Beloved Captive (8 page)

A second look revealed she still sat atop the barrel, albeit just beneath the upper deck where the watch bell was situated. The bell rang several more times as Emilie collected herself and attempted to slow her racing heart.

Heat flooded her cheeks as embarrassment set in. Panic quickly followed as she patted her skirt in search of the hidden package.

She finally found it hanging much farther to the side than when she originally had donned the outfit. Obviously during her ill-timed nap, her underskirt had shifted with gravity and taken the package with it. Repairing the damage while above deck was unthinkable, but reaching her cabin without being seen seemed unlikely as well. She stepped off the barrel and did her best to hide the bump now protruding from her right hip by removing her bonnet and holding it atop the problem.
 

With one hand occupied, the other guided her around the corner and toward the passageway from which she’d come. Emilie had gone only a few steps on the pitching deck when the captain appeared on the quarterdeck above.

“A fine morning it is, Miss Gayarre,” the affable captain called down to her. “We’ll be making good time today.”

“Wonderful,” she said as she held the bonnet tight against her side. “If you’ll excuse me, Captain.”

“Indeed, we shall see port sooner than expected.” He lifted his spyglass to peruse the horizon, oblivious to her discomfort. Emilie seized the opportunity to slip away and had almost made it when the captain shouted, “Oh, mercy, no!”

His tone stopped her short. She looked up at the quarterdeck, then over in the direction where the captain seemed to be aiming his spyglass. On the horizon she saw some sort of sailing ship. If she squinted, Emilie could barely make out three large sails.

Nothing about the vessel distinguished it from the others they’d seen during their voyage thus far. When the bell above began to clang again and men scrambled from all points to gather on the quarterdeck, Emilie knew something about the vessel had caused the alarm.

“You’ll have to go below now,” the captain called down to her. “And I’ll have no sightings of you until someone from my crew comes to tell you ’tis safe to leave your cabin. In the meantime, take all safety precautions.”

“Safety precautions?”

“Aye,” he said, his tone agitated. “Bolt your door and do not light the lamp no matter how tempting the urge might prove. Answer no one lest they call you by name. In the meantime, we’re racing for Havana.”

“Havana? But I paid extra to—”

“Miss, those coins won’t do either of us any good if they’re in the hands of ruffians. Now do as I ask.”

Emilie nodded, her fingers fisted around the bonnet.

“And Miss Gayarre?” he called.

“Yes?”

“If someone comes to your door and does not identify themselves as a member of my crew or one of your fellow passengers, do not remove the bolt.”

“But that makes no sense, Captain,” she said. “Who would come to fetch me except someone from the
Sunday Service
?”
 

He gestured toward the approaching vessel.

“But that’s just a ship.” Emilie shielded her eyes and looked over the trim vessel for some sign of ill intention. “Indeed, it appears to be much the same as all the other vessels we’ve seen on this voyage.”

“Indeed it does,” he called down, “yet this one seems to be dogging our steps. Now, for a reason known only to her captain, she’s begun to chase us down. Could be she’s sailing under the Mexican flag and thinks she’s found her a slaver to hold until someone comes up with the taxes.” His chuckle was dry and humorless. “They call it taxes, but I have another word for it.”

“But we’re not slaving,” Emilie said.

The captain looked indignant. “Indeed not. Yet ours would not be the first to be boarded under the guise of checking.” He lifted the spyglass and held it to his eye, then lowered it slowly. “She’s too far off course, and she’s been toying with us too long. I’d not make her for Mexican navy.”

“Are you certain?”

He gave her a stern look, then dismissed her question with a wave of his hands. “Now get below and hide. I’ll not concern myself with womenfolk when the care of this vessel and its cargo is my first priority.”

Emilie gave the oncoming vessel one last look, then squared her shoulders and quickly found her cabin. The sounds above were muffled in her cell-like room, but nothing sounded amiss.

When the ship lurched, its sails obviously catching in the brisk wind, she let out a long breath. Surely no vessel was a match for this one. They would soon outrun whoever gave chase, and that would be that.

“And indeed all will be well,” she said, her voice echoing in the cabin.

The packet now bulging in her skirt, she made to repair the damage. Its weight and bulk, however, made hiding it impossible. Emilie sighed and crossed the cabin to open her trunk. Perhaps there was a way to remedy the situation.

She pulled an underskirt from the trunk and began work on adding a pocket much like the one she wore now. By the time she was done and the money distributed between the two hiding places, a commotion had begun above.

Men shouted. The watch bell clanged. Above it all came the sound of the captain barking orders that made little sense to Emilie’s untrained ears.

The shouting stopped and only the bell continued to pierce the silence. Emilie took hope in this. Perhaps the action above was not one of distress but one of welcome. Perhaps the vessel was merely following the same route and had clarified this with some sort of nautical signal.

“Lord,” Emilie said as she allowed the idea to sink in and become possible, “would You give that vessel and all aboard safe sailing to their destination?”

Within the hour, a man from the crew came to slip a note beneath Emilie’s door, and she lit the lamp for just a moment in order to read it. Dinner would not be served in the dining room for the vessel was still under full sail and in hopes of arriving in Havana at a time to be determined. Until then, all passengers were confined to quarters.

Confined to quarters? Her stomach complained, and she spied the trunk. “Thank you, Cook, for sending supplies.”

Emilie found her food quickly, then extinguished the lamp. She nibbled her meal in darkness, an odd situation all around. Somewhere between the rising of the quarter moon and the first light of morning, she fell into a fitful sleep. Awakened by the watch bell, she raced to the tiny window without lighting the lamp.

A deafening roar that could only be cannon fire shook the very floor beneath her feet. Emilie raced for the bunk and tucked her legs up under her. Remembering the captain’s warning, she retraced her steps to bolt the door.

Her heart pounding, Emilie felt her way along the wall until she found her bunk and fell into it. Overhead the sounds intensified until it sounded like the roof above her might fall away and a roomful of men shouting and running about would join her.

The ship rocked and shuddered but seemed to remain steady in the water. Thankfully no further shots were fired, leaving Emilie to return to her theory that it was all a misunderstanding.

She held to that theory until the first man tried to burst through the door. Even then, Emilie never considered she might be leaving the vessel by force.

Until the door splintered.

Chapter 8

May 27

Benning Plantation, Santa Lucida

Caleb held the letter carefully, knowing whatever it held would change the careful balance he’d finally found here on the island. His intention in riding to the highest point on the island had been to put space between his thoughts and the home he had come to share with his mother.
 

Caleb could see the green fields planted under his grandfather’s hand. Nearby, the
Cormorant
bobbed at anchor on seas so blue-green that it hurt his eyes to stare at them for long.
 

None of this, he realized with a start, bore the impression of his father. It seemed as though John Spencer’s political and judicial reputation in Washington did not extend to this far-flung corner of the world.
 

The horse stamped at the damp earth, likely as reluctant as he to remain still when so much of Benning Plantation lay before them. Truly Caleb had found he loved to sit astride a good horse, to give the animal free rein and hang on bareback while the creature flew over the earthy green fields and up into the hills. This mare, Rialto, was his favorite.
 

“Settle down,” he murmured as he patted the horse’s flank. “We’ll run soon enough.”

The letter slid out of his pocket and nearly tumbled to the ground before he caught it. As Caleb broke the attorney general’s seal, he held his breath.

Scanning the greeting and first paragraph, his gaze landed on the words he’d hoped for when he left Washington:
Proud to offer this promotion
.
 

“Promotion. Hurrah!” he shouted as a flock of orangequit took to the skies from their hidden perches in a nearby grove of nance trees.

Once again, he had to settle Rialto before continuing. The next sentence stopped him cold. He read the words again, then slowly said them aloud: “
 
‘. . . to the Department of the Navy.’
 
” After he finished reading the last line, he said, “But I’m a lawyer, not a sailor.”

“Well, that’s a pity,” Fletcher said from somewhere behind him. “For I had hoped to entice you to accompany me aboard the
Cormorant
today. I’ve a mind to test her sails a bit on an errand, and the day’s a fine one.”
 

“Well now.” Caleb swiveled to see his mentor walking toward him.
 

No longer did he have the shuffling gait, drawn complexion, and stooped shoulders of a man on the wrong side of health. The only sign of his injuries was the ebony and gold walking stick he barely depended on and the bandages Caleb knew were wrapping his shoulder and chest.

“What say you, lad?” Fletcher removed the ever-present pipe from his pocket and studied it, one hand leaning on the walking stick. “Are we to sail this morning or must I go alone now that you’ve stated you’re not a sailor?”

Caleb laughed even as he determined to steer the subject away from the words he hadn’t intended the old man to hear. “A sail, is it? You’re looking fit this morning.”

“Don’t tell your mother.” The older man stuck his pipe between his teeth. “I fear she’s taking her duties as my nurse quite seriously.”
 

“And I warrant you find nothing to complain of in her caretaking.” Caleb laughed. “Indeed, my friend, I wonder if romance is not afoot.”

Fletcher’s face turned somber. “I’ll not have you disrespect the memory of your father, Caleb Spencer. Your mother is a friend, and a friend only.”

“Disrespect?” Caleb thrust the letter back into its hiding place and dismounted. “What disrespect do I offer, old friend?”

He lifted his walking stick to point it at Caleb. “Your father was a man of great accomplishment and respect. It’s unthinkable to consider Mary-Margaret might look upon me as his replacement.”

Mary-Margaret. Caleb forced his expression to remain neutral.
Indeed, the old man is smitten.

Caleb snagged the mare’s reins and walked toward Fletcher. “My friend,” he said as he clasped his hand on the older man’s uninjured shoulder, “I have been remiss in thanking you for returning the smile to my mother’s face. She’s worn her widow’s weeds for far too long.”

Fletcher gave Caleb the stern look once reserved for correcting youthful misbehavior. “It is your return, not mine, that has your mother smiling. I am but a pet project that fills her time.”

“Yes, well,” he said as he nodded toward the ocean, “have you my mother’s permission to flee her care for an afternoon’s sail?”

Fletcher’s expression sufficed as an answer.

“Aye then. A sail it is.” He gestured to Rialto. “Perhaps you would like to ride?”

Fletcher shook his head. “Thank you all the same, but I’ll keep to walking, lad. I fear the jostle is not something that agrees with me just yet.”

“Then I shall walk with you.”

A short while later, with Rialto handed over to the stable boy, Caleb stood at the rail of the
Cormorant
. As the wind filled the sails and the island of Santa Lucida grew smaller, Caleb turned to Fletcher. “I suspect, my friend, this is not merely an afternoon’s whim. Where, dare I ask, is this vessel headed?”

“Havana,” he said without sparing a glance in Caleb’s direction.

“Havana?”
 

Fletcher nodded as he steadied himself with his cane. “Your mother’s idea. She did not specifically say as much, but my guess is she felt you needed some time away from the island.”

Caleb looked in the direction from which they’d just come. “And what purpose would this time away serve?”

“Lad,” he said, “long ago I stopped trying to understand the logic of women.” He smiled. “When your mother asked that I take part in this mission to save you from whatever she believes ails you, what was I to say?”

“Indeed.” Caleb leaned against the rail and watched as the vessel skimmed over the froth of waves, then parted a school of shimmering yellowfin tuna. “And how long am I to be banished from Santa Lucida?”

“I have no specific instructions on this,” he said, “so I cannot exactly say. She did instruct me to post a packet of letters.”

He turned his back to the ocean and braced his feet on the rolling deck. His mentor, a man who relied on a cane and wore bandages to bind him together, seemed to have less trouble remaining upright than Caleb.
 

Another reminder of Caleb’s life of academics rather than adventure.

“Post letters?” He made to smile in order to banish the comparison. “A rather thin excuse given the fact a postal vessel sails past Santa Lucida some ten days hence.”

Fletcher retrieved his pipe and studied it. “With Havana a day’s sail, my guess is we can see Santa Lucida again in two days, although three would likely please your mother.”

“Perhaps.”