing. There was nothing stopping this man from killing him and telling Captain Blackwell that Owen had tried to escape.
Either way, dead by this man’s hands or dead at the end of a rope, Owen’s future looked bleak.
Which is why he continued scraping the ropes against the tree. Yet all his hard work produced was raw, bloody wrists. Despite that, the pain was nothing when compared to the ache in his heart and the emptiness in his spirit.
He tried to pray, managed a few pleas on Emeline’s behalf, but in truth, he was angry at God. Owen could have taken off as soon as they’d come ashore. He could have tried to find his uncle, or he could have tried to warn Baltimore by himself. If either mission failed, who cared? He would have been free. Somehow, some way, he would have eventually made enough money to purchase a ship and fulfill his dream to sail around the world.
But he’d done the right thing. He’d followed through with the mission, put his country and the people of Baltimore above his own desires.
And look where it had gotten him. Following God’s command to be unselfish had not only ripped him of his freedom; it would probably also end in his death.
Mr. Ryne was not much of a conversationalist. For that, Emeline was glad. It gave her time to plan the best way to be rid of him. The easiest way would be to find the militia commander, convince him of her loyalty, and then promptly turn in Mr. Ryne as a British spy. But plans never went that easily. At least not for her.
They passed the farm and entered another patch of trees—a brief reprieve from the searing sun. Soon they entered a clearing, and from there she could see the first buildings of Baltimore—the hospital and beyond that, the steeple of St. Patrick’s church.
A mixture of excitement and terror spiraled through her. She was home. Finally. And for the first time in a long while, she was excited to see her father, her friends … to feel safe and secure again, surrounded by those she loved.
She hardly remembered what that felt like. But then her thoughts drifted to Owen. He had made her feel that way. Squeezing back tears, she hurried her pace, longing to be done with this insane mission, longing for her heart to beat normally and not always be aflutter with fear and uncertainty.
“Over there,” Mr. Ryne finally said as he pointed to a cluster of tents filling a field just south of the hospital. “That looks like their militia.”
Indeed, it did. Emeline drew a deep breath and headed that way, all the while praying, Lord, help me find someone who recognizes me, someone who will believe me and arrest Mr. Ryne.
The tents stood in white rows like foamy waves coming on shore. Soldiers, in both army and militia uniforms, darted between them; others sat in the shade in groups, playing cards or eating. The smell of roasted meat, sweat, and gunpowder rose to join the scent of wildflowers and pine as Emeline boldly entered the camp.
Soldiers stopped to stare, their eyes latching upon her and not Mr. Ryne as they should, for clearly he was more of a threat. But men would be men, she supposed. No one stopped them to ask their purpose, which also upset her. Did these soldiers realize they were at war? Did they realize their capital had fallen and all the power and authority of the British Royal Navy was anchored just offshore?
Mr. Ryne snorted his disapproval beside her. But how could she blame him?
Anger fueled her forward, and she searched the uniforms for someone in authority.
There—a red epaulet on the right shoulder of the man’s blue coat. She headed toward him. “Sergeant, if you please.”
The man, who was pleasingly handsome but quite young to be a sergeant, turned to face her, his smile suddenly souring.
“May I speak to your commander, Sergeant?”
“I’m afraid General Smith is not seeing anyone, especially not”—he looked her over, his nose wrinkling—“camp trollops.”
For the first time since she’d known him, Mr. Ryne cracked a smile.
“How dare you?” Heat flushed up her neck and face, fueled by anger or embarrassment, she didn’t know. “I am no trollop, Sergeant. My name is Emeline Baratt. I am the daughter of Herbert Baratt.”
“Humph.” He cocked his head and adjusted his blue coat. “I know of Mr. Baratt, but I highly doubt he’s associated with the likes of you. Now, you and your”—he spared a glance for Mr. Ryne—“man run along.”
“Of all the nerve! I demand to see this General Smith, sir. I have vital information that will affect the outcome of this war.”
He chuckled. “You? You have vital information?”
Emeline withheld a growl. Proper ladies didn’t growl, after all.
“I’ll handle this.” Another man approached, this one in a sergeant major’s uniform. “You say you’re Herbert Baratt’s daughter?”
“Yes, I am.” Emeline studied him. “Mr. Radford, is that you?”
“How do you know my name?” the man barked back.
“I’m Emeline Baratt.” She gestured to herself, but then realized with her torn and stained gown, disheveled hair, and filthy condition, she certainly didn’t look like the daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in town.
“I met Miss Baratt four years ago and you look nothing like her.”
“I’ve been away.” She glanced at Mr. Ryne. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the comment about four years. “In England. My ship was captured by the British. Please, I know this is most peculiar, but I must speak to your commander immediately.”
“And who is this man?”
“Mr. Ryne. He was on my father’s ship. We escaped together.”
Radford huffed and shared a glance with the sergeant standing nearby. “You expect me to believe that you escaped from a British Royal Navy ship?”
Emeline fisted her hands and closed her eyes for a moment. This was not going well.
“Never mind, we can clear this up right now,” Radford finally said, his gaze still suspicious. “Your father is here, I believe.”
The man’s words brought a wave of relief. “Thank you, sir.”
Then turning, Mr. Radford started down the path. “Follow me.”
Finally. Emeline’s heart nearly burst in her chest. Within minutes, she would be reunited with her father. Within minutes, she could have Mr. Ryne arrested, and this entire nightmare would be over.
“That’s her!” A young voice blared through the crowd, followed by a boy pushing others aside and charging toward her. It was the private Owen had released.
He pointed right at her and shouted to everyone who could hear. “She’s a British spy!”
CHAPTER 26
Emeline struggled against the ties that bound her hands so tight they were going numb. This certainly wasn’t how she planned for things to turn out. She accused of being a British spy, and Owen accused of being an American one. She’d laugh at the irony if she weren’t so frightened. And miserable. Was this another punishment from God for stepping outside His boundaries? Yes, she had lied. Yes, she had deceived. Yes, she had done things no proper lady should. But this w
as war. Certainly the Almighty would make concessions. Yet all her appeals, all the pleas she’d lifted up to heaven since being tied up, seemed to bounce off the top of the tent and drop right back into her lap.
The sun had long since set, and she could hear the crackle of fires, the chatter and laughter of men, the snort of horses, and the shouts of officers creating a frightening cacophony outside the tent. A parade of shadows, elongated and gnarled, drifted past on the canvas walls, each one threatening to enter and attack, yet each one at the last minute skipping over the flap-covered opening. She wondered if the next one wouldn’t be the angel of death coming to steal her final breath.
She thanked God for one small favor. Mr. Ryne had been locked up elsewhere. Hence, she didn’t have to endure his company, especially now that she would have to reveal her true mission to the first man who entered. If anyone ever did enter. Or maybe they’d just escort her to the gallows and be done with it.
A breeze stirred the tent flap, wafting in the scent of meaty stew and giving her a little reprieve from the stagnant heat. What was taking so long?
Her stomach rumbled. Uttering a rather unladylike growl, she lunged forward, trying to either tear through the ties or uproot the wooden pole behind her. But her hands struck the wood and the ropes rubbed against her raw wrists, and she cried out instead.
The tent flap opened. A lantern preceded a tall man in a sergeant’s uniform, its flickering light distorting his features into an undulating mass.
She squinted from the brightness. “Please get my father. I told you I’m innocent!”
But then a voice swept past her ears, a familiar voice, a loving voice, and she looked up to see another man enter, rush forward, and drop to his knees beside her.
“Emmie!”
“Papa!” She started to cry but then laughed and then cried again. Never had she been so happy to see her father.
“Untie her at once!” he shouted behind him.
“Are you sure it’s your daughter?” the man said as another soldier entered the tent.
“Of course I’m sure! Oh Emmie, I’ve missed you so much.” He glanced over her with a worried frown, no doubt noting the stains, rips, and dirt on her gown and her tangled, loose hair and the smudges on her face. “What has happened to you?”
At a nod from the first man, the private knelt to untie Emeline. No sooner were her hands free than she fell into her father’s arms, receiving his embrace with many tears. Never had she expected such a warm welcome from him. He’d always been so harsh and cold, so disappointed in her.
Nudging her back, he helped her to her feet. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were on the Charlotte.”
Emeline wiped the moisture from her face. “I was, but we were captured by the British. A Royal Navy frigate. HMS Marauder.”
“Captured?” The word seemed to steal the breath from him. In truth, now that she could see him in the lantern light, he looked as though he’d aged ten for the two years she’d been gone. He’d always been a handsome man, stout and well muscled, built like a sturdy ship. But now his light hair was tinged in gray, lines spread out from his eyes and over his forehead, and his thick middle stretched against the gray militia coat he wore.
Wait, militia? “You joined the militia?” She glanced at his insignia. “And a major too!”
“Indeed.” One gray eyebrow rose. “But we were talking about you.”
“It’s a long story, Papa. I need to see General Smith. I have valuable information about an upcoming British attack.”
She started for the tent flap, but her father pulled her back, sharing a glance with the sergeant.
“Please, Papa. I was on a British ship for over three weeks. The captain trusted me. There’s no time to lose. Oh, and that man with me. Mr. Ryne. He’s a British spy.”
Her father frowned. “You were traveling alone with a British—” He interrupted himself with a growl before turning to face the sergeant. “Please inform Captain Nifton about Mr. Ryne.” After the man saluted and left with the private, her father held out his arm. “Very well, I’ll take you to the general. But afterward, I’m getting you some food and you’re going to tell me everything. And I mean everything.”
Ah, there was that familiar austere tone—the one that said she was in big, big trouble.
Yet a little more than an hour later, after they entered the tent of Major General Samuel Smith and Emeline told him of the British plans to attack Baltimore, both her father’s tone and the looks he gave her had changed from those of accusation and dismay to pride and admiration. Coming from her father, the sentiments were so foreign and shocking that she nearly collapsed into a nearby seat.
She did, in fact, lower to sit as the general requested.
“You’ve no doubt been through quite a harrowing experience, Miss Baratt.” General Smith put his hands on the long table before him and leaned forward, his piercing eyes boring into hers. Around the table stood his officers, each one taking in the information she gave with a measure of gravity and appreciation.
The general glanced at the maps spread out before him, his jaw flexing and releasing. Tall, commanding, with graying hair, bushy gray eyebrows, a long face, and a large pointy nose, the man presented an imposing figure. Add to that the intelligence and confidence in his eyes, and Emeline could see why men followed him.
“To the devil with those British. They’ve taken Washington, but they will not take Baltimore. As God is my witness, we shall defeat these tyrannical mongrels!”
Several hear, hears and huzzahs peppered the air as the general began issuing orders. “Pull all troops from the west and reposition them here on the east side. I want earthworks built along every inch of these eastern hills and batteries with our heaviest guns positioned all along them. Call up every citizen if you have to. Tell them to bring their wheelbarrows, pickaxes, pitchforks, and shovels. Slaves, freemen, rich, poor, I care not.” He pointed at the map. “I want it to stretch from Bel Air Road down to Harris Creek, a full mile.”
He finally looked up at his officers. “Colonel Harrism,” General Smith addressed one of the men. “Contact Major George Armistead at Fort McHenry. I want ships sunk along the North West and Ferry Branches of the Patapsco River and shoreline batteries set up along the banks. They think to take our fort. We’ll see about that.”
“Yes, General.” The man saluted and left, and Emeline couldn’t help but feel a sense of patriotism and pride in her country, along with a rabid determination to defeat those who were set on stealing their freedom.
General Smith glanced her way. “Thank you, Miss Baratt. You have done a great service for your country and by all accounts have saved Baltimore from British rule. Now, go and refresh yourself. You’ve well earned it.”
Rising, Emeline allowed her father to lead her to the door, her mind numb and heart soaring at what the general had just said. Her? Rebellious, wild Emeline Baratt had just saved Baltimore? She could hardly believe it. But before they reached the tent flap, her elation had melted into a pool of fear and desperation.
She spun to face him. “General, if you’ll permit me a small request.”
“Not now, Emmie.” Her father attempted to tug her along, but she stood her ground.
“There was an American spy on board HMS Marauder,” she blurted out before the general even agreed. “First Lieutenant Owen Masters. He was on this mission with me, but he was discovered and is now in the hands of the British marines awaiting my return. Can you please send a few men with me to rescue him? Also, the crew of Father’s ship—all Americans—are still held captive on board the Marauder.”
The general studied her for a moment, sighed, glanced at his maps, then raised his gaze once again. “I’m sorry, miss. I don’t know whether this Masters fellow is on our side or not, but I’ve never been informed of any spies on board British ships. Besides, I can neither spare the men nor the time for someone I cannot vouch for.”
“But I can vouch for him, General. I swea
r to you. He’s not but a mile from here.” Emeline dared approach the table, regardless of the intense gazes of the officers telling her to leave and bother them no longer. “It wouldn’t take but an hour and two men. He’s done a great service for our country, General.”
“Emmie!” Her father’s steely tone dug into her back, but she would not be silenced.
“And what of the Americans imprisoned on that ship?”
General Smith shook his head. “I’m sorry, miss. Many Americans have been imprisoned on British ships in this war. There is naught I can do about that. My assignment is to defend Baltimore. That is all. I have neither the resources, the time, nor the orders to do anything beyond that singular task.” He gestured for her father to take her away. There was no sense in arguing further.
She barely remembered her father leading her to another tent. Neither did she remember him seating her and placing a plate of steaming food before her. Not until he took her hand in his and said grace over the food did she come out of her stupor.
“Papa, I need to help my friends.”
An all-too-familiar expression hardened his face—one of disapproval, disappointment, and fear. “Eat, Emmie. You need your strength.”
Grabbing the fork, she took a bite and glanced over the tent, well appointed with a desk, chairs, two cots, and several trunks. “Your home?” she asked, savoring the meaty broth and practically inhaling the chunks of meat.
“For now. Yes. I share it with another officer.”
“I can’t believe you joined the militia, Papa. Before I left for England, you were against war.”
He smiled. “Things change. I changed. The war changed me.” He rubbed his chin and studied her. “And you are changed as well—stronger, braver, if that is possible. And more stubborn than ever.”
She braced herself for the lecture, the chastisement, but instead he smiled and took a seat beside her. “Tell me of your adventures. When the Charlotte didn’t arrive on time, I feared the worst.”
The Liberty Bride Page 22