“Mr. Smith, have you ever met a man who could outsail me on the high seas?” Jabez shook his head, whereupon Brogan added, “If I were one to believe in the honesty of others, I would confess the truth in good faith to Nathaniel Huntley, asking that he release the boy to his natural father. But the day Abigail informed me I’d never find my son still burns in my memory. She told me to forget Benjamin in a tone she may as well have been using to refer to a castoff sock.”
Brogan rose off the bed to pace the small confines of the room. “You see, Jabez, I believe there was more to Abigail’s abandoning Benjamin than a desire to wash her hands of me and my son. She wanted Ben and me separated. Why, I do not know. But Huntley had to have been involved in her scheme. And with Abigail dead, who shall confirm my paternity? Who shall speak that I am the boy’s father as I claim to be? Something evil is at work; I can feel it. Deceit is afoot. For if it were merely a case of Huntley caring for the boy on Abigail’s behalf, then what purpose was served in changing his identity? He has been hiding the boy, just as Abigail insinuated to me that Ben was well hidden. You have to agree the whole state of affairs is not right.”
He ceased his agitated pacing and turned to wait upon his friend for a reaction.
Jabez bowed his head to contemplate a ray of sunlight streaking across the dusty floor. “Aye, Cap’n. Something is not right.”
“And Ben is caught in the middle of it. So shall I risk a long and scandalous legal battle with a powerful, affluent fellow like Nathaniel Huntley for the right to my own son? If so, what assurance do I have of success? Me, a man some repute to be of a nefarious sort. A legalized pirate, as privateers have been called. I also worry what effect such a course would have on Ben. I want him freed and unscathed, living with his natural father. So you can understand, Jabez, why I feel the need to steal back my son, just as he was stolen away from me.”
The Huntley estate occupied a hundred acres on the north bank of the Bluefish River and stood at the head of the bay in an area known as Powder Point.
Jabez at his side, Brogan walked the coastal road from town, which years ago had been named Squire Huntley Road by the town’s citizens in honor of Nathaniel’s father, due to the magnitude of his Duxboro holdings.
Squire Huntley Road followed the bay, then rounded a sharp bend as one neared the large black-and-white Federal house. This morning it resonated with the sounds of working men and animals, of blacksmiths and horses and carpenters, the clattering of a wagon, the jingle of a harness, and the echo of the sea.
Brogan took his first full breath of that sea, and as it filled his lungs, the salt and rugged air penetrated his body to cleanse every pore. After the stale confines of the inn’s lodgings, the sunlight and fresh wind revived his senses.
As they started up the brick walkway toward the beautiful two-story dwelling, Brogan paused to glance back across the road at the waterfront. Several outbuildings surrounded a fitting dock that extended into the bay. Here, he knew, Huntley vessels were rigged, their finishing touches added.
For a moment he wondered whether it might be selfish to deprive a child of such a grand place to live. Then he thought better. Selfish to believe a son should be with his father? The ease with which orphans fell victim to families in need of cheap labor was common knowledge. Homeless young boys, raised to feel too unworthy to deserve better, could provide a lifetime of servitude, helping to secure that family’s inheritance for its heirs. Nay! No amount of riches or beauty could compare to the worth of a father’s love.
His heart raced knowing he’d soon confront young Ben for the first time in three years. Ofttimes in his seafaring career, Brogan had faced danger. He’d shortened sail ninety feet above a swaying deck with the wind lashing at his back, many times in the darkness of night. The violence of the waves could snatch a man from the deck and hurl him into the sea, but the prospect of failure had not been as daunting as the task at hand.
What if he were unsuccessful in regaining his son’s affection?
“Cap’n? Something wrong?” Jabez asked.
Brogan proceeded without comment up the hedge-lined walkway to the large black lacquered door.
He banged the brass knocker, and moments later the door was opened by a young servant girl, not the girl Brogan had met in the shipyard earlier but one of a more robust figure, at least half a foot shorter and a few years younger. Beneath her little white cap, her hair shone a light butter toffee brown. Her hazel-green eyes stared up at him, round and curious; yet as large as they were, they widened at the sight of two beefy fellows come to call.
Brogan doffed his beaver top hat and bid, “Good day. We have an appointment with Mr. Huntley.”
“Good day, sir.” She blushed shyly and glanced down at his tall black Hessians. “What name shall I say, sir?”
“Captain Brogan Talvis and Mr. Jabez Smith.”