Brogan ran a discerning eye over his merchantman, inspecting her lines, from her three towering masts to the crew that worked the rigging and the square sail that unfurled at their labors. Proud at what he saw, his focus turned to the direction of the wind, to the currents and tide, then finally to Nathaniel Huntley’s folk gathered on the wharf.
“You realize another opportunity like this shall never come along for us again,” Brogan confessed to Jabez. “The westward journey home takes longer, naturally, because of having to sail into the wind. Huntley knows this. We would have had plenty of time to disappear. My plan could not have been executed more smoothly.”
Jabez returned a sympathetic nod. “I’m proud of ye, sacrificing yer own desires to save Miss Huntley. It cannot have been an easy decision, and yet I always knew that when the time came, ye would choose the honorable thing.”
Perhaps he’d come to regret this course, but a part of Brogan was actually looking forward to time spent with Lorena Huntley.
Until then, for a few days, a week at most, he’d have his son all to himself, Brogan and young Benjamin Talvis sailing the seas on their own merchantman, just as he’d dreamed.
And one thing more.
Before this voyage was over, Benjamin would know the truth.
His father lived.
11
All hands were called to breakfast at seven bells, and within the hour their tramping feet could be heard overhead as they began to swab the deck, followed shortly thereafter by the steady clank of the pumps siphoning out the brig’s daily bilge.
Lorena knew these sounds well. She lay awake nights listening to them, from creaking planks and whistling winds to the working rudder. During the day she tried to keep occupied and not let her imagination wander to the uncertainty that awaited her in North Yorkshire, while George bore the passage with his usual smug confidence.
“Three more weeks would you say, Thomas, until we reach England?” He tucked into his breakfast of broiled meat followed with a bite of bread.
Jane’s husband inspected the oyster on the edge of his fork. “Mmm, likely that, yes.”
Lorena had little appetite, yet forced herself to gnaw on a ship’s biscuit, washing down the dry crumbs with a sip of lukewarm tea.
Muted light from an overcast morning shone through the skylight onto the long table of Lady Julia’s main cabin, where passengers gathered for meals and passed their days reading, socializing, or employed in needlework.
Jane sat beside her with needle and thread, altering one of her own dresses for Lorena, a turkey-red calico trimmed in narrow white lace. Only Jane’s kindness kept Lorena from falling into total despair of missing her loved ones. Jane traveled with her British husband and brother-in-law and had assured Lorena she’d be welcome in her home for as long as necessary.
“Lorena, perhaps you’d care to join me in a game of draughts after breakfast?” The inducement in George’s voice drew curious glances from the table. Jane looked up from her sewing.
George had manipulated to win the favor of all aboard. First, endearing himself by sharing the mince pies and cider cakes Lorena had baked, while she sat with a commode in her cabin fighting back nausea. Then he set himself in good standing with the brig’s company and captain by correcting the fitting of the bowsprit so rainwater no longer leaked into the men’s living quarters.
It enraged her, the gall with which he continued to press his suit. Quite unlike her usual self, there were moments Lorena longed to slap his face. This was one of them. “Find yourself another to play, George. Myself, I feel the need for some air. Perhaps a promenade on deck.” Turning to the woman she could truly call friend, she asked, “Would you be so kind as to accompany me, Jane?”
“Allow me a few moments more to finish these last stitches and you can change into your new dress before our walk.”
George would not be dismissed, however. Glancing from one to the other of them, he said, “Very good, ladies. Allow me to offer my services, for you shall require the protection of an escort.”
Eighty feet above from a mainmast yard, a lookout gave the cry, “Sail to windward!”
Brogan pulled his glass from inside his jacket pocket. Extending the lens, he raised the telescope to his eye. As the horizon fell into focus he saw a vessel hull down at three points over the starboard bows. Only her topgallants and double masts were visible.
All hands on deck rushed to the larboard rail for a look. Drew moved closer to his side. Beneath the shadow of an overcast sky, the sea had turned a dark olive gray.
“Mr. Smith, reef out all tops’ls. And I’ll have the jib sheeted, if you please.”
“Aye-aye, sir.” From his position at the waist, Jabez relayed the order and several of the crew went clambering up the ratlines.
“Mr. Fletcher,” Brogan shouted to his helmsman, “weather us a course northeast by north and fetch me those sails.”
“Northeast by north, sir!”