The Liberty Bride

by Marylu Tyndall

  Dimsmore stepped forward and opened his mouth, but Owen held up his hand and gave him a stern look. This was Owen’s decision, not his … a very tough decision as he pondered their options. He could reveal the admiral’s medallion and the coded message, announce who they were, and send these greedy raiders packing. But then Mrs. Oakes would know the truth and Dimsmore would never allow her to remain behind, lest she go to Baltimore and betray them as soon as they left. Or he could pretend they were Americans and allow these men to do their worst. Certainly, there wasn’t enough plunder left to be worth their time.

  Owen glanced at the wee babe so trusting in his arms, and a sudden urge to protect him at all costs only further confused the issue.

  “Captain, may I speak with you outside?” Owen finally said, turning to hand the child to Emeline, who had appeared by his side.

  The man snorted. “You may not, rebel. All of you, out! Or we’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  Owen shifted his stance. The fire crackled. “Listen, we want no trouble. Your troops already raided our farm. Took everything.”

  “Not that stew we smell cooking there.” The man licked his lips, but his gaze wasn’t on the pot steaming over the fire. It was on Emeline handing the babe to his mother.

  Owen cleared his throat. “We have nothing left for you to take.”

  “I beg to differ.” The captain started past Owen toward the women, but Owen stepped in his way. The muzzles of five muskets locked upon him as he stared down the captain. “As I said, there’s nothing left here.”

  Dimsmore cursed and pushed between the men. “Forget this nonsense. We are British, Captain. I’m Lieutenant Dimsmore. This is First Lieutenant Owen Masters, and Mr. Ryne. We are stationed on HMS Marauder under Captain Blackwell and are currently on a special mission for Admiral Cockburn.”

  Owen heard Mrs. Oakes gasp behind him.

  Yet the muskets pointed at them remained. The captain laughed and shook his head. “Indeed? And I’m the Queen of England. Pleased to meet you.” Chuckles bounded over his men.

  Dimsmore stared at Owen. “Give it to him. Unless you want us all to die.”

  Hang it all! Dimsmore and his big mouth. Despite the many guns following him as he did so, Owen reached in his waistcoat pocket and handed the man the medallion and papers.

  Opening the parchment, the captain moved to a lantern to examine both it and the medallion. After several minutes he called one of his men over, a lieutenant.

  Owen took the opportunity to glance back at Emeline, who was seated on the bed with Mrs. Oakes and her children. He’d be hog-tied to a ship’s mast before he’d allow these men to do them harm. His musket lay against the side of the hearth, but he still had a knife tucked in his belt. It wouldn’t do much good, but it was better than nothing.

  “Sure looks authentic,” the lieutenant said.

  “It is. I assure you.” Owen nodded. “What Lieutenant Dimsmore said is true. We are on a special mission.”

  “Spies, eh?” The captain frowned and peered around Owen at the ladies. “What’s your mission?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  “And who are the ladies?”

  “One is with us; the other owns this farm.”

  “So she and her brats are your prisoners?”

  Owen bristled at the disrespect. “Yes.”

  “Care to spare some of that stew?”

  “We haven’t enough, Captain. And besides, every minute you spend here compromises our identities. Believe me, if that happens, Cockburn will hear about it.”

  “Hmm.” The man worked his lips this way and that as he stared at Owen. The look of suspicion in his pointy eyes did not bode well for their safety. Either he didn’t believe them or his appetite for food and women was stronger than his fear of Cockburn.

  A soldier entered the door and pushed through the men. “Captain, our scout returned. Says there’s a group of American militia just north of here.”

  Mr. Ryne finally jerked from the soldier’s grip. “Jackson. Is that you?”

  The private spun, his face instantly brightening. “Ryne. What are you doing here?” The men clasped hands.

  “You know this man?” the captain asked his private.

  “Yes, sir. We served aboard HMS Charger a few years back.”

  The captain scowled, his disappointment obvious. Grabbing the medallion and papers from the lieutenant, he handed them back to Owen. “Very well. Seems you are telling the truth, Lieutenant … Masters, was it?” His hungry gaze wandered from the women to the stew. “Sure would like a bowl of that soup.”

  “As I said, the longer you stay here, the more you compromise our mission.” Owen cleared his throat and gestured toward the private who’d brought the news. “Besides, seems you have an engagement with the real enemy.”

  The captain nodded, his jaw stiffening. “We shall leave you to your mission, Lieutenant.” He ordered his men out, and within minutes they left and shut the door behind them as if they’d never threatened to murder all within.

  Owen turned to Dimsmore, attempting to restrain his fury. “Why did you have to tell them?”

  “Would you rather be dead?”

  “I would have thought of something.” Owen went to the window and peered out, ensuring the troops were leaving. “Besides, Mr. Ryne saved the day, after all.”

  Ryne smiled but offered no further comment.

  “What difference does it make?” Dimsmore shrugged. “Let’s eat, get some sleep, and be on our way at dawn.” He nodded toward Mrs. Oakes. “Course now we’ll have to bring them along. First chance they get, they’ll run to Baltimore and tell the authorities we’re coming.”

  Owen growled. “Your mouth, man. Until this very moment, she didn’t know where we were truly heading.”

  Emeline had risen from the bed and moved toward the hearth, a horrified look on her face.

  “I promise, gentlemen,” Mrs. Oakes’s shaky voice filled the room. “I won’t go anywhere or tell anyone anything.”

  “There you have it,” Owen said. “They stay.”

  “This goes beyond the pale, Masters,” Dimsmore scoffed, “and borders on subversion. We take them along, and after we get the information we need, they return with us to the ship as prisoners of war.”

  Emeline gasped. “You will do no such thing!”

  Mrs. Oakes gathered her children close, her eyes full of terror.

  Emeline charged Dimsmore. “They are just babies.”

  But Owen knew Dimsmore was right. If he argued for anything else, more suspicion would pile onto the mountain the man already had on Owen.

  And then all would be lost.

  “I’m so sorry, Clara. I didn’t mean to lie to you.” Emeline finally got up the courage to approach the woman. “You must hate me.”

  Clara, remarkably calm, sat on the bed and breast-fed little Adam beneath her smock, the sight making Emeline hate herself all the more. Amos sat by the fire, scowling at everyone, while little Abigail slept by her mother’s side.

  “No, Emeline. You and your husband, Owen, have been kind to me.”

  “He’s not my husband.”

  At this, the lady’s brows rose. “Well, that much I would not have guessed was a lie, the way you look at each other.”

  Emeline shook the words from her mind before she allowed them to settle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  The lady only smiled in return.

  Emeline lowered to the chair beside the bed. “I never meant for you and your children to get tangled up in this.”

  Clara gave a sad smile. “It’s only because you cared to help that it happened.”

  “How can you be so kind?” Emeline fingered her mother’s locket. “It was the British, my people, who stole everything from you, who killed your husband.” Though she desperately wanted to tell her friend the truth, Emeline dared not for fear it would slip from the woman’s lips in front of the others.

  Clara gazed down at Abigail, asleep besid
e her. “Men and their wars. There are good people on both sides. And you and Owen are good people.”

  Emeline didn’t know about that. “I hate that we are forced to take you prisoner. There must be another way.”

  “If you’re worried about me traveling, I can walk. I helped dear Abe on the farm the day after this little angel was born.” She stroked curls from Abigail’s forehead.

  “I’m more worried about you surviving being a prisoner. And your little ones. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.”

  “Life isn’t always fair.”

  Emeline agreed with that. But for this precious woman, it should be. “You are a preacher’s wife. Shouldn’t God be rescuing you? Helping you? Instead your husband is—and you are now British prisoners.”

  “God never said life would be easy, Emeline. But if we follow Him, it is an abundant life. Jesus said, ‘The thief cometh not, but for to steal, and to kill, and to destroy: I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly.’ ”

  “Is that in the Bible?”

  “Yes, indeed.”

  Emeline frowned and looked down. “I guess God’s definition of abundance and mine are quite different.”

  Clara studied her. “You think my life has been boring because I do my best to obey God?” She switched little Adam to her other side. “Quite the opposite. Abe and I met down in Curacao, where I was living with my missionary parents. We had such a romance in the tropics!” Her eyes lit up, and for a moment she seemed far away. “After getting married, we traveled from island to island in the West Indies, spreading the Gospel—Barbados, Jamaica, Puerto Rico, Antigua. Most of the time we lived on the ship. One time we were even attacked by pirates. And I helped fire a cannon!”

  Emeline couldn’t have been more shocked. “You fired a cannon? Against pirates?” She chuckled. “And you traveled to all those exotic places with your husband?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t those places that were wonderful, though the islands were gorgeous. It was doing the Lord’s work, knowing I was working for the Creator and saving souls from hell. There’s nothing more adventurous than that.”

  “I’ve never met a lady who led such a full life.” Something Emeline had longed to do ever since she could remember.

  Clara smiled. “Then Amos came along, and we settled here in Maryland, took over a church from a dying pastor, and the adventure continued.”

  “I don’t understand. Abe is gone now, and you’re alone. How can that be adventurous?”

  “Abe has gone home because the Lord called him. Since I am still here, I will carry on wherever He leads.”

  “Even to prison.”

  Adam made gurgling noises, and Clara smiled down at him. “If God desires.”

  Exhaustion drew Emeline’s head into her hands. There must be a way out of this. She snapped her gaze up to Clara. “Was there more laudanum?”

  “Some. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking of a way to get you out of here.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Owen leaned back on the wooden chair, hearing it creak beneath his weight, and gazed over the dark farm. His turn for watch. Lucky for him, his mind was still spinning from the day’s activities, and he needed to ponder a few things, which helped keep him awake.

  Holding a newborn baby had stirred him more than he ever thought it would. Adam was so tiny, Owen could hold him in one of his hands. Being an only child, Owen had never witnessed a birth, held a wee one in his arms, or changed a nappy. All of which he’d done today. What an incredible miracle. To see such a perfectly formed human emerge from a woman’s womb, where God had shaped and formed it with His own hands. At least that’s what he remembered the Bible said. If anything would make Owen believe in a loving God, it was witnessing that. But then of course, his opinion had changed quickly when the British troops stormed in.

  But thanks to Mr. Ryne, they’d gotten rid of them. At least for now. Yet at what cost? This poor family, who had already been through more than most people should, would become British prisoners. And he knew all too well the harsh reality of that life. Seeing Amos scowl at Owen all night after he’d found out who they were had done more damage to Owen’s heart than any insult tossed his way the past eight years. Hatred, pure hatred, fired from the lad’s eyes. A hatred too raging for so young a boy to feel. But Owen couldn’t blame him.

  How he wanted to leave right now, avoid watching this family be imprisoned, and run to Baltimore himself. But the risk was too great and the stakes too high. He still needed Emeline and her contacts. If he were honest with himself, he needed Emeline, period. But he didn’t want to be honest right now. Not with his thoughts. Or his feelings.

  A warm breeze sent a dried leaf fluttering over the porch and brought with it the scent of the woodland, loamy earth, and wildflowers. America. Home. For once Owen must do the right thing and turn Emeline over to the authorities. Instead of following his heart, revealing who he was, telling her that he loved her—yes, hang it all, he did love her! He knew that now. Then how could he even think of betraying that love? How could he choose between her and his country? Between her and what he knew to be his duty? Why was it always so hard to do the right thing?

  He’d never been very good at denying his impulses … at putting his country—or anything, for that matter—ahead of himself. Mr. Oakes had told him he was a slave to sin, that there was true freedom in following God. Owen had never felt a slave to anything. He’d always made his own choices, choices that were best for him. How did that make him a slave?

  “You are a slave to self.”

  The words drifted through his mind, but they didn’t come from him. Gripping the sides of the chair, Owen scanned the darkness. A half-moon dripped milky light over select leaves, then spilled to shimmer in the puddles strewn over the ground. But there was nobody there.

  Or was there? He remembered the strange events of the past few days—the spiral of light drifting up from Mr. Oakes’s body, the shaft of sunlight on the cross at his grave, the dove…. Was there truly an eternal realm beyond this one? A place where spirits and angels lived … a heaven … a hell? If so, then did one’s actions, what one believed—or rather, who one believed—here on earth determine one’s destiny after death? Just as the Bible said? What Owen had seen recently certainly gave him pause to consider the truth of scripture.

  He shook off the thoughts, allowing his mind to drift to another strange event that had occurred that night. When Emeline handed out bowls of stew for supper, neither she nor Mrs. Oakes—or her children—partook of any. Instead, they nibbled on hardtack and dried beef from the ship supplies. When Owen asked her about it, she merely said that her stomach was too upset to eat, and the Oakes’s too. Seemed a reasonable explanation after all that had happened that day, so he let it go. Though somewhere deep in his gut, something told him not to eat the stew either. He gave his portion to Mr. Ryne, who was most grateful.

  Now, with his stomach rumbling, Owen wondered if he’d made the right choice. He was no doubt imagining things, casting suspicions where there was no cause—a frequent occurrence ever since he’d become a spy. He’d be glad to get out of the business. And into something more lucrative but equally as dangerous and fun. Like privateering. At least he’d be his own master.

  Rustling in the leaves snapped his gaze to the left where moonlight lit up the mound of Mr. Oakes’s grave, bringing his thoughts back to their conversation. Was God really so intimately involved with His creation? Did He want those who followed Him to have an adventurous life? Owen could not fathom how obeying rules equated to freedom.

  Thumping noises inside the house pricked his ears. They grew louder, along with harried whispers. The door creaked, and Owen slid his hat down on his face and pretended to be asleep.

  The shuffle and patter of multiple feet filled the night air, along with more whispers and the closing of the door.

  The footsteps halted then proceeded down the stairs and padded on the dirt.
>
  Lifting his head slightly, Owen peered out from beneath his hat, happy that the porch kept him in the shadows, and equally happy for the moonlight that now revealed Mrs. Oakes, babe in her arms, Abigail, Amos, and, of all people, Emeline.

  They halted before the house. Emeline cast a wary glance his way, then ushered them farther away. Owen turned his ear, doing his best to hear what they were saying.

  “I fear you will be punished for this, Emeline,” Clara said.

  “Don’t worry about me. My concern is for you and the children.” Emeline drew Amos close and gripped young Abigail’s hand.

  “Mama.” The little girl looked up. “Where are we going? It’s dark out. I’m tired.”

  “I know, sweetheart. We will rest soon.”

  The babe in her arms let out a tiny whimper.

  “The Harrison farm is only a few hours’ walk,” Clara said. “I couldn’t go before because of Abe being so hurt. But now, what other choice do we have?”

  Just when Owen didn’t think Emeline could surprise him further … wow. He couldn’t help but smile. So she was letting them escape? Amazing! Guilt prickled over him. He should have done the same, thought of a way.

  “I’ll protect us, Mama,” Amos said.

  Emeline handed the lad something. “Do you know how to use this?”

  “Yes, ma’am. My papa taught me.”

  “Remember, if you hear anyone, hide in the shrubbery until they pass.”

  “We will. Don’t worry, Emeline. And thank you.”

  “Of course. Now go! May God be with you.”

  Emeline embraced the woman and planted a kiss on the baby’s head, then knelt and gathered the other two children close.

  Who was this woman? Was it possible she was loyal to America? Or was she merely being kind to the innocent caught up in this heinous war? He found he had to know.

  At least the Oakes would be safe now and not have to bear the brunt of the Royal Navy.