Captain of My Heart (53 page)

His head spinning, Brendan raised his arm and
pointed with his spyglass through the parting smoke. “Not yet, we
haven’t, Liam.” He shut his eyes and fell back against his friend’s
chest. “Look . . .”

Liam’s gaze followed his captain’s arm. His
eyes bulged, and the triumphant grin froze on his face.

For there, blocking the way to the open sea,
was HMS
Viper.

###

At midnight the American general Solomon
Lovell, several miles north of
Kestrel,
gave the order to
evacuate the peninsula. The panicky militia was put aboard the
transports, and these were protectively herded behind the swift and
well-armed warships. Ammunition was hastily loaded, artillery
gathered, supplies collected. By eight o’clock the following
morning, the mighty American fleet was fleeing up the narrowing
river, where Lovell hoped the British fleet, with their
deeper-drafted men-of-war, would be unable to follow. But follow
they did, and thwarted by an ebb tide, the Americans finally
dropped anchor and prepared to face Sir George’s ships.

At noon Commodore Saltonstall made his most
decisive move since the Expedition had arrived in Penobscot.

Calling off his defenses, he signaled for
every ship to fend for itself.

From shore, Mira, Abadiah, and the two
marines watched in stunned horror as a southerly breeze drove the
British squadron closer and closer. But the Americans didn’t turn
and fight. One by one the warships and skittish privateers weighed
anchor and raised sail.

“Bloody hell, Saltonstall’s giving the order
to
retreat!”
Stanley yelled. “C’mon, we have to follow
them!”

“There ain’t no place to retreat to—but
farther upriver!” Abadiah cried.

Frantic, they raced along the heavily wooded
shoreline, terrified of losing sight of their ships and desperately
trying to keep pace with them. Seeing the Americans’ flight, the
British piled on more sail, and even Mowat’s three sloops came out
of their lair and joined the fray.

What had been a pursuit was now a downright
rout.

Chaos reigned. Screams and shouts and gunfire
shattered the quiet of the great woods, echoed over the bay.
Defenseless, the heavily laden transports wallowed like tubs as the
fleet warships that were supposed to protect them crowded on all
sail and, with the British in hot pursuit, fled upriver, passing
them one by one and leaving them to the mercy of the enemy. It was
a sight that the helpless militia aboard them—and the little party
of stranded mariners on shore—would never forget.

Swift Yankee brigs, their sails spread to
catch the wind at their sterns, bolting upriver with their tails
between their legs. Mighty square-riggers, their wakes streaming
behind them. Privateers and state ships and Continental vessels—and
Warren
herself, with Saltonstall’s flag fluttering
shamefacedly at her mast.

All fleeing.

The utter humiliation and disgrace of it
wrung the tears from their eyes. Sobbing, Mira sank down and buried
her face in her knees. Why didn’t they turn and make a stand? Why,
why,
why?
She stood up and clenched her fists at her sides.
Clawing her hair from her streaming cheeks, she screamed, “Damn
you, Saltonstall! You cowardly bucket of spineless slime! Turn
around and
fight!”

Sunset came and went, and darkness cloaked
the Maine woods. One of the transports fell into enemy hands;
another. And then, out in the river, a mighty explosion lit up the
night in a spectacular display of disgrace. A great sigh went up
from Mira’s little band. The Americans were setting the transports
afire to prevent their seizure by the enemy. By the light of their
funeral pyres, the militia waded dejectedly ashore and watched
mutely as their ships went up in flames.

And then the proud warships and privateers
began to follow suit.

One drove against the far shore and, moments
later, exploded into flames that soared high into the night as its
crew, unwilling to let it fall into British hands, torched it. Off
to the right another blew up, belching a fountain of orange sparks
into the tall pines and scorching their fringed branches. The
horrible scent of burning pitch, tar, and canvas filled the air as
the privateers died. Tears raced from Mira’s eyes, tracing paths
down her smoke-blackened cheeks and reflecting the sad flames.

Oh, Brendan
. . . She covered her eyes
with her hands, unable to bear the sight.
Oh, thank God you made
it to sea and don’t have to see this. Oh, thank God, thank God,
thank God—

Abadiah Bobbs grabbed her wrist and pointed
downriver. Through the glowing orange smoke. Through the tangle of
American and British warships, and the fires that lit up the night
and the entire surface of the river itself. Toward the south.

There, heading toward them, her black hull
reflecting the flames, every sail set and her proud colors
streaming from her gaff, was
Kestrel.

She hadn’t gone to sea after all.

And then Mira’s heart lodged in her throat.
In hot pursuit was a frigate, her very size dwarfing the little
Kestrel.

Mira fell back against Abadiah’s arm.

That frigate was
Viper.

###

Some tried in vain to get past the British
squadron and out to sea.

None, save Newburyport’s
Pallas,
succeeded.

The brigantine
Defense,
of Beverly,
went aground. New Hampshire’s
Hampden
engaged one of the
men-of-war, lost the fight, and was surrendered. Headed off as she
tried to scoot between Long Island and the mainland, the
eighteen-gun
Hunter
lurched ashore and was abandoned. With
the exception of
Kestrel
and her prize schooner, the rest of
the American fleet fled upriver.

Brendan stood solemnly on the deck of his
doomed ship, surrounded by his crew. His plan to save Saltonstall
had been for naught. And now they were trapped with the rest of the
Americans.

Faces were long and sad in the flickering
orange light of the flames. Eyes were haunted; nobody spoke.

Beneath his feet,
Kestrel
rolled
uneasily.

Ahead, the river narrowed and would grow
impassable. Behind, their escape was prevented by British
men-of-war and the frigate
Viper.
There was nothing more to
do, nowhere left to go.

Near shore, an American ship went up in
flames with a terrible, rushing roar, and then a mighty explosion
as the fire found her powder magazine.

Brendan took a deep and bracing breath. He
touched the rail and felt
Kestrel
trembling all the way down
to her keel.

I can’t,
he thought. He stroked the
rail and swallowed the hard, burning lump in his throat.
You’re
my lassie . . . I can’t destroy you. . . .

But he couldn’t allow her to fall into
British hands, either.

To larboard,
Defense
blew up,
screaming like a live thing as the flames roared up her masts and,
in seconds, consumed her sails and swallowed them whole. Sickened,
Brendan turned away, unable to watch the awful death.

“I can’t,” he said aloud.

No one spoke.
Kestrel
surged
restlessly beneath him, fearful, suddenly wary.

The British ships moved closer, already
moving to surround him.

He took off his hat and raked shaking hands
through his hair. His vision swam and his heart was burning a hole
in his chest. The old scar ached. He swallowed hard and
straightened his shoulders, careful to keep the emotion out of his
eyes. But to muster a grin was too much. He looked at the ships
dying around him, the smoking remains of the once proud American
fleet—and knew what he had to do.

“Liam,” he said quietly, “bring me some hemp
and a lantern from belowdecks.”

Kestrel
was shaking. Pleading.
Begging.

“Brendan . . . what’re ye goin’ to do?”

“The only thing I
can
do.” He shut his
eyes in agony, his nails biting into his palms. “Torch her.”

Aft, the prize schooner pressed close to
Kestrel
’s flank as though seeking her protection. His jaw
clenched, Brendan stared past her, out over the smoke-clogged water
and into the night. Tears stood in his eyes and he hastily turned
his back so the crew wouldn’t see.

And then Liam was there, solemnly holding the
lantern and a thick piece of hemp.

The time had come.

With trembling hands, he reached for the
lantern.

###

A mile away, Mira and her little party
huddled together onshore and watched another blazing hulk come
drifting down the river in a thundering wall of bright orange flame
and billowing smoke.

A horrible, keening cry of grief rose in her
throat, and she turned her sobbing face into Abadiah’s arms to
block the sight.

It was a schooner.

Chapter
32

What was left of the mighty American fleet
gathered together and, on foot, made the long, exhausting trek back
through the Maine wilderness to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Many
died in the lonely woods. The true losses were never counted.
Starving, dejected, and footsore, they followed the coast and
returned to their homes.

On the day that Mira wearily pulled open the
Ashton front door, the sun was glowing with that melancholy late
afternoon burnish that painted the sides of the house in rust and
cast long shadows over the lawn. She was greeted by a sobbing
Abigail, a jubilant Ephraim, and the news that Matt and Eveleen
were affianced.

She passed the table, set with fine silver
and polished crystal. She waded through some twelve or thirteen
cats, clapped her hands over her ears at the sound of Ephraim’s
great, chiming Willard clock, and retreated to her room without a
word to anyone.

She’d never felt so wretched in her life.

And with each hour she was home, the pain
only worsened.

Two days after her arrival, she wandered out
to the stable and watched her three horses grazing in the paddock.
Rigel, his dappled coat shining like gunmetal. El Nath, looking
over the fence with his long, inky forelock hanging in his eyes.
Shaula, prancing along the perimeter, her white tail raised like a
glorious flag.

Once, they had meant everything to her, those
horses. Now she could not have cared less about them.

In several of the Market Square stores,
merchants displayed brilliantly executed sketches of sea battles
and got the high prices they asked for them. Mira, dejectedly
buying some flour several days after her return, happened to glance
up and see one. She knew who the artist was without even having to
look at the signature.

She didn’t go into the store again.

Across High Street their neighbors, no doubt
tired of the unreasonable amount of noise coming from the Ashton
household, had long since moved out. Now Eveleen and Matt, who had
regained the sight in one eye, were planning to move in as soon as
they tied the knot.

And down in the Ashton Shipyards, a new ship
was taking shape on the ways, not far from where the legendary
Kestrel
had been built. She would be a brig, sleek and
graceful, with a jaunty nose and a tapered tail and masts that
scraped the sky. Her figurehead would be a blonde maiden with soft
eyes, and the name across her counter would be
Eveleen.
And
her drafts, carefully locked in Ephraim’s office, had been drawn by
a naval hero named Merrick, an Anglo-Irishman who’d met his end in
the wilderness of Penobscot.

For Mira, the days passed in a thick haze of
grief. She didn’t eat. She didn’t think. She didn’t sleep, but
spent her nights in the bed that had been Brendan’s, clutching to
her heart the pillow that had once cradled his dear head and crying
until she had no tears left to cry. The days merged into each
other, one after another, until the day of Matt’s and Eveleen’s
wedding finally arrived.

It was late afternoon, with celebrations
planned far into the night. St. Paul’s Church filled rapidly,
despite the heat of the day and the short length of time since the
couple had made their announcement, for Matthew Ashton was a
Newburyport hero, and the whole town turned out to attend his
nuptials. The Reverend Edward Bass sweated in his long robes. The
groom looked carefully dressed and resplendent for once; the bride,
soft and beautiful in a simple gown of pale blue. Guests sat
fidgeting in the hard pews: sea captains wearing their best
uniforms, mariners in freshly washed shirts and homespun vests,
merchants in silk and velvet with the sweat pouring out of their
powdered hair. Men scratched beneath their wigs. Ladies fanned
themselves and dabbed at their brows.

The Reverend Bass cleared his throat. Ephraim
looked at his watch. Somewhere in the back, a baby yowled and split
the tense silence with lusty cries.

“Dearly beloved. We are gathered here today
...”

Mira heard the words through a foggy,
pressing daze. She saw her brother’s gentle smile for his bride,
saw something of Brendan in the grin that Eveleen returned. She
felt herself smile, desperately wanting to be happy for them. But
her own eyes filled with tears.

This was the wedding day I never had. You
said you would marry me, Brendan, as soon as you got back to
Newburyport. You and I were supposed to be standing up there. But
you’re never coming back. You are dead and my reason for living has
died with you, and I will never smile again.

Reverend Bass droned on. The shadows grew
long. The baby screamed louder and had to be carried out. Outside,
a wind came up and the trees rustled, and from far off came the
distant roll of what sounded like thunder.