Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (2 page)

* * *

Arms outstretched, Devon stood on the crest
of the hill overlooking the wide blue river, taking deep breaths.
Across the cove, on the finger of land known as Winthrop Neck, new
ships were being built, while to the south, tall-masted vessels
lined the bustling waterfront that was the hub of crescent-shaped
New London. The Thames was a beautiful river, and trustworthy
rather than treacherous. All manner of craft dotted it, including
the ferry that was making its way across from Groton Bank. Devon
shaded her eyes against the sun, counting the well-dressed men on
board. Could they all be coming to Nathaniel Shaw's meeting?

A dull boom echoed from the hills below New
London, followed by a puff of smoke outside Fort Trumbull. A cannon
had been fired to herald the arrival of a large, cargo-laden
brigantine, sailing up from the seemingly endless expanse of Long
Island Sound. Devon watched it approach, white canvas sails
billowing in the sunlight. She wondered where it had been and what
tales of adventure would spill from its crew that night as they sat
drinking rum or ale in the taverns.

Suddenly, damp hands covered her eyes.
Startled, she tried to wriggle free. Her basket tangled in her
assailant's arms and she pushed it between them, sending him
sprawling in the grass.

"Morgan!" Devon exclaimed.

"Devon, do you have to be so violent? I was
only having a joke." The boy got up, picking bits of grass from his
coat.

"I'm sorry." An irrepressible giggle belied
her words. "A girl can't be too careful, you know. You might have
been some wild-eyed sailor after a lone female."

Morgan snorted. "Why would he be grabbing
you, then? You're only twelve, just a child."

Devon frowned. “Have you already forgotten?
I’m thirteen, just like you!” The budding mounds concealed beneath
her bodice were her dearest secret. Perhaps she wasn't grown up
yet, but neither was she a child!

"You think you're so important because you’re
a few months older, Morgan Gadwin," she said hotly. "There isn't
one thing you can do better than I can, and until there is, you
just watch your tongue!" Devon turned away, adding over one
shoulder, "I have to pick berries today. You can help or not." With
that, she zigzagged down the grassy slope toward the nearest
thicket.

"Blast you, Devon!" Morgan yelled at her
back. "Don't go off mad! I don't know what I did, but whatever it
was, I'm sorry!"

She skidded to a stop, turned with a grin,
and put out her tongue. Typically, her irritation was over as
quickly as it had begun; she and Morgan had a dozen minor tiffs
each day.

Girls her age were too prim and well-behaved
to suit Devon, but Morgan was the perfect comrade. A quiet, rather
dull boy by nature, he was enchanted by Devon's tales of the
Caribbean and Europe, of life aboard ships, which she had heard
from her father and Nick. She spun vivid dreams of the adventures
that lay in her future, always including Morgan in the scenarios.
Until he had met Devon, he had supposed he would someday own his
father's drug shop. Those plans seemed impossibly drab now that he
knew he would grow up to explore the world with this bold, magical
creature.

He followed her now, his own descent slower,
more careful. He could never understand how she was able to charge
through the tallest, most tangled grass without falling.

"Devon!" he called breathlessly. "Wait! I
almost forgot! There is news—tremendous news!"

Morgan's frantic tone intrigued her and she
paused near the trees, watching him stumble across the meadow. The
sallowness of Morgan's narrow face emphasized his great brown eyes
and dark, wavy hair, which was coming loose from its ribbon. His
shoulders seemed so small, his body so uncoordinated, and Devon
remembered the splendidly made man she had crashed into on the
Beach. Could Morgan possibly grow up to be such a man?

"Devon!" he exclaimed, panting. "It's war!
The British struck at Lexington, but we were prepared. We fought
them to Concord. The word is that the Minutemen were one thousand
strong! The redcoats were finally forced to retreat. Master Hale
told us they lost three times more men than we—"

Devon stared, open-mouthed. "Morgan! Is it
truly
war?
Where did you hear this?"

"Of course it's true!" he shouted, his voice
cracking. "A post rider brought the news to the Shaw mansion, and
soon afterward one of their stableboys came running to the
schoolhouse. All the militiamen around Boston are being called.
Everyone is going! By the time I started up here, the word was
spreading across town; I've never seen such excitement! Just think,
Devon, the colonies are going to be independent at last!"

* * *

"Come inside, child!" Deborah scolded from
the doorway. "It's nearly dark."

Devon sat on the stoop, yearning to be at
Miner's Tavern to hear her schoolmaster speak. She had watched the
men of New London pass on their way to the town square and had
called out questions to old friends of her father. The news was
that Nathan Hale had closed the school and was joining a corps of
Rangers who were bound for Boston.

The New London militia unit was also meeting
tonight. In fact, it seemed that every male citizen was out in the
gathering darkness, for the excitement was fiercely contagious.
Important plans had to be made and each man wanted his voice to be
heard. New London had suffered the heavy-handed authority of
English law these past years, and the townspeople were eager to
join in this real, potent revolution against the Crown. New London,
with its superb harbor and sleek ships, could make a valuable
contribution.

"Oh, Mother," Devon sighed, twisting her
calico skirt. "I wish I were a boy—then I could go with Master Hale
to Boston!"

"Don't be foolish," Deborah returned sharply.
"You are full of silly dreams. You have no idea of the real world.
This war will be a curse to New London. There will be privateers
everywhere, the West Indies trade will be smothered, we'll lose all
our best men and ships, and Lord only knows how I'll keep this shop
going—"

"Privateers!" Devon breathed, thinking again
of the dashing Captain Andre Raveneau.

"Don't look so spellbound. They will be our
own ships, manned by Connecticut boys who will be as full of
romantic dreams as you are. Adventure!" Deborah said venomously.
"More likely hardship—and death."

Devon barely heard her mother's words. The
meeting Nick had gone to... it must have been to plan New London's
sea strategy. She could scarcely wait to speak to him and learn all
the details.

"I want you indoors," Deborah said tiredly.
"I have tasks for you, left from this afternoon. We shall be forced
to work harder than ever, Devon, now that the war is begun."

"Yes, Mother. I'll be along in a moment."

Devon listened to her mother's footsteps
retreating to the rear of the shop before she stood up. Distant
voices that grew clearer caused her to linger on the stoop. A
shadowy quartet approached and Devon could soon distinguish
Nathaniel Shaw, Jr., New London's most prominent citizen, flanked
by his friends Gurdon Saltonstall and Zedidiah Nicholson. The
fourth member of the group was the much younger Nathan Hale.

The men were engaged in a spirited
discussion, but Nick glanced up as they neared the Linen and Pewter
Shop and smiled at Devon's straight little form. Despite the
darkness, he was not surprised to see her outside.

She needed no further encouragement. Dashing
into the street, she blurted, "Gentlemen, please excuse me! May I
please bid farewell to Master Hale?"

She looked up at her clear-eyed teacher,
piercingly conscious of the impact he had had on her life. Plainly
dressed, he wore no wig, and his hair was drawn back into a simple
queue under a tricorn hat.

"Thank you, Miss Lindsay," he said. "I hope
you will continue to study. You have an excellent mind, and I
expect you to have made great progress by the time I return to New
London."

"Oh, I will, I will. I promise! And, sir... I
wish you good fortune in Boston."

"I am grateful for your concern," said Hale,
smiling slightly at her fervent face.

"Devon!" Deborah called impatiently from an
upstairs window.

The four men murmured, "Good evening," and
Devon backed away until she had reached the doorstep. Her hand
found the latch, but she continued to gaze after the group until
Nathan Hale's shape was swallowed by the night.

***~~~***

October 20, 1780

New London glowed with autumn's deepest
colors. Leaves of crimson, gold, rust, and saffron blanketed the
stone walls that bordered every road; pumpkins lay fat and orange
on their vines; bright red apples dripped from orchard
branches.

Devon, at eighteen, seemed an additional gift
of the season. Her cloud of strawberry-blond curls and her soft
creamy skin were more beautiful than ever against the fiery leaves,
and the sight of her on the street lightened the hearts of the
war-weary citizens.

On this October afternoon she strolled toward
the Beach, a faded hatbox swinging on her arm. Deborah had labored
for hours over the bonnet that Nick had ordered for his wife's
birthday, a perfect copy of a European original. Devon had stern
instructions to deliver it directly to the Nicholson home, yet she
could not resist the urge to make a detour along the waterfront.
Pausing in the shadow of a Shaw warehouse, she surveyed the
activity on the docks. True to her mother's prediction, war had
changed New London. The past five years seemed like a dark
eternity.

The town itself harbored nearly sixty
successful privateers, and the anchorage was used by vessels from
all over America, even Europe. Many New London men had chosen to
join the army, and ships had been built for the State and
Continental navies, but privateering was supreme. Privately owned
vessels had been armed and fitted out at their owners' expense for
the purpose of capturing enemy craft, and everyone—owners, crew,
and the government—divided the booty. Five years ago it had all
seemed a great romantic adventure.

Devon thought sadly of the night she had said
goodbye to Nathan Hale. Eighteen months later the young captain she
had so admired had disguised himself as a Dutch schoolmaster to spy
on the British who occupied Long Island. He was discovered and
hanged on September 22, 1776. Too many men, men she had known since
birth, were now dead like Mr. Hale, or imprisoned.

New London lived under a cloud of fear; even
now Devon could see a great British ship anchored to the south in
Long Island Sound. The townspeople expected to be attacked at any
moment and there had been countless false alarms, leading to the
evacuation of all women, children, the ill, and the elderly.
Devon's heart tightened at the remembered nightmares: screaming,
sobbing, praying all around her as wagons rumbled out of town in
the middle of the night.

Less than a month ago General Benedict Arnold
had conspired to surrender West Point to the British. Though his
plot had been discovered, he had escaped, and New London continued
to reel under the shocking blow, for Arnold had grown up just ten
miles north, in Norwich. Until now, his exploits had been a source
of deep pride to everyone from the area. Disillusionment and
mistrust abounded. Neighbors and lifelong friends suspected one
another of being Tories; several had actually admitted their
loyalties and left for British-occupied New York town, including
the local Anglican minister.

Despite the dark days and harsh realities
that had been thrust on Devon, she still passionately wished that
she were a boy so that she might sail off to fight for America's
independence. No one cheered more loudly than Devon when Fort
Griswold's cannon fired the three-shot signal to greet the latest
privateer returning with its prize. Her heart would swell with joy
and pride at the sight of the rakish craft sailing up the Thames,
laden with cargo from British ships. Devon knew that New London was
truly hurting the British, and she was convinced that the hardships
of the past five years had not been suffered in vain.

A chilly breeze swept off the Thames and
Devon stepped into the sunlight. Approaching the docks, she scanned
the sleek, lightweight vessels at anchor and strove to appear
nonchalant in her search for the
Black Eagle.

She saw
him
first, shouting orders on
the deck of his ship.

Many of the captains and officers who sailed
privateers had achieved glamorous reputations, but none could match
Andre Raveneau, who at thirty-two had become a legend. Men thought
him the most daring, successful, and charmed of captains; women
knew only that they went weak in his devastatingly handsome
presence. Raveneau had given his time, his expertise, and his
beautiful privateer
Black Eagle
to the American cause for
reasons he chose not to discuss. Of course, averaging a dozen
prizes a year, he had become abundantly wealthy, but there were
plenty of less hazardous ways to pursue riches. Because of
Raveneau's fearlessness and his ability to succeed in the face of
seemingly impossible odds, townspeople whispered that he was allied
with the devil.

Devon watched as he jumped lightly to the
wharf, her heart racing and palms icy. Raveneau had fascinated her
for five years, though he was dangerous-looking, his dark face
chiseled and unsmiling. He strode past Devon, but she might as well
have been a barrel of molasses for all the notice he paid her.

As he disappeared around the corner, Devon
wondered why he didn't look at her the way other men did. In the
past two years strangers had begun to stare openly at her
blossoming figure and exquisite face. However, since most healthy
eligible males had gone to war, most of these admirers were either
old men or adolescent boys...