Prize of My Heart (10 page)

“I must. I remove my socks so I can feel the worms in the grass with my toes, or how else will I find them?”

“You won’t need worms today. We have a beautiful lunch here, which we are about to eat. You’re not going anywhere, young man.”

From the corner of her eye, Lorena saw Brogan’s smile as she removed a jar of pickles from the basket. She lifted another of boiled eggs, only to spot something unexpected behind a pot of raspberry jam.

“Oh, Drew, look. Look who clever and thoughtful Mrs. Culliford packed for you,” she said, plucking Captain Briggs up by the collar of his blue jacket to hold him aloft. “I’m surprised you didn’t think to bring him for yourself.”

As Drew glanced up from picking his toes, Brogan sprang forth to snatch the doll from her grasp.

“Captain Briggs,” he whispered in a voice thick with emotion and hoarse with wonderment. He took close inspection, turning the doll over in his hands.

Drew jumped to his old friend’s rescue, stretching forth his hands in a silent plea for his return, but Brogan held fast to the doll. “I would have thought him long gone, but I see you’ve managed to hold on to him all these years.”

Drew’s eyes rounded at Brogan, as Brogan stared intently back at him. His gaze rolled over the boy with, if Lorena’s eyes did not deceive, a look of intense love and pride.

“Drew carries him everywhere,” Lorena said, attempting to include herself in whatever was happening, but Brogan had eyes only for the child. He placed Captain Briggs reverently into Drew’s chubby little hands. Lorena turned her attention from Brogan to the doll, thoroughly confused, trying to look at Captain Briggs with the same fascination.

“Brogan, how is it you are familiar with Captain Briggs? I do not recall mentioning him. Drew, have you been showing the captain your doll?”

The boy shook his head no.

Brogan seemed to gather himself before speaking. “Forgive me, I merely meant to comment on the doll’s age. He looks quite worn. He must be well loved and a very special doll if you carry him everywhere, Drew. How long have you and Captain Briggs been together?”

“All my life,” the child said, positioning Captain Briggs in a seat against the jam pot, whereupon he immediately burst into a sermon on the virtues of the raggedy captain. As master of his own home, Drew insisted Captain Briggs would one day occupy a place of honor at his dinner table. Anyone who disapproved would not be welcome.

Lorena had begun to notice Drew no longer referred to Brogan as “the giant.” He was more at ease, more outspoken in Brogan’s presence, as was his nature. And she understood perfectly what was going through the child’s mind. Although he might be allowing a new friend into his life, a friendship with a new and different captain, Drew needed to affirm—not only to Brogan but to himself as well—that his loyalties remained with his old friend Captain Briggs.

She and Drew were obviously both experiencing the same inner tug-of-war. They each felt a bit of reserve, some timidity, but at the same time excitement to be welcoming this unlikely stranger into their lives. What a surprise to find themselves opening their hearts to a man they once mistakenly viewed as a threat.

A new captain and yet . . . something about him so familiar . . .

“Oh, your coat,” she cried, as it suddenly occurred to her. “That is why your coat intrigued me at the launching. It is the same coat Captain Briggs wears, isn’t it?”

Brogan nodded. His expression had sobered. “A blue military coat with pleated tails, red facings, and brass buttons. It is the uniform of an American privateer captain.”

“Not just a sea captain, but a privateer captain,” she mused. “That still does not explain how it is you know of Captain Briggs.”

“Captain Briggs was my commanding officer on the privateer
Wild Pilgrim
, and it was he who made the recommendation I be given command of the
Black Eagle
. The
Wild Pilgrim
employed a sailmaker, a Mr. Thomas Pinney, who being skilled with a needle made costumed dolls in his spare hours. He was commissioned to craft a doll in the likeness of a privateer captain, and we on board christened it Captain Briggs. This is that doll. I would recognize it anywhere. I have never seen another like it and have at times wondered what became of it.”

Lorena got a chill at the mention of a seaman commissioning Drew’s doll. She’d known of his existence of course, but never his name.

With all the colorful and dangerous experiences one would expect filled a privateer captain’s career, why would the crafting of a child’s toy stand out in Brogan’s memory?

Drew listened, intent on every word, though Lorena doubted he understood their full meaning. She was certain, however, he sensed their import. They spoke of a papa he’d been too young to remember, yet still he mourned.

“Who gave you this doll?” Brogan inquired of the boy.

Drew’s soft cupid’s mouth rounded. He glanced from Captain Briggs to Brogan and stared as though seeing him with fresh eyes.

“My papa gave him to me,” he said.

“He means Papa Huntley.” It was not the truth, but then it was the story given to all who asked, so to Lorena it hardly felt like a lie. “My father gave him that doll.”

Brogan turned to her, disbelief in his eyes. What reason would he have to doubt her? This could not possibly be the doll he spoke of. There could be no connection between Brogan Talvis and Drew’s toy. Only she and her father knew that Captain Briggs had been taken from a Boston townhouse that had long ago burned to the ground. Those associated with that place lay silent in their graves.

“Obviously this sailmaker stitched more than one doll,” she said.

With his melancholy blue eyes, Brogan Talvis drew her into the scrutiny of his gaze. He probed her conscience, until Lorena felt her heart pound against her rib cage. Her cheeks burned.

The enigma surrounding the captain deepened. Now Lorena had something new to disrupt her thoughts, something not so comforting and deeply puzzling.

L
orena enjoyed Brogan’s attentions in the days that followed.

Together they’d stroll with Drew along the beach, at times venturing far enough to admire the view from Harmony Bridge over the Bluefish River. Sometimes they’d cross Squire Huntley Road to stand on the wharf. Drew would sit upon Brogan’s shoulders as they watched the
Yankee Heart
’s trim and spars being fitted out.

Huntley shipwrights oversaw the erection of each of the three masts, and once completed, the riggers set to task. Working high in the masts, others on deck, they wove an elaborate network of hemp rope, which was then trimmed with square sail, all new canvas, crisp and bright, until the running rigging had been completed from jib to royals.

Lorena found something so natural about Brogan’s interactions with Drew, as though he had been with the boy countless times before. In moments like those, it was not the ship
Yankee Heart
that captured her attention, but its captain.

He’d once called the boy Ben. And then it seemed Brogan had been acquainted with the sailmaker who’d crafted Captain Briggs. Was it just coincidence or did he know more than he let on? Should she be alarmed? Did she have reason to suspect him? Suspect him of what? Lorena sensed no ulterior motive in Brogan, merely a genuine regard for all members of her family. More, she saw something decent and good in him, an innate strength of character she had grown to trust.

No, the warning nagging her spirit these many weeks was not to do with Captain Brogan Talvis.

Now, weeks into the fitting out of the
Yankee Heart
, Brogan had embarked on a business excursion with her father. Papa was off to Boston to meet with his cordage supplier—John Gray & Son, the famous rope makers.

But Brogan and her papa were not the only ones departing on a journey this day. Jabez Smith had left for Rhode Island to assemble the
Yankee Heart
’s crew, and very shortly the brig
Lady Julia
would weigh anchor on a course set for England, George Louder aboard her.

Lorena waited with Temperance on the cobblestone street of a busy Plymouth seaport, preparing to say farewell.

Crates, hogsheads, and barrels lined the wharf while the waterfront buzzed with activity and an assortment of inharmonious sounds that nearly deafened her. Sailors shouted from the docks, some in foreign languages. Great drays loaded with merchandise rumbled over the cobbles. Shoppers milled about the sidewalks of the hardwares and groceries. Blacksmiths, carpenters, and coopers hammered at their trades, and the air reeked of tar and oil from the refineries, candle factories, and ship chandlers across the street.

Amid the chaos, Lorena grew sentimental. More than waving good-bye to an old acquaintance, she was, in a respect, bidding farewell to the past and starting anew. This morning Brogan promised to return from Boston with gifts. When he had asked what she would like, Lorena assured him she did not need anything for herself, thank you. But he insisted, so she confessed that she had misplaced her thimble.

The pleasant thought vanished the moment Lorena noticed George returning.

He came alone.

She hastened to meet him. “George, where is Drew? You promised you would keep careful watch over him.” The boy had asked permission to accompany George during the loading of his trunk.

George dismissed her alarm with an indulgent smile. “He’s with Edward. They’ve gone to fetch the bag of tools I left in the carriage.”

Edward Hicks could be trusted, and Lorena turned her focus to George. Now that the moment had arrived and he would leave their lives forever, she did not quite know how to say good-bye.

Not so Temperance, who was never at a loss for words. “Godspeed, George. We shall miss you. Will you miss us?”

George stuffed his hands into his trousers’ pockets and bowed his head. He kicked a stone across the cobbles. “I shall. I suspect England shall seem quite tame without Temperance Culliford in residence.”

Temperance giggled. “Oh, George.”

Slowly lifting his gaze, he stepped forward while withdrawing something from his pocket—a folded note, Lorena saw—which he immediately pressed into Temperance’s palm. “For you. But, please, promise me you shall not read it until after I’ve gone.”

Temperance nodded, flustered and slightly embarrassed, though not half as surprised as Lorena, who wondered why
she
did not get a note.

George turned to her then, drawing Lorena into his stare until she grew uncomfortable. She handed him the still-warm packages in her hands.

“These are for you, George. The remainder of the cider cakes we had with tea, and your favorite—a couple of mince pies. I baked them for you . . . for your trip.” She pecked him quickly on the cheek and stepped back, unable to look him in the eye.

Her gaze strayed behind him, where she caught sight of Edward Hicks strolling toward them, a carpenter’s tool bag tucked under one arm. She grew alarmed.

“Edward, where is Drew?” she asked in an accusing voice.

The shipwright’s brows creased, and a look of concern washed over his face. “Why should he be with me? When last I saw him, he was with George.”

“What are you saying, Edward?” George’s voice rose excitedly. “You must have seen him. He followed you. I swear to it.”

Edward scowled. “Of a fact, I left him with you, George. If he had followed me, I would have kept my eye well on him.”

“Meaning to say that I did not?”

“Two grown men to look after him, and neither of you knows where he’s gone?” Lorena bounced her annoyance from George to Edward, infuriated with them both for not minding Drew, infuriated with herself for entrusting the child to them.

“How could this have happened? Edward, no one is more responsible than you. And, George, Drew would never disobey you by running off.” She darted a glance across the wharf. Lorena tried to remain calm, to hold the panic at bay, but already queasiness was forming in the pit of her stomach. “A busy waterfront is no place for a small boy to wander alone.”

A small hand slipped over hers and squeezed Lorena’s fingers. “We shall find him,” Temperance assured. “Drew’s a clever boy. He knows better than to stray far.”

George nodded. “Edward, do you suppose he could still be aboard the
Lady Julia
? Let us go check.” He tugged at his friend’s sleeve and started toward the brig.

Edward made to follow, but Lorena stopped him. “No, let me go.”

George regarded her a moment, then tucked his bundles under one arm and offered her his hand. He turned to the others with renewed enthusiasm. “Edward, while we’re gone, would you be so kind as to go back to the carriage for another look? Temperance, you had better wait here in case Drew returns on his own.”

He led Lorena away, hastening toward the
Lady Julia
. He swept her into a bustling scene of activity and at a pace more expedient than Lorena could have managed on her own.

She’d heard seedy tales of the waterfront, even horrors involving children. They’d no time to waste, and suddenly Lorena found herself putting her trust in George and in the quick manner he had taken control.

With her free hand she held on to the rope alongside the gangplank as they boarded. She was feeling somewhat light-headed as she stepped onto the deck and grabbed the rail for support. Already the wind was snapping the white cotton sails. Between the noise and commotion of the passengers, those working the brig and others still trying to load last-minute baggage and supplies, it was unlikely Drew would hear his name being called.

“I’ll search forward,” George shouted, releasing her hand, his voice echoing strangely in her ears. Suddenly she wasn’t feeling so well. “You check the stern.”

Lorena knew her way around a vessel, as did Drew. When he was not to be found on the main deck, she wended her way to the waist of the brig, where the last crate of chickens and wooden casks of grog waited to be stowed. Pausing at the fore hatchway, she made one last sweeping appraisal of the area before descending the ladder below.

The boy could be anywhere if he were playing an imaginary game of captain, as he’d played only recently with Brogan when they inspected the
Yankee Heart
. Or had something happened to Drew already? Was this the manifestation of her uneasy feelings these many weeks?

She hoped she was overreacting, but it did not help her fearful disposition, this sickening dizziness that had come upon her. And in this state Lorena could not tell whether it had been brought on by physical or emotional distress.

She followed a small, dark companionway that reeked of the whale oil burning in the lamps. They creaked on their chains. The fumes irritated her eyes as she made her way down into the cargo hold. At the bottom she found very little air or light. She covered her mouth to hold back the bile rising in her throat, then steadied herself with a breath before calling out Drew’s name.

It returned unanswered in a cavernous echo.

Above decks a shrill whistle blew, and then Lorena heard the cry, “All visitors to shore!”

Her head swam dizzily. This time she could not shake it off. She needed to make haste, to return above for a breath of air, but found herself unable to move swiftly as she grew increasingly unsteady on her feet. For caution’s sake, she tread deeper into the hold, calling for Drew, until she was forced to stoop for lack of headroom. Other than a scuffling of tiny rodent feet among the barrels, her cries were met with silence.

Lorena began to pick her way back toward the companionway, convinced Drew had not ventured this far below, when a shadowy figure descended the ladder. Hopefully George had come to tell her the boy had been found.

“Hello,” she called. “George? Are you there?”

The brig rolled heavily. She straightened, grappling for balance, only to hit her head with a shattering crash on a crossbeam. Lorena cried out, the pain nearly blinding her, blazing through her skull. She staggered forward. The vessel pitched suddenly and she was hurled flat onto her face. A wave of nausea overtook her and she heaved onto the deck.

Was someone there?

As she waited for aid, her stomach settled, but relief vanished the instant she tried to raise herself from the puddle of her own mess. Nausea returned afresh, immobilizing her. Lorena could scarcely raise a brow without the movement making her so ill she felt she would die.
What is happening to me?

She retched again.

Footfalls sounded nearby and then a pair of black buckled shoes with thick heels stepped into her line of vision.

Lifting her face, she drew a shaky breath, but the stench of vomit and lamp fumes combined with bilge water and waste odors sickened her. She reeled dizzily, her skull throbbing from the blow, while blackness seeped in from behind her eyes.

“George,” she croaked on barely a whisper. Why wasn’t he answering? “Help me.”

She grew fainter, having lost any sense of balance. Was the vessel in motion or was the swaying inside her head?

Panic started her heart racing. With her last moments of consciousness, Lorena lamented she had failed Drew. Then all went black.

Lorena awoke with a flutter of her lids, and through the blur and grogginess a face fell into focus.

The face of a handsome, well-groomed woman of thirty-plus years. A cluster of tight reddish-gold curls gathered at her temples like two rosy bouquets. She gazed down on Lorena with concern, pressing a damp towel to Lorena’s brow and then again to the side of her neck.

The woman’s expression offered comfort, and in response Lorena managed a smile.

“You are awake.” The woman balled the damp linen in both hands, her eyes widening before she returned the smile. “Won’t Mr. Louder be pleased. He’s been terribly anxious.”

Memory of recent events returned and Lorena jerked upright. “Drew!”

Her chest constricted in panic. She attempted to rise, but the sudden movement brought a wave of nausea so fierce, she’d time only to roll on her side before heaving. Thankfully a commode had been set beside her berth.

Lorena swooned, but the red-haired woman slipped a hand behind her neck, supporting and guiding her upright. “Rest easy, Miss Huntley, please. Don’t fret. Mr. Louder is just outside the door.” She brought a small cup to Lorena’s lips and, at Lorena’s hesitation, explained, “It’s salt water. Drink it. It will help settle your stomach.”

Lorena nearly gagged on the stale, salty water yet managed a swallow. Her head ached, though she began to orient herself.

Perched on the edge of the bunk and stripped down to her chemise, she surveyed the narrow, windowless compartment and tried to think. A second bunk stood against the opposite wall along with a bench chest, one large traveling trunk, and a lantern swinging by the closed slotted door. She recognized the rolling motion of the ship, quiet and still but for the occasional squeak from the jaws of its boom. A lonely, eerie sound.

“How long have we been at sea?”

“Thirty, forty minutes,” the woman explained. “You’ve been quite ill, soiling your clothing, in and out of consciousness. Brought on by the bump to your head, I believe, in addition to a bout of seasickness.”