Surrender the Dawn (15 page)

Mr. Anderson frowned and fumbled with his hat, spearing Cassandra with seething eyes, before he glanced over the crowd and lumbered out the door. Facing Mr. Stokes, Cassandra gave him one last pleading look, but he crossed his arms over his work apron and shook his head.

“Thank you for your time,” she mumbled and turned to make her way to the door, avoiding the pitiful gazes that followed her outside. Bursting onto the muddy street, she fought back the burning behind her eyes and lifted her chin to the warm rays of the sun making its descent in the western sky. June’s hot, muggy air swamped around her, bringing with it the scent of fish and salt from the bay, luring her to the docks. A group of militiamen dressed in white trousers and dark-blue jackets marched by. The sergeant at their head smiled at her, tipping his hat.

She returned his smile, but her thoughts were on Mr. Heaton. She prayed he hadn’t absconded with her money as the man in the store had said.

She pictured him sitting in a tavern somewhere in Barbados, a voluptuous wench on his lap, gambling with the gold doubloons he’d acquired as a pirate. Laughing, as he lifted his glass of rum toward her in a mock toast.

Grinding her teeth together, Cassandra marched onto the street. A horse neighed. She looked up to see the snorting nostrils of the beast just as the rider jerked the reins to avoid her.

“Look out where you’re going, miss,” the gentleman scolded her as he tried to settle the animal.

“My apologies.” Cassandra swung around and nearly bumped into a couple crossing the road. The fashionable lady draped on the gentleman’s arm scowled at her.

“Forgive me.” Cassandra shook her head, trying to scatter thoughts of Mr. Heaton as she continued to the other side. The bare masts of ships
swayed above the roofs of warehouses and taverns like wagging fingers, chastising her for her stupidity, yet luring her toward them nonetheless. Before long, she found herself standing at the edge of the wharf where
Destiny
had been docked. Of course, there was another ship there now—one of those infamous Baltimore clippers, known for their swift speed.

A bell rang in the distance. A group of fisherman passed, tipping their hats in her direction and leaving the sharp smell of fish in their wake. Sailors working on a ship tied at the next dock stopped to stare at her.

Ignoring them, she closed her eyes.

A warm breeze sent her curls dancing over her neck, tickling her skin. She pictured Mr. Heaton standing tall and confident on the wharf, broad shoulders stretched beneath his shirt, black hair blowing in the breeze. She could still hear his deep voice that reminded her of the soothing sound of a cello. Had she been fooled by his charm like so many others? Had she made a mistake that would cast her and her family onto the streets?

She drew a deep breath of the brackish air.
What am I to do?
Her family couldn’t survive much longer on vegetables from the garden and fish Mr. Dayle managed to catch in the bay. And her poor sisters with only tattered clothes to wear. A sob caught in her throat, and she thought of praying. But when had that ever done her any good? After all the prayers and pleading to God to bring her father and brothers home, still they were gone. Her father forever.

She had never felt so alone.

“Miss Channing.” The calm voice snapped her eyes open, and she turned to see Reverend Drummond beside her. “I didn’t wish to startle you.” He smiled and gazed at her with such kindness, Cassandra nearly released the tears pooling in her eyes. Instead, she turned and brushed them away.

“You didn’t, Reverend. I was just …”

“Praying?”

She shook her head and gazed down at the reticule in her gloved hands. “No.”

“Honesty. Very refreshing, Miss Channing, but then I can always count on you for that.”

She smiled at him.

He glanced over the multitudes of ships swaying in the bay. “Waiting for someone?”

“No … Yes. I await the arrival of the privateer I invested in.” A cannon blast thundered from Fort McHenry. Cassandra squinted at the sunlight glinting off the water, searching for an incoming ship. But no sails appeared. No doubt they were only testing the guns.

“Ah yes. Mr. Heaton’s ship,
Destiny
.” Reverend Drummond gave her an odd look.

Cassandra flinched. “How did you know?”

He chuckled and scratched his gray beard. “There’s not much that goes on in this town that doesn’t end up being broadcast in the taverns where I minister each night.”

Cassandra nodded. “It’s been two months. Shouldn’t Mr. Heaton be back by now?”

“Not necessarily, Miss Channing. You cannot predict where and when he’ll come across a British merchantman.” He proffered his arm. “Can I walk you home? It isn’t safe for you to be here alone.”

Laughter spewed from a tavern down the street, confirming his words.

She slid her arm into his. “Perhaps you’re right, Reverend.”

They strolled down Pratt Street in silence, reminding Cassandra of the times she and her father had walked around town, arm in arm. Happier days, when she had felt loved and secure.

After a while they chatted of Rose, Cassandra’s friend and Reverend Drummond’s niece, who rarely left their farm at the edge of town. They chatted of the blockade, the British raids on the countryside, battle news from Canada, and the reverend’s charity hospital.

Finally, they stopped before Cassandra’s house. A splash of maroon and tangerine set the western sky aglow with such peaceful artistry that it seemed as though war and death and struggle could never exist alongside such beauty.

As if reading her mind, Reverend Drummond said, “If you and your family need anything, Miss Channing, please come by the church. Part of my job is to help those in need.”

She gazed down at the stain on his waistcoat and knew that though Rose had inherited some wealth from her father, the Drummonds gave most of their earnings away. His forehead folded into lines that were straight and true, just like the man standing before her. Truth be told, she
did
need supplies. Embarrassment heated her face at the thought of accepting charity. But no, they were not that desperate. Not yet.

“Thank you, Reverend, but I will find a way.”

“There is no shame in accepting help, lass. God provides in many ways.”

A hot wind stirred her mother’s garden full of mayflowers, honeysuckles, and roses, wafting their sweet scent over Cassandra. “I have yet to see evidence of that.”

“Because you do not believe.”

“How can I believe when, despite my prayers, everything has been torn from me?”

“Does that mean that God is not with you?”

Cassandra gazed at him, confused. “What else could it mean?”

“Hmm.” Wisdom and genuine concern burned in his eyes.

Cassandra tightened her grip on her reticule and gazed at the house across the street. Through the brightly lit window she caught a glimpse of Mr. Simpson hoisting his young son into the air. Father, family, love, all the things she used to possess. “God has abandoned me just like my father and my brothers. Now, it is up to me to care for my family.”

Reverend Drummond laid a hand on her arm. “God never abandons His children, lass. It is we who so often abandon Him.”

Cassandra gave a tight smile, tired of the man’s empty platitudes. “Thank you for walking me home, Reverend.” She turned to leave. “Give my best to Rose.”

“I will, lass, and I’ll be praying for you.”

Cassandra shut the door on the reverend’s statement. She didn’t want to hear it. Didn’t want any prayers lifted on her account. For she didn’t want to give God another chance to ignore her.

“Cassandra!” Her mother’s shrill voice filled the foyer before her visage appeared around the corner, clutching her gown.

Normally unaffected by her mother’s histrionics, Cassandra tightened at the look of terror firing from her eyes. “What is it, Mother?”

“It’s Hannah, dear. She’s fallen terribly ill with a fever.”

  CHAPTER 11  

L
uke coughed. His lungs filled with smoke. He couldn’t breathe. He leapt from his bed. Brilliant ribbons of red and orange fluttered beneath his chamber door. A gray mist slid in through the crack like an unwelcome specter. Jumping into his trousers, he darted for the handle. Pain seared his hand. He leapt back as the stench of burning flesh turned his stomach. Someone screamed. Bracing for the pain, he grabbed the handle again and flung open the door. Flames sprang for him, crackling and chortling. Heat scorched his bare chest.

“Mother! Father!” he yelled, darting into the inferno. Hot coals branded his feet. Pain sizzled up his legs.

“Luke!” He heard his name in the distance. Perhaps they were already outside. Black smoke smothered him. Gasping for air, he dropped to his knees. He crawled into the front parlor, peering into the room. No sign of anyone. Someone bumped into him from behind. He spun about to see the lacy hem of his mother’s nightdress.

Jumping to his feet, Luke batted away the smoke and saw her face twisted in horror. She coughed and thrust a white bundle into his arms. “Take John.”

She kissed the top of John’s head and gripped Luke’s arm, a mixture of sorrow and terror etched across her face. “Take care of him, Luke. Promise me.” Streaks of gray soot streamed from her eyes. Then she
disappeared into the smoke.

“Mother!” Gripping John, Luke barreled over, coughing.

“Your father!” His mother’s raspy voice echoed back over him.

Turning, Luke held his breath and rushed toward the front of the house. John began to wail. Shifting him to one arm, Luke darted through a hole in the flames, shouldered the front door, and barreled outside. A blast of crisp night air slapped him and swept the smoke from his face. He tumbled down the porch stairs and onto the dirt. Gasping, he turned to face the house. John’s whimpers faded. Poking his head from within the white folds, the child stared, mesmerized by the insidious ballet of yellow and red lights dancing over their small cabin. The fire burst through one of the front windows with a mighty roar, sending a spray of glass over the porch.

Movement caught Luke’s gaze, and he turned to see the lithe dark figure of an Indian standing at the edge of the clearing. The native raised his spear in the air and released a war cry that sent chills down Luke. Then he faded into the shadows of the forest.

“Mother! Father!” Luke started for the burning home, but a wall of heat halted him.

John began to cry. Pressing the child tightly to his chest, Luke put his head down and dashed for the house again. He must save his parents.

He would not allow them to burn to death!

Luke jerked upright in bed and struck his head on the bulkhead. Pain shot through his neck. Pressing a hand to the ache, he gasped for air. Sweat dripped off his chin onto his coverlet. The familiar creak and groan of the ship filled his ears.

A nightmare. Just another nightmare.

An odd glow penetrated his closed eyelids even as warmth spread over him. Prying his eyes open, he peered toward the source. The bright figure of a man stood by his cabin door. His entire countenance blazed, yet he did not burn. Luke’s heart crashed against his chest. Was he still dreaming? The man’s clothing seemed to ripple with life like an ocean of liquid silver under a heavy wind. Luke squinted and held up a hand to block the light, but he couldn’t make out the man’s face, only the trace of a lingering smile on his lips.

There was something familiar about him.

Luke opened his mouth to ask the man who he was when the vision slowly faded and disappeared. An odd pain throbbed in Luke’s right earlobe.

Pound. Pound Pound
“Cap’n!” The door burst open and Biron dashed inside. “Cap’n.”

Luke shifted his gaze from Biron to the place where the luminous man had stood. “Did you see him?”

“See who, Cap’n?” Biron glanced over the cabin.

“Nothing.” Luke rubbed his eyes. “I’m just seeing things.”

“Well, we aren’t seeing things on deck. We spotted what looks to be a merchantman.” Biron’s eyes flashed. “And she’s flying the Union Jack.”

Moments later, while shaking the fog of sleep from his head, Luke leapt onto the main deck, marched to the railing, and lifted the scope to his eye. White sails floated like puffs of cotton against the orange glow of dawn. Shifting the glass, he focused it on the ensign flying at her gaff. The red crisscross against a blue background of the Union Jack formed in his vision. He scanned what he could see of the hull. No gun ports, but two brass guns lining her railing on the port side gleamed in the rising sun. From the size of her, she appeared to be a brig. A merchant brig. And she was running fast before the wind.