Captain of My Heart (52 page)

“Brendan!” she cried. “Oh God, we have to
reach the ship!”

They tore out of the trees, raced down the
beach, and slid to a halt on the slimy, seaweed-covered rocks.
Mira’s heart skipped a beat and filled her throat. Dread snaked up
her spine. There, coming up the bay, was
Diligent,
the ship
that Saltonstall had posted as a lookout twenty-five miles
downriver at the entrance to the bay. Far behind her was the other
lookout,
Active.
And far, far off in the distance, almost
indistinguishable in the haze, were the sails of a mighty
fleet.

“For God’s sake, hurry up!” Mira screamed,
dropping her pail and running for the little boat they’d dragged up
on the beach. Already the tide was coming in, lapping at its keel.
“Brendan needs us!
Kestrel
needs us!”

“No, Mira.” Abadiah grabbed her arm.
“Look.”

She flung the hair out of her eyes and
followed his gaze. The color drained from her face. There was the
American fleet, some of them already weighing anchor. There was
Warren,
signal flags soaring up her masts and calling a halt
to the attack.

Attack?
What attack?

And there was
Kestrel.

Sail was blooming at her nose, climbing her
sharply raked masts, and filling with clean, strong wind. Guns
poked from hastily opening gunports. She was not dropping anchor
like the others, but turning her face south—toward the enemy.

“
Brendan!”
Mira screamed at the top of
her lungs.
“Damn you, don’t leave me!”

Water reflected off
Kestrel
’s glossy
black hull, then her tallowed underside, as she heeled gracefully
and, with the prize schooner also weighing anchor to follow her,
moved quietly downriver in stately, majestic hauteur. Away from the
fleet. Away from
her.

Watching the two ships, Mira cursed and swore
and screamed until her voice went raw in her throat. It took
Abadiah and both of the marines to hold her down. And as she
watched the little schooner sail bravely away to face the enemy,
Mira vowed that if
Kestrel
survived, it would be the last
time Brendan would ever run away from her again.

###

“What the bloody deuce is that damned
Irishman up to now?” Crichton thundered, grabbing his glass from a
stunned Myles and training it on the oncoming schooner. “Is he
insane?”

Myles sniffed and dug at his pockmarked face.
“I would give him more cleverness than his peers, sir. At least
he’s going to try to make a run for it. They, on the other hand,
will be sitting ducks when Sir George’s ships move in.”

“If I know Merrick, he’s not running, he’s up
to something! And I don’t give a damn about the rest of the fleet.
I want that schooner and I want Merrick! You think I really care
about those other cursed rebels? You think I persuaded the new
admiral to assign me to this squadron just for the jolly hell of
it?” Crichton slammed the glass shut and thrust it into his
lieutenant’s hand so hard it nearly broke the man’s finger. “I
joined it because I
knew
Merrick would be a part of it, and
I wasn’t mistaken. This time he won’t escape me!”

Myles, who was inclined to let bygones be
bygones after their last humiliating brush with the Captain from
Connaught, shrugged and picked at the cuff of his sleeve.
“Honestly, sir, perhaps we should forget about this one schooner
and one privateersman when there’s the whole American fleet just
sitting—”

Fuming, Crichton spun around and cracked the
back of his hand across Myles’s face. “Dare you question my wishes?
That one schooner is my ticket to flag rank! That one privateersman
is the reason I never got it in the first place! He
owes
me,
Myles! And this time he’s going to pay up!”

“Yes, sir,” Myles said, sullenly rubbing his
cheek.

“Now, get forward and run out the bow
chasers. Have the men beat to quarters and load every gun with
grape. Should Merrick try to get past me, I’ll blast him and that
damned schooner to kingdom come!”

His milky eyes glowing with a fanatical
light, Crichton gripped the rail, set his jaw, and waited.

###

“Make five . . . six . . .
eight
enemy
sails, sir, standing up the bay!”

“Thank you, Mr. Reilly.” Looping the lanyard
of his speaking trumpet over his wrist, Brendan calmly pulled out
his sketchpad. So be it, then. Eight British ships against
Saltonstall’s twenty. Ought to be a good fight. Drawing his knife,
he sharpened his pencil and made a test mark on the clean white
paper. This was definitely one battle he wanted to save for
posterity.

Liam was at his elbow, his face going purple.
“God Almighty, Brendan, don’t ye think ye ought to be mindin’ the
ship just this once, instead of playin’ artist?!”

“Minding the ship? Faith, Liam, that’s
your
job. Tell Mr. Wilbur to see to that foresail, would
you? She’s luffing a bit. I don’t want the vice admiral to think
I’ve lost my penchant for perfection. And oh, Liam, while you’re at
it, do get your fiddle out and strike up a lively tune, would
you?”

Liam stared at him. “Somethin’ Irish?”

“No, something American, I think. Such as . .
. oh, I don’t know. ‘Yankee Doodle’? ‘Derry Down’? Actually, I
think ‘Free America’ might do quite nicely.”

Fergus McDermott, clutching a crystal in one
hand and a Bible in the other, nervously eyed
Freedom.
“But
we don’t have Miss Mira to sing it for us.”

“And we don’t know all the words,” added
George Saunders.

“Fine, then make them up as you go.” Brendan
grinned and tapped his pencil against the sketchpad. “That’s what
she would do!”

He turned away, pretending blithe
indifference when, in truth, he was anything but blithe, and
anything but indifferent. He swallowed hard. There was an ache in
his chest that had nothing to do with his old injury as he looked
at the forlorn and lonely
Freedom.
Mira. At least she would
be safe. Furious with him, surely—but safe.

Hurriedly he put pencil to paper and sketched
out the admiral’s flagship, unaware of the whispered comments of
his crew.

“Captain’s ailin’. Look at the way his hands
are shaking. He can barely hold that sketchpad of his, let alone
draw on it.”

“And he’s leaning against that mast as though
he’s trying to hold it up.”

“He ain’t recovered yet, Reilly. He ought to
be abed, not on the deck of a warship.”

“Think he’s up to it?”

“Nay, he’s not up to it! But there still
ain’t no captain in this here fleet I’d rather be with than our
Brendan!”

They watched as he went to the rail,
pretending not to notice the way he hooked an elbow through the
shrouds to keep his balance, the way he braced a hip against the
gunwale, the way his gaze kept straying to the woods where they’d
left Miss Mira.

“Makin’ six knots, sir,” Liam said
gravely.

“Hoist the topsails and let’s try for
seven.”

“Might need the t’gallant fer that, sir.”

“Fine, Liam, then hoist it, too.” Pulling out
his spyglass, Brendan trained it on the vice admiral’s flagship,
studying her lines, her sail set, the way she cleaved the water.
Finally he lowered the glass, his hand quickly and expertly putting
to paper what he’d seen. The man-of-war’s big courses were bloated,
her topsails clewed up for battle, her mighty stem plowing the
water. She had sixty-four guns against
Kestrel
’s ten. A crew
of hundreds against his fifty. He pitied Saltonstall. And an
experienced admiral against a cowardly commodore.

He wondered if he’d survive long enough to
get a taste of the infamous Mill Prison—and decided he’d rather die
first.

“I don’t hear your fiddle, Liam!”

“God Almighty, Brendan, what about the
commodore?”

“The commodore shall thank me for diverting
the enemy long enough for him to think out his next—and only—move.
Mr. Keefe! We
must
make it look like we’re trying to escape
to sea, do you understand? The entire British navy is after our
little
Kestrel.
’Tis a gamble, but if we can lure at least a
few of them to follow us, then it might allow Saltonstall the time
he needs to gather his forces and prepare to meet the British
fleet.”

“That’s gambling a lot, sir!”

“I know that, Mr. Keefe, and we’re going to
take a beating doing it. But we’re the only chance the commodore
has. Let’s hope he’s a survivor and takes the opening we shall give
him! Now signal our prize and tell her to stay close on our heels,
and when I tell you to swing to larboard, I want you to go to
starboard!
”

“Aye, sir!”

“Hands to the sheets and prepare to come
about! Gunners, to stations and load up with grape, double-shotted!
Mr. Saunders, you may take Mr. Starr’s place on
Freedom.
No
singing, please! Mr. Wilbur, shake out the fore topsail! And,
Dalby, please let go of my sleeve!”

“But, Captain, my stomach—”

Liam was there, hauling Dalby away. “Leave
the cap’n be, Dalb! Ye know he hates to be bothered when he’s doin’
a sketch. ...”

But Brendan was no longer sketching. Dividing
his attention between the oncoming British ships and his men, he
directed his crew with brisk gestures of his spyglass. “Run out the
starboard battery, Mr. Doherty! I want to fool Sir George into
thinking we’ll loose the starboard guns when, in truth, ’twill be
the
larboard
ones! And larboard gunners, keep down lest our
fine British friends see you! Get those topsails hung, Mr. Wilbur!
Lively, now! Faith, you people are slower than molasses today!”

Men, bare-backed and barefoot, raced each
other up the shrouds. Aft, the prize schooner was left wallowing in
their foamy wake as
Kestrel
lifted her bows, spread her
wings, and gathered speed, her pennants snapping and streaming in
the wind.

Above, the topsails made a noise like thunder
before being sheeted home.

Brendan stroked the schooner’s sleek rail. “A
wee bit faster, lassie. ’Tisn’t much I ask of you. ...”

Beneath the bows, the keen of water grew
higher and higher in pitch as
Kestrel
answered his gentle
plea. Wind sang in the rigging, and the great foresail curved like
a drum against the bright blue sky. Spray hissed at the bow, drove
back in the wind, flecked Brendan’s cheeks with a damp mist. He
licked his lips and tasted salt.

“Six an’ a half knots, Brendan.”

“
Go hálainn,
Liam, but I want
seven!”

He’d be lucky to get it. Not in this wind. He
put his hands behind his back and braced himself against the
gunwale, the dizziness striking with swift and sudden force.

Another three minutes and they’d be in easy
range of
Raisonnable
’s guns.

“Seven knots, sir!”

Two minutes.

He hung his head, fighting to stay on his
feet. “Sheet in foresail and main!”

The crew stared at the massive, oncoming
man-of-war. Every breath caught in every throat. Panic widened
frightened eyes. Liam wrapped his big, brawny hands around the
mainsheet.
Kestrel
quivered in fear, driving closer and
closer to the mighty two-decker, now rising above her like a
fortress. . . .

“
Our father, who art in heaven
—”
Fergus was chanting.

Dalby, pale with terror, clutched his gut and
whispered, “
Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be
done—
”

“
On earth as it is in heaven!”
Brendan
slammed his speaking trumpet to his lips. “Larboard your helm, Mr.
Keefe, and let fly. . . .
Now!”

The tiller went over, hard. The big mainsail
boom skated over their heads and to the other side.
Kestrel
danced across the wind, her bowsprit sweeping over the rippling
water, toward the oncoming flagship, past it, farther and farther,
aligning now on the hazy mainland, the islands. . . .

“Straighten her out, John! For the love of
God,
now!”

Kestrel
nosed back toward the wind,
her sails a-thunder, her rigging shaking—and then the man-of-war’s
broadside crashed out, around, above, and beside them. A hail of
iron slammed into the little schooner’s flanks and ripped through
rigging and sails alike. Debris rained down on the deck, splashed
into the sea.
Kestrel
shuddered, lurched, hesitated—

“
Come on, lassie, you can do it!”

—and dove through the hole in the thick black
smoke.

“We’re hit!” Liam screamed. “God Almighty,
Brendan, we lost the fore tops’l mast—”

Dimly Brendan heard
Raisonnable
’s
broadside crash out again. The deck trembled beneath his feet, and
the world seemed to explode as his own guns bellowed in impudent
reply. Thick, choking smoke drove back in his face. Spent powder
burned his nose. Masts swayed and yards shook as
Kestrel,
pitching and yawing, fought valiantly to make headway.

Dizzily he staggered to the tiller and
wrestled it out of Keefe’s hands, its solid support the only thing
keeping him on his feet. “We’re almost through, lassie!
Don’t
fail me now!”

Kestrel,
shuddering, clawed upward,
trying desperately to regain her balance. Gathering her courage,
she answered her captain and bravely swung herself back toward the
mighty flagship. Moments later, she was safely past the huge
two-decker and showing a fleet pair of heels to the vice admiral’s
flag.

Kestrel
’s crew went wild, cheering and
tossing their hats in the air.

“We did it!
We did it!”
Liam was
jumping up and down, pounding his great fist against the rail in
triumph. “God Almighty, Brendan we did it! They’ll follow us, right
out to open sea if we want ’em to! The commodore’ll be a-thankin’
ye up ’n’ down when he sees what ye’ve done fer him! Brendan?” He
raced aft. “Brendan! Easy there, laddie.” And caught his captain as
he fell, supporting him beneath the shoulders in his massive,
brawny arms.