Heart's Safe Passage

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “Will killing him and condemning yourself to a lifetime of running or a hanging bring your wife and parents back? What will happen to your daughter if something happens to you?”

  “I expect there’s a distant cousin or two who could take her in for enough sil’er.”

  “Then why isn’t she with them now?”

  “She has me to run to.”

  Phoebe stared at him for a full minute, then reached out her hand and touched his. “Don’t you hear what you’re saying, Rafe? Your daughter runs away to be with you regardless of the danger. She needs her father. She lost her mother tragically and now needs her father desperately. How can you be so selfish?”

  “Mel will be a very well-off young lady.” He didn’t look at Phoebe.

  She glared at him. “She wants her father.”

  “She has—” He sighed. “I have to do this. I want to die with peace.” He straightened. “I will die with peace.”

  “Will you?” She met and held his gaze. “You only think you will. But believe me, you won’t. I felt neither peace nor relief after my husband died.”

  One corner of Rafe’s mouth tilted up. “No one thinks you grieved him either.”

  “No.” Phoebe hid her face behind her coffee cup. The strong black brew rolled over her tongue, cream softening its bitterness. She inhaled the invigorating fragrance and sent up a prayer for strength from a power much greater than a robust brew.

  Surely God would help her bring Rafe back to Him. Surely God would honor her sacrifice for the man there in the shop with the lovely fabrics and scented oils.

  “I grieved the waste of a young life,” she said.

  “Aye, I have done that myself—my own. But Watt convinced me to come to sea with him, and Jordy came along because he has al’ays followed me, and eventually I worked out that destroying Brock was what I wanted to do. When he sleeps in eternity, I can sleep.”

  “In eternity, Rafe?” She moved her hand a fraction of an inch closer to his, wanting, needing to touch him again, feel his vitality and warmth, his life. “What sort of eternity?”

  “Not now, Phoebe.” His tone held an edge.

  She opened her mouth to continue anyway, then closed it again, shook her head, and gave in. “What were we talking about before you began to concern yourself with my reputation—finally? Ah, yes, Melvina’s education. She’s remarkably well read for a child her age. Did you teach her?”

  “Her maternal grandfather was a scholar.” He lifted his cup but didn’t drink. “She lived with my mither-in-law until she died. She was eight. Mel, that is. I placed her in the first school that year. But she ran off back to Edinburgh, and I was visiting. She did not like the separation after that.”

  “So you’ve been teaching her?”

  “Aye, and Jordy. He’s better at the mathematics than I am.”

  “And you read Aristotle and Hobbs and Locke where?”

  “’Tis not all war and mayhem aboard the Davina, you ken. Most of the time we have naught to do but watch the sea and weather.”

  Phoebe shuddered. “Don’t talk about the sea or I may break my word about not trying to escape again.”

  “Aye, there is that wee trouble of yours. We’ll get a potion here in the market. ’Tis one reason why I set into port here—to give you a respite and buy more of the ginger.” He sipped from his cup then, his head turned toward the window and their reflection in the glass.

  It appeared perfectly innocent, the image of a man and woman on either side of a rough wooden table. Not so much as the toes of their boots touched. But the hour was later than they should have been together. Or perhaps earlier. The guttering candle had dimmed, their reflection faded. And the musician packed up and vanished along the wharf, his guitar tucked under his arm. It was a nearly empty wharf now, empty and devoid of light, as individuals, groups, and pairs slipped off to inns and homes and vessels.

  Indeed, no time for a lady to be alone with a man to whom she was not married, let alone barely acquainted with. Yet she spoke the truth when saying his soul meant more than her reputation. If through her actions she could show him God’s love and forgiveness, His mercy and grace, perhaps she could dissuade him from his course toward destruction—his own destruction. She could start by being honest.

  “Rafe, it’s not the sea that makes me so ill, it’s the confinement because—”

  “Not now.” He shot to his feet and sped toward the door.

  Phoebe jumped up and followed. “Where are you going?”

  He didn’t respond. He continued to the front door and across the empty market square to the wharf.

  A hundred feet behind him, struggling to catch up, Phoebe finally saw what must have caught his attention—Derrick and Jordy charging toward them. The three men met on the landward edge of the dock.

  “Belinda.” Phoebe broke into a run, her skirts gathered in her hands.

  Something surely had happened to Belinda. For the second time in the past twelve hours, Phoebe had neglected a patient because of a man.

  She stumbled to a halt beside Rafe, grasped his arm for support. “What’s wrong?”

  Derrick and Jordy glanced at her, then Rafe. Neither spoke.

  “Belinda?” Phoebe demanded. “Mel?”

  “They’re quite a’right.” A muscle bunched in Rafe’s jaw, and the arm beneath Phoebe’s hand felt as solid as a spar with tension.

  “It’s . . . not Belinda?” Her voice sounded small, squeaky.

  “Nay.” Rafe drew away from her. “Derrick, no, Jordy, take Mrs. Lee back to the inn. Get—”

  “You shouldn’t go out there,” Jordy interrupted. “He’s got the men aggravated.”

  “He who?” Phoebe demanded.

  “’Tis my brig,” Rafe said. “I am going to talk sense into the sensible ones and subdue those who cannot think for themselves and will follow—” He looked down at Phoebe. “Jordy, get her a room. I expect she’d like a rest and bath and so forth. Ensure the inn gives her whatever she needs. I’ll send Mrs. Chapman and Mel ashore immediately.” Without another word, he sprinted down the wharf to one of the bobbing boats secured to the pilings.

  “Go to the inn.” Jordy flung the words over his shoulder as he too raced for the boats.

  “Wait.” Phoebe followed. “I need to be with Belinda.”

  She spoke her sister-in-law’s name. She knew that was right—her responsibility, whether or not she was willing to be at sea—but she fixed her gaze on Rafe, and her heart said, I need to be with him if there’s danger.

  “I said take her to the inn, Jordy McPherson,” Rafe shouted. “’Tis an order.”

  “Aye, Captain, and your orders mean naught if they kill you.” Jordy grabbed the painter to keep the boat from shoving off. “I am going with you.”

  “They are not going to kill me,” Rafe said.

  His face was set so hard that Phoebe believed him. No one would dare kill a man that cold. They’d be afraid to.

  An ache started in Phoebe’s middle, a longing to forever break up the coldness to find the man who loved so deeply he devoted his life to seeing his wife’s death avenged, the man who adored his daughter, the man who calmed her when the deck canopy collapsed and sent her into a panic.

  “I want to go too,” Phoebe declared.

  Rafe drew a knife from his boot and sliced through the painter. “Neither of you is coming with us. Derrick?”

  Derrick hoisted the cutter’s single sail.

  Phoebe’s heart sank into her stomach. “He can’t go out there and leave us here.”

  “’Tis his brig.” Jordy gazed after Rafe and the cutter. “’Tis the only home he has left himself.”

  “But—” She’d longed for this freedom from Rafe Docherty for days, but now that the prospect stared her in the face, she felt like weeping. She glanced at Jordy. “What has gone wrong?”

  “Once Captain Rafe went ashore, some of the men began to talk.” Jordy tucked his hand beneath her elbow and gently turned her toward the
inn. “One mon in particular. He thinks himself in a position to say Rafe is no longer fit to lead the men. They say he has gone soft since letting his daughter come aboard and has no stomach for the fighting. So they need to take control of the voyage.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Aye, mutiny.” Jordy’s thin lips nearly disappeared, he compressed them so tightly.

  “Who is it?” Phoebe demanded.

  “’Tis none of your concern, Mrs. Lee. Captain will take care of it or—”

  “Die trying?” Phoebe set her fists on her hips. “Jordy McPherson, I have a right to know what’s afoot when my patient is aboard. And Melvina and her ridiculous excuse for a dog need protecting too.”

  “Captain Rafe will see to their safety, even if it means sacrificing his own. Now, if you please, Mrs. Lee, ’tis not good to stand about here in the middle of the night.”

  “Nor should Rafe—Captain Docherty be going out to meet a crew of mutineers. I mean, what if they kill him?”

  And he held such anger in his soul rather than praying for redemption.

  “His soul—” She couldn’t speak for the pain in her chest.

  “Aye, I ken what you are saying. He holds his sins to his heart like they’re prizes to put in a vault.” Jordy’s face seemed to elongate with sadness. “Derrick and I have tried.” He tried again to urge Phoebe forward, continuing to talk. “We thought perhaps having a Christian lady like yourself aboard might help, so we went along with the plans to not return you to shore.”

  Phoebe wrapped an arm around a stanchion and glared at Jordy. “If you’re a man of God, how can you be aboard a privateer like you are and help Captain Docherty in his quest?”

  “You cannot save the unbeliever by avoiding him.” Jordy released her arm and scrubbed his hands over his face, his whiskers rasping beneath his calloused palms. “And I have kent him since he was a bairn. I’d been working in their household as a scullion since I was a lad of ten but I’d improved myself and gained the family’s trust by the time Captain Rafe was born.”

  “So young?” Phoebe forgot her protest in her fascination and intrigue.

  So Rafe came from a family well-off enough to have that many servants—a separate person to wash up the dishes and pots and pans.

  “’Twas better than the workhouse.” Jordy half smiled. “Aye, but they were good to me, the Dochertys. And he was a fine lad. I ne’er thought he would—” He sighed and shook his head. “So I went to sea with him to try to be a friend, even if I disapprove of what he is doing. If God wills, I am a light in the darkness Rafe sets around him.”

  Thoughts whirling in her head, Phoebe allowed Jordy to walk her toward the inn. Darkness huddled around them, but a starlit night, not the emptiness of a lost soul. Laughter and conversation drifted on the breeze, and somewhere a barbecue fire wafted fragrant smoke toward them. No shots rang out from the harbor. Few sounds at all floated to shore. Most vessels lay in slumber, but a glance backward displayed a line of torches along the deck of the Davina.

  “Why?” Phoebe burst out. “Why did they do it to him now? Surely they understand he can’t fight battles with his daughter aboard.”

  “Most of them do not care.” Jordy opened the inn door. A bell rang above it. From a far corner of the dimly lit entry hall, someone yawned and shuffled forward, and Jordy stepped up to meet the shadowy male figure. “The lady needs a room.”

  “Humph.” The man glanced from Jordy to Phoebe. “She was with t’other one earlier.”

  “Aye, and what account is that?”

  The innkeeper leered, and Phoebe’s face grew warm. She’d been called some unpleasant names in the past four years. Patients in pain, her mother-in-law, a magistrate all found unpleasant sobriquets to pile on her head. Yet none had gone in the direction the landlord implied.

  She took a step backward. “I’d rather return to the ship.”

  “Nay, the captain wants you here.” Jordy loomed over the diminutive landlord. “Mrs. Lee would like a room to herself. In the morning, provide her with a bath and anything else she needs. Do you understand, mon?”

  “I understand I need money for all that.” The man jutted out a nonexistent chin.

  Jordy drew a purse from his breeches pocket. It was woven leather and made a chinking sound. The landlord’s eyes gleamed in the single candle’s glow.

  “Do not get greedy.” Jordy drew out a handful of coins.

  Phoebe didn’t know British coinage but guessed the silver meant shillings. The landlord laughed and demanded gold. The men haggled and ended up with Jordy giving him silver.

  “Aye, then, show the lady—” Jordy began.

  The innkeeper shook his head of sparse gray locks. “The room’s not ready. A lady deserves clean sheets.” He scurried off.

  “I must have paid him too much if he is willing to give you clean sheets,” Jordy muttered.

  Phoebe came close to smiling, but a pop like gunfire from the direction of the harbor sent her spinning on her heel and racing for the door. “Rafe—I mean, Belinda. Mel.”

  Jordy grasped her hand and held her back. “You cannot help.”

  “I must. I’m a woman. Maybe I can talk them out of violence.”

  “You, Mrs. Lee?” Jordy touched his belly, where she’d kicked him.

  “That was different.”

  “Watt will not understand—” Jordy grimaced.

  Phoebe stared at him. “Watt is leading the mutineers? I thought he was the captain’s friend.”

  “Nay, they have ne’er been friends. More like armed companions for the past thirteen years.”

  “What?” Phoebe tried to tug her hand free. The harbor lay quiet and sparsely lit again, but she wanted—needed—to go out to the Davina. And she wanted—needed—to remain and listen to Jordy, get more information from him. “How can they be when Captain Docherty has been at sea for only nine years?”

  “’Tis his tale to tell, not mine. Now stay inside here where ’tis safe. I will go as soon as you are settled.”

  “And what can you do?”

  “Pray all is well.” Jordy offered her an encouraging smile, but the lines around his eyes appeared deeper and tighter than earlier.

  “We can’t stay here in comfort while anything could be happening out there.” Phoebe strained toward the door.

  Jordy held her back. “You cannot help out there. Once you are settled, I will be going out there, perhaps with a few men from that English frigate. The Navy does not take kindly to mutinies, not even aboard a privateer, you ken.”

  “I didn’t know, but it makes sense.” Phoebe’s gaze strayed to the towering masts of the British warship. It belonged to her country’s enemy, and yet it could be a symbol of help, an answer to prayer.

  To more than one prayer.

  “I believe the landlord is returning,” she said.

  Two sets of footfalls rang on the wooden floorboards. From the dim recesses of the hall, the innkeeper returned, accompanied by the maid who had served the coffee. “Bets will show the lady up,” the man said.

  Jordy emitted a long breath like steam escaping from a bellows and released Phoebe’s hand. “Grand. See that she is comfortable and remains here.” He flipped a coin to the landlord.

  This time, gold glinted in the candlelight before the man caught it, bit it, and tucked it into his pocket. “Aye, she’ll go nowhere.”

  “You,” Phoebe ground between her teeth.

  Jordy nodded and strode away, closing the inn door behind him with barely a click.

  “Would you like a bath now, madam?” the maid asked.

  Phoebe’s skin crawled and itched with days of saltwater cleansings, and temptation lured her forward, up a flight of narrow steps, and onto a gallery. A half dozen rooms opened off the gallery, which overlooked a yard full of black shadows and scrabbling sounds like small paws. Rats? Cats? Phoebe appreciated being above the worst of the stench of rotting fruit and animal droppings. She wasn’t glad about how difficult getting away
would be. But then, perhaps she wouldn’t have to. Jordy’s instructions had been to give her whatever she wanted . . .

  Phoebe reined in her impatience and accepted the offer of an immediate bath. “But I have nothing clean to wear afterward.”

  “I can find you sommit, madam.” Bets opened the door to a small room and used a strike-a-light to ignite a branch of candles inside the door. “Guests leave things behind. Nothing’ll be all that fine, but it’ll be clean enough. I’ll wash your dress for you.”

  “When will you sleep?”

  The girl shrugged too-thin shoulders. “I sleep when I can snatch an hour or two.”

  “That’s awful.”

  “It’s better than walking the streets, if a fine lady like you understands me.”

  “I understand you.” Phoebe shuddered. “I’m a midwife.”

  “Ah.” The girl nodded. “Here’s the bed. Have a rest while I prepare the bath. The water’s nearly hot all the time, so it won’t be long.”

  It was long enough for Phoebe to drift off to sleep half lying on the straw-filled mattress, but she roused when the innkeeper and maid arrived with a tin bath and then steaming water.

  Left alone, Phoebe sank into the water with jasmine-scented steam billowing around her and focused on plans to escape. Getting Belinda away would prove difficult. Surely the frigate captain would help once she mentioned a connection to Admiral Landry, Dominick’s uncle. Rafe and his mutinous crew could go on their way to pillaging for a fortune.

  And Rafe might get his revenge. He might even survive in body. Yet he might lose his soul in the process.

  If God wills, I am a light in the darkness Rafe sets around him. Jordy’s words rang in Phoebe’s ears, in her conscience, interrupting her plans for escape back to Virginia.

  She wanted to return. She yearned to sail west so badly her muscles ached with the effort not to run shrieking for help back to America, with promises to give her fortune to whomever helped her. But if Rafe did regain control of his vessel, he needed all the lights in the darkness willing to do God’s work.

  She yanked her mind away from the notion of leaving and set about washing her hair and scrubbing away an accumulation of saltwater residue from her skin. Refreshed, fragrant, and clean, she went to bed and fell asleep praying.