Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  "Ye're jest low enough ter do sum'mit like that, ain't ye?" Thorny growled. His hand had slid under his shirt and it came up now with the knife, gleaming and deadly, clutched in his fist. Despite his rickety appearance, he moved with the swiftness of a much younger man as he launched himself squarely at Glasse's chest.

  Gabrielle jumped up from the chair and screamed, costing both Glasse and the guard a split second of lost concentration. Mr. Phillips used that to full advantage, adding his own jolt of surprise as he let go of the cut ropes and brought his hands slamming down over the barrel of the guard's gun. The guard's fingers snapped open and the gun clattered heavily to the floor. Mr. Phillips' foot shot straight out, aiming for a kneecap, which popped from the force of the blow and sent the guard screaming to the floor. The dagger was in Mr. Phillips' hand as he followed the man down; he drove the thin blade deep into the guard's unprotected belly, gave it a savage jerk upward, tearing through the gut and heart.

  As soon as Summer had seen Thorny leap off the chair, she had fallen forward to shield Sarah's body with her own. The sudden violence of the action startled the baby into crying again, but Summer only pressed closer and squeezed her eyes tightly shut, wishing she could block out the sounds as well the sight of what was happening around her.

  Hearing the screams and the muffled cries from the baby, Stuart Roarke swam against the clouds of pain and blackness. He strained forward and managed to roll up onto his elbow, then to reach down and, with a massive effort, push Summer and the child down onto the floor where they would be safer from any stray gunfire.

  Glasse's reflexes were quicker than Thorny had anticipated, and he avoided the point of the blade by diving to the side. His gun was on the top of the desk, but it was too far to reach. He saw the guard go down under Phillips' shocking attack, and knew his only chance was to alert the guards outside the cabin.

  Thorny pulled his knife out of the leather padding of the chair and let it fly with a curse when he saw Glasse darting across the cabin. He was rewarded with a grunt of pain and saw the blade strike the man's shoulder, but Glasse was already plunging out into the corridor, screaming for his guards.

  Thorny grabbed the pistol off the desk, Mr. Phillips snatched up the dead guard's gun and together they ran out of the cabin in pursuit.

  Summer scrambled back to her feet, clutching Sarah in her arms. Gabrielle ran over beside her, shielding mother and child with her body against whatever came through the doorway next.

  There were shouts and sounds of musket fire. Phillips and Thorny had stopped at the bottom of the ladderway, knowing they only had one shot apiece to defend the cabin against Glasse and his men when they returned. Both half-expected to hear the dreaded blast and rumble of gunpowder from the cargo bay where the crew was being held, and it took a few moments for them to realize the shots they heard were being fired from the cargo hold, not toward it.

  Only moments before, Glasse had realized the same thing and veered toward the gangway, running across the open deck, clutching his shoulder as he clambered one-handed down the ladder to the jolly boat moored to the side of the Chimera. He screamed for the two men at the gangway to follow, and when they were on board, he slashed the cables free and pushed the boat away from the hull.

  Two decks down, Morgan Wade was smashing the iron bar repeatedly against the lock that sealed the doorway to the hold. Mr. Monday and the cook were firing at the guards to give him cover, and, on the third attempt, it gave. He wrenched the door wide, shouting for his men and leading a stream of them along the gun deck to the armory. By the time the crew was armed and swarming the decks, Glasse's jolly boat had threaded its way into the flotilla of fishing ketches and shooting after him was impossible without risk to the innocent fishermen. Instead, they turned their anger on the dozen men Glasse had abandoned to their fate, and one by one, their bodies were hurled over the side of the ship, some dead, some still alive as they splashed into the water below.

  Wade ran to the stern. He saw Phillips and ordered the deck cleared and the anchor raised. He lashed out commands to get the Chimera under sail even as he was throwing himself down the rear hatchway toward his cabin.

  Morgan burst through the door and came to a dead halt at the threshold, his chest heaving, his eyes wild as he searched for Summer. She was standing beside the berth, the baby cradled in one arm, her free hand holding tightly to Roarke's. Gabrielle stood terrified and blinking in front of them, her arms outstretched, the heavy pistol clutched in both hands.

  Summer saw the girl's finger start to tighten on the trigger and screamed, "No!"

  She ran across the cabin and flung herself into Morgan's arms, feeling herself and Sarah gathered into his crushing embrace. She could not speak. She could only sob and say his name in snatches of breath.

  Roarke's eyes were open, but they seemed unable to focus on anything. He had drained what little strength he had and his face was bathed in sweat, his bandages showed fresh bright red blood where they were wrapped around his chest and shoulder.

  "Morgan? M-Morgan? Is that you?"

  Summer felt Morgan's body go rigid as he set her gently aside and approached the side of the berth.

  "Stuart. Aye, lad, it's me."

  "The ship?"

  "She's in our hands again. She's fine too."

  "Thank God," came the dry whisper. The brown eyes rolled and fluttered a moment before he was able to focus them and find Summer's pale face. "I told you...I promised you he would come back."

  Summer bit down hard on her lip. "Yes, Stuart, you promised. Now promise me you will lie quiet. You mustn't try to talk now."

  "I m-may not have the chance later." He smiled weakly. "Morgan?"

  "Aye, lad?" He took the hot, dry hand in his and was shocked to feel how little strength was in the grip, how gray the normally lively face was, how dull and flat his eyes.

  "Glasse...where?"

  "Over the side before I could break the men out of the hold. He's bound for the Northgate, by my guess, but it won't save him. Not this time."

  "You're going after the Northgate? Morgan...you know you can't."

  "Why? Because we'll start a war? You're too late, Roarke. The fighting has already begun, and Decatur himself was in the squadron that fired the first shots. The message from de Ville—the reason he was so adamant about speaking to me before I came on board? He found out by courier this morning: We're at war."

  "War?" A spark of life came into Roarke's eyes. "I'll be damned, they did it."

  "Congress declared. Commodore John Rodgers ran into a British war sloop and refused to let the bastards board. He blasted them to hell and gone instead and sent the sloop running with its tail between its legs."

  "War..."

  "I need you now, Stuart. Dammit, you can't die on me! I need you!"

  The soft brown eyes shivered open again. "I...I'll try, Morgan. I swear, I'll... Morgan?"

  "Aye, Stuart, I'm right here." Wade leaned closer to hear.

  "If...if something happens...take care of my Bett for me. Tell her...tell her I loved her and...and thank her for me. I never had a chance to thank her for loving me." Roarke swallowed painfully and for the briefest of moments, his fingers tightened around Wade's. "I never thanked you either...for being a friend as well as a brother. I told Summer I was twice lucky...three times..." his voice trailed away and his head started to turn to the side.

  "Stuart!" Wade held his breath. He gripped Roarke's hand in his, afraid to let go, afraid that if he did so, the life he held would simply slip away.

  Thorny reached over and touched a grimy hand to Stuart's neck, searching for a pulsebeat. "Ee's still with us, Cap'n, but ee's dropped off again. It's what ee needs now, is sleep."

  Wade nodded and tucked Roarke's hand gently under the blankets. "Work some of your magic for me, old friend," he whispered to Thorny. "Keep him alive."

  "Aye, Cap'n. I'll do me best."

  "Morgan?"

  He glanced at Summer and saw the reflection of his ow
n fears in the depths of the sea-green eyes. He drew her into his arms and held her, unashamedly taking strength from the trust she had in him. "Are you alright?"

  She nodded. "I am now. Are you truly going after the Northgate?"

  Wade's dark eyes flicked to the bed. "Aye. And when I've finished with her, I'm going hunting for a panther. Gather your things, you've but a few minutes to get ashore."

  "Ashore?" She jerked out of his arms. "You are not sending me ashore."

  "A battle at sea is no place for a woman and child, especially not my woman and my child!"

  "Indeed, I am your woman, and Sarah is your child and our place is here with you." Summer's eyes blazed fiercely. "I will not leave you, Morgan. Not again."

  Wade searched her face for any sign of weakness—anything he could use to fight her—but he found nothing."

  "I prefer not to leave either, m'sieur," Gabrielle said. She stood beside Summer and although her body was shaking so badly the folds of her skirt trembled, her expression was as resolute as Summer's. "There will be wounded, yes? We can help with the wounded and you will have more men to stay on your guns."

  Wade glared from one to the other. "Damn me for a fool, but I believe you both mean it."

  "We do," they declared in unison.

  "Very well, but you will do exactly what Thorny tells you to do, even if he tells you to lock yourselves away in the bilges when the fighting starts."

  They nodded again.

  The dark blue eyes shifted once more to the still figure lying on the berth. "If you need me—for anything—I will be topside. Come fetch me at once."

  He kissed Summer, murmured something in her ear, then left the cabin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Within fifteen minutes the Chimera had shaken out her sails and was under way, heading into the open water beyond the bay of Fort-de-France. Farley Glasse's jolly boat had reached the wharf and Mr. Phillips had been able to track his movements with the aid of a spyglass. He watched as Glasse and the two men—Beavis had been one of them, Phillips noted with a foul oath—commandeered horses from passers-by and galloped toward the south end of the town, riding over the hills and out of sight.

  According to de Ville, the Northgate was waiting just beyond the elbow of land that shaped the southern end of the bay. Glasse would be able to reach the ship with time to spare; it was only a question now of which frigate could pull away from the hampering drafts and currents created by the island and command the most advantageous position for the battle ahead.

  The Chimera's decks had been cleared. The gun ports were open, the muzzle lashings were released and the breeching tackles attached, preparing the big twenty-four pounder guns for action. Buckets of sand and ash were scattered on the planking to soak up blood and ensure the decks would not become slippery. Sponges, crowbars, and hand-spikes were laid alongside each cannon, and the brass monkeys piled high with iron shot. Buckets of water were placed beside the gun carriages, linstocks were lit, the fuses glowing red.

  Three small bundles were hoisted to the tops of the three masts, and on Morgan's signal, the bindings were released and the Stars and Stripes snapped open in the brisk wind. The bare-chested, eager crew gave a rousing cheer before taking up their positions alongside the crouching iron monsters on both decks.

  The Northgate was sighted as soon as the Chimera passed the tip of the peninsula. The two ships were a mile apart, sailing into the late afternoon sun on converging courses. Word had spread through Fort-de-France like wildfire and the hills and shorelines were crowded with spectators eager to see the clash of the two great fighting ships.

  The Northgate hoisted her battleflags and began to reduce sail, to maneuver for advantage as the Chimera came full on, every sail straining. The British warship was first to unleash a broadside, the thunderous explosion rumbling across the open water as the shots fell short and wide, sending up gouts of white spray.

  Morgan Wade, standing solid on the bridge, calmly passed an order to the helmsman to turn the Chimera away from the Northgate, and to ride the wind long enough to increase their speed to the maximum possible before her own sails would be taken in. He saw sparks of orange flame and plumes of smoke erupt from the Northgate as her captain tested for range again.

  The next course change brought the Chimera hard about, reducing the area she presented as a target but leaving her at a temporary disadvantage, able only to bring her forward guns to bear. The Northgate, conversely, could and did begin firing in earnest. Her eighteen-pounders were loaded with double-shot—two iron balls linked with chain—and aimed high in an attempt to cripple the Chimera's rigging lines. She fired continuously, backing away as she drifted out of position and lost the wind, only to pull up and set off more salvoes as the privateer closed the gap with fearless determination.

  Wade could see the frigate's upper decks and the officers strutting up and down the lines to encourage their gunners. Their efforts were paying off as two of the Chimera's topsails collapsed, their canvas riddled with holes. A man was injured as rigging lines were sheared and a spar swept wildly across the deck before it was gaffed and secured.

  Mr. Phillips, tight-lipped and anxious, looked to Wade three times for the order to turn the Chimera, and three times the response remained a cool: "Not yet, Mr. Phillips."

  The Chimera thundered within two hundred yards, then one hundred of the blazing warship without having fired a single shot. They were close enough to see the faces of the royal marine sharp-shooters as they scrambled up into the shrouds and prepared to rain musketfire down on the approaching ship. Wade, still scanning the enemy deck through the spyglass, lowered it suddenly and nodded grimly.

  "Now, Mr. Phillips. Bring her hard about. Mr. Monday...shall we give them a reply?"

  The big negro grinned. He arched his bald head and let loose a blood-curdling roar, one that had the veins on his neck rising like blue snakes and the gleaming muscles across his chest and arms cording into bands of sinew.

  The guncrews took up the cry, and at a distance of barely sixty yards, the Chimera presented her broadside to the Northgate and let loose with everything she had. The volley was delivered almost as a single shot, and fired at such close range that not one of the heavy guns missed. The beams of the privateer had scarcely stopped shuddering from the first tremendous recoil when a second roar from Mr. Monday unleashed a second volley, then a third, turning the entire starboard side of the Chimera into an inferno of spark and flame and boiling gray smoke.

  Wade's carronades—the smashers—hurled iron shot weighing forty-two pounds apiece onto the deck of the British frigate, unseating cannon, tearing out whole sections of timber, sending fountains of deadly splinters as high as the topsails. The long guns on the lower deck fed a murderous barrage into the Northgate's hull, their superior weight and power driving the shots clear through the gun ports and raking through the crews, turning the space into a charnel house.

  The Chimera's speed carried her past the Northgate's bow, so close that a man seated on the bowsprit could have reached out and grabbed a rigging line. The dense, acrid clouds of smoke were blown away long enough for Wade to seize the advantage and deliver several well-placed broadsides directly down the throat of the Northgate. Her mainmast was blasted away, as were her steering sails and a good portion of her forecastle and bridge. Sail and rigging crashing onto the shattered deck, along with the sharpshooters in their bright scarlet uniforms. Bodies were everywhere, the planks ran red with blood.

  Leaving the helm to Mr. Phillips, Morgan prowled cat-like along the gun deck, directing the crews to fire at specific targets, calling repeatedly on the magnificent precision he had drilled into them to keep up the steady, breakneck pace. The Northgate was only able to fire off one volley to every four of Wade's, but even so, Wade knew he could not afford to let up. His crew was outnumbered, his ship was out-gunned, and outclassed by nearly twice the tonnage, but they had the advantage of the speed and agility that had allowed them to carve a slow circle
around the frigate and hit her on all sides.

  Again and again, the Chimera's guns blazed, at times sending up such a steady flare of lightning from the snouts of the cannon that the decks appeared to be on. The smoke clung to the crew's throats and scorched their nostrils, burning their eyes as unrelentingly as the incessant roar hammered at their ears. With every gust of wind, Wade searched through the thick, sulphurous clouds for signs that the British had hauled down their colors. The mizzen mast was smashed and the top half hung over the side, dragging sails and rigging in the water. Not a single gun remained mounted on the upper deck and she was beginning to wallow and heave under the weight of the water pouring in through the holes in her hull. But the flag still flew from the broken mainmast. Ashton-Smythe's pennant and the array of battle flags had fallen twice but each time stubbornly reappeared over the shattered remnants of the forecastle.

  By contrast, the Chimera's damage was remarkably minor. She had not suffered any crippling blows, and while she bore her fair share of broken yards, flaming shreds of canvas, smashed rails and planking, the crew was still driven by the bitter memory of being held prisoner on their own ship. With burning eyes and bleeding ears, they poured round after round into the buckling frigate.

  Fifty minutes into the battle, Mr. Phillips appeared at Morgan's side to ask if they might fall off and effect repairs to the torn sails. The Chimera was losing steerage, and he could not guarantee the next pass would be executed with much accuracy.

  A shot from the Northgate blasted through the deck rail not four feet from where they stood, unseating one of the cannons from its carriage and hurling it squarely onto one of the gunners, crushing him to pulp in a matter of seconds.

  "One pass, Mr. Phillips," Wade shouted through the grate of his teeth. "Give me one more pass and we'll fall off."

  Phillips stared at the bloody, twisted hand that protruded from the base of the cannon, recognizing the tattooed wrist as belonging to one of his closest mates on board the ship.