Surrender the Dawn (50 page)

Luke stared at the open cell door, too shocked to move. Had the angel opened it or had the explosion jarred the lock? Either way, Luke knew he had not been dreaming. He had seen the angel, heard his words, and through them, God had released Luke from a different kind of prison—one Luke had created for himself out of unbelief and failure.

Another thunderous explosion shook the building, and dust showered him from above. Darting from his cell, down the gloomy hall, he emerged into the empty guardhouse then out into the courtyard of the fort. Officers brayed orders. Soldiers stomped across the ground, mud flinging from their boots, their faces masks of fear and torment. Militiamen and citizens stormed in and out of the open front gate.

Open, with no guard in sight.

In the mayhem Luke would have no trouble slipping out unseen. Ducking into the shadows beneath the building’s overhang, he lowered his head and started toward the entrance. Yet with each thud of his boots, something tugged at his heart, urging him to stay. To fight. Even if
it meant his death.

Hadn’t the angel said Luke had important works, good works to do? Perhaps this was one of them. Perhaps everything that had happened was meant to bring him to this spot.

At this time.

He halted. He was tired of running. Tired of running from God, tired of running from himself. And tired of failing. Anger stormed through his veins. The British had impressed him into their navy, whipped his back, stolen his brother, made Luke into a traitor, kidnapped the woman he loved, and now they were intent on stealing his freedom.

And he was not going to let them succeed without a fight.

Searching the yard for someone in authority, he spotted a colonel standing by the bunkhouse directing a band of militiamen. Fear surged through Luke. Would the man recognize him? Yet, some invisible force nudged him forward even as peace registered in his heart. He must do this. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he was supposed to help defend the fort. Regardless of whether they tossed him back in his cell, he had to try. Snapping the hair from his face, Luke dashed into the rain and halted before him.

“What can I do to help, Colonel?”

The man’s eyes narrowed as another explosion split the sky. “Who are you, sir?”

“Luke Heaton, privateer.”

“Very good, Mr. Heaton.” The man dismissed the militiamen. “Can you handle an eighteen-pounder?”

“Aye, sir.” Relief brought a smile to Luke’s lips.

“Then report to Captain Nicholson and the Baltimore Fencibles on the shore battery.”

Luke hesitated, thinking of the incoming British fleet. “Have you sunk any ships in the bay to bar their passage?”

The colonel huffed. “Where have you been, man? We sunk several merchant ships yesterday. I assure you, the Brits will get no farther than they are, at least not by ship.”

With a nod, Luke started off, glad to be helping, glad he had not been thrown back in his cell. As he marched out of the fort, over the moat, and around to the battery, rain stung his face. White-hot lightning etched across the gray sky.

Please, God, give me strength and wisdom and protect this fort and
this city.
Though his whispered prayer felt odd on his lips, peace as he’d never known washed over him. Approaching the man he assumed to be Nicholson, he glanced at the ominous barricade of British warships perched in the dark waters just three miles from the fort—like a line of soldiers, well armed, their faces like flint, their determination unyielding. He wondered if Cassandra and John were among them. Sorrow crushed his heart as an orange flash shot out from the lead ship, followed by a thunderous boom. Soldiers across the field froze. Some ducked. A splash of water flung toward the sky where the shot fell short of land.

Luke reported to Nicholson and was immediately put to work loading and priming an eighteen-pound messenger of death. At least he hoped it would deliver that resounding message to the Brits. The next several hours passed in a melee of commands, screams, and explosions. Giving up on its single shots, the British fleet began firing several bombs into the air at once, raining deadly hail upon the fort and the men defending it. Fortunately, most of the shots missed the fort. Yet their impact on land and sea did not fail to shake the ground as well as Luke’s nerves. And though he and his crew returned fire as rapidly as they could, their shots always fell short of the row of ships.

British mortar bombs continued to pound them even as the wind and rain assailed them from all sides. Hours passed as Luke, sweat laden and sore muscled, went through the methodical motions of working the gun. Bending over to catch his breath, he inhaled a gulp of smoke-laden air. It stung his nose and throat. He backed up, coughing, and bumped into a passing soldier.

“Luke.” The man’s incredulous voice spun Luke around. Noah stared at him, eyes brimming with shock from within a soot-encrusted face. Blackthorn stood by his side.

“What in the blazes are you doing here?” Noah asked.

“I could ask you the same,” Luke said, gripping his friend’s arm. “Did you rescue John and Cassandra?”

A group of militiamen stormed past. Shouts filled the air.

Noah shook his head, sorrow filling his eyes. “Without you, we had no idea where to meet the frigate.”

Of course. Luke released his friend. He hadn’t thought of that.

“Blackthorn and I came to help the fort.” Noah scanned Luke as if he expected him to disappear at any moment. “I’m very glad to see you alive, my friend.”

Blackthorn ducked beneath another explosion. “We heard you were arrested.”

“You heard correctly,” Luke shouted and ran a sleeve over his forehead, marring the white cotton with soot. He leaned toward them. “Do not worry, neither of you were implicated.”

Noah’s brow folded. “How did you get free?”

“God set me free, my friend.” Luke gestured above.

The eerie whine of a bomb sailed overhead.

“It’s a long tale.” Luke ducked as the explosion shook the ground. “For another time.”

A passing corporal pointed toward Noah. “Brenin, Blackthorn, with me!”

Noah clasped Luke’s arm. “Take care, my friend.”

“You too.” Luke returned his grip.

After Noah and Blackthorn rushed off, Luke faced the British fleet. More shots fired from the ships in rapid succession, pummeling both land and sea, like an angry giant pounding on a door. Behind him, one of the bombs met their mark on one of the fort’s buildings. The ground trembled. Luke crouched as a shower of stone stung his back and screams of agony battered his ears. When nothing but raindrops struck him, Luke rose, swiped off the debris, and returned to his duties.

The sergeant in charge of the gun Luke was assigned to lowered his scope. “They have rocket launchers on board their sloop. How are we to withstand such a force?” His eyes grew vacant with terror.

“We keep fighting, sir.” Luke hefted another iron ball into the mouth of the cannon. He faced him with a look of defiance. “We do not give up.”

The sergeant nodded and released a ragged sigh. “Indeed.” He glanced down at an empty bucket. “Mr. Heaton, go fetch some more powder bags.”

Grabbing the container, Luke headed toward the fort when a firm hand on his shoulder flung him around.

Lieutenant Tripp. With black smudges on his face, rain dripping from his chin, his uniform torn, and a look of shocked abhorrence twisting his features. “What are you doing here, Heaton?” he shouted over the noise.

Luke’s stomach folded in on itself. “I’m helping to fight, Lieutenant.”

Explosions thundered the sky. Rain slammed down on the mud, skipping over the puddles. “How did you get out of your cell?” The lieutenant’s eyes seethed hatred. “It doesn’t matter, you will come with me now!” he barked.

An eerie whine coiled around Luke’s ears. He glanced up to see the
flame of an incoming shell. Too close. Far too close.

“Get down!” He shoved Tripp. Eyes wide, the lieutenant’s arms flailed as he tumbled backward several feet before toppling to the ground. Leaping, Luke dove and covered his head with his hands.

The bomb landed on one of the battery guns. Mud and pebbles quivered against Luke’s cheek. A scream of torment rent the air. Scraps of iron and flesh lashed his back.

After a few seconds, Luke raised his head. Two men lay dead, another severely injured, and the gun they’d been using was nothing but a smoking pile of sheared metal. Men swamped the scene, attending to the dead and injured. The shouts, the blasts, the pounding rain—every sound seemed to drift into the distance beneath the thumping of Luke’s heart and the ringing in his ears. He shook his head.

Three yards to his right, Tripp struggled to his knees, brushing mud from his shirt. Their eyes met. Blood sliced a red line on his right sleeve. Gripping his arm, the lieutenant nodded begrudging thanks to Luke and then ambled back to his post.

  CHAPTER 34  

S
taring at the same spot she’d been looking at since the shelling began, Cassandra gripped the railing of the sloop until her knuckles whitened. Though the sun had long since set, darkness could not hide the constant bursts of orange and scarlet flaming from the British fleet, nor the arc of glittering fire that spanned the sky and exploded in showers of red-hot sparks above Fort McHenry.

Her legs ached from balancing so long on the heaving deck. Her head throbbed from the endless roar of cannons. Her throat and nose stung from the incessant smoke that filled the air. But most of all her heart broke for the lost lives of the brave soldiers at the fort.

John slipped his hand into hers. “It will be all right, miss.” His comforting tone did nothing to assuage her fears.

“I don’t see how.”

Beside her, Mr. Key and his companions’ shouts of defiance and victory had long since faded into shocked silence, broken only by groans of defeat.

It didn’t help that every time it appeared that a British bomb had hit its mark, the marines guarding them shouted “huzzahs!” of victory, making Cassandra feel attacked from both front and rear.

“Egad, how much can the fort take?” Mr. Key exclaimed. “They’ve
been firing rockets at them for nigh on twenty-three hours!”

“I didn’t realize the British could house so many bombs aboard their ships,” Dr. Beanes added.

The third man, Colonel Skinner, grabbed a backstay and slunk down to sit on the railing with a moan.

Cassandra took up a pace. “It is unbearable to sit idly by and watch our city, our country under attack.” A blast of wind engulfed the ship in smoke. Gunpowder stung her nose. Coughing, she batted away the fumes.

“I quite agree, miss.” Mr. Key propped one boot on the railing and held a handkerchief to his nose. “But we must not give up hope.”

Boom boom boom caboom.

Another barrage thundered the air. Violent flames surged from the fleet, flashing a sinister glow upon the British ships before darkness swallowed them up again. Bombs riding on streams of fire sped toward the fort. Explosions, barely distinguishable from the thunder growling its displeasure from above, rocked the peninsula.

“What is to become of us?” The deck tilted, and Cassandra hugged John, drawing him close. He trembled, and she knew he was thinking of Luke. As was she. “Never fear. You know how resilient your brother is. I’m sure he is all right.”

She hoped he was. Prayed he was. John said nothing.

Cassandra could not imagine living under British rule. Though her grandparents had suffered during the Revolution, and her mother was but a child during the fighting, Cassandra had been born into freedom. The freedom to elect those who would represent her in government, the freedom to speak out in defiance of injustice, the freedom to choose her own way. She sighed. Perhaps she had taken that freedom for granted too long.

Another round of rockets roared through the air. One crashed onto the ground—either near or on the fort, she couldn’t tell which. The deafening explosion plunged a dagger into her heart. She hugged John tighter as Mr. Key offered her his hand. “Shall we pray for our country, Miss Channing?”

Wiping her tears, she slid her hand into his and bowed her head.

Hours later, Cassandra leaned back on a barrel one of the men had rolled over for her to sit on. John stood by her side, while Mr. Key and his friends lined the starboard railing, frozen in shock. Each bomb bursting
over the fort reflected the red glow of horror on their faces. Cassandra’s hope had long since given way to despair. She placed a hand on her aching back. There was no way Fort McHenry could survive such an onslaught of rockets. So many she’d lost count. Hundreds, even thousands. Yet neither the darkness nor the distance allowed them to determine how much of the fort had been destroyed.