Surrender the Dawn (16 page)

He lowered the scope. “Make all sail, Biron!” he shouted, turning to seek out his first mate and nearly knocking him over in the process. Biron’s aged face crinkled in excited anticipation.

Luke winked. “And clear for action.”

Swerving about, Biron bellowed across the deck, “You heard the captain. Make all sail, gentlemen! Up topsails and stays. Clear the deck!”

With an excited gleam in his eye, Mr. Keene, who was standing amidships, piped the crew to quarters. Men swarmed over the ship, some leaping into the shrouds and scrambling aloft to set sail, others clearing away barrels and ropes and anything that wasn’t bolted down, while the rest dropped belowdecks.

Destiny
rose and plunged over a wave, sending sparkling foam over her bow as her decks buzzed with excitement. Shaking the hair from his face, Luke drew a deep breath, gathering his courage and wit—he’d need every bit to succeed.

Mr. Ward emerged from the companionway and headed straight for Luke, his tiny eyes aglow like the bundle of burning wicks in his hands.

Luke restrained a laugh at the man’s enthusiasm. “Ready the larboard guns, if you please, Mr. Ward.”

The gunner cracked a smile before turning to shout orders down the hatches. Soon men emerged from the waist hatch carrying round
shot, powder bags, langrage, and grape from the magazine. Other sailors grabbed muskets and pikes from the arms chest and ran up the shrouds to take their places at the tops.

Luke gazed aloft. Loosened topsails thundered and flapped hungrily, seeking their airy breakfast as the crew hauled upon the halyards. Suddenly the canvas gave a hearty snap as its belly gorged with wind.
Destiny
sped forward, cresting a massive wave. Balancing his boots on the heaving deck, Luke swung about as sea spray slapped his face. He shook it off and ran a hand through his hair.

Nigh a mile before them and under a full press of sail, the merchantman fled for her life. Ribbons of foam shot from her stern. Yet
Destiny
gained on her. Luke leapt onto the quarterdeck and nodded toward young Sam. The boy’s hands gripped the wheel, his eyes alight with excitement. “Steady as she goes, Sam. Keep us positioned off her larboard quarter.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

The wind roared in Luke’s ears and tore at the loose strands of his hair. He shoved them into his tie and fisted his hands at his waist. Scanning the deck, he watched as Mr. Ward’s men hovered over the guns, loading and priming them while the gunner stood ready with his handful of slow-burning wicks. Above him, the men in the tops, those who weren’t trimming sail, held their muskets at the ready should they move in close enough to spray the enemy deck with deadly shot.

Luke shifted his gaze to the brig. She sat low in the water, which meant her hold was full of cargo. Wealth for him and Miss Channing. He had to do this. He could not fail. Wind whipped past him bringing with it familiar taunting voices.

You couldn’t even save your parents. How can you win a sea battle?

Shaking them off, Luke swallowed down a burst of dread and clenched his fists.
God, help me,
he breathed more out of impulse than as an actual prayer, but like every request he’d made of God, his words were quickly swept away in the wind.

After two hours of running hard before the wind,
Destiny
came within range of the merchantman. Dark clouds bunched on the horizon, stirring the sea like a witch’s cauldron. The sting of rain spiced the hot wind spinning around them. The change in weather did nothing to ease Luke’s fears. “Bring in the studding and topsails,” he ordered Biron. No sooner did the first mate repeat the orders than a yellow flash followed
by a puff of gray smoke shot from the brig’s stern. A second later, a thunderous boom cracked the sky.

“Hit the deck!” Mr. Keene yelled. The crew halted and stooped, arms braced over their heads.

The shot splashed impotently off their starboard bow.

Luke gripped the railing. “Bring us athwart her stern, Sam!”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”

Stomping across the main deck, Biron spouted orders that sent the men aloft to trim the sails to the wind.

“Aim for his rigging, Mr. Ward,” Luke shouted.

“Aye.” With a crazed look in his sharp eyes, and his hair flailing about in the wind, the gunner looked like the ghost of some ancient sea battle.

The ship tacked to starboard. Sails thundered above. Luke spread his boots on the heaving deck and took up a position behind the guns. He squinted as the sun glinted off the polished brass. Biron came up alongside him, dabbing his neckerchief across his forehead.

As
Destiny
came around, bringing her larboard guns to bear, the stern of the brig rose from the sea like a barnacle-encrusted whale. Crewmen scurried around a stern chaser perched on her railing. But they would be too late. Luke hoped. Though he couldn’t be sure. For one well-placed shot could damage his rigging beyond repair. A blast of hot wind struck him even as the low rumble of thunder laughed at him from the horizon.

“On my command, Mr. Ward.”

The gunner distributed the burning punks to the men at each gun.

Destiny
leveled out keel to stern as she glided past the brig.

“Fire!” Luke yelled.

Smoldering sticks flew to touch holes atop the guns. Four deafening roars shook the ship from stem to stern, flinging a broadside of grape and langrage at the merchantman. A wall of gray smoke crashed over Luke, stinging his eyes and stealing the air from his lungs. Coughing, he spun about, cupped his hands, and shouted aloft, “Unfurl tops!” Then charging onto the quarterdeck, he turned to Sam. “Hard to starboard, Sam.”

“Hard to starboard, Cap’n,” the boy repeated and the ship jerked, the deck canted, and Luke clutched the quarter rail to keep from falling. White foam hungrily licked the starboard railing. The blocks creaked and groaned from the strain.

Another ominous
boom!
sounded behind them. Luke turned to gaze at the enemy. A spiral of smoke drifted from her stern. The shot struck
a rising wave twenty feet off their larboard quarter. Luke’s crew cheered.

Raising the scope, Luke studied the brig. Sailors raced frantically across her deck. Her main topmast was shot away. Rigging and sails cluttered the deck below.

“Bring her about, Sam.” Luke lowered the glass. “Let’s give the British another taste of American hospitality.”

Sam’s eyes sparkled. “Aye, Cap’n.”

Several minutes passed as
Destiny
maneuvered for another round. The ship creaked and complained like an old woman, yet she held tight beneath a full set of sail. Pacing the main deck, Luke gazed at the men in the tops adjusting canvas then down at Mr. Ward’s gun crew as they prepared the starboard guns and elevated the quoins beneath the gun breeches to aim once again for the brig’s rigging.

The eyes of every crewman shot to Luke, awaiting his next command. This time, not a trace of doubt could be seen within them.
You always fail.
The insidious voice clawed over Luke’s soul, tugging on his newfound confidence.

No.
Drawing in a deep breath of air tainted with gunpowder, Luke lengthened his stance. No. Not this time.

Destiny
swooped athwart the brig’s stern once again. Only this time, the enemy was ready. Luke could make out her crew lighting the touchholes of two stern chasers.

“Fire!” Luke bellowed just as two yellow flashes speared out from the brig.

Boom boom boom boom! Destiny’s
four carronades belched black madness, sending wave after wave of thick smoke back over the deck. The timbers trembled beneath Luke’s boots. Coughing, he shouted orders to veer to larboard. The direful swoosh of shot sped past his ears, parting the haze and striking wood with an ominous crunch. More shots screeched past him like hail. The sound of canvas ripping filled the air. A scream of agony. Luke’s heart clenched. Fear crowded in his throat.

When the smoke cleared, he marched to the railing and glanced over the main deck. He spotted Biron.

“Damage report.”

White eyes, stark against a black-sooted face, stared up at him. “A few tears in the sails and rigging, sir, and the aft bulwark is crushed. Mr. Rockland’s arm was nicked. Nothing else of note.”

Luke nodded, relieved, then raised his scope and found men dashing
over the enemy brig in a state of frenzy. Their entire main mast had cracked and fallen in a tangle of sailcloth cordage and shattered spars, spreading over their deck like a giant spiderweb of confusion.

Luke snapped the hair from his face and smiled. “Bring her about, Sam! Stations for the stays!”

Luke had her. One more broadside and the British merchantman would be his.

Destiny
hauled on the wind as the brig began firing once again—the Englishmen shooting wildly and hitting nothing but sea. Which meant they were desperate and frightened. Good. Luke marched across the deck as the ship flew through the heavy seas, plunging into the rollers and shooting spray into the air in brilliant showers. Soon they came within fifty yards alongside the brig.

Mr. Ward’s brows raised in anticipation.

“Hold on. Steady now,” Luke said.

Mr. Keene crossed his arms over his embroidered waistcoat, a smile of victory on his face.

“But they’re preparing to fire on us, Cap’n,” Mr. Ward said.

Luke’s glance took in the men aboard the brig, frantically buzzing around their guns. But Luke was a gambling man. And he gambled that in their haste, the brig’s gun crew wouldn’t hit their target. The seas had grown rough and their shot must be timed perfectly with the roll of the waves. They would waste it, and then Luke would have them.

He hoped.

He rubbed the sweat from his scarred palm and gripped the railing.

The thunderous growl of the brig’s three guns sliced the darkening sky. But the shots sped overhead and landed in the churning waves off
Destiny
’s larboard side.

“Fire!” Luke yelled and the carronades roared, pummeling the brig with yet another broadside of grape shot.

Smoke once again clouded Luke’s vision, but distant screams of agony accompanied by the crack and snap of wood told him their shots had hit their mark. When the haze cleared, he smiled at the sight of the Union Jack being lowered in surrender.

The air returned to his lungs. Wiping the sweat from the back of his neck, he felt the tension slip from his body. He had won his first battle. If there was a God, Luke would thank Him for the victory.

If there was a God.

A cheer rose from his crew as all eyes shot to him. “Let’s hear it for Captain Heaton!”

“Hip hip hurray. Hip hip hurray!”

Though his insides swelled at their approval, Luke raised his fist in the air. “For America!”

“For America!” they shouted in unison.

“Put the helm down and bring us alongside her, Sam,” Luke ordered.

Biron slapped Luke on the back. “That’s some fine sailing, Luke. Your first prize.”

Luke stared at the brig as she lowered her sails. “I hope there’ll be many more.”

Luke gazed out the stern windows in his cabin, rising and falling over the moonlit horizon. The
tap tap
of rain struck the glass and slid down in chaotic streams. Though the rough seas had not abated, he and his crew had still managed to board the brig, assess her damage, round up her crew, and inventory the cargo.

Mr. Sanders cleared his throat, and Luke spun around.

The purser adjusted his spectacles and read from a parchment in his hand. “Glass, white lead, coffee, flour, sugar, silk, Holland duck, burgundy wine, and rum, Cap’n.” Greed sparkled in the man’s oversized blue eyes.

“That should bring us a fair price.” Biron commented from his seat in the velvet-upholstered chair. “Not to mention selling the brig itself.”

“Aye.” Mr. Keene rubbed his jeweled fingers together. “I’m beginning to like this privateering.”

“Me too!” Sam punched the air. “You sure took it to those Brits, Cap’n. I never seen anything like it.” Admiration beamed in his eyes.

Biron passed a stern look over the three men standing in a line before the captain’s desk. “We aren’t in this trade just for the money, gentlemen. Our country is at war. And each British merchantman we capture means less money in our enemy’s coffers.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance as the ship pitched over a wave, swinging the lantern hanging on the deck head and casting shifting shadows over the cabin.

Luke nodded and circled his desk. “I quite agree.” Though he needed the money—needed it desperately—he hated the British tyrants even
more. “We must do our part to frustrate the plans of the enemy or one day we will wake up and find our liberties stolen from us.”

Mr. Sanders continued staring at the list, clearly unmoved by the patriotic speech. “Would you like me to add up the value of the cargo and conjecture on what we can expect to receive?”

“If you wish, Mr. Sanders.” Luke leaned back against his desk and crossed his booted feet at the ankle.

The slight man pursed his thin lips. “We may not get what we hoped. The government takes a huge share in custom duties, I’m afraid.” He looked up and tugged on his cravat. “Perhaps we should appoint one of the men as prize master and send him and the ship to port while we capture another one.”