Captain Of My Heart Read online

  The other ship came alive. A shot banged out in reply, skipping through the waves and hissing into the sea a quarter mile away. Canvas tumbled from her yards, someone cut her anchor cable, and she leaned hard over, showing her belly as she fell away with the wind.

  “Very well, then!” Brendan raised his trumpet once more, grinning. So they wanted to play, did they? He glanced at the little mite standing at the gun dubbed Freedom, and felt his jaunty good spirits fade to trepidation. If having the lad there was Liam’s idea of a joke. . . .

  “Ease the main a wee bit, Mr. Wilbur! And Mr. Starr! You may run out now!”

  Behind him came a protesting squeal as the big gun was moved up to its gunport. The little gunner, his face tight with concentration, flung his braid over his shoulder and crouched down beside Freedom’s ugly snout.

  “Point your gun!”

  Handspikes, the crowbar-like instruments used to heave and lever a gun into position, lifted Freedom’s mouth. Her heart pounding, Mira gripped her linstock, wiped the snow from her eyes, and sighted along the barrel. The iron was cold against her cheek. With the sea heaving Kestrel up and down and her target a dim shape in the snow, it was going to be hard to hit Caper’s hull, let alone her mizzen.

  “Maximum elevation, Mr. Starr!”

  She felt every eye upon her. Brendan, resplendently handsome, clinging to the shrouds and watching her intently. Liam, his arms folded confidently across his mighty chest. Dalby, his teeth clamped down on a clawlike hand. And the crew, elbowing one another in the ribs and making bets on whether or not she could do it.

  The Irish ones, that was. The Newburyporters knew better.

  Catching Bobbs’s eye, Mira sighted one last time along Freedom’s snowy breech, stepped back to avoid the recoil—and lowered her match to the vent. With a mighty roar the gun flung itself inboard, coughing a cloud of flame and smoke from its angry mouth. The crew rushed to the rail, and a great, awed sigh rose up from their midst.

  “Holy Mutherr o’ God.”

  It was Liam, white-faced and shocked, and staring at her with a strange, frozen grin on his beamy features. Behind him, Mira saw the brig’s mizzen topple into the sea, dragging a tangle of spars, rigging, and sail with it. There was no need to load up again. That one shot had destroyed the nerve of the brig’s crew. Already the Union Jack was slinking down in defeat.

  Liam’s throat worked as he tried to find words. Beyond him Brendan was staring at her, his mouth hanging open and his speaking trumpet dangling uselessly from his wrist. The crew, turning from the rail as one, had gone mute. At last Liam shook his head. “That was mighty fine shootin’, er, Mr. Starr.”

  “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  Brendan was still staring at her.

  Kestrel, however, was not impressed, taking her skills for granted and as though they were her due. She came up on the defeated brig, confident and assured, and fretting rather impatiently while her captain sent a prize crew across to man it. The brig was disabled, but with the wreckage of her mizzen cleared away, she could still be sailed. And then both victor and vanquished swung their noses through wind and snow, sails shivering and filling once more.

  They were just clearing the point of the cove when the lioness came after her cub: HMS Viper, a frigate with thirty-two guns and a new captain at the helm.

  A new captain, hell-bent on revenge.

  Richard Crichton.

  Chapter 13

  It had been two days since the confrontation between Kestrel and HMS Viper, a confrontation that had been disastrous as far as the Royal Navy—and especially Captain Richard Crichton—were concerned.

  “Not good, Richard.” Sir Geoffrey Lloyd cleared his throat and turned another page of his frigate captain’s report. “I daresay, not good at all.”

  The great cabin of the seventy-four-gun ship of the line Dauntless was drafty and cold, but Captain Richard Crichton was sweating beneath his shirt and fine blue coat. Aside from his pale, milk-colored eyes, his physical attributes were quite unremarkable; his height, his build, even his face, which might have been lost to its own fairness if not for the naturally red-rimmed eyes and lusterless hair that didn’t seem to grow from his head, but rather, to lie atop it like sparse and lifeless thatch. Currently that hair was yanked bank in a severe queue between his blocky, epauletted shoulders, and only his fingers, not resting atop his sword hilt but caressing it as they might a lover, gave any indication of his agitation. His face was a carefully schooled study of acceptance, for he knew better than to respond to Sir Geoffrey’s remark. Instead, he drew himself up a little straighter and stared over the admiral’s sloped shoulder, his eyes cold, his mouth harder than marble and his heart burning with hatred for a certain American privateer.

  Sir Geoffrey turned another page, and a trickle of sweat raced down Crichton’s back.

  Brendan Jay Merrick. The very name brought a bitter taste to Crichton’s mouth. After the exchange of British and American prisoners that had returned him to Sir Geoffrey’s fleet, Sir Geoffrey had given him a less than enthusiastic welcome when he’d come aboard Dauntless last autumn—and had been skeptical about giving him command of another ship. But Viper’s ex-captain had died in action, and the frigate had needed a new one. Otherwise, Crichton would’ve had to wait months to get another command.

  And now Merrick had made him look like a fool once more.

  A muscle jumped in Crichton’s jaw. He should’ve made sure the bastard was dead four years ago—

  “I say, Richard, this is balderdash, all of it.” The admiral was still bent over the reports, his brows cinched as he tried to read Crichton’s words. The bloody bugger should’ve retired long ago, Crichton thought. Maybe he’d do them all a favor and keel over dead one of these days. But of course, that would put the fleet’s command under Sir Geoffrey’s flag captain, the haughty Hiram Ellsworth—a pompous prig whom Crichton despised.

  He far preferred Sir Geoffrey.

  The admiral sighed and turned another page. Crichton sweated some more. Across the table, Ellsworth shot him a lofty, condescending grin and reached for his snuff. Crichton ignored him. He’d spent hours rewriting that report, trying to spare himself as much humiliation as possible. It was taking the old goat just as long to read it. Crichton bit the inside of his lip and maintained his stiff poise. Dread tightened his gut. The report was not exactly . . . flattering.

  Finally Sir Geoffrey pushed the papers aside with a tired motion, leaned his brow into his hand, and pivoted it in his palm to gaze up at his frigate captain. “What I cannot understand, Richard, is how the devil a thirty-two-gun frigate such as Viper could be outmaneuvered, outfought, and then robbed of her own company! This is a disgrace!”

  “Preposterous!” Ellsworth exclaimed.

  Crichton’s fingers tightened on the sword hilt. “I told you, sir—it was Merrick.”

  That, of course, explained everything. Sir Geoffrey dug the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbed them tiredly, and stared bleakly down at the report, now pinned beneath his elbows. “Are you sure, Richard?”

  “Positive, sir.”

  “I’d thought him dead. I suppose I should’ve known better.”

  “We all should’ve known better, sir.”

  “A fine young man, a credit to the navy that made him. And a disgrace to the country he’s turned against. I daresay I’m glad to hear he’s hale and healthy, but damme, Richard, he is a thorn in our side. God rot it, I’m growing too old for this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What?”

  “That is, yes, sir, he is a thorn in our side.”

  Sir Geoffrey turned away to stare bleakly out the salt-caked stern windows. A faint smile of remembrance curved his stern mouth. Brendan Jay Merrick. His former flag captain had been a laughing young rake with a mirthful grin and the cleverness of a fox. As a lieutenant, he’d been commendable; as a captain, he’d been the best. God only knew what he would have made of himself had he not incited that mutiny four years
ago on Dismal’s decks before being shot down by a rioting seaman, for ’twas men like Merrick who made the British navy proud. Men like Merrick who became public heroes.

  And men like Merrick who made the most dastardly foes.

  Sighing, Sir Geoffrey picked up a brass protractor and absently toyed with it. Merrick’s Irish luck, it seemed, was stronger than ever. Any man who could survive a gunshot wound could certainly survive being swept out to sea on a piece of driftwood, which was what Crichton’s last report had revealed. But intelligence, especially when it concerned events in the colonies, could not always be relied upon. No, he wasn’t surprised to hear that Merrick was alive. He wasn’t surprised to find that the young rake had turned up again when they least expected him.

  And he wasn’t surprised to hear about this schooner.

  She was a dangerous thing in herself, by the sound of it. But in the hands of Captain Brendan Merrick . . .

  His smile faded abruptly. He didn’t need this; he really didn’t. Yanking the reports toward him, he squinted and tried once again to decipher Crichton’s crabbed script, finally shoving the papers away with a sound of disgust and annoyance. “A pox on the written word, Richard! My eyes are killing me. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  “Of course, sir.” Crichton straightened his shoulders and gave him a pale, flat stare that revealed no emotion whatsoever. “I had taken Caper, an American brig of fourteen guns, and put a prize crew aboard her under the command of Lieutenant Sanderson.” His voice was calm, as though he were discussing politics over tea. “It had been snowing off and on throughout the day, and by nightfall the wind was blowing quite a gale. Near dusk, I brought Viper into open sea to wait it out. Sanderson sought shelter in a cove. Shortly after dawn I heard gunfire, and went to investigate.”

  “And?”

  “’Twas then that I found the schooner.”

  The vice admiral leaned back in his chair. “Ah yes . . . the schooner.”

  A muscle twitched in Crichton’s iron-hard jaw. “She was the most singular ship I’ve ever seen. Tall, raked-back masts, a low profile, very little freeboard . . . quite similar to those clippers coming out of Baltimore, I’d say. She already had my prize brig, Caper, under her wing and was making off with her when I happened upon them. I went after her, of course, given the fact that she alone was obviously worth far more than Caper and all her cargo.”

  “And it was at this point that the brig parted company with the schooner?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ellsworth placed a bit of snuff in each nostril with the precision of a marksman. “I would’ve gone after the brig, it being a prize and all. I say, Crichton, d’you know what became of it?”

  “Presumably, it was sent back to an American port,” Crichton said tersely.

  “Gentlemen,” Sir Geoffrey warned, noting the mottled flush creeping above Crichton’s neatly tied stock. There was no love lost between these two. “Please continue, Richard.”

  Crichton moved his thumb rapidly over his sword hilt. “Sir, this is really most humiliating.”

  “I realize that, Richard. It is humiliating to you, to me, to the entire Royal Navy. But the problem must be dealt with in a fitting manner. And Merrick, if not dealt with, will become quite a problem indeed, I’m afraid.”

  Crichton drew in his breath. It was all there, right in the report, yet still, the old buzzard wanted him to relate it all over again—and in front of Ellsworth, too. Crichton clenched his back teeth together, hard. Hell would freeze over before he’d give either Sir Geoffrey or the pompous Ellsworth the satisfaction of seeing him react in anything but a professional way. No matter how poor his luck had been, no matter how political the system was that placed men like Merrick, whose father had been an admiral himself, and Ellsworth, whose father was an earl, in coveted positions, there was always a chance for promotion.

  Except this time, Merrick might have destroyed his chances for good.

  Again, that bitter taste in his mouth, that twist of hatred in his gut. Sir Geoffrey was waiting, his bleary old eyes keen and piercing. Another trickle of sweat raced between Crichton’s shoulder blades, but he managed to keep the uneasiness out of his voice. “So then I crowded on as much canvas as Viper could stand, which, given the strong wind, sir, was not as much as I would’ve liked, and gave chase to the schooner. I thought her most sloppily handled—the rebels had too much sail on her, and it seemed as though she’d overset herself at any moment. At the same time, I found it odd that despite all that cloth, she wasn’t making much headway.” His milky eyes grew hard, their translucency emphasized by the pink-tinged lids. “I know now, of course, that it was all a trick. They’d simply rigged a sea anchor to make it look as though she was faltering.”

  “Sounds like Merrick, all right,” Ellsworth sniffed.

  Crichton shot him a poisonous glance.

  Sir Geoffrey tossed the protractor to his desk. “Go on, Richard.”

  “After a turn of the glass, I realized the schooner was no longer faltering, that she was indeed a fast sailer and quite skillfully handled. She’d adopted the ploy to lead me away from the brig, of course. I fired upon her, hoping to cripple her, but barely managed to clip her wings, so swift was her flight once she’d cut loose the sea anchor.”

  Sir Geoffrey gazed down at the report to hide his expression. Ah, Merrick, he thought, even now, you don’t disappoint me. He looked up and found Crichton’s gaze upon him, those strange, milky eyes as barren as the Arctic and just as cold. Sir Geoffrey’s smile faded abruptly. “Given what you told me about the schooner, I don’t find it surprising that she led you a merry chase, Richard. But I think you’re avoiding the real issue—the engagement.”

  Crichton’s knuckles whitened on the sword hilt. “The schooner was most elusive, sir. And let me remind you it was snowing hard. The wind was a westerly, yet she headed almost into the teeth of it. ’Twas most remarkable—”

  “The engagement, Richard?”

  “Er, yes, the engagement.” Crichton faltered, and went on. “I chased her into a cove, sir, where she holed up, turned on her heel, and presented her broadside to me. The channel into the cove was too shallow for a vessel of Viper’s draft, so I went in as far as I dared. Had it been deeper, I could’ve brought all of my guns to bear, and that would’ve been the end of it; as it was, I could only use my bow chasers, while the schooner, safely in the cove, could give me her full starboard battery. This, of course, she did.” Crichton willed himself to stay calm, knowing that his story must lead up to the most humiliating part of all. “We stood this abuse for an hour, sir, during which time I lost my fore topmast and received considerable damage to both bowsprit and hull. We couldn’t get in to get her, and she damn well wasn’t about to come out.”

  “So you retreated?”

  “I, er, left, sir. I don’t wish to think of it as a retreat.”

  Ellsworth made a snorting sound.

  Crichton’s eyes flashed.

  Sir Geoffrey rustled the loose pages of the report. “So it was then that you decided to go in search of the brig instead. Is that correct, Richard?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And shortly thereafter you found the schooner trailing you and were forced to engage her once again?”

  “Had she not had the element of surprise, sir, I vow that the outcome would’ve been different!”

  “I thought you said Merrick was commanding her,” Ellsworth taunted.

  “Please mind your tongue, Hiram,” Sir Geoffrey warned. “You’d not have fared any better, I daresay.”

  Ellsworth snorted and reached for his snuff.

  Sir Geoffrey kneaded his aching brow. “So it was during the following engagement that you lost your main topmast, your rudder, and subsequently, your steering. Merrick must have a damned good gunner aboard to accomplish all that with a vessel whose armament was far inferior to yours.” He looked up and met Crichton’s flat and unblinking stare. “At least I can commend you for not striking your colo
rs. In a sea fight, of course, anything can happen. I shan’t blame you for your conduct, despite the fact that Merrick had fewer than half the guns your Viper did.”

  “And they were very well used, I might add. And if that damned schooner hadn’t slipped up like a ghost behind us and crippled us with her first shot, I vow she would’ve been my prize and I’d have had Merrick dancing a jig from his own bloody foremast!”

  A heavy silence ensued. Outside, the sea gurgled beneath the rudder, and cries drifted down from above as the first lieutenant gave the order to tack. Sir Geoffrey stared thoughtfully out the huge windows, his eyes distant and maybe even a little sad. Then, remembering himself, he picked up a page of Crichton’s report. “So it was at this point that you anchored Viper to make your repairs.” He set the paper down and shook his head. “This is where I grow confused, Richard. What I can’t fathom is how the devil forty-five men could just disappear!”

  “They didn’t just disappear, sir. They were stolen from me! The bloody bastard did it that night, when Viper was quiet and most of the watch asleep—”

  Sir Geoffrey nodded and motioned for him to continue.

  “Midshipman Everett had the watch. Being only twelve years old himself, he didn’t see anything amiss about two boys in a fishing dory trying to sell him part of their day’s catch. He let them aboard, the idiot. Apparently, while he was speaking to one of them, the other managed to slip this, er, note to one of the seamen. And that’s all it took. By dawn, forty-five men, including a good master’s mate, were gone.”

  Sir Geoffrey gave him a sharp look.

  “Oh, have no fear, sir. The little midshipman has been, er, dealt with.”

  Sir Geoffrey looked away, his jaw hard. He had no delusions about Crichton’s manner of “dealing” with people—but as an admiral, and above such things, it was not his place to interfere with the way Crichton ran his ship. That was Ellsworth’s duty, and he would speak with the flag captain about it later; let Ellsworth stress his desire for temperance to Crichton, who was not apt to be very temperate at all.