Surrender the Dawn (30 page)

As the gunner ambled away, the thunder of sails drew Luke’s gaze upward as the topgallants and staysails dropped into the wind. Good. Now perhaps
Destiny
would pick up speed. No sooner had the thought brought him some comfort than a deafening clamor rained down from above.

The main and fore staysails flailed in the breeze like sheets hung out to dry, giant rents splitting them from foot to leech. Luke shook his head, unwilling to believe his eyes. Who would have done such a thing? Hadn’t he ordered Mr. Keene to inspect all canvas before they’d set sail? His wary gaze shot to the boatswain as the man slid down the backstay to the main deck. He charged toward Luke.

“Captain, I don’t know what happened. I inspected each sail myself before we left.” The sincere look in his eyes, coupled with the terror lining his face, convinced Luke that he told the truth. The ship heaved over the rough seas. Balancing himself, Luke charged toward the railing, his mind reeling.

“Furl the damaged ones, Mr. Keene, and get below to retrieve additional canvas.”

Mr. Keene nodded, but the brief knowing look they exchanged told
Luke they were of the same mind. By the time they got the additional sails hauled up on the stays, it would be too late.

Luke swallowed down a surge of dread. His thoughts drifted to John, still asleep below. Cargo more precious than silver or gold or even the ship itself.

The sun released its grip on the horizon and spread golden wings over the sea. Wings Luke needed at the moment to quicken his ship and fly away.

“Cap’n, she’s still sluggish,” Sam shouted from the wheel. Luke speared fingers through his hair. Scanning the deck for his first mate, he found Biron assisting the gun crew at one of the larboard carronades. “Biron, get below and check out the hold.”

With a nod and a look of concern, Biron jumped down one of the hatches just as Luke turned to see a burst of yellow flame lash out from the bow of the frigate.

Too far away. They were too far away to hit them. Luke stood his ground.

Boom!
The gun roared. Luke’s crew froze in place and stared toward the advancing enemy.

“Clear the decks. Beat to quarters!” Luke yelled, sending the harried crew buzzing like a hive of agitated bees.

As expected, the shot fell several yards short of their stern. A warning shot. Luke raised his glass to see men scrambling around one of the frigate’s bow chasers.

John emerged from the companionway, his eyes widening as he scanned the sea and spotted the British ship.

“Get below, John. Stay in the cabin!” Luke ordered as
Destiny
swooped over another wave. A spray of salty mist showered over him, stinging his eyes.

John approached him. “They shot at us.” His soft voice could barely be heard over the roar of the sea.

“Aye, they did. But they are too far away. Go below, John.”

“I want to be with you.”

Luke gripped his shoulders. “I need you to stay in the cabin.” The authority in his voice, tainted with a bit of pleading, left no room for argument from his brother. With a frown, John slipped below and out of sight.

Fear for his brother, for his crew, his ship, consumed Luke, knotting
each nerve and muscle. The sailors, who weren’t in the tops adjusting sail or assisting Mr. Ward with the guns, congregated on the main deck, shifting their eyes between the oncoming enemy and Luke as if he somehow had the answer to their salvation.

Biron leapt onto the deck from below. His eyes firing the same fear that burned in Luke’s gut. “The crates we thought were filled with supplies, well, most of them are filled with iron bars.”

Bile filled Luke’s mouth. He swallowed. “How …?” But he didn’t have time to consider the how or why of such an act. He glanced over his crew. All eyes shot his way.

“Gregson, Rockland, Sikes”—Luke pointed to the first men he saw—“form a line of men leading to the hold. Hoist up the iron bars and toss them overboard.”

The men sped off to do his bidding. Above them, sails flapped as the top men attempted to furl them again. Off their stern, the warship plunged over waves, heading straight for them, splitting the sea in a line of noxious foam. At this rate, with no staysails and her hull heavy with iron,
Destiny
would never be able to outrun the frigate. Nor were they close enough to shore to dive into some inland estuary.

They’d be caught. And either pressed into the British navy or sent to prison in England.

And what would happen to John?

To Miss Channing?

“Guns are ready, Cap’n,” Mr. Ward shouted.

Luke gripped the hilt of his cutlass. He turned to Biron. “This would be a good time to pray to your God.”

The old man nodded and rubbed his gray, stubbled chin. “I’ve already been doing that. Perchance, He wants to hear from you?”

“I’ve no time for your sermons,” Luke spat. Sweat beaded on his forehead and neck. If God existed, it would indeed take an act of His mighty hand to save them now.

Soon, men emerged from the hold, forming a line that led to the railing. Iron bars passed through the trail of hands, until finally, they were hoisted over the side. Their splashes could barely be heard above the gush of water against the hull.

But it wasn’t enough; the frigate still gained. Luke no longer needed the spyglass to see the lines of her hull, the laughing charred mouths of her carronades, and the sparkle of brass in the rising sun.

“They’re signaling for us to heave to, Cap’n!” the lookout above shouted.

“Then let’s send our reply.” Luke turned to the gunner. “Mr. Ward, fire as you bear.”

With flashing eyes, the gunner made his way to a carronade at the larboard quarter. Pushing the gun crew aside, he waited for
Destiny
to crest another swell then he lowered the burning wick to the touchhole.

Boom!
The air reverberated with the cannon’s angry black belch. A tremble coursed through the ship. Her timbers groaned in complaint. Gray smoke drifted back over the deck, stinging Luke’s nose. Coughing, he batted it aside and watched the shot fall impotent into the sea several yards before the frigate.

As he’d expected. But the message had been delivered. One that he hoped would deter the frigate from bothering with such small prey.

Yet it seemed to have the opposite effect, for they persisted. “Keep her steady, Sam.”

“Aye, Cap’n. They’re gaining.” The fear in the lad’s voice struck Luke in the back like a thousand needles of failure.

Making the next few minutes pass like hours. He couldn’t fail. Not this time.

But you always fail, don’t you?
The voice slithered over Luke. He tried to shake it off, to remember his prior success, but it rooted deep in his soul.

The frigate swept within three hundred yards of
Destiny,
well within range of her guns. At least twenty dark muzzles lining her main and quarterdeck winked at them in the morning sun. Within seconds, the frigate would sweep alongside and fire a broadside that would not only cripple
Destiny,
but probably kill some of Luke’s men.

But Luke had a choice. Surrender or die. Gripping the hilt of his cutlass, he scanned the deck, where his crew stood pale faced and tight. The men in the tops clung to the lines, ready with muskets in hand. The gun crews hovered over the guns, ready to hurl deadly cannon shot at their enemy. These men might have been the baseborn, outcasts of society, but they were no cowards. He guessed most of them would rather fight to the death than surrender. But the most precious thing in the world to Luke was below in his cabin.

John deserved a chance at life. A free life.

The frigate swept swiftly upon their larboard quarter.
Caboom!
One
of her carronades erupted, sending an ominous echo through the sky. Another warning shot. But this one carried an unspoken message—surrender or be sunk.

British officers formed an imperious line on the quarterdeck, looking down at their sailors standing calmly in position. Even the gun crews, surrounding the twenty guns pointed at
Destiny,
stood at attention, awaiting orders to unleash hell.

“Raise the white flag, Mr. Keene,” Luke managed to say through a clenched jaw. “Furl all sail. Put the helm over, Sam.”

Shaking his head in disgust, Mr. Keene stomped toward Luke. “We cannot give up!”

“We can and we will.”

Biron rubbed the back of his neck with a sigh but said nothing.

Relinquishing his post by the larboard gun, Mr. Ward stormed forward. “Cap’n, I ne’er surrendered wit’out a fight an’ I ain’t gonna do it now.”

Some of the crew grunted their agreement.

“Then we will all die.” Luke gazed over the men, raising his voice. “Is that what you want? To sink to the bottom of the sea?”

“Better that than serve the Brits for the rest of me life,” one crew-member said.

“Or rot in a prison hulk,” another man shot out.

How could Luke tell them that he agreed? That if John weren’t on board, he’d be happy to die defending his country. Gripping the quarter rail, he squinted at the sun making its way high in the sky, oblivious to the horror playing out below. Oblivious to the fact that if they didn’t surrender they were about to meet a watery grave.

Words, magnified yet muffled, swept over them from the frigate.

On her deck, a man in a lieutenant’s uniform held a speaking cone to his lips. “This is the HMS
Audacious
ordering you to stand down and heave to at once or we will fire upon you.”

They awaited
Destiny
’s reply. A bitterness born of failure and fear crowded in Luke’s throat. He swallowed, hoping to rid himself of it, but it resurged nonetheless. He thought of Mrs. Barnes and the promise he had made. He could not see John die.

“Raise the flag!” Luke shouted.

The men hesitated.

“Now!”

Amidst a flurry of loathing glances, his crew obeyed him, and soon with all canvas furled and all men on deck,
Destiny
slowed to a near standstill.

A cheer of
huzzahs
resounded from the British frigate as
Destiny’s
white flag of surrender replaced the American flag at the gaff. Luke grew numb. He’d served aboard a frigate once before and had the scars to prove it. And he’d become a pious monk before he’d allow his brother to endure the same fate.

As the ship maneuvered to come alongside
Destiny,
Luke sent Biron below to instruct John to stay out of sight no matter what happened. Perhaps Luke could offer himself and his ship to the British on the condition they deposit his crew and John ashore. He hoped the captain was a reasonable man. Not insane as Captain Milford of the HMS
Undefeatable
had been. The memory of the sting of the master mate’s switch resurrected across Luke’s back. Shifting it away, he leapt to the main deck as Mr. Keene, the topmast men, Samuel, Ward, and even Mr. Sanders formed an arc of men behind him.

“You did your best,” Biron said as he stood stoically by his side.

But Luke’s best hadn’t been good enough. He had failed. He had failed them all. Miss Channing, his brother, Mrs. Barnes, his crew.

His country.

An ache settled in his head and pulsated in his earlobe as he watched the frigate lower a boat, fill it with officers, and head their way. The foreboding thud against the hull signaled their doom and brought back memories of his capture aboard Noah’s ship
Fortune.

Two lieutenants and three marines, resplendent in their red coats, scrambled over the bulwarks, followed by several sailors, all of whom drew pistols and swords and leveled them at Luke and his crew.

The British captain emerged and landed on the deck with a brazen thump. Dressed in white breeches and a brass-buttoned blue coat adorned with emblems of his station, he sauntered toward Luke. Short-cropped, graying hair spilled from beneath his cocked hat, and eyes as hard and penetrating as blades speared into Luke.

“You are the captain, I presume?”

Luke’s hopes to appeal to the man’s mercy and gain quarter for any of his crew deflated beneath the man’s malicious expression of victory. “Captain Heaton, at your service.” He gave a caustic smile.

“Captain Raynor of His Britannic Majesty’s frigate, the HMS
Audacious
.” He held out his hand for the sword hanging at Luke’s side.

Pulling it from its sheath, Luke held it toward him, hilt first, wondering why the captain had not stayed on his ship as was the usual practice.

Raynor took it and passed it to a man behind him then snapped his fingers. “Search every inch of the ship.” All but the two lieutenants and three marines separated from the group and dispersed.

“You men”—Captain Raynor waved a hand over Luke’s crew—“toss your weapons in a pile.” He gestured to an open spot on the deck beneath the fore rail.

A gust of wind, plump with the sting of gunpowder and fear, tore across the ship and formed into tiny whirlwinds—whirlwinds of possibility. Mr. Keene seemed of the same mind as he inched beside Luke and cast him a knowing look. The hard metal of Luke’s hidden pistol pressed against his belly. He had forty armed crewmen against only fifteen Brits—only six of which stood before them now. And the HMS
Audacious
would never fire upon their own captain.

Clearing his throat, Luke glanced over his shoulder at his men, hoping his eyes portrayed his intent.

“I said, drop your weapons, sir!” the captain barked.

Swords drawn, the marines advanced. Luke drew his pistol. Behind him, the click of pistols cocking and the chime of swords rang like sweet music through the air.

Captain Raynor’s eyes turned to steel. “You are outnumbered, sir. Do you all wish to die?”

“Do you?” Luke pointed his pistol at the captain’s head. “For you will be the first to go.”

Rays from the sun, high above them, reflected off the drawn blades and radiated in waves of heat off the deck.
Destiny’s
aged timbers creaked and moaned in protest.

A British sailor emerged from below, dragging John by the collar. He halted. John’s wide eyes took in the proceedings. A metallic taste filled Luke’s mouth. Captain Raynor noted the change in Luke’s demeanor. “And whom do we have here?”