by Anna Small
“Then this means goodbye.”
He climbed off the wagon, and Samuel dismounted his horse. Abigail held out her hands to him, and he lifted her from the wagon seat. She fell into his arms and slid the length of his body to the ground. He pulled her close for too brief an instant. She longed to cling to him, but Jotham and Elias were there.
“Let’s not tarry long.” Jotham glanced around the woods, his eyes darting around like a rabbit staring down a hunter.
Elias stroked the horse’s nose before thrusting the reins at Samuel.
“Mr. Smith, you take my Sal here. She’ll have a happy life at the fort. She still has some good years ahead of her.” Samuel took the reins and shook Elias’s hand.
“I cannot thank you enough, sir. You have been more than generous.”
Elias waved his words away and glanced at Abigail.
“You just stay safe. Maybe when this war’s over, you can visit under more peaceful terms.”
Blinking back tears, she gathered the sack of Caleb’s few possessions. Afraid to look at Samuel in case she broke down in front of Jotham and her brother, she handed Samuel the sack and faced the direction where he would ride alone. The forest seemed darker that way. He could meet all kinds of danger, and she would never know what happened to him.
He touched her shoulder. “Walk with me.”
She followed him through the birch and pine trees until they reached the thick undergrowth of the forest and could go no further. He took her in his arms, holding her so tightly the breath puffed out of her. Caleb’s coat pressed into her nose. She caught a faint lingering whiff of the tobacco he’d favored on occasion, when he’d sit by the hearth, his feet up on a stool as she fussed around the kitchen preparing his favorite dishes. She squeezed her eyes shut to push Caleb’s memory to the back of her mind. It seemed that only yesterday she’d embraced him in the village square as he prepared to go off to war with his childhood friends. She’d never expected that kiss goodbye to be their last, and almost didn’t want to kiss Samuel, in case it was also the final one.
He didn’t kiss her, but slowly broke the embrace to hold her at arm’s length. “Promise me something, Abby.”
“What is it?” She made herself look up at him, dreading the painful moment of goodbye as if it were a physical blow.
“I want you to live with your brother’s family. I fear for your safety alone at the cottage.”
She shook her head. Was this all he could think of?
“Leon will not bother me anymore. Now that Elias knows…”
“It’s not just him.” His hands ran up and down her arms as if he were trying to warm her. “You’re cut off from the rest of the world. It’s a lonely life.”
“I do not mind being alone.”
His brow furrowed, and she knew he didn’t believe her. She didn’t believe it herself.
“I just want you to live a full and happy life.”
He drew her to him again, and she buried her face in his shirt. This time, she only caught his own scent, clean and masculine, underlined with wood smoke and pine. Memories flooded her of the few, precious hours they’d spent.
Her happiness wasn’t his only concern. She was no fool. He feared she would grow too much within herself, mourning the loss of two loves now instead of one. Had he suspected the long, cold nights she’d walked the cliffs, her eyes squinting through the cold sea mist while she struggled to spot a light out on the horizon? Only, the lights never materialized, and what remained of her husband were a few possessions and the initials he’d carved into the oak tree when he was a boy.
But she wouldn’t dwell on the sad past any longer. He was right. She had to keep living a full life, a rich life, to honor both of the men she loved.
Drawing a ragged breath, she finally looked up at him, her chest tightening as if something had wrapped around her heart and was squeezing the last drop from it. Their love was enough to give her the strength to go on.
“I promise. I will live with Elias and his family.”
Some of the tightness in his facial muscles relaxed. “Good.” He looked over her head in the direction from where they’d come. “We should go back. There isn’t anything more I can say to you.” His eyes turned misty gray with the fog of tears.
Everything she wanted to say to him began with the words I wish or I hope. Silent pleas that wrenched her heart. She refused to burden him with worries. Nothing should mar the beautiful memories they shared. Only words of love and hope for the future. An impossible future, but no one could know that except for the Almighty himself.
“Stay…alive.”
It was all she could think to say. Anything else was too flowery and romantic. The hopeful wishes of a girl bidding her lover goodbye. Her feelings were deeper than that, much deeper than she could ever have imagined. Alive, he could someday return, if that’s what fate had in store for them. Alive, he could have a happy life without her, if he went to England, never to return to the lonely shores of Lobster Cove.
“I will come back to you, Abby.” He bowed his head, stooping slightly to press his forehead against hers. “Nothing will stop me. Not the war, nor anything life may throw my way. I will find you again. I swear it.”
He kissed her quickly, too quickly, before she had time to register the fleeting warmth of his lips. Her arms were halfway to his shoulders when he seized her hand and pulled her alongside him, silent and not looking at her. They reached the clearing where Jotham and Elias waited. In the time it took for him to swing his leg over Sal’s back and grab the sack of supplies from Elias, she had barely composed herself, her voice mute with pain. He stopped his horse and faced them, his gaze on her.
“I love you, Abigail. Never forget that.”
The sun must have emerged from behind the clouds that had blocked it all day, because her face and arms—all of her, in fact—warmed as if she stood in its rays. She waved goodbye until he was out of sight, and only then did Elias cluck his tongue at the horses and turn the wagon around toward Lobster Cove.
Chapter Thirteen
A patrol of regular foot soldiers found him first. Samuel dismounted when the young lieutenant, his cheeks ruddy with the youthful dignity of his position, ordered him down. Samuel quickly explained his situation. Dubious, the man listened to his odd tale before ordering him back on his horse. While they didn’t seem suspicious, two of the riders dropped behind him while the lieutenant rode on his left. His mouth twisted in an ironic smile. Why would he have risked his neck by presenting himself to an armed patrol unless he was telling the truth?
Abby’s face haunted his thoughts. He could not bear to think upon her but relished the ache in his chest her memory brought. Their love would sustain him in the long months and perhaps years ahead. He could not dwell on the past, but only hope for a bright future. The details of his own life were a fog, but he remembered enough of what had started the fighting, and knew the Crown was doubly enmeshed with the war in North America and with Napoleon across the sea. Two battlefronts could not equal success regardless of the British regulars and navy combined. Perhaps he would go to his home, wherever that was, and wait for it all to end. Then he would return to Lobster Cove and find permanent happiness in her arms.
Fort Hardwicke was a bustling hubbub that shocked him after the peaceful quietude of Lobster Cove and the Maine woods. Merchants and laborers swarmed through the gates and filled the courtyard and surrounding areas. In a distant clearing, several marines were going through a training exercise with their Baker rifles. A flash of memory made him start. He had fired one of those rifles before. The snap of the flintlock and the acrid smell of igniting gunpowder recalled choppy memories of training for war. Surely, he had been a soldier, or perhaps in the navy, since he had been captive on an American ship. A sense of giddy relief filled him that he would perhaps find the answers today.
He dismounted when the lieutenant and the others did and was ushered into a small office. The door closed behind the lieutenant in a subt
le yet purposeful way. He didn’t hear a key in the lock but knew he should stay where he was.
An open window allowed some air into the musty room. He leaned against the casement and drew a breath. The scent of freshly cut pine and the soldier’s cooking fires outside revived him. His stomach growled. He’d eaten the last of the cheese and smoked venison Elias had given him the day before and had supplemented his food with the rations a kind farmer near the border had provided. With any luck, his debriefing would be short, and then he could go to a mess tent for supper.
Before he could dwell further, the door opened. Three men entered, one of them dressed in a colonel’s uniform and powdered wig, his face swelling above his black cravat like a pumpkin on a dead vine. The other two were a captain and the lieutenant who had found him. The captain seemed to startle at the sight of him but quickly regained his previous demeanor of bored efficiency to match the lieutenant’s. Samuel wondered if he’d seen it at all. He wanted to question him, but the colonel stepped forward, his hand extended.
“I see we have a lost soul returned to us. Lucky for you those damned Continentals didn’t capture you. What regiment are you with, sir? We will be happy to notify them you are alive and well.”
Samuel relaxed under the colonel’s fatherly gaze.
“I regret I do not remember. Unfortunately, I lost my memory a few weeks ago.” The longer he stood in the room, the more a feeling of unease crept over him. Behind the colonel, the captain was apparently trying to get his attention in a way that the others wouldn’t notice. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head. Confused, Samuel glanced from the captain to the colonel.
Andrew. Andrew Sawyer. He knew the captain. He was his friend.
Then why did Andrew not express any obvious recognition or greeting, but stand there as if he stared at a ghost?
His lost memory returned with a flood of pictures and sounds at exactly the same time the colonel’s smile dropped and his eyes widened into round circles. Sputtering an oath, he drew his sword from its scabbard with a metallic grind of metal scraping metal.
“Bennson! You traitorous dog! Is this one of your infamous tricks, stealing away in the dead of night and then coming back to do more harm? Or did you drown when you jumped ship and have returned as a ghost to haunt me?” Without taking his eyes off Samuel, he barked over his shoulder, “Hartley! Connors! Call for the guard to take this prisoner back to his cell.”
The lieutenant called for the guard. Two soldiers pushed through the door while the captain and lieutenant stood aside. Samuel knew not to speak to Andrew. Hartley. The colonel called Andrew by the wrong name.
And then it struck him. Andrew was a spy, like him. Only the colonel didn’t know about Andrew. He sure as hell knew about Samuel.
The soldiers seized him by the arms, and one dug the muzzle of a musket into his ribs. He cursed as they dragged him away, but some part of him was relieved he remembered. His name was William Bennson, and he was a traitor to the Crown.
****
William paced eight steps to his left and another ten to the back wall of his cell. The low ceiling caused him to walk with his head bowed. He scratched at a piece of loose plaster on the wall. Whoever had designed the brig must have been a short fellow, who gave no care to the larger size of potential prisoners. The feeling he’d been in a cell before, or at least, some sort of confinement, hit him hard, but he could not remember specifics. Just an overall sense of claustrophobia and the desire to break out. Perhaps his weeks roaming free at Lobster Cove and his travels through the Maine woods made it only seem that way.
Muttering an oath, he punched the ceiling. What had brought him to this sorry state? How could he be a traitor, yet know he was an American born citizen? The walls seemed to close in. He stopped pacing and sagged onto the edge of his cot, his head in his hands. The return of his memory had happened so fast he didn’t have time to sort through all the images and emotions at once.
He wasn’t married; he knew that for a certainty. No children, either. His home was far west of Boston, in a little town he hadn’t seen in years. His family was gone. There was no one like Abigail waiting and hoping for his return.
He had joined the American navy and later sailed on privateering ships, where he’d met Andrew Sawyer. Andrew told him about the elite group of spies being organized within the navy, and he’d eagerly volunteered.
He remembered with vivid clarity how he’d come to be on a British ship the fateful night a month ago. He hadn’t been a captive of the Americans at all. Far from it. Along with other members of the crew involved in their plot, Andrew and he were part of a supply run, impersonating British officers. Andrew, with his clipped accent and superior attitude, and himself, ready to supply the brawn and a quick aim should anything go wrong. But something had gone wrong. That part of the story remained a fuzzy shadow. Somehow, he’d ended up overboard and swimming for his life. By some miracle, he washed up on the beach and into Abby’s life.
Abigail. Her name cut him like a razor. He had to get word to her. Even if it were to explain what had happened, or just to tell her his true name, he had to let her know. He owed her that much. He rose from the cot and paced the small room again, studying each uneven stone until he thought he would go mad. He needed to speak to Andrew, but the man probably could not risk an association with a known spy. Despite his need to meet with him, he would not summon him and arouse suspicion. Perhaps Andrew would find an excuse to visit. With any luck, he could fill in the missing gaps of his memory.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor. William peeked through the window bars and stifled the words rushing to his lips. As if summoned by thought alone, Andrew and a guard walked down the corridor where they stopped at his cell. Andrew stood straight at attention and silent. Only when the guard walked away and the corridor was deserted did he enter the cell and close the door behind him. They stared at each other, neither wavering. William cautiously extended his hand.
“I’m not certain you remember me. William Bennson.”
Without a word, Andrew embraced him quickly, then clasped his shoulders with an iron grip.
“Hang it all, Will! I thought you were dead.” He searched his face, his brow furrowed. “What in God’s name happened to you?”
William almost laughed aloud that his memory had come back truthfully. Andrew released him, and they clasped hands.
“I don’t remember. All I know, I was in the water, swimming for my life. I washed up on a beach. What happened?”
“We were betrayed.” Andrew shook his head and cursed. “You were recognized by some American prisoners who knew you from Boston. They didn’t know why you were in an English officer’s uniform, barking orders at them. They called you out for a traitor, and the ship’s captain figured out the rest.”
A sigh heaved out of him. “How did I escape?”
“We were heading back to Fort Hardwicke when the storm came upon us, sending us closer to the coastline. Another American prisoner recognized the lighthouse, and said a strong man could swim to the shore. Said there was a sheltering cove. We discussed it, and planned to go.”
“Both of us?”
“Aye.” Andrew held his gaze. “We were best friends, Will. Do you not remember?”
And suddenly, he did remember. His childhood, his friend—everything. It seemed that the more he spoke of his past, the more his memory came back to him.
“I do.” Something terrible must have happened to separate them. He couldn’t imagine escaping while his friend remained on board.
“Our plot was discovered. Well”—Andrew gave a brief nod—“the plot concerning you, anyway. You wouldn’t give me up. The master-at-arms had you clapped in irons for a few days, and we feared all was lost. But then the sailor caused a ruckus on board, and while the limeys dealt with him, we readied our escape.”
He pointed at Will’s head wound. “You were shot. I thought it was fatal. You went right over the side. I pretended to be as flummoxed as the rest of
the officers, which is how I remained free.”
“What happened to the sailor?”
“What sailor is that?”
Will held his friend’s gaze.
“The one who helped me get away. You said there was a man who caused a disturbance.”
“So he did. An Irishman. The one who pointed out the cove. Lobster Cove, I believe. He had a tattoo of lobster claws and an anchor on his arm. I asked him about it once.”
“What happened to him?”
Andrew shook his head slowly. “He tried to escape, to join you overboard. He was shot in the attempt.”
“Killed, I presume?”
“Yes. I presume.”
He walked to the door and peered out the barred window at the empty corridor.
“What was his name?”
“Quinn. Or Quinlan. Something like that. What does it matter? The poor bastard is just another sacrifice in this horrific war. Were it not for him, you wouldn’t be here, causing more trouble and risking both our lives.”
Will couldn’t laugh at Andrew’s attempt at humor. He gripped the bars at the window and squeezed them until the ragged iron dug into his palms.
“The woman who found me on the beach—the one who saved me. I must get word to her. Is it possible?”
Even if it were only goodbye, better that Abigail know the truth than waste the rest of her life waiting for the impossible. Or a miracle. He was beginning to think they were the same thing.
“I will smuggle some writing implements to you later.” Andrew walked to the barred window and glanced around the courtyard. “It will be damnably hard to break you out of here, Bennson. You should have stayed in Maine with your lady love.” He cast him a quick glance. “I assume she is your lady. You have a terrible reputation of having a lass in every port.”
“That’s all changed.” His voice sounded tight. He released the bars and scrubbed his face with his hands. “Promise me you will send her my message.”
