Captain of My Heart (47 page)

“Two privateersmen under my roof and the
finest ship the Commonwealth has ever seen, and none of ’em are in
Penobscot! Damned right I have nothin’ to brag about! Cripes, I
ain’t never been so humiliated in my whole life!”

“You lower your voice before you wake
Merrick!” Matt shouted.

“I’ll raise it till he gits himself down here
and takes that schooner outta here!”

Eveleen grabbed Matt’s arm, hoping to prevent
a fight. But it was too late. Mira, green eyes blazing, had leapt
onto a chair and was screeching down at her father in a voice that
would not only wake Brendan, but half of Newburyport as well.
“Matt’s right! You just want
Kestrel
in that Expedition so
you’ll have something to read about in that stupid newspaper!
Something to brag about to your stupid friends in that stupid
tavern!”

“Don’t you talk like that to yer father, ye
hear me?!”

“You just want to impress everyone with that
schooner! You want everyone to know
you
built her! You don’t
care about kicking the British out of Maine, you don’t care about
Brendan—”

“I do, too, and it don’t matter to me
who
takes her, long’s she’s a part of that Expedition!”

“Which you see as nothing more than a damned
showground
for your masterpiece!”

“
Kestrel
speaks for herself; she don’t
need me to brag about ’er!”

“She’s not asking you to! And I’ll tell you
this, neither Liam Doherty nor me nor God himself are going to take
that schooner anywhere! She’s
Brendan’s,
do you hear me?
Brendan’s!
He is her captain!
And no one, I repeat,
no
one,
is going to take her anywhere!”

“She oughtta take her rightful place in that
Expedition!”

“She will when her captain is well enough to
command her!”

“She’ll take it if I have to go and command
her myself!”

“That’ll be the bloody day!” Mira leapt from
the chair, let loose a string of curses, and stormed from the room,
trailed by Rescue Effort Number Twenty-Eight and Ephraim’s loud
bellowing. No wonder Brendan felt obliged to go to Maine! Damn
Father and his stiff-necked pride! She was sick of it! Furious, she
raced up the stairs, tore down the hall, and flung open the door to
Brendan’s room.

She came up short, her mouth hanging open.
The bed was made as neatly as a seaman’s berth, and the room was
empty.

She clenched her fists at her sides.
No. .
. .

And then she saw that
Kestrel
’s huge
red-and-white-striped flag was gone.

Damn him! She was too late! Mira raced from
the room. If she wanted to be aboard
Kestrel
before she
sailed, there was no time to lose.

Chapter
29

“
Oh, there was a proud schooner, her name
was Kestrel, and no Brit could catch her when she spread her
tops’ls! Sharp-hulled and lovely, a lady she be, she’s sweet and
she’s pretty, she’s queen of the sea! Singin’ down, down, down
Derry down!”

Drifting along under shortened sail,
Kestrel
left a long, lazy wake of foam winding back among
pine-studded islands and coves. She had left Newburyport several
hours before, in the dead of night; now morning light burst over
the ocean, touched upon streaming pennants some ninety feet above
deck, raced out along topsail yards, and dragged brilliant orange
fingers down the length of her masts to flood the decks below. It
glinted on sleepy guns, turned varnished woodwork to gold,
sharpened stays and ratlines against the bright blue sky, and
painted the deck in myriad variations of color, light, and
shadow.

“
Oh, her decks are of white oak, her masts
of Maine spruce, for the might of the Brits, oh, we don’t give a
deuce! Be it gale or dead calm, the sweet Kestrel will fly! For
freedom from tyranny we’re willin’ to die! Singin’ down, down, down
Derry down!”

The smell of fresh coffee and frying fat
drifted on the air. Galley smoke crept from the foredeck area and
was snatched away by the wind. Men, throwing long shadows across
the deck, were coming topside now, carrying their breakfasts. Some
took one look at the barefoot figure standing atop
Freedom
’s
homely old barrel and dropped their plates of biscuit and fried
pork; others shot apprehensive glances toward the hatch—where any
moment now, the captain would be coming topside.

Mr. Starr wasn’t wearing his tarpaulin hat.
He wasn’t wearing his odd little “sun” glasses. And he wasn’t
wearing trousers.

He was wearing skirts.

And these were tucked up into his waistband
over a short pair of breeches and showing a very fine, very pretty
pair of curvy, well-shaped legs.

The guise was over, then. The day of
reckoning had come.

“
Well, her captain’s a man bred from old
Cornwall way, but the luck of the Irish goes with him this day! Not
afraid of the Brits, oh, he’s brave and he’s bold! And under his
hand, Kestrel’s wings’ll not fold! Singin’ down, down, down Derry
down!”

And now a black tricorne was coming up
through the hatch.

Liam put down his fiddle.

Fergus produced a crystal.

And Dalby clutched his stomach.

As immaculate as ever, the captain, walking
with the assistance of a cane, made a fine sight as he emerged on
deck. He wore a red waistcoat over a bright white shirt, and his
breeches, trimmed with gold embroidery, were molded to his long,
handsome thighs. Sunlight glinted from his sword hilt and shoe
buckles, and his tricorne sat jauntily atop his rich chestnut hair,
boyishly tousled from sleep and caught in a loose queue. Spying
Liam, who stood at the helm with a very pale-looking Dalby, he
snapped off a brisk salute.
“Dia dhuit ar maidin,
Liam!”

“Good mornin’ y’rself, Cap’n!”

“Fine day to be at sea, eh? If the wind kicks
up, we’ll raise Penobscot Bay by sundown, I should think.”

“Aye, Cap’n.” There was a suspicious twinkle
in Liam’s eye, but Brendan, preoccupied, missed it. Crossing the
deck, he wandered to the rail and gazed out over the sparkling sea,
watching
Kestrel
’s frothy wake as though he could follow it
all the way back to Newburyport.

“He doesn’t see her,” John Keefe
whispered.

“Give ’im a moment,” Liam predicted.

Dalby clutched his stomach, his voice full of
doom. “Well, if he doesn’t see her, he’ll certainly
hear
her. . . .”

“
Well, a Brit boxed us in b’tween island
and shore, and our bold Captain Merrick said, ‘Fear ye no more!
Hoist out those old oars even though it is deep, we’ll fool that
old Briton and Kestrel we’ll keep!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry
down!”

But Brendan, deep in thought, was oblivious
to the singing. Propping his elbows on the rail, he sipped his
coffee and watched a gull wheeling high above. The sea roiled
before him. Spray hissed at
Kestrel
’s bows, cooled his
cheeks, made his coffee mug sticky and damp in his hands. He felt
pretty good this morning. A bit weak, but at least he could see
straight. Think straight.

Mira.

What had her reaction been when she’d arisen
this morn and discovered him gone?

Maybe when he reached Penobscot he could
convince Commodore Saltonstall to lift the siege and make the long
overdue attack on the British; maybe in doing so, he could give
Kestrel
back her glory; and maybe, just maybe, he could
return to Newburyport and finally make Mira his wife.

Make her his wife.

He smiled and shut his eyes, envisioning it.
. . .

The wind began to freshen, whipping up froth
on the azure sea, driving over
Kestrel
’s stern and sending
wave-chop slapping against her hull. Thousands of little pockmarks
dotted the ocean’s surface. Above, blocks and tackle swung, wind
hummed through taut shrouds, and masts creaked as the schooner
rolled on the long swells.

Forward, the wind caught the end of Mr.
Starr’s braid and made it dance.

“
Well, the Briton was fooled by our
captain’s bold plan, figured it was too shallow, so off they did
stand! No sooner had they borne off and away, Kestrel spread her
great wings and we laugh till this day! Singin’ down, down, down
Derry down!”

He shook his head, trying to clear it. Odd,
that voice . . . strange, but familiar. Shrugging, he fished his
sketchbook and a pencil out of his pocket and studied the gull
hovering just beyond the tip of the fore topsail yard. But he
couldn’t think. Couldn’t concentrate. Kept remembering soft,
rose-scented hair tumbling down around him. Green eyes alight with
joy, salty tears washing his face. . . .

“
Well, the Kestrel, she’s huntin’ those
Britishers down, she’s a thorn in the side of His Majesty’s crown!
But our captain’s a sly one, a bold one he be! Sails Kestrel on a
course marked Li-i-ber-ty! Singin’ down, down, down Derry
down!”

He leaned the sketchpad against the rail and
kneaded his temples. The sunlight hurt his eyes. The sea reflected
against the ship's boat, vibrated against shimmering waves, and
hurt his eyes even more. Faith, maybe he ought to get some of
those—what were they called?—ah yes, “sun” glasses that Mr. Starr
had. Irritated, but not knowing why, he turned from the rail.

And saw his men staring at him as though he’d
grown a third arm.

“For heaven’s sake, string up that mainsail
and let’s make some time!” he snapped. Faith, what the devil was
wrong with everyone this morning?

Seamen ran to the sheets. Up went the gaff on
its bridle, like a sacrifice to the blinding sun above. Inch by
inch it climbed, the proud mainsail rising with it, and finally the
boom, swinging gently in the wind. Canvas shook itself out,
fluttered, and hardened in a tight curve of brightness against the
sky. Brendan’s momentary irritation dissipated instantly, and a
thrill went through him at the sheer majesty of the moment.
Laughing out loud, he wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and
called,
“Maith go leor,
laddies! Good enough! Now look
lively and get the topsails on her!”

Kestrel
kicked up her heels like a
spring filly, and the water beneath her began to sing. Eyes
watering in the intense sunlight, Brendan gazed up at the giant
mainsail, watching its reef points dancing in the wind. And then,
blinking away the sunspots, he turned his head, suddenly realizing
what was making him feel so devilishly irritated.

That godawful singing.

He lowered his pencil, looking for its
source. And then he saw a figure standing atop
Freedom,
head
thrown back, bare feet braced on the cannon’s long breech, rooster
perched on his scrawny shoulder.

It was Mr. Starr.

Brendan dropped his coffee cup.

“
And so we head seaward with a stiff wind
a-beam, hanging fores’l and main and our heels kicking clean! With
Doodle as music and guns as our sting, as we headed to sea all the
bells they did ring! Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

“Up staysails and jibs . . .” Brendan heard
himself say. And then—
faith, what the
devil
was Mr. Starr
wearing?

“
With a gale blowin’ hard through our
shrouds and our stays, Cap’n Merrick he said, ‘Lads, now don’t ye
belay! There’s a Brit lurkin’ well off our starboard bow—and we’ll
ne-e-ver catch him if we stay here and row!’ Singin’ down, down,
down Derry down!”

Skirts.

His mouth opened and closed.

Skirts!

And beneath them, long, curvy legs and bare,
pretty feet. A doll-sized waist, and a shirt that did nothing to
conceal the sweet valley between her even sweeter breasts. He
stared into her eyes. She stared back. And then she saluted,
smiled, and a fan of lines crinkled the sides of her impudent
little nose like cat whiskers.

“
Well, the Kestrel, being such a right
fine la-dy, she opened her wings and she took to the sea! With the
spray in her teeth and her guns aim-ed low, our captain he shouted,
‘Fire on the uproll!’ Singin’ down, down, down Derry down!”

He dropped his pencil. The sketchbook slid
from his fingers and fell to the deck.

“Liam!”

He reeled and caught the rail for
support.

“
Liam!”

And then she threw back her head, laughed,
and in a loud, ringing voice, belted out,
“Well, a broadside
like that you just ne’er did see, on the Britisher’s decks there
was death and melee! Our Cap’n he nodded and then he did grin, ‘Now
let’s see ye load up, lads, and do it again!’ Singin’ down, down,
down Derry down!”

Liam appeared, his mouth twitching with
laughter.

“Aye, Cap’n?”

They were all staring at him, even the
rooster. They’d known all along, every last one of them! Brendan
took a deep, steadying breath, and pulling out his speaking
trumpet, rapped it against his thigh in agitation. He never took
his eyes off his little gunner. “Tell me,
Mr. Doherty,
just
who was at
Kestrel
’s helm the day you rescued me from
Crichton?”

Liam stared at him blankly, pretending
ignorance. “The helm, sir?”

“Yes, Liam, the helm! H-E-L-M, helm!
Tá
ainm diobhal,
what are you, deaf?! It wasn’t Mr. Keefe, it
wasn’t Mr. Reilly, and it most certainly wasn’t you! What I want to
know is,
who the devil almost overset my ship?!”

“Er . . . uh, why, th’ gunner, sir, but he
’ad th’ ship well under control—”

“The gunner!” He felt a muscle twitch in his
jaw. It could’ve been a controlled grin. It could’ve been anger. It
was neither. “You mean
Mr. Starr?!”

“Aye. Ye see, Brendan, there was really no
one else t’ do it. Keefe, well, he ’ad three sheets t’ th’ wind,
’n’ Dalby was complainin’ about his stomach—Mr. Starr made supper
that night, ye see—’n’ poor Reilly, er . . .”