The rush of sea crushed his chest, so dense it immersed him in its watery depths. Like a drowning man his lungs burned, and as he felt himself grow faint, he thought of Drew and Lorena. You may have taken my man, but you won’t have me! I won’t let you have me! Not until I’ve secured their safety and the lives of every other man on this ship. Not until my son knows his father!
Brogan tightened his grip, but the hemp inched through his fingers, taking with it little bits of flesh. His hands burned as though on fire, yet he continued to bear down on the slimy, wet halyard. He felt his blood on its roughened fibers.
As the last of the deluge flushed away and the ship righted, the Yankee Heart shook herself free. Brogan hoisted himself to his feet and took a deep, fortifying breath, no sooner releasing it when a cry of “Man overboard!” sounded.
The two hands from the watch rushed to the weather side and leaned over the rail, where another of their fellows had fallen. Shock hit Brogan like a physical blow to his body. His heart crushed under a heavy weight of grief. Who? Who’s fallen? And who now remained alone in the rigging? He bounded to the mainmast, searching aloft through the blur of driving rain, but the mainsail thrashed over the yard, obscuring his view.
He searched helplessly up into the swirling blue-black heavens. A rescue launch would be overturned within moments in this running sea, if not dashed to splinters. Yet Brogan would row out himself before surrendering another of his men to the deep.
He was fighting his best to save the ship, his men, and the loved ones below, but now it felt as though control was slipping away from him.
In desperation he realized he couldn’t do this all on his own and cried out to the Almighty.
“Their soul is melted because of trouble. They reel to and fro, and stagger like a drunken man, and are at their wit’s end.
“Then they cry unto the Lord in their trouble, and he bringeth them out of their distresses.”
The psalm he had read to Drew on Lorena’s first night aboard echoed through his consciousness, and Brogan turned with renewed hope to the sailors at the rail.
They sadly shook their heads.
Gone.
Injustice and disappointment festered inside him, a tempest as angry as the one that raged against the Yankee Heart. Brogan yanked off his Hessians and leapt into the rigging, climbing up the ratlines to reduce sail before any more lives were lost.
Against howling winds, flapping sails, and sharp rain, he scaled the heights of the mainmast and spotted John Bowne further aloft, balancing on the yardarm of the lower main topsail.
William, then. Willie Farragut . . . dead! Brogan plummeted into a dark abyss of despair. Willie, who from that first day that he’d come under Brogan’s command never failed to give the vessel his best efforts. Who at the age of sixteen, being a bright lad, however green, had petitioned Brogan to sign articles with the privateer Black Eagle. Brogan promised himself he’d look out for the Farragut lads, and he thought he’d succeeded.
Until today.
How was he going to tell Warrick his brother was dead?
Before he could conceive of an answer, he climbed past the main yard and scaled the maintop, where to his great amazement he found something stretched across the platform.
Someone, rather.
It was the prone figure of William.
Brogan blinked, astonished. His prayer had been answered, and suddenly he understood. The Lord had shown him who was in control. Not Brogan, but Him.
He was humbled as he gave the second mate’s shoulder a good shake. “Mr. Farragut! Are you well? Wake up, man, and explain. We thought you gone.”
William shrugged off his stupor and climbed to all fours. “I was knocked from the yard and thought for certain I was done, but the next I knew, I landed here.”
“Nothing broken?”
“No, sir.”
“Well, on deck with you. Lively now, and send up Mr. Partridge and Mr. Beckett to haul in this mainsail. Mr. Bowne and I will reef the topsails.” Brogan was not about to risk another fright from William before delivering him safely to his brother.
William jumped to the order, the horror and embarrassment on his face clear indication he believed his captain was displeased with him, when in reality Brogan felt such joy he wanted to shout praises to the Almighty from the crosstrees.
He’d been certain he had lost another of his valued crew, but God had been merciful. The realization sobered him, and right there, balancing on the main yard, eighty feet above a violently swaying deck, Brogan counted his blessings.
The squall quieted to a calm wind and showers by late afternoon, when Brogan stepped out of the weather for the first time since he’d escorted Lorena to her cabin the previous evening. Exhaustion weighed on every muscle as he trekked the dark corridor to the great cabin.
He opened the door and entered the parlor, leaving concern for crew and ship out in the rain.
One glance at the precious child seated between Lorena and Warrick on the settee and everything else ceased to exist. He stood on the Brussels carpet, dripping wet, while Drew stared back with astute blue eyes, wise beyond their years.