Forsaken Dreams (11 page)

“Go below, Mrs. Crawford.” Colonel Wallace’s breath wafted on her cheek before he jumped to his feet and assisted her up. Gone was the warmth in his gaze. Instead, steel coated his eyes, his mannerisms, even his voice. He’d slipped into command, ready for battle, as easily as one slipped on a coat.

“Can you manage a ship’s gun, Colonel?” the captain asked, stealing the colonel’s gaze from Eliza.

“I can.”

“Then take command of one of them. My boys are bringing up shot, gunpowder, and a fire wick.”

The colonel nodded, gestured with his head for Eliza to go below, and leaped up the foredeck ladder.

“I can handle a cannon as well.” Hayden jerked hair from his face.

“And I can handle a pistol or sword.” James joined him, standing before the captain.

“And us too!” several of the male passengers shouted.

Captain Barclay nodded in approval. “Very well, arm yourselves, men. I hope”—he stared at the Union ship—“we’ll not be gettin’ close enough to use them.”

Sails thundered. The deck rose as the ship thrust boldly into the next roller, sending white spray aft. It swirled around Eliza’s ankle boots before escaping through scuppers, joining a sea that roared against the hull as if it too had joined the fierce call to battle.

Clinging to the railing, Eliza faced the enemy ship. Closer now. She could make out the naval officers manning the gun at the bow.

“Get below, Mrs. Crawford!” Captain Barclay’s voice startled her, and she swung around, nearly bumping into the beefy man. He sent her a warning glance before he charged across the deck, blaring orders as he went.

Eliza knew she should go below. But she had never been very good at obeying authority. Besides, she’d rather be blown to bits on deck than die below cramped in the rank belly of the ship. Or worse, sink to the bottom of the sea with no way to escape.

Balancing herself on the heaving deck, she headed toward the companionway but slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck instead. From there she had a good view of the front portion of the ship. The colonel included. With his shoulders stretched taut, his body stiff, and his face like flint, he commanded the men working on the cannon with authority, assurance, and determination. Wind flapped his shirt as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, ready to do his duty. Here was a man accustomed to getting dirty in the trenches right beside his men. A rarity among other colonels Eliza had met.

Movement caught her eye, and she spotted Graves slinking around the foremast. Why hadn’t he gone below with the other passengers? Or better yet, if he was going to stay on deck, why wasn’t he helping, arming himself? Instead, he leaned against the mast and began to whistle as if he were taking a Sunday stroll.

“Fire as you bear, Colonel!” The captain bellowed, pacing across the oscillating deck, his hands clamped behind his great coat. How he maintained his balance was beyond Eliza. Sails roared as they sought the shifting wind then snapped their jaws upon finding it. The brig jerked and listed sideways. Foamy seawater clawed at her larboard bulwarks. Yet still the Union ship gained.

Eliza drew a shaky breath and clung to the wood of the quarterdeck. If they couldn’t outsail the frigate, what was to become of them? Would they be sunk to the depths, or would the Union navy escort them back home? Where Eliza would face a lifetime of scorn and hatred. And what would become of Colonel Wallace? Surely his fate would be worse than hers. Even as he filled her thoughts, his voice drifted her way.

“Fire into her quarters. On the uprise, men!” he shouted. Raising spyglass to his eye, he studied the enemy. “Steady now. Steady.” He lowered the scope. “Fire!”

One sailor tapped a wick to the gun’s touchhole, and Eliza covered her ears.
Boom!
The deck quivered beneath her feet. Smoke swept over her. Coughing, she batted it away. “Oh Lord, please save us,” she muttered, only now remembering to pray. Fiddle! Why did she always wait until things were beyond hopeless?

Blake peered through the gray smoke as the all-too-familiar blast of gunpowder assailed him. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting as memories crept out from hiding.
No, not now!
He must maintain control. Shoving them back, he gazed toward the enemy as the
New Hope
‘s shot plopped impotently into the sea just yards from the frigate’s hull. Too short. But in line for a good hit. Blake frowned. He was an expert at cannons. But on solid land not on a heaving ship. How did the navy do it? Still, luck had smiled upon him, for his timing of the rise and fall of wave had not been too far off.

“Good shot, Colonel.” One of the sailors turned, his face lined with soot.

“Not good enough. Reload!” Not that they had much chance against a U.S. frigate armed with what appeared to be Dahlgren guns and 32-pounder Parrott rifles. Besides speed, of course. Being smaller, the
New Hope
should be able to outrun a frigate. Blake shifted his gaze to the captain and his first mate leaning over a flapping chart held down by pistols. It would seem from the captain’s expression, he was of the same mind.

“Max, Simmons,” Captain Barclay shouted at two passing sailors. “Have you seen my sextant, protractor, and Gunter’s scale?”

The men shrugged. “Last I saw, they was in your cabin.”

“They aren’t there.” Captain Barclay scratched his beard, frowning. “Get below and search for them at once!” The two men dropped through a hatch while the captain returned to his chart.

The navigation instruments were missing? Along with the damage to the compass? Blake’s gaze darted to the frigate as a cold fist slammed into his gut. The Union must suspect war criminals were on board. Otherwise, what reason would they have for so intent a pursuit? And if they caught and boarded them, they’d no doubt discover Blake’s identity and haul him back to Charleston to be hanged. He’d never go to Brazil. Never have a chance to escape the memories of war. Never pursue the rising interest he had in Eliza.

Wind tore at his collar, tossing his necktie over his shoulder. The brig slid into a trough, and Blake braced his boots on the deck. He glanced back at the captain.

Orders, Captain! What are your orders?
Urgency spun his heart into a knot. Oh how he longed to take command! But he knew nothing of sea battles. And he began to wonder whether Captain Barclay did either. Though the man appeared calm, he seemed trundled in uncertainty as his gaze sped from the charts to the Union frigate and then behind him to some distant spot on the horizon. Regardless, he must make a decision. And fast! On land, Blake would already be spouting orders. But he knew no such order to give here. Except to go faster!

The ship bounced, and he caught his balance. The sailors fumbled with powder bag and priming rod as they reloaded the gun. Amateurs. The men in his regiment would have had it loaded already.

Blake glanced over his shoulder where Hayden stood at the ready in command of the other swivel gun. They exchanged a nod. The stowaway’s confident demeanor and his readiness to not only jump into the fray but take the lead elevated Blake’s opinion of him. Clearly he’d served in the military. And then there was James, the doctor-preacher, standing before a group of brave passengers and sailors all armed with musket, swords, and pistols. Even Moses, the freed slave, stood among the pack, receiving no complaint from the others at his presence. Blake didn’t have time to be amazed as a thunderous blast shook the sky. He ducked. The air sizzled. The shot zipped by his ear. Wood snapped. Splinters flew from the damaged foremast.

More explosions sounded. Distant and muted. Coming from everywhere, yet only coming from within him. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pressed his hands over his ears.
No!
Wails of agony pierced his skull. Flashes of light and dark traversed his eyelids, luring him into a nightmarish stupor. But he couldn’t let them. Grinding his fists to his thighs, he punched to his feet, forced his eyes open, and inhaled a burst of salty spray. The cool seawater slapped him back to the present—slapped his gaze to the hole the last shot had torn in the foremast.

Too close. Far too close. Anger rippled up Blake’s spine. He wiped the sweat from his face, leaving soot on his shirt. He would not allow one Yankee to set foot on board this ship! Not only for his sake but for the colony. The Yanks would steal all their goods, take him and probably others prisoner. And God knew what they’d do to the women. No, not on his watch.

“Loaded and ready, sir,” one of the sailors said.

Blake swung about. The Union frigate dipped and bowed over the churning waves as if nodding its glee over an impending victory. Closer and closer she came. If only she’d present more than her narrow bow, Blake may be able to fire a shot that would do some damage.

Captain Barclay had abandoned his charts and marched across the deck, gazing aloft at the sails. A volley of orders spewed from his mouth. Sailors scampered above, and soon the
New Hope
veered to larboard, sending a curtain of spray into the air. Blake stumbled across the deck to the captain. “What is the plan?” he shouted over the roar of the sea just as a hail of grapeshot peppered the deck, punching holes in the sails above.

The men ducked. All except the captain. Instead, he frowned at his damaged sails then lowered his gaze to Blake. “The plan, Colonel?” He snorted. “Why, to tuck our scraggly tails and run!” His grin revealed a single missing tooth Blake had not noticed before. Yet at his lighthearted tone, armed sailors and passengers turned to listen. Hayden joined them from the foredeck.

Captain Barclay scanned the anxious faces. “We are faster than a frigate. If we fill all our sails, we can outrun them.”

“But to where? They’ll follow.” Hayden cast a harried glance at the frigate as if he, too, had something to fear from the Union.

The captain’s eyes flashed. “We are near the Bahamas, Mr. Hayden. There are hundreds of shoals off the windward islands. I expect our friends won’t be followin’ us, or they’ll risk bein’ grounded.” He winked.

James quirked a brow. “How can you be sure?”

“Because I was a blockade runner in the war. Why, once I slipped through a fleet of Union war ships surroundin’ New Orleans. Slunk right past them as if we were a ghost ship. By the time they saw us, we were too close to the shoals for them to follow. Never fear, gentlemen.”

“But your instruments,” Blake shouted into the wind. “Are we heading in the right direction?” He searched the captain’s dark eyes for any hint of uncertainty but found only confidence.

“Never fear, Colonel. I know these seas like a pirate knows his booty.” And without further ado, Captain Barclay turned away and cupped his mouth. “Sharpshooters to the tops. If they get any closer, fire at will!” He stormed toward the quarterdeck, muttering, “Those bedeviled muckrakers!”

James slung his musket over his shoulder and started for the ratlines when Blake clutched his arm. “But your hands.”

“Only when I see blood.” Grinning, he grabbed the rope and swung himself up. “I spent my childhood hunting. I’m actually a crack shot. Never miss,” he yelled as he continued climbing above.

Several orange flashes drew Blake’s gaze to the enemy frigate. Blood drained from his face. They had fired a broadside.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
He dove to the deck, hands over his head. Not that it would do any good. In battle, getting hit or not hit was a matter of chance. He’d seen men get their heads blown off on either side of him while he suffered not a scratch. After that, Blake had decided that either God did not exist or He simply didn’t care about the affairs of men.

The crunch and snap of wood and chink of iron rang across the ship like death knells. Yet no screams sounded.

Blake would never forget the screams.

“Those blaggards!” The captain spat before marching across the deck to inspect the damage. A portion of the fore rigging hung in a tangle of slashed rope, and part of the gunwale was shattered. But the ship still sped onward. Jumping to his feet, Blake leaned over the railing where a smoking hole rent the hull.

“Above the waterline.” The captain slapped his hands together. “Steady now, men. We’ll be at the shoals soon! Martin, trim sails to the wind!”

Blake gazed at the oncoming frigate, angry foam exploding at her bow. Men lined her decks, hovering around cannons. Their captain stood on the foredeck, pompous arms crossed over his brass-buttoned blue coat. Blake could make out the gold band on the captain’s hat, feel his determination span the sea to swallow up Blake’s hope. He gazed at the sun now dropping in the western sky. He hoped the captain was right, for another expertly aimed shot might fell one of their masts.

And then all would be lost.

Shaking his head, Blake returned to man the swivel. The next few hours sped by in a chaotic jumble of cannon shots, shouts, maneuvering, veering, sails thundering, sea roaring, and muskets peppering until the muscles in Blake’s legs felt like pudding and his heart sank like iron. The ache in his left leg joined the ever-present one in his right, which now felt like someone held a branding iron to it. At least he’d not had any episodes to add to the mayhem. Perhaps, as he had hoped, the more distance he put between him and the war, the more his memories would fade.