He broke off a piece of the bread and tried to eat it. It had gone cold and tasteless, but he forced himself to swallow that one token bite for the sake of sparing Abigail’s feelings, before putting it back on the tray.
Mira . . . please come back, lassie . . . I never wanted to hurt you.
Shifting position in the bed, he winced as the pain stretching across his back reminded him of the awful night of interrogation at Crichton’s hands after he’d traded himself for Matt. Frustrated by his blithe responses, Crichton had become a bit . . . overzealous in his attempts to force information from him about everything from the Americans’ movements to the particulars of Kestrel’s design. The whipping at the grating had been just the start of what Crichton had planned for him. Again, the sight of the noose swinging from the foreyard rose up in his mind, and the sweat that sheened his body turned cold.
Thank God Kestrel had come when she had. He would never forget the sight of his valiant little ship, sweeping down on Viper under a cloud of sail, every flag streaming, every gun run out, and the sea bursting over her bows. She’d been magnificent. She’d been glorious. And, he thought with a sudden frown, she’d come about a hairsbreadth from oversetting herself in her determination to reach him.
He would have to speak to Liam about that. Such recklessness at the helm would not be tolerated.
But even thoughts of Kestrel, waiting for him down in the harbor, could not ease the pain of hurting his beloved Mira. There’d been a time when Kestrel was all that he’d needed; or all he’d thought he’d needed. What a fool he’d been. He needed Mira. Not only her love, but her acceptance of all that made him the man that he was.
He had to go to Penobscot—not just because Massachusetts had asked him to go, not just because of his desire to see Kestrel in the glorious role for which he’d designed her, but because he was determined to restore Newburyport’s faith in him . . . and in his schooner.
The shadow of Proud Mistress still hung over his head.
He owed it to this town to go.
He owed it to himself.
He stared dejectedly at Kestrel’s shot-torn, magnificent red-and-white-striped flag, dominating the entire wall beyond the footboard. He knew it had been hung there to make him feel like a hero. But he was no hero. He’d failed to save Mistress, her crew, and her captain from Crichton’s cruelties.
He placed the tray on the bedside table, peeled the sheets from his damp skin, and taking a deep breath, rose from the bed. His limbs felt as though the bones had been removed and water poured in their place, and the room spun around him with such force that he had to grab the bedpost just to keep his balance. He was in no condition for heroics, no condition to command a warship.
Not yet, anyhow.
But he would be. Soon.
He stood there for a moment on shaky, unsteady legs, praying that no one would come in and see how weak he really was. Leaning his head into the curve of his elbow, he shut his eyes against a wave of dizziness that came and went. Tunnel vision closed in and his body trembled violently. Determined not to pass out, he took several deep breaths, his fingers tightening around the bedpost. Finally the room stopped swimming and he could stand upright once again. And as he did so, he heard Mira’s soft weeping coming from outside, from the direction of the stables.
“Ah, mo stóirín,” he whispered, his heart going out to her. He staggered to the window, but he could only see the darkened barn and the shadowy outline of the fenced paddock. He tipped his head back and stared miserably up at the plastered ceiling, listening to the distant weeping until he could take it no longer. And then, his legs buckling, he let his back slide down the wall until he sat on the floor, his head bent, his hands over his ears, and his eyes shut against the visions that sad weeping evoked.
Go to her.
He couldn’t.
Faith, laddie, go down there and take her in your arms. She needs you.
Needed him, yes . . . but couldn’t accept his need to do what he had to do in order to live with himself.
He could face the might of a man-of-war from Kestrel’s decks. He could face battle with a sketchpad in his hands as the iron flew around and above his head. He could even face Crichton’s calculated cruelties.
But he couldn’t face his own failure to save Matt and his crew.
He sat there huddled on the floor, head buried in his hands, his hair falling over his elbows as he tried to block that awful sobbing.
In the end, he couldn’t take it anymore. Without a word to anyone, he got up, tore the flag from the wall, and very, very carefully, stumbled out the door and downstairs.
Sea-ready or not, Kestrel was leaving Newburyport.
Chapter 28
“God Almighty, Brendan, ye can’t be serious! What d’ye mean, ye want to go join the Penobscot Expedition? Are ye out o’ yer bloody mind?!”
Brendan swayed and braced his shoulder against the wall, hoping that Liam wouldn’t notice how much difficulty he was having just standing up. But the dizziness didn’t go away. He was in Wolfe Tavern—or at least he thought he was—though how he’d managed to get there, he didn’t know. He remembered leaving the Ashton house, had recollections of lurching drunkenly down the street. Dirt smudged his knee breeches, and his palms were scuffed and angry. He must have fallen, though he didn’t remember it.
“Out of my mind?” He managed a faint grin, noting how Liam’s bright blue eyes were assessing him with blatant disapproval. “I don’t think so. What’s wrong with wanting to lend Kestrel’s support to a patriotic cause, eh?”
“Patriotic me arse!” Liam snorted. “Ye took a thirty-foot fall, fer God’s sake; ye can’t be expectin’ to go commandin’ a warship. In fact, I wouldn’t be trustin’ ye to take out a toy sailboat with the way yer lookin’ now!”
Brendan shut his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. If he looked as bad as he felt, it must be terrible indeed. He had the shakes. He was sweating fiercely. His legs felt like jelly, and the room was spinning around him. And worst of all, the other patrons of the tavern were all staring at him. He clawed at his stock, his fingers fumbling. A dark tunnel began to snuff out his vision, and a roaring started in his ears. Faith, he had to get out of here before he passed out—
“Easy there, lad.” He felt Liam’s hand beneath his elbow, the strength of his massive arms holding him up. “I’ve got ye.” Shakily, Brendan allowed Liam to ease him down into a chair.
Faith.
He was aware of something hard and wet on his forehead and realized he’d slumped forward, his brow resting in a puddle of moisture from Liam’s mug. Cursing, Liam dragged him back up. The chair pressed against his spine, and the room swayed sickeningly as his head fell back over the top rung. He opened his eyes and saw the weathered beams of the ceiling, spinning above.
“Fer God’s sake, Brendan—”
“You all right, Captain Merrick?”
It was the tavern’s owner. “He’s fine, Moses!” Liam declared, holding Brendan upright by his lapels. “Just a bit too much t’ drink, eh, Cap’n?”
He shut his eyes, nodding weakly.
“Fetch him up a cup o’ hard cider,” Liam said. “He’ll not be thankin’ me fer it in the mornin,’ but he could sure use it now.”
The innkeeper hurried off, frowning, for he’d never known Captain Merrick to be a drinking man.
“Now, ye listen to me.” Liam yanked him forward, snapping his neck, until his blue eyes bored into his captain’s hazy sienna ones. “I’ll not have ye makin’ a spectacle of yerself. Yer not takin’ Kestrel t’ Maine fer the sake o’ helpin’ the Americans drive the British out—yer runnin’ from somethin’. What is it this time, huh? Or need I ask?”
He took a moment to answer. “Mira Ashton.”
“God Almighty, when’re ye goin’ to stop runnin,’ Brendan, and let the wee lassie catch ye? She loves ye, she does, and the sooner you two tie the knot the better!”
“She’s angry with me, Liam, for wanting
to go up to Penobscot.”
“Well, I don’t blame ’er! She loves ye, can’t ye get that through yer thick skull? The lassie stuck by yer bed fer the entire time ye were lyin’ in it. She took care of ye, bathed ye an’ washed yer hair, and fixed ye up real handsome-like when ye had visitors—”
“Visitors?” he gasped, mortified.
“Aye, visitors! Some o’ the townsfolk dropped by to pray fer yer recovery.”
Brendan made a dismissive motion with his hand. “If they were dropping by, it was probably to see Matt. Poor, blind Matt . . .” He shut his eyes, reliving the pain of Proud Mistress’s death all over again.
“Poor blind Matt, eh? Huh! Well, let me tell ye, Brendan, he can see well enough to note just how pretty yer sister is of late! Those two have become thicker than peas in a pod since ye brought him home. Maybe his eyesight’s a bit hampered, but I bet he could take a ship t’ sea if he had to. But nooo! He’s too busy feigning how blind he is so yer sister can dote on him! I’ve seen the way his eyes follow her when her back is turned, and there ain’t no trace o’ blindness a’tall. This mornin’ he asked her to paint his picture, and unless I miss me guess, the next thing he’ll be a-doin’ is askin’ ye to design a ship fer him with a figurehead that looks like our Eveleen.”
“Faith,” Brendan murmured, stunned. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Matthew? And Eveleen?
“So if our fine Cap’n Ashton can let yer sister get her claws into him, well, ye can let Miss Mira get hers into you. Just marry the lass, Brendan, and be done with it. Ye don’t need to go to Penobscot. Ye’ve got nothin’ left to prove—ye’ve done enough. More than enough.”
Brendan looked away. “I must go to Penobscot,” he insisted. “Massachusetts is calling on every privateer . . . Newburyport has already sent four other ships, and a wee bit of dizziness shan’t stop me from going, too. I’m an American now, aren’t I?” He grinned. “Besides, Matthew tells me that Paul Revere himself is up there, in charge of the artillery for the land forces. I’ve always wanted to meet the lad.”
“Brendan—”
“It is an amphibious effort. Why, I could get Kestrel to Penobscot in less than two days. ...”
“Brendan—”
“Well, I’m not much good here, mopping the table with my forehead!”
“Ye go to Maine and the Brits’ll be moppin’ you up off o’ Kestrel’s deck!”
Moses was coming back, carrying a tray with two pewter mugs balanced on it. Liam quickly exchanged his empty mug for Brendan’s full one, so that to all appearances his captain had consumed the beverage. Then he gripped his sleeve and stared desperately into his eyes. “Listen, Brendan. The Americans ’ave been up there fer weeks and still haven’t made a move to rout the British, thanks to some bloody impasse between the general in charge o’ the land forces and the commodore commandin’ the sea forces. That commodore is Dudley Saltonstall, Brendan, and ye know as well as I do that ’e ain’t a pleasant person to serve under, let alone deal with.”
“But, Liam, I have to go.” The dizziness was returning. Desperately Brendan bent his head to his arms and gripped the edge of the table. “Don’t you understand? I have to. To restore Mira’s faith in me. To restore this town’s faith in me—”
“Fer God’s sake, Brendan—”
“To restore my own faith in me!”
He stood up, staggered, and almost fell.
“Brendan!”
His knee hit the chair, toppled it. He reeled off the table, drew the stares of a group of seamen. Two men looked up from their game of backgammon, their brows raised.
“Brendan!”
It took every bit of his strength to walk through that smoky, crowded room, but he did it, pulling his tricorne low over his eyes so no one would see how pale and sick he really was.
And then he felt Liam’s hand on his arm.
“God Almighty, Brendan, ye can’t be goin’ off—”
Brendan raised his head, squared his shoulders, and slowly turned. For a moment he once again personified the hauteur of the British Royal Navy, from the braid on his tricorne to the buckles on his shoes to the very way in which he stood. “In future, Mr. Doherty, I’ll thank you to remember yourself. I am your captain. Please address me as such!” Then he pushed open the door and stumbled off into the night.
Wolfe Tavern was abuzz; to think that after a nearly fatal injury, the Captain from Connaught could come in here, drink with the rest of them, put the big, strapping lieutenant in his place, and then saunter off to war, as right as rain!
Except that no one but Liam knew that his captain wasn’t as right as rain.
No one but the captain himself knew that he passed out three times on his way to the waterfront.
And no one but Kestrel knew that he never made it to his cabin, but collapsed upon a neatly coiled pile of rope on the foredeck, and there, spent the night.
###
The Penobscot Expedition.
It was on everyone’s minds, everyone’s tongues. News filtered down from Maine, trickled up from Boston. The redcoats had entrenched themselves on the little peninsula of Bagaduce, and undaunted by the huge American fleet sent to rout them from their stronghold, merely swapped their shovels and picks for muskets and prepared to defend their little fort. Captain Henry Mowat, that hated Briton who’d laid waste to Falmouth several years past, had drawn his three sloops-of-war up around the fort to protect it, and according to reports, the most action the Maine woods had seen was some minimal gunfire between the British and the American fleet. A bit of territory had been gained on nearby Nautilus Island, assisted by fire from Newburyport’s own Pallas, but that was all. Despite the Americans’ superior forces, the British were still in Maine.
And expecting reinforcements any day.
In Massachusetts, tempers were strained. In the Ashton household, where those tempers usually ran rampant, the explosion came as Mira went down to breakfast.
Unfortunately, it was set off by an innocent-looking blueberry betty that she’d made in the hopes of showing Brendan just how well she was learning to cook—and therefore, keeping him home. But Brendan, unfortunately, was still upstairs, and so it was Ephraim who had the misfortune to take the first bite.
“Jesus—bloody—Christ!”
Pieces of blueberry, topping, and other unspeakable ingredients shot across the table like grapeshot from a cannon. Blackened dough hit Eveleen’s cheek. Cream spattered Matt’s spectacles. Tears streamed down Ephraim’s face; and then, reddening with fury, he picked up his plate and flung it, food and all, across the room, where it smashed against the elegant wainscoted wall and left a sticky, dripping mess of blueberries that slid in great, ugly chunks toward the floor.
Luff, who’d been quietly begging two feet away from where the plate hit, fled the room with his tail between his legs.
“Tripes an’ guts, this godawful shit is gonna put me in my grave! Man can’t eat a decent meal without it bein’ booby-trapped! What the bloody hell did ye put in it, Mira, a whole goddamned lemon?!”
Mira slammed down her own fork. Across from her, Matt, his lips twitching, removed his spectacles and wiped them with his shirttails, smearing cream all over the lenses and only making the mess worse. He put them back on, his kind brown eyes blank and sightless as he stared at the wall and the shapeless purple mess oozing down it. Beside him, Eveleen wordlessly dished up a plate of fried eggs and ham and set it before him, her hand lingering on his as she placed a fork in his hand and guided it to the plate.
“As a matter of fact,” Mira snapped, hurt that her father found fault with a treat that had taken her all morning to make, “I put two lemons in it. And a cup of vinegar and a cup of sour milk, and—”
“Sour milk?! You put sour milk in it?!”
“I couldn’t find any butter!”
“What the hell does butter have to do with sour milk?! Any woman worth her salt’d know not to put sour milk in a blueberry betty, let alone two friggin’ lemons—”<
br />
“I thought the sugar would balance out the sourness!”
“What sugar? There ain’t no sugar in this crap!”
“I think she forgot to put it in,” Matt speculated, trying not to laugh.
“I didn’t either! I just didn’t have enough, so I substituted something else!”
“What?”
“The extra lemon!”
“I ain’t bloody surprised! Ye’ll never make a good wife fer anyone, ye hear me? No man’ll have a woman who can’t cook, can’t bake, an’ brings home enough bloody animals to start a bleedin’ zoo! He won’t put up with it! I won’t put up with it! Thank God ye’ll be getting married soon and I can git ye out of my hair and my kitchen!”
Mira lunged to her feet and flung her own plate. Ephraim ducked just in time, but a shower of blackened crust fell like rain into his snowy hair. Enraged, he, too jumped up.
“Merrick!” he roared, at the top of his lungs.
Matt leaped up from his chair. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down; the poor fellow’s sleeping!”
“He ain’t sleepin’ no more! I want him down here and eatin’ and gainin’ his strength back so he can take that cussed schooner up to Maine with the rest of the fleet!”
Matt slammed his fork down. “That’s what’s really eating you, isn’t it?” he raged, his spectacles fogging up behind flecks of cream and smeared blueberries. “The fact that you have nothing to brag about to your old cronies down at Davenport’s!”
“Two privateersmen under my roof and the finest ship the Commonwealth has ever seen, and none of ’em are in Penobscot! Damned right I have nothin’ to brag about! Cripes, I ain’t never been so humiliated in my whole life!”
“You lower your voice before you wake Merrick!” Matt shouted.
“I’ll raise it till he gits himself down here and takes that schooner outta here!”
Eveleen grabbed Matt’s arm, hoping to prevent a fight. But it was too late. Mira, green eyes blazing, had leapt onto a chair and was screeching down at her father in a voice that would not only wake Brendan, but half of Newburyport as well. “Matt’s right! You just want Kestrel in that Expedition so you’ll have something to read about in that stupid newspaper! Something to brag about to your stupid friends in that stupid tavern!”
Captain Of My Heart Page 34
