Cover Image: First Recognition of the Stars and Stripes, 14th February 1778 (oil on canvas) by Edward Moran © Bridgeman Art and Woman © Lee Avison, Courtesy Arcangel.
Cover design copyright © 2019 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2019 by Jennifer Moore
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
First Printing: May 2019
ISBN 978-1-52440-935-7
For Wende
You are a creative, joyful, gift-giving ray of sunshine with a laugh that’s the most infectious sound on the planet.
I adore you.
Acknowledgments
First I need to say a huge thank-you to my family, friends, the jr. high carpool, my hairdresser, and random strangers who politely listened to me for the past two years going on and on about the War of 1812, the River Raisin Massacre, the USS Constitution, the burning of Washington, the attack on Fort McHenry, and the Battle of New Orleans. I love this period of American history, and you are all very understanding when I get nerdy.
Thank you to my husband and kids, who spent their spring break in New Orleans visiting museums and swamps and battlefields. You guys are the loves of my life.
Thanks to my critique partners and besties, Josi Kilpack and Nancy Allen. Your brainstorming and plot advice and friendship mean the world to me. And to the marvelous Margot Hovley, thanks for keeping me accountable on my goals.
Melanie Jacobson, thank you for sharing your knowledge of Louisiana, telling me where to eat and what to see, and for being such a gracious friend. And Mara Harvey, thanks for meeting me in NOLA. You are such an avid reader; I am in awe!
Thanks to Vickie and Butch Guchereau at Cajun Country Swamp Tours for a fantastic adventure on the Bayou.
Thanks, Carla Kelly and Laurie Lewis, for being such good history resources.
Thank you, Christina Marcano, for another beautiful cover.
And as always, thank you to Kami Hancock for your edits and deadline extensions and your listening ear. What would I do without you, matey?
Chapter 1
Autumn 1814
Charlotte Bower jerked awake and out of habit forced herself to remain still while her heartbeat settled and her breathing calmed. Motionless, she stared up into the darkness and listened, hoping she hadn’t cried out in her sleep and alerted anyone to her hiding place. That reaction had cost her dearly once before, and she wasn’t about to let it reveal her again.
The familiar images from her dream were still fresh in her mind: painted Indian braves, frantic soldiers, crying women, and . . . Will. She swallowed hard as the images faded into impressions, but as always, the emotions they evoked remained strong, twisting around her heart and choking her throat. Sweat broke out over her skin as she pictured his face, heard his screams and her own as the two were pulled apart. Her precious little brother. He was so young—only seven. No, not anymore, Charlotte reminded herself. She hadn’t seen her brother for more than a year. Will would turn nine years old in October. Or perhaps he already had. Even though she wasn’t certain of the date, she could feel by the cool nights and shorter days that winter was approaching.
How had the past year changed the boy? She pictured his face again—wide hazel eyes she was often told looked exactly like hers and thick blond curls she was just as often informed looked nothing like her own straight mouse-brown hair. Was Will being treated well by his captors? Had he been traded as she had, or was he still with the Red Sticks Indian tribe? Did he have enough to eat? Did he suffer from the same nightmares? Was he even . . . ? She squeezed her eyes shut and pushed the thought away. Will is alive. She knew it. And nothing—not hostile Indians, slave-traders, or the hundreds of miles of rivers, mountains, and swamps of the southern United States would keep her from finding him.
Still listening for movement, she focused on her goal. New Orleans. When the captives had been split after the raid, she’d heard the other group was headed to the mouth of the Mississippi. With the city’s reputation for smuggling, slave-trading, and a turn-a-blind-eye approach to law enforcement, she imagined New Orleans was exactly where the Indians would trade their captives.
If only Charlotte had been able to escape earlier, she could have been there by now. But over the past months, she’d been moved from place to place and eventually taken to work on a remote poultry farm in Georgia. She’d attempted several times to escape, and, in spite of the punishments when she was caught, she’d kept trying. She’d had to. Giving up would mean giving up on Will. And she’d never do that. She’d promised that no matter what happened, she would find him. Finally, three weeks earlier, a fierce thunderstorm had provided the distraction she’d needed, and she’d used a stone to break open the cellar’s lock to flee into the thick woods.
After a long moment of listening, she wriggled out from beneath the wooden porch but remained crouched close to the house behind a row of shrubbery. The night was still dark, but she could see the purple of predawn in the eastern sky. That was one benefit to the nightmares. She never overslept—a habit essential for a fugitive.
Charlotte slipped from behind a rhododendron bush and glanced back at the opening she’d come from. A year earlier she’d have been too frightened of possums or snakes to crawl into the small dark space. She’d have worried about dirt on her dress, tearing her petticoats, or getting spiders in her hair. How much difference a year could make.
She fingered the uneven strands at the base of her neck then pulled her knitted hat down tight, feeling a pang as she remembered how her mother had carefully brushed her hair each night before putting it into braids. She would have been saddened to see her only daughter’s hair cropped with a pair of old shears found in a barn.
Brushing dirt off her pant legs, Charlotte lifted her chin and pushed away the memories. She was a different person now. A survivor. She’d endured cruelty and horrors previously unimaginable to a young girl, clinging to the vow she’d made. Remembering Will and her promise to find him gave her a purpose and kept despair from taking over during the darkest moments, when it felt like even God had forgotten her. She often thought of the day of the raid, her parents’ deaths, her capture, and how entirely her life had transformed in a matter of moments. Her memories of the person she had been seemed distant, almost as if she were thinking of a friend she used to know. Her character and appearance now were nearly unrecognizable from the carefree young woman who’d flirted with the soldiers at Fort Mims.
She hurried across the garden and slipped down an alley on the other side of the road. If she’d had any idea how convenient it was to travel in trousers, she’d have replaced her old dress ages ago. Not only were the clothes more comfortable but the disguise afforded her an anonymity she loved. Nobody questioned or even gave a second look to a young man walking alone.
She tried to imagine the farmer on the other side of town who’d woken one morning and found his shirt and trousers missing from the clothesline. Had he been angry? She wished she’d been able to leave money or something else in exchange. Based on the size of the clothes, she assumed he w
as small like her, and skinny. Perhaps he was only a boy. She hoped he’d had something else to wear. The clothing was tattered and old, the elbows and knees threadbare, and she had assured herself that it was probably what he wore to do jobs that would get his regular clothes too dirty. Pa had read to the family from the Bible in the evenings, and Charlotte knew stealing was wrong. She wished it hadn’t been necessary. But if she was captured again, she might never get to New Orleans, and finding Will was all that mattered. She shivered, wishing she’d managed to find a coat, and set off. She’d warm up once she got moving.
Charlotte walked through the now-familiar streets of Savannah, Georgia. As she drew close to the river, the calls of dockworkers and fishermen sounded. Morning began early on the waterfront, but Charlotte had learned to avoid the area at night, finding other places to hide during the dark hours. Her first night in the city the smell of liquor and men’s drunken laughter reminded her that even though she was free, she was not safe. Over the past weeks, she’d come to the riverfront daily, performing small tasks to earn a penny or two. As she worked, she’d listen to conversations and watch the various ships and their sailors. At last she’d overheard a rumor of a ship bound for New Orleans, and it was supposed to depart today. She walked faster now that the sun was up, fearing the Belladonna had left without her. The war and the British blockades had almost completely halted trade among the states, and with so few ships traveling up and down the coast, months could pass before another opportunity arose.
Reaching the end of the alleyway, she stepped into the open and when her gaze landed on the figurehead of a woman with dark hair blowing in the wind and the bare masts of the large vessel bobbing in the gray water, she breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t left yet. She had no way of knowing what time of day a ship would set sail. The schedule had something to do with the tides, she’d heard, but Charlotte was a farm girl from the Mississippi territory and had only ever been in a small rowboat. She’d never even seen the ocean. The idea of sailing on the enormous ship far out to sea was both terrifying and exciting. Thankfully her pa had taught her how to swim, but in the vast ocean, would such a skill even matter?
She purchased a bun from a vendor and sat on a crate, taking small bites to make the scant meal last as she watched the ship. The morning was chilly, and she rubbed her arms, wishing she had something warm to drink.
At last the man she’d been waiting for emerged onto the ship’s deck and walked down the gangplank to the dock. He’d taken breakfast every morning at the same riverside public house, and Charlotte was relieved he’d not altered the routine on the day of departure. She’d watched the man ever since learning who he was, studied his interactions. He appeared to be even-tempered, if not particularly friendly. She had considered for days exactly how he might be convinced to allow her aboard, and she was pleased he was alone this morning.
She steeled her nerves and rose as he passed. “Pardon me, sir. You’re the first mate of the Belladonna?” She took care to lower her voice.
The man stopped and nodded. “Leroy Dobson, quartermaster. On this ship they’re one and the same.”
Seeing him up close, she realized he was older than she’d thought—past his fortieth year, easily. Strands of gray mixed with the blond hair tied at the base of his neck. He had a broad face and square shoulders. Tanned skin and deep lines around his mouth and eyes told of years squinting against the sun. She hoped some of the lines had been formed by smiling as well.
He scowled. “Who are you?”
Charlotte was ready for the question, and she was determined to be as honest as possible. As long as he didn’t directly ask her if she was impersonating a man, she had no reason to lie. “Charlie Bower, sir.” She used the nickname her brother called her. She caught herself before curtsying and bowed instead. “Sir, I wish to join your crew.”
His gaze moved over her, and his scowl deepened. “Rather small for the job, aren’t you, lad? How old are you?”
“Eighteen, sir.”
Dobson crossed his arms, studying her. “Do you have experience aboard a ship?”
“No.” Inside she winced, but she kept her chin high and shoulders back, wanting to project confidence. “But I am a fast learner and a hard worker.”
He lifted one of her hands, turning it over to study her palm.
Charlotte winced but forced herself to relax, reminding herself that as a boy, she had no need to fear a man’s touch. Before today, Charlotte had been ashamed of the broken fingernails, scars, and callouses on her once-soft hands, but now she felt proud of them. She was a hard worker, and seeing the proof, the quartermaster couldn’t refute it.
Dobson dropped her hand and shook his head. “I’m sorry, lad. I can see you’re earnest. But it takes strong men to pilot a ship.”
He started to turn away, but Charlotte moved in front of him. “It is wartime, Mr. Dobson. With the militia taking so many and the British impressing others, maintaining a complete crew must be difficult.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but Charlotte didn’t give him the chance.
“I am willing to do any job you need, sir. Without complaint.”
He shook his head again and walked around her.
“I am an arbitrator,” she called after him in a final effort, embarrassed by the desperation in her voice.
The quartermaster stopped. He cocked his head and turned. “What was that?”
Charlotte swallowed. She felt supremely foolish at her outburst. “An arbitrator.” She shrugged and spoke in a quiet voice. “It’s something my mother used to say. I don’t start arguments, but I am good at diffusing them, coming up with a compromise.”
“An arbitrator.” Leroy Dobson’s scowl softened, the muscles around his mouth jerking as if he was trying to suppress a laugh.
“Yes.” Charlotte pressed her lips together tightly so they wouldn’t shake. She swallowed the lump in her throat, blinking against tears. He must think her utterly ridiculous. Knowing she needed a new plan and not wanting the man to see her cry, she turned and started away.
“Mr. Bower?”
The sound of Mr. Dobson’s voice stopped her. “Yes, sir?”
“Diffusing arguments is a skill I wish more of the crew possessed.” His scowl returned, but it didn’t seem as harsh. “Captain Thatcher might disagree, and he will, of course, have the final say . . .” He studied her a moment longer and then gave a sharp nod. “Report to the ship right away; we set sail today. Ask for Mr. Ivory, the boatswain.”
When she realized he was serious, the tears clogging her throat turned into a nervous laughter. She clasped her hands together and again caught herself before she curtsied. Instead she stood straight and gave what she thought was a serious and masculine-looking nod. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I will. Right away.”
He shook his head, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Sailors say, ‘Aye aye, sir.’”
Charlotte grinned. “Aye, aye, sir!”
He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back. “And Mr. Bower, if it turns out you are not a quick learner, a hard worker, nor an arbitrator, you’ll be put ashore at our first port. No arguments.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, aye, aye, sir. I understand. I won’t disap-point you.”
“See that you don’t.”
Charlotte ran toward the ship before the quartermaster could change his mind. Behind her, she thought she heard the man mutter the word “arbitrator,” but she didn’t care at all if he thought her silly. He’d given her a chance, and she’d prove it wasn’t misplaced. For Will’s sake, she had to.
Chapter 2
“An arbitrator?” Captain Alden Thatcher pressed fingertips against his eyelids as the beginnings of a headache threatened. “That is the most . . .” He looked toward the skinny lad dangling from the rigging and then back at the quartermaster, wondering what could possibly have possessed the man. “Dobson, have you lost
your mind?”
The quartermaster grimaced, squinting as he watched the boy strain for a foothold. “The crew is diminished ever since Annapolis. We need men.”
He spoke the truth. The Belladonna required a minimum of eighteen crewmembers, with twenty-five being the optimal amount. Thanks to the war, the crew’s numbers had been lacking for years. Alden’s men were loyal, but compensating for the deficiency was demanding on all of them.
Shaking his head, Alden held up a finger. “We need skilled men. Not just more men.” He pointed with his chin. “Look at him. Eighteen years old, you said? I would have guessed closer to fourteen, and I’d put his weight at seven stones—with lead in his pockets.” It was practically impossible to believe the small lad was only ten years Alden’s junior.
He had no time for this kind of delay. They were already well behind schedule. The Belladonna had taken a detour to assist Joshua Barney’s flotilla in Chesapeake Bay and had been damaged in a skirmish with the English. His adopted brother, Jacob Steele, was a shipbuilder, and of course Alden would trust nobody else to make such a vital repair to his darling. But Jacob had been involved with the war in Washington City and had gotten married, and other obligations—such as delivering crucial information to the capital—had delayed the repairs further.
Alden squinted east, following the river, half-expecting to see a British ship. The blockades and tariffs had made trade nearly impossible for the past two years. English ships had confiscated goods, supplies, and even sailors, and exports were at a standstill.
Alden tapped his foot on the deck, feeling a sense of urgency. The Belladonna had hundreds of dollars’ worth of Virginia tobacco, coffee, and sugar in her cargo hold, and with the Indian tea he’d purchased in Savannah, Alden’s investors in New Orleans would consider this voyage profitable indeed. As long as the ship could avoid the English, which just happened to be a particular talent of Alden’s. He’d chosen Savannah specifically because of the city’s complicated network of rivers. He knew the waterways well, and the Belladonna was small enough to navigate the narrower routes, giving him the advantage over a heavy warship.
Charlotte's Promise Page 1
