Captain Of My Heart

by Danelle Harmon

  “This note, Richard. Do you still have it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I should like to see it, please.”

  Crichton dug in his pocket and handed it over, watching glumly as the admiral, farsighted with advancing age, held the paper at arm’s length so that he could read it.

  “Pray, what does it say, sir?” Ellsworth moved closer, trying to look down his nose without lowering his head.

  “I shall read it to you, Hiram. And then, perhaps, it will give you a sense of our Captain Merrick’s character.” Sir Geoffrey’s eyesight may have been failing, but the writing was so bold, so sure of itself, that he had no trouble at all reading that elegant, artistic script.

  He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen,” he quoted, “in due respect and understanding of your unhappy situation under the rule of one of the King’s most brutal masters—” Sir Geoffrey paused to glance sideways at Crichton. “—I invite you to join the crew of the new privateering schooner Kestrel, whose acquaintance you made earlier and whose presence can be found a cable’s length to windward of your current anchorage. Those of you who wish to cast off the yoke of the tyrant King, and become the glorious defenders of Liberty instead, shall be treated and honoured as free citizens of America and shall partake of all prize monies secured by said schooner. Signed—” Sir Geoffrey lowered the paper. “—Captain Brendan Jay Merrick, formerly R.N.”

  There was a long moment of silence. Ellsworth smirked and coughed delicately into his hand, Crichton’s pale eyes hardened to ice, and Sir Geoffrey tossed the note aside with a defeated motion. Obviously Merrick had used Crichton’s reputation for cruelty to his advantage; it must have been an easy matter indeed for him to steal seamen from HMS Viper. Hauling himself wearily to his feet, the admiral poured three glasses of Madeira from a crystal decanter.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, staring down into the ruby depths, “normally I would not be so concerned about subduing one little privateer. But given the fact that Captain Merrick is her commanding officer—and no doubt her designer, too—I cannot, in all conscience, allow the matter to rest here. Situations such as these, Richard, are most humiliating to our navy as well as upsetting to our people’s morale.” He gave a heavy sigh. “And where Merrick is concerned, I’m afraid they are also likely to happen again.”

  Silence. Ellsworth sniffed and reached for his handkerchief.

  Sir Geoffrey stared out the windows. A few flakes of snow swirled into view, pirouetting and dancing in the wind. Beneath him, the deck tilted as Dauntless leaned heavily over on the opposite tack. He looked at Crichton, standing there with his milky eyes expressionless and unblinking, his hand resting atop his sword hilt. The task he was about to give Crichton was a damn near impossible one. But Crichton was one of his captains, and though Sir Geoffrey had never cared for him, it was only fair that he be allowed the chance to redeem himself.

  “Describe Merrick’s vessel to me, if you please, Richard. You say she was a topsail schooner?”

  “Not just a topsail schooner. She stacked topsails and a t'gallant on her fore, and looked like she could’ve rigged studders, too, if her captain desired to fly them. She had a long, slooplike bowsprit strung with at least two jibs, a hull so slick, it hardly rippled the water, and a deck design that, from a distance, barely made a profile. ’Twas obvious she was not built as a fisherman, a blockade runner, nor even a smuggler, sir.” He looked hard at Sir Geoffrey. “She was designed as a predator.”

  A predator.

  Sir Geoffrey nodded slowly, considering Crichton’s words and staring off into the heaving gray sea beyond Dauntless’s windows. Crichton had been correct in forsaking the brig for the schooner. Admiralty would go to great lengths for the chance to study such a singular vessel. Why, if he could only get his hands on it, he could leave the sea and retire to his home in Kent once and for all, with a fire in the hearth to warm his tired old bones and a sleeping hound at his feet. . . .

  “Intelligence tells me that a much-heralded schooner was recently built by Captain Ephraim Ashton of Newburyport,” he said, stressing the town’s name and watching Crichton closely. But that translucent gaze never wavered. “From all accounts, she was quite unlike anything either this, er . . . country or ours has ever seen. A forward-swept stem, narrow beam, extremely raked masts, and a hull so sharp that most predicted she’d sink the moment she touched water. Obviously she did not, but if Merrick designed her—and I am quite confident that he did—it doesn’t surprise me in the least. He was the best, you know. A man ahead of his time.”

  Ellsworth reached for his snuff. Crichton’s eyes remained unblinking.

  Sir Geoffrey set his glass down. “In any case, ’tis my belief that Merrick collaborated with the senior Captain Ashton to build the schooner for him. You’ve heard of Ashton, have you not, gentlemen?”

  “I’ve heard of his son,” Ellsworth said loftily.

  “Yes, who hasn’t?” Sir Geoffrey muttered. “An unruly hellion if ever there was one. But young Matthew is not so different from his sire. Ephraim made his fortune in the rum-smuggling trade some years ago before turning his talents to shipbuilding, where I understand he has been moderately successful.” He took a deep breath. “That is, extremely successful, since word got around about this schooner. And Matthew, of course, has become quite infamous as a privateer, and something of a town hero.”

  “He’s something of a pain in the arse, if you ask me.”

  “He’s nothing compared to what Merrick will be if something is not done about him!” Sir Geoffrey’s voice was hard. Already his cozy Kent home seemed more and more distant, a wistful dream if ever there was one. He sighed and continued, “In any case, both Ashtons are active in town politics, having served on the Committee of Safety, which was, as you well know, instrumental in stirring up sentiments against Britain. In fact, Matthew was only fifteen when those damned radicals, the Sons of Liberty, popped up in Newburyport back in sixty-five, but my sources tell me that he was one of the hotheaded young firebrands who roamed the streets wielding clubs, protesting the Stamp Act, challenging the opinions of passersby on it—God help them if they’d been in favor—and hanging and burning effigies of the local stamp distributor from some damned thing they called the Liberty Tree.”

  Ellsworth sniffed, “I say, ’twill be a dire affair indeed if Merrick and the young Ashton have gotten together.”

  Crossing the cabin, Sir Geoffrey leaned tiredly against the bulkhead and watched storm clouds filing toward the horizon. His bones ached, a good indication that it would snow again soon. “My sentiments exactly, Hiram.” He sighed heavily and ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “Especially since there’s a convoy of merchantmen sailing from London as we speak, bound for New York. Captain Merrick no doubt will have heard of it, as will every other damned privateer worth his salt.” He drew himself up, seeing his dream of his Kent home resting upon Crichton’s blocky shoulders. “Which is why I think it prudent to stop Merrick before he can do too much damage.

  “There are two things I want you to do, Richard. Or shall I say, given the fact that Captain Merrick’s involved, try to do.”

  Crichton drew himself up.

  “First, I want you to bring me Matthew Ashton. Alive. The Americans will trade most handsomely to have him back, I should think, and there are some things I might learn from him about Newburyport and the inaccessibility of that damned river.”

  There was a long pause. “And secondly, sir?”

  The sluice of water against the hull and rudder was the only sound.

  “Secondly, Richard—” The admiral regarded him over the top of his wineglass, and his bleary old eyes were suddenly sharp. “—I want that schooner.”

  Ellsworth lifted his haughty brows.

  “Afloat, intact, and before Merrick can use her to inflict any more damage upon our vessels, our shipping, and the morale of our men. If she is truly as magnificent as you—and eyewitness accounts—have described her to be, she’s worth fa
r more to our navy than a hundred ships. Let our architects dissect her, piece by piece. Let them study her as a biologist would a butterfly. Perhaps they will learn something from her.”

  Crichton’s eyes were paler than ever, but a smile touched his hard mouth.

  “So be it, gentlemen.” Sir Geoffrey sent Ellsworth from the cabin and stared hard at Crichton. “Here’s your chance, Richard, to redeem your name, your honor, and my faith in you. Bring me Matthew Ashton, and Admiralty shall remain ignorant of your misfortunes of last night. But bring me Merrick and his schooner, and I can promise you flag rank by the end of the year.”

  “F-flag rank, sir?”

  “Yes, Richard. Flag rank. I know it’s what you’ve been waiting for.” He grinned, and guided the younger man toward the door. “Now go, and do not dally. I’m an old man, with little patience and limited time. You have a fortnight to make good your efforts. Don’t waste it.”

  Crichton smiled, an evil drawing back of hard lips that sent an involuntary shiver up Sir Geoffrey’s arthritic old spine. “Thank you, sir. I shall not disappoint you.” He touched his hat and strode from the cabin. Moments later, the shrill of pipes drifted down from above as he left the flagship and climbed down into the boat that would return him to Viper.

  Sir Geoffrey stood at the windows for a long time. He thought of his home in Kent once again. He thought of Merrick and Ashton, and what Crichton was likely to do to them if he did succeed in capturing them.

  And then he thought of the little midshipman, Everett.

  Sir Geoffrey was loyal to Britain, first, foremost, and last.

  At least Viper’s abused people would be safe for a while longer.

  Chapter 14

  Five o’clock and darkness.

  Brendan whistled as he trudged through Newburyport’s cold and snowy streets, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, his tricorne pulled low, his chin tucked into his stock, and his coattails dragging in the drifts behind him. Anticipation sang in his blood, for in one of those pockets was a dinner invitation from Ephraim. Whether that invitation reflected genuine hospitality on the old sea captain’s part, or an interest in hearing about the eight prizes Kestrel had dragged in from the sea and whose British crews were even now being marched to the Newburyport jail, Brendan didn’t know. Those prizes certainly had something to do with the wild reception he’d received several hours earlier, when Kestrel had brought them all into the river and lined them up, one by one, alongside Ephraim’s wharf!

  He grinned wryly to himself, remembering that particular horror . . . the parade of nearly a hundred boats, full of wildly cheering Newburyporters, that had met Kestrel at the river’s mouth to escort her into harbor; the adoring young lassies swooning at his feet once he’d arrived there; the seamen of every age and description pleading, nay, begging to sign aboard the lucky Kestrel. Faith, how did Matthew, who’d returned from his cruise a few hours before, tolerate such abuse? ’Twas a wonder he’d managed to escape with his life!

  But as he’d grinned and laughed and pretended to enjoy it, clawing his way through cheering throngs who’d been fighting one another to get his autograph, his attention, and probably the clothes off his back, someone had thrust a paper into his hand and he’d found himself with a personal invitation to supper from Ephraim Ashton himself. The invitation suited him just fine. After a cold, tossing bunk, oatmeal in the morning, and lobscouse with hardtack at night, even thoughts of Miss Ashton’s pudding were almost welcome.

  Almost.

  More so were thoughts of Miss Mira Ashton herself.

  He grinned at the thought and stepped up his pace, forgoing the packed sleigh tracks in favor of the deep drifts bordering the road. Snow yawed into his boot tops and numbed his cold toes, but he forced his legs to work hard, pumping up his heart and generating plenty of warmth. He turned onto High Street. Big, handsome homes rose out of the snow, their many-paned windows glowing with candlelight. Wood smoke lay heavily upon the brittle air, mixing with the tangy scent of the sea and fresh, clean wind. He heard revelry and laughter coming from one home, the faint tinkle of a harpsichord from another.

  He kept walking, a little faster now. Snow draped the Beacon Oak’s massive branches, swirled out of the black sky, and whispered against his cold cheeks. From somewhere off in the night, he heard sleigh bells and the distant whicker of a horse.

  Mira Ashton, out for a drive with her wee gray colt?

  He grinned, and, floundering in a drift, moved a bit closer to the relative safety of the road’s edge. Just in case.

  By the time he spotted the anchor, shapeless under a foot of snow, that marked Ephraim’s grand mansion, Brendan’s breeches were damp, his wool stockings soaked, and his coattails caked with snow. But the sight of the elegant Georgian was enough to make him forget his discomfort. The chimney sent up a curl of smoke that appeared silver against the black, low-hanging sky. Snow lay like frosting on the roof, and giant icicles spanned the distance between eaves and ground, sparkling and twinkling like diamonds in the candlelight that shone from every window. It was a breathtaking sight, for the house appeared to rise straight up from a bed of light.

  And inside that house was Mira Ashton.

  Brendan’s heart began to race, and he trembled with nervous excitement. She was the only one he hoped to impress with Kestrel’s good fortune on her maiden cruise; the devil take the rest of the town!

  He hit a seemingly bottomless drift, sank all the way to his hip, and laughing with boyish exuberance, scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it playfully at a darting shadow. He missed, of course. Faith, even if he’d been trying to hit the cat, he would’ve missed. He’d never be as good a marksman as Mr. Starr!

  Still chuckling, he watched as the animal fled, bounding through the snow until it reached the front steps, where it reared up on its hind legs and scratched pitifully at the door. It stopped in midclaw to twist its head around and stare at him, tail twitching and ears pasted angrily to its skull.

  Haughty creatures, cats! Perhaps a snow-shower would bring this one down to its proper station in life. Grinning, Brendan bent, scooped up another snowball, and aiming for a harmless spot on the door several feet above the cat’s head, drew back his arm and fired his missile hard.

  The door opened, and the snowball caught Matthew Ashton full in the face. His spectacles went flying.

  “Son of a bitch!” Yelling in Ephraim-like rage, Matt clawed the snow from his eyes, dropped to his knees, and swept his palms over the frozen steps in a desperate search for his spectacles. His fiery hair stood out from his head like a conflagration, and behind him the door yawned wide. The cat darted into the house. “Miserable young scamps! Good-for-nothing brats! Show yourselves, damn you, or so help me God, I’ll give you a licking you’ll never forget!”

  “A lickin’?” Brendan folded his arms, threw back his head, and let his laughter split the night. His Irish brogue might be a bit mellowed by years in the Royal Navy, but when he wanted to, he could still pile it on thicker than rocks on a Connemara hillside. “Faith, I’d like t’ see ye try’t! Blind as a bloody bat you are without yer specs, Ashton!”

  “Why, you blasted bugger! That you, Merrick?”

  Brendan’s peal of mirth was confirmation enough. “Nay, ’tis Saint Nick, come t’ bring ye a present f’r Christmas! ’Ave ye been a good laddie, Maitiú?”

  “For what I’ve done or for what I’m about to do?”

  “Why, fer what ye’ve done, o’ course. What ye intend t’ do is naught but th’ Lord’s business, an’ not Saint Nick’s. Therefore, ye’d best make yer peace with ’im before ye do anythin’ rash, laddie-o!”

  “Oh, I’ll do something rash, all right!” Matt found his spectacles, hastily wiped them clean with his shirttail, and shoved them up the bridge of his nose. His eyes gleamed as he scooped up a handful of snow and molded it into a hard white ball the size of round shot. “And speaking of peace, you’d better make yours, Irishman, ’cause it’s the last damned prayer ye�
��ll ever pray!”

  Brendan laughed, for Matt, eyeing him with a promise of retribution from behind speckled lenses, looked quite ridiculous. Behind him the door swung wide and revealed the house’s brilliantly lit interior, but Matt, standing in the cold in nothing but his vest, his shoes, and a shirt that was half-in, half-out of his breeches, didn’t give a hoot about wasted heat from either the house or himself. The fun of a good snowball fight was paramount. He drew back his arm and slammed the ball into a tree three feet beyond Brendan’s ear, cursing loudly when he saw he’d missed his target.

  “Rumor has it that Kestrel tangled with a frigate mounting three times her guns, left her chewing her own bow wake, and made port with some seven prizes. That right, Irishman?”

  “Oh no, that isn’t right a’tall.”

  “Damned rumors, never can believe ’em!”

  “’Twas eight prizes, laddie!”

  “Eight prizes!” Matt scooped up another handful of snow.

  “Aye, eight prizes. A lad’s got t’ make a livin’, y’ know!” The snowball came singing out of the darkness. Brendan dodged it, clenching his teeth as cold powder sifted down his neck, and came up with one of his own. He hurled it hard. With an Indian-like war whoop, Matt dove into the bushes beside the front door. The snowball missed him by a mile, exploding against the side of the house with a slapping thunk.

  A head poked up above the scruff of the bushes. “Bah, I don’t know how you managed to take one prize, let alone eight! Why, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn, let alone a ship!”

  “Y’r absolutely right, Maitiú, I couldn’t! But I’ve a fine wee gunner who can take out a ship’s mizzen on the first shot!” A snowball exploded out of the bushes and burst against the tree behind him. “Faith, Yankee, ye talk about my aim?”

  “I’m just warming up!”

  “Like bloody hell y’ are; y’r aim’s no better than mine!” Matt’s shadowy form darted out into the open, and a snowball whined harmlessly past Brendan’s ear. His fingers were numb and throbbing, but he managed to scoop up more snow and shape it into a good ball. He flung it hard, cringing as it headed toward one of Ephraim’s windows, relaxing as it thwacked harmlessly against the sill. Matt’s next came singing out of the darkness, passing his ear with a silent whoosh and trailing powder like the tail of a comet.