Surrender the Dawn (14 page)

“Aye, Cap’n!” The shout returned. “Off the starboard bow.”

The announcement of a sail had sparked hope in Luke—hope that had been deflated over the past two months of scanning the Eastern Seaboard for British merchantmen. So far, they had encountered three fishing boats, one whaler on his way north, a French Indiaman, one American privateer, and a British warship of eighty guns. Thankfully, they’d been able to outrun the latter. Now, five long days had passed since they’d seen anything but endless azure sea in every direction.

Beside him, Biron gripped the railing, tufts of gray hair blowing in
the wind beneath his hat. “Dear God, let it be the prey we seek.”

The ship bucked over a wave. Luke adjusted his stance and lifted the scope once again. A crowd of white sails popped over the horizon. “There she is.”

“What do you make of her, Mr. Kraw?” he shouted, noting that his crew had stopped their work to stare at the intruder. He hoped Biron’s prayer had been answered, for the men had been none too happy these past months. Their supplies were dwindling as quickly as their spirits, and it had become hard to discipline the unruly lot, especially without any rum for incentive.
Very much appreciated, dear Miss Channing.
The endless days and nights would have passed with much more tranquility and glee with a drink in hand. Luke licked his lips, searching for a hint of the spicy taste he so loved but seemed to have nearly forgotten.

When they’d set out from Baltimore Harbor, Luke’s success in sneaking past the British fleet under cover of the storm had sent a huge wave of confidence throughout the crew. The success had not only bolstered Luke’s hopes, but had given him confidence to believe that perchance he was not destined to be a failure at privateering as he was at everything else.

The thought encouraged him, for he wanted nothing more than to shower Miss Channing with wealth. To solve all her problems and see admiration and appreciation beaming in her eyes, instead of the mistrust and fear he constantly saw now. Ah, what a treasure she was! Hair the color of burgundy framing glowing skin that housed a pair of fathomless emerald eyes. He would sail around the world and back to possess such a woman.

But what was he thinking? He was so far beneath her in everything that mattered—integrity, honor, education, status, morality—that it still baffled him that she had aligned herself with the likes of him.

“Should I head for them, Cap’n?” Samuel said from his position at the wheel.

“Not yet,” Luke said. A blast of hot air tore across the deck, cooling the sweat on his neck and brow. He gazed up at the courses glutted with wind and slapped the scope against his open palm where scars taunted him with a past failure.

His biggest failure of all.

The ship crested another wave and slammed down the other side, sending foam over her bow. The smell of salt and fish stung Luke’s nostrils.

“A fair wind today. We should catch them with no problem,” Biron stated.

Luke raised the scope again. The ship headed their way. He could make out the square shape of her hull and her three masts reaching for the sky. A good-sized ship. But was she a merchantman? And if so, was she British? For as tempting as it would be to attack any prize that came their way, Luke was no pirate. Though he had begun to think he wasn’t beyond such measures if another month passed without satisfaction.

“Steady as she goes, Sam.” Luke glanced at Mr. Keene who was standing on the main deck. “Ready the men to go aloft, Mr. Keene, should we need further sail.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” Mr. Keene shouted orders across the deck, the lace at his sleeves and collar flapping in the breeze. The top men leapt into the shrouds and raced up the ratlines to their posts just as Mr. Ward, the gunner, emerged from below, his eyes sparking with expectation.

Beside Luke, Biron bowed his head in prayer.

“Say an extra one for me, will you?” Luke whispered.

“You can talk to the Almighty just as well as I can,” his first mate mumbled.

Luke snorted. “God won’t listen to me.”

“At least you’re admitting He exists.” The man continued praying.

Luke didn’t know what he believed. If he admitted God existed, then he’d have to admit He was a cruel overlord. A God who cared not a whit for orphans or widows or the poor—or young boys with rickets. Raising his scope, he studied the oncoming ship.

“She’s a British frigate!” The call came down on them like hail before Luke could even focus.

His heart stopped.

“And she’s bearing down on us fast!”

His crew froze in place.

“Foresheet, jib, and staysail sheet, let go! Helms a-lee!” Luke fired off a string of orders ending with, “Mr. Ward, ready the guns, if you please.” Not that they’d do any good against a frigate, but the preparation would keep up the men’s spirits. Not Luke’s. He knew exactly what he was up against. And unless he could outrun her, he and his men and his ship didn’t stand a chance.

“So much for your prayers.” He snickered toward Biron.

His first mate shrugged. “I suppose God has other plans.”

“Yes, to see me destroyed, no doubt.” Luke turned and marched away before Biron responded. Taking the wheel from Sam, he turned the ship about.

“She’s picking up speed,” Mr. Kraw yelled from the crosstrees.

“And she’s got the weather edge,” Samuel groaned as he took the wheel back.

Which meant she had the advantage of the wind. Sweat broke on Luke’s brow as visions of being impressed into the Royal Navy assailed him. He’d rather die than allow that to happen again.

Releasing the wheel, Luke barreled onto the main deck as Biron barked orders to the men. The ship vaulted over a wave. Salty spray showered him, stinging his eyes. He gripped the port railing until his knuckles whitened as he gazed at the oncoming enemy. Closer now. Even though Luke had brought the ship around and raised every inch of canvas to the wind. The British frigate was a fast bird, indeed. And one that intended to swoop down and gobble up
Destiny
and her crew for supper.

Just as he imagined the fowl carnage in his mind, a plume of orange shot from the enemy’s bow. “All hands down!” Luke shouted over his shoulder. His crew toppled to the deck, covering their heads with their arms. All save Luke and Mr. Ward, who exchanged a harried glance. Luke would not cower, and he assumed his gunner had seen too much action in his lifetime to be intimidated by so slight a volley.

An ominous
boom
cracked the sky. The shot struck the sea just twenty yards off their larboard quarter, shooting spray at least five feet into the air. Too close.

Far too close.

Luke’s stomach dropped. He swung about, trying to settle his racing heart. His crew scrambled to their feet. Two dozen pairs of fearful eyes settled on him, waiting for him to issue an order.

Waiting for him to save them.

Luke rubbed the scars on his palm and swallowed. With each passing moment, each moment in which he hesitated, the faith in their eyes faded beneath a rising tide of terror. His own terror rose to grip every sinew and fiber of his being. Not a terror of the British, but a terror of failing these men who had put their trust in him.

Biron approached him, concern sharpening his features. “Your orders, Captain?”

Luke’s blood pounded in his ears. He glanced at the oncoming frigate
then over at his crew.

Another thunderous roar shook the sea, followed by a spray of seawater not ten yards off their stern.

And anger took the place of fear.

Anger and a determination to not fail without giving it all he had. “Lay aloft and loose top foresail!” Luke bellowed then turned to the helmsman. “Hard about, Sam!” He scanned the deck for the gunner. “Mr. Ward, man the starboard guns and be ready to fire on my order.” Though he hoped they wouldn’t have to.

The bald man grinned, his eyes sparking like embers. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Luke faced forward. Biron took a spot beside him. “You’ll outrun them.” He gave Luke a knowing look that defied their harrowing circumstances. Luke rubbed the wet railing with his thumb then slammed his fist on the hard wood. “Let’s hope so. This old bucket of a ship must have some fight in her yet.”

Minutes passed like hours. Luke’s legs ached from the strain of standing on the heaving planks. Sweat streamed down his back. Tension strung across the deck as tight as the lines that held the sails in place. Aside from his occasional orders in regard to direction and positions of sails, no one spoke. When they weren’t adjusting sail, the crew kept their eyes riveted on their pursuer. The frigate fired again. No one bothered to duck this time. The shot plunged into the raging seas. Luke rubbed his aching eyes. Did they deceive him or had the iron ball struck the water farther away this time?

Smiling, Biron grabbed Luke’s shoulder and shook him.

“We’re outrunning them!” Samuel yelled from the wheel, while Mr. Keene slid down the backstay and nodded his approval to Luke.

The crew shouted “huzzahs” into the air.

Luke’s muscles began to unwind. Removing his hat, he ran a hand through his moist hair and studied the frigate. The white foam curling on her bow indicated she still pursued them, but her diminishing size said she was losing the chase.

“Fire a salute to their heroic effort, if you please, Mr. Ward,” Luke said with a grin.

Mr. Keene chuckled. “I like the way you think, Captain.”

The gunner happily complied by lighting his matchstick to the touchhole of one of the carronades mounted on the larboard quarter.

The gun roared a proper adieu to the British ship, sending acrid
smoke back over the crew and a tremble through the timbers. With his nose still burning from the smell of gunpowder, Luke completed the farewell with a wave of his cocked hat and a mock bow.

The enemy responded with a guttural blast of one of their own guns before veering away.

Minutes later, Luke raised his scope to see the frigate fading against the setting sun. Releasing a deep breath, he stuffed the glass into his belt and addressed Biron standing beside him, “Lower the royals and stays, and tell Sam to set a course three degrees south by southeast.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Biron touched his floppy hat.

His emotions a turbulent whirl of relief, thankfulness, and budding confidence, Luke took the companionway down to his cabin.

He could sure use a drink about now.

  CHAPTER 10  

I
beg your pardon, Mr. Stokes.” Cassandra dropped her gaze to the goods she’d deposited on the mercantile’s counter: a one-pound bag of oats, a six-yard bolt of calico to make new dresses for the girls, a tin of coffee beans, a sack of rice, whale oil for the lanterns, and ten fresh apples. All necessities.

Mr. Stokes eased a lock of hair over the bald spot near his temple. “I’m sorry, Miss Channing, but I cannot extend your credit any further until you make a payment.” The look in his eyes spoke of genuine sorrow. “With the blockade, the store isn’t doing well, and I can’t provide for my young ones on credit.”

Cassandra closed her eyes for a moment. Just a moment to gather her thoughts and her resolve.

Someone behind her shouted, “If you can’t pay, step aside, miss. I don’t have all day.”

Ignoring him, Cassandra opened her eyes and leaned forward. “Please, Mr. Stokes. Just one more time. I’m expecting a huge return soon on an investment.”

Mr. Anderson, one of the dock workers, sidled up beside her. “If you’re waitin’ for Luke Heaton t’ come back wit’ your money, you’ll be waitin’ a long time.” He grinned, revealing a single gold-capped tooth. “Why, I’d gamble all my earnings that he took off wit’ your money and
is right now, piratin’ in the Caribbean.”

Chuckles shot through the room and pierced her heart with as much pain as if they’d been real darts. Nevertheless, Cassandra straightened her shoulders and faced the man. “Yet word about town is that you’re not too good at gambling, Mr. Anderson, so I don’t believe I’ll take you up on that bet.”

Save for a single chortle sounding from the back of the crowd, the room grew silent. A woman in the corner who’d been choosing apples from a bin drew her two children to her skirts.