Captured (4 page)

They were on the deck of a Union gunboat. From what she’d heard, the journey to Old Capitol Prison in Washington‌—‌through the Chesapeake Bay, then up the Potomac River‌—‌would take less than three days. For the first time since her trial, real fear raced through Devon. The grim reality of her situation, inconceivable until this moment, suddenly struck her with frightening clarity. She might very likely spend the rest of her days rotting away in prison.

Devon scolded herself as she forced the thought away. Uncle Monty would be ashamed of her. Fear was a sign of weakness, and she had no time for that now. Besides, she’d been in worse spots than this before. All she needed was a clear, cool head and a plan of action. She took a deep, calming breath, watching as a young sailor crossed the deck and moved toward them.

“Captain McRae here to see Captain Gregory,” Cole said.

“I’m sorry, sir, the captain’s gone ashore.”

“When is he expected back?”

“Didn’t say.”

Annoyance flashed across her captor’s face. “Your captain was to have prepared quarters for both the prisoner and myself. You may show me to them now.”

The sailor nodded, automatically obeying the voice of authority, then the words sunk in and his eyes grew wide. He stared at Devon, then back at Cole. “The prisoner? You mean her? But she’s a woman.”

“I’m sure those keen eyes serve you well in battle, Ensign. Now show me to those quarters.”

The boy stiffened. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.”

The tight, sparsely furnished cabin that Devon was to stay in during the journey offered her nothing in the way of encouragement. It contained only a low, narrow bed and a washstand with pitcher and basin. There was no window. Light and air entered the room by way of a skylight scuttle, cut through the ceiling to the deck above. The only exit was through the door they entered, which no doubt would be heavily guarded.

As if reading her thoughts, Captain McRae turned to the young sailor who stood waiting outside. “I want a guard posted here twenty-four hours a day. Nobody goes in, nobody goes out. Is that understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain turned back to her. A thick tension fell over the room as their gazes locked. “I trust you find the accommodations satisfactory,” he said at last.

Devon brought up her chin. “Actually, I prefer satin linens on my bed to homespun cotton. Do see what you can arrange.”

He regarded her in silence, then held out his hand. “I’m waiting.”

Shock raced through Devon as she quickly arranged her features into a mask of bewildered innocence. “I’m sure I don’t know what—”

“My wallet.”

He couldn’t have felt her lift it. She was too good. Not only that, she’d been pounding on his back and screaming in his ear at the time. Yet there he stood, his hand extended, his gaze flat and unyielding. Mustering as much dignity as she was able, Devon silently acknowledged her defeat. With a regal nod, she removed the slim leather case from the pocket of her skirt and passed it to him.

This was the second time he’d outmaneuvered her, and she was determined to make it the last. She merely had to keep testing him. Sooner or later she’d find a vulnerability, a spot beneath his cold exterior where she could strike. As he turned to leave, she asked, “What would you have done if the blacksmith hadn’t believed you?”

If he was at all surprised by her question, it didn’t show. “I suppose it would have come to fisticuffs.”

“That smith would have killed you.”

He shrugged. “He wouldn’t have been the first to try.”

Nor would he be the last, she returned silently, watching his broad back as he turned and strode away. Captain Cole McRae might have won the first few skirmishes, but that was of little importance. The battle, after all, had just begun.

She waited a few minutes, making sure he wouldn’t return. Satisfied he was gone, she reached into the folds of her bodice and retrieved a handsome gold pocket watch, inspecting it as best she could in the dim light of the room. To Cole, With Love, the inscription read.

A woman’s name was engraved beneath that. His wife? Sweetheart? Very interesting. For a man who spoke so easily of killing and death, it seemed an awfully sentimental item to carry.

She lifted the watch in her palm, testing its weight. It was heavy. Good. It would bring a nice price. Devon tucked it back within the folds of her bodice and began planning her escape.

Admiral Billings’ office on the third floor of the Cotton Exchange Building was cramped and cluttered, an unlikely place for the commander of the blockade forces of the southeastern ports to spend his days. It did, however, have one singular advantage: a perfect view of the harbor. Cole McRae made use of this now, standing by the window as he waited for the admiral to return. His eyes moved from the gunboat where he’d left his prisoner a few hours ago to the charred body of a ship raised in dry dock. His ship, though the Islander was no longer recognizable.

The hull, once lean and solid, was now splintered and burned by explosion. Lead shot had ravaged the timber below the waterline. Of three masts, only one remained standing. The sails were shredded to mere rags. Fire had danced up the ship’s rigging, the flame licking away at the newly tarred ropes until nothing was left but heat and ash.

The battle had taken place two weeks ago. Sometimes Cole evoked his memories of the encounter deliberately, a sort of self-inflicted pain. More often, however, the memories themselves chose when to appear, as if they were living, breathing things over which he had no control. They lurked in the dark shadows of his mind and haunted his dreams. They struck at will, provoked by the mere flash of metal in the sun or the feel of a hot breeze against his skin. There was no way to defend against them. No way to shut them out. Nothing he could do but relive the battle in his mind, over and over again.

One by one, the Islander’s cannons had been destroyed, either struck by incoming mortar or imploding upon themselves, unable to withstand the pressure of constant firing. In the end, the battle had drawn so close that Cole and his men fought it out with muskets and pistols. Some, lacking even that meager defense, hurled flaming chunks of wood at the enemy.

Out of habit, Cole raised his fingers to his cheek, tracing the jagged scar there. He would carry the harsh souvenir of battle always, vivid testimony to his failure as commander.

As the door opened behind him, he forced the brooding thoughts aside, straightened, and saluted his superior officer. Admiral Billings waved the formality away. The two men had been acquainted socially for years before the war; Cole had even briefly courted the admiral’s daughter. But that seemed a lifetime ago now. He’d been a different man then, and the world had been a different place.

The admiral took a seat behind his desk, a stern frown on his face as his gaze traveled over Cole. “You look like hell, McRae,” he said by way of greeting.

Cole didn’t reply. None was necessary.

The older man studied him a minute longer, then gave a grunt of weary resignation. “Well, get on with it. Tell me what happened out there.”

There was no question what he was asking. “My men and I were patrolling when we spied a runner heading out to sea,” Cole answered. “She was listing to port and appeared to have taken some shots. We immediately set out to capture her. Despite her damage, she made good speed.” Cole’s stomach clenched. It was so obvious now. That should have warned him. He should have seen the trap.

“Were there any other signs that the ship was in distress?”

“No, sir.”

The admiral’s frown deepened. “Go on.”

“We were about three miles offshore when the runner came about. Within minutes, she was joined by two warships, bearing down on us in attack.”

Cole and his crew had been outgunned four to one. There had been no room to maneuver, no time to draw up a plan of defense or attempt an escape. The first shots had been lobbed immediately, solid hits that sent the deck of the Islander pitching, members of his crew scrambling to man their stations. The encounter that followed was better termed a slaughter than a battle.

“Did you consider surrender?” the admiral asked.

“That was not a choice. It was clear by their actions that the enemy was intent on destroying my ship, not capturing her.”

“How many men did you lose?”

“Eighty, sir,” Cole answered tightly. His emotions ricocheted wildly within him, soaring to a rage so complete it was nearly blinding, then plunging into bleak despair. He stared straight ahead, struggling to find the words to explain, despising himself for the cocky arrogance he’d shown in leading his men to battle. It simply had not occurred to him that he would lose. Or that he would lose so badly. “I accept full responsibility for each man’s death,” he managed at last. “Had they been led by a competent captain—”

“Sit down, Cole,” Billings interrupted.

Cole stopped abruptly, his features tense and strained as he ignored the invitation.

“I know what happened,” Admiral Billings said. “But you understand I had to get your official version of events.” He paused, a fierce scowl on his craggy features. “I know about Gideon, too. I’m sorry, Cole. There are just too many boys dying in this damned war.”

Cole nodded, his fists clenched against his sides. He’d learned to contain the fury that burned beneath his skin. He’d learned to live with the memories that assaulted him night and day. But he still didn’t know how to handle the pain. His body broke out in a cold sweat, and his heart started racing. Speak, dammit! his brain commanded. Say something! He couldn’t. Instead he stood there helpless and mute, as if someone were pouring lead down his throat and he just kept swallowing.

Billings studied him a moment longer. “Sit down,” he repeated, and waited pointedly for Cole to comply. Once he did, the admiral reached into a desk drawer and lifted a bottle of fine French brandy. “Compliments of our friends the blockade runners,” he said as he poured, then set a generous tumbler in front of Cole. “We were able to stop this shipment. Mostly luck on our part. We’re tightening the ports, but they’re still getting through.” He drank deeply. “Good, isn’t it?”

Cole said nothing. He took a long swallow of brandy, shamed by his inability to master the emotions that tore through him, and grateful for the opportunity his friend was giving him to bring himself back under control.

“We’ve been damned lucky so far,” Billings continued. “Most of the runners are more interested in profit than patriotism: bringing in lace, liquor, and perfume instead of bread and guns. But as you know, that’s starting to change.” He withdrew a faded portrait from a thick file and passed it across his desk.

Cole studied the image, guessing the man to be in his mid-thirties and, judging by his attire, fairly prosperous. He had thick, dark hair and a heavy mustache, both immaculately groomed. Despite the veneer of wealth, there was a coarseness about him, a cruelty that seemed to lurk just below the polished surface. “Who is he?”

“Jonas Sharpe. Captain of the runner you went after.”

Cole’s head snapped up, then his gaze returned to the portrait as fire pulsed through his veins. Jonas Sharpe. The man who’d nearly destroyed his ship, who’d attacked with such unrelenting savagery. The man answerable for the death of so many of his crew. For Gideon’s death. Now he had a face. A name.

“We’ve lost five of our strongest blockaders,” the admiral said. “All last seen in pursuit of a weak, badly damaged runner. Yours was not the first vessel to be lured out to sea, just the first to return.”

Cole silently absorbed this information. Five other ships, their captains and crew all suffering the same violent fate.

Billings took another swallow of brandy, his stern frown back in place. “You realize, from a tactical standpoint, what Sharpe is doing makes no sense. The South is desperate for ships, yet he’s destroying vessels he could easily capture and commandeer.”

“He enjoys the kill.” The words were out before Cole could stop them. But there was no denying the truth.

Cole was not naive enough to believe in civilized warfare. He’d been in battles before. He’d seen death and dying. But what he’d witnessed in that short, fierce encounter with Sharpe went beyond all bounds of what men could inflict on one another under the guise of military right or duty. Jonas Sharpe was a predator, a man who feasted on destruction. And the war gave him ample opportunity to indulge that appetite.

“Whatever his motive, he’s cutting holes in our blockade,” Admiral Billings said. “If any more of our ships fall prey to his trap, the blockade will mean nothing.”

Cole nodded. “The Islander won’t be ready to sail for another thirty days. Give me a ship and enough time to gather a fresh crew. I’ll leave with the tide at dawn.”

The admiral tapped the file he held and shook his head. “I’m afraid there’s more to it than just stopping Sharpe now.” He withdrew a set of sketches and passed them across his desk. “I think you’ll find these interesting. Tell me what you make of them.”

Cole briefly studied the sketches. Whoever had executed them was highly skilled, tracing in even the most minor of details. “Warships,” he said. “The harbor looks like Liverpool.”

“Well, you’re right about the harbor. But according to the Brits, those are merchant ships, properly ordered and deliverable to the Confederate States Navy.”

“Merchant ships,” Cole repeated in disgust. “With gunports cut into the sides, turrets for mounting the cannon, and sealed magazine chambers for powder and arms.”

“Exactly. At our protest, their inspector went out to look at the ships. His report concluded that he found no warlike structures of any kind on the vessels.”

“Was the man blind or just stupid?”

“Neither. He was interpreting British law to the letter. Their Foreign Enlistment Act prohibits the outfitting of warships in their ports but, interpreted narrowly, does not forbid the building of vessels that might become ships of war. Once they leave harbor, they simply dock at a non-British harbor for the addition of armament.”