Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  “Unlikely.”

  “They might take advantage of our focus on the Crimea.”

  Though anything was possible, Catherine knew better than to speculate on the unknown. At present her chief problem was a roiling stomach. Judging from Mrs. Durning’s pale countenance, she too was suffering a recurrence of the malady that had plagued them the first two weeks of the long voyage. On their fifty-ninth day, she had not expected to revisit it. These were exceptional conditions. Captain Durning had suggested his wife spend the night with Catherine in order to “see her through the rough seas,” rather than wait alone in his cabin.

  “I will be busy,” he had said with great affection. He then kissed his wife of thirty years on the hand as if they were still courting.

  Mrs. Durning had warbled her delight at the time. Now she clung to Catherine.

  “My George is a fine master.” The woman’s voice trembled. “He will keep us safe.”

  As if the crew had heard her words of confidence, the wild motion of the ship ceased, and Catherine could try to settle her stomach with a sip of mint tea.

  Then footsteps scurried across the roof of the cabin. Catherine looked up. She had grown accustomed to the occasional footfall, but this sounded like an army of men.

  “Cut the lines,” one of the crew shouted directly overhead, his voice carrying to them despite the tempest.

  Mrs. Durning stared upward, her eyes round. “Lines? Are we at anchor?”

  “I don’t know.” Catherine rose, more sure of her footing now that the pitching had leveled off. “I will check.”

  “No you won’t. It’s too dangerous. You heard our captain.”

  Indeed Catherine had. They were to stay in the cabin until told otherwise. Some hours ago, a steward had brought a light supper of oily sardines and biscuits with tea. She had barely been able to stomach a biscuit and none of the sardines before he whisked them away. After that, no one visited the cabin. To distract herself from the dreadful howling winds and groaning of the ship, Catherine had plied Mrs. Durning for anything her husband might have told her of their destination, Jamaica.

  “Mr. Durning fears it will be too hot for me,” she had told Catherine. “He would have discouraged my joining him if not for you. He will secure a safe passage for you from Kingston to New Orleans,” she’d added with a squeeze of Catherine’s hand. “He knows the ships that call there and will know which one has a good Christian master and crew.”

  Catherine doubted the religious affiliation of the ship’s master guaranteed her safety, but it was better than finding herself at the mercy of an unscrupulous man. It had not taken long aboard the Justinian to learn that some of the crew viewed her with interest if the captain was not within earshot. From then on, she’d taken great care to have Mrs. Durning at her side whenever she took the air and to lock the cabin door when alone.

  Tonight, the shrieking winds and the scraping overhead did nothing to calm the fears that kept creeping to mind. Unwanted attention was not the worst they would have to contend with.

  A sharp thump was followed by another and another. Then the ship lurched again, throwing Mrs. Durning backward and Catherine onto the cabin floor.

  She tried unsuccessfully to stand and then resorted to crawling onto the bunk.

  “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Yes. Fine.” Catherine tried to calm her spinning head and shaky voice. “Clumsy of me.”

  Yet they both knew the fall was none of her doing. The ship was foundering in a terrible sea. Now Catherine clung to the frame of the bunk as tightly as her companion did.

  In the light cast by the gimbaled lamp, Mrs. Durning’s kindly brown eyes brimmed with tears. “I always feared my George would come to such an end but never imagined I would.”

  “We won’t. We saw land yesterday. Remember? We have reached the Caribbean Sea. Your husband will find safe harbor.” Speaking the hope made it somewhat more real.

  “I wanted to share in this life he’s led for so many years. I wanted to see my George captain a fine ship.”

  “And so he has.” Catherine seized the change of topic. Anything to ignore the pounding overhead. “Thirty years, has it been?”

  “Thirty-five, since before we met. He loves me true, he does. I’ve never known a finer man.”

  “That’s how I remember my father.” Yet he hadn’t been able to prevent the land settling upon her cousin Roger, who had destroyed the work of generations of Haynes men.

  “Aye. A good man. Pity he couldn’t leave you a decent living.”

  Papa’s dying words came back to mind. Forgive me for losing what was yours. But Papa hadn’t lost Deerford. He’d been bound by terms of a settlement formed generations before. Perhaps he had tried to change the settlement but failed. Such generational documents could be impossible to derail. Unfortunately, her cousin had found a way.

  “What’s done is done. My future rests with Maman’s family.”

  “I hope they will welcome you.”

  “Why wouldn’t they?” Catherine spoke with more vigor now that the tromping overhead had ceased. “My letter explains everything. When I show them my baptismal record, all doubts will be erased.”

  “I hope you are correct, but one can’t know how those Americans might react. They are different, you know, especially those . . . not of English blood.”

  “French.” Catherine didn’t mind stating it. Though enmity between the countries was currently at an ebb, attitudes didn’t change. “You’re referring to Maman’s family name, Lafreniere.”

  “It doesn’t matter now, I suppose,” Mrs. Durning grumbled. “They’re all Americans.”

  Catherine managed a bit of a smile. “I suppose you’re right.” But Maman had often spoken French to her when she was a child. Alas, Catherine recalled very little. Would Maman’s family still speak French? The thought had occurred to her, as well as the trepidation that she would not fully understand them if they did. If they were anything like Maman, filled with gentle grace and a bold spirit, language would not prove a barrier. “I’m looking forward to meeting them.”

  “Goodness, you’re a brave girl, heading across the ocean to throw yourself on the mercy of kin you’ve never met.”

  The thought unsettled her almost as much as the rolling seas. “If I’m fortunate, I’ll meet someone like your husband.”

  That turned Mrs. Durning’s attention in a positive direction. “I’ll pray you do. Your relations will introduce you to many gentlemen. There’s bound to be one or two of quality. I suppose they have some sort of entertainment too, though certainly nothing as grand as our Season.”

  Catherine recalled her mother’s descriptions. “They hold balls and soirees. New Orleans is bound to have theaters and operas and symphonies.”

  “Indeed.” Her tone made it clear she didn’t approve of some of those entertainments. “Just take care to follow your family’s guidance. Perhaps your grandmother is still living. Or another female relation. An aunt or even an older cousin.”

  “Maman’s brother must have had children. He was much older than her. There could be many in the family by now.” The idea of having cousins both excited and terrified Catherine. As an only child, she had not known the trials and joys of siblings.

  Regardless, it was better that Mrs. Durning focus on matchmaking or even her prejudices against France and Spain than the battering the ship was taking in this storm.

  “My mother described the plantation as having endless fields of sugarcane stretching from the river as far as one can see.”

  “Oh my. Then your relations must be very rich.” Mrs. Durning absently touched the yellowed lace collar of her muslin dress.

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps that is only the impression of a young woman. She left when she was but seventeen.”

  “And met your father.” Mrs. Durning knew the details of the story by now. Such a long voyage made for familiarity.

  “And met my father.”

  Footsteps raced overhead again. Ca
therine instinctively looked up. Seeing nothing, she returned her attention to Mrs. Durning and spotted a droplet upon the woman’s shoulder. The ceiling was leaking. She supposed that was to be expected, given the savagery of the storm. At least she hoped it was.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing out of the ordinary,” she murmured.

  “What is?”

  “Nothing of import.”

  The door to their cabin burst open, and the steward popped his head into the opening. “Stay in your cabin until someone fetches you.”

  Catherine rose. “What’s happening?”

  He slammed the door without answering her question. Catherine strode across the room, holding herself steady against the wall. “I’m going to find out what that was all about.”

  “It’s exactly what Mr. Durning told us.”

  Not exactly. Captain Durning had said nothing about being fetched.

  Catherine flung open the door and poked her head into the narrow hallway. The first officer, Mr. Lightwater, stood just inside the door that opened to the deck. The steward, holding a lantern, had joined him. Through the open doorway, she saw the lashing rain, blown sideways, in the light of his lantern.

  Neither man noticed her.

  “Get the passengers ready,” Mr. Lightwater charged. “The captain is launching the ship’s boat.”

  Ice flowed through Catherine’s veins. A boat in such weather? She’d seen it lashed to the deck. It might hold everyone but nothing else. No belongings. What would happen to her three trunks, the family Bible, Maman’s portrait, and the daguerreotype of her family taken shortly before Maman’s death? A small boat allowed nothing but oars and necessities like food and water. She must at least bring the Bible and the daguerreotype. The fancy gowns and childhood mementos could sink to the bottom. Even Maman’s portrait must go, but she could not sacrifice everything.

  “Aye,” the steward said, eyeing the howling winds. “But if you don’t mind my saying so, we’ll need help from above to pull this off.”

  Catherine pressed against the wall, overcome. The steward was right. In such winds, how could a tiny boat prevail?

  “You have your orders,” Mr. Lightwater said brusquely before returning to the maelstrom on deck.

  Catherine ducked back into the room and closed the door before the steward spotted her. Her knees threatened to give way at the thought of what faced them. Winds and horizontal rain were just the start. The waves could swallow such a small boat. She collapsed against the closed door and squeezed her eyes shut against a flood of images.

  Surely there was some hope if the captain had ordered the boat launched. Perhaps they were near the land she’d spotted earlier that day.

  “What is it?” Mrs. Durning didn’t attempt to hide her alarm. “What did you see?”

  Catherine had never considered the possibility of shipwreck or becoming marooned, least of all drowning. Even if they somehow managed to reach land, many of these islands were savage. Some fell under unfriendly control. An Englishwoman might befall precisely the sort of indignities that Mrs. Durning had hinted at during her cautions.

  Her heart pounded. Pirates still lurked in the dark corners of this part of the world. What would such men do to Mrs. Durning and her? Romantic tales would not measure well against cruel reality.

  The ship lurched, and she bounced against the cabin wall.

  “Are you hurt?” Mrs. Durning had somehow managed to reach her in spite of the heaving decks.

  Catherine rubbed her shoulder. “I’m fine.” But the ship wasn’t. “I believe it is time to pray in earnest.”

  Tom Worthington crushed the letter in his right hand. How could she? This was not the sort of information he needed to receive the morning after a big storm.

  “Is everything all right?” asked Jules Ledbetter, the bringer of the bad news.

  Tom weighed his words as the jeweler on the other side of the shop counter slipped back to the worktable and resumed tinkering on a watch. Tinker! He let out a cynical snort. How could his mother remarry so soon?

  “Barely in the grave,” he muttered.

  “Someone died?”

  Tom shook away the cobwebs of regret. “My pa.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t know.” Jules cast him an appropriately sorrowful expression though he’d never known any of Tom’s family. “I wouldn’t have brought the letter ’cept Captain said it might be important. Tough luck.”

  “What?” Tom stared at the lad until the bits and pieces fit together. Oh. Jules thought the letter announced Pa’s death. “He died seven years ago.”

  “Oh.” Jules squinted at him. “Then why’re ye upset now?”

  “Because she’s remarrying.”

  “She?”

  “My mother. Doesn’t she have any respect for Pa? Marrying his sworn enemy, no less. That man didn’t have one kind word to say about Pa when he was living. Now she says he’s all sympathetic about their situation and wants to take care of them.” That put a bitter taste in Tom’s mouth.

  “Sorry.” Jules shuffled his feet again, appearing chagrined but certainly not sympathetic.

  “It gets worse. My brothers and sisters are taking that man’s name. Tinker.” He smacked his fist into his other hand. “How could they?”

  Jules shrugged. “He’s gonna be their new pa.”

  “He’ll never be their father. Not really.” He stared down the lad. “Don’t you have something better to do?”

  Jules backed away, eyes wide. “I’m s’posed to give you a message. Captain said we’re ta set sail within the hour. Ship’s aground inside Washerwoman Shoal, and everyone’s headin’ out ta help in the salvage. Didn’t you hear the bell?” He scooted toward the door.

  Whenever a wreck was spotted, the bells would ring from the lookout towers. Tom hadn’t heard. He’d been too intent on questioning the jeweler. Jules’s news sent a thrill through his veins. A wreck would take his mind off trouble at home. A wreck could bring him enough wealth to avenge his father and prove that a Worthington was better than a Tinker any day. The pitying sneers would be replaced by respect.

  “Tell Captain O’Malley that I’ll board the Windsprite as soon as I finish here,” Tom called out.

  Jules paused in the doorway. “Captain says you’re ta take the James Patrick out with Rander and pilot in a barque that lost her mainmast.”

  “Do what?” Piloting brought in a pittance compared to a wreck, where salvage could make a man’s fortune. Rourke O’Malley knew how desperately Tom wanted to salvage a big wreck. He would never deny him the opportunity. “You must have misunderstood.”

  Jules shook his head. “That’s what he said.”

  “I see. Rander is going to follow me back to port in the James Patrick, and then we’ll head out to the wreck.”

  Jules hopped from foot to foot. “Nope. He’s ta head straight ta the wreck after droppin’ ye off.”

  “What?” Tom couldn’t believe his ears. If he didn’t participate in the salvage, he earned none of the reward. “He can’t leave me grounded.”

  “That’s what the captain said. You can ask him yerself.” Jules took off at a run.

  Tom raced to the door, but the youngster was already halfway down the street.

  “Change your mind?” the jeweler asked behind him.

  Tom stuffed the crumpled letter into his jacket pocket and returned to the counter, where the jeweler had laid out a golden brooch.

  “Your special lady will treasure it,” the jeweler said.

  Tom wasn’t going to admit he had no special lady. No one lived up to his criteria. She must be beautiful, compassionate, and elegant like the captain’s wife. And honest. Tom couldn’t abide the slightest hint of dishonesty. The woman he loved would be exquisite, a jewel.

  “All I’m asking is who sold it to you,” he prodded. “Was it a Spaniard or Cuban named Mornez?”

  “Can’t say. It was a long time ago.”

  Tom laid on the countertop a gold doubloon that he’d found while diving
the reef. “Try to remember.”

  The jeweler reached for the coin, but Tom covered it with his right hand. “Information first.”

  “Don’t know any names, but the gentleman who brought it here claimed it’s from nobility and has a great secret behind it.”

  “Not good enough. What did he look like?”

  “He didn’t say, but I’d venture he was a Spaniard.”

  Tom’s mouth went dry. He had to control himself so he didn’t leap across the counter and shake the rest of the story from the man. “From Spain or Havana?”

  “One would suppose the latter.”

  Tom’s skin prickled. “This man. Was he shorter than me with dark complexion and black eyes?”

  The jeweler wrapped the brooch and put it into a small mahogany box. “That describes many Cubans.”

  “Then he was from Havana.”

  The jeweler began to walk away.

  Tom stopped him with a single sentence. “The doubloon is yours if you can tell me the man’s name.”

  “He never gave it.” The jeweler tucked the box into a safe.

  Tom must know if it had once belonged to the man who’d betrayed his father. “Then tell me this man’s single most distinguishing feature.”

  The jeweler eyed him. “Would you be referring to that scar in the shape of a question mark just below his left eye?”

  “Mornez.” The prickles turned to a wash of ice water. Ten years ago the man had hired Pa to take him to Louisiana. En route, he had incited the crew to mutiny, cast Pa off in the ship’s boat, and stole the ship. Three weeks adrift had ruined Pa’s health. The loss of the ship and the resulting charges of neglect had cast the family into poverty. “Luis Mornez.”

  “Like I said, I never knew his name.”

  Tom pushed the doubloon toward the jeweler, who bit the edge to be certain of its authenticity.

  The jeweler smiled. “A fair trade, considering you’re heading out for a wreck.”

  A chill shivered through Tom at the reference to a local fear that a sailor giving up gold would soon meet his end.

  “I’m not superstitious.” He stopped in the doorway. “I put my faith in God.”