Charlotte's Promise

by Jennifer Moore

  A knock sounded at the door, followed by Charlie’s voice. “Captain, do you need anything?”

  He nearly sobbed in relief when he heard her. But he kept his voice nonchalant. “I could use help removing my boots.”

  “Oh.” Charlie came near and touched his forehead. “Captain, you look dreadful.”

  He gave a wry smile. “I feel dreadful.”

  She knelt and took hold of his boot, one hand across the toe, and the other behind the heel. “You really should have rested more today. But I am happy you came on deck.”

  Alden braced himself for the pull, but he should have known Charlie would move carefully. She gently tugged off one boot and then the other, setting them beside his sea chest.

  Charlie bent down, looking closer at his face. “You overexerted yourself.” She untied the sling and set the cloth strips aside then pulled one arm from his coat, easing out the other without moving his shoulder.

  “I was tired of lying here all day,” Alden grumbled.

  “Do you want to heal?” she asked, hanging the coat on the back of his door.

  “Of course I do.” While he didn’t particularly appreciate the reprimand from his swabbie, he knew she was right. He hadn’t done himself any favors today.

  Charlie scooted the chair closer and sat facing him. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I just worry. If you were to take a fever . . .”

  “I will rest tomorrow.”

  “Good.” She took out fresh cloths from the surgical kit and lifted down a lantern from the hook on the deckhead. “Now, I am going to check your wounds, if you don’t mind. Would you like some laudanum first?”

  He lifted a brow. “Are you going to poke at them?”

  She laughed, showing her dimple. “No, just make certain they are healing. Marchand is on night watch tonight. I could have him do it, if you would prefer.”

  “You are a hundred times gentler than Marchand,” Alden said. “And I would like my mind clear. No laudanum.”

  “Very well.” She unbuttoned his shirt, slipping it over his shoulder and tugging softly at the cuff to pull his arm from the sleeve. She unbound the bandages and brought the lantern close, inspecting the wound on the front and then moving around to look at the other.

  “How does it look?” he asked.

  She touched the backs of her fingers to the stitches. “They are red. But neither wound is hot. Or seeping.”

  “Seeping?” Alden wrinkled his nose and pretended to shiver, looking revolted.

  “I’m glad they are not. Of course, I do not want you to have an infection. But also . . .” She scrunched up her nose and shivered, mimicking his exaggerated expression.

  Alden grinned, knowing laughter would hurt his head. He sat obediently still while she bound the wound, enjoying the gentle feel of her touch.

  “You’ve been injured before,” Charlie said.

  He nodded.

  Charlie helped him into a clean shirt. “What happened? Did you anger another English captain?”

  “Well . . .” He glanced down, pointing at the different scars between the sides of his unbuttoned shirt. “These were caused by an English knife.” He pointed to two of the wounds on his ribs.

  Charlie blinked, her mouth forming an o that emulated her round eyes.

  He shrugged his good shoulder. “And here”—he pointed to a puckered scar on his side—“a musket ball. Luckily it was only a scratch.”

  “It doesn’t look like a scratch.” Her brows knit together as she fastened his buttons. “Did they happen in the war?”

  “Yes, but not in the way you’re thinking.”

  Charlie tipped her head.

  “A few were the result of an ambush while I carried a message to Washington City, but the others are byproducts of my profession.” He held still as she secured his arm once again in a sling she tied. “The blockades and the war in Europe have forced merchants to become smugglers.” He shrugged again. “I just happen to be good at it.”

  He studied her face, hoping for a clue as to what she was thinking. Though it was not piracy, smuggling was not typically considered an honorable profession. Did Charlie think less of him?

  She adjusted his pillow and helped him lie back.

  He closed his eyes, thinking he’d not been so pampered since he was a young boy with a bellyache, and he was not ashamed to admit he savored the sensation. Quite a lot of time had passed since he’d felt so cared for. He was reminded of Jacob’s wife, Lydia, tending to her husband when he’d been injured. She’d been so caring. Perhaps it was a quality all women possessed.

  “You are quiet,” Alden said after a moment. “Have I disappointed you?” He was surprised by how much her opinion of him mattered.

  Charlie shook her head. “Of course not. I was just thinking.”

  “About . . . ?”

  She fussed with the wrappings and his soiled shirt, and he got the impression she didn’t want to meet his eye. “I hope you do not feel shame, Captain,” she said. “Not for something forced upon you.” She glanced up quickly then looked back down, her hands shaking as she dropped the wrappings into a bucket.

  Charlie’s words were not only meant to comfort him; he could see she sought reassurance herself. His heart felt heavy, and he wished he knew what to say to ease her pain. But any words he thought of felt trite. A surge of anger flared inside him, and an urge to punish violently the men who had hurt Charlie.

  She pulled the blanket over him, tucking it around him. “Shall I extinguish the lantern?” Her voice sounded cheerful again, but he thought it was forced. “Or would you prefer the light?”

  He would prefer for her to remain, at the very least until he was certain she was not upset. He grasped for a topic that might keep her there. “Tell me about Will.”

  Charlie looked surprised. She sat on the chair and rested her hands in her lap. Her gaze was far away as she looked past him. “Will is clever and silly and has an enormous heart. He is fearless. My parents and I spent most of our time trying to keep him from hurting himself. He is full of questions, just like any seven-year-old boy.” Her shoulders sagged. “At least he was. I don’t know what he will be like when I find him.”

  “And does he look like you?”

  Charlie shrugged. “I’ve been told our eyes are the same. But his hair is thick and full of curls—like yours. His cheeks are soft and round, and I used to sneak up and grab him so I could kiss them.”

  Her smile held fondness as well as sorrow, and Alden’s stomach went hard, knowing there was little chance her quest would end happily. If Will was still alive, if she managed to locate him . . . Alden didn’t think there existed any possibility she would find the boy she’d lost.

  “I have a brother as well. Jacob.” Alden shifted, grunting at the pain in his shoulder, and closed his eyes. “We met in an orphanage in Washington City and were adopted by the same couple.” He shook his head. “Jacob was the serious one. The protector. And I always managed to find trouble.”

  “Oh my. That is a surprise.”

  He kept his eyes closed but smiled at her teasing tone. “I suppose some things will never change.” The two sat in silence for a moment, a silence that felt surprisingly comfortable. Alden hoped she was thinking of happy memories with her brother.

  “Do you remember your parents?” Charlie asked.

  “Distantly,” Alden said. “I was six when they died, so the memories feel more like dreams.”

  “How did they die?”

  “Smallpox.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it.”

  Silence again. Alden cracked open an eye and glanced at her.

  Charlie twisted her fingers, and her lip shook. “Captain?”

  “What is it, Charlie?”

  “At Fort Mims everyone around me was killed. Everyone.” She swallowed
. “Mothers, fathers, children, babies . . . It was so . . .” She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head. “I think about them all the time. Remember their faces. Their screams.” Her voice had dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know why . . .” She pulled up her feet onto the chair and wrapped her arms around her legs. “Why was I spared?” Her knuckles turned white as she held her legs tightly. “What made that Indian brave decide to take me as a prisoner instead of killing me too?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “It shouldn’t have been me,” she whispered. “Others deserved to live more than I.”

  Alden felt ill hearing her confession, her guilt over surviving, and the shame of her ordeal. “You lived so you could find Will,” he said. He glanced at her hand, wanting to reach for it, but he couldn’t move his arm in that direction. “Charlie, listen to me. I don’t know whether it was divine Providence or destiny or simply luck that you and I were both spared when others around us weren’t. But I do believe we owe it to those who died to make the most of our lives. To make the world better. To move past the things that hurt us. These people—our families—they loved us, and they want us to be happy.”

  Charlie brushed at her eyes. She looked at him and seemed to consider what he said. After a moment she stood. “Thank you for listening, Captain. I’ve not spoken to anyone about Will for more than a year. I was happy to tell you about him.”

  She tucked the blanket around him again and then picked up the lantern. “Your parents would be very proud of the man you’ve become, Captain Thatcher. And so would Marguerite.”

  Alden lay back and thought about Charlie’s words long after she’d gone. The sound of Marguerite’s name had taken him off guard. But the feeling didn’t come with the shower of guilt that usually accompanied his thoughts of her. And the thing that surprised him most was that during the conversation, he’d not thought of her at all.

  Chapter 15

  “Sorry to lose you, Charlie.” Mr. Ivory frowned as he counted out coins from the ship’s coffer.

  “I am sorry as well,” Charlotte said, feeling a tightness in her throat. She was nervous, uncertain of what lay ahead in the unfamiliar city, and she would miss the Belladonna and its men.

  He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder. “Despite my initial . . . misgivings, you turned out to be a fine sailor.”

  Charlotte accepted the wages and smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “If you ever care to return, you’ll be welcome on the crew.”

  Charlotte bid Mr. Ivory farewell, descended the gangplank, and stepped onto the New Orleans dock. Loud noises assaulted her from every side. A cold wind blew from the river, making her pull the coat tighter. Her toes felt uncomfortably smashed in boots she hadn’t worn for weeks, and the land seemed to be swaying beneath her feet. After only a few weeks at sea, Charlotte felt like a fish out of water.

  Captain Thatcher and Mr. Dobson stepped from a small official-looking building. The captain folded a paper and slipped it into his coat pocket. He stood tall, his face no longer pale and drawn. Aside from the sling on his arm, one would never know the man had been shot ten days earlier. He looked superbly handsome in his clean coat and polished boots as he gazed up at his ship and then along the docks. She thought it incredible that all the other people on the riverfront didn’t stop what they were doing and stare at the man. When his gaze fell on her, he smiled.

  Charlotte’s heart flopped over, and everything inside her went soft. She walked across the dock to join him and the quartermaster.

  The two men shook hands. “A good voyage, Captain,” Mr. Dobson said.

  “Aside from a barrage of bad luck and misfortune . . .” Alden tipped his head thoughtfully. “It was indeed memorable.”

  “And how would we have managed without our arbitrator?” Mr. Dobson gave Charlotte a warm smile. He shook her hand. “A pleasure to have you aboard, Charlie.”

  “The pleasure was mine, sir.” She swallowed, feeling a wave of melancholy as she bid another of her shipmates farewell. “Thank you for taking me on.”

  “Best decision I’ve made in a long time,” Mr. Dobson said. He squeezed her hand between both of his. “Good luck to you, Swabbie.” He released her and stepped back, glancing between her and Captain Thatcher. “Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  “Go,” Alden said. “Enjoy your family.”

  “Aye, aye, Captain.” Mr. Dobson grinned, and, with a final wave at Charlotte, he was gone.

  “He’s right, you know,” the captain said. “Your presence was a bright spot on an otherwise disastrous voyage.”

  He could have no idea how his words made her heart melt. She watched the dock workers with great interest until her blush cooled. “You said Marchand is coming with us to meet with your friend?”

  Captain Thatcher nodded. “New Orleans is an interesting city, Charlie. Complicated. Marchand understands the politics and social nuances better than anyone I know. He grew up nearby and lived in the city for years before he went to sea. He’s trusted in different communities, and having a native French speaker with us will go a long way to winning trust.”

  “And your friend is the one who will know about Will?”

  Captain Thatcher’s brows pulled together. He nodded. “If Pierre Lafitte doesn’t know, he will tell us whom to ask.”

  Marchand joined them, and the three set off. Armed soldiers stopped them at the edge of the city but allowed them to pass once they’d inspected the captain’s papers. The ship had been stopped twice by the American soldiers on their way up the Mississippi as well. Charlotte had felt a sense of heightened security as the ship was searched both times. The soldiers were preparing for invasion.

  Charlie and her companions started down the dirt road that ran along the river. A high man-made bank rose between them and the water.

  “Mr. Dobson went in the other direction,” Charlotte said.

  “Oui,” Marchand said. “He lives in the American sector of the city. Above Canal Street.”

  “What sector is this?”

  “Vieux Carré,” Marchand said.

  The word—or words—was French, Charlotte thought. She didn’t think her mouth could form the sounds that made it. “Voo cahay?” she said.

  “Oh, Charlie.” Marchand closed his eyes, looking pained as if her inability to pronounce the word was a personal insult. “In English it is called the Old Quarter, where the wealthiest Creole families make their homes.”

  “When they’re not on their plantations downriver,” Captain Thatcher said.

  Charlotte glanced at the captain and wondered if Marguerite LaFonatine had lived in the Old Quarter. Was he thinking of her now?

  They walked past stucco and brick houses with shuttered doors and windows. On some blocks, structures were built directly against each other as if they were all part of one enormous building, but an occasional gate showed paths and carriageways leading behind the individual houses. Grand balconies hung over the walkway below, surrounding the upper stories and filled with potted plants. The roofs were sloped and made of red tile. Many of the doorways were arched, with columns between. Other homes stood alone, grand mansions surrounded by walls or iron fences. Charlotte wished the men would slow so she could study the stained-glass windows and filigreed ironwork of the gates and railings.

  They stepped to the side as a company of soldiers marched past.

  “Farther in zat direction is the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood.” Marchand pointed with his chin.

  “Is that where you’re from?” Charlie asked.

  “My people are Cajun,” he said. “From French Canada. I was born in a small village on the bayou.”

  Charlotte nodded, moving to the side of the street as a carriage passed. “Do you plan to visit while we’re in port?”

  “I have not returned for almost thirty years.”

  She turned toward him, studyi
ng his face, but she couldn’t read his expression. “Why not?”

  “Ze woman I loved married another. So I left.”

  Charlotte tried to imagine Marchand as a young man in love. She wondered if he’d been brokenhearted like Captain Thatcher. Or had he been angry? He spoke now matter-of-factly about what had once, no doubt, caused him pain.

  “But your family,” Charlotte said. “Surely . . .”

  “I have no one zere,” Marchand said. “Not anymore. Ze sea is my home now, and ze crew my family. I intend to sail as long as my body is able.”

  What did Charlotte intend to do? She wished she had a set course like Marchand did. She would of course find Will, but then what? Where would she go? She would need to find work to support them. Would she remain in New Orleans? Since her family had fled their farm to the safety of Fort Mims, no place had felt like home . . . until the Belladonna.

  They passed a tree-lined park, and Charlotte stopped, gazing up at the massive church beyond it.

  “St. Louis Cathedral.” Marchand crossed himself. “She burned down twenty years ago and has been rebuilt.”

  “Beautiful,” Charlie breathed, studying the columns and spires. She’d surely never seen a building so grand.

  The group continued on, nearing an area with shops and an open market on high land overlooking the river. As they drew closer, the street became more crowded.

  Captain Thatcher glanced back at her. “Stay close, Charlie,” he said. “And watch your pockets.”

  She kept a hand in her trouser pocket, clasping the pouch of coins and the silver ring as they walked, but she lost sight of the men more than once because she could not stop staring at the mixture of people around her. She recognized immediately the wealthy Creoles in colorful gowns and elaborate hats. The men accompanying them seemed to prefer wearing military uniforms with various medals and decorations. Among the crowd there were also working-class people tending shops, carrying children and bundles, or pushing carts. Their clothing looked more like what Charlotte was used to. Some moved in groups or families, others alone. She saw a group of rough-looking men, and her stomach tightened. She looked away quickly, not wanting to draw their attention.