Authors: Donna Thorland
“I am sorry, but I came to see Elizabeth,” said Sarah.
“Not Micah?”
The question, if you knew Sarah’s history, as this woman surely did, was more than a little rude. And Sarah did not like the widow’s knowing, arch smile, nor the way her shrewd eyes noted Sarah’s faded jacket, frayed petticoat, and scuffed shoes.
“Micah Wild jilted me for my best friend, Mrs. Ferrers. What could I possibly want to discuss with him?”
“The whereabouts,” said that lady, “of one hundred fifty tons of flint ballast, Salem’s fastest schooner, and a fortune in French gold.”
• • •
Sarah did not return immediately. Sparhawk knew from Ned that there were no servants, that she did everything herself, from carrying water to lighting fires to cooking, cleaning, and looking after their father. Ned had been oddly cagey about his father, but also decidedly proud. “My father could make Barbados faster than any captain in Salem. He was going to copper the
Sally
’s bottom. Hard to say what he will do with her now. He says we must hide her until she can be painted and repaired and that she can’t be the
Sally
anymore. And that we can’t sell our molasses in Salem because of Wild, and we can’t sell it in Boston because of you.”
Mr. Ward, unfortunately, was right. The crew of the
Wasp
and, more important, Lieutenant Graves, would recognize the
Sally
’s colors—she had a lovely yellow stripe, bright, narrow, and very distinctive—and her name. Sparhawk hoped that Graves had not been close enough to get a good look at Sarah Ward before Cheap had felled him. If Sparhawk did not name her, she should be safe enough.
The doctor, it turned out, had courted Sarah, but his prospects had been dismissed as too limited. That was when Sarah had a great fortune in tea to bring to a marriage.
Ned had also spoken—much against Sarah’s wishes, Sparhawk suspected—about the mysterious older brother. “He is overdue,” Ned had said, with obvious concern. “He should have been home before the
Sally
left. Sarah says we must not worry yet, and Father says nothing at all. Although it was Father who said he must go to London to get it out of his system, and remain there if he could not.”
Ned did not know what “it” was. Rebel sympathies, Sparhawk suspected. And damned selfish of him too, when his sister needed protecting and his father’s health was failing. But Sparhawk kept that to himself. Ned obviously worshipped his older brother.
“All the girls always tried to dance with Benji at the assemblies. And he could ride and fence and shoot better than anyone. And he can handle the
Sally
almost as well as Father. If he had been home, he would have had command of her, not Molineaux, and you never would have caught us.”
The Ward family, it appeared, held a universally low opinion of the seamanship of anyone to whom they were not directly related.
The boy had scampered off soon after that, leaving Sparhawk staring up at the canopy and mulling his next move. The beefsteak was beginning to sound like a very good idea. His stomach gurgled, the sound loud enough to echo in the empty room. He watched the sun begin to set through the window—it would have been a pretty chamber when it was carpeted and papered—then decided to venture downstairs.
The house must have been older than it looked, because it was built to an antique plan with a central chimney. In front was a modern staircase in two flights, handsomely carved with twisted rope molding. The entire structure was one room deep on either side, and some of the fireplaces still sported fashionable paneling—though others had clearly been stripped of even that.
He arrived on the ground floor to find the parlors chilled and dark, but light and warmth emanated from the far corner of what had once been the dining room, where a narrow batten door led into a service ell.
And there was music, of a sort: a low baritone rumble that started and stopped, the cadence, if not the tune, familiar; a sea chantey, but not one of the navy’s.
The song drew him to the door, and when he saw through the crack that the chamber was unoccupied, into a kitchen with another door at the far end, from whence the singing came. There was no fire burning in the cooking hearth, but the room had a borrowed warmth from the chamber beyond. And a familiar air to it, something of his West Indian childhood—his real youth, not the manufactured tale of Shropshire summers that he and McKenzie had concocted—in the faint aroma of lime and molasses and the low-slung Campeche chairs beneath the window.
As he listened to the song drifting from the room beyond, and fingered the worn velvet of his borrowed coat, a suspicion stole over him, preposterous and at the same time, somehow inevitable.
He almost missed seeing the heavy-bladed cutlass propped in the corner. Someone had used it recently to bank the fire. It was blackened with soot and dulled by age, but there was no mistaking the tassel that hung from the guard: eight dark red ribbons strung with shark’s teeth.
The girl’s name was Ward.
Her father was a captain.
My father could make Barbados faster than any captain in Salem.
In a ship with a heavily tattooed crew.
Among whom was at least one pickpocket who had tutored Sarah Ward.
Mr. Cheap sailed with the Brethren of the Coast.
A name rose up out of childhood memory and bedtime stories, a bogeyman to put fear into the hearts of island children raised on soft breezes and sugarcane. A ginger-haired giant with a shark-tooth-tasseled cutlass.
“Red” Abed. Captain Abednego Ward.
Sparhawk had fallen into a nest of pirates.
Sarah backed toward the door. Coming to Wild’s house had been a mistake. This woman knew about the flint and the French gold, and now she knew that Sarah Ward and the
Sally
were back. Which put the
Sally
, the Ward family, and Sparhawk in terrible danger.
“I’ll call on Elizabeth another time,” Sarah said, feeling for the latch behind her.
“Very well,” said Angela Ferrers. “I will interview your charming little brother instead.”
Sarah froze. She did not want Ned anywhere near this dangerous creature in gray silk. Ned could not keep a secret to save his life—or Sparhawk’s. If a Ward was going to match wits with this woman, it was going to be Sarah.
“How do you know about the gold?” she asked.
Angela Ferrers gestured once more toward the empty chair at the table. Sarah took it. The young widow nodded with satisfaction and reached for the brown-glazed pot on the table, the kind the Dutch merchants sold, a delicate Chinese piece set in a scalloped gold mount. It had once been Sarah’s, auctioned like so much else to fund the
Sally
’s voyage.
Beside it was a plate of ginger cakes, baked, Sarah knew, by Micah’s cook, Mrs. Friary. They had been a favorite treat of Sarah’s in childhood, when Mrs. Friary operated a bakery near the wharf. Knowing how much Sarah enjoyed the little delicacies, Micah had hired the baker to cook for the new house. Sarah’s mouth watered at the thought of tasting one for the first time in years.
“Information is currency,” said the widow, pouring a steaming ribbon of tea into Sarah’s cup. Evidently the Rebel prohibition did not extend to the households of high Sons of Liberty like Micah. “And
currency
,” continued Angela Ferrers, “of course, is currency, especially gold. It is welcome in every port of every nation and it is untraceable, melting back into the money supply after it has done its service.” She passed Sarah a cup. The widow’s hands were manicured, and she wore three dainty mourning rings crusted with pearls.
“The gold,” said Sarah, seeing no point in dissembling now, “was captured by the British yesterday and will be in Boston by now.”
“And you were on the same ship, yet here you sit. How is that?”
Angela Ferrers was far too well-informed. “They tried,” she said, “to press my brother. So I took the captain hostage and ordered his men off the
Sally
. They had already removed the gold. I could not get it back without risking our freedom.”
“Either you are a very singular young woman,” said Angela Ferrers, placing a sugared brown cake on Sarah’s plate—she could smell the ginger and molasses in it—“or that is the story you and Wild concocted to conceal your theft of the gold.”
The spicy cake lost all appeal. “Why do you think
I
stole your gold?”
“You are penniless.”
“Being poor is not the same thing as being a criminal.”
“Please, Miss Ward, your father was a pirate. Criminality, or so it is said, runs in the blood.”
“I doubt such traits are heritable,” Sarah replied. “Neither of my parents could balance a ledger, yet I have a fine head for numbers.”
A hint of a smile flashed over Angela Ferrers’ face. “You are more intelligent than I expected, but the fact remains. You are a Loyalist, and Wild’s lover. You had both motive and opportunity to plot such a theft.”
“One encounter does not make a man a lover. Micah jilted me. And he is an ardent Patriot.”
“And he was once your devoted fiancé. Until circumstances changed. Your head for numbers should lead you to a logical conclusion there.”
She had never questioned Micah’s political loyalties, only his romantic allegiances. “You don’t trust him,” she said.
“I trust Micah Wild to act in his own interest. I am here to discover where those interests lie.”
“I am not Wild’s lover. Credit me with some pride, at least.”
“I begin to suspect that you have more than is good for you. What became of the flint?”
“The British threw that overboard.”
“That is a pity. Flint is necessary to strike a spark.”
“You mean it is necessary to start a war.”
“Do not be fooled by the quiet, Miss Ward. War has already started. Formal declarations tend to come after the fact. King George has said that the colonies must submit or triumph. Your countrymen have given him their answer. They are stealing cannon from their village greens and laying chain across their harbors.”
“The ports have been at odds with the navy over the press and the customs acts for years. You cannot be certain that this time it will come to war,” said Sarah.
“It is my policy,” said Angela Ferrers, “to leave very little to chance. Congress is adamant that the colonies will not fire the first shot, but I will make certain that when that shot
is
fired, the American side of the story reaches London first.”
“On a fast ship,” said Sarah. “Like the
Sally
.”
“There is your talent for figuring again,” said Angela Ferrers.
“But Micah has ships of his own that might serve.” Sarah considered her former betrothed’s fleet. “There is the
Oliver Cromwell
, though she may be too slow. Micah had her built with a deep draft and a false bottom for smuggling. My father advised him against sacrificing speed for concealment, and after today I would say he was right. Better not to be boarded at all. The
Conant
might be a better choice. Why not one of them?”
“That is the missing variable,” said the elegant widow, refreshing Sarah’s untouched cup of tea. “The
Oliver Cromwell
and the
Conant
are curiously absent from Salem Harbor, and not known to be under the command of a Cape Ann skipper. Their whereabouts interest me. I have found that Wild’s business dealings do not add up, but his ambitions are easy arithmetic. The man who carries this story to London will rise high in the estimation of Congress, and they are about to have need of fast ships and bold seamen. America had only three working powder mills during the late war with the French. Today, she has none. She has no foundries to produce cannon. No factories to make muskets. It must all be imported. Before the war for America can be fought on land, the war for matériel must be fought at sea.”
“And Micah wanted to carry the news on the
Sally
, to be the man Congress turns to—contracts with—for powder and shot and cannon, but she will be a week at least refitting.” Sarah ran through the fastest Salem schooners in her mind. “Derby’s
Quero
is almost as fast. Smaller too, and quicker to make ready.”
“Just so,” agreed Angela Ferrers. “It will displease Wild to be bested by Derby in this. The
Sally
, though, could still be of great use. If you manage to keep control of her, you might restore your fortunes and your standing among your neighbors with a few successful powder runs to Portugal or Saint Eustatius.”
“The
Sally
and my brother Ned barely survived one
unsuccessful
run to Saint Stash. Rebel machinations have cost my father everything we had. We can’t afford to take part in your war.”
“Neutrality is not an option for your family. You chose the Rebel side when you took up arms against an officer of the king.”
“I did it to save my brother.”
“Forget, for the moment, Micah Wild’s rhetoric. This fight is not about abstract ideals or tea or tax. It is about the most basic kind of liberty—the kind you fought to preserve for your brother.”
And which the Rebel mob and Micah Wild would take from Sparhawk.
“If I told you that I have brought another kind of cargo to Salem,” Sarah said, choosing her words carefully, “something that might precipitate an incident that would not redound to your credit, what would you say?”
“I would say that I was interested, but that I needed more information.”
“Information is currency.”
“With which you hope to buy my help,” the young widow said. “You came here to see the woman for whom Wild jilted you. You must have
needed
something, yes? What would you have used to purchase Elizabeth’s aid?”
“Sentiment,” said Sarah, honestly.
“A debased specie. You will find it buys very little from me.”
“Then I will apply to Elizabeth,” said Sarah, rising.
“Then I will send one of Micah’s men for little Ned. Several, perhaps, if the formidable Mr. Cheap is still part of your household.”
And Ned would tell Mrs. Ferrers everything. Sarah sat back down. “We brought the captain of the
Wasp
home with us as a prisoner. I fear that if Micah and the Sons of Liberty discover him, they will hang him.”
Angela Ferrers raised a plucked eyebrow. “You are right to fear it. As do I. Such an incident might make a popular figure of Wild in the ports, but it would
not
redound to American credit in London. Not even Mr. Adams’ talents for propaganda could cast the hanging of a British officer in a good light. What is it then that you propose?”
“I want to send the captain back to Boston, but he is injured, and I have no carriage.”
Angela Ferrers made a study of the sepia mourning ring on her right hand. Finally she said, “I will have Wild’s carriage sent to Judge Rideout’s house at midnight. Rideout’s man will drive your captain to Boston. But that is all I will do for you. It will be up to you to keep your captain safe and hidden until then.”
• • •
James pushed open the door to find a cozy keeping room, appointed with rough-hewn furniture from the last century. Behind the painted tavern table sat a gentleman in an invalid’s chair, a cane leaning against the arm. His hair might have been Sarah’s honey blond in youth, but it was faded yellow shading into white now. On the table in front of him lay a model of the
Sally
, her mast unstepped. The old man held it in his gnarled hand. When Sparhawk entered, he stopped singing and put it down.
Abednego Ward had reportedly been a giant. Age had reduced him, but it had not robbed his eyes of light or his voice of mischief. He looked from Sparhawk’s splint to the broken mast of the tiny
Sally
and chuckled with satisfaction. “At least she got a few swipes in at you as well.”
He meant the
Sally
. “Yes,” Sparhawk said. “If it is any consolation, I was quite sorry to be obliged to dismast her.”
“Hah!” The old man reached for a jug on the floor beside him. “I’ll warrant you were at that. Wanted to bring her in a prize all trim and neat. There are as many pirates in the British Navy as ever ravished the Spanish Main.” He nodded at Sparhawk’s blue coat, laid out on a bench by the fire. Someone had brushed it, he noted. “You didn’t buy those fine buttons out of your pay, did you?”
“No.” He hadn’t. He’d always been lucky with prizes, until the
Sally.
The old man slapped the table and laughed. “I thought not. Come all the way in and let me get a look at you.”
Sparhawk complied. Abednego Ward studied him, and Sparhawk observed the old pirate in turn. He wore an old-fashioned coat with wide gored skirts and a silk waistcoat embroidered with gold wire. A white scar twisted from eyebrow to jawline down the left side of Red Abed’s face, reminding Sparhawk of the man’s checkered and violent past.
Abednego Ward huffed, set his jug on the table, and pushed it toward James. “My youngest son,” the old pirate said, “thinks you’re some kind of hero. My sailing master believes you’re a seducer, out to ravish my daughter. And my daughter believes you are a wounded bird in need of her care. But she has notoriously bad judgment when it comes to men.”
Sparhawk reached for the jug. “And what do you think, sir?”
“I think my old coat suits you, but you’ve yet to fill out the shoulders.”
He was a canny old rascal. “I’m no pirate,” James said. “I have been in the navy since I was eleven.”
“The way my daughter tells it, you hailed our late and not particularly lamented skipper, and threatened him with a broadside. When Molineaux did not heave to, you dismasted the
Sally
and boarded her. And it was the
Wasp
that sailed away with the gold. If you don’t think that’s piracy, my boy, I suggest you make a closer study of the word.”
• • •
When Sarah entered her house she was surprised to hear low voices coming from the kitchen. She had left Sparhawk resting in her bed and her father downstairs by the fire. Ned and Lucas were supposed to be readying the
Sally
to take her to Marblehead when night fell. The house should have been silent.
She hesitated at the door to the keeping room. Her father’s voice she recognized, a bass rumble expressing interest and excitement. The other sounded familiar as well. She wished James Sparhawk’s pleasing tenor did not make her pulse race. She had been foolish over one man. She must not be foolish over another.
At least not any more foolish than she had already been. Bargaining with a woman like Angela Ferrers for Sparhawk’s life might cost Sarah her own. Carrying flint and French molasses had branded her a smuggler; kidnapping Sparhawk named her a pirate; dealing with Angela Ferrers made her a Rebel. If her actions were discovered, no doubt the navy would think it a pity it could hang her only once.
And she could not pretend that she had struck a deal with Angela Ferrers entirely out of a sense of obligation. The truth was that she cared for Sparhawk, thrilled at the way he made her feel—like the carefree girl she had been before Micah Wild jilted her.
She slipped inside the keeping room door. Her father and Sparhawk were crouched beside the table, scrutinizing the hull of the little
Sally
at eye level. The rum jug sat on the floor between them, and two dirty plates speckled with greasy crumbs—toast and cheese, no doubt—littered the table. They were so entranced by the miniature
Sally
’s
timbers, so caught up in some scheme to copper her bottom and reinforce her decks, that they did not hear Sarah enter.
“You,” she said to her supposed captive, “are meant to be resting.”
Sparhawk stood and turned to face her. Unlike many sailors, he was graceful on land, even with one arm in a splint. “I got tired of resting,” he said. “And your father is excellent company.”