Captain of My Heart (24 page)

“They didn’t just
disappear,
sir. They
were stolen from me! The bloody bastard did it that night, when
Viper
was quiet and most of the watch asleep—”

Sir Geoffrey nodded and motioned for him to
continue.

“Midshipman Everett had the watch. Being only
twelve years old himself, he didn’t see anything amiss about two
boys in a fishing dory trying to sell him part of their day’s
catch. He let them aboard, the idiot. Apparently, while he was
speaking to one of them, the other managed to slip this, er,
note
to one of the seamen. And that’s all it took. By dawn,
forty-five men, including a good master’s mate, were gone.”

Sir Geoffrey gave him a sharp look.

“Oh, have no fear, sir. The little midshipman
has been, er,
dealt
with.”

Sir Geoffrey looked away, his jaw hard. He
had no delusions about Crichton’s manner of “dealing” with
people—but as an admiral, and above such things, it was not his
place to interfere with the way Crichton ran his ship. That was
Ellsworth’s duty, and he would speak with the flag captain about it
later; let Ellsworth stress his desire for temperance to Crichton,
who was not apt to be very temperate at all.

“This note, Richard. Do you still have
it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I should like to see it, please.”

Crichton dug in his pocket and handed it
over, watching glumly as the admiral, farsighted with advancing
age, held the paper at arm’s length so that he could read it.

“Pray, what does it say, sir?” Ellsworth
moved closer, trying to look down his nose without lowering his
head.

“I shall read it to you, Hiram. And then,
perhaps, it will give you a sense of our Captain Merrick’s
character.” Sir Geoffrey’s eyesight may have been failing, but the
writing was so bold, so sure of itself, that he had no trouble at
all reading that elegant, artistic script.

He cleared his throat.
“Gentlemen,”
he
quoted,
“in due respect and understanding of your unhappy
situation under the rule of one of the King’s most brutal
masters
—” Sir Geoffrey paused to glance sideways at Crichton.
“
—
I
invite you to join the crew of the new
privateering schooner
Kestrel,
whose acquaintance you made
earlier and whose presence can be found a cable’s length to
windward of your current anchorage. Those of you who wish to cast
off the yoke of the tyrant King, and become the glorious defenders
of Liberty instead, shall be treated and honoured as free citizens
of America and shall partake of all prize monies secured by said
schooner. Signed—”
Sir Geoffrey lowered the paper.
“—Captain
Brendan Jay Merrick, formerly R.N.”

There was a long moment of silence. Ellsworth
smirked and coughed delicately into his hand, Crichton’s pale eyes
hardened to ice, and Sir Geoffrey tossed the note aside with a
defeated motion. Obviously Merrick had used Crichton’s reputation
for cruelty to his advantage; it must have been an easy matter
indeed for him to steal seamen from HMS
Viper.
Hauling
himself wearily to his feet, the admiral poured three glasses of
Madeira from a crystal decanter.

“Gentlemen,” he said, staring down into the
ruby depths, “normally I would not be so concerned about subduing
one little privateer. But given the fact that Captain Merrick is
her commanding officer—and no doubt her designer, too—I cannot, in
all conscience, allow the matter to rest here. Situations such as
these, Richard, are most humiliating to our navy as well as
upsetting to our people’s morale.” He gave a heavy sigh. “And where
Merrick is concerned, I’m afraid they are also likely to happen
again.”

Silence. Ellsworth sniffed and reached for
his handkerchief.

Sir Geoffrey stared out the windows. A few
flakes of snow swirled into view, pirouetting and dancing in the
wind. Beneath him, the deck tilted as
Dauntless
leaned
heavily over on the opposite tack. He looked at Crichton, standing
there with his milky eyes expressionless and unblinking, his hand
resting atop his sword hilt. The task he was about to give Crichton
was a damn near impossible one. But Crichton was one of his
captains, and though Sir Geoffrey had never cared for him, it was
only fair that he be allowed the chance to redeem himself.

“Describe Merrick’s vessel to me, if you
please, Richard. You say she was a topsail schooner?”

“Not just a topsail schooner. She stacked
topsails and a t'gallant on her fore, and looked like she could’ve
rigged studders, too, if her captain desired to fly them. She had a
long, slooplike bowsprit strung with at least two jibs, a hull so
slick, it hardly rippled the water, and a deck design that, from a
distance, barely made a profile. ’Twas obvious she was not built as
a fisherman, a blockade runner, nor even a smuggler, sir.” He
looked hard at Sir Geoffrey. “She was designed as a predator.”

A predator.

Sir Geoffrey nodded slowly, considering
Crichton’s words and staring off into the heaving gray sea beyond
Dauntless
’s windows. Crichton had been correct in forsaking
the brig for the schooner. Admiralty would go to great lengths for
the chance to study such a singular vessel. Why, if he could only
get his hands on it, he could leave the sea and retire to his home
in Kent once and for all, with a fire in the hearth to warm his
tired old bones and a sleeping hound at his feet. . . .

“Intelligence tells me that a much-heralded
schooner was recently built by Captain Ephraim Ashton of
Newburyport,” he said, stressing the town’s name and watching
Crichton closely. But that translucent gaze never wavered. “From
all accounts, she was quite unlike anything either this, er . . .
country or ours has ever seen. A forward-swept stem, narrow beam,
extremely raked masts, and a hull so sharp that most predicted
she’d sink the moment she touched water. Obviously she did not, but
if Merrick designed her—and I am quite confident that he did—it
doesn’t surprise me in the least. He was the best, you know. A man
ahead of his time.”

Ellsworth reached for his snuff. Crichton’s
eyes remained unblinking.

Sir Geoffrey set his glass down. “In any
case, ’tis my belief that Merrick collaborated with the senior
Captain Ashton to build the schooner for him. You’ve heard of
Ashton, have you not, gentlemen?”

“I’ve heard of his son,” Ellsworth said
loftily.

“Yes, who hasn’t?” Sir Geoffrey muttered. “An
unruly hellion if ever there was one. But young Matthew is not so
different from his sire. Ephraim made his fortune in the
rum-smuggling trade some years ago before turning his talents to
shipbuilding, where I understand he has been moderately
successful.” He took a deep breath. “That is, extremely successful,
since word got around about this schooner. And Matthew, of course,
has become quite infamous as a privateer, and something of a town
hero.”

“He’s something of a pain in the arse, if you
ask me.”

“He’s nothing compared to what Merrick will
be if something is not done about him!” Sir Geoffrey’s voice was
hard. Already his cozy Kent home seemed more and more distant, a
wistful dream if ever there was one. He sighed and continued, “In
any case, both Ashtons are active in town politics, having served
on the Committee of Safety, which was, as you well know,
instrumental in stirring up sentiments against Britain. In fact,
Matthew was only fifteen when those damned radicals, the Sons of
Liberty, popped up in Newburyport back in sixty-five, but my
sources tell me that he was one of the hotheaded young firebrands
who roamed the streets wielding clubs, protesting the Stamp Act,
challenging the opinions of passersby on it—God help them if they’d
been in favor—and hanging and burning effigies of the local stamp
distributor from some damned thing they called the Liberty
Tree.”

Ellsworth sniffed, “I say, ’twill be a dire
affair indeed if Merrick and the young Ashton have gotten
together.”

Crossing the cabin, Sir Geoffrey leaned
tiredly against the bulkhead and watched storm clouds filing toward
the horizon. His bones ached, a good indication that it would snow
again soon. “My sentiments exactly, Hiram.” He sighed heavily and
ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “Especially since
there’s a convoy of merchantmen sailing from London as we speak,
bound for New York. Captain Merrick no doubt will have heard of it,
as will every other damned privateer worth his salt.” He drew
himself up, seeing his dream of his Kent home resting upon
Crichton’s blocky shoulders. “Which is why I think it prudent to
stop Merrick before he can do too much damage.

“There are two things I want you to do,
Richard. Or shall I say, given the fact that Captain Merrick’s
involved,
try
to do.”

Crichton drew himself up.

“First, I want you to bring me Matthew
Ashton. Alive. The Americans will trade most handsomely to have him
back, I should think, and there are some things I might learn from
him about Newburyport and the inaccessibility of that damned
river.”

There was a long pause. “And secondly,
sir?”

The sluice of water against the hull and
rudder was the only sound.

“Secondly, Richard—” The admiral regarded him
over the top of his wineglass, and his bleary old eyes were
suddenly sharp.
“—I want that schooner.”

Ellsworth lifted his haughty brows.

“Afloat, intact, and
before
Merrick
can use her to inflict any more damage upon our vessels, our
shipping, and the morale of our men. If she is truly as magnificent
as you—and eyewitness accounts—have described her to be, she’s
worth far more to our navy than a hundred ships. Let our architects
dissect her, piece by piece. Let them study her as a biologist
would a butterfly. Perhaps they will learn something from her.”

Crichton’s eyes were paler than ever, but a
smile touched his hard mouth.

“So be it, gentlemen.” Sir Geoffrey sent
Ellsworth from the cabin and stared hard at Crichton. “Here’s your
chance, Richard, to redeem your name, your honor, and my faith in
you. Bring me Matthew Ashton, and Admiralty shall remain ignorant
of your misfortunes of last night. But bring me Merrick and his
schooner, and I can promise you flag rank by the end of the
year.”

“F-flag rank, sir?”

“Yes, Richard. Flag rank. I know it’s what
you’ve been waiting for.” He grinned, and guided the younger man
toward the door. “Now go, and do not dally. I’m an old man, with
little patience and limited time. You have a fortnight to make good
your efforts. Don’t waste it.”

Crichton smiled, an evil drawing back of hard
lips that sent an involuntary shiver up Sir Geoffrey’s arthritic
old spine. “Thank you, sir. I shall not disappoint you.” He touched
his hat and strode from the cabin. Moments later, the shrill of
pipes drifted down from above as he left the flagship and climbed
down into the boat that would return him to
Viper.

Sir Geoffrey stood at the windows for a long
time. He thought of his home in Kent once again. He thought of
Merrick and Ashton, and what Crichton was likely to do to them if
he did succeed in capturing them.

And then he thought of the little midshipman,
Everett.

Sir Geoffrey was loyal to Britain, first,
foremost, and last.

At least
Viper’s
abused people would
be safe for a while longer.

Chapter
14

Five o’clock and darkness.

Brendan whistled as he trudged through
Newburyport’s cold and snowy streets, his hands shoved deep in his
pockets, his tricorne pulled low, his chin tucked into his stock,
and his coattails dragging in the drifts behind him. Anticipation
sang in his blood, for in one of those pockets was a dinner
invitation from Ephraim. Whether that invitation reflected genuine
hospitality on the old sea captain’s part, or an interest in
hearing about the eight prizes
Kestrel
had dragged in from
the sea and whose British crews were even now being marched to the
Newburyport jail, Brendan didn’t know. Those prizes certainly had
something to do with the wild reception he’d received several hours
earlier, when
Kestrel
had brought them all into the river
and lined them up, one by one, alongside Ephraim’s wharf!

He grinned wryly to himself, remembering that
particular horror . . . the parade of nearly a hundred boats, full
of wildly cheering Newburyporters, that had met
Kestrel
at
the river’s mouth to escort her into harbor; the adoring young
lassies swooning at his feet once he’d arrived there; the seamen of
every age and description pleading, nay,
begging
to sign
aboard the lucky
Kestrel
. Faith, how did Matthew, who’d
returned from his cruise a few hours before, tolerate such abuse?
’Twas a wonder he’d managed to escape with his life!

But as he’d grinned and laughed and pretended
to enjoy it, clawing his way through cheering throngs who’d been
fighting one another to get his autograph, his attention, and
probably the clothes off his back, someone had thrust a paper into
his hand and he’d found himself with a personal invitation to
supper from Ephraim Ashton himself. The invitation suited him just
fine. After a cold, tossing bunk, oatmeal in the morning, and
lobscouse with hardtack at night, even thoughts of Miss Ashton’s
pudding were almost welcome.

Almost.

More so were thoughts of Miss Mira Ashton
herself.

He grinned at the thought and stepped up his
pace, forgoing the packed sleigh tracks in favor of the deep drifts
bordering the road. Snow yawed into his boot tops and numbed his
cold toes, but he forced his legs to work hard, pumping up his
heart and generating plenty of warmth. He turned onto High Street.
Big, handsome homes rose out of the snow, their many-paned windows
glowing with candlelight. Wood smoke lay heavily upon the brittle
air, mixing with the tangy scent of the sea and fresh, clean wind.
He heard revelry and laughter coming from one home, the faint
tinkle of a harpsichord from another.