The Captain's Rebel (Irish Heroines)

by C. B. Halverson

  “Why are you dressed like that?”

  He looked down at his clothes as if he hadn’t been the one to poke his legs through those ridiculous striped trousers, as if the blue coat and red piping had magically appeared over his shoulders. Johnny looked down and flashed me that wide, child-like grin again, and my hands itched to slap it right off his face.

  “Mary, let’s clean you up first. I’ll explain.”

  “Are you fighting for the French? What is this?” With every word my voice grew stronger.

  “I wouldn’t say fighting necessarily, but they’ve treated me well here. I’ve…” he stammered, turning away from me and back to the basin to ring out the bloody water. “I’ve grown to appreciate Napoleon’s philosophy. You see, a fellow Lieutenant brought me over—”

  “Andrews!”

  Johnny whirled to face me. “How did you know?”

  I waved his question away, shaking my head. “Have you been spying for the French?”

  “Mary, Napoleon is bringing about a revolution. No more will we be ruled by Kings and Queens, but united, as an empire. We will enter a new age of—”

  “Shut up, Johnny,” I hissed. “Not another word!”

  Johnny frowned, reminding me of the boy back in Dunraven, training his puppies and chasing after tadpoles. Somewhere, deep in some well of memory, my heart ached for that boy and chilled over for the man who had seduced him to ruin with empty promises of freedom and liberty.

  “Johnny, you are a peer of the realm. You have land, titles, responsibilities. How could you throw it all away?”

  He backed away, his eyes widening. “I’m surprised at you, Mary, of all people. You’re the one who was always going on about reform and English oppression.”

  “Yes, but I’ll take a mad king over a petty tyrant any day!”

  Johnny waved his hand. “Keep your voice down,” he whispered. “So what are you doing here then? How do I find my fiancée with a bunch of privateers in the middle of the Atlantic?”

  I placed my head in my hands, sitting back on his hammock. “Oh, Johnny, you’ve made such a mess of things!”

  “What is it, Mary? What’s wrong?” He kneeled beside me and took my hand.

  “Your father is dead!”

  All the air burst out of Johnny’s lungs and his blue eyes shimmered with tears. “Dead?”

  “Aye, Johnny. And no one believed that we were betrothed. Jacob Connelly burned your papers so he could marry me himself, and they all thought I stole your ring!”

  Johnny rose, his fingers raking through his hair and spluttering. “Mary…why?”

  “I had nowhere to go!” I snapped. “I had no choice but to come and find you.”

  Johnny stopped pacing, turned to me, and smiled. “And now we can be together again, Mary. And we’ll return to Ireland victorious, and with Bonaparte on our side, we can—”

  “No, Johnny.” I bolted to my feet. “We’re going home. Now. As soon as we can get away.” I brought the sponge to my breast, quickly soaking up the blood splattered across my skin. I knew what I needed to do, and at last my addled mind could formulate a plan. “We’ll sneak off at the next port. We’ll tell everyone you were taken a prisoner, or pressed to fight, or…or maybe you had some sort of amnesia from having a piece of shrapnel hit your head—”

  Johnny grabbed my wrist. “No, Mary. I told you. My place is here, with the emperor’s men. I see it all so clearly now. Napoleon is the savior we’ve been waiting for. First France, tomorrow Ireland, and then—”

  I wrenched my hand away. “And then nothing, Johnny! Are you mad? You think that little man gives one damn about Ireland? No! We’re going straight home to Dunraven, and as my English Lord, you’ll marry me in front of God and everyone.”

  He wrinkled his brow, reaching out to me, but I turned away. With a deep sigh, Johnny placed his hands on my shoulders and rubbed them, his strong fingers loosening the tense, corded muscles along my upper back. “I know what this is about, Mary. You’re angry I left you.”

  Tears stung my eyes. How could he not see? How could I have given myself to such a stupid, pitiful man?

  “But in time,” he said, “you’ll understand why I must do this. I was never truly English. I understand that now. A new world is dawning, Mary, and with you at my side, we can meet it together. You’ll see.”

  He pressed a kiss between my shoulder blades, and I bit my lip, repressing a sob. “Now wash up and get some rest. You’ve had a long day.”

  Johnny walked across the room, and I heard him pause at the door. “In the meantime, I need you to keep your tongue in check, Mary. The French sailors have accepted me as one of their own, but they won’t think twice about throwing you overboard for badmouthing the emperor.”

  I turned around to tell Johnny exactly what he could do with his emperor, but he had already fled the room. I grabbed the sponge again from the basin and raked it across my body as if I could somehow scrub my skin away, transform myself into someone else. Folding the clean shift over my head, I lay back into Johnny’s hammock, all my tears dried out. I had to convince him to return home with me and forget this fool’s errand with the French before it was too late.

  …

  Shouting and the sound of pounding footsteps awoke me from a fitful slumber, and I snapped to my feet. I dressed quickly, making my way to the upper deck, the crew in a flurry of movement, French commands shouting over the buzz of the ship. Cool, misty air greeted me as I stepped across the gleaming planks, sailors running past me, throwing ropes, trimming sails, and loading musketry. I spotted Johnny across the bulwark, shouting orders in broken French to a line of young sailors, positioning them against the railing.

  “What’s happening?” I cried out.

  “British ship of the line, starboard,” Johnny clipped, loading his weapon and nodding off into the mist. “You need to get below deck, Mary.”

  My heart pounded as I peered through the wispy white air, the sun a waxy ball behind the fog, burning off the tendrils as they brushed against the dark green waters. Like a leviathan emerging from the depths, the black side of an English ship broke through the clouds, and my skin prickled with a strange sense of familiarity.

  Johnny dug through his coat and his hand revealed a spy glass, which he brought to his eye for a moment. “She’s loading her guns. Mary, you need to get down below now!”

  I snatched his spyglass and avoiding his flailing hands, pressed it to my eye. Elizabeth in bold yellow lettering burst into my vision, and I nearly dropped the glass into the water as I stepped back with a gasp.

  “Go!” Johnny took my wrist. “Now!”

  Trembling, I grabbed Johnny’s lapels and brought him close to my face so his pale blue eyes looked directly into mine. “I need to see the Captain.”

  The Captain eyed me warily. “You’re saying you served this Grant?” he asked in French. “How?”

  I threw my shoulders back, raising my chin, replying with my best Parisian accent. “I disguised myself as a cabin boy, sir. Grant shared secrets with me. Stories. I know his moves. He’s going to cross the T. It’s his signature move. He told me so.”

  The Captain stood aboard the deck, the wind picking up and blowing through the large white plumes in his hat. His beady eyes narrowed on me. “Why would he tell you such things?”

  At the same moment, warning fire burst from the Elizabeth, and the French ship rocked. Johnny grabbed a hold of my waist and positioned me upright. He gave me a dark look as his slow mind came to understand the real story of how I came to find him here as part of the French fleet. I wrenched myself away. It didn’t matter. Grant was no doubt the superior seaman. He would eat this ship for breakfast and we would all drown, and with it, my hopes of owning Dunraven.

  For a moment, Grant’s brilliant blue eyes surfaced in my mind, and my heart contracted. Guilt at spilling Grant’s strategies to the French Captain gnawed at my insides. But Grant had left me at Port Royal at the first sign of trouble, abandoned me and left
me to die. He and I were only playing games in his cabin. This was war. This was Dunraven. Everything my mother had sacrificed had come down to this moment, and whatever feelings I still harbored for Grant were nothing more than that. The vestiges of my emotions for him would never mean more than land, never more than the black earth beneath my fingers, the gnarled stones strewn across the fields. They would never mean more than Ireland. More than my mother’s sacrifice. I had to push those feelings aside and focus on the reason I sailed across thousands of miles to find Johnny. But every time I tried, my swirling thoughts of him surged forward in a shaking, desperate hysteria I could not suppress. I needed this over with. I needed to forget Grant. Forever.

  “We don’t have time for this, Captain!” I cried, gesturing to the Elizabeth.

  The Captain frowned, his nose crinkled up as the acrid smell of gunpowder wafted on the breeze, overwhelming us. Another volley of cannon fire exploded through the lower decks of the French ship, and the Captain turned resolutely to his crew, bellowing out commands.

  Johnny shook his head. “You better be right about this.”

  I whirled on him, stopping myself before I knocked my fist into his shoulder. “What would you know about it? Nothing!” Rage bubbled up in my chest. Grant’s face flashed in my mind, hard and soft, light and dark, shadows painting a perfect picture of strength and masculinity. The sight of Johnny’s gaping, open-mouthed stare filled me with horrible violence. How could he be so stupid? There was a man out there moving a ship through the water to out-maneuver us, commanding seven hundred men toward one heroic purpose, and all Johnny could do was hold his musket against his shoulder and criticize my strategy, a strategy I was employing all for him, for his benefit. For us. For Dunraven.

  For my mother.

  But what of you, Mary? What do you want?

  The ship lurched forward, and I stumbled against him, the cold barrel of his musket pressing against my cheek. I pushed him away with a disgusted sound, my stomach churning. I raced to the edge of the railing and the contents of my stomach unloaded into the sea, bile burning the back of my throat like acid. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, my nails digging into the railing, keeping me upright.

  I stared up into the grey sky, the ethereal mist reminding me of home and the way the rain clouds would sink into the valley before burning off toward the sea. All I wanted in that moment was to be on one of those hills overlooking the town, the soft green grass like a carpet, plush and cool between my fingers. But when I closed my eyes for the briefest moment, I didn’t see Johnny standing next to me. I saw Grant. His tall form, his warm arms open wide, his blue eyes filled with warmth and longing. I saw his chiseled face breaking into a smile, and in the distance I saw our children skipping against the sky, holding their hands up to the rain.

  The Elizabeth reared just inches from us, and frantic shouts burst from the galley as she tried to out-maneuver the French ship, the cannon fire exploding into its hull.

  Hot tears beaded down my face, and I wrapped my arms around my waist, collapsing against the railing, wishing for anything I could jump aboard the Elizabeth. If this was winning, what did losing feel like? The hollowed out shell of my heart lurched, wishing it could all be over. And what would become of Grant? He would never surrender.

  A bullet whistled near my ear, and I looked up, darting behind a barrel. Bleary-eyed, I stared at Grant’s ship gliding like a barracuda as our own ship picked up speed. Shouts rang out as the English sailors lined up to board, only to be thrown back as our ship lurched.

  A booming voice rang out in the early dawn, and it echoed in my chest.

  Grant.

  He stood on deck, sailors swarming around him as they scrambled to man their positions. Hatless, with his brown hair plastered to his forehead, he waved frantically, his long blue coat billowing behind him. My chest tightened, tears prickling my eyes, and in my mind, I screamed his name, willing him to look at me one last time. He peered through the mist as if searching for something, and then his eyes found me.

  “Mary!” he cried, racing to the railing.

  I shot to standing. “Richard!”

  He held his hand out to me, and all reason abandoned, I climbed up to meet him, clutching onto a rope, my arm outstretched. My fingers grazed across his, and lightning split through me at the touch of his skin. I screamed in frustration as he passed by.

  Resolve burst through me, and my spine straightened. I had to stop the French ship. I had to undo this. Save Grant. Whirling around, I pulled my small knife from my skirts and climbed the mast.

  Behind me, Grant called my name, but I knew what I had to do. I grabbed the rope, tearing through the thick jute with long, sawing motions. It unraveled, the mast groaning as the rope went limp. With just one strand to go, a hand clamped on my wrist.

  “Mary!” Johnny cried. “What are you doing?”

  I wrenched my arm away. “Get away, Johnny!”

  We wrestled with my knife. A swarm of bullets rained down on us, and Johnny screamed, clutching at his belly and collapsing on the deck below. With one last slice, the rope tore free and the sail fell in a limp billow of linen all around us. The boat lurched and my footing slipped, tumbling to the ground next to Johnny, who moaned, his eyes bloodshot as he writhed in agony.

  From the Elizabeth, cheers rang out and the sounds of slaughter burst aboard the French deck as the melee erupted. Shrouded in white canvas, I crawled under Johnny and hoisted him up, navigating through the endless yards of sail. A steady rain fell now and the deck swirled with blood. Through the chaos, I heard my name.

  “Mary!”

  Crushed against the stampeding French sailors, I could barely make out Grant, his blue eyes shining with panic as he fought his way through to me. Dragging Johnny, I skirted the fighting only to come face to face with the same Lieutenant who had slaughtered the crew of the Amanda.

  He narrowed his eyes at me, his lips raised in a gruesome snarl before he cocked his pistol and aimed. A shot rang out, and I closed my eyes, anticipating death. When I opened them, the Lieutenant lay crumpled across a pile of rain and blood-soaked bodies, Grant standing over them, his pistol smoking in the cool air. He ran to me.

  “Johnny’s wounded!” were the only words I could utter.

  Grant grabbed his arm and hoisted him to his side, covering me with his other arm. He brayed a series of orders and a small company of sailors provided us with cover as we boarded the Elizabeth. The sound of cannon fire deafened me, and the air grew thick with gunpowder, blood, rain, and the screaming wounded. Still covered by his thick arm, Grant led me down to the surgery and lay Johnny on a cot. He whirled on me, his hands gripped my shoulders, and he scanned my body for bullet holes.

  “Are you wounded?” he shouted, both our ears ringing.

  “No, I’m all right. I’m—” I bit my lip, blinking back tears. “I’m all right.” I smiled, all the fear rushing out of me as I stood in Grant’s presence. In the harbor of Port Royal I thought I would never see him again, but there he was before me, and somehow the world felt right again.

  “How did you come to be here?” he spluttered, eyes wide. “You were supposed to be on the Amanda, you were supposed to be safe—”

  I cut him off with a thick kiss, collapsing into his arms. His lips molded against mine, warm and receiving. With a small moan, I pulled away from him. “You have a ship to board, sir.”

  He nodded grimly, calling over his shoulder. “McGregor, see to Lieutenant Brighton.”

  I turned, forgetting the presence of the surgeon. He stood there studying me, mouth agape, spectacles slightly askew. His scalpel slid from his hand and clattered on the floor.

  “Dr. McGregor.” I gave a small curtsy.

  Grant grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You. Stay down here. Do not leave.” He pressed his lips to my forehead. “Thank you for cutting that rope. You saved us.”

  I spread my fingers across his cheek and brought him close to my lips. “Johnny cut the rope. It must
be Johnny. Do you understand?”

  He narrowed his eyes at my fiancé in his tattered French uniform, writhing in pain on the cot. He nodded before glancing back at me. “Stay here.”

  I kissed him again, unable to let go of his face, dying to run my fingers through his hair, along his spine, down the slope of his hips. I craved the perfect nearness of him.

  “I’ll stay,” I whispered.

  I replaced another cold compress on Johnny’s head.

  He blinked up at me, his breathing labored and his face flushed with fever. “How…how is it, Mary? Is it bad?”

  McGregor caught my gaze over Johnny’s cot and shook his head, his eyes beyond his spectacles clouded with exhaustion.

  I turned to Johnny and gave him my most brilliant smile. “Oh, sure, you’ll be fine, Johnny. The Surgeon is going to bandage you up, and you’ll be dancing again in no time.”

  Johnny smiled, blood staining his teeth bright pink. “Dancing. Do you remember the barn dances back in Dunraven, the way old Jimmy could spin a reel to set the floor on fire? I wish I could be there again.”

  I grabbed his hand tight. “You will, Johnny,” I whispered. “You will.”

  He closed his eyes and my heart leaped into my throat, thinking he was dead, but a gurgled, labored breathing emitted from his lungs, and he merely slept.

  “McGregor,” I said, dogging the Surgeon’s footsteps as he set the shattered arm of a sailor. “What’s going to happen to him?”

  “The bullet took him in the stomach. There’s nothing I can do, I’m afraid.” He frowned, staring at his shoes. “He’s…he’s your fiancé?”

  “He’s my…” I chewed on my lip, not sure what Johnny was to me anymore. “It’s a long story.”

  McGregor let out a long exhale and looked back up at me before resuming his work.

  The door to the surgery opened, and I whirled around. More wounded sailors poured into the chamber, but amidst the moans of dying men stood Captain Grant, whole and perfect, a piece of paper and a quill and ink in his hand. He set them on a side table and stomped over to Johnny snoring soundly in his cot. He brandished a pistol and cocked it.