There was a bold statement. Likening a woman to his precious ship. Ah, what matter? Any less praise would be an injustice, for here she came now in a silver gown of Empire fashion, dotted with tiny lavender flowers. The dropped shoulders and short puffy sleeves exposed her white throat and slender arms, of which his eyes could not drink their fill.
As she reached his side, Brogan harnessed his energies into playing the role of a gentleman shipmaster. He greeted Lorena with a formal bow, then directed her attention aloft to the Yankee Heart’s bow and the ladder she must scale in order to reach the main deck. Drew waited up there for her, looking down over the rails alongside several other very excited Duxboro boys and several of Huntley’s workers preparing for the launch.
He removed the bottle tucked under his arm and presented it to her. The champagne had been awarded him from a prize cargo. Brogan had saved it in the hopeful anticipation that one day this moment would arrive.
“You know what to do then, I presume?” He did not pause for her answer, but continued, “Tie the stem of the bottle to that short piece of halyard on the bow, and once the ropes have been cut and the ship takes to water, you let go of the bottle and say—”
“I know what to say, Captain. Far better than you, I daresay. You were not raised in a shipyard.”
He blinked at her impudence, then saw the twinkle in her eye and burst into a grin. Could it be? Was Miss Huntley flirting?
Brogan wished he did not feel the blood so warmly beneath his skin as he leaned forward to whisper, “I shall meet you as soon as I can get away. Good luck.”
He guided her to the ladder, holding it steady behind her as she made the climb up the Yankee Heart’s side, where Huntley’s men received her and helped her aboard. The bottle was tied, and Brogan watched as she stepped gingerly out onto the large spar extending out from the stem of his ship. Drew stood beside her, encouraging her on.
When Lorena was ready, she looked down at him and nodded.
The thrill of the moment rushed through him. Brogan gave the signal. The axes were swung, severing the ropes that held the weights and kept the props in place and the cradle from sliding. His stomach knotted in anticipation.
At first there was nothing but his racing heart. He kept his eye on Lorena and she on him, and even though people thronged about them, Brogan felt as though he were sharing this moment with her alone.
A great creaking arose from the Yankee Heart. Brogan sensed Lorena holding her breath along with him.
As the ship began to pull away, Lorena gripped the bottle’s stem and shouted, “I christen thee Yankee Heart!” She dropped the bottle and it went flying and then swung back against the bow with a spray of shattering glass and a shower of champagne. “Success to all who sail her!” Lorena cried out.
“Success to this ship!” the crowd shouted back.
The Heart gathered speed on her way down the incline into the Bluefish River. She hit the water with a mighty splash and the spectators erupted. They cheered. They tossed their hats in the air. People thronged about, congratulating him. Brogan searched, but Lorena had disappeared from off the bowsprit.
“Have you ever been to Russia, Captain?” Nathaniel Huntley asked once the numbers had begun to disband.
“Russia, sir?”
“Precisely, Captain. Russia. That is one of the places I’m considering sending my new fleet. Ladoga, Russia, to bring back Manila hemp and iron for the purpose of making our own ropes, tools, anchors, fittings, and the like. We shall discuss it in detail at a later time, once you’ve finished celebrating,” he promised, clapping Brogan soundly on the back.
Did Huntley think of nothing besides economics? And what was there to discuss? Brogan had already explained he had no interest in a partnership. Nay, something else entirely occupied his thoughts. Someone, rather. And as he scanned the faces before him, Brogan realized it would be several moments more before he could steal away to meet her.
A flash of white-gold curls caught his eye, and Brogan glanced down to find his beautiful young son had returned. The boy stared curiously at his privateersman’s coat. Having spent so much time searching above the crowd, he’d failed to appreciate what awaited beneath his nose. Brogan squatted before the boy and offered him his hand.
“Truce?” he asked. He longed to hold the lad as he remembered, to fill his arms with his precious child and give thanks for the breath that filled his tiny body. But three years had stolen all recognition, and if Brogan could not embrace his son, he would settle for a handshake.
At Drew’s worried frown, he explained, “You’ve proven yourself as skilled as David with a sling. I’d do well to call you friend and not enemy. So what do you say, Drew? Will you make peace with the giant?”
Drew narrowed his eyes in a scrutinizing stare, as if debating whether to trust Brogan or not. He crossed his arms. “I don’t shake hands with pirates.”
The words cut into Brogan’s heart. How he ached to call the lad Benjamin and pretend these three years had not been lost between them. But they had passed.