Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  Messengers came and went, whispering in the general's ear. Arnold began to look rather fatigued himself; several times he mopped the sweat from his brow.

  Three British officers rowed across the Thames and landed at New London. A green-clad Hessian pointed toward the Burial Ground, and the men ran up Hill Street toward their commander. There was a great deal of gesturing when they reached Arnold. He appeared to be furious, but Devon could not discern his words. Then, quieted, he led them back to the stretch of shadow near his horse, stopping only a few yards from her perch.

  "You've killed them all?" the general hissed incredulously. "I thought they surrendered the fort!"

  "Yes. They did surrender," the tallest officer muttered.

  "Hmm. I see." Arnold closed his eyes for a moment, pressing white fingers to his brow. "Well, it's done now. Have you made a count?"

  "Yes, sir. Eighty-five dead, sixty wounded," said a plump and eager lieutenant. "They fought like tigers, sir! Even after they were run through, they kept on. One of their negroes killed Major Montgomery, but we saw to it that he never lived to tell the tale."

  Arnold's next words were muffled, but Devon wasn't listening. Eighty-five dead! Eighty-five of her lifelong friends and neighbors. It was a massacre! Devon shut her eyes and clenched her teeth until her jaw ached. Every muscle and nerve in her body longed to lash out and destroy these verminous redcoats.

  When she finally opened her eyes, Arnold and his men were gone. For a moment Devon wondered if he had been some mad apparition. Perhaps her mind had snapped...

  Looking toward New London, she saw that it was no dream. Most of the fires were out and the British were preparing to leave. Satan's brigade! Devon thought bitterly. Struggling to sit up, she leaned back against the tree trunk, sore and cold. She watched the town empty as the British returned to their ships. Before long, the hill below Fort Griswold was bare as well, but many of Groton’s buildings along the east riverbank were now in flames.

  The fiends! Devon seethed. Unable to bear another moment in the tree, she dropped to the ground. It was a long fall, but physical pain seemed a proper distraction. She was heedless of danger from the enemy; the split bodice was her only worry. Pausing barely a moment, she tore the ruffle from her petticoat, and wrapped it around the bodice of her gown, concealing her breasts. Well enough, she thought. The dress was ruined anyway.

  Devon left the Burial Ground and started down Huntington Street. She wasn't sure where to go, nor could she think properly. Turning toward the water, she walked to Main Street. There was not a sign of life. The Parade was still engulfed in smoke.

  Haltingly, Devon started south and promptly stumbled over a body. Red cloth was all she could see as she fell. Her heart pounded in panic as she imagined crimson arms grasping her, lifting her skirts... Shaking with terror and confusion, she crawled to one side of the road. It was a British soldier, but one so intoxicated that he was incapable of attacking even the road on which he lay. The air all around reeked of gin.

  A horse was approaching! Devon commanded her head to turn and saw, with relief, that the rider was garbed in neither red nor dark green. He was not one of her neighbors, however. There was no chance of escape; the man had already seen her, waved, and was slowing down.

  Devon could not find her voice. She watched dumbly as the stocky, sandy-haired young man dismounted and promptly searched the drunken redcoat. Smiling, he picked up the bayoneted gun which lay at the soldier's side, then unwound the cartridge box and bayonet sheath from his slack neck. Finally the stranger turned to face Devon.

  "Were you eyeing these?" he inquired, showing no inclination to hand them over.

  She shook her head vigorously.

  "Say!" The man gave a shout. "I remember you! Little Miss Hatbox! You used to hang about on the docks."

  He grinned with a cheerfulness that seemed macabre in the middle of a burned and looted town. Devon remembered him then. The seaman from the Black Eagle who had spoken to her last year. It had been the day she'd been kissed... She froze against the memories and merely stared back at the genial privateersman.

  "Do you remember me?" he coaxed. "I think you do! Say, are you all right? Why don't you say something?" His green eyes fell on her ruffle-bound bodice and widened quizzically.

  "The Bank—" Devon croaked. "You saw? Take me there. My mama—"

  "Miss, you can't go down there! The Parade's still burning. And as for the Bank, it's gone. The Shaw mansion was saved, but not much else. That was the first street to go, I think."

  "Mama," Devon choked, her throat thick with tears.

  "Aw, sweetheart." He put a muscular arm around her. "What've they done to you? Your mama died?"

  Devon nodded, trying to staunch the flow of tears with her forearm. The stranger pried it away from her face.

  "My name is Caleb Jackson, and I'm going to help you. Looks like you need some!" He set the redcoat's gun down before wrapping his other arm around Devon. "Where's your papa?"

  "Dead," she sobbed.

  "You're all alone?"

  She nodded convulsively.

  "Shh, now. Don't worry! It'll be all right. I'll take care of you. Tell me your name, sweetheart."

  Devon was ashamed of her tears and whimpering and incoherence, yet she clung to Caleb Jackson desperately. "I'm... Devon," she whispered.

  Caleb grinned again, even more cheerfully. "That's the prettiest name I ever heard," he declared. "Just like you. Devon, you come with me. I'll see that no harm comes to you."

  There was an openness about his smiling face that Devon trusted. She looked back just once at the ugly black smoke to the south before letting him help her mount his horse. They started off and were deep into the woods above New London before Devon realized she had not even asked where they were going.

  Chapter 5

  ***~~~***

  The Evening of September 6, 1781

  Norwich, Connecticut, lay on the west bank of the Thames, ten miles north of New London. Near the town was a secluded cove where the Black Eagle swayed peacefully at anchor. Andre Raveneau had sent all but three of his crew below so that the privateer might remain as inconspicuous as possible, while he stood silently on the quarter-deck and sipped his evening's inch of cognac.

  Part of him wished that he had stayed to fight the British in New London, but he knew the Black Eagle wouldn't have stood a chance against twenty-four well-armed ships. Two or three he could handle perhaps, but...

  The Thames was like ebony glass tonight, under a lavishly star-strewn sky. It was so quiet. Raveneau guessed that Norwich must be holding its breath in fear that the enemy would strike here next.

  The underbrush was dry and brittle this late in the year, making stealth on shore next to impossible. Raveneau discerned the first heavy crunch of leaves and twigs and lost no time in crossing the upper deck, one hand on the pistol hooked over his belt.

  "Come forward and be seen!"

  The bushes rustled. Voices? He narrowed steel-gray eyes, unhooked his pistol. A man emerged into the open, a horse close behind.

  "Jackson!" Raveneau hissed. "Dieu! What do you think you are doing?"

  When the captain was upset, his English became almost unintelligible. He frequently abandoned it completely to curse at an offender in French. Caleb understood his name, but little of what followed. This time he didn't need a translation.

  "Captain, may I board?"

  "No! Knowing you, you've British currency in one pocket and a knife with my name on it in the other. Explain yourself now."

  Caleb was embarrassed to realize that Devon, who crouched behind him in the bushes, was listening to this unfavorable description of his character. Until now, he'd had her believing he was a knight errant who specialized in rescuing females in peril.

  "Unfair, Captain! It happens that I have a very acceptable explanation for my absence this morning. Won't you allow me to give it privately?"

  "Is your mother eavesdropping? For God's sake, Jackson, this is private!
You waste my time. Get on with it."

  "All right." Caleb thrust out his chin like a stubborn child. "I was with... a woman last night. I fell asleep. By the time I awoke, the Black Eagle was only a speck upriver."

  Raveneau continued to glare at him. Caleb couldn't understand why the captain disliked him so, even after three years. Granted, he had moments of unreliability, but that was no reason to be treated so harshly.

  Andre Raveneau wanted to tell Jackson to slink back to his whore, but common sense won out. The man was an accomplished sailmaker; his contribution was important. Still... there were so many qualities of Jackson's that Raveneau detested. He was lazy, never pulling his weight, and was the sort of man who would smile angelically while betraying his best friend. Anyone who smiled as much as Jackson made him suspicious.

  "This time I will let it pass, but not another. Is that clear? You know my rules, and you are the last man who deserves to bend them."

  Caleb splashed into the water and swam to the rope ladder that Raveneau tossed over the side.

  Crouched behind a tangle of branches, Devon shivered with excitement as Andre Raveneau turned again to scan the dark shoreline. What if he saw her? Would he come and capture her?

  During their ride to Norwich, Devon had quizzed Caleb about his captain. Ever amiable, he had stiffened slightly at Raveneau's name. Yes, of course, the captain was truly a man of legendary qualities. Brave and lucky beyond human limits. Brilliant without a doubt.

  But, Caleb had told Devon, there was more. Raveneau was reckless to a fault, overconfident of his ability to outwit his adversaries. The man was unbending. He demanded more from his crew than normal men could give, stringent standards that were never relaxed. Madness! The men were certain to revolt one day.

  Devon pondered Caleb's words. So, Raveneau was flawed after all. Or could it be a simple case of the perfect man demanding excellence from his subordinates?

  * * *

  Caleb began to think that Captain Raveneau was watching him. The stocky seaman had waited three hours for a chance to slip the girl on board, but Raveneau kept appearing. Now, Caleb lay in his hammock in the midst of his seventy-odd smelly, snoring shipmates, waiting and listening to the watch walking the deck overhead. Caleb was certain he would have no problem bribing them to ignore Devon. A female on board was just what they all needed, and Caleb fully intended to be the prime beneficiary. Raveneau would be furious, but even he was known for his rakish streak. The girl would charm him. The worst that could happen would be Devon being put ashore along the way. At least she wouldn't be able to say it was Caleb's fault, and in the meantime, they would all have some fun.

  Caleb eased out of his hammock and stepped into the gangway, listening. The captain had retired to his cabin, and there was no law against walking around, after all, so he tried to relax. A bundle of clothes wadded under one arm, he climbed to the gun deck, then the quarter-deck. The two bored young sailors standing the night watch were delighted by the news Caleb brought them. One of them stood by the ladder, listening for the captain, while the other helped Caleb over the side.

  Devon watched the action through a veil of leaves. She was cold and tired, but seeing the bundle that Caleb held aloft while wading in, she knew she would soon be able to go aboard.

  "Hello, Devon!" he exclaimed, wearing the same casually cheerful smile as ever.

  "Have you really come for me? Are you certain it is all right? Captain Raveneau doesn't mind?"

  "Of course it's all right, sweetheart. As for Captain Raveneau, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Now, hurry up and put these on." His grin widened, but he turned away.

  Devon peeled off her torn yellow gown and ragged chemise, then bound her breasts again with the ruffle from her petticoat. While donning the rest of the clothing, she glanced hesitantly in his direction from time to time, but he did not turn back until she was dressed. There had been only the pair of loose, wide-legged sailor's breeches, a rough, light-colored shirt, and a ragged red knit cap, which Caleb helped her pull over her mass of strawberry-blond curls.

  "I will hunt up some shoes and a jacket for you later tonight," he assured her. "You look quite charming!"

  "I don't know if this is a good idea," Devon moaned, feeling foolish.

  "Maybe it's not, but seems to me it's the only idea we've got! Don't worry. Nobody on this ship would hurt you, Devon."

  He gallantly carried her through the water, back to the privateer. She got almost as wet as he did, but appreciated the gesture.

  A leering teen-aged sailor helped her over the side and Devon found herself standing on the gun-deck of the Black Eagle. In the moonlight, she could see the glow of rubbed mahogany and teak, the gleam of polished brass. The canvas sails were starkly white against the black sky.

  "Hurry!" the sailor urged Caleb. "The captain could be up any minute!"

  Caleb was beginning to feel a bit panicky himself, especially at the thought of Raveneau appearing, but his smile barely faltered. Devon saw this with relief.

  "Forward?" she asked.

  "Yes. Greenbriar is right. We must hurry."

  They climbed down the ladder and entered lantern-lit darkness. Devon expected the usual suffocating odors of bilge water, pitch, and unwashed bodies, but what she smelled was only a fraction as strong as that in most ships. The berth deck was lined with lanterns, all spotless and burning brightly. As Caleb guided her urgently toward the crew's quarters, she could not resist whispering, "Your captain keeps a clean ship!"

  Caleb shrugged. "It is a simple thing to make rules for others to do the work."

  Devon glanced at him curiously.

  "Here we are. Shh! They're asleep!"

  A lantern flickered on the far wall, offering the barest illumination. Devon peered at the rank, snoring sailors who lay head to toe in their hammocks like six dozen sardines. A few stirred when Caleb led her into the cabin, but none troubled to wake up.

  Guiding her to his own hammock, he whispered, "You sleep here. I'll find another." He took off his jacket and held it out. "Put this on for now. Lie down, get some rest, while I think of a plan for tomorrow."

  Devon climbed into the hammock without a word, drained of energy and anxious for an hour or two of deep sleep. It seemed years since she had awakened in her bed above the Linen and Pewter Shop.

  At that moment yellow light flared in the doorway. Startled, Devon turned her head and saw a candle in a chamberstick held aloft by a dark, masculine hand. Her eyes widened, shifting to broad shoulders, then meeting the steely gaze of Captain Andre Raveneau.

  Devon automatically looked down to make certain her jacket was closed, then returned her eyes to the shadow-shrouded figure across the cabin, praying that the gloom would hide her burning flush.

  Raveneau wore his usual loose white shirt, carelessly buttoned only halfway up his chest, fawn breeches, and black knee boots. Devon thought him stunningly handsome, yet terrifying. Did he know who she was? Could he see? Her heart raced anxiously.

  "Jackson, who the hell is this?" he demanded abruptly.

  Caleb could be heard clambering over hammocks, then he was standing at Devon's shoulder. "I'm not certain, Captain, but I think I heard Mr. Lane say he's a new... ah... surgeon's mate. Came on yesterday while you were ashore."

  Raveneau lifted an interested brow at these words as Devon turned to Caleb, staring incredulously.

  "I can scarcely believe anyone would sign him on without my knowledge, but they must have known I'd welcome a surgeon's mate." Raveneau looked at Devon. "Christ, but you look young! Is your father a physician?"

  "Yes, sir," Devon agreed, trying to speak in a deeper, boyish voice.

  "What's your name?"

  "James, sir." Her brother's name.

  "All of it, sailor." Raveneau was looking skeptical.

  "Uh... Hugh James."

  "All right, James, I'll give you a try. Whatever skills you possess may be greatly appreciated in the weeks to come. For now, though, I have other tasks to o
ccupy you until a bit of surgery comes along. Come with me." As Devon left her hammock, he said, "Jackson, you're excused. I'll let you sleep tonight so that we may preserve your eyes for the sails awaiting your attention tomorrow. They have missed you!"

  Caleb winced at the sarcasm, but also at the sight of Devon following Andre Raveneau out the door. It would take a miracle to carry her undetected through a private encounter with that man. Caleb had planned to keep her so well hidden among the seamen that Raveneau would never have noticed her. He groaned aloud and muttered, "Perhaps my luck will hold until we're at sea. I can't afford to be tossed off the ship for that child!"

  * * *

  Devon felt paralyzed, yet her legs were moving. How should she act as Hugh James, surgeon's mate? she wondered. And what could Raveneau need at this hour?

  She scrambled along behind the captain, who moved down the narrow gangway with practiced ease. She watched the back of his head, noting the texture of his clean black hair, and remembered with poignant clarity the kiss they had shared almost a year ago. A rush of excitement swept through her. After all, this was the Black Eagle and she was traversing the berth deck alone with the legendary Andre Raveneau. The possibilities were staggering! Wasn't this the very situation she had dreamed of for years? She was going to sea, aboard the most notorious privateer of them all!

  The captain's cabin was the farthest aft. They passed the officers' quarters and the wardroom before reaching it, and Devon was conscious of a progressive improvement in the accommodations. In this self-contained world where a man could never be alone, even when he went to bed, only the captain possessed a haven of privacy. Raveneau's was singularly comforting.

  There was a roomy built-in bed of polished mahogany, sturdily built but inviting, a matching drop-front desk, and a simple table. A wing chair, upholstered in glove- soft red leather, stood near the desk. All the furniture was attached to either the bulkhead or the deck to keep it in place. A collection of charts, instruments, and almanacs lay on the table, flanked by a brandy snifter and a bottle of French cognac. Candles burned in lanterns and wrought-iron holders, lending a cozy glow to the cabin. The scents of tobacco, fine leather, and Raveneau himself mingled in the air.