by Barbara Dan
"Oh, Bruce, I have so much to tell you," she began breathlessly.
Grinning, MacGregor clapped a big hand on Harris's shoulder. "Thanks for bringing Lydia along," he said with hearty good humor. "There's not much time before I weigh anchor, but—" His velvet brown eyes took in the carriage and began to twinkle. "How about lettin' me sample some of your fine drivin' techniques, Robbie?"
Lydia stared wild-eyed at her husband. Had he gone daft?
"But, Bruce," she protested, "we have so little time together—"
"Up you go, my love," he said, handing her back into the carriage. He turned to Robbie, who looked as puzzled by Bruce's sudden whim as Lydia. "Just drive around for a few minutes," he told Harris. "Only take it easy."
Harris shrugged, completely mystified by MacGregor's sudden fascination with wheels. "Aye, if ye say so," he grumbled and climbed up to the driver's box.
They started off, the horses giving a slight lurch as they moved against the harness.
Harris set his profile into the wind and told himself he would never understand the way Bruce MacGregor's mind worked. The man had never shown any interest in how the carriage handled before, though he'd seen it often enough, tied up at the wharf. The old curmudgeon shook his head and clucked to the bays, urging them into a gentle walk that made the carriage sway gently.
"That's good," he heard Bruce say in a hushed tone from inside. "Just keep doing that."
Thus encouraged, Harris held the horses to a steady gait.
"Mm, strong and stout . . . yet so smooth," Lydia murmured in obvious agreement. "Oh, Bruce, I simply had to see you."
There was a poignant pause, and Robbie was glad all was quiet. He'd really pushed the horses getting to Westerly in time to see Bruce off, and he needed a few minutes to gather his thoughts before he went over business with Bruce.
"More," Bruce rumbled. His chuckle was followed by Lydia's light moan. "Aye, a wee bit more we'll be needin,' right, lass?"
Robbie flapped the reins on the bays' backs, and they moved along a tad faster.
"I missed you so, my darling." Lydia's voice came floating, dreamy as an angel's. "I would never have forgiven myself, if I haven't come to see you off."
Her breathless whisper trailed away on the wind, and the carriage swayed sideways on its leather springs, as though a great weight had shifted within the conveyance.
"Bouncy, yet smooth." Suddenly, like the bass fiddle in a string quartet, Bruce began to hum with ecstasy, no doubt inspired by the carriage's extraordinary handling and performance.
Feeling somewhat vindicated about his driving skills, which Bruce's wife had so unjustly criticized, Harris proudly picked up the pace. He wanted to show his friend how well the vehicle maneuvered, even under less than ideal road conditions.
The carriage headed along Ocean View, turned left at Round Hill Road and then finished the circle, returning to the main road via Montego Road. Surely the fine view would only enhance Bruce's enjoyment of the ride.
"Again! Oh, do that again!" came a sudden feminine cry.
Eager to please, Harris reversed directions at the first wide place in the road and headed back, covering the same ground, only counterclockwise this time.
The MacGregors' vantage point presented some pretty spectacular scenery, the old Scot soon realized. Bruce's voice merged passionately with Lydia's in a duet of ecstatic outcries. "Again! That is—ah! Breathtaking! Beautiful! Oh, that is so . . . I love it . . . how divine!"
"Oh, make another circle . . . there . . . Oh, yes, please. Oh, Bruce, that is so incredible!"
Lydia must be extraordinarily sensitive to scenic beauty, the dour Scotsman thought, a trifle envious. Lamentably, all he could see from where he sat was a small brilliant patch of blue ocean and a sparkling sky through the trees. Nice, but not exactly spectacular. Even so, Harris patiently obliged with another turn around the block. Except for two seagulls swooping and soaring on the currents, he saw no sign of life along the low cliff they traversed.
Bruce started singing again. A foreign tune, from the sound of it.
". . .e bela bela bela que e prateada
e envergonhada ven versea o mar . . ."
Aye, that Bruce was a versatile devil, trying out his linguistic skills on his beautiful wife. Harris tsk-tsk'd. Simply shameless, showin' off that way. No humility at all!"
When a cry of "bela bela, amorate!" rent the air in a crescendo of excitement, Harris just knew Bruce must be admiring the coach's interior upholstery. The carriage might have a few years on it, but it had lost none of its intrinsic value. Congratulating himself on a shrewd investment, Harris set his bays smartly trotting.
Bruce continued humming and singing from the back seat. Not knowing the melody or the words, the old Scot found it frankly irritating. How was he supposed to do his best driving with all that racket?
"I feel . . . wet."
"God, yes! Slippery, too," echoed Bruce, evidently worried about melting snow on the road.
"Nothin' to worry about," Harris hollered down to his passengers. "The bays won't spook or run out of control."
Bruce gave a wild whoop. "Who cares about stayin' in control?"
A series of animated yelps erupted from the MacGregors, undoubtedly carried away by the uncommon sight of a stork flying overhead.
Imagine that: Flyin' north in late winter! Would wonders never cease? But he supposed it could happen—birds losing their sense of direction—more often than folks realized.
"Go! Go! Don't hold back!" Bruce shouted.
Very well, thought Robbie Harris, acceding to his young friend's injunction. From the sound of things inside the carriage, Bruce was really growing impatient. A series of thumps on the rear wall told the story better than words. The lad wants to see what these bays can do, given their heads. With a light touch of his whip, Robbie increased speed.
Instantly responsive, the well matched pair quickened their pace, kicking up their heels and moving in unison.
"Faster, faster!" panted Bruce.
"I'm going as fast as you are," gasped Lydia.
The coach swayed dangerously on its leather straps, and bounced precariously. Harris strained on the reins, trying to control his team, but they were wildly out of control. The pair had a mind all their own, intent upon bolting all the way back to the business district of Westerly.
Cursing softly under his breath, so as not to offend MacGregor's lady, Harris resigned himself and gave over the reins. Lunging and plunging ahead, bodies sweating and frothy with exertion, the pair finally came to a halt in front of the tavern on the village green.
"More! I want more!" Lydia cried, proving that she enjoyed a good ride as much as her stalwart husband. It did old Robbie's heart good, knowing she appreciated the way he handled a fine pair of horses, after all.
"Aye," laughed Bruce. He stuck his head out the carriage window around the lowered shade and called up to Harris. "That was simply grand, Robbie! Now, how about takin' me back to my ship? A little slower, if you please!"
"Sure thing, lad," muttered Robbie Harris, wondering absently what kind of a view could be had with the window shades drawn.
"Giddap," said Bruce.
Lydia giggled and added her own "giddap" before their shining faces vanished once more from view.
Obliging, Harris clucked to the two sweating bays. Their sides were heaving, and he knew they'd behave better now, after a good workout. Steam rising from their nostrils, the pair ambled along at a gentler pace. The carriage swayed to and fro, only provoking an occasional moan from its occupants until—perhaps because of an unexpected pothole in the road—a series of rapid, gasping cries rent the air. Harris slowed the vehicle even more and heard Lydia's contented sigh. The silence that ensued was peaceful, punctuated by the steady clip-clop of two faithful steeds moving in harness together.
Robbie pulled up to the wharf a short time later. Jumping down, he moved eagerly to the door, anticipating high praise from his passengers.
"Wait a minute. Not yet," came Lydia's muffled voice. Bruce murmured something inaudible. Minutes passed before the door finally opened.
If Lydia's appearance upon her initial arrival at Watch Hill's wharf was disaster, this time, except for her hair tumbling loosely about her shoulders, she was the picture of genteel womanhood. She sat primly on the seat beside her husband, her plumed hat on the seat opposite, her cloak arranged in graceful folds over her gown. She even had both shoes on, Harris observed, and a wide-eyed, somewhat sated smirk on her face; the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
Lydia extended her dainty gloved hand, permitting Mr. Harris to assist her from the carriage. "Your driving's improving." She smiled enchantingly, making old Robbie's heart melt with gratitude.
Bruce came out, tugging to ease the tight fit of his trousers, which had become twisted in the crotch during the brief journey. He raised his coat collar against the stiff sea breezes and turned to Lydia. Drawing her mantle close around her neck, he lowered his head and pressed warm lips against hers. Clouds of steam rose around their heads in the cold air, as they communed in silence for several minutes.
Harris tried not to watch, as Lydia, not used to public demonstrations, blushingly gazed in speechless wonder at her rugged husband.
A whistle piped aboard the Angelic Lady.
"It's time," Bruce said, his voice full of regret.
"Got a minute?" asked Harris. "I need to run over a wee bit of business with ye, lad."
"I trust you," said Bruce. "Do what you think best till I get back, and—" He nodded toward the blond head nestled against his shoulder. "See that my wife has all that she requires."
"Aye, lad, but—" Harris's objections died on the wind. Nobody was listening anyway.
Bruce swooped like a tern pirating a delicious morsel from the ocean's depths and planted a kiss on Lydia's swollen lips. In the next minute, he broke away and dashed to the water's edge where a longboat and two sailors awaited him.
"’Twas the shortest business conference on record," Harris said grumpily.
Lydia stood watching her husband, as he was rowed out to his ship in the harbor. "I took care of a lot of unfinished business," she said.
"Ah, lass, are ye sure?" asked Harris, puzzled. 'I didna hear much talkin' goin' on."
Lydia uttered a saucy laugh. Then shaking her head, she gathered her skirts and walked to the carriage step. She paused to regard Harris with compassion, as he stood dejectedly looking out to sea. "Mr. Harris," she assured him, as if soothing a perplexed child, "Bruce and I had a lovely conversation."
Even so, she was all the way back home before she realized that she'd forgotten to tell Bruce about the baby.
* * *
As winter moved into early spring, the crew of the Angelic Lady sailed on through the frigid North Atlantic, assailed by ice, sleet and the damp chill of storms. Whenever Bruce fell exhausted into his bunk to snatch a few hours rest, Lydia came to him in haunting dreams, like a beckoning siren. His desire for her, after weeks at sea, burned like a fire deep in his belly, and having no other outlet, he hurled all the spleen within him into the task of driving the British out. The sooner the British were defeated, the faster he and his men could return to the warmth of hearth and home.
Shortly after departing Westerly, the Angelic Lady joined forces with the Marauder out of Stonington and the New Bedford schooner, the Asian Princess. Bruce and his comrades-in-arms intensified their siege against the British. His fighting took on a new daring; and his boldness made him a challenging opponent.
Vying for honors and glory, a number of British commanders started competing to capture these fast American ships, their officers and crews. What a feather in their caps, if they could put these arrogant Yanks out of commission! As a result, the number of engagements with the enemy had increased.
Bruce MacGregor, Captain Eric Pomerleau of the Marauder, and Captain Josh Slaughter of the Asian Princess met one April evening on the gun deck of his ship, the Angelic Lady.
"Either we force the British to retreat, or I mean to blow 'em out of the water before daybreak," he growled, his patience worn thin after a long day's fighting.
Lighting a thin cheroot, Pomerleau squinted through the acrid smoke at MacGregor's maps. "I know you're the last one to run from a fight, but I don't know how much more punishment my men can take."
All day the three ships had given and taken a tremendous pounding from grapeshot, grenades, and eight and sixteen pounders. Even as they spoke, the British had withdrawn to make repairs, and the American crews were clearing debris, replacing lines and mending sails under lantern light. The Asian Princess had taken on water and her men were manning the pumps.
"With or without you, I plan to stand pat," MacGregor said. "Even if Josh has to stand down tomorrow because of damage, you and I can inflict enough damage to disable them, Eric. Then all three of us can beat back to shore for repairs."
"How do you figure on getting close enough?" Slaughter asked. At this point, his main concern was preserving the lives of his crew. His men had fought valiantly, but were in sad shape to face another day's fighting. Plus they still had a long night ahead of them on the pumps.
"Under cover of night, I plan to sneak in close and set their main flagship ablaze," Bruce explained. "Even if they get the fire put out, it will cripple 'em badly."
"So be it, MacGregor. I pray God you can get in and out fast. If they deliver even one more broadside, my ship is done for," said Slaughter morosely.
Bruce's face and hair were streaked with powder and smoke. He flashed a grim smile at his friends. "If that happens, slip cable and run like bloody hell."
"It's worth a try," Pomerleau said, studying the map. "I'll create a diversion while you come up behind. Who knows? Maybe we can buy enough time to get the Princess to safety."
Bruce clapped a big hand on the stocky French-American's shoulder. "No half-hearted measures, my friend. Tomorrow, we'll give 'em a solid trouncing."
"I'll keep that leaky tub of mine on the weather gage," Slaughter said. "Perhaps if we make a show of force, they won't realize the extent of our damage. Good luck, MacGregor."
Bruce chuckled grimly. "Aye, they just might decide they've had enough an' surrender."
The ships' commanders shook hands. While Slaughter and Pomerleau returned to their own commands, Bruce made ready below decks. By approaching the Endymion from the rear, he hoped to send Collier's ship to the bottom. As long as the Tenedos with her thirty-eight cannons remained where she was, patching her bulkhead in the distance, she couldn't run interference.
Aye, providing the winds held true, victory should be theirs on the morrow.
Chapter Seventeen
Lydia had just averted disaster by placing five couples, all badly smitten, under the watchful eye of each girl's parents, when nine men from the Archer were brought in on stretchers. Among them was Lydia's own brother, Seth Burton. All nine men had been transported from Noank across the Thames River and hauled the rest of the way on the flatbed of a wagon.
Doctor Trowbridge and Lydia stayed up most of the night, removing shrapnel, sewing up torn bodies, and trying to make the last moments of two dying crew members more bearable.
To her relief, Seth had only a flesh wound; he would be on his feet in a week or two.
But alas. Due to her ingenious matchmaking, Lydia had not only gotten rid of five headaches, but lost five very useful pairs of hands. Suddenly she didn't feel so clever.
By the time she collapsed into bed, dawn was stealing onto the horizon, and every muscle in her body ached. Old Doctor Trowbridge gave her a stern lecture about overdoing and ordered her off her feet.
"But who will take care of things if I don't?" Lydia wailed, as Sarah Mullens tucked the covers about her.
Dr. Trowbridge glowered at her, as he took her pulse. "I see no shortage of females around here, and none of 'em pregnant, madam, except yourself."
"But I just sent five of them packing to their parents!" Lydia
confessed with a furtive glance toward Sarah Mullens, who had been next on her list.
"You still have me, Mrs. MacGregor," spoke up Sarah.
Lydia looked at the silly young woman and tried not to shiver too obviously. She had more patients to deal with now than she had gotten rid of, and she needed a fresh bevy of volunteers! She lay back against her pillows, permitting herself a moment to recover.
"I know at least ten girls like myself, who are just dying to help," Sarah gushed.
Lydia's eyes flew open at this unexpected answer to prayer. Grasping Sarah's arm, she yanked the girl over on top of her own slightly curvaceous belly. "How long will it take to get them here?" she asked breathlessly. She was exhausted, but if reinforcements were on the way, she knew she could get through the rest of the day somehow.
"I could send my little brother into town," said Sarah. "I think if you wrote a note to each of my friends' parents, most could be here by noon."
Every uncharitable thought she had ever thought about Sarah flew completely out of Lydia's mind. The dear girl was practically a saint!
"I shall never forget you for this, Sarah," she promised. "Please get my writing materials." She smiled jubilantly up at Sarah, who looked dumbfounded that for once she had actually done something terribly clever. "Hurry, Sarah! We haven't a moment to spare."
Dr. Trowbridge shook his head. "As long as you stay in that bed until tomorrow morning, Mrs. MacGregor, you can do as you please. But if you set foot outside this room—"
"Dear me, no! I shall be a model patient." Lydia was already propped up, writing notes. "Sarah, hold my inkwell—steady, if you please! From now on, you shall be my special assistant."
Leaving Lydia busily composing letters, the good doctor wandered down the hall to check on his patients. Long an admirer of Bruce MacGregor, he was appalled to think that Bruce would have ever knowingly married such an intractable female. She was a saucy little armful and good to look at, but she certainly showed no sign of letting pregnancy slow her down, not a jot! Highly improper, the way Bruce's wife ran her household and the men living under her roof. Why, she had all the forcefulness of a commanding general!
