by Lisa Norato
As young Warrick excused himself and made for his cabin, his brother turned to her in earnest. “I cannot go against the captain’s orders and allow you on deck, but I will let him know you have asked for him. Please understand he is quite busy battling this gale and keeping a wary eye out for any shift in weather. And if I may ask, Miss Huntley, please help keep my brother safe indoors. He wants to do his share with the rest of us, but I expect Warrick to follow your direction. He does not look the part, but he has a much determined will.”
Lorena swallowed her disappointment that she’d not be able to see Brogan. “Of course I shall look out for your brother, Mr. Farragut. Is there anything more I can do?”
He scanned the disorder of the great cabin with a thoughtful expression. “Yes, miss. For your safety, extinguish the lanterns. Have Warrick secure all moveable objects by storing them in the lockers under the cushions of the stern window seats. Then wedge yourselves into a place where you shall be less likely to be tossed about. Other than that, there’s nothing more to be done but watch and ride out this gale. Warrick knows where to find a store of ship’s biscuits until the galley fires can be restarted and we’re able to bring you something more to eat.”
William returned to his duties, and Lorena sought out her small companion, who had begun to snoop through the charts and instruments scattered on the carpet. “You heard Mr. Farragut, Drew. Help me get the captain’s things into the storage lockers.”
“Are you scared?” he asked.
It was impossible to ignore the roll and pitch of the ship or dismiss its groans, its strain and labor. “No. Are you?”
Drew shook his head. He’d never admit to feeling frightened if she were not.
His brave front bolstered her confidence. “All shall be well.”
“But when will the captain come?”
“As soon as he can. Once he’s navigated the ship safely through this storm, he’ll come. He’s brought ships through much worse, I’m certain. Now let’s get busy putting the cabin in safe order.”
Warrick appeared in a fresh pair of high-waisted white trousers, an oversized red waistcoat, faded and frayed and quite likely handed down, and a dark navy neckerchief, which Lorena suspected of being the finest article he owned. His brown hair was damp and mussed, she assumed from a hasty towel drying.
He joined them in dousing the lantern flames and securing all loose items. At his suggestion they huddled on the settee together in the dark and gloomy cabin.
Warrick and Drew shared the tin of ship’s biscuit and the last of the maple sugar fudge. Lorena had no appetite for either. Her thoughts were with Brogan out in the gale. She’d seen the look of concern on William Farragut’s face when he’d asked her to look out for his brother. She understood the grave danger of working a ship in heavy weather. Even the heartiest and most seasoned sailors were not invulnerable to the mountainous swells that could snatch a man from the safety of the deck and drag him into the sea.
Life was precious. It could be altered in an instant or someone dear lost in one stroke of fate. Having survived her mother’s passing, and more recently the events of these past weeks, Lorena had never believed this to be more true. Whatever Brogan had to tell her, whatever secret he revealed, it wouldn’t change the way she felt about him. Just, please, let him return safely.
She listened to the commotion from without and realized it had begun to rain.
The Yankee Heart gave a pitch, nearly tossing them off the settee. The tin flew from Drew’s fingers, crashing to the Brussels carpet, where it rolled among a shower of dry biscuit crumbs. Upended dining chairs shifted to leeward. They’d been diligent in tucking away even the smallest of articles, but one overlooked item glided toward them, delivered as if by Providence.
A cracked and worn brown leather volume, tied closed by a thin leather strap.
Dark clouds descended over the Yankee Heart in an unearthly haze of deep violet stirring into black. Lightning played back and forth in the distance, and thunder rent the air with the report of a cannon shot, echoing until Brogan felt its vibration in the quarterdeck beneath his Hessians.
A hard rain pounded the decks and lashed in windswept fury against his face and chest. “Hard-a-lee,” he shouted to Josiah Carter, manning the wheel.
Quartermaster Cyrus Fletcher had been sent below for some much needed rest. Brogan had relieved Jabez as well, the mate having worked tirelessly through the night, and asked that he check on Lorena and Drew before grabbing some winks.
Mr. Carter put down the wheel and turned the ship’s head. Brogan followed the circuit of the Yankee Heart’s bowsprit as she came round, then snapped his gaze to the sails as she picked up the wind from her other quarter. Gusts wailed through the rigging with a shrill loud enough to curl an old salt’s toes.
As the ship swung past the eye of the wind, his trained and discerning eye took measure. She still carried too much sail.
“Reef the main upper topsail, Mr. Farragut,” Brogan ordered into the squall, where his second mate manned the waist with several of the crew.
The wind carried back the faint echo of William’s “Aye, sir!”
The agile youth took two seamen with him into the rigging. The wind whipped around them with evil ferocity as they made the slick, dangerous ascent. It filled the sails, turning them into snapping sheets of unforgiving canvas, heavy and wet with spray. Twenty … forty … sixty feet and upward they continued to scale the mainmast. Reducing sail was tricky business in fair weather. In a gale like this, such a feat could seem near impossible. It was a precarious hold on those lofty, wet footropes, balancing against the roll and pitch of the sea, but Brogan had complete faith in the skill of his men.
And yet something disquieted him. Uneasiness churned in his gut. Something was amiss. A sense of danger surrounded him like a shark circling its prey, and Brogan searched frantically for the reason.
A broken spar hurtled up through the air on a violent gust. He yelled out a warning that was quickly lost in the deafening report of the snapping mainsail. The projectile struck Gideon Hale on the thigh and knocked him off the ratlines.
Brogan could do nothing but watch his man helplessly drop over eighty feet to the deck.
His heart plunged along with Gideon, and he felt the impact as though it were he who’d fallen. He recognized the stillness of death in Gideon’s prone form. Anguished, he dashed down the companion ladder and, upon reaching the main deck, hailed assistance from the starboard watch. It required a good bit of strength and time to walk aft against the screaming winds, and even with his own height and weight it was difficult for Brogan to stand erect.
He was first to reach the mainmast and Gideon’s body. The loss of his crewman engulfed him as the Yankee Heart’s bow rose on a swell. She rode the wave, then went down by the head. A wind blew across her beam, and as the vessel pitched to starboard, a pillar of frothing green seawater burst over the lee rail.
Brogan braced himself, but the turbulent stream struck with force. It knocked him flat, propelling both his and Gideon’s bodies across the deck. They scudded along and crashed into the bulwarks, where Gideon’s body washed over the rails. In the blink of an eye, a man was lost. The sea had buried a friend and shipmate.
Grabbing on to the first rope he could find, Brogan prayed it was secure and held fast as the surge flowed over him.
The rush of sea crushed his chest, so dense it immersed him in its watery depths. Like a drowning man his lungs burned, and as he felt himself grow faint, he thought of Drew and Lorena. You may have taken my man, but you won’t have me! I won’t let you have me! Not until I’ve secured their safety and the lives of every other man on this ship. Not until my son knows his father!
Brogan tightened his grip, but the hemp inched through his fingers, taking with it little bits of flesh. His hands burned as though on fire, yet he continued to bear down on the slimy, wet halyard. He felt his blood on its roughened fibers.
As the last of the deluge flushed awa
y and the ship righted, the Yankee Heart shook herself free. Brogan hoisted himself to his feet and took a deep, fortifying breath, no sooner releasing it when a cry of “Man overboard!” sounded.
The two hands from the watch rushed to the weather side and leaned over the rail, where another of their fellows had fallen. Shock hit Brogan like a physical blow to his body. His heart crushed under a heavy weight of grief. Who? Who’s fallen? And who now remained alone in the rigging? He bounded to the mainmast, searching aloft through the blur of driving rain, but the mainsail thrashed over the yard, obscuring his view.
He searched helplessly up into the swirling blue-black heavens. A rescue launch would be overturned within moments in this running sea, if not dashed to splinters. Yet Brogan would row out himself before surrendering another of his men to the deep.
He was fighting his best to save the ship, his men, and the loved ones below, but now it felt as though control was slipping away from him.
In desperation he realized he couldn’t do this all on his own and cried out to the Almighty.
“Their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.
“Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses.”
The psalm he had read to Drew on Lorena’s first night aboard echoed through his consciousness, and Brogan turned with renewed hope to the sailors at the rail.
They sadly shook their heads.
Gone.
Injustice and disappointment festered inside him, a tempest as angry as the one that raged against the Yankee Heart. Brogan yanked off his Hessians and leapt into the rigging, climbing up the ratlines to reduce sail before any more lives were lost.
Against howling winds, flapping sails, and sharp rain, he scaled the heights of the mainmast and spotted John Bowne further aloft, balancing on the yardarm of the lower main topsail.
William, then. Willie Farragut … dead! Brogan plummeted into a dark abyss of despair. Willie, who from that first day that he’d come under Brogan’s command never failed to give the vessel his best efforts. Who at the age of sixteen, being a bright lad, however green, had petitioned Brogan to sign articles with the privateer Black Eagle. Brogan promised himself he’d look out for the Farragut lads, and he thought he’d succeeded.
Until today.
How was he going to tell Warrick his brother was dead?
Before he could conceive of an answer, he climbed past the main yard and scaled the maintop, where to his great amazement he found something stretched across the platform.
Someone, rather.
It was the prone figure of William.
Brogan blinked, astonished. His prayer had been answered, and suddenly he understood. The Lord had shown him who was in control. Not Brogan, but Him.
He was humbled as he gave the second mate’s shoulder a good shake. “Mr. Farragut! Are you well? Wake up, man, and explain. We thought you gone.”
William shrugged off his stupor and climbed to all fours. “I was knocked from the yard and thought for certain I was done, but the next I knew, I landed here.”
“Nothing broken?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, on deck with you. Lively now, and send up Mr. Partridge and Mr. Beckett to haul in this mainsail. Mr. Bowne and I will reef the topsails.” Brogan was not about to risk another fright from William before delivering him safely to his brother.
William jumped to the order, the horror and embarrassment on his face clear indication he believed his captain was displeased with him, when in reality Brogan felt such joy he wanted to shout praises to the Almighty from the crosstrees.
He’d been certain he had lost another of his valued crew, but God had been merciful. The realization sobered him, and right there, balancing on the main yard, eighty feet above a violently swaying deck, Brogan counted his blessings.
The squall quieted to a calm wind and showers by late afternoon, when Brogan stepped out of the weather for the first time since he’d escorted Lorena to her cabin the previous evening. Exhaustion weighed on every muscle as he trekked the dark corridor to the great cabin.
He opened the door and entered the parlor, leaving concern for crew and ship out in the rain.
One glance at the precious child seated between Lorena and Warrick on the settee and everything else ceased to exist. He stood on the Brussels carpet, dripping wet, while Drew stared back with astute blue eyes, wise beyond their years.
The boy scooted off the settee and rushed forward into his arms.
As he held his son, Brogan thought then that Jabez had been wise in his opinions. Five years old was too young for a life at sea. Drew needed more. Even his father needed more.
He met Lorena’s gaze over the boy’s pale blond head as she stepped forward in a gingham work dress with Warrick, her jumbled mass of tight ringlets loosed from their pins to overwhelm her slender face.
Brogan stared, entranced by her beauty, yearning to say all the things that remained unspoken between them.
She smiled sweetly, and he realized that with this voyage, his heart had expanded to include someone besides his son. Someone just as precious and just as loved, though in a different way.
He wanted to marry Lorena. He never expected he would feel this way, but Brogan wanted to settle down in quiet little Duxborotown with a wife and his son … if Lorena would have him, if she’d forgive him, once she learned the truth of his identity.
With a grin Brogan crooked a finger beneath Drew’s chin and gave it a nudge. “Have you missed me?”
The boy’s head bobbed in a vigorous nod.
“And I missed you,” Brogan said, rising. “Both of you.” He turned from Lorena to his steward Warrick and, reaching out, gave the young man’s shoulder an affectionate pat. “Go to your brother in the fo’c’sle and be with him. William has an amazing tale to share of God’s goodness.”
Drew peered up at Brogan, craning his neck. “I want to hear, too.”
“And you shall. At dinner. Fred Mott is starting up the galley fires, and soon I promise you something hot to eat. But first there is another story I need to tell.” His faith had been stirred with William’s sparing, and this time Brogan felt armed with courage for what he knew he must do. “I’m going to change from these wet clothes,” he said, lifting his gaze to Lorena, “and then I have a confession to make.”
17
Brogan’s sentimental mood had Lorena baffled. What happened out in the storm to open his eyes to God’s goodness? What amazing tale did William have to share? She felt as anxious as Drew for news, but was she prepared for Brogan’s confession? She’d encouraged him to open up, and now that she’d soon have her desire, Lorena fretted his revelation would alter the tender, developing relationship between them.
With the release of a latch, the mahogany door to the sleeping cabin opened and Brogan emerged in a fresh pair of buff trousers and the blue military cutaway coat of his privateer uniform. She found the formality odd until she remembered the coat was part of the puzzle. His damp, longish hair he’d neatly combed, and the stark look accentuated Brogan’s rugged features. She noted shadows beneath his eyes, and when he smiled it did little to ease the severity of his expression.
His attention went directly to the boy. “Drew, fetch Captain Briggs for me, would you, and bring him here?”
Drew dashed off as though in anticipation of some sort of game.
Lorena knew this was no game, and her heart raced because of it.
“I’ll open wide the draperies and let in some light, shall I?” Suddenly she remembered the deadlights protecting the rain-splattered panes of the stern windows. At her hesitation Brogan stepped up behind her to draw aside the curtains and unlatch the shutters. As he folded them out of the way, soft gray light filtered down from the cloudy skies into the cabin, as solemn as the expression on his face.
Lorena studied him. “I’ve not seen fear in your eyes before. Yet you wa
it here for Drew as though he were returning with some powerful adversary and not a cloth doll. Whatever you have to tell us, Brogan, I know it does not come easy for you.”
As he took her hands, she felt the ragged sores crossing his palms. “You’ve been injured.” She examined his hands, wincing at the torn, raw flesh. “I should dress those wounds and perhaps apply a salve—”
“Later,” he said impatiently, jerking out of her grasp.
He took a breath, then started again, staring her full in the face with a wry grin. “I know you are confused, but in a moment all shall be explained. Forgive me for not speaking up sooner. You have to understand, I have been waiting three years for this moment, hoping the opportunity would arrive, rehearsing what I should say over and over again. And still, I feel … unprepared.”
The robust, masculine timbre of his voice thickened with each word, and there, in the midst of that dear, beloved face, Lorena saw his intense blue eyes fill from beneath his lashes. She ran her gaze over his crisp lapels with their red facings and the column of shiny brass buttons. Identical to the coat Captain Briggs wore in miniature.
Drew returned, and Brogan bid them sit together on the settee while he stood before them holding Drew’s doll.
“Do you remember the tale I told that day of our picnic on Captain’s Hill? I told of how Captain Briggs came to be crafted.”
“Yes, of course.” Lorena remembered the tale well for its curious nature, but it was Drew whom Brogan addressed.
“Sailmaker Thomas Pinney, being crafty with a needle, was asked to sew a doll in the likeness of a privateer captain. This is the doll he made,” he explained again. “Captain Briggs. The doll your papa gave you. Do you … remember?”
Drew’s eyes rounded at the mention of his papa. “When I was still a babe,” he said in a soft voice, “I had a papa.”