Eliot Pattison - Blood of the Oak

“You will make him proud, I am certain of it,” Duncan said, as the young Virginian shook his hand. “And you are certain you can find that house on the Potomac?” he asked as Winters descended into the boat.

Webb put a reassuring hand on Duncan’s shoulder. “He says we will make Mount Vernon by noon.” The major put a leg over the rail before turning again to Duncan. “Praise God, McCallum. All would have been lost but-” Webb said, swallowing down his emotion.

“But an old Susquehannock showed us the way,” Duncan finished.

Webb nodded. “Wilkes and liberty.”

“Wilkes and Jahoska,” Duncan replied.

The major nodded and slipped over the rail.

The Penelope ’s surviving crew gave Trent a stiff reception at first but the overseer’s churlish disposition seemed to have been left on land. He obviously knew what he was about, and though he was quick to chide the company men for their awkwardness in handling lines and stays, he was also quick to show them how the task was done.

It was three hours past midnight when they set the sullen marine guards on an island in the middle of the river. Duncan insisted on Woolford staying out of sight but let Murdo accompany them in a dinghy.

“I’ll be busted for this,” growled the corporal as they set foot on the little patch of brush and rock.

“Be grateful to be alive,” Duncan reminded him. “My friends are short on compassion these days.”

“Back to private, damn your eyes,” the corporal groused.

“You’re English I take it?” Murdo asked in a light tone.

“Of course I’m English, you Scottish hound. And when I-”

The corporal never finished his sentence. Murdo landed a fist on his jaw so heavily he stumbled backward and fell in the mud.

“Now ye can show the bruise to prove ye resisted us,” Murdo hissed, then grinned at Duncan as he rubbed his fist. “That felt jolly good.”

Back on board, Trent was wistfully aiming a musket toward the shadowy shapes on the island. “You’re a soft-hearted fool, McCallum. They’ll tell the brig our course for certain.”

“They’ll tell the brig what they heard,” Duncan agreed. “But we said nothing about our true destination.”

Trent lowered the musket. “You said the open sea, while means running past the patrols and through Hampton Roads.”

“That will send the Ardent south if they reach the bay. We are jamming on every inch of sail she carries when we hit the open water and heading north. I have a craving for Chestertown oysters. Then we go up to the Susquehanna.”

Duncan watched the sun rise from the maintop, where the mainmast joined the short topmast, one arm wrapped around the mast. He had told his companions he was climbing to the tallest point of the ship to keep watch, but Conawago had seen through him.

“There’s nothing for it,” the old man grinned, for he had seen the longing in Duncan’s eyes. “You’ll be good for nothing until you take a lark aloft.”

For a few minutes after climbing the shrouds he felt as if he had shed years, the joyful memories of scampering in the rigging of Hebrides boats so overwhelming him that it was long minutes at the top before he remembered to look for a naval ship.

They were in the deep of the long bay now, and the wind and height gave him a sense of soaring above, as disconnected and free as the great osprey that flew close in the morning twilight. To the east lay the forested flatness of what was marked the Eastern Shore on their maps. To the west were the rolling hills of Virginia, cloaked in shadow. Between lay wind and sky, and a freedom he had not felt for months.

Freedom .

He glanced down at his companions, then with a more businesslike air studied the watery horizons. Several small fishing dories dotted the mouth of a river to the east. A sleek schooner, smaller than the Penelope , raced north ahead of them, probably headed for Annapolis or even Baltimore. His gut tightened as on the southern horizon he spied the square-rigged masts of what was in all likelihood a naval ship of the line, but then he realized that, bare-masted, she must be anchored.

He fixed his gaze on the now-distant point of land to the south that marked the mouth of the Rappahannock. If he had failed in his desperate attempt to disable the Ardent , if he saw her sails rising over the trees of the point, they would be doomed, for she would be close enough to spot the Penelop e and her guns would soon reach them.

His gaze drifted back to the larger ship far down the bay. The murderous, lecherous Kincaid had taken Sarah. Her father had tried before to ship her back to England, to break her. She had even thrown herself into the Atlantic to escape Lord Ramsey, and she would do it again if given the chance. But this time Duncan would not be there to save her.

He watched the water until the mouth of the Rappahannock was long out of sight, no longer feeling the joy of the sailing but haunted by visions of Sarah as the prisoner of the man who had brutally murdered so many on the runners’ trail.

The call of a thrush, incongruous on the bay, stirred him from his waking nightmares. Duncan looked down to see Woolford holding onto the shrouds a few feet below him. He motioned the ranger captain to join him.

“We’re clear,” Duncan reported. “The Ardent will not find us now.”

Woolford nodded, and gazed out over the windswept bay. They did not speak for several minutes.

Duncan realized he had not had time to speak privately with his friend since Edentown, but he had seen the deep sadness behind Woolford’s eyes. “I regretted not being able to stay for Jessica’s funeral,” he offered.

Woolford took so long to reply that Duncan thought he had not heard. “She took hold of my heart like no woman ever before.” The ranger looked away, into the wind. “I carried my mother’s wedding ring all these years. I was going to give it to Jess that very day, to wear on a chain until the Virginia business was over. Then I was going to take her back to Pennsylvania and ask the blessing of her parents so I could put the ring on her proper. Instead I buried her with it. My heart has been like a cold stone ever since.”

There were no words Duncan could say. Woolford had lost Jess. He had lost Sarah.

“Lively!” came a sudden call from the deck. Trent was calling them down.

On a locker by the wheel, the mate had sketched a map of the Chester River on the back of a large chart. “Crabtown,” he explained, indicating an odd square drawn in the center of the river mouth. “Fish weirs and floating pens to hold crabs and oysters for market, connected with walkways in a square, with shanties floating alongside for the watermen.” He looked up at Duncan and his friends. “Take the Penelope any closer than Crabtown and the harbormaster will be out asking our business.”

Trent, now at the wheel, took over. “So we lay in at the Choptank in another hour to call on the fishing dories.”

“We have no time,” Duncan protested.

“We must make the time. We cannot be suspected when we reach this Crabtown.”

“He’s right,” Woolford agreed. “Any warning into the town and all we seek will be hidden away.”

“So we need to foul the Penelope’s beauty,” Trent said. “We are going to cover our deck with bushels of fish and crabs.”

“We need to make her stink,” the mate agreed, seeming to warm to Trent’s plan. “We need to make her ugly.”

“We’ll never pass for a fishing boat,” Duncan objected.

“Not a fisherman, a market lugger. One of them that runs in to the villages along the bay to buy fish cheap then over to Annapolis to sell them dear.”

There were always ways to rough up a well-run boat, but Duncan saw the chagrin on the crew’s faces as they began slouching ropes and canvas over the rails and hauling up buckets of mud, dragged from the bottom, to drip over the hull. He watched for several minutes then turned over the chart the mate had drawn on, to find a map of the northern bay.