by Barbara Dan
"Phew! I can't believe a housekeeping fanatic like you would pick anything this raunchy!"
"I'm doing it for Bruce!" she flared defensively. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Seth. If you won't help me, there are plenty who will."
"Name one person crazy enough to sail this old ship!"
Glaring, brother and sister squared off in a shouting match. Lydia secretly agreed with her brother's assessment of the ship. It was all she could do to control waves of nausea from the stench. She pressed a clean handkerchief to her nose and mouth and trailed behind him, arguing passionately.
"Please, Seth," she coaxed, "this is the last time I'll ever ask you to help me. I promise."
"Give up this ridiculous idea, Lydia," Seth yelled, tromping up and down, kicking timbers and checking ropes and cables with disgust. "Your own husband would tell you the same thing, if he were here."
"Well, he's not here!" Lydia shouted back, furious with his obstinacy. "That's just the point. Help me, Seth. Please?"
Even though Seth continued to downgrade the tiny Isobella, his keen eyes picked up the ship's better points. It was modest by current standards, but the shipbuilder had been a craftsman who knew his business—and the sea.
Sound timbers, well oiled by two decades of cod fishing—phew!—and its joists, beams and carefully joined sides, as tight as the day it was put together, attested to skilled carpentry.
His feisty little sister was totally misguided about this rescue attempt, but she was right about one thing: Whoever put this little craft together had used his tools like an artisan. There wasn't a drop of water anywhere in the hold—a most unusual finding in a vessel this age. Although it had fallen on hard times, the Isobella was still seaworthy. A regular stinkhole, but sound.
"Oh, hell! Lydia, you'll probably get us all killed! And what about the blockade?"
"The British won't look twice at a small fishing schooner," she assured him smugly.
"You're probably right," he agreed, "but even if we make it to Halifax without getting blown out of the water, how are we going to get into the prison, let alone get out again?"
His question hit like cold water in a happy drunk's face. Lydia paused to consider his words, then decided life was too short to worry that far ahead.
"I've thought everything out carefully," she lied. "But it's best if we concentrate on getting there before I reveal any more of my plan to you."
"I see. I am just to follow blindly, trusting that you have some grand scheme to pull this off?" he said resentfully.
A crooked little smile trembled on her lips. “No, of course not."
Seth knew Lydia couldn't have come up with a viable strategy in just five days time. If he discouraged her now, it would save them both a lot of aggravation. "You'll have to take me into your confidence," he insisted, narrowly watching her fluff the lace at her wrists.
“Of course, but first I need to know you're willing to command this ship for me."
"Hell, yes, I'll help! Do you think you're the only crazy one in the family?" He couldn't bear the sight of her standing dejectedly, head bowed in mute sorrow. "But we need to work out a careful strategy, so we don't get to Halifax and wind up being taken prisoner ourselves."
"I realize that, Seth." She turned so he couldn't catch the gleam of triumph in her eye. She ran her slender hand lightly over the hefty overhead beam and looked casually over her shoulder, sizing him up. She had really hoped he'd show more enthusiasm.
"What about crew?" he asked. "I can't very well sail this wreck alone, with my leg."
"I've got sixteen volunteers lined up."
Seth whistled through his teeth. “You work fast! Sixteen. Are they able-bodied?" he asked cautiously. "Or are we taking a bunch of old salts in their dotage back out to sea?"
"They're as fit as you," she said with spirit. "Most are your age, or younger."
Seth nodded with grudging admiration. "I'm surprised you recruited so many in five days."
Lydia shrugged casually and began to ascend the ladder ahead of him. "Many are young men I've nursed during the past several weeks. A few are Bruce's friends. They have agreed to serve without pay." Back on the top deck, she gave way to a series of short violent sneezes. "I do hope I can get my hands on enough vinegar and lye soap to rid this ship of its . . . distinctive odor," she added, her eyes watering.
Seth laughed. "Just be glad it hasn't been used to haul bat guano."
"Believe me, I am," she laughed. "I thought we'd weigh anchor the day after tomorrow, Seth. Now, it's time you dropped me off at Mr. Harris's warehouse. You can take my rig back to the house. I want you to get as much rest as possible before we sail."
"You need rest, too, Lydia." The tired circles under his sister's eyes caused Seth concern. Even though she looked like a pretty young matron going off to a tea party in her dove grey gown and prim lace collar, the strain was beginning to show.
She patted his unshaven cheek reassuringly. "I'll get plenty of rest once we get under way, Seth. Now we really must hurry. I have a meeting with Mr. Harris and a few other members of my committee."
"Rescuing Bruce requires a committee?" Seth grinned at his diminutive sister and her penchant for organizing people. When wasn't she arranging something or other? She'd probably move the furniture around twice a day, if she ever ran out of people to boss around!
"We're going over a few business details," she said evasively, as they drove to the warehouse. A few carriages were parked in front, their horses loosely tied to an old anchor chain out front. "I'll have someone bring me home later."
She adjusted her grey silk bonnet and, gathering her skirts, walked briskly past a number of roustabouts in the yard.
"Good morning, gentlemen." She shook hands with to each of the men gathered in Robert Harris's office. The air was filled with cigar smoke, and she coughed delicately.
Harris hastened to open the window, while Mr. Bradshaw, Banker Endicott, Josiah Bromby, and Samuel Colton snuffed their cigars and fanned the air. Meanwhile Lieutenant Graham escorted her to the best chair of worn leather.
"Thank you for coming, gentlemen," she said, calling the meeting to order. "I thank you for such a fine show of good faith. My brother has agreed to command the Isobella, and he sets sail in two days."
The stout banker nodded. "We've approved a loan for repairs, Mrs. MacGregor. The workmen should be dockside within the hour."
Lydia whipped out a list and began ticking off items. "Thank you, sir! Now about provisions: We need a two weeks ration of water, food, blankets, medicines and other supplies."
Robert Harris cleared his throat. "Leave that to me, Mrs. MacGregor. I'll furnish the ship with everything needed for the voyage."
"Thank you." Lydia went over a few more details with the men. Banker Endicott had arranged for her brother to carry British pounds sterling, plus smaller denominations, to make purchases or pay bribes. "We also need forged papers to disguise the crew's identities," she reminded them.
Mr. Bradshaw winked. "That's where old McPhee, the printer, comes in. The British burned his house back in '81, so he's agreed to falsify the ship's log and papers, and provide English letters of marque, free of charge."
"Thanks to you," she said, signing papers with the banker, “my brother should have my husband back here within a fortnight."
Having given her list of provisions to Robert Harris, Lydia handed Mr. Bradshaw her handwritten will in a sealed envelope addressed to Bruce. "Just in case," she whispered. Not wanting anyone to know she was going along, she passed off the will as her brother's.
"Doubtless an unnecessary precaution, but I shall keep it in my safe, pending your brother's safe return." Bradshaw bowed over her gloved hand in a gallant salute.
"Not a word to anyone," she cautioned. "Let the citizens of New London think the Isobella is out on a routine fishing trip." Flashing a brilliant smile, she turned to Andrew Graham. "Lieutenant, might I ask you to drive me home?"
"Of course, Mrs. MacGregor.
Excuse us, gentlemen." Bowing slightly, the tall young officer held open the door and escorted her to his dilapidated old wagon, parked at the end of the block. Noting light sea breezes and clear skies, Lydia felt encouraged by the prospect of favorable weather.
"I noticed you didn't mention your plan to go along," Andrew said, as they headed toward Montauk Avenue.
"Can you imagine their reaction if I did?"
Graham chuckled. "They'd be even more shocked if they realized you're with child."
"Thank you for not giving me away. Without their help, we'd never succeed."
"They don't suspect a thing," he assured her, clucking to his horse. "I'm looking forward to this adventure. Ever since Commodore Decatur left for New York, the rest of us at the fort have been itching for action."
"You really think we'll fool the British?" she asked.
"We'll pull it off, all right!" He shot her a sidelong glance and laughed. "Everything's ready, including the clothing we'll need to get inside the fort."
"And your wife? I hope she's not too upset about you coming along?"
"Oh, Alice," He shrugged. "She trusts me implicitly. Being a staunch Calvinist, she probably thinks I've turned over a new leaf. She's a bit surprised that I'm going along as chaplain on a fishing schooner for two weeks." He chuckled. "And wouldn't my preacher father sit up in his grave if he knew? Me, out saving souls!" he chuckled.
Although reluctant to leave Alice Graham in the dark, Lydia had agreed not to say anything that might jeopardize their mission. "I am glad I sought your advice, Lieutenant Graham. Your plan is positively ingenious."
"Aye, 'twill be a nice change of pace."
The ribbons on her bonnet bobbing, as the wagon wheels hit every rut in the road, Lydia regarded Andrew Graham with astonishment. He made their adventure sound as carefree as a Sunday afternoon picnic.
* * *
To avoid any hitch in her plans, Lydia went aboard the night before. The Isobella from top to bottom was still unmistakably a fishing vessel—the odor alone made that clear! But the carpenters and cleaning women had done an outstanding job, repairing and scrubbing, so that the smell of cod was no longer overpowering. The only cabin above deck was equipped with two bunks, blankets, muskets, and a number of mysterious looking crates, the contents of which only Andrew Graham, Seth and she knew.
New sails and rigging had appeared overnight. The deck and gunwales gleamed with a fresh coat of paint. Hatches and rails were freshly varnished—still tacky to the touch, but they would soon dry in the warm air. As a last minute precaution, she had Bruce's sailboat stowed on deck.
Lydia stayed out of sight, while her brother, the crew, and the ship's "chaplain" came aboard and prepared to weigh anchor. She didn't want anyone on shore to catch sight of her. Especially not Mr. Harris.
The official story was that she had gone to visit her sister-in-law in Westerly. If all went well, she would return within a fortnight with Bruce, and no one would ever suspect her involvement.
Lydia stretched out in her bunk, eating chocolates to ward off any signs of mal de mer, and congratulated herself on her excellent plan.
How could Bruce not love her, once she spirited him to safety?
Listening to the waves lap gently about the bow of the ship, Lydia soon drifted off to sleep. She dreamed she was a daring lady pirate, swinging on a rope across the open deck and dueling with danger. All for the love of her man . . .
Suddenly she found herself face to face with a swarthy opponent. His face hidden by the sun’s harsh rays behind him, he towered over her, pressing her backward against the railing.
Bounding effortlessly, she escaped his grasp. She raised her rapier, circling, looking for the proper opening to finish him off. Knowing that he, too, was blinded—stunned, of course, by her beauty and grace! She blinked, as their positions changed in relation to the sun. He lunged! Her blade went clattering to the deck. And the wicked man in her dream came in for the kill, pressing his advantage. It was . . .
“Oh, my God! Bruce!” Lydia cried aloud, sitting bolt upright, still submerged in her vivid dream. She felt her stomach tighten with the sea’s churning waves. Suddenly lightheaded, she dashed to the dresser to make use of the basin.
What am I doing? She asked herself and pressed a damp cloth to her forehead. Bruce is going to kill me for sure. I just know it! She staggered back to the bunk. Sinking down, she closed her eyes, promising herself and God that if they got out of this alive, she would give up all her bad habits. She would become a paragon of domesticity, a homebody. Never more to roam.
Anything, Lord, she bargained. Just don’t let him hate me!
* * *
Despite strong misgivings, Lydia couldn't let the crew know she was having second thoughts. If she was a fool, what did that make them for going along with her? No, for their sakes, she must put on a bold face.
If, by chance, they made it back alive, they would all be heroes.
If not, no one need ever know.
The first day at sea she felt better and spent most of her time on deck.
Grinning at her across the capstan, Seth informed her they were making good time. "Two more days, and we'll reach the mouth of the harbor."
"So soon," Lydia said noncommittally.
"Hallooo!!" Up in the topsail, keeping a sharp lookout, Andrew Graham waved. Dressed in dungarees and barefoot, he looked like a carefree sailor. Her thoughts strayed guiltily to Alice and their six and one-half children. If anything happened to Andrew, how could she ever look the poor dear lady in the face again? But that was never going to happen, she reminded herself. Every soul aboard the Isobella shared a common fate, including herself.
* * *
Two days later, they reached the choppy waters outside Halifax Harbor. Dropping anchor for the night, Seth came to the cabin they shared and found Lydia pacing, still worried that they might have overlooked some crucial detail.
"Everything ready?" she asked anxiously.
"Yes. I sent Bromby on ahead to Melville Cove with Bruce's sailboat. He should get there sometime late tonight." He slouched in a chair and began pulling off his boots. "Oh, lest I forget, we've been spotted by a British cruiser. But I think we're safe for the moment."
"Shouldn't we be flying the English flag?" Lydia asked. Since nightfall, she had been imagining all sorts of mishaps.
"No, you ninny." He laughed, taking her cold little hands in his strong warm ones. "American ships always fly the Old Jack, and the British fly ours, thinkin' to fool each other."
"But we're flying a Portuguese flag! Won't that make us even more suspect?"
"Once we head into the harbor, we'll run up the king's flag, along with the Christian standard." His pale blue eyes crinkled at the corners. "Relax, Lydia. I told you I'd get you here safely, didn't I? The rest is up to you and Graham."
She shuddered. "So much depends on what happens tomorrow."
"You'll outfox 'em, Lydia." He gave her a comforting hug. "Remember when we used to get into scrapes, and Father gave us boys a licking? You always managed to escape by looking like such a sweet little angel."
Lydia wrinkled her nose at him. "No, I was just smarter."
"No, every time you batted those beautiful eyes, Father would just melt."
She laughed. "If only it were so easy! But I remember outwitting Father. Who knows, it just might come in handy tomorrow. Thanks, Seth for reminding me."
"You're welcome, brat." Yawning, Seth stretched out on his bunk.
Finding it hard to settle down, Lydia resumed pacing, deep in thought, back and forth in their tight quarters.
Finally, exasperated, her brother threw a smelly sock at her.
"Hey, sis, grab some shuteye. We'll see plenty of action, come morning."
Chapter Nineteen
"Hoist those colors high, men!"
Awakened by Seth's lusty cry at first light, Lydia scrambled out of bed, her heart pounding with excitement. Out on deck, she heard the crew preparing the modest l
ittle ship for her biggest adventure in an otherwise unremarkable career. And thanks to a suggestion by New London's favorite Anglican priest, she and Andrew had devised a plan guaranteed to gain entry into Halifax Prison.
Splashing water in her face, Lydia dressed in the long flowing black robes Andrew had obtained from Father William. A nun's vestments, she chuckled to herself. The perfect disguise. Pinning her blond hair securely at the nape of her neck, she placed the white caplet and black veil on her head. Then she hung an ornate wood and onyx cross around her neck, and studied the stark image staring back at her in the small mirror over the wash basin. Her face was without a trace of color anywhere, except for her brilliant blue-violet eyes.
From her small trunk, she removed the Anglican Book of Common Prayer. Many lives aboard the Isobella and in Halifax depended upon Andrew's and her success in carrying off this masquerade. She took a deep breath and walked resolutely out on deck, clutching her beads and prayer book; these and whatever courage she could muster would be her only weapons.
"Excuse me, sister," a young sailor apologized, as he jostled her. He shook his head, looking confused and more than a little surprised to find a nun on board in the middle of the Atlantic. Lydia, practicing her role, made the sign of the cross, and then joined Andrew at the railing. He wore priestly garb as well, a turned collar, a cowl over his robe, a cross around his neck.
Andrew gestured toward a crate of tracts and gospels. "There's our ticket inside the fort."
Lydia nodded and turned to watch the ship's progress, as they entered the harbor. The mirrored glint of sunlight from two British cruisers at anchor told her their spyglasses were doubtless trained on the Isobella.
"We're under scrutiny, I see," she murmured.
"Aye, so watch your behavior. Just remember, we're Anglican missionaries sent from St. Matthew's Abbey on the Dover Coast."
