Wind and the Sea

by Marsha Canham

  “Not indispensable, sir, not by any means. Merely unwilling to sit out the war in relative ease, while—”

  “While my other captains are making names for themselves? Decatur, Lawrence, Stewart...they are, indeed, earning the right to wear their sabers proudly, as I knew they would. As I knew you would. As for sitting out the war in relative ease, have a care you do not mistake compassion for cleverness. The Secretary of the Navy has plans for you, m’boy. And yes, I have made him well aware of the risks you took, how you gambled with your life and your reputation for the sake of rooting the traitor out of our midst. You will not be overlooked when the next postings for promotions come due, you have my absolute word on that. In fact, I warrant you will have your choice of ships to command, and I happen to know there are three beauties under construction in Norfolk as we speak. That is, of course, if you decide to return to active duty.”

  “If I decide?”

  Preble chuckled and there was glint of conspiracy in his eyes. “I understand you have a fiancée eagerly awaiting your return to Norfolk. She is an Edgecombe, is she not? I know her father well. I have also heard a great deal about your own father, Samuel Ballantine. I warrant the two families will have their ideas on how you will be spending your future days.”

  “Their ideas are not necessarily mine,” Adrian said quietly.

  Preble studied the stern, confident features a moment, then smiled again. “Good. I was hoping to hear you say that. Now then, from the beginning, if you do not mind.”

  Adrian accepted one of the commodore’s fat brown cigars and after a dizzying moment of savoring the first taste of the harsh tobacco, he took the commodore back, step by step, through the attack on Snake Island and the events of the subsequent two weeks. The commodore’s face remained impassive throughout; only the pale eyes betrayed any sign of anger or disgust or sympathy. He interrupted infrequently, and Ballantine sensed he was merely filling in gaps left by Rowntree and MacDonald for the actual sea battle, capture, imprisonment, and escape. Only when he began to speak of Otis Falworth’s involvement did the questions become more pointed. The confrontation in the sail locker was met with a grunt and a nod; the name of Falworth’s informant on the commodore’s staff caused the him to stand and pace to the window, his hands clasped angrily behind his back.

  “When a man comes to a position of trust and responsibility, he must be trustworthy and responsible. I can tolerate no disloyalty, regardless of the fellow’s culpability or lack of it. He will be dismissed at once and brought before the naval court on charges. As for Captain Jennings' unfortunate demise—" Preble turned from the window, his thin face tense with displeasure— “the man should have been drummed out of the service years ago. Incompetence and cruelty no longer have a place at the helm of a ship, not when hundreds of lives and the pride of one’s country is at stake. Publicly, you realize, he will be lauded as a martyr. Death by torture tends to paint people that way. And I suppose it would serve morale no good measure to brand the man a coward and tyrant. Men seem to shy away from enlisting if they hear too many tales of despots at sea.” He grimaced and added, “At least, that is the basis of the argument my superiors will give me.”

  Ballantine leaned back on the pillows, his throat dry from talking, his energy deserting him. Preble noticed instantly and glanced at a gold pocket watch.

  “Good heavens. It is past four o’clock. I have kept you talking for well over three hours.”

  “Time well spent, sir,” Ballantine said. “I hope I have not left anything out.”

  Preble pursed his lips thoughtfully and snapped the lid of the watch shut. “There is this matter of the young woman I have heard mentioned. Courtney Brown? Both you and the doctor say she gave you invaluable assistance.”

  Ballantine’s gaze slid away from Preble’s. “I do not know if it was her real name, sir. She seemed reluctant to trust us fully in the beginning.”

  “Understandable. And yet from all accounts she trusted you with her life, and you trusted her with yours.”

  “She helped defuse the situation on the Eagle when the prisoners broke out of the hold. She won decent treatment for our men on the Falconer, helped in the actual escape, then helped later with our wounded until the Argus came. I would like to petition for a full pardon for her, sir.”

  “Mmmm. Only the fourth such request.”

  “Four?”

  “Messrs Rowntree, MacDonald, and the good doctor. I hardly see how I could refuse. Very well then, Captain. I will leave you now. I am afraid you will be here a fortnight longer until the Carolina sails for home. She is a good swift ship and should get you back in time for the accolades and celebrations.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Adrian said dryly.

  The commodore retrieved his tricorne from the small wooden table where he had left it, and tucked it up under his arm. “Get yourself well, Captain Ballantine. We need good men like you. With a little help and the grace of God, we will win this blasted war in short order. We will have these corsairs on the run and drive every last one of them, down to their sons and daughters, into the sea!”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Courtney Farrow adjusted the hood of her cloak to keep her face in shadow as she stepped from the coach to the boardwalk. She thanked the driver and settled a coin in his hand, then hurried the few steps into the cozy warmth of the waterfront teashop. A tiny bell on the door announced her arrival to the homely-looking man behind the counter and he hastened over, wiping his hands on a snow-white apron as he ushered her to a small table near the window. From there, she had an excellent view of the harbor, the docks, the frenzied activity on the wharfs as one ship docked and another was being loaded with last-minute provisions.

  “Aye, Miss? How can I serve ye?”

  She could have used a strong measure of rum, but she forced a smile and nodded. “Just tea, please.”

  “Aye, a luv’ly cupp’a should warm the cockles of yer ‘art. Mayn’t I ask if ye’re just comin’ or just goin’?”

  “Going.”

  “Ahh. On the Sirius, then?” He glanced out the window and nodded toward the activity on the wharf. “Bound for America?”

  “Yes.”

  “Luv’ly place, that. Luv’ly place. The wife and I visited near ten year back when our son wed himsel’ to a planter’s daughter and brought a luv’ly pair of twins into the family. Boys, they was; real charmers. But we’ve three daughters here who’ve wed themselves to Spaniards and my Bess is dead against leavin’ them alone too long surrounded by Papists. So we runs the teashop, and we hears the gossip comin’ and goin’. Travelin’ all alone, are ye?”

  “Yes. Yes, my...husband went on ahead.”

  “Ahh. Well, ye’ve picked the proper ship to book on. Captain Pettigrew’s a fine gen'leman, a fine sailor. Runs a clean, fair ship, he does. Here now, an’ I’d best be after ye’re tea or the flag’s’ll be up before ye’re half done. Won’t be but a minute.”

  He beamed and hurried away, his portly body constructed in such a way that most of the movement was done from the knees down. Courtney sighed and pushed the hood back, using the opportunity to glance surreptitiously at the other patrons. The teashop was small, crammed between two towering warehouses, but it smelled deliciously of fresh scones and aromatic teas. There were three couples sharing the English atmosphere and talking among themselves in low, relaxed tones. None of them looked her way but briefly; no one stared or raised a brow in curiosity.

  She felt as though they should. She felt stiff and unnatural in the prim, high-collared travelling suit she had purchased for the occasion. Her feet were sweating and itching inside tight leather shoes, and the cloak, though lightweight, felt like a wooden yoke around her shoulders. She had sold the emerald ring for enough to buy the suit, the cloak, and a small trunk of clothing, as well as to book passage on the merchantman Sirius, bound for Boston and Norfolk. She had money left over to find a comfortable hotel once she was in Norfolk, and to maintain her disguise as a refugee fro
m France. To that end she had assumed the name of de Villiers and practised long and hard in front of a mirror until she felt reasonably sure she could pass muster.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a man smiling at her from across the teashop. She raised a hand nervously and patted the bottom row of auburn curls that lay softly against the nape of her neck. The salon she had visited earlier in the day had trimmed and styled her ragged cap of curls into something she was assured was most fashionable. Since then she had noticed several passersby on the streets turning to cast an approving eye along her newly garbed figure—a consequence she had been forewarned about by the enthusiastic dressmaker who had laboured over her transformation.

  “Here ye be, m’dear.” The proprietor returned to the table, his wide, flat hands balancing a tray laden with a cup and saucer, a teapot, and a plate of dainty cakes and scones. “Eat hearty whilst ye have the chance, ‘at’s what I always tell my guests. First day out the ship’s likely not to follow any regular schedules fer victuals, so goodness only knows when ye’ll be served a proper meal—although Captain Pettigrew is a bit of a toff when it comes to his food. He likes to dine with his passengers when he can, an' he likes to put out a hearty spread. Ever sailed afore, Miss?”

  “Some,” she admitted with a wry smile.

  “Best thing for ye is a dry biscuit with a spot o’ jam if ye start feelin' queasy. Not too heavy in the belly, if ye knows what I mean.”

  “Thank you. I will try to remember.”

  His brow folded like an accordion as he fussed with the plates and cutlery. “Odd, an’ I can’t seem to place yer accent. It’s a luv’ly lilt ye have—mayn’t I ask?”

  “I am from Paris originally, but I have spent time in Italy and Spain recently.”

  “Ahh,” he smiled knowingly. “Turrible troubles yer country’s had, Miss. Turrible. And this here Bonypart’s a mite cocky for his own good ‘ealth. He’s due for a comeuppance, ye ask me. Our Admiral Nelson tromped him a good one in Egypt already; ye’d think the pompous sod’d take a lesson, but no. Seems we’ll have to do it all over again. Ahh me, well...Whup! There she is! Flags goin’ up on the Sirius. Ye’ve an hour before she sails, Miss, an’ if I don’t have a chance to speak at ye again, luck on yer voyage. And don’t you take no never mind about portents and old wives’ tales about storms bodin’ ill luck for a sea voyage—yer very own face has enough sunshine in it to light up the whole Mediterranean.”

  The sky was indeed growing darker by the minute. A thick gray ceiling of cloud was rolling over the harbor. Courtney’s attention was drawn to the Sirius, a privately owned three-masted barkentine, smaller than either the Falconer or the Eagle, with cramped quarters for half a dozen passengers. Most of the space belowdecks would be occupied by cargo, and there was nary a cannon or gunport in sight. The ticketing agent had looked at her strangely when she had booked passage, for the Sirius was not a vessel geared for luxury travel. But Courtney had insisted the tiny, spartan cabin was all she needed and that speed was her priority, not comfort. The next available berth on a larger ship was not for three weeks.

  The flags were up, yet the wharf was still crowded with cartloads of provisions, wicker cages filled with chickens, barrels of salted beef and fish. Men were already up in the rigging, swinging from yard to yard to ready the sails and do a final check on the tackles and lines. Crewmen were streaming up and down her gangway plank to herd the supplies on board. A tall, dark-haired man in a navy peacoat stood on the foredeck, overseeing the operations and shouting orders through a hailing trumpet. Farther out in the bay, the tugs were making ready to attach their two cables to guide the heavily laden bark out to the open sea lane. Courtney’s dark green eyes wandered over the forest of masts and rigging, reluctantly finding and settling on the naval cutter, Carolina.

  Courtney had, over the past two weeks, heard a great deal about the newest hero to emerge from the Barbary wars—Captain Adrian Ballantine. Stories made him out to be godlike and indestructible; some even made it sound as if he had met the entire crew of blood-thirsty, fire-breathing corsairs single-handedly. He had been released several days ago from the hospital and was due to ship out of Gibraltar on the Carolina. A royal send-off was planned for the morrow, and Courtney was thankful she would miss it. She had spent four days and nights by his side at the hospital after the Argus brought them to port. She had relived every second they had spent together...the good and the bad...and she knew she was taking the only wise and prudent measure available by slipping quietly and quickly out of his life.

  Stirring herself, Courtney drained the last of her cooling tea from the cup and left the appropriate number of coins on the table. The proprietor, busy with another customer, looked over and waved.

  “Luck again, Miss. ‘Ope ye find ‘appiness and good fortune in America.”

  She said something banal then stepped out into the busy mainstream of traffic. The smell of fish and floating garbage instantly replaced the comforting teashop aromas, and she pulled her cloak tighter against the chilly breeze. She was pushed and jostled the hundred yards or so to the end of the wharf and needed a few moments of respite beside some tall, stacked crates before she could bolster the nerve to walk down the pier and climb the gangway to the Sirius. Gulls screamed in endless flapping circles overhead. Hawkers pitched their wares to the departing crewmen and passengers. Merchants and bankers conducted last minute business in hurried, arm-waving sessions the full length of the dock.

  Courtney took firm hold of her courage and walked toward the gangway. She breathed deeply of the familiar scents of wet canvas and pitch, and took some small comfort in the shaking out of sails as the topmost royals were let loose and drawn taut into their braces. She had deliberately timed her boarding, hoping to blend in with the last-minute confusion. She had her papers out and clutched in her gloveless hand; her eyes were locked on the dark-haired man she had seen earlier, who now stood at the head of the gangway.

  She had one foot on the wide plank and was well into her second step when she noticed a man partially hidden from view by a stack of wooden crates. He had his broad back to the gangway and was conversing with the dark-haired man. Courtney’s breath caught in her throat as she forced another step. His hair was sun-bleached gold, neatly clubbed into a tail at the back of his neck. Another hesitant step earned her the attention of the first man who had a plain, square face which verged on being handsome when he smiled. He did so now, and extended a hand to Courtney to assist her the final few steps.

  The blond head turned, and Courtney gasped. At the same time, the hem of her cloak was whipped by a sharp gust of wind and tangled around her ankles, causing her to stumble forward into the quickly outstretched hands of both men.

  “Hup! Watch your step, ma’am,” the darker of the two said after he had steadied her. “The roll takes a bit of getting used to after you have been on land. First Mate Lansing, ma’am, at your service...and if I may, this is Captain Jeffrey Pettigrew.”

  The captain smiled and steered her toward a less cluttered square on the deck. On a closer inspection his hair was more gray than blond, and his features were those of a kindly uncle or older cousin. It was his height and the breadth of his shoulders that had sent Courtney's heart up into her throat, and she blamed her own foolishness for having had thoughts of Ballantine so recently in her mind.

  “Y’all will have to excuse the confusion, ma’am, but we are about to set sail."

  “Miss de Villiers is travelling with us to Norfolk,” the first mate said, handing Courtney back her papers with a courteous nod. “She is the last one to check off against the passenger manifest, Captain.”

  “In that case, ma’am, your arrival is most timely,” Captain Pettigrew drawled. “Ah trust the young lady's belongings are aboard? Thank you, Mr. Lansing; then if so, perhaps you could spare a moment and show Miss de Villiers to a prime spot by the rail—that is if y’all wish to see the casting-off?”

  “Yes, thank you, but there is no need to trou
ble yourself. I can find my own way.”

  The captain looked around, then frowned. "Y'all are travelling on your own, Miss?"

  Courtney was prepared for the question. "Yes. Unfortunately my maid took ill...deathly ill...and while she has recovered some of her strength, the doctor said it would be ill-advised for her to travel at this time. I would have delayed my passage as well, but my dear sister has suffered a dreadful accident and I must get home with all haste."

  Pettigrew's frown turned to one of concern. "Well you just never you mind, Miss de Villiers. Ah have a daughter your age and you'll be as safe on board mah ship as she would be. There are three other ladies on board, as well, so you will be in fair company. Now then perhaps you will allow Mr. Lansing, to show you up onto the fo'c'sle bridge while we get underway. Ah trust y’all will be able to join mah officers and your fellow passengers tonight for suppah? Ah'm a little fussed at the moment, as you can see, but we can all have a chance to get acquainted then. Eight bells?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  The captain inclined his head and discharged her into the care of First Mate Lansing. He, in turn, guided her around a stack of crated, cackling chickens and up onto the forward bridge before excusing himself to rejoin the captain.

  Courtney rested her hands on the rail, her emotions still in turmoil as she let her gaze sweep over the bustling waterfront, along the crowded shore, then higher to the dominating bulk of the gigantic rock that had guarded the exit to the Atlantic since the beginning of time. The town, the ships, the people were dwarfed in its mighty shadow; and Courtney found herself wondering if she would ever see the likes of its majesty again. She was setting sail for the unknown. She was leaving her two lifetimes behind her and embarking on a third. Would it be her last? Would she ever see a familiar face again?