Surrender the Dawn (11 page)

As she poured a splash into the elderly woman’s tea, Mr. Crane eased his fingers over his neatly combed hair. “Well, the least I can do is escort you to your appointment.”

“That isn’t necessary.” Cassandra moved to her mother and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I shall be back within the hour, Mother.”

Picking up her cup, the older woman sipped her tea then waved Mrs. Northrop off, avoiding Cassandra’s gaze and instead seeking out Mr. Crane. “Yes, sir. Please do accompany my daughter. With your business sense, perhaps you can assess the terrible risk she has placed on our entire family and determine some way of escape.…”

“But, Mother …”

“I insist.” Her mother slammed down her cup. Some of the golden tea sloshed over the rim and pooled in the saucer.

Cassandra’s stomach sank. “Very well.”

Grabbing his hat from the sofa, Mr. Crane set it atop his head. “It will be my pleasure.”

Cassandra gripped her parasol and followed him out the door.
Oh, bother.
Mr. Crane and Mr. Heaton together in the same place?

It was going to be a very interesting afternoon.

  CHAPTER 8  

S
preading the chart over the binnacle, Luke pointed at the spots where various shoals and sandbars transformed the Chesapeake Bay into a dangerous maze.

Biron Abbot shook his head. “It’s not the shoals that bother me, Cap’n. It’s those bloody British. How are we to slip past twenty of His Majesty’s finest ships?”

Luke gazed up at the gray clouds rumbling across the sky. The welcome sting of rain filled his nostrils. “You’re the praying man, my friend. Why don’t you ask your God to keep this storm up through the night? Or better yet, pray for a fog so thick not even the Royal Navy will dare to stir a wave to chase us.” Luke chuckled.

“Aye,” young Samuel Rogers interjected from Luke’s other side. “And if they should spot us, we can batter them with grapeshot and sail away ’fore they can catch us, eh, Cap’n?”

Luke couldn’t help but smile at his new quartermaster. A few golden whiskers on the boy’s chin joined his stiff stance as proud evidence of his budding manhood. At only seventeen, the boy had more experience at sea than most of the men Luke had managed to recruit
—bribe
would have been a more fitting word. Yet the lad’s experience had not tempered his youthful enthusiasm and courage. Qualities much desired in a successful privateer.

Although at the moment, Samuel behaved more like a midshipman as he stood at attention before Luke. Old habits died hard, Luke supposed, for the lad had served aboard the USS
Syren
for eight years.

“A tempting idea,” Luke replied. “Yet I have no desire to engage an enemy warship.” No, he’d already attempted that foolhardy feat when he’d been Noah’s first mate on board the
Defender.
And they’d barely escaped with their lives. An act of God, Noah had called it. Luke shook his head. More like good fortune that the USS
Constitution
had been there to pick them out of the sea. Good fortune that always seemed to come Noah’s way.

But never Luke’s.

No, Luke would not count on God or good fortune but on his skill and determination. It was all he had left.

From his spot on the quarterdeck, he surveyed his ship, where most of his crewmen were hard at work putting the finishing touches on the vessel: scrubbing the newly caulked deck, polishing the brass, tarring the lines, greasing the mast. Aside from young Samuel, Luke had been unable to convince any decent sailors to join him. Consequently, he had resorted to hiring criminals, drunks, and gamblers—men just like him. He only hoped they’d perform with bravery and skill when the occasion called for it. But, perhaps like him, they saw privateering as their last chance to turn their life around, to make a fortune and a respectable name for themselves.

To stop a legacy of failure.

A stream of men carried crates and barrels filled with supplies for the journey, from the wharf onto the main deck then down the open hatch into the hold. Luke’s gaze landed on two crewmen standing at the prow of the ship, talking—the two men he’d asked to fix the loose railing on the starboard waist.

“Biron, order those men back to work at once.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” Biron leapt down the quarterdeck ladder with more agility than his fifty-two years should have allowed and began barking orders.

A chilled wind rose from the bay and swirled about Luke, dragging down his spirits. Thunder growled in the distance as the weight of responsibility sank heavy upon his shoulders. Not only was this his first voyage as captain with ultimate authority on board the ship, but it was a voyage in which he must succeed.

For Miss Channing’s sake, for John’s, and for his own.

Luke folded up the chart and handed it to Samuel. “Take this below to my cabin.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” The boy saluted.

“No need to salute me, Sam. You are no longer in the navy.”

He saluted again then laughed at his own mistake before darting away.

Dark clouds stole the remainder of the sun, portending a storm that would bring Luke the cover he so desperately needed to slip past the British blockade. Though his ship had been ready for two days, he and his crew had been forced to wait idly in the bay while a fortune beckoned to him from the sea. So, when Luke had spotted a tempest brewing on the horizon that morning, he thought it best to summon Miss Channing for her requested inspection. Not that he hadn’t wished to summon her before. In fact, he’d been unable to get the infernal woman out of his thoughts since that fateful night when he’d saved her from those ruffians. He glanced over at the spot where he’d first seen her across Pratt Street hurrying past the Hanson warehouse. A vision of her pummeling one of the scoundrels with a brick filled his mind, and he couldn’t help but smile. Yet as he continued to stare at the spot, his smile sank into a frown as another figure emerged—a tall man dressed in a dark-blue tailcoat with red collar and cuffs and a black crown shako on his head—marching straight toward Luke as if he were marching across a battlefield.

Luke cursed under his breath. Lieutenant Abner Tripp. What did the man want now? Glancing around for a bottle of rum, Luke cursed again when he remembered he hadn’t brought any on board. With a groan, he made his way to the main deck just as the lieutenant halted on the wharf beside the ship, his fists stiff by his side, and his narrowed eyes seething at Biron, who was demanding to know his business.

“What is the meaning of this, Heaton?” Lieutenant Tripp shouted.

Luke snapped the hair from his face and approached the port railing. “The meaning of what?” He gave him a cocky smile.

“The meaning of using my ship as a privateer.”

“Your ship?” Luke rubbed the stubble on his jaw. “If I recall, I won her from you in a game of Piquet.”

Swerving about, Biron shook his head. No doubt as a warning for Luke to stop goading the man.

Which Luke would be happy to do if the rodent would simply leave.

Instead, the lieutenant took up a pace along the wharf, glancing over the ship’s masts, sails, rigging, at the crew working, and finally landing on one man in particular who hung over the port side, painting the new name on her bow.

“You called her
Destiny?
Bah!” He ceased his pacing and gripped the pommel of the army saber hanging at his side. “You have no destiny, sir, but to die penniless and alone in your own besotted vomit.” Spit flew from his mouth.

Luke’s hand twitched beside his cutlass, longing to draw it once again on this buffoon. “I would watch what you say, Lieutenant. My temper has limits. Surely you have not come to receive a twin on your other cheek?”

Chortles burst behind Luke as a spike of white lightning lit up the sky.

Lieutenant Tripp rubbed the pink scar angling over the left side of his face, opened his mouth to say something, then seemed to think better of it.

Luke crossed his arms over his chest. “I would assume you’d be happy to see your former ship put to good use against our common enemy.”

“I will only be happy, sir, to see you and it at the bottom of the ocean. You stole my ship and all my money.” Wind tore over the lieutenant, fluttering the fringe of the gold epaulette capping his left shoulder.

“Won,” Luke corrected him as the ship rose over an incoming wave.

“My fiancée left me.”

“I fear I cannot take credit for that, Lieutenant.”

More laughter sprang from behind Luke. Even Biron’s face cracked into a smile.

Lieutenant Tripp’s long, pointy nose seemed to grow in length, and his hand dropped to his saber once again. “I demand satisfaction, sir.”

Silence overtook the ship as the crew stopped their work and gazed expectantly at the brewing altercation.

“Now? When I’m ready to set sail?” Luke smiled. He had no desire to further humiliate this man. Why didn’t the beef wit simply count his losses and go?

A maroon hue, as red as the plume fluttering atop Lieutenant Tripp’s shako, crept across his face. “So, it’s true what they say then?”

“And what is that?”

“That without your rum, you are a coward. A miserable sot who preys
on innocent women and cheats at cards.” His thin lips began to tremble. “A coward who sat back whilst his parents were butchered by savages.”

Fury seared through Luke. His vision blurred. In two strides, he flew up on the bulwarks and leapt onto the dock. His crew tossed cheers behind him. All except Biron, who shouted for him to stop.

Fear flooded the lieutenant’s eyes. He took a step back. Luke clutched the hilt of his cutlass, intent on teaching the man another lesson, when the flutter of a lacy parasol floating atop a blue muslin gown caught the corner of his eye. Drawn to the vision like a drowning man’s glimpse of land, he halted.

Miss Channing strolled down the wharf, a sour-faced dandy at her side.

Relief softened Lieutenant Tripp’s features. He glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at Luke, his face as hard as granite once again.

His right eyelid took on an odd twitch before he spun on his heels and marched down the wharf, causing it to wobble beneath his anger. He halted before Miss Channing and her gentleman dandy.

Luke grabbed the hilt of his sword again and started for them. If Tripp dared to lay a hand on her …

No sooner had Cassandra turned down the dock where
Destiny
was anchored than she spotted Mr. Heaton and another man in a military uniform engaged in what appeared to be a heated battle. Dressed in black breeches stuffed within tall Hessian boots, a white shirt, and black waistcoat, Mr. Heaton stood before his ship as if he, alone, would defend the vessel to his death. Cassandra’s heart jolted at the sight of him then seized when she saw him grip his cutlass and start for the man. But then his eyes locked upon hers and he stopped. A smile curved his lips, and he bowed toward his adversary as if they were the best of friends.

The man, whom Cassandra could now see was a lieutenant in the army, charged her way. Oblivious to all, Mr. Crane continued the incessant chattering he’d smothered her with since they’d left the house, only ceasing when the lieutenant halted before them and cleared his throat.