by Anna Small
“You really have changed,” Andrew mused. “Perhaps more men should have a knock on the head. It might keep their wives happier.” Andrew walked to the door and rapped on the wood to summon the guard. “I cannot stay longer. As long as my identity remains secret, I can keep you safe.” They shook hands goodbye.
“What happens now?”
Andrew’s lip curled with an ironic smile. “You will be transferred to a ship and taken to England, where you will be tried and hanged.”
His tone was matter-of-fact. Will snorted.
“Is that all?” He resumed his pacing and then punched the wall. “Damn! Why did I not stay where I was?”
“How could you have known?”
A door down the corridor banged shut, and Andrew held a finger to his lips.
“I have secured an assignment to return on the Endymion with you as your guard,” he said in a low voice. “A few trusted men are on board and can help. I will do my best to free you once we’re at sea.”
The thought of his horrendous swim in the cold, dark water sent a shiver through him. His bones ached as if he were still immersed in the icy water.
“I think I would prefer the executioner, after all. It’s a much warmer death.”
Andrew slapped him on the back.
“Don’t tell me you’ve given up. Since when does Will Bennson shirk danger? It used to be your middle name.”
“Really? I thought it was Reginald.”
Andrew banged on the door, and the guard responded. His footsteps echoed down the corridor.
“I cannot risk coming to see you again.” Andrew spoke urgently. “Write your letter, and I will send it with my own private messenger.”
“What do I do in the meantime?” The sky outside darkened with the coming evening. The idea of spending a dreary, long night alone was more troubling than ever, without Abby beside him. Like a fresh wound reopening, his heart felt as if it would burst from wanting her.
“Build up your strength. You’re going to need it.”
He left without speaking. The guard locked the cell door behind him. Will returned to his cot, his mind racing with the prospect of what lay before him. His fists clenched and unclenched, but he forced himself to remain seated. Any more pacing and he would lose his mind. That he had successfully escaped from a British warship seemed a reckless act harboring on the miraculous. Andrew expected him to do it again. What degree of insanity would allow anyone to jump overboard and swim to an unknown shore several miles away?
Andrew seemed confident in his plan. For as long as he’d known him, Andrew was usually proven right. Except when he was wrong.
What if something happened on the Endymion to upset their plans and he was unable to escape again? The spot on his head ached where the musket ball had grazed him. No small reminder of the penalty for another attempt. This time, he could be sure; the captain would keep him under a tighter guard. The captain might never allow him on the top deck in the open air until they reached Portsmouth, whereupon he would be transferred to a top security prison. He might never know freedom again. Until his trial and hastily delivered execution, of course.
It was useless to regret his past actions now. He’d chosen the life, daring and exciting as it had seemed when he was younger. Now, regret filled him like a bitter taste. He would suffer through it all if only he could see Abby one last time.
The guard returned with a crust of bread and a hunk of cheese that was mostly rind and mold. He took the basket from him, biting his tongue against complaint, when he saw a tightly rolled piece of paper and a small pencil sticking out of the end of the crust.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” The rusty lock squeaked as he turned the key.
Will returned to the cot and set the cheese and basket aside. He unrolled the piece of foolscap, about five inches wide and a few more high, and contemplated the words he should write.
“I have discovered the truth about your husband. Weep no more for him, because he is with his Creator.”
He shook his head with disgust and ran his hand through his hair. He chewed the end of the pencil and pondered the blank page. When he pictured Abigail at her hearth, his letter clasped to her breast, he didn’t want her face wet with tears over the loss of her husband. Besides, the news shouldn’t come to her in a letter. He would have to deliver it personally.
He pressed the pencil to the paper and scribbled a few words, his gaze lingering over her written name. When the guard returned some minutes later, Will gave him the basket, the paper folded into a small, neat square beneath a remnant of cheese.
“Stay strong, Abigail, and keep watch,” he’d written at the end, “for I will come back to you. God be my witness, I will return.”
Chapter Fourteen
The reek coming from the bilge below was sickening. Will held a rag to his mouth and nose and tried to breathe through the cloth, but didn’t know which stank more—the cloth or the air. His one hope, the one thing that kept him from dashing his brains against the bulkhead, was Andrew’s promise of escape.
There’d been no time to discuss a plan, and he was unsure of how or when it would come to fruition. They’d been sailing south for nearly a week, following the coastline until they reached warmer water with a lower chance of bumping into an iceberg on the way to England. His only measure of time was when his meals consisting of watery stew, which resembled pig slop, appeared twice a day. The captain allowed him on deck at sunset for an hour of exercise, closely guarded by two sailors who openly brandished their muskets. At first, he thought the weapons were meant for him should he attempt to escape, but they were there for his protection against some of the crew, who jeered and mocked him whenever he appeared.
Other sailors were not as vocal, and he sensed there were some, if not secret agents like Andrew, at least sympathetic to his plight. One slipped him a flask and when he drank it, was refreshed by a douse of rum. Andrew seemed to avoid him in close quarters but managed to make a hand signal one night when they’d been at sea for the sixth day. Twice he noticed other sailors exchanging significant looks when he was present, and one seemed to give him a nod of encouragement.
They’d stayed close to the shoreline one evening, which was strange, since the sky was clear. The crew discussed a broken spar and the need to find a cove in which to make repairs before heading into deeper water, but the captain disagreed.
“We’ll be sitting ducks this close to Boston. Our guns are fewer, thanks to having to fit out the Lion. No; we’ll continue on our course as planned.”
Andrew and another officer gave their opinions, but the captain brushed them off like pestering flies.
“I’ll not hear another word. We’ll repair at sea. An American warship could be close. Better we outrun her than have to stay and fight, wounded as we are.”
The captain scanned the horizon, but the night was quiet. A steward approached him with a silver tray laden with goblets. The captain and the other officers took their evening dram, automatically toasting the king. Andrew abstained from the drink, patting his stomach and making an excuse of illness. Muttering a goodnight, the captain went below with some other officers.
The next watch was called, and Andrew’s stiff shoulders dropped as he walked toward Will.
“Peaceful night. Low chop.”
Will gave him a wary glance before directing his gaze to the horizon as the captain had done. A light flickered on the shore. At first, he thought it was a trick of the night, but the light blinked on and off as a beacon. A lighthouse.
“Oh, no,” he said, but Andrew motioned him toward the gunwale, where other sailors moved about, seemingly oblivious to their actions.
None of the men who normally jeered at or threatened him were on deck. In fact, the ship was nearly deserted. One sailor approached and handed each of them what resembled a stuffed pair of trousers. Will held them up.
“To keep us afloat,” Andrew said, obviously taking great delight in Will’s confusion.
&nb
sp; “I see. And how are breeches, stuffed with what I can only surmise is sawdust, going to save us from drowning?”
“They will keep our heads above water for a few hours. I can’t see the swim taking longer than that.”
Andrew removed his shoes and left them behind a cask. He flexed his arms a few times, winking at Will.
“When was the last time you swam in the dark through God-knows-what?”
“Courage failing you, Bennson?”
Will kicked off his shoes, not bothering to hide them as Andrew had done. “What about the captain and the other officers?”
He kept his voice low but couldn’t help the sense of dread tinged with anticipation that raced through him like a herd of wild horses. He frowned. The rush of excitement at the impending danger filled him, and he realized this was why he had joined Andrew in becoming a spy.
“The officers’ wine was laced with a very effective sleeping draught. By the time they awake, this ship will be well on its way to England. The only men who know of our plans are on our side or have been heavily bribed. I hope you took my advice and built up your strength. You’re going to need it.”
A sailor hung above them on the topmast spar. He whistled, and Andrew tugged Will’s arm.
“Now or never, old friend.”
Without wasting the time to consider what they were doing, Will followed Andrew over the railing. They dropped into the water like heavy stones. The shock of the cold caused the breath to gasp out of Will’s mouth in a giant bubble reflected by the ship’s lamps overhead. He kicked as hard as he could to the surface. The ship continued on its way, the light from the lamps illuminating the black waves around him. On board, the crew moved in silence, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
He turned as he treaded water, scanning the ocean for Andrew. After an interminable moment, his friend surfaced, sputtering and choking. Will swam to him, holding back a curse at the way fate had repeated itself. The first time had nearly killed him. If he had to save both himself and Andrew, he didn’t know how either of them would survive.
Andrew shook his sodden hair and scattered salty droplets into Will’s eyes.
“How long did it take you to swim ashore the last time?”
“I have no idea. I blacked out and ended up on the beach by sheer luck.” His arms and legs felt heavy from the cold. The night air was warm, but the ocean still had the potential to kill if they remained exposed too long. “We need to get moving. Toward the light.”
His words emerged as broken syllables as he tried to control his chattering teeth. Andrew grunted assent, and they both started for the distant shore, the steady blink of the lighthouse guiding them in.
“How do you know we’re going to a sympathetic place?” Will asked. “The British may have overrun this part of the land. How do we know there isn’t a patrol on the beach? I’d hate to be captured again. The food was revolting.”
“Stop talking and conserve your strength.” Andrew’s face split into a grin, which trembled from his chattering teeth. “This is a friendly area. Friendlier to some, if what you told me about your beautiful rescuer is true.”
“What are you talking about?”
The tide was with them, and it was easier to swim toward shore with the slight pressure of the current on his back. He held the floating trousers under his arms the way Andrew did.
“That light is the light on Lobster Cove. One of our men damaged the spar on purpose when we were near this area. I didn’t want to risk a terrible swim like the one you endured. I don’t have your strength or damnable stubbornness.”
Will stared at the beacon. In the moonlight, he could make out the familiar shape of the cliffs and hills. Abigail’s home wasn’t far. Had she taken his advice and moved in with Elias, or was she still at the cottage? He didn’t know if he could wait another second without seeing her.
New strength filled his legs and he kicked harder, surging forward while Andrew protested.
“I hope your lady love is a good cook. The food on the ship was a trifle bland.”
“At least, you ate what the captain ate. Not the pig slop I was served.”
“A little deprivation never hurt a man. Besides,” Andrew continued, pulling up beside Will and matching his kicks, “you will have the rest of your life to get fat on her cooking. What was her name again?”
“Abigail.”
The pressure in his chest was no longer anxiety and from the cold. He would have laughed if he could spare the energy to do so. The water seemed to warm up, and the heaviness in his arms and legs faded. Everything was different about this time, and he didn’t fear it. He wondered if Abigail had received his letter. Did she wait for him as she’d promised, and walk the cliffs at night, looking for a ship on the horizon? Was she there even now, praying for his safe return?
“I’d say another hour, Bennson. What do you think?”
“In another second, I’m going to sprout wings and fly to her.”
Andrew’s laugh mingled with the soft breaking of the waves around them. Will closed his eyes, drew a deep breath, and kicked with every ounce of strength he had. He was going home. He willed the words to her subconscious thought. Perhaps his words would reach her through the breeze washing over the sea. I’m coming. Wait for me.
He glanced over at his friend, but Andrew was gone.
Chapter Fifteen
The seagulls snatched up the crumbs of bread as fast as Abigail threw them. Though early summer, the morning bore traces of the night’s chill. She shielded her eyes against the bright sun and squinted at the endless ocean that filled the horizon. She didn’t know what she expected to see beyond the whitecaps and seagulls. It wasn’t as if a British ship would anchor offshore and set William and God knew how many other prisoners free.
She drew the ends of her shawl across her chest. Sleep had come easier at night since she received William’s letter. The revelation of his name was strange at first, but she became used to it by repeating it over and over again while she prayed for him at night and let him take over her daily thoughts. At least she didn’t have to worry about Leon’s unwelcome visits. Jotham and the other town fathers had banished him after his history of aggression toward her was made public. The last anyone had heard, he had moved to Boston where his crimes wouldn’t be as noticeable.
Something better could have happened for Caleb’s brother, but Leon was not the kind of man who would willingly change at another’s request. With his absence, her connection to the Quinns was gone. In a few days, Elias would come to fetch her to take her to live at his home. If William ever did return—and she did not doubt it—he would enter Lobster Cove as a free man, now that everyone knew he had been working with the Americans all along.
William was right. She had to start living again, no matter what happened. Her first step was to give the rest of Caleb’s clothes and possessions to the young men in Lobster Cove. She felt good to spread a little of him around amongst the friends who’d known him.
Caleb was not ever coming home. She’d felt him leave her heart the moment she’d given herself to William. A part of her husband still lingered as a warm, glowing memory she could call on when she felt sad. She hadn’t felt sad in a while, though. William was real, and alive. Somehow, he would find a way back to her. He’d promised. She clutched the front of her bodice where she’d hidden his smuggled letter. The message was an incredible story that brought her to her knees in despair, but his promise had been the same as ever, and she clung to the last, tiny shred of hope.
She reread his letter every chance she got, looking for some secret message or clue for his whereabouts. When she finished, she skimmed her fingers over the words his hand had written. Outlined the letters of the name that was foreign and yet so right. She’d made love to and kissed Samuel. But it was William she waited for.
The gulls abandoned the beach and flew toward the cliffs. The roar of the waves hitting the beach soothed her nerves. When she sat in the empty cottage, the
silence was unbearable. At least when she walked on the beach, closer to the ocean that had taken two men from her, she felt the presence of both of them.
A movement further down the beach caught her eye. She blinked against the sun’s reflection off the brilliant sand and focused. Two men walked toward her. One supported the other, who dragged his leg a bit. They were bedraggled and half-clothed, in shirts and breeches, without shoes or boots. At first, she thought it was Elias and a companion, perhaps Jotham Peabody. But Jotham was shorter than either of the men, and neither man would certainly walk around in their shirtsleeves without proper footwear. They had to be fishermen or sailors who had run aground and sought shelter or breakfast. She ran through a mental inventory of what she had in the pantry cupboard. Some bread and crackers, and a wheel of cheese. She’d made fish stew for breakfast and could reheat it over the fire if they wanted.
She was about to turn back to the cottage to prepare for their arrival, when something familiar about one of them struck her. The taller of the two shouted and waved. The rushing sound of the waves carried his words away, but she knew his voice. She took a faltering step, her breath frozen in her throat. Her eyes hurt from staring so hard. The man bowed his head to talk to his companion, who lowered himself to the sand while the other continued walking to her. His unsteady gait broke into a stagger toward her. Before she realized what she was doing, she gathered the folds of her skirts in her hands and hurried down the beach.
The deep, wet sand fought her with every step. Choking on her breath that seemed to have abandoned her, Abigail pushed until she reached the dry, hard-packed sand further up the beach. Running was easier now. She ran straight into William’s arms. Despite his labored breath and obvious exhaustion, he lifted her off the ground and spun in a circle, his feet stumbling in the sand.
“I told you I’d come back.” Her hair muffled his words.
She pressed her face into his cold shoulder. The remains of his shirt clung damply to her cheek. She ran her hands over his arms and pulled away only to examine him. To convince herself he was truly there.