The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  She could learn much from this man about following rules and proper behavior, while still maintaining one’s humanity, and she found herself, once again, wishing she’d had a father like him.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows, highlighting the gold epaulets on his shoulders and winking at her from his row of brass buttons.

  A knock on the door caused her to pause with paint-loaded brush in hand as three officers entered and surrounded the captain’s desk, Lieutenant Masters among them.

  “HMS Hawk has just signaled, Captain, with this message from Admiral Cockburn,” Lieutenant Camp said.

  “Very good.” Blackwell slid from his perch and took the paper handed to him. “I hope it’s what we’ve been waiting for.” He took no time to break the seal and open it, perusing the contents as his officers waited.

  No sound but their breathing and the creak of wood filled the cabin.

  “Yes, indeed, this is it!” Blackwell tossed down the paper, plucked a map from his desk, and began rolling it out across the oak.

  The men, Lieutenants Masters, Camp, and Dimsmore, listened intently as their captain laid out the plans for a land invasion of Baltimore.

  Baltimore! Emeline’s heart shriveled, and she nearly fell from her chair. Bracing herself, she sat frozen in place, too afraid to move, too afraid to breathe for fear they’d notice she was still there. All the while, she listened intently for any important detail, any bit of information that would help the American cause. Not that it mattered. She was stuck on this ship, and no one but Robert knew how to swim. But she listened, nonetheless.

  And as she listened, her anger grew, pushing aside her fear. No doubt emboldened by their success in Washington, the British were planning a major attack on her hometown. Both by land and by sea! The thought set aflame every nerve as she pictured the beautiful buildings of her capital lying in crumbled piles of smoldering ash.

  “We are being called, as is every able-bodied soldier remaining from the Washington campaign, to assist in this final endeavor.”

  Final? Emeline gulped.

  “For the sea attack?” Lieutenant Masters shifted his stance.

  “Aye, and on land.” The captain rubbed the back of his neck. “We are to provide men to assist with the land invasion, both marines and sailors.”

  Emeline gripped the paintbrush so hard, it nearly snapped. A blob dripped onto her palette. She could not allow them to attack her home.

  “By God we’ve got them now,” Dimsmore proclaimed. “This will seal their fate.”

  “And end this blasted war,” Camp added.

  “That is our hope.” Captain Blackwell rose to his full height. “Once Baltimore is taken, the rest of the country will follow, mark my words!” He stared out the stern windows. “Then it will be an easy transition once our troops and officials arrive to take over their ragtag government.”

  “These savage wood hicks won’t know what hit them.” Dimsmore chortled.

  Captain Blackwell leaned back on his desk and sighed. “There’s just one problem. We need information on the size of their militia in Baltimore and where their nearest army is stationed. We must discover how much armament they have and how many reinforcements they can call up from nearby cities in a moment’s notice.”

  Emeline wanted to vomit. She set down her paintbrush, but it fell to the deck.

  Blackwell glanced her way, but instead of ordering her to leave, he cocked his head. “You have relatives in Baltimore, Miss Baratt, do you not?”

  She forced down a lump of terror. Unable to respond, she glanced over the surprised gazes of the men.

  “I know it’s a rather large town,” Blackwell continued. “But surely your father knows someone in the local militia, perhaps someone of high rank?”

  “What exactly are you asking me to do, Captain?” she managed to squeak out.

  Turning, he gazed out the stern windows and fisted his hands at his waist. “If you are acquainted with someone in the militia, you would be able to gather the information we need and also discover how much of our plans they are privy to.”

  Emeline smiled to herself. Yes, she could do that. Or she could inform them of the upcoming invasion. “I believe I do have connections. Last I heard, a dear friend of my father’s is a captain in the Maryland infantry. But I am here on the ship, Captain.” She shrugged.

  “A dear friend?” Dimsmore blew out a breath. “How fortuitous.”

  Lieutenant Masters slid a finger down his scar, unsuccessfully hiding a deepening frown.

  Captain Blackwell nodded. “Fortuitous, indeed.” He tapped his chin beneath a scowl. “But I could never put you in such danger.”

  Yet she wanted to be put in such danger, to do something for her country, something to prevent these men from winning the war.

  “The lady has been gone a long time.” Lieutenant Masters avoided her gaze. “Why would this family friend trust her? Why not just send some of our men disguised as American farmers?”

  “I doubt they could get close enough to garner anything of value. Whereas Miss Baratt, a native of the city and well-known throughout I would imagine … well, she could walk right into the commander’s tent, view maps and documents, overhear plans … But no matter, I would never send a lady into a war zone.”

  Emeline picked her paintbrush off the deck, but found it trembled so much, she immediately put it down on her tray.

  It wasn’t the danger or the adventure she feared. In truth, it all sounded far too enticing. It was whether a lady should be doing something like this. A double spy? Did women do such things? What would her father say? What would God say?

  Still, she had the information, at least some of it. It was the perfect way off this ship and the perfect way to help her country. She knew the countryside and could no doubt lose whatever marine they assigned to escort her, make her way to the Baltimore militia, and warn them of the upcoming attack.

  Why was she even thinking this over? Of course, she had to do it. She was the only one who could. But would her antics only cause others pain as they so often had in the past?

  “I’ll go,” she blurted. And no sooner did the words fire from her undisciplined lips than she believed she’d lost all reason.

  “What a brave girl!” Captain Blackwell exclaimed, joy lighting his eyes. Dimsmore offered her a smile, Lieutenant Camp looked at her with concern, while Lieutenant Masters scowled. Odd.

  “Begging your pardon, miss.” Lieutenant Camp nodded her way but addressed the captain. “But can we trust her? She was born in America.”

  “So was Masters, here.” Blackwell gestured toward Owen. “And they both have more than proven their loyalty in my book.”

  The captain circled his desk and approached her. “I will personally assure your safety, Miss Baratt. A landing party will accompany you, and I will assign my best man to protect you.”

  Daring to trust the sturdiness of her legs, Emeline slowly rose. “I am no spy, Captain, but I will do my best.”

  “The Baltimore campaign is vitally important, Miss Baratt, or I wouldn’t ask. It could mean the end of the war and hence, your free passage back to England where you belong.”

  Forcing a smile, she nodded. Over her dead body. Britain had more rules for women than America did. Yet at the thought of finally getting off this ship, a real smile overtook the fake one.

  Now, what buffoon marine would Blackwell assign to escort her? Whoever it was, she would have no trouble ditching him at her first opportunity.

  CHAPTER 15

  Luther Dimsmore entered the captain’s cabin and shut the door behind him. Swallowing, he approached the desk, behind which Blackwell sat, and suddenly regretted his decision to speak to the man.

  Blackwell looked up. “What is it, Dimsmore?”

  “I’ve come regarding an important matter.”

  The man continued perusing the documents on his desk before he leaned back with a groan and stared at Dimsmore.

  Dimsmore considered excusing himself
and leaving. Who was he kidding? When it came to Lieutenant Masters, Blackwell had a definite log in his eye.

  “Well, out with it, Lieutenant. I haven’t got all day.”

  “It’s regarding Lieutenant Masters, Captain.”

  The man rubbed his chin, his eyes narrowing.

  “There have been a few”—Dimsmore coughed—“he has done some …”

  Growling, Blackwell shot to his feet, impatience firing from his eyes.

  Dimsmore spit out his thoughts before he changed his mind. “I believe he has given us cause to suspect his loyalties, Captain.”

  “Bah!” The man’s face mottled. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve been watching him, Captain. Closely. His behavior is definitely suspect.”

  Blackwell frowned, picked up a letter opener, and tapped it on the desk. “I grow weary of this feud between you two. Unless you have some proof of these accusations, I suggest you quit wasting my time and return to your duties.”

  “I’m offering my services to go ashore and keep an eye on him.”

  “For what purpose? I’m already sending Lieutenant Camp to keep him in line. Lord knows Masters oft leaps half-cocked into situations he shouldn’t.” He chuckled. “Though it always turns out well.”

  Dimsmore forced back a scowl and straightened his stance. “I have reason to suspect he remains loyal to America.”

  “An officer in the Royal Navy?” Blackwell guffawed even as a twitch took residence above his right eye. “Have you taken to drinking before noon? He’s been on this ship eight years and more than proven his loyalty.”

  “It’s little things, Captain. Did you know he brings extra rations to the prisoners? And when we were all celebrating on deck as Washington burned, he seemed sad, even angry. And I’m sure he saw that prisoner escape and yet called no alarm.”

  Blackwell studied him for a moment … a long, intense moment during which Dimsmore almost regretted saying anything at all. “Pure conjecture. I don’t know what you have against him, Dimsmore, but I grow weary of your disdain.”

  “This has naught to do with my sentiments toward the man, Captain, but more to do with my loyalty to the Crown. I’m merely asking permission to keep an eye on him. Ensure he and Miss Baratt do their duty and return safely.”

  “Then go.” Captain Blackwell waved him away. “You may accompany them. But before you spew any further accusations, you better have solid proof, or I’ll see you brought up on charges of defaming an officer. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Aye, Captain.” Dimsmore saluted, then spun on his heels and marched out the door, a smile on his face.

  Emeline halted and blinked, allowing her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The smell was another thing altogether. She’d never get used to the putrid stench belowdecks. Covering her nose with a handkerchief, she stifled a cough. There was enough coughing coming from behind the iron bars in the distance. Holding the extra stew she’d managed to scrounge from the cook after supper, she shot the marine behind her a glance before proceeding past crates and barrels, past stacks of ropes and canvas, until finally she stood before a hatch grating and knelt. She set down the lantern and peered below where hands rose to shield blinking eyes from the brightness.

  Curses also rose, like arrows to pierce her heart—“Traitor! Turncoat!” among the nicest.

  “Dearest!” The voice of an angel lifted her gaze to the right, where iron bars waved at her with the teetering of the ship.

  “Hannah!” Grabbing her satchel and lantern, Emeline dashed to the cage and dropped to her knees. Hands reached out and gripped Emeline’s face in a loving embrace. “ ’Ow are you, dear?”

  “How am I?” Emeline wanted to cry. “How are you? What a horrid place!” She glanced over the hold. Shadows shifted over crates and barrels like hungry specters awaiting a meal. The rush of the sea was joined by the patter of tiny feet and the slosh of bilge water that smelled so foul, it brought tears to Emeline’s eyes. Or perhaps the tears came because of this precious lady.

  “It ain’t so bad, dear.” Hannah’s smile remained.

  Emeline handed her the food. “This is all I could get.”

  “Not to worry, dear. I thank ye for it. God be praised.”

  “How can you praise God down here?”

  “ ’E is worthy to be praised everywhere. It don’t matter our situation.”

  Emeline gripped the lady’s hands, cold despite the heat. “You are an inspiration.” She kissed them as more tears sped down her cheeks.

  “Wha’s the matter? No need to cry.”

  “I’m to go ashore, Hannah.”

  “Off the ship?”

  “Yes, I haven’t time to explain … but I promise”—she glanced back at the marine who had sat on a barrel, looking rather bored—“I’ll come back. I’ll come back and set you all free.”

  “Don’t you dare! If you get a chance to be free, take it an’ don’t look back. The good Lord’ll take care of us.”

  Emeline squeezed her hand, knowing she couldn’t stay any longer or else raise suspicion.

  “I promise.” Rising, she grabbed the lantern and returned to the marine standing by the ladder.

  God help her, she didn’t know how. But she intended to keep that promise.

  September 3, 1814, off the shores of Maryland, just before dawn

  Paddles struck the dark water again. Swoosh, swoosh, gurgle, gurgle. Closing her eyes, Emeline listened to the glorious sound as the marines rowed her and the landing party ashore. Freedom! At last she’d set foot on the shores of her beloved country, her home, her land. Why had she not appreciated it before? Why had she ever left? Foolish girl. And now these British ruffians intended to steal it from her … from her countrymen. Steal their freedom.

  Not if she had a say in it.

  Swoosh, swoosh, gurgle, gurgle.

  She drew in a deep breath. Salty brine and earthy loam mixed in a perfume far more pleasing than anything from Paris. Another scent intruded. It was the man beside her—Lieutenant Masters—his unique scent of man, the sea, and something spicy that was far too alluring. Fie! Why had the captain sent him along? Surely he needed his first lieutenant on board the ship rather than on a mission to escort her to Baltimore.

  Swoosh, swoosh, gurgle, gurgle.

  A swath of golden light tickled her eyelids, and she opened them to find dawn’s welcoming glow rippling along the horizon. The cockboat wobbled over a wavelet, and before she could grip the edge, a hand, large and firm, pressed against her back. She glanced at the lieutenant. He sat on the thwarts beside her, a mere shadow in the predawn gloom, yet she felt his eyes upon her as if he could see every detail regardless of the night. She shifted in her seat and focused ahead where dark mounds rose from the bay and leaves fluttered in the wind. Land. Home.

  Her heart thundered in her chest. She was home, yes, but she was not free. She was still surrounded by enemies—Lieutenant Masters, Lieutenant Dimsmore, and one other marine, a Mr. Ryne. Three men. Three warriors she would have to somehow thwart, lose, disable, or God knew what. What was she thinking? How could she ever hope to accomplish such a feat? And in a week—all the time Blackwell had given them.

  Apparently, if all went well and the information they gathered was conducive to a British victory, the British intended to proceed with their attack on Baltimore. But that was all she knew. If she were to go to the militia with only the news of an impending attack, she’d be telling them nothing they didn’t already suspect. She must know how the British planned to attack, from which direction, with how many troops, and with what type of weapons. A specific date wouldn’t hurt either. She would have to get the information out of these men before she escaped their clutches.

  Blood tore through her veins, and her father’s voice chimed in her thoughts. “These dangerous feats are best left to men.”

  A breeze blew a strand of hair in her face, and she grabbed it and twirled it around her finger. God, if You’re there, I know what I’m
doing may not be proper, but could You please help me?

  Swoosh, swoosh, gurgle, gurgle.

  “Oars up,” Lieutenant Dimsmore whispered, and the rowers lifted their paddles as the cockboat drifted to the shore of Bird River, a tributary off the Chesapeake. It struck the sand with a jarring thud. Emeline lost her grip on the thwart and would have fallen if not for, once again, the firm hand of Lieutenant Masters. The marines leapt out and pulled the boat farther up on land as Mr. Ryne and Dimsmore jumped into the water.

  Dimsmore spun, hand extended to assist Emeline, but Owen, without warning, swept her up in his arms and carried her onto dry land. She hadn’t time to protest before he set her down and walked away. Her boot sank into the sand. She attempted a step, but her legs trembled uncontrollably, and she toppled forward. This time, Dimsmore caught her and helped her to stand. “Easy now. You still have your sea legs, Miss Baratt.”

  Indeed, she did, for every step she took felt like the world was shaking beneath her. He led her up the shore to lean against a tree before he returned to assist the men with supplies. Feeling slightly nauseated and as though the world were spinning, she turned to watch them just as the sun’s rays speared through trees across the small inlet … glittering, golden rays that transformed the water into a saffron sheet, the sand into sparkling jewels, the trees into dancing emeralds.

  And the three men into strangers.

  Not the sailors who’d rowed them here, for they were still dressed in sailor garb, nor the midshipman in charge of them. But the men who were to accompany her no longer looked like Royal Navy officers.

  But instead like American backwoodsmen.

  Lieutenant Masters, his back to her, issued orders to the midshipman before the man saluted, shoved the boat from shore, leapt in, and began rowing back to the ship. Grabbing a pack of supplies, he turned to face her.