Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  Captain Harrington shook his head. “Such poor manners. Not wholly unexpected, as you are American.” He sniffed again, adjusting his sleeve. “But as a guest, I did expect a more courteous welcome.”

  “An uninvited guest hardly warrants such treatment,” Alden said.

  The smirk returned, followed by what Alden could only describe as a giggle. “Ah yes, we did just pop on over without warning, didn’t we?” He waved his hand as he spoke.

  One of the marines strode from the lower deck—a heavyset man with a scar crossing his nose and down his cheek to his jaw. “Only tobacco, sugar, and coffee, Captain.” He spoke in a croaky voice that sounded like it came from the back of his throat.

  Captain Harrington lowered his eyelids and shook his head sadly. “Oh well. I was wrong to get my hopes up. What I wouldn’t give for a warm cup of Darjeeling.”

  Now it was Alden’s turn to smirk as he thought of the Indian tea hidden behind the secret panels in the hold. He glanced toward where the marines still guarded his crew, saw Charlie’s fearful eyes, and felt a resurgence of anger. He was grateful Stafford stayed with her.

  “Take whatever you like,” Captain Harrington said to the marine. “I imagine the crew will be pleased with the tobacco. Heaven knows we have plenty of sugar and coffee in Jamaica.” He darted a quick glance at Alden, as if he’d said something he shouldn’t have.

  Alden kept his gaze on his crew, pretending he hadn’t heard. He wasn’t surprised to learn the English fleet was gathered in Jamaica. The island was a British colony, after all, and Negril Bay was the perfect place to assemble an invading force. But apparently the fact was one the English navy wished to keep secret.

  Captain Harrington took a few steps to the side and looked to the bow, studying the figurehead. “The Belladonna.” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “Another name for the poison nightshade, the beautiful yet deadly flower. What a dramatic moniker, Mr. Thatcher.” He turned back toward Alden, resting one hand on his hip, the other drooping limply once again over the hilt of his sword. “I seem to remember your ship. She was at the battle off Tangier Island, was she not? Sustained a few well-aimed shots, I believe.”

  The man was attempting to raise Alden’s temper. And it was working. Alden clasped his hands behind his back and watched the marines taking the smaller barrels from the lower deck. He guessed they weren’t interested or equipped to remove the hatches for the larger hogshead barrels.

  The men eased the barrels over the side and onto their small boats and then returned to the Belladonna’s deck, standing to attention and awaiting orders.

  Captain Harrington’s haughty smirk grew into something much more sinister, and an evil gleam sparked in his eye. “Now, let us have some fun, shall we?” He walked toward the crew.

  The back of Alden’s neck prickled.

  The marine with the low, croaky voice followed him toward Alden’s crew, bayonet fixed and pointed. He used the weapon to spread the men apart as they backed away from the sharp blade.

  Charlie hung on to Stafford’s arm until the bayonet was aimed at her, and then she moved away, her eyes wide and face chalky.

  Alden had seen the same terrified look on her face twice before, and this time it not only hurt his heart but spurred his anger. “That is enough, Captain.”

  Captain Harrington didn’t acknowledge Alden. He pointed toward Stafford. “I think this one, don’t you?”

  The marine nodded, motioning two others forward.

  They took hold of Stafford’s arms, pulling him away from the crew.

  “Tom!” Charlie started after him, but the marine’s bayonet swung toward her again, and she froze, eyes darting in panic between the blade and her friend.

  “Maybe one other?” Captain Harrington tapped his chin, as if considering. “But not the scrawny boy.”

  Alden marched forward, pulse pounding in his temples. “You will not take my men.”

  A dozen muskets were lowered, forcing him away from the English captain.

  Captain Harrington pointed at Gardner. “Escort them to fetch their belongings,” he said in a bored voice.

  The marines pulled Gardner away from the other crewmembers to join Stafford.

  The man’s face was terrified as he looked back at the crew then to Alden for help.

  “You can’t take them!” Charlie screamed.

  The captain walked slowly toward her. “What did you say, boy?”

  Alden’s heart clenched. “Charlie, don’t.” He started forward but was repelled once again by the bayonets.

  Tears shone in lines on Charlie’s cheeks as she looked up at the English captain. “Please, don’t take them.”

  The sound of desperation in her voice and the tears on her cheeks made Alden’s throat tight. “Charlie, step back.”

  “Perhaps I shall change my mind about this one,” Harrington said to the leader of the marines. He studied Charlie then raised his fist to deliver a blow. “The navy would teach the brat some respect.”

  Alden’s heart thrashed in his chest. Terror and anger pushed energy through his veins with painful force until he shook. “Captain Harrington!” he roared.

  The captain spun, fingertips pressed to his breastbone. His eyes were wide. “Oh my. I believe we touched a nerve.” He motioned the marines to step aside and walked toward Alden. “So angry, Mr. Thatcher.”

  “You will leave this ship immediately.” Alden ground out the words. Red tinted the edges of his vision. “You have the tobacco. Leave my men alone. They are Americans. You have no claim on them.”

  Captain Harrington tipped his head and puckered his lips as if seriously contemplating what Alden had said. “You know, you’re right.”

  Alden blinked.

  “Except for the fact that my men hold the weapons. And you . . . you are a bit helpless.” His malevolent sneer returned. “Oh, and I almost forgot about this . . .” From his breast pocket he drew a pistol and straightened his arm, pointing it at Alden.

  “No!” Charlie screamed, but Marchand drew her back, whispering frantically.

  “I had thought to take the ship,” Captain Harrington said in a conversational voice. “Though she is poorly maintained”—his gaze flicked toward the hole in the deck—“she would still be a valuable prize. As would all of these prisoners.” He pointed backward with a flick of his fingers, though his gaze and his pistol remained on Alden. “But then I remembered Chesapeake Bay and how gratifying it was to blast holes through this vessel.” He stamped his foot on the deck. “Don’t you think there is just something so satisfying about completing a task?” He gave a shrug. “I admit, I am a perfectionist.”

  “You are a coward,” Alden said.

  “And yet I don’t feel cowardly at all.” Captain Harrington shrugged and cocked the pistol. “I shall enjoy this.”

  From the corner of his eye, Alden saw Charlie sobbing, comforted by Marchand. Helplessness made him want to scream. He was so angry he’d led his men into this trap that he could hardly see through the fury. They had depended on him for protection, and he had failed.

  He straightened his shoulders, lifted his chin, and gave his men a nod that he hoped they found encouraging. He believed in them, trusted them. They were his shipmates. If this was indeed the end, he would stay strong for them. He wouldn’t shame all of them by breaking down or begging for his life. He most certainly wouldn’t give Captain Sir Percival Alfred Harrington the pleasure.

  Alden pulled his gaze from his crew and glared at Captain Harrington. “You would shoot an unarmed man?” He shook his head, his expression disappointed and taunting. “I was right. You truly are a coward.”

  “Unarmed?” The captain closed an eye and sighted along the barrel. “I thought all Americans were armed with self-righteousness and moral superiority.”

  “Don’t forget a razor-sharp wit.” Alden flicked the curl on his
forehead. “And devastating good looks.”

  Captain Harrington fired.

  Chapter 13

  The pistol’s blast echoed across the deck.

  Charlotte froze, watching in shock as Captain Thatcher fell. No. Her insides went cold, and she looked at the others, searching for support or help or someone to tell her she was only imagining it, but the rest of the crew just stared as well.

  She pulled away from Marchand and ran across the deck to the captain. No one stopped her. She didn’t know whether the marines had been told to allow her to pass or whether they simply didn’t care now that the Belladonna’s commander had fallen.

  “Captain.” She fell to her knees, feeling helpless. Blood covered his shoulder and pooled on the deck beneath him. Charlotte patted his face. “Captain, can you hear me?”

  He opened an eye and groaned. “That really hurt.”

  “Lie still,” Charlotte said.

  Captain Thatcher’s eyes rolled, and his head lolled to the side.

  “Oh drat.” The English captain peered down at them, his lip curled. He shook his head. “I’d meant to kill him. Would have made for a much more sensational exit.” He sniffed and handed his used pistol to a marine. “I have such a flair for the dramatic.”

  Charlotte glared at him, her tears turning to anger. She opened her mouth to tell the horrible man exactly what she thought of him but stopped when she felt a hand on her arm.

  Marchand knelt next to her. “Remain silent, Charlie. You cannot help Captain Thatcher if you are dead.” His voice was sharp.

  Charlotte was taken aback. She’d never heard the soft-spoken man speak in anger. But as her temper cooled and she saw the situation clearly, she realized the need for the reprimand. Feeling a calm determination, she held Marchand’s gaze and nodded to tell him she had control of her emotions.

  The English captain gave another sniff. “Farewell, Mr. Thatcher. I suppose it is destiny that you will still be alive when I blow your ship from the water.” He strode away to supervise the marines. Charlotte searched for Tom among them but caught only a glimpse of him in the commotion as the redcoats moved to the gunwale. Some had already climbed over, descending on ropes to their small boats. She wiped a sleeve over her face. Now was not the time for tears. She looked back at Captain Thatcher. His face grew pale as he lost more blood. “What do we do for him?”

  Marchand pulled back Captain Thatcher’s coat and unbuttoned his shirt, exposing the bloody wound in his shoulder then rolled him to the side, looking at his back. “Ze bullet went clean through.”

  “Is that a good thing?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oui et non.” He shrugged. “We do not need to remove a bullet, but he bleeds from two wounds.”

  Following the Cajun man’s direction, Charlotte helped remove Captain Thatcher’s coat and shirt completely.

  Captain Thatcher groaned again as they laid him back, flat onto the deck.

  “Don’t worry, Captain,” Charlotte said in a comforting tone. “We’ll take care of you.”

  Marchand wadded the shirt against the wounds on the front and back of the captain’s shoulder. “Press here and here,” he told Charlotte. “Do not worry that you use too much force. We must stop the bleeding.”

  Charlotte scooted closer, hardly noticing the blood that soaked into the knees of her trousers. She slid a hand beneath the captain and pressed his shoulder between both palms. She glanced up and saw that only a few redcoats remained on the ship and they were preparing to climb over the rail. Her heart was heavy when she saw that Tom had gone.

  “Oui. Just like that, Charlie,” Marchand said, placing his hands over hers, and pushing with even more force. “When the bleeding stops, we will stitch closed the wounds.”

  Charlotte nodded, grateful the man kept a cool head in an emergency. Seeing Captain Thatcher pale and unconscious made her insides shaky. She was glad to focus on a task to keep from panicking.

  Mr. Dobson yelled a command, startling her. The Belladonna’s crew jumped into action, scampering up the rigging, pulling on ropes, and calling out to one another as the canvas shifted to catch the wind.

  Marchand glanced up at the sails and then to the quartermaster, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Excellent plan,” he muttered. “Overbear the Lark.”

  The quartermaster supervised the crew, hands on his hips as he looked over the sails, then gave a nod and strode toward Charlotte and Marchand. “Get the captain below.” He called for Mr. Nye to assist.

  The ship surged forward, and Mr. Dobson’s jaw tightened in a look of determination. He started toward the stern, calling back over his shoulder. “Stay with him, Charlie. And be prepared. We may be fired upon.”

  Mr. Nye and Marchand lifted Captain Thatcher, and Charlotte kept the shirt pressed against his wounds as they made their way awkwardly down the companionway and to the captain’s quarters.

  The men heaved him onto the low wooden berth, putting his right side to the wall, so Marchand could doctor the injured shoulder, and then Mr. Nye left to help the rest of the crew.

  Captain Thatcher groaned again.

  Marchand opened the portholes to lighten the room. He stepped next to Charlotte and motioned for her to move her hand. “Ze blood is slowing, but it still has not stopped completely.” Setting back the wad of shirt against the wound, he pushed her hand over it. “I will return in a moment.”

  Alone with the captain, Charlotte studied his face, worried he was growing even paler. Or did she imagine it? She knelt beside the berth, keeping the pressure on his wounds. “You must heal, Captain.” She spoke in a quiet voice meant for his ears only, resting her cheek against his. “Please. I could not bear to lose you too.”

  Marchand returned with two lanterns, a bucket of water, and a surgery kit. “We need more light if we are—”

  A blast from outside stopped his words. It was followed closely by another.

  Yelling and running feet sounded above.

  “Marchand . . .” Charlotte’s gaze darted to the porthole. She could smell smoke. “They are shooting at us.”

  “Do not pay attention to what happens above, Charlie. We have a job to do. One that requires focus.”

  Charlotte forced her breathing to calm, though it was difficult as another volley of blasts sounded.

  A crash came from the upper deck. The ship shuddered. Men yelled out. They’d been hit.

  Charlotte wanted to scream, but Marchand put a hand on hers. “Focus, Charlie.”

  “Focus,” she repeated, looking back at Captain Thatcher. She drew in a jagged breath and then another until the trembling inside her stilled.

  Another cannon blast sounded, but this one was most assuredly behind them and seemed more distant.

  Marchand pulled the chair close and set one of the lanterns on it. He held the other over Captain Thatcher and motioned for Charlotte to lift the bloody shirt.

  Marchand bent close. He pinched the edges of the wound together with his fingers. “Hold ze lantern,” he said. “But do not release the pressure on his back.”

  Charlotte obeyed, holding the light steady as Marchand stitched the injury closed. She listened, trying to perceive what was happening above. The shouts had stopped as well as the cannon blasts. She hoped they were out of danger from the other ships.

  When he finished, Charlotte helped him turn the captain onto his side and held the lantern again as Marchand stitched the exit wound.

  “How is it you can do this, Marchand?” she asked. “Do you have surgeon training?”

  Marchand did not look away from the task. “If a man lives long enough, he learns a skill or two.”

  “Have you sewn a bullet wound before?”

  “Oui. Many.”

  “And the injured men—did they . . .”

  “No, Charlie. They did not all survive,” he said quietly.

&nb
sp; She swallowed through a dry throat. The thought that Captain Thatcher could still succumb to infection or fever or lack of blood terrified her. And the sadness in Marchand’s voice made her ache inside. He’d known loss, seen people he cared about die, just like she had.

  Once the wounds were stitched, Marchand dipped a rag into the water and cleaned the blood off the captain.

  Charlotte assisted, noticing the bunched, discolored scars on Captain Thatcher’s torso and side. “He’s been injured before.” She pointed to the marks. It was a good sign, wasn’t it? He’d mended before, which might be an indication that his body was able to do so again.

  “Captain Thatcher is a complicated man,” Marchand said. He smiled fondly, dropping the rag and Captain Thatcher’s bloody shirt into the bucket. “Somehow he manages to be extremely lucky and extremely unlucky at the same time.”

  “He was very brave today,” Charlotte said. “Standing his ground against that horrible Englishman the way he did.”

  Marchand’s expression turned sober. “The English captain is a coward who thrives on intimidation. Captain Thatcher knew this and kept the man’s attention on himself to spare the crew.” He looked at the captain. “He knew fully the risk to himself.”

  Charlotte gazed at the captain as well. Her admiration for him grew. He was an honorable leader who cared for his men and was willing to put himself between them and danger. “He must recover,” she said in a soft voice. “He simply must.”

  Marchand returned to the partitioned wood box that held the thick thread, hooked needle, and other surgical instruments. He opened a jar of strong-smelling ointment and smeared it over the stitches and then pulled out clean strips of cloth and, with Charlotte’s help, bound the wound and wrapped Captain Thatcher’s arm snug against his body. “This way, when he wakes, he will not use his arm and tear ze stitches,” Marchand explained.

  The smell of fish stew wafted through the door to the captain’s quarters. Charlie felt a twinge of guilt that she hadn’t helped prepare the meal. “Should I fetch you something to eat?”

  Marchand shook his head. “Dobson ordered you to remain with ze captain, and so you shall. I will fetch food for you. And something for his pain.” He glanced toward the captain.