Lord Of The Sea

by Danelle Harmon

  “Going t’ be quite a blow, sir,” said one of the tars, as though reading Connor’s thoughts. “Don’t think Oi’ve ever seen clouds quite that dark here in Paradise.”

  “Think it’s an ‘urricane?”

  “Never saw one, but you can feel somethink in the air. This un’s going t’ be big. Really big.”

  “Shut up and row,” Delmore snapped.

  Connor shut his eyes. Rhiannon’s arm was around his back now, and he leaned gratefully into her strength. Shortly after, the boat lurched against the sandy beach and his cousin leaped out.

  He must have noted Connor’s weakened condition, because he frowned and offered a hand.

  “Much obliged,” Connor said, and took it.

  With Rhiannon at his side and Delmore in front of them, they moved quietly up the beach. Overhead, the coconut palms moved restlessly in the building wind, their tops beginning to bend and lean in the increasing gusts. A drop of rain splashed down from above, landing on Connor’s nose. The color of the trees grew darker, and the chatter of birds went strangely quiet.

  They reached the Falconer mansion just as the sky began to open up in earnest. Inside, a servant took Delmore’s hat and coat, and Sir Graham himself came striding out of the long gallery where he had been quietly pacing, stopping to gaze out the windows every five minutes in anticipation of their arrival.

  “Connor,” he said, holding out his hand and frowning as he saw the pallor of his brother-in-law’s skin, the haunted, sunken look in his eyes. “Thank you for coming.”

  Connor did not accept the offered hand. “Where is he?”

  “In his bedroom. Follow me.”

  The awkwardness of the moment was past and Connor, steeling himself against his sister’s condemnation and his dread over what state he would find his beloved little nephew in, summoned every bit of his strength and followed the admiral. Beside him Rhiannon walked, her hand in his. Only she knew how tightly he was clinging to that hand.

  Only she knew that it was his lifeline.

  Outside, an abrupt flash lit up the day as lightning crashed down from above, and suddenly wind and rain came sweeping in through open windows. Servants ran to close the hurricane shutters; others hurried to light candles against the sudden, thickening darkness that the storm had brought with it.

  Alannah was waiting outside the boy’s bedroom, her eyes tragic. “Go on in,” she said. “He’s been calling for you.”

  The door was ajar and Connor, with Rhiannon beside him, slipped quietly into the chamber. Like the day outside, the room was painted in a heavy gray light that even the candles in their hurricane lamps could not penetrate. Connor saw an unfamiliar man in black tails whom he assumed was the doctor, mixing something with mortar and pestle at a desk beneath the shuttered window. He saw Maeve sitting forlornly in a chair beside the bed, her dark red hair caught in a ribbon and hanging in neglected snarls down her back. Liam stood behind her, looking far older than Connor had ever seen him. The old man’s eyes met his, and in their blue, blue depths, Connor saw the sudden gleam of tears.

  Maeve looked up then, her gold eyes dominating her pale and anguished face.

  “You came,” she whispered.

  He would not meet her gaze. “Did you think I would not?”

  He walked up to the bed and finally, mustering every shred of his courage, looked down at the little boy.

  “Oh, Ned,” he breathed, and gently easing himself down beside the small body, reached out to take his nephew’s hand. The skin was hot and dry, and felt like paper. The boy, his face flushed and damp with sweat, opened eyes that were glassy with fever.

  “Uncle Connor . . . I don’t feel well.”

  “I’m here, lad. I came as soon as I was told.”

  “My eyeballs ache . . . my head hurts . . . and I’m so hot . . . so . . . so . . . hot.”

  The doctor turned from where he’d been mixing his concoction and came back over to the bed. He was a stooped man with sad eyes and deep jowls that made him look a bit like an old hound. He looked up at Connor, then down, then suddenly back up again, frowning. “Are you ill, sir? You don’t look much better than the boy does.”

  Connor ignored the question. “What ails him?”

  “Malaria, I think.”

  “Can’t you give him something for it?”

  “Give him something? What? Prayers are about all I have left to give at this point.”

  Maeve let out a choking sob and quickly pushed her hand against her mouth, turning her face into her husband’s embrace as he sat beside her.

  The boy’s breath whistled harsh and shallow through his lungs. He closed his glazed eyes, his long black lashes lying against flushed cheeks. “She’s beautiful in the sunset, you know. . . All the colors of the sky are in her sails. . . . ”

  “It’s the fever talking,” the doctor continued. “I’ve made up a poultice. We’ll pack it on his skin, perhaps it will bring the fever down.”

  “Reds and oranges and pinks. And light . . . so much light . . . her sails are made of it . . . it hurts my eyes to look at them. Grandma says I can fire the guns.”

  Maeve began rocking back and forth in her grief.

  Connor reached for the sea sponge standing in a nearby bowl of water, and squeezing it out, gently bathed his little nephew’s brow. “Why are you using a poultice, sir, when there’s Peruvian bark to be had?”

  “Peruvian bark? You mean Jesuit’s bark? A proven cure for malaria, but where, sir, do you think I’m going to find any? It’s not something I have in my possession, that’s for certain.”

  “There’s a doctor on St. Vincent who has a store of it.”

  “And how would you know such a thing? Are you a physician?”

  “No, sir.” Connor glanced at Sir Graham with a hint of his old defiance. “I am an American privateer. And a damned good one. Recently, I captured a ship that was carrying a store of the stuff back to England, sent by this doctor in St. Vincent to his colleague in London. It was part of the manifest.”

  “How do we know that doctor on St. Vincent even has any left?”

  Connor looked at the older man flatly. “We don’t.”

  Outside, the wind grew stronger, and the shutters rattled. Trees began to thrash against the house and the light through the slats of the shutters grew cold and ugly as the day went as dark a night.

  Sir Graham let out a defeated breath. “St. Vincent is a hundred miles from here,” he said bleakly. “We’ll have to wait until the storm blows itself out. There’s no way a ship can get out in this weather.”

  “That could be days,” Maeve cried, her tears leaking through her fingers as she rocked, hunched over in anguish.

  Little Ned, it was apparent, did not have days.

  Connor shrugged. “It’s due west.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Wind’s blowing due west. And hard.” He looked up at Sir Graham. “I could do it, you know.”

  Maeve looked up. “Do what?” she demanded.

  “Go fetch the Peruvian bark.”

  Sir Graham shook his head. “Madness. Not in this storm, you couldn’t.”

  “Give me something with a sail and a rudder and I tell you, I can.”

  “Even the heaviest ships in my fleet are double anchored at stem and stern to ride this thing out. To venture out in this weather is suicide, and you know it!”

  “Aye, I do. But I don’t think you have a choice, Admiral.”

  Maeve leaped to her feet. “Damn you, Connor! I won’t let you do it, I won’t suffer any more grief because of your damned recklessness and need for glory!”

  Brother and sister faced each other, neither one willing to back down. And in the charged silence, the doctor put a hand on the boy’s hot brow and frowned.

  “I daresay, Lady Falconer, that if you don’t let him do it, the one you’ll be grieving, with all certainty, is your son.”

  Connor had heard enough. Let them all bicker and worry and waste time. He was not going
to stand here and let his nephew die. Oh, no. Not on his watch. Ignoring the fatigue in his own body, the weakness of limb and the dull ache that still persisted in his skull, he strode angrily to the door and there, turned and faced them all with defiant eyes.

  “The problem with all of you is that you don’t know how to live,” he muttered. “Well, I lost the two people who, beside my beloved wife, were dearer and more precious to me than anyone in the world, and I’m not going to stand here and watch someone else I love die when I can damn well do something about it. Send me off with or without your blessing, but damn you, damn all of you, I’m going.”

  “Wait,” Sir Graham said. “Wait.”

  Connor turned, his fists clenched, his eyes resolute. “Throw me back under arrest, Sir Graham. But don’t put this death on my conscience. Oh, no. Don’t you dare.”

  The admiral faced him squarely. “I will go with you.”

  “No!” shouted Maeve. “No, I won’t allow it! I need you here, Ned needs you here!”

  But it was old Liam who stepped away from the bed and went to join Connor at the door. He looked up at the tall, charismatic young man who looked so much like the one he had spent his life devoted to, a man who couldn’t be more different from his father . . . and yet, couldn’t be more alike.

  A man who had inherited Captain Brendan Jay Merrick’s famous courage—and wasn’t afraid to use it.

  “I’ll go with ye,” he said quietly, and turned to face the others. “You’re needed here, Sir Graham. Connor and I will go.”

  “I’ll go, too.”

  In their anguish, everyone had forgotten Delmore Lord, standing quietly at the door. Now, the admiral’s flag captain went to stand with the old Irishman and his American cousin whose eyes, for the first time in days, were beginning to show signs of purpose.

  Of life.

  “If Connor thinks he can do it, then I have faith in him and will do all I can to support him. You don’t have a choice, Sir Graham.”

  Rhiannon, the tears springing to her eyes, stared at the three of them for a long, anguished moment. Old Liam, standing beside Connor as he must have spent his life standing beside Brendan. Delmore Lord, eyes steady as he bravely defied his admiral and chanced his own death for the sake of a little boy.

  Oh, Connor, she thought. I know why you have to do this. I know that it’s more than just your love for your nephew that drives you. This is your chance for absolution. I understand that. But oh, dear God, I’m worried sick about you. Worried sick.

  Outside, thunder rolled, and the very ground seemed to shake beneath the house.

  “I’ll need a ship,” Connor said, beginning to pace. “Something small. Fore and aft rigged. Easily managed with a minimal crew.”

  Sir Graham was still shaking his head, unable, in his own grief and worry for his only son, to make a decision.

  Wind moaned under the eaves, and outside, something blew over and banged against a railing.

  “Sir Graham!” Connor insisted sharply. “We don’t have much time.”

  “Take the cutter, Rapier,” the admiral said. “She’s fast and seaworthy. Del will take you to her.”

  In moments the room was a swirl of activity as plans were hastily made and men began filing hurriedly out. At last only Connor remained, with Maeve still in her chair and numb with grief, and Rhiannon, who had sat down on the bed beside the little boy.

  Maeve looked up at her brother with tragic eyes. “You don’t have to do this,” she said. “Not after what I said to you.”

  “I’m not doing it for you. I’m doing it for him.”

  “Thank you all the same. I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, Connor, but our differences arise from the fact we’re so much alike.”

  Connor’s foot was tapping against the floor, his energy building. “I know that.”

  “Godspeed, my brother.”

  “Farewell, Maeve.”

  Rhiannon got up and followed him to the door. Little Ned never moved as she left the bed. His condition had worsened in the hour that they’d been here and Rhiannon feared, deep in her heart, that no matter how fast Rapier was, she would never make it back in time with the medicine that the boy so desperately needed.

  The wind howled outside, gathering in strength and fury.

  If she made it back at all.

  * * *

  One-Eye, Jacques, and the scanty remains of Kestrel’s crew were there waiting for Connor when he, accompanied by Rhiannon, Liam and Delmore, arrived at the dock. Connor didn’t stop to question how they must have found out about his mission. “I don’t need to tell you about the risks,” he shouted to them over the howl of the wind as he looked gravely at each face in turn. “There are no guarantees we’re going to make it.”

  “If anyone can get a ship from here to St. Vincent in this weather, sir, it’s you.”

  “Aye, Captain. We didn’t desert you before, and we ain’t gonna desert you now.”

  The wind was roaring straight out of the east now, and long threads of foam streamed along the choppy, restless waters of Carlisle Bay. Nobody said what was obvious.

  It was going to be a lot, lot worse out at sea, beyond the protection of the harbor.

  Footsteps echoed on the dock. Looking over his shoulder, Connor saw two figures approaching, bent against the wind but unmistakable in their familiarity.

  His heart warmed. Nathan and Toby.

  It wasn’t forgiveness, but it was trust, and that was close enough.

  It had to be.

  One of the Royal Navy tars yelled up from below. “Boat’s ready, sir!”

  There was no time to delay.

  Connor glanced down, seeing the boat leaping and bucking in the rising seas as her crew tried to keep her fended away from the poles supporting the pier. One by one, the brave men who had volunteered to accompany him climbed down into the little vessel that looked so fragile against the elements and now, more than ever before, Connor was aware of the huge weight of his responsibility to them.

  And what their loyalty, their faith in him, meant to him.

  Shielding their faces against the rain and huddled under tarpaulin coats, they looked up at the man whom they trusted to lead them into hell and back.

  I am my father’s son. And I can do this. I will do this.

  He turned to the woman in his arms, using his back to shelter her from the wind and rain as he threaded his fingers into her hair and, holding her head steady, touched his forehead to hers.

  “It’s time for me to go, Rhiannon.”

  “I know.” She bravely held back her tears.

  “I love you,” he said. “No matter what happens, never forget that.”

  She nodded jerkily. “I love you too, Connor. You are a better man than any I’ve ever met. God bless you. And keep you.”

  He enfolded her in his arms, silently transmitting his thoughts to her even though he knew in his heart that she already knew what he would say if he could put them to voice. I know this is hard for you. I know the sacrifice you’re making, Rhiannon. Thank you for giving me your blessing on this. Thank you for understanding that it is something I must do, not just for little Ned, not just for my family . . . but for myself.

  Absolution.

  He claimed her lips in a long, desperate kiss and then, turning his back, followed the others down into the waiting boat.

  He looked up, seeing her tragic, terrified face.

  “Live a little!” he yelled up to her, flashing that old reckless smile. “See you when we get back!”

  The boat pushed off. Rhiannon stood there, her skirts whipping around her legs as she clung to a post so as not to be blown off her feet. Even in the few minutes she’d been here, the wind had increased in force and fury. She watched the boat’s struggles to reach the long, low cutter anchored near the rest of the fleet, saw its few inhabitants going up and over the vessel’s sides, and moments later, sail began to bloom at its long, rakish nose.

  Above, the clouds made a huge, sky-w
ide vortex of grey and purple and black.

  The cutter was moving now, heeling hard over in the wind and already showing a bone in her teeth as she gathered speed.

  And Rhiannon feared, with everything in her heart, that she was never coming back.

  Chapter 35

  The afternoon grew darker yet, so dark that it was impossible to tell when the day ended and nightfall began.

  Five o’ clock. Seven o’ clock. Midnight. Ned tossed fitfully in the bed, flinging aside the damp sheets and mumbling in his delirium while his anguished mother bathed his brow, his father paced the gallery with a cold cup of coffee and stared out into the wind-torn darkness, and somewhere, a small vessel rode the fury of the worst storm to hit the Caribbean in over a decade.

  In her own bedroom Rhiannon, her long, red-gold hair caught in a thick braid and hanging down her back, opened the shutters and sat by the window, looking out into a night as black as Hades. Wind screamed around the corners of the house and she could see the coconut palms bent nearly double under the onslaught.

  Connor was out there somewhere.

  How long would it take the cutter to reach St. Vincent, a hundred miles away? Probably not long with the wind howling out of the east as it was, though Sir Graham had told her earlier that it had begun to veer to the southeast. At least, if it continued on that pattern, the cutter wouldn’t have to beat back against it on her return to Barbados.

  Provided she would be returning.

  Rain was blowing into the room, and Rhiannon closed the shutters once more.

  She got into bed but lay there in the darkness, listening to the roar of the wind outside, the slash of rain against the shutters, her mind conjuring up things she did not want to think about. Her own restlessness got the better of her, and some time in the wee hours of the morning she finally got up and, the hurricane lamp in her hand, went to check on Maeve and little Ned.