* * * * *
Ritcherd stopped at a local livery stable and made a deal on the horse he’d ridden into town. He’d left his stallion in the stables at Buckley Manor, knowing it would be well cared for, just as it had been through his years at war. But this horse had no sentimental value to him, and he knew he wouldn’t be needing it for a long time. When that was seen to, he went to an inn to get something to eat. The growling of his stomach reminded him he’d hardly eaten at all today. When his meal was finished, he walked the short distance to the pier where his ship was proudly docked. He just had to look at it for several minutes in the moonlight, thinking of the name he would give it and the places it would take him. When he stood there another few minutes and realized there was absolutely no one around, he wondered where this captain and crew that George talked about had all gone. He wandered around for a short while, and still saw no one. Answering his fatigue, he got a room at a nearby inn and slept better than he’d expected. Following a bath and a hearty breakfast, he went back to the pier and found an entirely different picture. He could hardly see the hull of the ship for all the crates and sacks stacked around it on the dock. A number of rather colorful-looking men he’d never seen before were systematically loading the goods onto the ship. Their laughter and conversation filled Ritcherd with added anticipation. He hoped it wouldn’t be too long before they set sail.
He was just wondering where George might be when he was startled by a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Yo ho ho,” George said, then he laughed. Ritcherd figured it must be some kind of sea humor.
He was taken aback by George’s appearance, until he concluded that he was dressed to fit in with the men they’d be sailing with. His clothes were old and worn, unlike anything Ritcherd had ever seen him wear. His hair was tied back in the usual ponytail, but it looked almost sloppy, as if he’d not taken the time to actually put a comb to it. But most startling of all was the gold ring that hung in a pierced earlobe. He smirked at George but chose not to comment. Instead he stated, “I was here last night, but nobody was around.”
“We all turned in early,” George explained. “It was a long day.”
“I see.” Ritcherd glanced around again at the bustle of activity. “Exactly how much food do we need?” he asked, noting the markings on most of the crates.
George leaned closer and whispered, “Most of this food is explosive.”
“I see,” Ritcherd said again, glancing around as if they might all be immediately arrested. He wondered what kind of connections they had with legal authorities to let something like this go unnoticed.
“Hey,” George changed his tone, “I’ve got a painter on hold. We’ve got to get a name on this ship before we sail. You got any ideas yet? ’Cause if you start asking these guys for ideas, it’ll be—”
“Yes, I do, actually,” Ritcherd said.
“Great.” George seemed pleased. “Let’s go talk to him. Then you can get settled in.”
Ritcherd saw George smile as he explained to the painter what he wanted on the ship. “Can you do it?” Ritcherd asked, ignoring George for the moment.
“O’ course I can do it,” the man insisted.
“Today?”
“Aye. I’ll have m’ boys ’elpin’ me.”
Ritcherd pulled out some money to pay him, and George intervened. “We’ll pay you when it’s finished,” he said to the painter.
As they walked back to the pier together, George told Ritcherd, “If you paid him now, he’d be too drunk to show up and get the job done.”
Ritcherd didn’t say anything, but he was glad George knew what he was doing. He felt vulnerable and out of place already. Then George took him aboard the ship while the sailors all eyed him skeptically. He felt chilled at the thought of Kyrah sailing with men like this—or worse.
Ritcherd followed George below deck and down the long hallway between the crew’s cabins. He knew from his brief tour that the captain’s cabin was at the back of the ship, and it was huge in comparison to the others. George knocked at the door and heard a gravelly “Yeah?” in response.
“So you do knock,” Ritcherd whispered.
“Occasionally,” George smirked and opened the door, motioning for Ritcherd to enter. A quick glance told him the room was in shambles. His eye was drawn to a burly sailor with his hair hanging over his eyes in a way that made Ritcherd wonder how he could see what he was doing as he gathered up several rolls of paper.
“Put the charts there . . . in that . . . No, not there!” The man giving the orders was obviously the captain, but his back was turned and Ritcherd couldn’t get a good look at him beyond the dark hair that was worn in a longer-than-normal ponytail. His voice was deep, and that gravelly quality came into it with an increase in volume. “Very good,” he drawled as the sailor apparently found the right compartment. “Thank you, Patrick,” he added. “That will be all for the moment.” The sailor left the room with a suspicious glance toward Ritcherd.
“Captain Buchanan,” George said with a histrionic wave of his arm, “I’d like you to meet the man who’ll be sailing your ship—Captain Garret.”
Ritcherd tried not to feel unnerved when Captain Garret turned around and their eyes met. He was close to Ritcherd’s size and build, and he guessed they weren’t too far apart in age. A neatly trimmed beard framed his face, where deep-set eyes peered from beneath brows that were dark and thick. A gold earring hung from his left ear. Combined with his manner of dress, he looked downright treacherous. He wore doeskin breeches and high boots; a wool shirt, belted around the waist with the sleeves rolled up almost to the shoulder, and black leather gloves, leaving his muscular arms showing prominently in between. With a pistol and straight-bladed cutlass at his side, it was immediately evident that this man was not to be crossed, although the message came more from his eyes than the weapons he sported. As Ritcherd felt Captain Garret surveying him, he could almost believe the man was seeing into his soul.
“So this is Captain Buchanan,” he said. His voice came across more smooth and mellow than when he’d been giving orders just a minute ago. “I must thank you for giving us the means to continue our work.”
“It’s my pleasure, actually.”
Garret folded his arms over his chest. “So, you’re coming with us, I hear.”
“That’s right.”
Garret looked Ritcherd up and down, clucking his tongue as if what he saw was pitiful. “Not looking like that, you’re not.”
Ritcherd glanced down at himself, then back at Garret, certain he wasn’t going to like this man. “Is there something wrong with the way I look?” he asked in a voice tinged with anger.
Garret leaned against the large table that was bolted to the floor. “You look an awfully lot like an aristocrat.”
Ritcherd gave George a sidelong glance, as if to say is this guy crazy? Ritcherd wondered what exactly he’d expected. Before he had a chance to retort, Garret added, “Most of the men I know in this business would shoot an aristocrat for sport.” Ritcherd felt his defenses heighten, but he could hardly protest when Garret explained, “I will not risk my crew, and the people we’re trying to help, with you standing out as conspicuous as a full moon on a black night.” He walked around Ritcherd as if he was somehow sizing him up. “I’ll admit,” he said more to George, “at least he’s got a rugged look about him. Some of the clothes might work. At least he’s not all fluff and frills like most of those aristo imbeciles.”
“That’s true,” George said, and Ritcherd shot him a harsh glare. George just shrugged his shoulders and smirked, as if he was actually enjoying this.
While Ritcherd was trying to decide if he felt humbled or humiliated, Garret’s voice picked up that gravelly quality that seemed to come with giving orders. “Take him to that second-hand shop down the pier, Morley. Then take him to Sam.”
“Who’s Sam?” Ritcherd asked, not liking the glance that passed between Garret and George.
“Sam will get
your ear pierced for a fair price. And he actually cleans the needle first.”
“What?” Ritcherd retorted. “If you think that—”
“Captain Buchanan,” Garret interrupted. “Poor sailors and pirates wear gold in their ear, as an insurance policy, so to speak. That piece of gold guarantees that if you die, I will be able to afford seeing that your body is properly cared for, and your loved ones are notified. You’re not sailing without it.” He leaned forward slightly, and there was a subtle bite to his voice as he added, “I assume you can afford it.”
While Ritcherd was contemplating a retaliation worthy of his growing anger, he felt George’s hand on his arm, as if to warn him. Recalling his purpose for doing this, he swallowed his anger and simply stated, “Yes, Captain, I can afford it.”
“Good,” Garret said. “See to it. Then we can talk.” With that he motioned them toward the door like a king dismissing his servants.
Ritcherd followed George out of the cabin, pausing to give Garret a long, hard glare. Having served in the military, he knew how to take orders from his superiors when necessary. But as an officer, he was also accustomed to being in charge when he needed to be. He didn’t like this guy’s attitude, and he feared the journey could be far more of a challenge than he’d anticipated.
Garret didn’t seem the least bit ruffled by the disdain in Ritcherd’s expression. In fact, his brows went up in a way that implied he found the situation humorous. Ritcherd turned and left the room, hating his mother all over again for putting him in a position where he had to deal with such circumstances.
“You can put your things in here,” George said, distracting Ritcherd as he opened the door to one of the cabins. Ritcherd tossed his bag on the narrow bed and closed the door again.
“Ah, lighten up,” George said as they returned to the deck. Ritcherd hadn’t said anything for fear of erupting. “Consider it a form of playacting. And as for Garret, you’ll get used to him.”
“Looks like I don’t have much choice,” Ritcherd said.
“You don’t have to come with us,” George suggested.
“Yes, I do.” Ritcherd’s voice came softer as he recalled again his motivation for doing this. George looked curious over his reasons, but he didn’t ask. And that was fine with Ritcherd. He figured that eventually George would learn the whole story. But for the time being, he preferred to keep it to himself.
Ritcherd did manage to lighten up a bit as George helped him pick out a number of pieces of second-hand clothing. It was evident that everything had been well cleaned and put in good repair. And the shopkeeper’s comical flair took the edge off Ritcherd’s mood. While they were finishing up, Ritcherd picked up a black tricorne and patted it onto his head, mostly hoping to provoke some laughter out of George. But his friend only smiled and lifted one eyebrow, which prompted Ritcherd to look in the mirror. He actually felt startled by his own reflection. The man looking back at him seemed so unfamiliar, but in a way that intrigued and inspired him. While he was assessing that the hat was a perfect fit, the shopkeeper said, “Got that from a redcoat for a fair price. He took it off o’ one o’ them rebel colonists after he’d shot him.”
“Really.” Ritcherd removed the hat and rubbed his fingers over the fine texture while he contemplated how that made him feel. He thought of the colonists he’d shot personally. He’d never felt good about doing it, but a new level of regret settled over him. Now, he had to wonder how he might feel if he were American, wanting only to live in peace without social barriers, ridiculous taxation, and the threat of tyranny. He recalled all too well the faces of the men he’d killed. They had been typical of the soldiers they’d come up against—if they could even be called soldiers. They were unruly, undisciplined, and most of them had been dressed as if they’d just walked away from their farms and shops. And that’s what struck Ritcherd as he held the hat in his hands. That was the reality he had overlooked. They had just walked away from their farms and shops, taking up any weapon they could get their hands on to defend what they had worked so hard for.
Ritcherd put the hat back on and looked at himself again in the mirror. He saw anger and determination. He felt like a rebel. He felt like spitting at the society that created such social injustice, the same way colonists—men and women alike—had spat at him when he’d led his troops through the villages of New England. And if that made him a traitor, so be it.
“I’ll take it,” he said and saw George smile.
Ritcherd came away not feeling too out of sorts with the clothes he was wearing, and his own clothes tucked into a bundle with his other purchases. George declared that he liked the changes, and Ritcherd had to admit that he didn’t necessarily dislike them. At least now he wouldn’t stick out like an aristocratic sore thumb. And at the moment, becoming inconspicuous was awfully appealing. He kept that in mind as they paid a visit to Sam.
The ear piercing hurt more than he’d thought it would, but George informed him that in a day or two he wouldn’t notice it at all. Before they left Sam’s place, George roughed up Ritcherd’s hair a little. And the satin ribbon holding his ponytail was replaced with a thin leather strap. Walking along the pier, Ritcherd liked the lack of skeptical and suspicious glances. Feeling a little more prepared to face the journey, his determination to sail increased.
They returned to the ship to find the painter they’d hired sitting in a harness attached to ropes that hung over the bow of the ship. He was hard at work, with a rough outline of the image already taking shape. He waved at George and took a second glance at Ritcherd, obviously wondering if it was the same person. All of the cargo that had been stacked about earlier was completely gone, but Ritcherd noticed the ship was sitting lower in the water with the weight that had been taken on board. Approaching the stairs to go below deck, they met Patrick, who had just come up. He pushed his hair out of his face long enough to survey Ritcherd’s appearance.
“Cap’n had your stuff moved,” he said. “Don’t want ye t’ panic when it ain’t where ye left it.”
“Thank you,” Ritcherd said, wondering why one cabin was any different from another. Perhaps Captain Garret wanted to demote him to the cargo hold in order to humble him completely.
“’E’s waitin’ for ye,” Patrick added and moved past them.
“Great,” Ritcherd said with sarcasm as he followed George below. “Perhaps he’s wanting me to do a little kitchen duty.”
“Nah,” George said with no trace of humor, “he’s already got that covered.”
Ritcherd’s first surprise upon entering the captain’s cabin was to find it immaculate. Obviously he’d gotten settled in. Captain Garret was seated at the desk, absorbed in whatever he was writing in a large book.
“Just a minute,” he said, motioning absently with his free hand. “Have a seat.”
George plopped into one of the chairs that surrounded the table, where the captain’s cutlass and pistol were now lying. Ritcherd set his bundle down but stayed on his feet, feeling too tense to sit. When Captain Garret was apparently finished, he turned in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. With harsh eyes he surveyed Ritcherd from head to toe, then back again. While Ritcherd was struggling to come up with some terse remark that might express his disdain for this situation, Captain Garret broke into a broad grin that completely destroyed any previous effort he’d made to appear menacing.
“Very nice,” he drawled. Nodding toward George, he added, “You do good work, Morley. Remind me to promote you.”
George laughed. “There’s no place to be promoted to around here.”
“Exactly,” Garret said and laughed as well. He motioned toward the larger of the two beds in the cabin as he said to Ritcherd, “I had your things moved here. I don’t know what possessed you to think you’d be sentenced to sleep in one of those rabbit holes.”
“I have to sleep in one of those rabbit holes,” George said.
“You get the accommodations you pay for,” Garret said with a smirk that mad
e it evident he was mostly teasing. “Besides, I’m not rooming with you. You’d drive me crazy . . . as if you don’t already.”
“How do you know Ritch here won’t drive you crazy?”
Garret met Ritcherd’s eyes. “I guess we’ll have to see.” Then to George, “Get out of here, Morley. You’ve got work to do.”
George came to his feet and gave Garret a mocking salute. “Aye, Cap’n,” he said with comical sarcasm and left the room.
“Sit down, Captain Buchanan,” Garret said. Ritcherd hesitated a moment, still caught up in his mental reevaluation of this man. He gave himself a quick scolding in regard to judging on first impressions, then took a seat, feeling an instinctive desire to get to know this man better.
“Ritcherd,” he requested.
“Fine, Ritcherd.” Captain Garret held out his left hand, as if he’d previously noticed Ritcherd’s hesitation in using his right, although Ritcherd couldn’t recall him paying any attention to it. Ritcherd took the proffered hand and gave it a hearty shake. “Call me Garret. It’s the only name I’ve got. Would you like a drink?” he asked, pouring one for himself.
“No, thank you,” Ritcherd said and Garret looked surprised. He quickly explained, “The last time I got drunk, the hangover reformed me.”
Garret chuckled. “I’m not suggesting you get drunk,” he said, pouring a cautious amount into two glasses. “This is the only bottle on the ship, and I’ll be hiding it soon. There will be no drinking once we set sail.” Ritcherd lifted his brows in question and Garret explained, “It’s tempting to get drunk when you’re at sea for so long. But when you’re in a dangerous business, drunk men become dead men.”
“Very poetic,” Ritcherd said. Taking the glass from Garret, he took a long swallow.
Garret took a sip and sat down, lifting his booted legs onto the table. He motioned absently toward Ritcherd with his glass. “You transformed well,” he said.
“Thank you,” Ritcherd said, glancing down at himself. “I think,” he added with a chuckle. “I suppose I’ll get used to it.”
“You’ll have to if you’re sailing on my ship.”
Ritcherd met his eyes and, once again, felt as if Garret could somehow see into his soul. But he met his gaze without flinching as he said, “But it’s my ship.”
“Can you sail it?” Garret asked lightly, though his eyes remained intense.
“Did you buy it?” Ritcherd replied.
Garret’s brows went up. Then he laughed, and Ritcherd joined him.
“Captain Buchanan,” Garret leaned forward and held up his glass, “I think a partnership is in order here.”
“Fair enough,” Ritcherd smiled, “Captain Garret.” He lifted his glass to touch Garret’s before they both emptied them.
“I really don’t need to sleep . . . there.” Ritcherd motioned toward the bed where his bag was sitting. The cabin was obviously set up for a first mate or assistant to sleep in the same room, but Garret had made it clear that Ritcherd should take the more comfortable bed. “The cabin I had was fine. You have a great deal of responsibility here. It’s evident you need the space to do your work . . . and you need to sleep well when you have the chance.”
“I can sleep just about anywhere,” Garret said. “But if we’re going to be partners, the crew will see us as equals.”
Ritcherd couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had been ready to denounce the man as arrogant and rude, but before Ritcherd had even returned to the ship, Garret had moved his things here with the intention of putting equality between them. “Why are you doing this?” he asked, wondering if he should be suspicious.
“Doing what?” Garret asked, lifting his brows.
“This . . . partnership thing. You have no idea what kind of man I am. Maybe I will drive you crazy.”
Garret’s smile was gone as quickly as it came. “I know you’re the kind of man who would let me use his ship with no apparent concern over financial return.”
“I have my motives,” Ritcherd said.
Garret chuckled. “There isn’t a man alive who doesn’t have motives.” Ritcherd wondered for a moment if he might demand to know what they were, but he only said, “For what it’s worth, I just want you to know that I’m grateful, Ritcherd. This cause means a great deal to me. And being at sea is about the only thing in this life that gives me any pleasure. At the risk of gushing, I would like to say that your gesture has restored something for us that we’d lost.”
“We?”
“The crew. Me.”
“And what is that?”
“Hope.”
Ritcherd swallowed carefully, feeling suddenly very humbled. He wondered if he would have supported this cause if not for his motives. His humility deepened when Garret added, “And also one more piece of evidence that there is a greater hand in this work.”
“I don’t understand,” Ritcherd said.
“I don’t know whether or not you’re a God-fearing man, Ritcherd. But I’m not ashamed to admit that I am. And I know that God wants those Americans to succeed. They will succeed. And we have the opportunity to make a small contribution to that success—thanks to you.”
Ritcherd had to say, “I’m a redcoat, you know.”
“Not anymore,” Garret said. “Now you’re a turncoat.” Ritcherd straightened his back and felt his heart quicken. He removed his hat and fingered it carefully. His thoughts when buying it returned and he couldn’t deny the unrest he was feeling.
“Whatever your motives might be, Captain Buchanan, you have now aided a cause that is far greater than you or me.”
“And if God is on the side of the colonists, do you think He’ll forgive me for fighting on the wrong side for three years?”
“You did what you had to do. I can respect that. As for the other . . . well, I suppose that’s between you and God.”
Ritcherd was thoughtful a moment before he said, “Well, at the risk of gushing, I would like to say that I am humbled and also . . . grateful . . . to be given this opportunity.” Hearing the words come back to him, he couldn’t believe what he was saying. He had to clarify in his mind that he was glad to be able to help their cause, but would have far preferred to do it without having these horrible circumstances that had come between him and Kyrah. He glanced at Garret and marveled that they were having this conversation. They had been complete strangers only hours ago. This was the kind of philosophical conversation he recalled having so many times with Kyrah. He felt comfortable, and somehow . . . comforted. But he could almost feel Garret wondering over his reasons for being here. And he just wasn’t ready to delve into that . . . not yet. He was relieved when Garret changed the subject and lightened the mood.
“Now, to the business at hand. It’s best if you don’t get involved with illegal activities using your real name. George and I will be the only ones to know who you really are. Let’s keep it simple. Shorten the first name.”
“Ritch?” he suggested and George entered the room—without knocking.
“Perfect!” Garret said with a quick glance toward George. “And the last?"
“Buckley,” George said as if he’d given this matter great thought.
“Buckley,” Garret repeated. “Captain Ritch Buckley.”
“I like it,” George said.
“Now we just have to work on the voice.”
“The voice?” Ritcherd echoed.
“Aye,” Garret drawled, “the voice’ll give ye away every time, Cap’n.”
Ritcherd laughed at the drastic transformation. It might not have occurred to him if he hadn’t heard the difference, but it was evident now that Garret was a man of refined speech and manners. Yet his sailor’s drawl came naturally and fluently. His curiosity over this man only continued to increase.
“Well,” George said, using the same drawl just as naturally, “I came t’ tell ye it’s time t’ be ’avin’ supper. Let’s be about it. The men won’t be eatin’ without the cap’n.”
“Don’t worry,” Ga
rret said in his normal voice as they moved toward the door. “You’ll catch on. With a little time at sea, you’ll be able to actually open your mouth in a tavern without getting yourself shot. If we keep up the proper appearances when we’re on board, then it comes more naturally when we come in contact with others.”
Ritcherd nodded and followed Captain Garret and George to the galley where the rest of the crew was seated at a long table. As they entered, Garret spoke loudly with his phony drawl, “Might I introduce the man responsible for providin’ us with this lovely vessel t’ further our endeavors.” He motioned toward Ritcherd. “Cap’n Ritch Buckley.”
The men all came to their feet with whoops and hollers of approval. Ritcherd didn’t know whether to feel humbled or terrified at the reality of what lay ahead. But he was pleased as the meal progressed to realize that the food was good. He decided that almost anything could be endured if the food was good.
Before the sun went down, Garret walked onto the pier with Ritcherd to survey the results of the painter’s work before he was paid. In spite of the hasty job, Ritcherd liked the way he had depicted the huge bird with sunlight behind its wings on the hull of the ship, with The Phoenix standing out boldly above it. The Phoenix was also painted across the stern.
“I like it,” Garret said, tipping his head as he gazed at the image for a long minute. “But it’s a little eerie.”
“Eerie?” Ritcherd repeated.
Garret hesitated, as if he was wondering whether or not to tell Ritcherd what he was thinking. He finally said, “The ship we lost was the Falcon Star.”
“Yes, I recall George mentioning that.”
“But did he mention that we had a bird painted on the hull?”
“No,” Ritcherd said, meeting Garret’s eyes. “He didn’t mention that.”
“Eerie,” Garret repeated, turning back to look at the painting of the phoenix. “In a good way, of course. I think it’s a good omen.”
“That’s what I thought,” Ritcherd said, and they went back on board together.
Entering the cabin to turn in after a long day, Ritcherd picked up his bag and tossed it onto the smaller bed. “I’m sleeping here, Cap’n.” He dramatically imitated Garret’s drawl. “Like it or not, if you’re sailing my ship, you’re going to have to live with it.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Garret said with an exaggerated salute. They laughed together and called it a day.
Ritcherd came out of a deep sleep with a hearty nudge in the ribs. “Hey, Buckley,” George’s voice broke the stillness. “We’re setting sail. I don’t think you want to miss this.”
Ritcherd bolted out of his bed and into his breeches and boots. He grabbed his shirt and coat, holding the coat in his teeth as he put his shirt on, following George toward the stairwell. George hurried ahead and quickly disappeared. Ritcherd stepped onto the deck and anticipation rippled through him. The sky was lit in brilliant hues of pink, waiting for the sun to peer over the horizon at any moment. Captain Garret stood at the helm, shouting orders to the men, which were seen to with precision and expertise. Ritcherd caught his breath as one sail went up, then another, and another. The ropes were manned so efficiently that the sails seemed to read Garret’s mind as he maneuvered the Phoenix carefully toward the sea. Once they had cleared the dock, Garret shouted some indecipherable phrase. The ropes were all shifted. The sails drew full and blossomed, and the Phoenix soared. Captain Garret let out a loud whoop, followed by a stretch of laughter. It was evident he couldn’t suppress the joy he found in the experience. Garret’s laughter spread throughout the crew. And Ritcherd couldn’t help but appreciate the thrill as he moved toward the bow. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the wind whipping at the billowing sheets above him, and the water pushing around the vessel below. Gazing westward as the sun came up at his back, he contemplated his reasons for going to a place where he had once sworn he’d never return.
The thrill of leaving port quickly dwindled into the relentless miles of ocean that had to be crossed. The days dragged by slowly for Ritcherd. Since he’d learned of the opportunity to go and find Kyrah, he’d been completely preoccupied with his preparations to sail. But now there was nothing to do with his time. And the waiting seemed unbearable.
He was impressed with the efficient way the ship was run. Despite the crew being small in number, they were all hard-working and knew their jobs well. And the respect they had for each other was apparent. Captain Garret with his phony accent was a good captain, and his word was heeded without question. Ritcherd appreciated the comfortable relationship they’d fallen into so quickly, but he didn’t know how to tell Garret he felt useless. Having the money to pay for this ship didn’t seem to have much meaning when he was the only one on board who was idle.
One of Ritcherd’s few pastimes was his observation of Garret as he attempted to figure him out. He gradually came to see that Garret was a deep thinker, and much of what he did seemed to have significance. Even the way Garret dressed seemed to make some kind of statement. While he commonly wore the rugged sailor’s garb that suited his work and position, he made a habit of changing his clothes when the majority of the work was done for the day. Evenings would often finding him wearing an elegant white shirt, topped by a variety of fine waistcoats. The rich fabrics were such a stark contrast to his rugged appearance that they clearly made a statement. But it took Ritcherd several days to figure out what that statement was. It came to him when Garret appeared at supper wearing a high-necked white waistcoat over a shirt of the same color. It looked familiar to Ritcherd, because he owned more than one just like it; it was part of the uniform of a British officer. But Garret’s waistcoat had a neatly mended, but conspicuous, tear over the right ribs. When Garret wore that waistcoat, he might as well have been shouting at the top of his lungs: I killed a British officer! And wearing that officer’s clothes was Garret’s way of declaring some kind of triumph. It was the same with his other fine clothes; they looked as if they’d been stolen from aristocrats—probably dead ones. And Garret’s wearing them was a mocking declaration that he loathed everything they stood for. But what surprised Ritcherd the most about Garret’s silent insinuations was the way he agreed with them. He felt some kind of willful pride as he dug out his own clothes that so much resembled Garret’s “triumphant wardrobe.” And he started wearing them for the same reasons. The first time he did it, Garret looked him up and down before their eyes met with volumes of silent understanding. Then he smiled.
Life aboard the Phoenix quickly fell into a routine, and Ritcherd’s fascination with the ship and the sea—and even Garret—soon dwindled. His heart was held captive somewhere in the colonies, and his mind continually concentrated on that destination. For hours every day he stood at the bow, gazing westward, praying with all his heart and soul that he would be guided to her as quickly as possible, and that she would remain safe and strong until they could be together again.
The Captain of Her Heart Page 28
