Bound By The Heart

by Canham, Marsha

  Morgan grabbed him roughly and spun him away from the gruesome sight and for one irrational moment cursed the absence of Stuart Roarke's solid presence by his side. In the next instant he saw the horror in Mr. Phillips' eyes and recalled too well his own reaction to hearing Roarke's injury.

  "One pass, Jamie. Can you give me one more pass?"

  Phillips focussed with difficulty on Morgan's face. "Aye, sir! One more pass. I'll bring you so close you'll be able to smell the bastards!"

  Ninety minutes after the first gun had been fired, the Northgate's colors came down.

  Captain Emory Ashton-Smythe sat erect, his eyes fixed on a point on the horizon as he felt the bump and skid of the jolly-boat brush against the hull of the Chimera. His uniform was streaked with blood and grime. He wore a bandage around his thigh and another on a shattered hand. He had to lean heavily on one of the oarsmen before he could struggle to his feet, and to his utter mortification, had to ride the broad shoulders of a sailor in order to climb up to the deck. Once there, his face ashen under the grime of battle, he walked directly up to Morgan Wade and offered his sword in a formal surrender.

  "The honor is yours this day, sir," he rasped, his voice hoarse from the smoke. "My compliments to you and your men."

  "The victory was not an easy one, Captain Smythe," Wade said, refusing the proffered sword in acknowledgement of the Briton's courage. "Your men should find no fault with their courage this day."

  Ashton-Smythe's hand tightened on the sword as he lowered it. Behind him, Farley Glasse was cursing and shrugging off the assistance of two of Wade's men as he was pushed through the open gangway. His appearance was glaringly out of keeping with the grime and stench of battle. He was freshly washed and dressed in clean clothing. His left arm was cradled in a spotless white linen sling.

  Morgan took a steadying breath before he addressed Captain Ashton-Smythe again.

  "As I suspect you already know, your ship and crew have now become the prize of the United American States."

  Ashton-Smythe stiffened, and he met Wade's gaze for the first time. "You would dare to justify your actions in the name of your country, sir?"

  "My justifications are a damned sight better than yours at this moment. But personal enmities aide, you are obviously not aware that as of June 18, our two countries are officially at war."

  The British officer's stony countenance cracked. His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly. A brief flush of heat came into his cheeks, then faded just as rapidly, leaving his skin the color of candle wax.

  Wade smirked. "Don't worry, Captain. You do not have the distinction of being the first British ship to take down her colors to an American. A countryman of yours has already won that honor."

  That seemed to shake the officer even more. "Who...?"

  "I'm afraid I am not familiar with your lists, Captain, but the ship was the Belvidera."

  Ashton-Smythe nodded. "I have no recourse but to accept your word on the matter. As to my ship and crew—?"

  "I have neither the time nor the inclination to tow your ship to port. If you have not ordered it as yet, I suggest you have your crew ferried ashore at once. I intend to sink her before I take my leave of these waters."

  "Sink her? For what reason?"

  "For the same reason you would have sunk the Chimera had the outcome been reversed."

  Ashton-Smythe reddened and remained silent.

  "We will, naturally, replenish our stores from your armory first. As for the fate of your crew, I'm afraid you will have to negotiate with General Georges de Ville. You will be happy to know he has a rather amiable working relationship with the British."

  This last statement produced such a smug and haughty sneer on Farley Glasse's face that Wade smiled. "All of you will be permitted to sample the general's hospitality...with the exception of two men. One is Peter Beavis, the other is...Mr. Glasse, here. He and I have some unfinished business to settle."

  "Mr. Glasse is a representative of His Majesty's government," Ashton-Smythe said quickly. "As such, under the terms of war it becomes your obligation to treat him with the same courtesy you would any of my men. I expect Mr. Glasse to be allowed to accompany us ashore in strict accordance with the terms of our surrender."

  "The only terms Mr. Glasse will be leaving this ship on are my own. I have a badly wounded man below whose injuries were sustained before any of us were informed that a state of war exists. I have two women and a three-month-old child on board who were held hostage with guns against their heads; no doubt they would have volumes to say about the courtesy Glasse extended to them. To my way of thinking, he has himself voided any so-called immunity to which he may have been entitled."

  "Those same words apply to your own situation, Wade," Glasse said archly, straining against the grip of the two men who held his arms pinned. "Or should I call you Sir Edmund! A traitor, a spy, a murderer!" He glanced around coldly at the silent, glowering crew who had formed a ring around the deck. "The taint your captain bears is his alone, as it stands now, but what do you think will happen if you so much as raise a finger against me? I am unarmed. I am a helpless prisoner of war who has surrendered. Murder me now and you will all be hunted down like animals."

  Mr. Monday stepped forward with a snarl, but Wade's hand reached out in time, halting the huge negro in his stride.

  "He will be yours soon enough, Mr. Monday," Wade said quietly. "Let him speak his nonsense."

  "Nonsense?" Glasse stiffened. "You call it nonsense to rape and brutalize an innocent young woman? Shall I tell them how you lured her into a miserable hotel room and forced her to degrade herself, and when you'd had your fill, you beat her...beat her then bludgeoned her with a brass candlestick until her own father could not recognize her? And when you were accused, what did you do? You ran. Bolted from the country like the cowardly traitor you are. Speak my nonsense? I have been wanting to shout my outrage for the past thirteen years!"

  Glasse was trembling, his lips flecked with spittle. There was not a sound on the deck aside from the creaking of the spars and faint hiss of the cannon barrels cooling.

  Ashton-Smythe was clearly unsettled by the accusations. "Have you any proof to support these charges, sir?"

  The black eyes were levelled on the officer. "I don't need any further proof than what I see before me. Look at him! Do you hear him denying he is Edmund Granville?"

  Ashton-Smythe looked at Wade.

  "Your Mr. Glasse has been chasing a ghost these past thirteen years," Wade said quietly.

  "A quaint way to avoid a direct question, Wade," Glasse sneered.

  "Ask me a direct question and I will answer it. Thirteen years ago I was in a dozen different places."

  Glasse's eyes glittered. "Then allow me to be more specific. Where were you on the night of May fourteenth, 1799? A night that has seared itself into my own memory like no other."

  Wade's dark blue eyes remained fixed on Ashton-Smythe. "Perhaps you would be so kind as to tell Mr. Glasse where I was, Captain Smythe. May fourteenth, 1799."

  Ashton-Smythe looked confused. "Why should I—?" He stopped, frowned, then blanched.

  Glasse saw the two men acknowledging something silently between them, and his patience gave way. "Well? Where was he? What new trickery is this?"

  "There is no trickery," Captain Ashton-Smythe said quietly. "And I do indeed know where Captain Wade was that night." His mouth twisted with disdain. "And had I known this to be the root of your actions these past twelve months—these past twelve hours, I would have killed you myself."

  "What are you saying? The man is a murderer! He's a—"

  "You bloody, pompous, ignorant fool. Thirteen years ago, in May, Morgan Wade was serving as a deckhand on board the British frigate Africa...as he had been for the ten months prior to that, after having been forcibly removed from an American ship and impressed into His Majesty's service. He remained on board until July of that same year, at which time he and one of the commander's personal slaves—" the
Englishman's eyes settled briefly on Mr. Monday— "jumped ship off Saint Christopher. There was quite a row at the time, especially when he resurfaced several months later, praised by the Americans as a hero for his reckless escape, and was promoted by Commodore Preble himself."

  "The escape was not so reckless, Captain," Wade said with a faint smile. "As I recall, the midshipman holding down the ghost watch that night was such a poor shot, we could have moved an entire army off that ship."

  "You were merely lucky it was a dark night, Wade, and doubly lucky my knowledge of musketry was limited at the time. I would have shot you with a clear conscience."

  Glasse blinked stupidly. "There was no mention of any man named Wade on any of the registries in either navy. I checked, I tell you, and there is no mention of a Morgan Wade anywhere, any time before the summer of '99. He is a Granville, he uses the family seal to send his dispatches to Norfolk."

  Ashton-Smythe sighed and cradled his injured arm, which had begun to ache abominably. "Indeed, he is a Granville, sir. But a single question would have told you he is Matthew Granville...and as I knew him, Matt Grange. He changed his name when he left England, yes, but not for the reasons you believe."

  "A man does not change his name or his country without having something to hide!"

  "Nor does he necessarily keep the one he was given if chooses to honor the one he was given at birth. His mother's name was Grange, you fool; she was born in Virginia, as was he."

  Glasse shook his head. "I don't believe it. You are lying. You are both lying to protect each other."

  Ashton-Smythe gazed out at the smoking hulk of the Northgate. He could see and hear sounds of confusion and shouting as the wreckage was searched for survivors.

  "Why would I do that, sir?" he asked wearily. "I fear nothing will protect me from the scorn that awaits when I return to Bridgetown."

  "You will be facing more than scorn," Glasse spat. "I intend to see you placed before a court-martial and have your stripes torn from your shoulders!"

  "Possibly no less than what I deserve," said Ashton-Smythe. "My God...after the business I have done here today, perhaps it is better than I deserve. My ship and my men squandered for the sake of one man's twisted hatred. One hundred dead and the final tally not yet taken." He compressed his lips into a bloodless line and turned to address Wade. "Winfield will not rest until he sees you dead, Captain. He considers the taking of the Chimera to be his holy grail."

  "I thank you for the warning, but he should pray I do not find him first."

  Captain Ashton-Smythe stared long and hard into the piercing blue eyes before he nodded. His shoulders seemed to droop as if the weight he bore was suddenly too much to bear.

  "You had best see to your crew," said Wade. "My men and I will do all we can to help you transfer the wounded, and I will have a word with de Ville so the bastard does not delay your return home."

  "What do you intend to do with Glasse?"

  "Nothing less than what he deserves."

  Ashton-Smythe sighed again. "Much as it goes against the very grain for me to say it, but you cannot just kill the man; you would be as guilty as he for acting out of revenge and blind hatred."

  "Oh, I have no intentions of killing him. Glasse will leave this ship alive, you have my word on it; whether he will want to be is another matter entirely."

  Ashton-Smythe glanced at Mr. Monday who had been handed a black leather cat—a whip with nine long tails, each knotted at the end around an iron stud. Judging from the sudden commotion behind him, the scuffling of feet and the shrill cry, Glasse had seen the whip as well.

  His cries became even more shrill when he saw the British captain turn toward the gangway. "Where are you going? You cannot leave this ship without me! You are honor-bound and duty-bound to protect me! I am a British subject, envoy to the King! You cannot just leave me here!"

  "If I were honor-bound to do anything, sir, it would be to stay and witness your punishment for the crimes you have committed. I'm afraid, however, I have other, far braver men who need my attention more."

  Glasse lunged after Ashton-Smythe, but Wade's men had firm hold of his arms.

  "Smythe! Smythe! You cannot just leave me here! Smythe, you cowardly bastard! I will see you hung! I will have you charged and hunted down, scourged for the yellow-bellied coward that you are!"

  "Seize him up, Mr. Phillips," Wade ordered. "In the shrouds, if you please."

  "No! No! I am a subject of His Majesty King George! I am a prisoner of war! I demand a trial!"

  Wade scanned the circle of soot-blackened faces. "What say you, men? Innocent or guilty?"

  As one, the crew shouted, "Guilty!"

  "There you have it Glasse. An honest verdict."

  Glasse twisted free and tried to dash for the freedom of the open gangway. Several members of the crew blocked his path, several more caught him up, wrenching his wounded shoulder as they dragged him, screaming and kicking, to the side of the ship. It took four men to hold him while his arms were stretched wide and his wrists were bound to the shrouds. His clothing was sliced from his body, baring pasty white flesh that had never seen a ray of sunlight.

  Mr. Monday stood on the break of the deck, his face without expression as he slowly ran the cat through his fingers, warming the leather.

  "Slow and easy, Mr. Monday," Wade said. "One strike for every man...and woman...on board this ship."

  Mr. Monday's teeth gleamed white as he set himself and drew the cat back. He put the full force of his strength into the first swing, bringing the tails humming through the air to crack sharply against the bared white shoulders.

  "Aughhhhhhhhhh!" Glasse's whole body jerked from the agonizing sting as all nine tails bit into his flesh. He barely caught at his breath before the second, third, and fourth strikes landed. The knife wound he had suffered at Thorny's hands split open and began to weep fresh blood, but after a dozen more strikes, when the hum and crack of the leather flights became rhythmic, the one source of blood became indistinguishable from the rest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Summer was exhausted. Any thoughts she might have had concerning the noble, valiant duty she had volunteered for had vanished five minutes into the battle preparations. Thorny had instantly transformed into a gnarled, wiry-haired demon, barking orders and cursing with a vengeance until both women were more terrified of what might do if they balked at an order than of the order itself. Every spare sheet of linen and cotton had been torn into strips for bandages. Half a dozen needles had been threaded in readiness, and a cask of rum set nearby as the only anaesthetic available. Thorny's dreadful assortment of tools had been laid out on the table: knives, scissors, a wrench, a bolt cutter, and three different sizes of carpenter's saws. A pot of black pitch had been set over a brazier to heat, as well as irons that would be used to sear an open wound closed.

  It had been necessary to move Stuart to a lower deck, since the captain's cabin was vulnerable to exploding glass and shot. Sarah had been bundled into her cradle and placed alongside Roarke's litter in the storeroom adjacent to the room that would be converted into the surgery. Summer and Gabrielle had both been sent to join them, tearing up bandages, until they were needed elsewhere.

  When the terrible pounding from the guns overhead commenced, Summer had sat frozen by Stuart's side, the baby pressed to her bosom, her head buried in the nest of quilts. At one point, she had felt Roarke's hand rest on her arm to reassure her, but for the most part, she sat numbed by fear, deafened and blinded by the terror of the shelling.

  There was no lull allowing her to gather her shattered nerves together, no easy way to learn how to cope with the horror of the wounds that began to trickle into the surgery. The air became thick with the smell of pitch, lamp oil, and blood, tinged with the acrid bitterness of scorched flesh and gunpowder. She cleaned and wrapped burns. She put a splint on a broken arm and tied off the stump of a severed finger, managing to keep her stomach until the poor man had thanked her profusely then heade
d back to his gun crew.

  Each man related information about what was happening on the gun decks. Each sound of footsteps in the companionway sent Summer's heart thudding into her throat. The excitement and pride she heard in the men's voices did nothing to allay the dreaded thought of seeing Morgan's crumpled, bleeding body carried in on a litter. Two such bodies were brought in, dead before Thorny had a chance to look at them. Several more were fed quantities of rum when their wounds required the use of the saw or red hot irons.

  They lost seven men whose injuries were too severe to save. A score or more staggered through the storeroom with cuts, burns, or breaks, and the sights and sounds of misery became as steady as the blasts overhead from the cannon.

  When silence finally did rattle along the length and breadth of the ship, those working in the surgery were too busy to do more than pass a brief glance at one another before bending to their bloody tasks again. Neither Summer nor Gabrielle dared to ask if it was over; they simply braced themselves to watch for what Thorny referred to as: the die'ards.

  "When ye see the likes o' them comin' 'ere ter 'ave an 'and sewed back on or a flap o' skin stitched back on their scalps, then ye'll know the main fightin's over. They be the one's who don't leave until the last shot is fired."

  The diehards failed to show, and the running footsteps, the sound of frantic activity overhead, and the rocking motion of the Chimera continued. After a particularly long stretch of silence, when the girl's hopes were raised again, an enormous rumble overhead caused Gabrielle to drop the knife she was holding out to Thorny.

  Thorny merely chuckled and sponged out the wound he was working on with the already bloodied corner of his shirt. "That be the other sign, lassies. Mark it well, on account o' it bein' music ter the ears o' someone stuck b'lowdecks."

  "What was it, m'sieur?" Gabrielle asked in a whisper.

  "Trunnions," he announced. "Means the guns 'r bein' 'auled in an' tied off. N'owt too tight, mind. Many a time a dead ship's come back ter life ripe unexpectedlike. An' less'n I'm mistook—" he cocked his head to one side to listen— "they be only the port guns. Starboard's'r stayin' put ter finish the kill."