Captain of My Heart (50 page)

“They’re cheering us,” Dalby said, glancing
aft at his captain.

But Brendan saw only the stubborn British
flag that still flew from the fort—and Captain Henry Mowat’s three
sloops-of-war snugged pugnaciously in the harbor’s entrance.
Catching Dalby’s eye, he leaned on his cane and raised his speaking
trumpet. “Mr. Wilbur! Get the t'gallant and topsails in lest we end
up in Bangor! Mr. Doherty! Have your gun captains give the fleet
the traditional thirteen-gun salute! And Mr. Starr! I mean, Miss
Ashton!” Laughter greeted his momentary error. “Let
Freedom
lead it off!”

“Aye, Cap’n!” She leapt down from the gun,
the wind lifting her skirts and tempting him with a view of
suntanned legs and bare feet. A moment later, she was lowering a
slow match to the gun’s touchhole. One by one,
Kestrel
’s
guns shattered the peaceful stillness. Deep reverberations rang out
across the bay and echoed around heavily wooded islands and
mainland alike. Seabirds winged away, screaming. Smoke billowed
across the water.

Drawing his spyglass, Brendan trained it on
the fleet. There was Commodore Saltonstall’s handsome Continental
flagship
Warren,
her thirty-two guns making her the most
powerful vessel here. Nearby lay the Continental sloop
Providence,
formerly commanded by the plucky John Paul
Jones, and now the capable, no-nonsense Captain Hoysted Hacker. The
Massachusetts brigs
Hazard
and
Tyrannicide,
both of
sixteen guns, were anchored off the flagship’s stern, and
Connecticut’s
General Putnam
was visible just beyond her
network of spars and shrouds. New Hampshire’s contribution, the
twenty-gun
Hampden,
lay nearer shore, her tall masts almost
indistinguishable from the spruce, cedar, and white pine of a
nearby island.

Good God,
he thought, moving the glass
and recognizing others by the shape of their bows, the cut of their
sails, the number of guns they carried. And then he saw the
privateers. They were the ones who had the most to lose should this
heroic expedition fail. Ships like the beautiful
Black
Prince,
Salisbury-built and Salem-owned, one of the finest of
her class and commanded by Captain Nathaniel West. And there,
swinging at their anchor cables, three Newburyport vessels that had
been among the first to volunteer for the Expedition: the
sixteen-gun
Sky Rocket
and the ships
Vengeance
and
Monmouth,
both mounting twenty guns. Their crews were thick
at the rails, wildly waving to
Kestrel
’s crew and yelling
greetings across the water. He lowered the glass. There were just
too many to recognize, too many to count.

Gunfire boomed out over the water, and he
realized that
Warren
herself was firing her cannon in
thunderous salute to
Kestrel.
Signal flags soared to her
masthead and broke to the wind.

“Orders from Commodore Saltonstall, sir.”
John Keefe craned his neck, his silver hair roiling about his face
as he tried to see above the heads of his shipmates. “He wants you
to repair aboard the flagship with all possible haste.”

Brendan grinned, sighed, and thrust his hand
though the lanyard of his speaking trumpet. He swung the instrument
once around his wrist. “Just as I expected.” He saw Mira watching
him from where she stood beside
Freedom,
her green eyes
shining with love and pride. What was she thinking? What did she
expect of him? He nodded to her and turned smartly to his
lieutenant. “Liam, I’m leaving you in command. See that you take
good care of
both
our fine lassies. Hopefully the commodore
will be merciful and not detain me for too long.”

Liam, who knew his captain was a restless man
not inclined to waste time in a social call, predicted, “Well,
he’ll probably be expectin’ ye to join him fer supper. He’ll detain
ye, all right, if ye let him.”

But Brendan was grinning his rakehell’s grin
and rubbing his hands together. “Well then, I shall have to make
certain he does not, eh?”

Liam raised his brows. “And why don’t ye be
a-tellin’ me how ye plan to do that?”

“Certainly.” Brendan’s eyes were deceptively
innocent, like a wayward youngster playing a prank on his
schoolmaster. “I shall bring him a . . . contribution. Something
for supper, I think. Mr. Starr! I mean, Miss Ashton!”

“Captain!”

“Do you have any more of those blueberry pies
you, er, baked and brought aboard last night?”

“Sure do! Got a whole bunch of ’em!”

“Ah,
wonderrrful!
”
Liam and
Brendan exchanged knowing grins. “Please fetch one and bring it to
me immediately!”

Beaming with pleasure, Mira raced across the
deck and ducked below.

Liam’s face went dark with foreboding. “Ye’re
askin’ fer it this time, Brendan. This ain’t the way to get on
Saltonstall’s good side, ye know.”

But Brendan only laughed and tossed him his
speaking trumpet. He had his own worries—and Saltonstall’s reaction
to Mira’s blueberry pie wasn’t one of them.

###

Seated in
Warren
’s great cabin amidst
the other captains of the fleet, Brendan read the urgent letter
that anxious members of the Navy Board in Boston, some one hundred
seventy miles away, had rushed off to the commodore urging him to
either capture or destroy the three English
sloops-of-war—immediately.

“But I can’t send in my ships until Lovell’s
forces reduce the fort!” Saltonstall protested, his face reddening
as he faced the
Providence
’s pugnacious captain, Hoysted
Hacker, from across a table laid with silver and crystal.

“If we do not stop procrastinating and
destroy those ships, the British reinforcements that General
Washington warned us about are going to arrive and take care of
us!”
Hacker barked.

“Would ye have me risk yer vessels at the
guns of that fort?”

“I’d rather take my chances with the fort
than with British men-of-war! They come up that bay and trap us in,
and it’s all over for us!”

“I think we should go in,” Brendan said,
piling a sizable helping of roast chicken on his plate. “From what
you’ve told me, you’ve been having these councils of war nearly
every night, and
still
haven’t taken any action. Either you
or General Lovell must make a move. Hoysted’s right. I’ve read his
proposal of attack, and find it sound. If you do not do something,
and do it soon, those reinforcements will arrive and trap
all
of us in the bay.”

“Ah, what do you know, you’re just a bloody
Irishman,” Saltsonstall growled.

“Who made quite a name for himself in His
Majesty’s navy before defecting to
our
side!” Hoysted
roared, in Brendan’s defense.

Captain William Burke of the Newburyport ship
Sky Rocket
leapt to his feet. “Aye, that schooner of his
holds a record all of us envy and none of us can match!”

“You ought to be right proud of him!” snarled
Captain John Edmonds, of the
Defense.
“We’re lucky to have
him, and so soon after his near death at that bloody knave
Crichton’s hands!”

“Aye, it ought to be Merrick leading this
farce!” Hoysted snapped, gripping his fork.

Brendan, uncomfortable, cleared his throat
and dabbed at his mouth with his napkin. “Here, now,” he said,
holding up his hand. “We’ll not accomplish anything if we fight
amongst ourselves.” He poured himself a glass of buttermilk to wash
down a bit of ship’s biscuit. Normally the bread was almost
inedible, but after Mira’s cooking, it was like ambrosia. He eyed
the as yet untouched pie that sat ominously on the far end of the
table. “And think of it. Lovell’s militia is ill trained and
skittish. They were lucky to take the western part of Bagaduce as
it is, what with those banks being so steep. Give Revere credit,
’twas no easy task. Now morale is dropping and men are deserting.
We,
on the other hand, are experienced naval officers and
capable commanders. Let us go in and take out Mowat’s three sloops.
’Twill hearten Lovell’s militia and give them courage.”

“He’s right. Listen to him, sir!” said Titus
Salter, commander of the
Hampden.

“Aye, the bloody Irishman knows what he’s
talkin’ about!”

“Englishman,” Burke said, grinning.

Saltonstall’s face darkened and he set his
jaw. Even his own captains were against him. Lovell ought to attack
first, not him! Let him and his precious Paul Revere go in and take
the fort,
then
he’d send his ship captains in!

Benjamin West, captain of the
Black
Prince,
poured himself a glass of claret and spoke for all of
them. “Sir, we depend upon the swiftness of our vessels and miles
of open ocean for our very survival. Read the blasted letter from
Boston,” he pleaded. “Consider Washington’s warning.
We’re
sitting ducks up here.
Hacker’s right, Merrick’s right,
everyone’s
right. Let’s just get in there, destroy those
three ships, and hightail it out of here. I’ve no desire to be
penned into this bay, twenty-five miles from the ocean, like a cat
treed by hounds with nowhere to go but up. And if those British
reinforcements arrive—”

“That’s just what’ll happen!” Hacker
barked.

“Aye!”

“Do something
now!”

“Get on with it!”

They fought. They quarreled. Lovell and his
officers were called in, and after much discussion, the general
accepted Captain Hacker’s plan on how his ragtag militia could
occupy and hold a position behind the British fort. The ship
captains agreed to force their way into the harbor; after all,
their vessels were superior to those of the British, and
destruction of Mowat’s three sloops was essential. Without their
protection, all aid and provisions going into the British fort
would be stopped—and the British General McLean would have no
choice but to surrender.

###

On the third day of August, eight ships under
the command of Vice Admiral Sir George Collier had left port,
turned their prows north, and headed toward Penobscot to relieve
the besieged General Francis McLean and Captain Henry Mowat.
British spirits were high, confidence strong. In the vanguard was
the vice admiral’s powerful sixty-four-gun flagship
Raisonnable;
in the midst were several large men-of-war; and
in the rear was a sullen frigate named
Viper.

The squadron, hampered by fog, rendezvoused
off the entrance to the great Penobscot Bay on the evening of
August 13, where their presence sent a panicky American vessel on
picket duty fleeing upriver to warn the American commodore
Saltonstall and his fleet. But Sir George Collier, in command of
His Majesty’s naval forces in American waters, was not worried.
Although the rebels had more ships than he did, his men-of-war
could withstand far more abuse than the fragile privateers, or even
Saltonstall’s thirty-two-gun
Warren.
The American militia
was raw and ill trained; he, on the other hand, had more than two
hundred guns and some fifteen hundred well-trained and enthusiastic
men.

He went to bed that night confident of
victory. He had heavy, powerful ships manned by the finest navy in
the world. He had the element of surprise. And he had one of Sir
Geoffrey Lloyd’s— since retired to his fine home in Kent—most
ambitious captains, a man he bore no liking for, but a man who was
desperate enough to go to any lengths to prove himself after
several past disgraces.

Captain Richard Crichton of the frigate
Viper.

###

That Friday, Brendan paced his cabin, going
over the agreement that had finally been reached between Lovell and
Saltonstall. Upon a favorable tide in the afternoon, they would
make a coordinated attack. Lovell himself would lead some four
hundred of his men to a position behind the British fort, where his
presence would sever contact between McLean and Mowat. Once that
had been done, Saltonstall would send in his ships and destroy the
three sloops-of-war.

Five of Saltonstall’s ships were anchored at
the harbor entrance, waiting for high tide. Above, Brendan could
hear the crew quickly readying
Kestrel
for impending battle.
His fingers tightened on his cane and he tried in vain to shake the
heavy, overwhelming feeling of doom. Just beyond the stern windows
the sea swelled and surged and danced in the noon sunlight; beneath
him,
Kestrel
rolled at her anchor cable, unhappy that she
was not one of the lucky ones being sent in against Mowat’s sloops.
He really should go topside; by now, Lovell would be in position
and ready. Any moment now they’d get the signal that the American
forces had taken position at the rear of the fort.

But this waiting. . . .

His hands were sweating.

He was dizzy, light-headed, faint. Was it the
heat? His lingering weakness? The tedium of waiting? As Ephraim
might’ve done, he drew his watch, shoved it restlessly back into
his pocket, and tried to keep his mind off his poor health by
recalling Saltonstall’s reaction to Mira’s pie. His mouth curved in
amusement. Pleading a stomachache that had “hit him in the gut like
a ball from a six-pounder,” the surly commodore had cut short last
night’s council of war and sent them all back to their ships with
curses ringing in their ears.

So much for blueberry pie. And, he thought
wryly, lengthy meetings where nothing got accomplished. He was back
aboard
Kestrel
by six bells.

But as he’d held Mira in his arms last night,
staring into the darkness and listening to the owls hooting off in
the Maine woods, the ominous feeling of impending disaster had
grown so strong, he’d finally had to rise from bed and go topside.
There, he’d spent the rest of the long night watching the lights
from the fleet glowing upon the silent waters, his Irish heart
filled with dread. He’d thought of Saltonstall’s incompetence and
unpopularity. He’d thought of the poorly trained militia. He’d
thought of the British reinforcements they all feared—and then he’d
thought of Mira’s blueberry pie.