John paced away from the table. After five days of imprisonment, escape, battle, loss—it all became clear. For years, he denied the truth. To Dominique. To Uncle Peter. To Ethan. To himself. But Naim had seen through him on their open boat voyage. Yes, the Barbary Pirates forged Bloody Sully, but it was John who put him to the whetstone. John had spent five years hammering, honing, and sharpening himself into a weapon. And what’s more, the work had been a labor of love. The cherished project of a craftsman—tinkered at, worried over, jealously hidden—and then one day, proudly unveiled on a Barbary gunboat.
John gripped the hilt of his sword until his knuckles ached. At long last, he and his mortal enemy understood one another. He knew exactly what he had to do.
“Melly, you’re not making sense,” Dominique said. “Face him as a wolf? Die as a sheep? What does that mean?”
“I know what it means,” said John.
Dominique met John’s eyes, expecting an answer.
For a moment, he just looked at her. He could read the worry in her expression, the desire to help. But as she once pointed out, John had a habit of drawing those he loved into danger. Not again. He loved her too much. For once in his life, John Sullivan would bear the consequences of his choices alone. No one else would get hurt. He touched a hand to Melisande’s good shoulder.
“Sully, I’m sorry.” Melisande struggled to sit up higher, her lower lip quivering as if she might sob. “I tried to fight him, but I wasn’t strong enough. I failed Lil Red. I failed you.”
“Shh.” John eased Melisande down on the table. He took her other hand, coiling his fingers around her clammy palm. He looked into the ice-blue eyes of his friend. How many years had Melisande followed him around, launching into battle without a thought to the danger? How many times had she saved him from his own foolish gambit? When had she ever turned him down in an hour of need? For all the times she’d gotten them in trouble with her hard-drinking, brash-talking, and thrill-seeking, she was the one person in John’s life that never doubted him. Never once abandoned him. He gently touched a thumb to her forehead, sweeping a lick of black hair from her eye.
“Melly, you didn’t fail me,” said John. “You came through like always. You did more than I could ever ask. Because of you, I have a chance to bring Katie back.” A feeling of gratitude warmed John like a fire in winter. “I’m a lucky man to count you as my friend.”
Tears welled in Melisande’s eyes.
“Rest now,” John whispered.
As if finally succumbing to exhaustion, the brave young woman slipped down onto the table, her eyes beginning to droop. “Got any…rum, Fiddles?”
“I think I can rustle up something,” Ethan smiled.
John opened the wardroom door.
“Sully!” said Dominique. “Where are you going?”
But John was already striding aft.
###
John knocked on the door to the captain’s cabin. There was no answer. He tried again.
Ryland’s voice came softly from the other side. “Come.”
The door clicked open, and John stepped inside. He smoothed the locks of his hair, tied in a queue but still greasy with filth. Ryland was kneeling by a hammock on the starboard side of the cabin. Gabriel Sawyer lay inside, eyes closed, skin pale and blue. The captain had asked for time to say goodbye to his friend. Ryland’s bandaged stump rested in a sling, and it was remarkable he wasn’t in a hammock himself. John’s eyes drifted to the stern windows, where the shores of Tunis were already slipping below the horizon.
John cleared his throat. “Captain, I’ve come to—”
“Don’t call me that,” Ryland murmured. “Not when we’re alone. I’ve earned no such title.”
“As you wish, Lieutenant.” John clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ve come to you with a request. During our battle on the lake, Varlick Naim ambushed the shore party. He killed Sergeant Anderson, Privates Poole and Miller, and Seaman Kelham. He badly wounded Seaman Michael Dufort and captured my sister Kaitlin. To win her back, Naim has challenged me to single combat on the island of Red Mortar Redoubt. I intend to meet his challenge. I request the use of a ship’s boat.”
Ryland didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the silent face of Sawyer.
“I ask only a little bit of food and water. Any navigational tools you might be able to spare. I would expect you and the Independence crew to continue on to Gibraltar without me. Once I have recovered Kaitlin, we’ll sail for the first Italian port we can make, and I will write—”
“Permission denied.”
The words didn’t register at first. John flushed with heat, ready to fight his way off the ship if he had to. It felt like Bainbridge all over again. “Sir, I still intend to face court-martial, but I cannot leave my sister behind. If you would only allow me—”
Ryland interrupted. “Mr. Sullivan, you will order the helm to alter course and sail with all haste to Red Mortar Redoubt. The Independence will remain on station until you have fought your duel. Our sailors and Marines will stand ready to welcome you back aboard, when and only when you have brought young Kaitlin back, safe and sound.”
“Sir, I couldn’t possibly ask you to risk the ship and the crew. This is my fight alone.”
Ryland looked over his shoulder. His eyes were placid as if no argument of mortal man could faze him. “It is your fight. But you are not alone.”
“Thank you, sir.” John was overwhelmed. To have earned the respect and friendship of an officer like Ryland was a feeling he had never experienced. “And, sir…I’m sorry about Mr. Sawyer. He was a good man.”
Ryland nodded. His eyes reddened as he swallowed back tears. “Dismissed.”
John closed a fist at his forehead by way of salute and turned to leave. As he opened the flimsy partition door, Ryland spoke again.
“And John…”
The acting lieutenant paused and met Ryland’s eyes.
“Good luck.”
###
John picked his way through the warren of partitions. The middle deck of the ship—the crew deck—was below the waterline. It was designed for workshops, officers’ quarters, and hammocks for the crew. The pirates had divided it into haphazard fiefdoms—from palatial compartments with plush furniture, to communal quarters for corsairs, to closet-sized cells for slaves. It would take a lot of work before the Independence was a well-run warship again. John saw light spilling from a small door near the forecastle. The room Buford had chosen for the blacksmith’s shop.
Before John reached the door, he caught the pungent aroma of tobacco. He found Dominique sitting on the ladder to the gundeck. She was puffing the Turkish pipe. Her gory nurse’s frock was gone, but the white trim of her frayed burgundy dress was stained red. She whistled smoke at John. “So that’s it? No plan Sully?”
“Of course there’s a plan.” John fiddled with his brass cufflinks. “I’m going to kill Varlick Naim and bring Katie home.”
Dominique scoffed, smoke blowing from her nostrils. “The one time I want to hear your scheme, and you haven’t got one. This is madness. You walk on that beach alone, and you’ll be walking straight into Naim’s trap. Neither you or Kait will be coming back.”
“I know that’s what it looks like, Dom, but I need you to trust me on this.”
“Don’t be a child!” Dominique jumped off the steep flight of steps. “Have the Marines sneak onto the other side of the island while you distract Naim. Or bring that crazy mountain man with you. There has to be another way. Isn’t that what you always say?”
“Don’t you get it, Dom? That’s just the kind of trickery Naim plans for. Every time I’ve tried to outsmart him, he’s found a way to turn the tables. For once in my life, it’s time for me to be a man and face my choices. Aren’t you always telling me to grow up?”
“Oh, you’re impossible!” Dominique snapped her teeth on the pipe stem. “You’re being a fool! Don’t do this alone. Don’t play his game. The Sully I know would never make that mist
ake.”
“I’m sorry, but this is something I have to do.” John caught a hint of her orchid scent, even through the sweat and smoke. Her blonde hair was disheveled, her supple lip crusted with blood. He looked into her glaring eyes, blue as the deep sea, and saw the tenderness she tried to hide. He found her more intoxicating than ever. “Dominique…whatever happens, I want you to know that since the day we met, I—”
“No!” Dominique paced away from him. “I won’t hear it. You don’t get to do that to me again. You don’t get to say those words and then walk out of my life. You want to go to that island and get yourself killed? Go right ahead. But don’t you dare think the prize for your heroic death is me weeping over my lost love. I won’t be the sweetheart waiting with laurels. I won’t pine for a fool.”
“If that’s how you feel…” The words stung. John still loved her, and he wanted more than anything to be with her. But he was doing the right thing. If her love was the price he had to pay, then so be it. “I wish you well, Dominique.”
“What you’re doing isn’t heroic.” Dominique dumped her pipe ash and crushed it under her borrowed shoe. She climbed the ladder. “It’s a fucking waste.”
John stared after her a moment, watching the last curls of smoke break apart under a dim lantern. He almost went after her, ready to curse his plan for foolishness and beg her forgiveness. But in his heart, he knew if he traded his honor for her love, he would keep neither. He continued to the blacksmith’s shop.
The tiny room consisted of a workbench littered with tools in various states of corrosion. There was also a vice and a quenching bucket. He was surprised to see Buford standing with his back to the door, running a cloth along the stock of his seven-barreled gun. The black marketeer wore no shirt under his apron, and his back was pocked and gashed with old scars. His skin glistened with grime, filling the room with the smell of gunpowder and wood lacquer.
“Your missus ain’t happy,” muttered Buford.
“I missed my chance to call her ‘missus’ long ago.” John walked up to the bench and sifted through the mess of tools. He absently picked up a pair of iron tongs, then tossed them aside. “I need a whetstone. For my sword and dagger.”
“You aim to rescue Miss Kaitlin.”
“I have to face Naim. And end this, once and for all.”
“Hmm.” Buford tossed a chipped grey block on the table in front of John.
“Thanks.”
John worked in silence, running the thin double-edged blade of his rapier along the whetstone. He paid extra care to the graceful point, ensuring it would be razor sharp. His finger ran along the groove of the fuller. The steel was still smooth and flexible, even given its early history fighting Redcoats—a testament to the original bladesmith. But there were numerous nicks and scores along the edge. The rapier had seen a good deal more combat since John won it at brag. When he got home to Philadelphia, be planned to have Ace and Spade lovingly restored. If he got home.
A smile pulled at John’s lips. Home. A place John had once thought lost forever. A place he had since found in Philadelphia. He couldn’t wait to show his adopted city to Kaitlin. John’s eyes hardened. He went back to sharpening the blade.
“I did warn you,” said Buford.
John looked over at the Mountain Man.
Buford was running a wormer down one of the barrels of his gun. “I warned you of a door that, once opened, cannot be closed. You showed Miss Kaitlin the threshold, and she has chosen to cross.”
“Yes. I did.” Haunted by darkening thoughts, John pressed the blade harder, the metal shrieking on the block. “I pushed her to do things that started a war. I led her on a dark path. Had I not, she would never have gone after the journal. She wouldn’t be at Naim’s mercy now.”
“You ought to have fled—with her, your woman, and your Negro. Had you done as I bid, your paps might still be alive.”
“And Gabriel Sawyer. And Eric Long. Yes, it’s true. But then this ship and the rest of the men aboard would be slaves. A life lived on one’s knees is no life at all.”
“Hmm.”
John inspected the mirror-shine of his light, graceful sword. The gold sun-shaped pommel and spirals of silver basketwork sent shards of light chasing around the walls. He slid it into the sheath at his belt. He drew his naval dirk, Spade, and began sharpening. “But you’re also wrong. It wasn’t for me to decide for Ethan and Dom and Katie. The choice to join me and fight was theirs. We must face evil to defeat it, but victory comes at a cost. I understand that now.”
After a few more scrapes on the whetstone, John admired the thick double-edged dagger, with a blade as long as his arm and the same ornate guard as his sword. He sheathed it at the small of his back.
Buford held out the seven-barreled gun like a sword presented to King Arthur. “Sure you wouldn’t prefer a weapon with a mite more…kick? I am happy to loan the Nock gun in Miss Kaitlin’s defense.”
“Thank you for the offer.” John laid a hand on the multiple barrels, so thick he couldn’t close his hand around them. “But I think it better suits a man of your…constitution.”
“Suit yourself.” Buford’s lazy eye moved farther to the periphery. “But I am uncommonly fond of Miss Kaitlin. Should she perish, I would have little use for your continued well being. Do not fail.”
John narrowed his eyes. “I won’t.” He turned to leave, and Dominique’s words ran through his mind.
“Don’t do this alone. Don’t play his game. The Sully I know would never make that mistake.”
John stood in the door of the small blacksmith’s shop. After considering a moment, he turned back toward the Tennessean.
“Actually, Buford, maybe there’s a way you can help.”
Chapter 69
The Independence
The Mediterranean Sea
Wednesday, September 14th, 1803
Day 5, Late Afternoon
The sun hung low in the sky by the time Independence reached Red Mortar Redoubt. A cloud of black winged birds crowed above the cliffs. At low tide, waves were breaking against many of the sharp rocks wreathing the island. On a small spit of sand at the foot of the mesa, John recognized the broken watchtower and the mighty sycamore tree spreading a canopy of leaves over it’s crumbling upper walls. John stood on the narrow latticework of the prow. With one hand, he held onto a halyard near the bowsprit, allowing him to lean over the briny depths. He felt alone with the sea. And the island.
The tails of John’s wool navy coat fluttered in the wind. He looked down at the scorch marks from flashing gunpowder. The spatters of blood and dirt on his white waistcoat. Loose threads where his brass buttons—purchased at so dear a cost in Philadelphia—had gone missing. Still, he stood in full naval dress, right up to his front-to-back bicorner hat. There was nothing left to do. He was ready—or at least, as ready as any man could be for the hardest fight of his life.
“John,” came Ethan’s soft voice from above. “Meadows is lowering the boat. It’s time.”
The waldrapps circled and cawed over the distant island mesa. The sinking sun cast the cliffs in a ruddy glow. John nodded and looked up at his friend—or at least, former friend—who was looking down from the bulwarks at the bow. “Aye. Thank you Ethan.”
When John had climbed back onto the fo’c’sle deck, he looked aft along the length of the reclaimed American brig. The spar deck had returned to some semblance of order. The bodies of the fallen had gone to the deep. Much of the debris had been cleared, the excess of blood swabbed away. The men were exhausted and filthy, but they persevered while some of their mates took a turn in their hammocks. John’s blood hummed with anticipation. He wasn’t afraid to face Naim. But nor was he eager.
“Dominique doesn’t think I can win,” John blurted out. He hadn’t even meant to say anything. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure she’s wrong.”
“It’s not like you to doubt yourself.” Ethan stood shoulder-to-shoulder with John, looking toward the island where the
y were taken prisoner only five days ago.
“That was before I met Varlick Naim.”
“On any other day, I would have agreed with Dominique.”
John looked at the acting surgeon with curious eyes, but Ethan kept his gaze on the horizon.
“Today, I know you’re going to win.”
“I thought you didn’t approve of dueling.”
“Men killing each other over petty squabbles of ‘honor?’” Ethan snorted. “No, I don’t. But this is different. A wicked man has seized and threatened Kaitlin. A brave girl who risked everything to save us. To save me. To kill Naim in her defense is more than just. It’s what has to be done.”
John’s eyes fell toward a pool of foam swirling around the bow. “Had I not allowed Ilyas Naim to drown, none of this would have happened.”
“You mean if you hadn’t fought back against the man who made you and Kaitlin slaves?” Ethan looked intently at John, his eyes glowing the malty color of ale under the sinking sun. “No, John. People bowing to tyrants is how the world gets worse. It’s the right of all men to be free.”
A feeling of bitter regret washed over John. He had no right to expect Ethan’s support, much less his words of wisdom, and yet Ethan gave them freely. “Ethan, I’ll do whatever it takes to bring Kaitlin home. But there’s a good chance she’ll be returning without me. Should I fail to walk off that beach, there’s something I want you to know.” A gust of wind swept a few locks of hair across John’s eyes. “You once said that part of saving my family is saving myself. You were right, mate.”
A flicker of emotion drew across Ethan’s brows.
“If there’s anything left of me that’s good, it’s the piece you saved. Should I return from that island, even if the effort be vain, I promise to spend the rest of my days earning your forgiveness.”
Ethan was quiet for a moment. “You already have it, mate.”
John looked down, surprised to see Ethan’s hand outstretched. He felt a weight lifted from him, as if muscles knotted up for years had finally come loose. He clasped Ethan’s hand. The tall, younger man from Philadelphia, who once took a chance on an Irish orphan, pulled John into an embrace.
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