by DeVa Gantt
“Get in or I’ll shoot your sister!”
She hurriedly complied. John Ryan jumped in, too.
“Not you!” Giovanni barked. “Help me get her into the water. We’ll set the sail once we’re beyond the breakers.”
Grumbling, Ryan climbed out, and together, they pushed the skiff into the foaming surf.
“What about me?” Yvette queried anxiously from the shore.
“You’ll behave better on the sand!” Benito shot over his shoulder, struggling for a firmer grip on the rowboat as they confronted the first white-capped wave. “Stay put if you want your sister to live!”
Yvette nodded, her worried eyes riveted on Jeannette.
“Sit down!” he ordered Jeannette. “Not there—in the center!”
Jeannette obeyed, eyeing the pistol, watching the priest fumble with the rim of the boat, the gun becoming a hindrance. As the water got deeper and the breakers exceedingly rougher, Benito deposited the firearm onto the first bench, shoving the vessel forward unimpeded now. “Push harder!” he snarled at John Ryan. “One more—” he heaved “—and we’re home free!”
As the next wave broke, Jeannette shot to her feet. “Run, Jeannette! Run!” she screamed.
Predictably, Benito and Ryan looked back at the beach, confounded. The girl in the boat instantly snatched the pistol and leveled it on Benito. Though startled, the priest laughed. “So—we didn’t take Jeannette, after all. You think you’re very clever, don’t you, Yvette? But now what are you going to do? Shoot me?”
Yvette’s frown was met by the next wave, and the two men had all they could do to hold onto the boat. “There’s only one bullet in the chamber,” Benito growled. “Shoot me and Mr. Ryan will strangle you! Shoot him and I’ll strangle you! Now put the pistol down, like a good little girl.”
The firearm was heavy. Yvette used both hands to raise it over her head and pull the trigger. The recoil sent her tumbling backward. Swearing viciously, Giovanni pulled himself up and into the vessel. Too late! Yvette flung the gun with all her might out to sea. Seething, he grabbed her by her hair and slapped her hard across the face. Unshaken, she kicked out, catching him in the crotch. He doubled over in agony, a high-pitched yelp rending the air. She smiled triumphantly, grateful for all the refined things she had learned from Joseph.
“Forget about the girl!” Ryan shouted. “Let’s get this goddamn boat beyond the breakers! Everyone on the island musta heard that shot!”
Catching his breath, Benito took heed and jumped from the dinghy. With a final heave, they thrust past the surf and climbed in. Giovanni tossed an oar to Ryan, then grabbed one for himself. “Sit!” he commanded Yvette when she made a move to stand, threatening her with his raised paddle.
Pretending contrition and fear, she hunched over and cast hooded eyes to the shore. Jeannette was standing there with her hands to her face, oblivious to the fact that someone was running full speed toward her from the woods, or that two figures on horseback were bearing down on her from the west. As Benito Giovanni and John Ryan sank their oars into the ocean, they saw them, too.
Wade had torn off his boots and stockings. He charged the water at breakneck speed, ripping off his shirt and diving headlong into the breakers.
The priest swore, pumping the oar harder. “Pull, damn it, pull!” he yelled to John Ryan, letting out a pent-up sigh when they reached deeper water.
Suddenly, Yvette stood up and began stripping down to her undergarments.
“Damn it girl!” Giovanni scolded. “Are you daft? Sit!”
“Why don’t we throw her overboard?” Ryan demanded, aware the swimmer was closing in on them. “We’re havin’ to pull her weight, too.”
“No—don’t!” she cried, trembling. “I don’t know how to swim!”
The two men exchanged smiles. Needing no further encouragement, John Ryan jumped up and reached for her. But the skiff dipped sharply to the left, and he quickly forgot her, his attention drawn to his feet, planting them far apart, alarmed when the craft continued to rock.
“Sit down, man!” Giovanni shouted, dropping his oar and splaying his arms wide, then clutching the sides of the careening boat. “Do you want us to end up in the water?”
“He’s too stupid to figure that out!” Yvette baited.
Furious, Ryan advanced again. “No little girl’s gonna sass me like that!”
This time, the boat lurched steeply to the right, its rim plunging under the water’s surface for one paralyzing moment, taking on water as it righted itself.
Petrified, the priest screamed, “You’ll kill us both! Sit down before we capsize!”
Seizing the moment, Yvette began to bounce from foot to foot, giggling hysterically. The skiff oscillated back and forth, the water within sloshing from side-to- side, the waxing momentum growing more and more precarious.
Benito held on for dear life. “Throw her overboard!” he finally bellowed.
She was ready for John Ryan. When he dove at her, Yvette threw all her weight in the same direction, and the small vessel rolled with them, spilling them into the sea.
Cold water engulfed her, and she held her breath for untold seconds. Finally, she surfaced, gulping in precious air, treading water to stay afloat. Then, she was yanked back under, her foot ensnared. She thrashed violently, but could not loosen the human manacle that dragged her deeper. She bent over, using her hands to pry back the fingers that dug into her flesh, certain her lungs were going to burst.
Suddenly, she was free! Cupping great handfuls of water, she kicked up and out of the tenebrous depths, sputtering and coughing as she surfaced again, her chest on fire. Another second longer, and she’d not have survived.
Wade was there, encouraging her to swim back to shore. She marshaled every aching muscle and swam as hard as John had taught her. But when she reached the breakers, she was too tired to propel herself any farther. The waves curled over her and carried her the rest of the way in, depositing her in ankle-deep water, battered and shivering. Bud and Charmaine rushed forward and helped her to dry ground, where they wrapped her tightly in Charmaine’s robe. Wade was not far behind, crawling out on hands and knees.
Within minutes, George and the stable hands reached the shore, searching the sea for the fugitives. The capsized boat bobbed beyond the breakers, but there was no sign of Benito Giovanni or John Ryan.
“They stole gold and jewelry from the house,” Yvette said through chattering teeth. “John Ryan tied a sack of coins around his waist. It must have weighed him down. And I don’t think Father Benito knew how to swim. He was terrified out there!”
“I don’t think my father did, either,” Charmaine added, turning away from the horrific scene. “Let’s get you home,” she whispered, trembling from head to toe.
Jeannette was kneeling beside Wade, who had donned his dry shirt and now sat, heaving on the sand. “Thank you for saving my sister’s life!”
The man smiled at her. “Any time.”
“I thank you, too,” Charmaine added. “If you hadn’t been here tonight, I don’t know what would have happened to Yvette.”
“You should be thanking Johnny!” Yvette exclaimed. “He’s the one who taught me how to swim.”
“You weren’t swimming anywhere with Benito’s hands around your ankle,” Wade responded.
Yvette cocked her head to one side, suddenly realizing it was Wade who had freed her from the ocean depths. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “Thank you for saving me.”
By dawn, they were all sitting around the dining room table reliving the incredible events of that night. George explained John Ryan’s arrival on Charmantes and his incarceration with Benito Giovanni. When all was told, Charmaine could not remain angry with her husband, remembering his words the day he had left in search of Blackford: If you could find your father and make him pay for what he did to your mother, what would you do? John had known her innermost fears, had understood her desperate desire for justice, and had cared enough to do something about it
. Unlike the authorities, he had pursued John Ryan, had sent him to Charmantes to face retribution for his crime, jailing him in secret to spare her any alarm. Neither he nor Paul could have guessed what would happen in their absence.
The sun was rising when the company disbanded. Charmaine invited Wade to stay and wash up at the house, but he refused. He needed to go home in case his sister returned. George offered to help search the island for her, telling Wade to take the day off work. “I’ll see to it,” George reiterated as Wade departed atop Champion. “By tomorrow, I promise no stone will be left unturned.”
According to Mercedes and Loretta, Marie had screamed herself to sleep. Charmaine took the slumbering infant from Loretta’s comforting arms and retired. In her peaceful chambers, she knelt down and thanked God nobody in her family had been harmed.
Sunday, December 30, 1838
Rebecca refused to speak to Paul. When he ventured into the cabin, she would turn away. She didn’t eat the food he brought her, either, and at night, he lay on the bunk alone, wondering in the morning where she had slept, or if she had slept at all. He decided if she wanted to sulk, that was fine by him. After all, he hadn’t pursued her—she had pursued him. And he had given her ample opportunity to leave his cabin that night. Even so, he was angry he dwelled on her predicament—that she was ever in his thoughts.
On the last night of their voyage, he found her asleep when he entered the cubicle, concluding she slept during the day when he wasn’t there. He put the tray of food he carried down on the table. Tonight, he would force-feed her if necessary. She hadn’t touched a morsel in four days. If this continued, she would make herself ill.
“Rebecca,” he called, nudging her awake.
She rubbed her eyes, befuddled at first as to where she was.
“I’ve brought you dinner,” he said gently. “You need to eat.”
She sat up, watching him warily. She swung her legs over the edge of the bunk, his shirt and her men’s trousers still in place.
Paul made light conversation, hoping the sleep had improved her mood. “It’s quite good, actually. About the best meal I’ve tasted aboard this ship.” He’d been stirring some soup, which he now carried over to the bed.
When she realized he meant to feed her, she turned her head aside.
“Rebecca,” he said sharply, “you must eat something! You can’t go on like this.” Her clenched jaw began to quiver. “Please try it,” he insisted, no longer cross.
She jumped from the cot and retreated to a corner of the room, taking her misery with her. When he approached, her back stiffened. “Leave me alone!” she moaned. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”
At his wit’s end, he brusquely deposited the bowl on the table, the soup sloshing over the edges. “Suit yourself,” he stated irascibly. “Starve and see if I care.”
“I know you won’t,” she said, but he had already stormed from the cabin.
Hours later, the food remained as he’d left it. He shook his head. She was stubborn, he had to give her that, and determined to make him feel guilty.
Monday, December 31, 1838
New York City came into view with the dawning of the sixth day. The Tempest made port in four hours’ time, the delay caused by an icy Hudson River and the tremendous snowstorm suffered by a vast stretch of the Atlantic seaboard three weeks earlier.
As she docked, Paul returned to the cabin one last time. He threw on his cape, for the air was frigid, much colder than it had been two years ago. He caught Rebecca’s intense eyes upon him, but she swiftly looked away. He hesitated. Her manner hadn’t changed, yet something about her disturbed him this morning, something he couldn’t quite place.
“I’ll return by dark,” he said. “I don’t want you leaving the cabin. Do you hear me?” Unlike the past five days, she acknowledged him with a slight nod. Suddenly, he knew.
He left the cubicle and closed the door behind him, retrieving the key hanging above the doorframe. He locked the portal, the “click” sounding within the cell. Rebecca flew to the door, yanking on the knob. She banged on it with both fists, her escape plan neatly foiled. “Let me out!” she screamed.
For the first time in nearly a week, Paul felt satisfied. “You stay put!” he shouted back. With a smug smile, he disembarked, his destination John’s row house on Sixth Avenue, the address George had given him.
As he left the wharf, he marveled once again at the throngs of people, the endless buildings, the noise, the very magnitude of this booming city. In the two years since he’d commissioned the building of his ships, the city had grown. Tonight, it was blanketed in white, a light snow falling atop the mountainous heaps already obstructing the roadway.
He hailed a cab, calling the address up to the driver who sat shivering beneath a thin overcoat and frayed lap-blanket, collar drawn up and cap pulled down low, breathing heavily into the hands he occasionally rubbed together to keep warm. Paul, a mite more protected from the elements, settled back in the seat of the enclosed carriage, taking in the sights, the smells, and the sounds. Still, his mind was far away, wondering what he would find.
John’s house was locked tight. It was New Year’s Eve, and Paul found some Greenwich Village residents at home. However, all of John’s immediate neighbors had little information to offer. They hardly knew John except to say a passing “good day” when he was in town. One woman told him about the unprecedented event in early December when the New York City police had breached and then searched John’s residence, questioning neighbors for the next two days, tight-lipped the entire time, offering not one reason why they were there.
Although relieved, Paul was confused; most of their inquiries had involved John’s possible whereabouts and any family he had residing in the city. He began to wonder if his brother and father were on the run.
When he left Sixth Avenue, he headed for the shipping offices at the busy seaport. He was back at the New York harbor by mid-afternoon. The warehouse ledgers carried the names of other prominent New York shippers, and he combed over them, hoping to find the name of someone who might have offered John a place to stay. The clerks were brusque and lent little aid. By late afternoon, he decided to call it a day. Perhaps he’d have better luck tomorrow and locate somebody who could help him.
He hailed another cab and asked to be taken to a fashionable shopping district. For Rebecca, he picked out a lovely dress in pale green—it would match her captivating eyes—as well as undergarments, a nightgown, and plush robe. For himself, he bought a heavy redingote, a hat, and gloves. He’d been freezing all day in the bone-chilling cold. At least he’d be warm when he began his hunt tomorrow.
Darkness had already fallen by the time he boarded the Tempest. Though his day had proven unsuccessful, his evening did not. He found Captain Conklin talking to one Roger Dewint, John’s New York shipping agent. Roger hadn’t recognized the Tempest, but he had noticed the Duvoisin standard flying high on her mast and stopped by to introduce himself. Dewint had no news about John or Frederic; he did have a list of men who worked for John when his ships laid anchor in New York. Most were freed slaves. He agreed to meet Paul on the merchantman early the next morning, and together, they would make the rounds, locating as many of these men as possible. Finally, Paul was getting somewhere.
It was quiet when he unlocked the cabin door. For a moment, he held his breath, wondering if Rebecca had figured another way to escape. But she was there, sitting in the dark on the bunk, wrapped in a blanket. He closed the door, pocketing the key. He deposited his bundle on the stool and lit the lantern.
There was a knock on the door, and he stepped in front of Rebecca as the porter dragged in a large tub. “I’ll be back with the water, sir,” he said.
After he’d left, Paul turned the lamp down low, obscuring Rebecca in the shadows. She eyed him suspiciously, but held silent.
The porter returned numerous times, and slowly, the tub was filled with steaming water. He left soap, a cloth, and a towel before retreating alto
gether.
Paul faced her with arms crossed over his chest. “You’re taking a bath. Now, you can either bathe yourself, or I will do it for you. You have a half hour to decide.” She didn’t move. “Very well,” he said as he grabbed hold of the door, “but remember, when I return, the water will be cold. The clothes I promised you are in that package—” he indicated the bundle “—if you change your mind.”
Certain he’d carry out his threat, Rebecca undressed and settled into the tub as soon as he left. The cubicle had been mercilessly cold all day, and she relished the piping-hot water, closing her eyes and resting her neck against the tub’s rim. After a while, she washed clean all the reminders of the days gone by. When tears welled in her eyes, she dunked her head under and washed her hair.
In less than a half hour, she left the tub, shivering, wrapping the towel quickly around her. She fingered the package on the stool, and against her own will, opened it. Inside, she found a gorgeous dress, accompanied by various undergarments and stockings. There was also a nightgown and robe, which she chose to wear now.
When Paul returned, he found her garbed in the thick robe. She looked lovely, her damp hair framing her beautiful, yet drawn, face.
He carried a tray of food. “Will you eat something now?” he asked, surprised when she meekly nodded.
There was a knock on the door, and she melted into the shadows. Paul told the porter he wasn’t finished with the tub yet and would keep it until the morning. “I’d like to bathe, too,” he explained when the door closed.
They sat at the table and ate quietly. Although she consumed only a small portion of the fare, at least it was something. Setting his knife and fork down, Paul studied her. “Why did you intend to run away today?”
She stopped chewing and stared down at her plate.
“Don’t you realize how cruel a big city such as New York can be? Am I so horrible you won’t let me take you back to Charmantes?”
She could scarcely swallow for the burning lump in her throat. When she looked at him, her green eyes sparkled. “I don’t want to shame my brother,” she whispered. “He will know what has happened when I return. Better he doesn’t know. Better if I just disappear.”
