The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Dimsmore must have realized the danger, for he forced Owen to lead and then hung back a few yards with an ever-present pistol pointed at Owen’s back. If Owen dared to try anything, he’d be dead on the spot.

  Aside from the pistol in his hand, Dimsmore had a musket swung over his shoulder, a long knife tucked in his belt, and a smaller knife beside it.

  Emeline must get one of those. Preferably the pistol, but the cretin never let it go. Even now, as he shoved Owen to the dirt and tied his ankles together, he set it down for only a minute.

  Emeline lowered to sit in the shade of a maple tree for a much-needed rest as Dimsmore approached and handed her a piece of dried meat.

  She thanked him and motioned him to sit beside her. Smiling at the invitation, he did so, much too close for her comfort, but perfect for her plan.

  The poor man seemed to have suffered terribly out in the wilderness for nearly a week. A stubbly beard had grown over his smooth jaw, dirt smudged across his cheek, and his wavy dark hair hung limp about his face, but his blue eyes were as empty as always. “I’m sorry to force you to endure such a rapid pace, Miss Baratt. It is most unseemly for a lady, and I’m sure you are beyond exhausted.”

  “I am, but I’m anxious to get my information to the captain.”

  “A true patriot. I am pleased to see it.” He bit off a piece of the meat. “Do you know I once suspected you of being an American spy?”

  She feigned a hearty laugh. “Me? My word, Luther, you do tease me.”

  She glanced at Owen, who seemed ready to burst his binds. She wanted to ask Dimsmore to give him some food and water but dared not.

  He handed her the canteen, and she drank freely.

  “You are a remarkable woman, Miss Baratt.”

  “Please, call me Emeline.”

  “Emeline. I also thought you and Lieutenant Masters were sweet on each other.”

  She laughed again. “Absurd! Though he did pursue me—relentlessly and obnoxiously, I might add—I knew something was not quite right about him.”

  “I did warn you on board the Marauder, did I not?”

  “You did. I should have listened. I must admit he had me quite fooled.” She released a long sigh. “Who knew he was such a swaggering coxcomb?”

  “Precisely! Well said, Miss Baratt. My sentiments exactly.” Dimsmore swung a loathsome glance toward Owen. “Tsk-tsk. I believe you have made our traitor mad.”

  A ray of sunshine speared the canopy and glimmered over the knife in his belt, prompting Emeline to stand. “We should delay no further, Luther. We have a bit of a distance to traverse before dark.”

  “Very well, if you’re rested enough. I worry about your fragile nature.”

  She wanted to give him a dose of that fragile nature. Instead she sidled next to him, spotted a rock in their path, and purposely tripped over it. Now if the numskull would only catch her.

  He did. Not only caught her, but he took advantage of the opportunity to squeeze her against him. His breath puffed over her face, all pungent and sour.

  “Get your hands off her!” Owen shouted with a growl.

  Perfect timing, for it distracted Dimsmore just enough for Emeline to pluck the smaller knife from his belt.

  “Shut it, Masters!” Dimsmore said. “You aren’t in charge anymore.”

  Sliding the knife into her skirt pocket, Emeline pushed from him. “Forgive me, Luther. I must have tripped.”

  His smile returned. “No trouble at all.”

  They started out again across a field of tall grass waving in the breeze, Owen in front, Dimsmore behind, and Emeline beside him. A burst of wind brought the scent of distant rain, marshland, and the sea to her nose but did little to cool the sweat gluing her gown to her skin.

  Slipping her hand in her pocket, she felt the knife. The blade was no longer than six inches. What was she supposed to do with this? She couldn’t very well hold Dimsmore at knifepoint with so small a blade. He’d only laugh at her. If she stabbed him from behind, she would have to hit a vital organ, something that would debilitate him or kill him quickly, or he’d shoot both her and Owen before he bled out.

  That was, even if she had the strength or the courage to stab a man.

  Oh Lord, help. I need Your help.

  They entered another copse of trees. For once, Dimsmore was quiet and didn’t annoy her with his incessant conversation. Even so, he still glanced her way now and then with a predatory smile. Squirrels darted across the path; lizards scrambled over logs. Off in the distance the quack of ducks could be heard. Thankfully, the path narrowed, and Emeline slipped behind him.

  That’s when she saw it. A good-sized piece of wood, not too heavy for her to pick up, but plenty substantial for her to knock Dimsmore unconscious.

  Her heart beat like a tambourine in her chest. Could she do such a thing? Leaning over, she snagged the wood as they passed and held it behind her skirt.

  It was now or never. She may not have another opportunity to walk behind him. She hated the thought of hurting another human being, even Dimsmore. But Owen’s life was at stake, and there was naught to be done for it.

  Lord, forgive me.

  Hefting the wooden club in the air, she aimed it at Dimsmore’s head and gathered her strength to swing with all her might.

  “Lieutenant Dimsmore?” The question came from ahead of them, clanging through the woods like a ship bell announcing a change in watch.

  Dimsmore cocked his gun and pointed it over Owen’s shoulder. “Who wants to know?”

  Instantly, the red uniforms of three royal marines emerged from the greenery to surround them.

  Emeline let the wood slip from her hand.

  CHAPTER 28

  Dimsmore shoved Owen—yet again—to the ground. This time into the moist sand lining the shore of Bird River.

  “Don’t move a muscle, Masters!” he ordered. “If you do, I’ll be more than happy to shoot you.”

  “I wouldn’t dare deprive you of watching me hang.” Owen smiled up at him, though he was sure his expression was lost on the man. Darkness had fallen hours ago, draping a black curtain over the landscape and thus impeding their progress.

  Now, at the rendezvous point, the marines busied themselves lighting a torch in order to signal the cockboat that would be waiting at the tip of the peninsula for their return. Dimsmore joined them while Emeline dropped to her knees before the river and splashed water over her face.

  She glanced at Owen, but he couldn’t make out her expression.

  All through the long trek, Emeline uttered not a single complaint, as usual. Not a groan or a sigh or even a stumble. Though he could tell she was distraught over the arrival of the marines. No doubt whatever foolish plan she’d concocted had dissipated upon their arrival. Just as well. He couldn’t have tolerated watching her get hurt, caught, or worse. Who knew what risks the impulsive woman would have taken? This way at least she was safe.

  Owen’s feet ached, and he was thirstier than a fish in a desert, but the worst part of the journey had been watching Emeline flirt with Dimsmore and seeing the way he looked at her—as he had so often looked at women on their many shore leaves in England—like a starving man looked upon a feast he was about to devour.

  If he touched her … if he laid one finger on her … Owen strained against the ropes binding his hands. Not that he was in any position to do much about it. Which was the worst thing of all.

  Behind him, trees stood like dark sentinels. Before him, the river spread out like shimmering ink, barely perceptible save for the rhythmic lap of waves. Dark clouds had moved in to blot out the stars. The sting of rain filled his nose. Appropriate weather for his last hours in the open air.

  As far as he could see it, his fate was sealed. He’d be brought on board, have to face the captain and Ben with his guilt, get locked in irons, and then be tossed in the hold for who knew how long before his trip back to England. Once at Portsmouth, he’d be court-martialed and hanged. Not a pleasant prospect.


  Yet oddly, his concern was more for Emeline. Yes, she’d be treated well on board the Marauder, but how would she ever escape? After the war, she’d be brought back to England where, he now knew, she had no family, no way to survive. Even worse, on the long journey across the pond, she’d be at Dimsmore’s mercy with no one to protect her.

  He struggled against his ropes yet again, ignoring the pain, but to no avail. Still, hope anchored in his heart. He was no longer alone. God was with him. He knew that, could feel it deep within his spirit. God had the power to either free him or to leave him in prison. But either way, Owen felt freer than he’d ever felt before.

  Dimsmore snapped angrily at one of the marines, his bitter tone echoing over the sand. Finally, they lit one of the torches, and Dimsmore turned and scowled toward Owen. The flickering light twisted his features into a maniacal grin of victory. But instead of anger, Owen felt pity for the man. As he stared at him, he saw a vision of himself in ten years, selfish, self-serving, lustful, greedy … and the image made him sick to his stomach. A slave to sin. A slave to self. He could see now how it only led to ugliness and misery in the end.

  Emeline glanced at the men standing a few yards off, then rose and inched toward Owen. Halting a short distance away, she knelt before the water again, busying herself by pretending to wash her hands.

  “Owen, I’m going to rescue you. I have a plan.”

  Owen would growl if it wouldn’t draw attention their way. “Forget your plan and leave right now.” He gestured with his head toward the forest. “While they aren’t looking.”

  “I won’t leave you.”

  “I order you to leave me!” he seethed out in a whisper.

  She laughed. “You have no authority over me. Not yet.”

  It was the not yet that made his heart lurch. In a good way. But she couldn’t have meant … Owen shook his head. “Please, Emeline.”

  She shook her hands over the water then rubbed them on her skirts. “Jump overboard.”

  “That’s your plan? Are you mad?”

  She gazed over the river. “When we are halfway to the ship, jump, and pull me over with you.”

  Every ounce of Owen stiffened in rebellion. “You can’t swim.”

  “But you can.”

  “Not with ropes on my hands.”

  “I have a knife.” She patted her skirts. “Pull me over, and I’ll cut through them.”

  He wanted to laugh, wanted to shout, wanted to scream. Instead, he whispered in his most calm voice. “So, somehow you cut through my ropes in the dark water while we are holding our breath and floating toward the bottom of the bay, and then we gracefully swim to shore? Is that your crazy plan?”

  “Perhaps not gracefully, but yes, exactly,” she returned as if making plans for tea. “Insanity.”

  “It’s the only way.”

  “What if we get separated?”

  “That’s why you are going to hang on to me.”

  “They’ll see us.”

  “It’s dark and about to rain. We stay under the water as long as possible.”

  “I won’t. I won’t risk your life. You’ll be safe on board the Marauder.”

  “Perhaps, but a prisoner nonetheless. Besides, you will not be safe, and that is my main concern. I intend to jump. So if you want to live, jump with me.”

  “Miss Baratt!” Dimsmore’s nasally voice made her leap as the man headed her way. “Don’t get too close to him. He’s more dangerous than you realize.”

  “Of course.” She stood and made her way toward Dimsmore. “I was simply freshening up. He said not a word.”

  “Good.” Dimsmore took her arm and drew her toward the marines, who finally had a second torch glowing brightly.

  Releasing a heavy sigh, Owen bowed his head. “Please, God, tame this wild woman. Don’t allow her to follow through with this foolhardy plan, or I fear we will both end up dead.”

  Emeline waded through the cool water beside Dimsmore and took his outstretched hand as he helped her into the wobbly boat. He’d offered to carry her, but she’d declined politely, using the excuse that her sore feet would welcome the cool moisture. Five sailors were already seated in the craft, oars at the ready, while Owen sat on the forward thwart between two of them.

  Fear cinched tight around her heart.

  That would never do. He must be as close to the side of the boat as possible. How would he get past an armed marine, grab her, and dive into the water? No matter. They would figure it out. She started toward him, hoping to sit as close to him as possible.

  Dimsmore stepped in beside her, rocking the boat and nearly toppling her over. He caught her by the arm. “No, Miss Baratt. Sit back here with me where it’s safe.” He all but yanked her to the center thwart, a good four feet from Owen, where he sat and dragged her down beside him.

  Desperation opened the door for fear to flood her heart. But she would not give up hope. There must be a way. God would make a way. Besides, surely things could get no worse.

  As one of the remaining two marines hopped on board, Dimsmore rose, grabbed some rope, made his way to Owen, and knelt to tie his feet together at the ankles.

  “Just in case you get some half-cocked idea to jump overboard. I know you’re a good swimmer.”

  Apparently, yes, things could get worse. Emeline exchanged a glance with Owen. Even in the darkness, she saw him shake his head, warning her not to go through with her plan.

  “Shove off! Oars in the water,” Dimsmore shouted, and the last marine pushed the boat from the sand and hopped on board.

  Emeline shifted in her seat. True, the binds around his feet complicated things. They kept him from swimming at all until she could slice through them.

  But she wasn’t alone. God had led her to rescue Owen, and God would see it through. Wouldn’t He? She had to believe that.

  “We’ll be safe on board HMS Marauder soon, Miss Baratt.” Dimsmore laid a hand on her knee, but she quickly shifted from beneath his touch. The scoundrel!

  Lanterns at fore and aft of the boat lit their way down the river as the splash-gush of the oars increased and sped them on their way. Each slap of the paddles in the water landed straight on Emeline’s heart, causing it to pinch with fear at what she knew she must do.

  Thunder growled its disapproval of her plan.

  Rain splattered over the boat, the thwarts, and created dots over the black water of the bay. Yet after hiking for days in the heat with no bath, she had to admit, it felt heavenly. What didn’t feel heavenly was the sight of HMS Marauder coming into view in the distance—rising like a monster from the deep, its jaws of death open to receive them.

  She wondered how Hannah and the other Americans were doing. If only she could get back on board and help them escape. But without Owen’s help and no other ally on the ship, that would be nigh impossible. Not to mention that allowing Owen back on board would seal his death. She forced back sorrow at the thought that her friends would have to stay there a little longer, but she would find another way to rescue them later. With God’s help of course.

  She glanced over her shoulder at the retreating mass of land. This would be the best time—close enough to land to swim but far enough away so Dimsmore’s marines wouldn’t dive in after them. She glanced over their faces in the shifting shadows of light and dark. How many of them could swim? The odds were not many, if any at all.

  Owen once again shook his head at her. Did he not have faith in her, in God?

  Her palms tingled with excitement. Her legs trembled.

  It was now or never.

  Emeline leapt to her feet. “American gunboat!” she shouted and pointed into the darkness. Then spreading her feet slightly apart, she began rocking the boat.

  “Where?” Dimsmore tried to tug her down.

  “Over there! I saw it. I saw cannons pointed our way!” She raised her voice into a hysterical pitch as she kept jarring the boat back and forth.

  “Douse the lantern! Oars halt!”

  Instan
tly everything went black. The oars no longer splashed in the water as they glided along. Only the tap, tap of rain accompanied the deadly silence.

  Emeline screamed, “They’re going to kill us!”

  “Calm yourself, Miss Baratt.” Dimsmore rose and reached for her, but she jumped from his grip and started toward Owen.

  She tripped over something hard. Ignoring the pain shooting up her leg, she shoved marines out of the way. From behind her, Dimsmore kept calling her name. A marine gripped her arm, but someone thrust him aside, grabbed her by the fabric of her gown, and pushed her.

  Thunder shook sky and sea. Her feet met air. Inhaling a big breath, she plunged into the bay. Owen’s grip was tight on her gown. Water surrounded them, muting all commotion above. Thunder rumbled again, but it sounded distant and muted. Rain tapped on the surface above them.

  In an instant, she had the knife in her hand and felt her way to his hands.

  But they both kept going down … sinking farther and farther beneath the waves. Light from a lantern shone above. Shouts seemed to come from within a dream. There—the ropes. Her lungs ached. Gripping the knife as tight as she could, she began slicing through the binds. Owen tried to stay still. Or maybe he was dead. She couldn’t bear it if he died because of her!

  Her lungs cried out. And still they drifted down … down into the murky darkness. She could no longer hear the shouts above or the patter of rain.

  Would they both die here below?

  She sliced some more, wanting to cry, wanting to scream. Memories passed through her frenzied mind of that morning on the Charlotte when she’d thought about jumping overboard and what it would feel like to sink beneath the waves. How far she’d come since then.

  Lord, help. I don’t want to die. I want to live! I want to live for You. And with this man You have given me.