Beloved Captive (9 page)

Three days to decide how to respond to the letter now pressed into his pocket. Perhaps he would look to Fletcher for advice. Indeed, this sort of thing could be best decided when more than one was involved. But before he could speak about it, Caleb knew he had another to consult. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave for a spell.”

“A nap this early in the afternoon?” Fletcher chuckled.
 

“A visit with the Lord,” he said. “There’s a conversation to be had.”

“I see.” If his curiosity was piqued, Fletcher’s expression gave nothing of it away.

“And when He and I are done, I shall seek you out for some advice if you’re of a mind to lend it.”

His smile was quick and broad. “Always, lad,” he said. “Always.”

Chapter 9

May 27, 1836

Aboard the
Sunday Service

Only the broad back of the stranger was within Emilie’s reach, but despite the smoke that burnt her throat and stung her eyes, she fought with all she had. Finally, the man strode back into her cabin and tossed her unceremoniously onto the bunk.

He was a large man, wide of shoulder and clad in rags that looked to have once been elegant clothing. A garish yellow coat barely covered the remains of a fine linen shirt. Atop his mop of filthy blond hair, he wore a gentleman’s top hat that had seen better days. Where she expected to see boots, the man was barefoot.

All of this she saw as she plotted the best path to the open door.

Before Emilie could flee, he had her hands. With one knee, he pinned her to the mattress while he lashed a length of rope around her wrists.

 
“Would that the flames weren’t upon us, lassie,” he said, his face near and his breath vile. “For a woman of spirit sets my blood a-boilin’.”

A crash somewhere near the cabin door caused the man to jolt. Seizing her chance, Emilie pulled away. His lunge sent Emilie skittering to the corner of the bunk. “I’d rather go down with this ship than leave it with you,” she said before dissolving into a fit of coughing.

When he came near, she recovered just in time to rake her nails across his cheek. That failed to dissuade him, so she kicked him, landing a blow that sent him backward.
 

The man rose, and a trickle of blood traced a path down his pock-
marked cheek.
 

“Miss,” he said as his chest heaved and the top hat tumbled to the floor, “ye jest got yer wish.”

Time skidded to a halt, and Emilie watched the horrible man reach for the pistol hanging from his belt by a red silken cord.
 

He lifted the pistol.

Checked his aim.

Smiled.

Without warning, a wall of water divided them.

* * *

Havana

That evening after a dinner of sumptuous proportions, Caleb finally broached the subject of his letter from the attorney general. Rather than describe it, he simply handed the letter to Fletcher.
 

“Read it,” Caleb said, “and you’ll see my need to visit with the Lord this afternoon.”

Fletcher quirked an iron-gray brow. “Lad, one never requires a letter from some fellow in Washington to have a need to speak to the Lord.”

“Enough of the jest,” Caleb said with mock impatience as he lifted the mug of strong coffee. “Read and then I shall entertain your thoughts rather than allowing your thoughts to try and entertain me.”

“Clever,” he said as he lifted the letter and lowered his gaze.

For a moment, Caleb turned his attention to the brilliantly hued room, its glorious tile and heavy timbers giving the impression they sat in the reception hall of some grand Spanish hacienda. Beneath the light of what seemed to be a thousand lamps twinkling to music provided by a skilled guitarist, all of Havana looked to be in attendance.

Were not men of all kinds dining in the establishment, Caleb might have felt out of place. His overlong, sun-streaked hair and length of beard made him appear as though he’d long ago given up on a barber’s skills, yet he looked no worse than some and better than others.
 

He chuckled at the thought of what his colleagues at the attorney general’s office would think of their staid coworker. Glancing down at the golden tan on his arms and calluses on his palms, he knew they’d likely not even recognize him. He rarely recognized his own image in the mirror.

Out of the corner of his eye, Caleb saw Fletcher fold the letter. “Well?”

“A moment,” Fletcher said.
 

Caleb nodded and studied a trio of waiters who seemed to be racing one another to a table filled with men in uniform. The soldiers appeared to be in the midst of some great debate, and their rapid-fire chatter rose and fell with the sounds of the guitar.

“Aide to the secretary of the navy. Impressive. So.” Fletcher leaned back in his chair and gave Caleb a direct look. “What are you going to do?”

“I am going to listen to your sage advice,” he said, “and then I shall make my decision.”

Fletcher handed the letter back to Caleb. “How well do you know this man?”

“The attorney general?” Caleb shook his head. “Well enough, I suppose, although he was Father’s friend, not mine.”

“I see.” He seemed to be considering something. “And do you think this move is wise?”

“It’s a surprising one, most certainly. When I left, I was told the next opening as aide to the AG was mine.” He pointed to the letter. “And now this.”

Fletcher’s eyes narrowed. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, that’s the question of the moment, isn’t it?”

“No, lad,” Fletcher said slowly. “The question of the moment is whether you’ll accept the promotion.”

“Indeed it is.” He toyed with his mug, then lifted his gaze to meet Fletcher’s stare. “It appears I must accept it or leave. According to the letter, my job will be filled in my absence.”

“Which was the plan all along, correct?”

Caleb inclined his head. “The plan was that my job would be filled when I received the promotion. I certainly never expected the promotion would be into the department of the navy.”

“But?”

“I’ve been trained as a lawyer, Fletcher, and always expected I would follow my father in service to the attorney general. I never considered anything else.”

Again he lifted one brow. “Until now.”

A statement, not a question.

“Yes, actually,” Caleb said slowly. “Until now.”

“Then it’s settled.” Fletcher pushed back from the table and rose, leaning on his cane while he waited for Caleb to join him. “Welcome to the naval department, lad.”

As they walked, he tried on his new title. Lieutenant Spencer. Indeed it seemed to fit.

“Did you mention this to your mother?” Fletcher asked.

“No.” He paused. “Yet she’s sent us on this mission to post mail in Havana.”

Fletcher grinned. “Do you think perhaps your mother wanted you out to sea when you spoke to the Lord? It would be a fitting place for a naval officer with promise to spend time with his Creator.”

Caleb laughed. “I hesitate to believe a gentlewoman such as my mother might actually contrive to do such a thing. Yet. . .”

“Well, whatever the reason, it was a fine meal we had and a fine sail to get here.” He gestured to the bay where the
Cormorant
lay at anchor amongst the countless others under the moon’s pale glow. “And tomorrow we’ll test her sails and head back to Santa Lucida, eh?”

“But not before I draft a letter accepting the promotion.” He stopped short. “Wait, Fletcher. My job is not done in Santa Lucida. How can I leave my mother when she has no one to look after her welfare or the workings of the plantation?”

Fletcher’s face was half-hidden in shadows, but what Caleb saw of it held an expression of concern. “I had hoped to have this conversation at a later date,” he said. “I’m put in mind of our earlier conversation.” He paused. “With your permission, I would like to see to the care of Benning Plantation in your absence.”

“And to the care of my mother?”

Fletcher jammed the pipe into his mouth and set off walking. Up ahead, the moon glinted off the mainmast of the
Cormorant
as if leading the way. Caleb picked up his pace to catch up to the older man, who was practically racing toward the vessel.

“Have I hit upon a subject you wish not to discuss? Perhaps you’ve been giving thought to what I said?” Caleb asked when he fell into stride beside him. “Perhaps I should withdraw the question.”

“It would be a healthy idea,” Fletcher said, the pipe still clenched between his jaws. “For although you’re seed of the Bennings and son of John Spencer, I’ll not be answering to you on this particular matter.”

“I see.”

The older man stopped just short of the dock and whirled around to face Caleb. “And another thing, lad. I’m sure you’ll find my devotion to the Bennings as odd and my attention to your mother’s welfare as amusing.” He paused to pull the pipe from his mouth and jam it into his pocket. “However, you will comment on neither. Do you understand?”

“Clearly.”

He tilted his head toward Caleb, his eyes narrowing. “So we’re done here?”

“Completely.”

“And your mother will know nothing of this conversation.”

“Not a word.” He gave Fletcher a serious expression. “I’ve been thinking that perhaps I should have the crew weigh anchor and head back to Santa Lucida tonight rather than wait for daybreak. If we weigh anchor in an hour, we can be home in time for breakfast.”

“Do as you wish, lad.”

Caleb sidestepped a stack of crates, then returned to the topic at hand. “Might I impose on you to wake the captain and tell him we wish to dine with my mother at dawn?”

“I’ll not comment on your reasoning, but I shall inform the captain of your decision.”

Stifling a smile, Caleb allowed the indignant man to board the vessel ahead of him. “Thank you.”
 

When Fletcher disappeared below without even sparing a curt good-night, Caleb knew he’d trod on sensitive ground. “No more teasing,” he whispered. “It appears my mother may have a suitor.”

The thought caused him to smile as he settled into a dark corner of the quarterdeck and made himself comfortable for his evening conversation with God. As he watched, one by one the tiny pinpricks of light pierced the sky.
 

With each new star, Caleb called to mind a blessing the Lord had bestowed. It was a game he’d learned as a child; who had taught it, he could not remember.
 

He added a new blessing to the list. “Thank You, Lord, for the man who loves my mother.”
 

* * *

Emilie kicked at the water until her tangled skirts bound her legs just as tightly as the rope that still bound her hands. While the gold in her skirts pulled her toward the ocean’s floor, salt water stung her eyes and nose and filled her mouth until she could neither see nor breathe.

Save me, Lord.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell sounded, likely from the vessel carrying the thieving criminals. She sank below the surface, and her ears gurgled with the rush of water, ending any hope of hearing from which direction they approached.

Or, she hoped, from which direction they departed.

Please, save me, Lord.

Once again, she bobbed to the surface, this time pitching forward in the hopes of keeping herself afloat by floating, not an easy thing to accomplish given the weight of her father’s gold. The thought of what she must look like made her shiver, as very likely she could indeed be dead before anyone other than the ruffians who burned the
Sunday Service
found her.

I cannot do this alone, Lord
.

With concerted effort, she threw her head forward and paid for it by striking something hard. Blinking, she tried to see what sort of oddity might be afloat in her vicinity.

Near as she could tell from the feel of it against her cheek, she’d managed to find some remainder of the ship. Still warm to the touch, it likely fell away charred but not completely burned.
 

Emilie tried in vain to hold onto the floating lumber. Raising her hands over her head, she allowed herself to slip under water then kicked hard and lunged forward again. This time she managed to hold on, albeit suspended half on one side of the log and half on the other.

Hers was a precarious position, one that still allowed the waves to break over her head, but at least she did not have to fear drowning just yet. For a moment, Emilie lay completely still, her arms slightly bent to relieve the ache that had begun to plague her.

Thank You, Lord, for a precious few more minutes.

The bell had stopped, and all the world was silent. Strong was the temptation to call out, to see if she were indeed the lone survivor. To do so, however, might bring the criminals back.

Better to remain silent and be thought dead than to open my mouth and become so.
A proverb not found in the Bible yet quite applicable to her current situation. Emilie stifled a giggle and knew she’d completely lost any sense of propriety or sane thinking.
 

“Forgive me, Lord,” she whispered, though the water filled her mouth. “I mean no disrespect.”

The bell rang again, this time followed by a blinding arc of light. Some sort of vessel’s wake sent her scuttling in one direction while the charred plank went in the other. When the water covered her head, she found her arms were useless.
 

Exhaustion had set in.

The skirt that had held the promise of a future for Fairweather Key school children now tugged at her and threatened to drag her to the bottom. Where once she fought, now she merely longed for sleep.

As her limbs grew heavier and her lungs screamed for air, Emilie cried out one last time to God:
Save me, Lord.

When the hand reached out to pluck her from the water, Emilie was certain God had heard her prayer. She rose from the water as if some sort of winged creature had lifted her to safety. The landing, however, was less angelic. She fell hard and skidded to a stop against something that felt as if there might be splinters covering it.