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Authors: Lynn Collum

BOOK: The Captain
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A bevy of beauties had passed through his life and his bed since, yet not one had touched his heart. Or perhaps he'd kept them from doing so, knowing they would only use him as Mariah had. What was more important to him was that frail Blanchett girl—he froze. “Mr. Wormwood, did my father sign the betrothal agreement with Blanchett?”
“Aye, he did. Sent me his copy of the document.” The old man rose and went to a cabinet and pulled out a drawer, taking little note of the grim set of his visitor's face. Wormwood rummaged through the clutter for several minutes before he found the wanted document. “Blanchett made one advance payment the night they signed the papers. The rest was to be transferred into your father's account once Mr. Wilkins received the documents, but like I said, that never happened.”
Drew took the papers the solicitor handed him. He quickly perused them and understood the essence of what his father had signed. He was promised to wed Miss Jacinda Blanchett and they were to marry only if the lady so desired when she reached one-and-twenty. But no one knew where the child—Drew hesitated ... no, she was a young lady by now—where the lady might be. It suddenly occurred to him that life on his own had been rather hurly-burly. What had it been like for a mere child with only a country maid to take care of her? Whatever would the girl be like after so many years out of society, in the company of heaven knows what kind of people. He couldn't bear thinking about it.
The captain read through the papers, then glanced up at Mr. Wormwood when the solicitor spoke. “Do you intend to go to Rowland Park, Captain Morrow? I'm certain your father would be most happy to see you.”
Drew didn't know just yet what he would do. He'd expected to come and find out that his father was alive and well. He hadn't been prepared to hear that everything at home was worse than it had been when he'd fled eight years ago.
“I don't know, sir. I still have business here in London and my ship sails at the end of the month.”
“Captain,” the solicitor said, looking uncertain. “I know it's not my place to interfere, but you have a duty, if not to your father, then at least to your name. There is a cloud over the name of Morrow in your village. I don't expect you to care about a girl you scarcely knew, but at least your return home would go a long way to prove that neither you nor your father was involved in her father's death. Show the county you are willing to honor the agreement. I doubt it will be necessary; the girl isn't likely to turn up after all these years, no matter what the family solicitor claims.”
The captain nodded, but strangely he found that he did care about what had become of the girl. Likely there was nothing he or his father could have done to prevent what happened. If it turned out that the Morrows's need for funds was at the root of what happened, Miss Blanchett might have suffered for it for the last eight years. He couldn't walk away with no regrets. “I think I
shall
visit my father. Perhaps I should examine the facts of Blanchett's death and see if there is anything I can learn. Thank you, sir, and good evening.”
Minutes later the captain stepped into the street and looked in both directions, his mind too full of worries to think clearly. It was only a little after six o'clock, but the summer sun had sunk behind the buildings, leaving Oxford Road in growing shadows. The people passing by him on the streets hurried to get to the safety of their homes before dark. Like most seaport towns, London was a dangerous place after the sun went down, especially near the poorer sections like the waterfront.
Drew pulled out his watch and realized he was late to meet friends from Calcutta. They were probably already at the Three Cranes Tavern on the Thames. Unfamiliar with the large city, he hailed a hackney. His mind filled with thoughts of his father, he took little note of the grandeurs of London. He wasn't fool enough to take all the blame on his shoulders for his father's frailties, but Drew knew that he'd contributed to the baron's suffering by not performing his familial duty. Life on his own had taught him that besides friendship, the only sentiment that was real was the bond between parent and child.
As expected, his business partners awaited him at the inn. Captain Nate Robertson and Captain Harry Lyons, like Drew, had gone to India with dreams of riches. They'd met six years earlier in a waterfront tavern in Calcutta and formed a lasting friendship. The trio had found the path to what they sought by sailing the dangerous China routes on leaky old frigates belonging to others. Unlike most of their compatriots, who'd arrived in India from the slums of London or by family tradition, these three young men were from well placed families. Each had his own reasons to take to the seas. Later, they'd pooled their funds and purchased a small ship, which Nate, the eldest and most experienced, had captained while Harry and Drew continued to work for others. Within a year, the
Lucky Dragon
had made three very successful trips to the China coast and two more ships, the
Flying Dragon
and the
Golden Dragon,
were added to the fleet and the China Dragon Trading Company was born. It had proven a major success.
Nate and Harry asked no questions as to why Drew was late. They knew he had personal business in London that involved his father. In time he would tell them about his meeting if there was something they needed to know. The trio of friends dined and discussed shipping business but Drew had difficulty concentrating on matters at hand. At nine o'clock, he called it a night. His friends encouraged him to summon a hackney, but Drew refused. He wanted to walk along the wharf back to the
Flying Dragon
, hoping the stroll would help him sort out his plans. He owed a responsibility to the Morrow name, but there was an equal debt to his friends and business partners. He couldn't simply walk away and leave them in the lurch.
The summer night was unusually warm. A low coal haze from cooking fires hung over the river, giving the dying twilight a purple hue. He strolled along, paying little heed to the women on the game who called to him to sample their well-exposed wares. Burly sailors hurried past him on their way home or to the local taverns after their long voyages.
His thoughts dwelled on what it would be like meeting his father again. Theirs had never been a close relationship, but Drew knew he was as much to blame for that as his father. He'd been rather wild back then, his father often gone to London. He'd given little thought to anything but what he wanted. Did his father blame him for all that had befallen Rowland Park since?
Still, had Drew stayed and married that sickly child, would it have made a difference? The image came to him of what it would be like had he not gone off to seek his fortune: he would be five-and-twenty, fully dependent on his father and about to wed Miss Blanchett. Very likely he would have become one of those reckless young men who littered the English countryside with little to fill their days but mischief. The very thought was untenable.
Drew stopped at a bend in the river where he could see the
Flying Dragon
's stern in the distance. Lanterns had been lit by the night watch, the sails were furled, and the red flag with a black dragon swayed gently in the soft breeze at the rear. A sense of pride filled him. It hadn't merely been hard work that had gotten him his own ship, but determination and an innate ability to master the seas, as well as the good fortune to meet allies with a common goal. He was younger than most captains but his men trusted him and knew him to be fair and just.
In that instant he came to a decision. While he took care of matters at home, he'd have his first mate, Cedric Bradley, arrange a cargo for a local trip, perhaps to France or Dublin. That way—
Drew froze when a footfall sounded behind him. Before he could turn, his head exploded in a burst of pain and his world went black.
 
 
A ship's bell pierced the night air on the Deptford docks as two figures separated from the shadows and slipped along the newly built wharf. The pungent smell of briny muck and dead fish hung in the air, a sign that the tide was at low ebb. In the night sky a silver moon hung low above the horizon and glowed a bright orange through the evening haze. The intrepid pair paid no attention to the sights and smells that were so familiar.
Ben Trudeau, along with his friend, Gilbert Sprat, had business. They were in search of the masthead of the
White Heron
. It had sailed into harbor two weeks earlier but, like most inbound vessels, it was forced to sit at harbor waiting for a turn at the docks. London was one of the busiest ports in the world, especially now that the war with France had ended.
In the dark all the vessels looked alike to the two young men. “We ain't never goin' to find 'er in that forest of masts out there.” Gilbert sniffled—a remnant of the cold that had laid him low for the last week. He leaned forward to peer at the name painted on the nearest ship, as if he could read. What he really looked for was a great white bird with wings that protruded from the carved masthead. This design was unique in a time when most merchant ships sported beautiful carved maidens at their bows.
While the boys stood at the water's edge, a door to the Flying Fish Tavern opened some twenty yards down the way, spilling yellow light onto the cobblestone street. Several men stepped out into the night, their voices quarrelsome, their words indistinct.
Ben grabbed his friend's shirt sleeve and pulled him down behind some crates. “Hide, Gilby, it's the Gangers.”
Young Sprat didn't argue. He'd had a close call some six months earlier with a Press Gang up near the Tower. He'd heard the news that very afternoon that the Gangers were working the docks to replenish the
HMS Buckley's
crew, and the last thing the boy wanted was to spend the next twenty years sailing with His Majesty's fleet.
Gilbert rubbed his grimy sleeve under his nose as a sneeze threatened. Ben's eyes widened in fear that they would be discovered as the sound of footsteps grew close. He covered his friend's mouth with his hand and waited, hoping the Pressmen wouldn't hear. The fact that the boys had no nautical skills didn't matter. The captains of the fleet weren't so choosy when they found a young lad they thought trainable.
Within minutes, the burly Gangers dragged a protesting sailor past the crates. The captured seaman begged for his freedom, but the men paid him no heed. One of the Impressment men protested the poor pickings that evening. “We needs to move back to the East India Docks or the London Docks. Them tars ain't so slippery, Porter. We done good up there.”
Porter's voice echoed loudly over the open water. “Aye, we'll go after we hand this one over to Wimberly, if he ain't drunk a'ready.”
The men had scarcely passed when Gilbert sneezed, but fortunately it came out sounding like the squeak of a mouse. The footsteps faded and the area fell silent. Gilbert tugged at his friend's worn coat. “Let's go, Ben. I'm thinkin' we ain't goin' to be doin' no mudlarkin' tonight.”
At twelve, Ben was three years younger than his friend, but his sharp wit and ability to read had set him apart from the other lads in the rundown tenement house where he and Jacinda let rooms. He leaned around the crate and looked in both directions. “Ain't nothin' to fear. They're headin' back to the Rendezvous.” He referred to the place where the Impressment Service ran their operation at St. Katherine's by the Tower.
Gilbert took no comfort that the men were returning to where they kept their victims until they were transported to the navy. “It's early, them bully lads might come back if they ain't got their lot.”
“Don't worry so, Gil. There's plenty of places to hide. Besides, Timmons is expectin' us to be at the drop and he don't take kindly to lads what don't do as they ought. Don't dawdle. I want to be back home before Jack returns. You know I'm not to be out this late.”
Ben pulled his friend up and they hurried along the wharf. A quarter mile further down they found the masthead they sought—the wooden bird in flight. Without a word, Ben tapped his friend and gestured at the
White Heron
, grinning. The two lads headed to the ladder, which led to the muddy banks exposed by low tide. Gilbert was on the first rung down when two men darted from the shadows.
“Run, Ben!” Gilbert shouted, then jumped backward into the black void. The last thing he saw as he plummeted was a large cudgel aimed at his friend's head. He landed in deep mud and rolled toward the water in an attempt not to bog down. He'd been a mudlark, as they dubbed the lads who waded into the Thames to catch illicit booty from their accomplices onboard the ships, since he was eleven. He'd learned the hard way how unforgiving the slimy sediment along the banks was on a body.
Muddy, Gilbert struggled to his feet. He dashed west along the riverbank, his feet slipping every few steps. He heard the sound of pursuing footsteps on the wharf above him. Fear only drove him to run harder.
Gilbert sprinted until he almost dropped. His lungs hurt so much he feared they would burst, and the urge to cough nearly overcame him. At last, he could go no further. Gasping, he pressed his thin body against the damp pylons that lined the wharf and listened. The only sound was the pounding of blood in his ears. He'd escaped but the Gangers had Ben.

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