How many journeys had he made? He’d lost count of them all. He stood frozen in place by the capstan, a prayer for safety and wisdom on his lips, and looked up through white, stinging sleet, barely able to discern the lookout high above. A frostbitten business on such a day. Once upon a time he’d climbed the mizzen rigging and ratlines like Hermes, clutching his spyglass all the way. But now all he wanted was the leaping hearth’s fire of the cottage and Esmée’s company.
That night in his cold cabin, he sharpened a quill and opened his leather journal.
We got under sail with a snow. Heavy seas.
He would not pen his own feelings about the matter. If I could have jumped overboard and swum back to the island, I would have.
Their goodbyes had been whispered in the lighthouse shadows, a dozen lingering kisses in between. He’d pressed his lips to her hair. Her fragrant throat. The little hollow of her shoulder.
And then the next morn, once the Intrepid was far enough out that the island was reduced to a mere speck, he’d turned his back toward Esmée, not trusting his reaction. But her memory held, as real and intoxicating as if she’d been standing on the quarterdeck beside him.
All day Esmée had been restless. Had Henri really been away but a sennight? It seemed far longer. Sewing could not hold her. She had no taste for tea. A discarded novel lay at hand. By nightfall, a chill had trailed down her spine that had little to do with the change of weather. It sent her to her knees at sunset, a peculiarly scarlet sunset bright as holly berries. Or blood. Kneeling beside the trunk of letters Henri had left her, she bent her head, hardly knowing what needed praying for.
Lord, You are with him wherever he is. I know not. Please hedge him and his crew from harm and bring him back to me.
Henri missed the sound of birds singing. The drowsy warmth of a hearth’s fire. The scent of baked bread. The sigh of the wind in the trees and firm ground beneath his feet. Not screeching gulls or the knifelike wind. Nor tasteless ship’s biscuits and endless water—one moment blue and the next silver, always uncertain, at the whim of wind and weather.
But mostly he missed her.
Taking up his spyglass, he studied the handsome French frigate at a distance. Till now they’d not come to close quarters with the enemy. Just two false alarms from English merchantmen before this. But now . . .
His soul went still. “All hands clear the ship for action.”
At his command, organized chaos ensued, everything scuttled on behalf of the guns. The galley’s fire was put out. His own quarters became almost unrecognizable as furnishings were shoved aside and all munitions were prepared to the last detail.
Chasing the French had never been so straightforward. They’d been at sea only a sennight. Now with the enemy bearing toward them, he could nearly smell the powder and smoke. Already his body seemed to brace for the coming confrontation, the roar of cannon and oft fatal splintering of wood. His aim was not to sink the vessel but put the enemy cannons out of action and capture the crew and ship.
Before his steady eye, the frigate changed course. Seconds later the Intrepid gave chase. While they bounded after the Sauvage on a favorable wind, netting was fitted over the decks to shield the crew from debris, and numerous casks of water were prepared for fire. Cyprian and two other lads sprinted past, strewing sand everywhere. The lookout shouted what Henri had been prepared to hear. The enemy frigate was part of a fleet of five merchantmen, perhaps the very ones he’d been advised were carrying troops and provisions, important personages, and critical documents.
“Ship cleared for action, sir,” came the call from the quarterdeck.
He steeled himself for what was to come. A battle fleet such as theirs might prevent an outright declaration of war and save the colonies the cost in untold lives and materials.
Still, despite the mounting melee, Esmée danced at the corners of his conscience, making what transpired more critical than it had ever been.
He swung his spyglass in another direction. More enemy ships amassed over the horizon now, the topsails in plain view. He trained his glass on them, his heart shifting from a dull thud to a roar between his temples. Five ships of war to dismantle. Could there be more? His crew worked feverishly as the Intrepid rolled, preparing to discharge shot fit to cut rope and tear sails in an instant.
In the chaos he’d forgotten the weather. The scent of rain filled his senses. The start of a squall? A rainstorm would shroud these ships and hinder the action. But better rain than snow. He shivered, more from foreboding than the cold.
Lord God Almighty, help.
Behind the Intrepid sailed a force of Royal Navy ships. Henri held the lead, gaining on his prey until the Intrepid was close enough to fire two shots across the French frigate’s proud bow. The Sauvage heaved to with a great shudder and splintering of wood, its crew frantic and furious. His men gave a loud cheer, which was followed by a shuddering thud as one ball raced past him, making him reel. Another struck the Intrepid’s hull.
Through the smoke he could see the Sauvage’s main topmast fall. In that moment, his own helmsman plummeted to the deck. Cyprian stumbled and stared down at the lifeless body, his own face masked in blood. At once Lucy’s entreating face flashed to Henri’s mind.
“Go below and tend to your wound,” Henri yelled to Cyprian as shot poured forth all around them.
Nearly deafened, he barked orders as he sought to stay ahead of the storm and scatter the convoy, leaving the farthest-lying French ships to the Royal Navy. His prize was before him, the frigate that he sensed held the most important cargo, human and otherwise. His gaze swung to the frigate’s deck, where a great many Frenchmen had fallen as the Intrepid ran alongside her, both pointed north.
“Lie down between the guns!” he shouted to his men on the main deck, mere seconds ahead of enemy shot ravaging them like a hailstorm.
He himself stayed standing while the Sauvage became incapable of the fight and its captain surrendered just as the sun sank lower on a now fiery horizon. With a few words, Henri sent an armed party aboard her. He stood by the taffrail, hands fisted behind his back, taking in every detail of the ship he’d just maimed. It was a masterpiece of French shipbuilding for the Marine Royale, launched from Brest most likely, a prize of extraordinary proportions for the British. Forty guns from the upper deck to the gaillards.
In minutes, the French captain faced him—grim, eyes flashing—and burst forth in a volley of fury that even Henri was hard-pressed to follow. Chest heaving, Henri continued to give orders as the British flag was hoisted and announced the frigate’s capture. Rain began spattering, blessedly cool amid the heat of the fracas but making the decks a shocking stream of scarlet. Few of his men had been killed, but many were wounded, dulling the victory.
No more, Lord, no more.
A cluster of women appeared, huddled by the companionway. French officers’ wives? They stared at him in mute misery, their stricken faces white as sailcloth. Choosing his words with care, he instructed them to board the Intrepid, but they hung back timorously as if going to the guillotine instead. Finally they made their way onto the deck, their rich silks and fur-lined capes held up above the mess as the captured officers and crew followed.
Even as the thunderous battle of other ships played out all around them.