He turned away, pretending blithe indifference when, in truth, he was anything but blithe, and anything but indifferent. He swallowed hard. There was an ache in his chest that had nothing to do with his old injury as he looked at the forlorn and lonely Freedom. Mira. At least she would be safe. Furious with him, surely—but safe.
Hurriedly he put pencil to paper and sketched out the admiral’s flagship, unaware of the whispered comments of his crew.
“Captain’s ailin’. Look at the way his hands are shaking. He can barely hold that sketchpad of his, let alone draw on it.”
“And he’s leaning against that mast as though he’s trying to hold it up.”
“He ain’t recovered yet, Reilly. He ought to be abed, not on the deck of a warship.”
“Think he’s up to it?”
“Nay, he’s not up to it! But there still ain’t no captain in this here fleet I’d rather be with than our Brendan!”
They watched as he went to the rail, pretending not to notice the way he hooked an elbow through the shrouds to keep his balance, the way he braced a hip against the gunwale, the way his gaze kept straying to the woods where they’d left Miss Mira.
“Makin’ six knots, sir,” Liam said gravely.
“Hoist the topsails and let’s try for seven.”
“Might need the t’gallant fer that, sir.”
“Fine, Liam, then hoist it, too.” Pulling out his spyglass, Brendan trained it on the vice admiral’s flagship, studying her lines, her sail set, the way she cleaved the water. Finally he lowered the glass, his hand quickly and expertly putting to paper what he’d seen. The man-of-war’s big courses were bloated, her topsails clewed up for battle, her mighty stem plowing the water. She had sixty-four guns against Kestrel’s ten. A crew of hundreds against his fifty. He pitied Saltonstall. And an experienced admiral against a cowardly commodore.
He wondered if he’d survive long enough to get a taste of the infamous Mill Prison—and decided he’d rather die first.
“I don’t hear your fiddle, Liam!”
“God Almighty, Brendan, what about the commodore?”
“The commodore shall thank me for diverting the enemy long enough for him to think out his next—and only—move. Mr. Keefe! We must make it look like we’re trying to escape to sea, do you understand? The entire British navy is after our little Kestrel. ’Tis a gamble, but if we can lure at least a few of them to follow us, then it might allow Saltonstall the time he needs to gather his forces and prepare to meet the British fleet.”
“That’s gambling a lot, sir!”
“I know that, Mr. Keefe, and we’re going to take a beating doing it. But we’re the only chance the commodore has. Let’s hope he’s a survivor and takes the opening we shall give him! Now signal our prize and tell her to stay close on our heels, and when I tell you to swing to larboard, I want you to go to starboard!”
“Aye, sir!”
“Hands to the sheets and prepare to come about! Gunners, to stations and load up with grape, double-shotted! Mr. Saunders, you may take Mr. Starr’s place on Freedom. No singing, please! Mr. Wilbur, shake out the fore topsail! And, Dalby, please let go of my sleeve!”
“But, Captain, my stomach—”
Liam was there, hauling Dalby away. “Leave the cap’n be, Dalb! Ye know he hates to be bothered when he’s doin’ a sketch. ...”
But Brendan was no longer sketching. Dividing his attention between the oncoming British ships and his men, he directed his crew with brisk gestures of his spyglass. “Run out the starboard battery, Mr. Doherty! I want to fool Sir George into thinking we’ll loose the starboard guns when, in truth, ’twill be the larboard ones! And larboard gunners, keep down lest our fine British friends see you! Get those topsails hung, Mr. Wilbur! Lively, now! Faith, you people are slower than molasses today!”
Men, bare-backed and barefoot, raced each other up the shrouds. Aft, the prize schooner was left wallowing in their foamy wake as Kestrel lifted her bows, spread her wings, and gathered speed, her pennants snapping and streaming in the wind.
Above, the topsails made a noise like thunder before being sheeted home.
Brendan stroked the schooner’s sleek rail. “A wee bit faster, lassie. ’Tisn’t much I ask of you. ...”
Beneath the bows, the keen of water grew higher and higher in pitch as Kestrel answered his gentle plea. Wind sang in the rigging, and the great foresail curved like a drum against the bright blue sky. Spray hissed at the bow, drove back in the wind, flecked Brendan’s cheeks with a damp mist. He licked his lips and tasted salt.
“Six an’ a half knots, Brendan.”
“Go hálainn, Liam, but I want seven!”
He’d be lucky to get it. Not in this wind. He put his hands behind his back and braced himself against the gunwale, the dizziness striking with swift and sudden force.
Another three minutes and they’d be in easy range of Raisonnable’s guns.
“Seven knots, sir!”
Two minutes.
He hung his head, fighting to stay on his feet. “Sheet in foresail and main!”
The crew stared at the massive, oncoming man-of-war. Every breath caught in every throat. Panic widened frightened eyes. Liam wrapped his big, brawny hands around the mainsheet. Kestrel quivered in fear, driving closer and closer to the mighty two-decker, now rising above her like a fortress. . . .
“Our father, who art in heaven—” Fergus was chanting.
Dalby, pale with terror, clutched his gut and whispered, “Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done—”
“On earth as it is in heaven!” Brendan slammed his speaking trumpet to his lips. “Larboard your helm, Mr. Keefe, and let fly. . . . Now!”
The tiller went over, hard. The big mainsail boom skated over their heads and to the other side. Kestrel danced across the wind, her bowsprit sweeping over the rippling water, toward the oncoming flagship, past it, farther and farther, aligning now on the hazy mainland, the islands. . . .
“Straighten her out, John! For the love of God, now!”
Kestrel nosed back toward the wind, her sails a-thunder, her rigging shaking—and then the man-of-war’s broadside crashed out, around, above, and beside them. A hail of iron slammed into the little schooner’s flanks and ripped through rigging and sails alike. Debris rained down on the deck, splashed into the sea. Kestrel shuddered, lurched, hesitated—
“Come on, lassie, you can do it!”
—and dove through the hole in the thick black smoke.
“We’re hit!” Liam screamed. “God Almighty, Brendan, we lost the fore tops’l mast—”
Dimly Brendan heard Raisonnable’s broadside crash out again. The deck trembled beneath his feet, and the world seemed to explode as his own guns bellowed in impudent reply. Thick, choking smoke drove back in his face. Spent powder burned his nose. Masts swayed and yards shook as Kestrel, pitching and yawing, fought valiantly to make headway.
Dizzily he staggered to the tiller and wrestled it out of Keefe’s hands, its solid support the only thing keeping him on his feet. “We’re almost through, lassie! Don’t fail me now!”
Kestrel, shuddering, clawed upward, trying desperately to regain her balance. Gathering her courage, she answered her captain and bravely swung herself back toward the mighty flagship. Moments later, she was safely past the huge two-decker and showing a fleet pair of heels to the vice admiral’s flag.
Kestrel’s crew went wild, cheering and tossing their hats in the air.
“We did it! We did it!” Liam was jumping up and down, pounding his great fist against the rail in triumph. “God Almighty, Brendan we did it! They’ll follow us, right out to open sea if we want ’em to! The commodore’ll be a-thankin’ ye up ’n’ down when he sees what ye’ve done fer him! Brendan?” He raced aft. “Brendan! Easy there, laddie.” And caught his captain as he fell, supporting him beneath the shoulders in his massive, brawny arms.
His head spinning, Brendan raised his arm and pointed with his s
pyglass through the parting smoke. “Not yet, we haven’t, Liam.” He shut his eyes and fell back against his friend’s chest. “Look . . .”
Liam’s gaze followed his captain’s arm. His eyes bulged, and the triumphant grin froze on his face.
For there, blocking the way to the open sea, was HMS Viper.
###
At midnight the American general Solomon Lovell, several miles north of Kestrel, gave the order to evacuate the peninsula. The panicky militia was put aboard the transports, and these were protectively herded behind the swift and well-armed warships. Ammunition was hastily loaded, artillery gathered, supplies collected. By eight o’clock the following morning, the mighty American fleet was fleeing up the narrowing river, where Lovell hoped the British fleet, with their deeper-drafted men-of-war, would be unable to follow. But follow they did, and thwarted by an ebb tide, the Americans finally dropped anchor and prepared to face Sir George’s ships.
At noon Commodore Saltonstall made his most decisive move since the Expedition had arrived in Penobscot.
Calling off his defenses, he signaled for every ship to fend for itself.
From shore, Mira, Abadiah, and the two marines watched in stunned horror as a southerly breeze drove the British squadron closer and closer. But the Americans didn’t turn and fight. One by one the warships and skittish privateers weighed anchor and raised sail.
“Bloody hell, Saltonstall’s giving the order to retreat!” Stanley yelled. “C’mon, we have to follow them!”
“There ain’t no place to retreat to—but farther upriver!” Abadiah cried.
Frantic, they raced along the heavily wooded shoreline, terrified of losing sight of their ships and desperately trying to keep pace with them. Seeing the Americans’ flight, the British piled on more sail, and even Mowat’s three sloops came out of their lair and joined the fray.
What had been a pursuit was now a downright rout.
Chaos reigned. Screams and shouts and gunfire shattered the quiet of the great woods, echoed over the bay. Defenseless, the heavily laden transports wallowed like tubs as the fleet warships that were supposed to protect them crowded on all sail and, with the British in hot pursuit, fled upriver, passing them one by one and leaving them to the mercy of the enemy. It was a sight that the helpless militia aboard them—and the little party of stranded mariners on shore—would never forget.
Swift Yankee brigs, their sails spread to catch the wind at their sterns, bolting upriver with their tails between their legs. Mighty square-riggers, their wakes streaming behind them. Privateers and state ships and Continental vessels—and Warren herself, with Saltonstall’s flag fluttering shamefacedly at her mast.
All fleeing.
The utter humiliation and disgrace of it wrung the tears from their eyes. Sobbing, Mira sank down and buried her face in her knees. Why didn’t they turn and make a stand? Why, why, why? She stood up and clenched her fists at her sides. Clawing her hair from her streaming cheeks, she screamed, “Damn you, Saltonstall! You cowardly bucket of spineless slime! Turn around and fight!”
Sunset came and went, and darkness cloaked the Maine woods. One of the transports fell into enemy hands; another. And then, out in the river, a mighty explosion lit up the night in a spectacular display of disgrace. A great sigh went up from Mira’s little band. The Americans were setting the transports afire to prevent their seizure by the enemy. By the light of their funeral pyres, the militia waded dejectedly ashore and watched mutely as their ships went up in flames.
And then the proud warships and privateers began to follow suit.
One drove against the far shore and, moments later, exploded into flames that soared high into the night as its crew, unwilling to let it fall into British hands, torched it. Off to the right another blew up, belching a fountain of orange sparks into the tall pines and scorching their fringed branches. The horrible scent of burning pitch, tar, and canvas filled the air as the privateers died. Tears raced from Mira’s eyes, tracing paths down her smoke-blackened cheeks and reflecting the sad flames.
Oh, Brendan . . . She covered her eyes with her hands, unable to bear the sight. Oh, thank God you made it to sea and don’t have to see this. Oh, thank God, thank God, thank God—
Abadiah Bobbs grabbed her wrist and pointed downriver. Through the glowing orange smoke. Through the tangle of American and British warships, and the fires that lit up the night and the entire surface of the river itself. Toward the south.
There, heading toward them, her black hull reflecting the flames, every sail set and her proud colors streaming from her gaff, was Kestrel.
She hadn’t gone to sea after all.
And then Mira’s heart lodged in her throat. In hot pursuit was a frigate, her very size dwarfing the little Kestrel.
Mira fell back against Abadiah’s arm.
That frigate was Viper.
###
Some tried in vain to get past the British squadron and out to sea.
None, save Newburyport’s Pallas, succeeded.
The brigantine Defense, of Beverly, went aground. New Hampshire’s Hampden engaged one of the men-of-war, lost the fight, and was surrendered. Headed off as she tried to scoot between Long Island and the mainland, the eighteen-gun Hunter lurched ashore and was abandoned. With the exception of Kestrel and her prize schooner, the rest of the American fleet fled upriver.
Brendan stood solemnly on the deck of his doomed ship, surrounded by his crew. His plan to save Saltonstall had been for naught. And now they were trapped with the rest of the Americans.
Faces were long and sad in the flickering orange light of the flames. Eyes were haunted; nobody spoke.
Beneath his feet, Kestrel rolled uneasily.
Ahead, the river narrowed and would grow impassable. Behind, their escape was prevented by British men-of-war and the frigate Viper. There was nothing more to do, nowhere left to go.
Near shore, an American ship went up in flames with a terrible, rushing roar, and then a mighty explosion as the fire found her powder magazine.
Brendan took a deep and bracing breath. He touched the rail and felt Kestrel trembling all the way down to her keel.
I can’t, he thought. He stroked the rail and swallowed the hard, burning lump in his throat. You’re my lassie . . . I can’t destroy you. . . .
But he couldn’t allow her to fall into British hands, either.
To larboard, Defense blew up, screaming like a live thing as the flames roared up her masts and, in seconds, consumed her sails and swallowed them whole. Sickened, Brendan turned away, unable to watch the awful death.
“I can’t,” he said aloud.
No one spoke. Kestrel surged restlessly beneath him, fearful, suddenly wary.
The British ships moved closer, already moving to surround him.
He took off his hat and raked shaking hands through his hair. His vision swam and his heart was burning a hole in his chest. The old scar ached. He swallowed hard and straightened his shoulders, careful to keep the emotion out of his eyes. But to muster a grin was too much. He looked at the ships dying around him, the smoking remains of the once proud American fleet—and knew what he had to do.
“Liam,” he said quietly, “bring me some hemp and a lantern from belowdecks.”
Kestrel was shaking. Pleading. Begging.
“Brendan . . . what’re ye goin’ to do?”
“The only thing I can do.” He shut his eyes in agony, his nails biting into his palms. “Torch her.”
Aft, the prize schooner pressed close to Kestrel’s flank as though seeking her protection. His jaw clenched, Brendan stared past her, out over the smoke-clogged water and into the night. Tears stood in his eyes and he hastily turned his back so the crew wouldn’t see.
And then Liam was there, solemnly holding the lantern and a thick piece of hemp.
The time had come.
With trembling hands, he reached for the lantern.
###
A mile away, Mira and her little party
huddled together onshore and watched another blazing hulk come drifting down the river in a thundering wall of bright orange flame and billowing smoke.
A horrible, keening cry of grief rose in her throat, and she turned her sobbing face into Abadiah’s arms to block the sight.
It was a schooner.
Chapter 32
What was left of the mighty American fleet gathered together and, on foot, made the long, exhausting trek back through the Maine wilderness to Portsmouth, New Hampshire. Many died in the lonely woods. The true losses were never counted. Starving, dejected, and footsore, they followed the coast and returned to their homes.
On the day that Mira wearily pulled open the Ashton front door, the sun was glowing with that melancholy late afternoon burnish that painted the sides of the house in rust and cast long shadows over the lawn. She was greeted by a sobbing Abigail, a jubilant Ephraim, and the news that Matt and Eveleen were affianced.
She passed the table, set with fine silver and polished crystal. She waded through some twelve or thirteen cats, clapped her hands over her ears at the sound of Ephraim’s great, chiming Willard clock, and retreated to her room without a word to anyone.
She’d never felt so wretched in her life.
And with each hour she was home, the pain only worsened.
Two days after her arrival, she wandered out to the stable and watched her three horses grazing in the paddock. Rigel, his dappled coat shining like gunmetal. El Nath, looking over the fence with his long, inky forelock hanging in his eyes. Shaula, prancing along the perimeter, her white tail raised like a glorious flag.
Once, they had meant everything to her, those horses. Now she could not have cared less about them.
In several of the Market Square stores, merchants displayed brilliantly executed sketches of sea battles and got the high prices they asked for them. Mira, dejectedly buying some flour several days after her return, happened to glance up and see one. She knew who the artist was without even having to look at the signature.
Captain Of My Heart Page 39
