Captain of My Heart (2 page)

Brendan, staring at Dalby, didn’t give a damn
about Crichton’s sarcasm, his hatred, or, for that matter, his tea.
It was hot, all right; brutally so. The sun beat down upon Dalby’s
sunburnt back and pulled blisters from the angry flesh. It baked
the planking beneath his shoes, melted the tar between the deck
seams, and made the sweat run down Crichton’s pale face.

And Crichton was offering him tea?

Furious, he tore his gaze from Dalby and
swung around, his jaw clenched, his fingernails biting into his
palms. Out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed the flagship,
anchored in shimmering haze a half mile distant, where Sir
Geoffrey’s flag floated on the wind and tickled the pale clouds
above. He would not let his admiral down. He would not let that
flag down.

He would not let his
men
down!

“Captain Crichton—”

“If not tea, sir, then how about some
coffee?” Crichton sputtered, sensing his superior’s rage and
nervously fingering the hilt of his dress sword. “I’m sure Miss
Eveleen has it all poured for you. She really is a most unusual
young woman, and thoughtful, too! Doesn’t matter how hot it is,
every morning she hauls her paints and canvas topside and sits out
on deck painting the men’s portraits; why, she even gives them away
afterward! Must run in your family, this talent for the fine arts.
I needn’t tell you how popular she is with
Halcyon
’s
people—” Sweat ran from Crichton’s temple as Brendan’s gaze went
once more to Dalby. “—and how we all consider it a blessing that
she’s chosen to accompany you here to Boston. And while I’m not
accustomed to having a woman traveling aboard my ship, I daresay
her presence has been a most enjoyable one—”

“Captain Crichton, I did not come here to
discuss my sister.”

“But of course not, sir, though she
did
see your barge coming across and is probably expecting
you—”

“I came here to address complaints made to me
and our admiral regarding your unnecessary brutality!”

A hush fell over the ship, the slap of waves
against the hull breaking the sudden, strained silence. Somewhere
overhead, a gull cried.

“My—my
brutality?”
Dark, angry color
suffused Crichton’s face. “Why, that’s preposterous! Who would dare
lodge such a ridiculous complaint?”

“Your crew. And
I,
after observing
your actions over the past several moments.”

Crichton followed the young flag officer’s
gaze and waved his hand in a dismissive motion. “What, are you
talking about Dalby O’Hara? Why, he deserves everything that’s
coming to him. Lieutenant Myles caught him stealing bread just this
morning from the purser’s stores. Surely you don’t think I’m going
to let such atrocities go unpunished—”

“Captain Crichton, the only atrocities I see
here are those committed by
you.
Do you think a man can
subsist on moldy bread and watered-down rations and not be hungry?
Cut him down now and send him to sick bay until he is well enough
to return to his duties. And after you’ve done so, I would like a
word with you.”

“A word, sir?”

Brendan drew his admiral’s orders from his
pocket and said tightly, “I am taking over command of
Halcyon
until Sir Geoffrey’s faith in your competence as a
captain can be reestablished.”

Crichton stood as if stunned. His upper lip
quivered, his nostrils flared, and the trickle of sweat that ran
from his temple seemed to freeze in place.

“I said,
cut him down,”
Brendan
snapped.

“But that man is guilty of numerous crimes,
and by thunder, he’ll get the punishment he deserves!”

“
That man
will be cut down
now
or so help me God, ’twill be a court of inquiry you find yourself
facing, not just Sir Geoffrey’s wrath! Now,
do
it!”

The seamen, the officers, and even the
marines gaped, for never had they seen their former captain show
anything but blithe good spirits. Even the wind, humming through
tarred shrouds and luffing, salt-streaked canvas, held its breath.
Crichton remained unmoving, blatantly defying the order; a moment
passed. Two. Then Brendan shoved the dispatches back into his
pocket and strode toward Dalby himself, his shoulders rigid with
fury, his stride purposeful, his mouth tight and hard.

Crichton, they all knew, had just sealed his
fate.

Hearing his approach, Dalby dragged his head
up. “Oh, sir, I
knew
you’d come! You’d never have let anyone
treat us like this! Crichton’s a demon, sir, a demon! ’Twas just
some biscuit I took, I didn’t do anything bad, sir, honest, I
didn’t—”

“I know, Dalby. Rest easy.”

“He barely feeds us enough for a rat to live
on and then expects us to work like dogs! Just yesterday little
Billy fell from the rigging and drowned because he was so weak from
lack of food! Oh, there’s good grog and plenty of fresh meat, but
it all goes to Crichton and his officers. And all I took was a
piece of moldy biscuit, sir, just one little piece. . . .”

“I know, Dalby. And we can’t have you eating
biscuit when everyone knows the salt beef’s far better, now, can
we?” he joked, for it was a well-known fact that the beef was far
worse than the biscuit could ever be. “Faith, at least there are no
worms in it!”

But Dalby didn’t notice that Brendan’s words
came through tightened lips, nor that his grin didn’t quite light
his eyes. All he knew was that his captain had come to save him.
All he heard was the musical lilt of his voice, its Connemaran
cadences still wonderfully vibrant despite an English father and
fifteen years in the Royal Navy. Dalby sobbed in relief,
unwittingly setting the spark that inflamed the crew to mutiny.

“No worms, but he doesn’t feed us enough to
live on!” someone shouted.

“And half the time the meat’s rotten!”

“Cut him down, Captain!”

“Aye, cut him down! Cut him down!” It became
a chant, gathering force and momentum and thunder, rolling through
the ranks like a comber in stormy seas.
“Cut him down!”

“Sir, I will not tolerate this!” Crichton
roared, above the din. “Do you hear me?
I will not tolerate
this!”

Brendan began cutting.

Crichton stepped forward, and all hell broke
loose.

A seaman broke from the crowd with an unholy
yell, his eyes maniacal, his knife raised as he charged toward
Crichton. Someone screamed. Someone else cheered.

The reports would say that it had been an
accident, and that the shot had been fired in self-defense, for
with officers and marines trying frantically to regain control over
the mutinous crew, no one knew exactly what happened. But Dalby,
turning his head, saw it all: a lieutenant knocking the
knife-wielding seaman aside; men storming the quarterdeck; and in
the confusion Crichton, calmly drawing his pistol and taking
careful aim—not at the seaman, not into empty space, but at
Brendan, the man who’d come to save him, to save all of them—

Dalby screamed.

The explosion rent the air and stunned the
decks into silence. And when the echoes died and Dalby opened his
eyes, he saw that the flag captain was down, lying on his back and
blinking up at the white sails and hazy sky, his mouth tight with
pain, his rich chestnut curls bared to the sun. His tricorne lay
upside down beside his shoulder. A dark rose bloomed on his chest,
spreading over his fine new coat. He coughed, once, twice, and a
bubble of blood broke from his mouth and ran down his jaw. And then
his eyes began to close. . . .

“
Brendan!”
A woman charged through the
stunned crowd, her paint-smeared skirts and petticoats flying, her
golden hair streaming behind her. “Brendan! Oh God, Brendan,
noooooo!”

The young flag captain opened his eyes.
Weakly, he turned his head, trying to muster a grin. And then Dalby
saw those pain-glazed eyes widen in alarm, for Crichton had
reloaded, was bringing the pistol up once again, and Eveleen was
running directly into its path. . . .

Brendan staggered to his feet.
“Eveleen!”

The pistol barked; the girl cried out,
clutching her hand as she fell. And there was Crichton, smiling
now, as he narrowed those pale, red-rimmed eyes and raised a second
pistol to finish a task left undone.

The ball hit the flag captain, spinning him
around and flinging him backward. Through the blur of tears, Dalby
saw him flounder, saw the brief flash of sunlight against his
epaulets and gold buttons. Then the back of his legs hit the rail,
and staggering, he tumbled over it, falling down, down into the sea
below.

Silence.

The wind sighed through the shrouds above. A
mast creaked. On deck, the crew stood frozen in shock, horror, and
fear.

And Crichton, in command once more and
hopeful candidate for the now vacant position of flag captain,
smiled, tucked his pistol in his belt, and met the gazes of his
faithful lieutenants. Their expressions were carefully veiled,
their drawn pistols holding the stunned and horrified crew at bay
once more. His officers would not disappoint him. They’d allow no
more reports to get to Sir Geoffrey, and they would support his
official statement that Captain Merrick had incited a mutiny.

What they’d seen today would go no further
than the wardroom.

He’d make sure of it.

The girl lay in a crumpled heap, her
shattered hand clutched to her breast, her frilly white petticoats
sopping up the young flag captain’s blood. Ignoring her sobs,
Crichton picked up the whip and handed it to the boatswain’s mate.
Dalby was still lashed to the gratings, his face paler than death.
Smiling, Crichton nodded to his officer.

“You may proceed,” he said coldly.

The mate smiled back and the whip slashed
down, again and again and again.

And this time, there was no one to come to
Dalby’s aid.

No one at all.

Chapter 1

Newburyport, Massachusetts, 1778

Three years had elapsed since Captain Brendan
Jay Merrick had fallen from the frigate
Halcyon
and,
subsequently, out of the Royal Navy. The American colonies had made
good use of those years; they’d declared their independence from
Britain, they’d won many fine fighting men and sea officers to the
American cause, and they’d been busy infecting themselves with
healthy patriotic fever.

The town of Newburyport had no trouble taking
up the fight for liberty, for its people had been independent even
in the days
before
the struggle for independence. Situated
at the mouth of the mighty Merrimack River some forty miles north
of Boston, the town depended only on the sea for its survival.
Salmon, herring, striped bass, and bluefish migrated up the river.
The ocean provided cod, mackerel, and other fish, as well as
oysters, lobsters, and scallops. Clams grew fat in the tidal flats
of nearby Plum Island; ducks were plentiful. A few wooden fish
flakes dotted the riverbanks to dry the great catches of cod, but
Newburyport, unlike Gloucester and Marblehead to the south, had
never relied on the fishing industry to support itself to the
extent that they had. Commerce was its lifeblood.

Not so many years ago, it had been common to
see great oceangoing ships tied up at the wharves unloading cargoes
from distant lands. Farmers had come from the inland towns of
Haverhill, Amesbury, and Bradford to trade vegetables, corn,
barreled pork, beef, and flour for staples—rum, coffee, sugar, and
molasses—as well as extravagances: silk from the Orient, and grapes
and oranges from Spain. The docks had bustled with activity, and
the shops in Market Square had boasted linen, wool, and porcelain
from England, wine from Madeira, broadcloth and satins, iron, paper
and glass, nails and gloves, and just about anything anyone could
want that Newburyport didn’t make or supply itself.

The farmers still came. The docks still
bustled with activity. But the ships that were now tied up at those
wharves were of a very different breed from the ponderous,
wallowing vessels that had come before. This new breed was leaner.
Battle-scarred. Sharp-toothed, toughened, and hungry—and as
independent as the town that spawned them.

These vessels were the privateers.

And Newburyport couldn’t turn them out fast
enough to meet the demand.

For if commerce was the town’s lifeblood,
then shipbuilding was its livelihood.

Along the Merrimack’s banks, new shipyards
sprang up seemingly overnight, and existing ones grew in size. Each
was as self-sufficient as Newburyport herself. Each had its own
smithy, sawpit, mast pond, and mast houses. Each had its own sail
loft, where bolts of heavy linen were destined to hold the wind as
foresails, mainsails, topsails, and jibs. And each had access to
the town’s rope walk, where hemp fibers were combed out, spun into
yarn, and formed into rope that would see service as rigging in
those predatory vessels that called Newburyport their home.

Prosperous merchants and shipowners who’d
gained their fortunes through commerce, rum manufacturing, and the
blatant ignorance of England’s Navigation Acts now invested in the
privateering boom. On High Street, handsome three-story Georgian
houses surrounded by elegant gardens and furnished with fine
Chippendale and Hepplewhite furniture reflected the affluence of
those who were successful at it. In the spirit of liberty, the men
abandoned their silks, velvets, and fancy powdered wigs for clothes
of native wool and homespun; the ladies burned their English tea
and brewed their own from ribwort and other plants instead.

Newburyport was as independent as ever. And
its patriotism was reflected in every citizen, young and old, male
and female; in its militia, in its naval men, and in its
privateers.