Blood and Oak, Issue 1
When his sister is kidnapped and sold into slavery by Barbary Pirates, a daring young Navy officer embarks on a suicidal quest for rescue and revenge.
1798
A young United States struggles to survive.
Revolutionary France wages war with Great Britain.
Caribbean slaves in Saint Domingue rebel against brutal masters.
Amid this renaissance of freedom, the Barbary Pirates roam the Mediterranean Sea, plundering merchant ships at will. The Ottoman princes of Morocco, Algiers, Tripoli, and Tunis send captains to raid coastal towns. The corsairs carry off men, women, and children to hold for ransom or sell into slavery. Their attacks have raged for three hundred years, reaching from Italy to Iceland. Countries must buy peace or face terror.
A sailor’s greatest fear is a living death on the Barbary Coast.
Prologue
The Merchant Schooner Wandering Hart
The Mediterranean Sea
Tuesday, June 12th, 1798
“No matter what you hear, my darlings, don’t move,” Nora whispered. She held back tears as she kneeled with her children, Kaitlin and John. On the lower deck, behind piles of crates, bundles, and barrels, only a single lantern lit their faces. Her children huddled in a rectangular hole in the floor, where the natural slope of the ship allowed their father Declan to create a secret space between the cross beams. They would have enough room to lie down and stretch their legs, but little else. “Stay in this compartment. Don’t move. Don’t make a sound. Wait for me to return.”
Footfalls thudded overhead. The pirates barked threats and insults in a foreign language.
“What about Isaac?” Kaitlin wept, her red curls disheveled. John held his eight-year-old sister close, her cheek pressed against his chest.
“Your big brother is on deck helping your father. I need you to stay here, all right?”
“Where are you going, Mam?”
“I have to go help them for a bit. That’s all.”
Kaitlin’s face crumpled into sobs. “What if the bad men get you?”
“Oh, love,” Nora said as she embraced her children. “They’re not going to hurt us. They’re just robbers. When they have what they want, they’ll be gone. But right now, I need you to be brave and stay here with your brother. I want you to mind Johnny and do as he says, okay?”
She exchanged a look with John. Her fifteen-year-old’s eyes were hard and determined, but a crease in his brow betrayed his fear.
Kaitlin nodded, but the strain was too much. She started to bawl. “When are you coming back?”
On the deck above, there were shouts coming from the officers’ wardroom. Axes chopped into bulkheads. Wood splintered and snapped. There were loud crashes. Pirates were sweeping through the ship.
“Soon, Katie,” Nora soothed. “Here.” Nora reached into the pocket of her trousers and produced a silver hunter-case watch. She held it out by its delicate chain. “Remember when we learned to tell time? I want you to count the ticks. When I come back, I’ll ask how long it’s been, and you’ll see it was no time at all. Can you do that, love?”
Tears flooded Kaitlin’s cheeks as she accepted the watch. She opened the case, revealing Roman numerals under stately black tines.
“All right,” Nora said. “Johnny, you look after your sister, all right?”
“I’ll keep her safe, Mam,” John said. His eyes reddened as he fought back tears. Nora knew her son didn’t want to hide, but Kaitlin needed him. “Be careful, Mam. Please.”
“I will. Now, in you go, loves.”
John and Kaitlin lay down in the tiny compartment. Kaitlin held the watch while John held her hand. Kaitlin’s breath came quick and shallow.
“It’s all right, Katie,” John said softly. “I’m right here. Let’s count while we wait.”
Nora slid the loose deck planks over the hidden space. One board at a time, she sealed her children into darkness. Before the last plank snapped home, she could hear Kaitlin whispering.
“One, two, three…”
Part I: A Dead Man’s Hand
(or Wayward Hearts)
Chapter 1
Five Years Later
Outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, June 24th, 1803
“Wake up, alumno. This is as far as we go.”
John Hotspur Sullivan awoke in the corner of a wagon under a canvas tarpaulin. Stacks of crates hemmed in his legs. Bottles of rum jingled as the wheels came to a stop. Comandante Fernando Pavia jerked away the tarpaulin in one motion. John threw a hand up against the blinding noon sun.
“How you manage to sleep in such small places will always confound me,” Pavia added as he jumped out of the box seat. He sauntered up close to his former student and drummed his fingers on the wagon rail.
Sensing the mercenary’s impatience, John stretched his legs. “I took my first steps at sea—below the waterline,” he said. “Can’t sleep anywhere else.” He jumped out of the wagon. His joints popped as he stretched.
“Are you certain you want to return?” asked Pavia. Words rolled off his tongue like musical notes. He might have looked aristocratic with his long-bow mustache and clean-cut features, but the scar tugging down on his left eyelid suggested otherwise. The Comandante hailed from Spain’s Basque Country. Being the leader of Basque mercenaries and smugglers, Pavia preferred not to lodge in Philadelphia proper.
“No,” replied John. “But it’s not forever.”
Borrego, one of Pavia’s lieutenants, scoffed from the driver seat. He packed tobacco into a pipe while he waited. The wagon’s two Andalusian horses grazed on grass between wheel tracks.
“Why take a chance?” Pavia asked. “It is a shame to lose you. I always have use for a skilled river pilot.”
John rummaged through his worn leather satchel. His fingers brushed a change of socks, long johns, four pennies, a nearly empty powder horn, a compass, a pocket watch, and a tinderbox—until he found a buckskin pouch. The twenty-year-old Irish drifter fished out his last clump of tobacco. He pressed the shredded brown leaves against his gums and replied, “I’m not looking for work, Comandante. I’m looking to hire. Can your brother spare the men or not?”
“They are not sailors by trade. And they don’t come cheap. Why not hire a few salts off the docks?”
“You know the kind of men I need. I’m going to free my family. For that I need soldiers. I need Basques.” John and Pavia exchanged a smile at that. “As for seamanship—I’ll show them how to tell sheets from stays.”
“Ah, you will enjoy being maestro for a change, no? But despite your fine work and my boundless generosity, your earnings aren’t nearly enough, I think.”
“I’ll get the money. Can you get me the men?”
“Bien, alumno. I can think of a few fine soldiers of fortune who would be interested. When you have the money, find us at our usual camp. But if you come up short…”
“I won’t.”
Pavia smiled to himself. He handed John a coin purse. “Your share, Señor Sullivan.” He slapped John on the back and climbed onto the wagon box seat. He pulled a bottle of duty-free Isla Carillo rum out of a crate and tossed it to John. “A bonus. To celebrate your success.” He snapped the reins, and the horses reluctantly abandoned the grass. “And if your plan goes tits up—to commiserate.” Pavia’s mustache perked up as he smiled.
The horses clip-clopped into the western countryside. John watched them pass under the canopy of a willow, then disappear over a rise. The wind blew a white kerchief over John’s boot. As he picked it up, he realized the crest marked it as Pavia’s—a castle, two gold poleaxes crossing each other, and a field of red. He pocketed the kerchief and looked toward the Delaware River. The triangular sails of a schooner drifted on a reflection of white clouds, toward rows of docks and brick buildings. He chewed for a moment, spit a wad of tobacco in the dirt, and shouldered his satchel. He set off north toward the city.
An hour later, John approached Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging. The boarding house sat across from a forest of masts and spars lining the wharf. It was two stories of uneven brown brick nestled between The Delaware Chandlers and Bricklebrack’s Bread and Hardtack. The wooden shutters were gray from rot. A tattered awning flapped above the door. On the porch, a row of potted herbs and a sleeping dog soaked in the afternoon sun. The place looked just as it had fourteen months ago. Back then, John rued every new day he had to spend in Philadelphia. Now, it felt more like coming home than he dared admit.
Sensing the newcomer, the dog roused from his sleep.
“Godfried!” John beamed. A salt-and-pepper Irish wolfhound bounded towards him. The shaggy dog was tall enough to nearly bowl him over. John tousled Godfried’s ears while the hound licked his face. “How are you, boy?”
Godfried gave an excited whine, then nearly knocked John over with a “woof.”
“I missed you too, boy.”
The dog would prove more agreeable than his owner, Mrs. McClintock. But he’d offer to pay his back rent, let her pinch his cheeks, and get his little corner of the attic back. John looked back down the road. A few streets south and an alley or two east would take him to the Sawduster Tavern. To the doorstep of his first friend in Philadelphia. His first home. He imagined Ethan on the porch swing, playing the violin for his little brothers and sisters. Imagined the look on Ethan’s face when he noticed John walking up. Would it be a smile? Or a frown? John shook his head. Too much had happened. Besides, Ethan was probably in the Navy. He likely wouldn’t even be home. John stepped onto Mrs. McClintock’s porch, Godfried in tow.
Chapter 2
The Cat and Queen Playhouse
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, June 24th, 1803
Melisande Dufort pressed close against the skin of her lover. In her fingers, she twirled a long, red feather. She grinned when she decided on the most tempting target. She traced it along naked curves, up toward the underarm. A jolt. A gasp. Her lover awoke.
“Melly!”
A mouse-chewed pillow swatted Melisande in the face. She fell backwards laughing. A warm body rolled on top of her.
“I hate to be tickled,” said Sarah. Her curly brown hair fell across Melisande’s face as they kissed. Their lips teased and explored one another. Melisande caressed the small of Sarah’s back.
“But you’re so cute when you’re cross,” Melisande said between kisses.
“Am I?” Sarah leaned in, tracing her tongue under Melisande’s lip.
Melisande squeezed Sarah’s ass. “Less cute when you snore.” She slipped a hand between her lover’s legs.
“You’re rotten,” Sarah murmured. Her eyes slipped closed, and she rolled her hips forward.
“And randy as a beast with two backs. I ain’t missing brag to watch you sleep, wench.”
Sarah’s eyes flew open in mock offense. “Oh?” She pinched Melisande’s hip.
Melisande gasped. She pinched back.
Sarah shot upright. “Why you little villain…” She bumped her head on a ceiling beam and lost her balance. They tumbled off the bed, giggling.
Melisande looked up at a jagged shard of mirror hanging by the window. “Come here.” She came to her feet, tugging Sarah up behind her. She looked at her own naked image through a spindle of cracks. Sarah circled her arms around her lover. Melisande admired the sight of her tan, muscular body nestled against Sarah’s pale curves. She liked Sarah, but she longed to be home with her clan. Melisande might have been French by birth, but in her breast beat the heart of the Tuscarora and the People of the Longhouse. Not all of her kin approved of her choice in lover, but they loved her anyway. Here, in this crowded, noisy city, she had to hide in a stuffy attic. Melisande’s sister, Dominique, insisted on living among the colonials.
“I wish I had this for a painting,” said Melisande.
“If we could just find an artist willing to stare at two naked women,” Sarah murmured. She planted the feather in Melisande’s raven-black hair. “Pretty. Where did you get it?”
“My brother. Found it while hunting. Dropped by a red-tailed hawk.” Melisande’s eyes drifted out the window. A drunkard with stockings sagging on his ankles zig-zagged through the alley. A trio of filthy children in patchwork clothes played at marbles. Two boys and a girl taking a break from begging to play. Few of Philadelphia’s respectable or affluent ever passed by these narrow, muddy streets.
The Cat and Queen Playhouse was an aging brick theater on the old western wharves near Front Street. A wooden sign portrayed a queen with an orange-striped cat on her lap. Among the poor, the drunks, and the unwanted, the odd theater provided a discreet haven for those not welcome elsewhere. Regulars simply called it “Kitty’s.” In this city, Melisande called it home.
“The stories you tell…” Sarah was saying, “will I ever see him?”
“Grey Feather doesn’t like the city.”
“To have an Indian for a brother…Take me with you to the country. I want to meet him.”
“Oh, he’d love that. The wife of the Prune Street Warden poking at him like he’s some curiosity. And right after I got out of the clink.” A young man in a rain-spotted jerkin walked by. His rolled-up sleeves revealed slender arms, taut with muscles earned on the frontier. He didn’t bother to tie back his shoulder-length hair, auburn as autumn leaves…
Wait! Melisande leaned forward, squinting her eyes. Could it be? A shaggy, gray hound trotted up beside the youth. As the man looked down at the dog, his face turned in Melisande’s direction, though he didn’t see her. “It’s Sully!”
“What?” said Sarah.
Melisande squirmed free of her lover and dashed to a string of crumpled clothes. “He’s back in town.”
“Who?”
Melisande hopped on one leg, then the other, as she pulled on her deerskin breeches.
“Where are you going?” Sarah wanted to know.
Melisande threw on her white shirt and buttoned up her black waistcoat. She hurried to give Sarah a kiss. “Gotta run, my lovely.”
“Melisande,” Sarah called after her lover. “Wait, the rules! We entered with a beau, we leave with a beau. I only just got you out of Prune Street prison—you want us in the pillory next?”
Melisande paused, bouncing with energy. She hated stopping once she’d started. She hated being nagged. And most of all, she hated rules. But these rules were important.
“Fine!” She went to the door across the hall.
She flung it open to find a naked Thomas pinning his lover Archie to the wall as they kissed. They were a bricklayer and a silversmith who took more of a liking to each other than was considered proper. They leaped like startled cats.
She put a hand to her mouth and giggled. “Oh, my. They were like little dogs sniffing noses.”
“Melly!” griped Thomas.
“Don’t you knock?” complained Archie.
“C’mon, boys,” trumpeted Melisande. “You’ve had your fun. Put ’em away so one of you can escort me out.”
She folded her arms as they collected their underclothes. They moved with all the enthusiasm of drunks sent home from the tavern.
###
John stood on the highest yardarm of the Morrigan looking west over Philadelphia. Gables and turrets bit into the setting sun. The early evening light refracted off the neat rows of red brick. The westerly streets became golden spokes radiating through the buildings. The steeple of Independence Hall rose above all at the center. His right hand gripped the prickly halyard. He watched the bustle of the city winding down along the docks below.
The proprietor of Horace’s Fine Breads carefully unhooked the brass bell from his door and brought it inside. John remembered being a starving fifteen-year-old orphan and breaking in to eat the sweepings. The baker had screamed until beet red and chased the Irish vagrant out with a cane.
Mr. Samuelson of the Society of Friends watched eagerly at the door of Gilbert’s Tavern. Every drunken sailor, dock worker, or builder choosing that hour to leave was treated to the same sermon. “Have you heard the Lord’s message of salvation?” the Quaker began. John couldn’t make out the lewd quip by two men stumbling arm-in-arm, but their mocking laughter failed to daunt Mr. Samuelson.
Mrs. O’Malley ambled by. Her husband was long dead, her children grown, and her hair gray. She strolled along Water Street in her Parisian jacket and plumed hat, determined as ever to be a model for Philadelphia’s young ladies. John still remembered her tip of an extra penny whenever he would run mail to her—and the sting of her fan when she heard him swearing.
It was an odd feeling, John decided, to discover the city he had so long wanted to escape became the place that won his heart. He held up a delicate silver chain over the Philadelphia skyline. His mother’s watch shimmered above the horizon like a rising moon.
“Go on then, love,” his mother says. “Wind it up.”
The lantern flickers on ribbons of sienna hair. The brass cylinder housing the marine chronometer gleams from inside the oak box. John holds up the silver watch, carefully turning the crown. He strains his eyes in the dark of the Wandering Hart’s hold, patiently cranking until the hour hand agrees with the chronometer.
Her nose scrunches when she smiles. “Very good, John. And the minute?”
“Five past, of course,” says the boy of ten. He winds the second hand.
“Fancy a look then?” Nora observes her son’s work.
“Is it right?” He’s hopping in anticipation.
“Spot on. You don’t need me to check anymore.”
“I know.”
“Run along then, love. Your father will need the time.”
The boy dashes off. He takes the ladder two rungs at a time.
Looking to starboard, a few berths down, John marveled at the polished black hull and towering masts of USS Philadelphia. The yellow stripe on her gun deck brandished a dozen long guns like a wasp flashing a stinger. Her eighteen-pounders were probably run out for drills, John decided. Or perhaps to inspire the pride of her namesake city. Oh, the reckoning John could bring to bear on his family’s captors were she under his command. He could tear down the whole of Tunis to free his mother and sister with a mighty frigate like that—and repay the bey’s injustice in the bargain. But alas, the little sloop on which he stood would have to serve. The rickety ship on which he now stood represented his last chance to rescue them—that is, if he could raise the last thousand dollars he needed for the journey.
John closed his eyes. In his mind, he took command of Morrigan and felt the thrill as the ocean spread across the horizon. He imagined the ship cutting through the swells with him riding the bowsprit. For the first time in five years, he would be home again on the open sea. Wind, water, sky, and the racing of his heart would become all that existed in the world.
With a flick of the wrist, John wound the chain around his hand. “Mother, Kaitlin,” he whispered, “I will find you. I will see you free. I will bring you home. This I swear.
“And for what they did to us…” John’s fist closed on the watch. “I will be revenged.”
An unmistakable voice on the deck below shattered the peace of the evening. “Sully, you ole mick!”
John looked down at the deck and recognized a dark-haired woman of twenty-five staring up at him. She wore deerskin breeches and a black waistcoat. A walnut Iroquois war club in the shape of a raven’s head hung at her belt. The antler hilt of a seven-inch hunting knife poked out of her boot. He smiled wide as he recognized Melisande Dufort. He jumped onto the shroud and started the climb down.
###
“You’re going across the ocean…in that?” Melisande Dufort wrinkled her nose as if carrying out the chamber pot. Her mouth hung open. She stood next to Sully on the wharf, trying to imagine how this floating piece of junk could help him rescue his family. A wad of tobacco stewed under her lip.
The boat—or “fifty-nine-foot schooner” as Sullivan had described it—creaked more loudly than the other ships. Sullivan proudly explained her name was Morrigan. With most of her yards stowed, her single mast looked as lifeless as a winter birch. The black band, red trim, and gold highlights had chipped and faded into large patches of exposed wooden hull. The figurehead was once a black winged maiden but had worn down into a withered crone. Melisande felt sorry for the poor old bag. She was clearly miserable in the evening heat.
“Well…” Sullivan said, “she isn’t properly fitted out yet. She’ll be a much fairer sight under a full press of sail. That is, once I’ve raised the money for a crew brazen enough to sail to the Barbary Coast.”
“Ugh. The thought of being on that hunk of wood gives me the creeps.”
“Christ, Melly. You can traipse through a mountain blizzard with a smile, but a day on calm seas and you’re whining like a puppy.”
“It isn’t natural! We’re meant to have dirt under our feet. You must be out of your head to travel months with nothing but water as far as you can see. And that thing’s a scrap-pile!”
“She’s seaworthy.”
Melisande cocked an eyebrow. “She’s a hag.”
Sullivan sighed. “Aye. She’s a hag. But she’s my hag.”
Melisande snickered. “Heard that before.”
“We can’t all have such adoring lovers as yours.”
Melisande chuckled and tousled John’s hair. “I missed you, Sully.”
Sullivan looked askance at her, smirking. His hazel eyes turned gold in the afternoon sun. He didn’t have to say it. Melisande was used to him feigning temperance just before joining her in another piece of mischief. She knew her rash actions often got him in trouble. She knew her preference for women bewildered him. She knew he had the charm and smarts to pass himself off as a poufy-shirted gentleman. But Sully always watched her back. Saw the real her. And she saw the real him. He had an honest heart. Most of all, she knew that after a year away in Florida, he missed her like flies missed dung.
Melisande pointed to the ship. “But you were kicked by a horse if you think you’re getting across the Atlantic in that.”
“The Morrigan has had three years of repairs. She’ll hold together for one more voyage—and that’s all I need.”
“Is that really a bet you want to make?”
Sullivan looked at her seriously. “You know I have to.”
Melisande looked away, remembering to chew her tobacco.
They silently gazed at the old ship.
An aged woman’s voice came from behind them. “Shameful!”
Melisande and Sullivan turned around to find a pair of stuffy, overdressed older ladies carrying their baskets of goods home from market. They both scowled at Melisande and the stream of spit juice at her feet. “Her poor mother…” said the other.
“Both of my mothers are buried on the frontier, you old shrews!”
The first woman said, “You ought to find Christ!” She shook a loaf of bread in her plump fingers.
The other stiffened her skeletal figure, scowling at Sullivan. “And you ought to find a proper lady to court, young man.”
Sully smiled. “What fun would that be?”
In unison, Melisande and Sullivan spit murky globs into the street. The appalled women shuffled away, muttering to one another. Melisande and her favorite Irishman snickered like adolescents in the farthest church pew.
“Come on, Sully!” said Melisande. She reached for Sullivan’s shoulder, which was a head higher than hers. “This courtship is going so well, I’ve decided to let you buy me an ale.”
“I’d love to Melly, but I can’t. I need to win a few checks at the card tables tonight.”
Melisande slapped Sullivan’s back. “Right! Brag! Even better. The Duke and the Duchess—back together. Then ale.”
“No, I’m not out rooking.”
“Who said anything about a scam?” Melisande raised her hand to her forehead as if to swoon. “I’m a silly girl playing with my beau’s checks because I’m so in love and could never be apart from my handsome Duke!” She dropped her romantic pretense. “I pluck ’em right out of the stream. We split the take.”
“It took half a year for my shoulder wound to heal, Melly. And another half-year working for Pavia in the festering swamp to earn what money I have. And it’s still not enough to outfit the Morrigan and hire a crew. The Piping Plover’s Independence Day game is the highest stakes in the city. It’s my last chance.”
“Bullshit. Those puffed up old goats would never let you in the door. Probably chase you out with a broom.”
“Not if the owner’s wife put in a word for me.”
“My sister? She won’t even talk to me. Why would she—?”
“It took some convincing, but Dominique got Richard Aubert to give me a seat. If there’s even a whiff of cheating on me, I will get the broom. I need the money at that table, Melly. I can’t risk it.”
Melly grunted. She hated it when Sully got all stubborn and serious. It made him seem like all the rest of these fancy city people. Boring. Hearing the mention of her sister’s name only further soured her mood. Dominique had no business marrying that prancing little bastard Aubert. Now she was fancy like him. Disgusting. Of course, Melisande imagined the only alternative would be Dominique marrying Sullivan. She supposed that’s how things ought to be—true love and all that. But then Sully wouldn’t have time for drinking and cards if he was busy making babies.
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Melisande said. “Kitty’s later?”
“Melly…”
“Oh bugger it, Sully! You leave me for a year, and you’re barely back a day before it’s off again to drown in some leaky raft.”
Sullivan sighed and rubbed his temples. Melisande could read the fatigue on his face. She was wearing him down.
She puffed out her lips. “Not so much as a farewell drink with your best chum.”
John rolled his eyes.
“Who saved your life at least twice,” she added.
“And endangered it once.”
“Which puts the balance in my favor.”
“Fine. Kitty’s. After…”
Melisande beamed.
“…For one drink.”
She tempered her smile. “Of course. Fair is fair.”
Sullivan smirked and nodded down the docks. She suppressed her grin until his back was turned. Godfried was sniffing a horse tether a hundred paces away. The hound barked and came bounding after them.
Sullivan glanced back at the Morrigan. “One more voyage, old girl. One more.”
The hideous old boat wheezed as its weight shifted in the river.
Chapter 3
Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, June 24th, 1803
“Is that the last of it?”
“Yup.” Melisande dragged a sleeve across her mouth. It came away yellow with undigested dumpling. Squinting, she shoved off the alley wall of Bricklebrack’s Bread and Hardtack. She wobbled a moment, then lost her balance.
John caught her and pulled her arm over his shoulder. “Almost there,” he slurred.
“No…” Melisande mumbled, her eyes drooping. She squirmed out of his grasp, about to make a bed of her own vomit. “I’m-a-go to sleep now.”
John pulled her back to her feet. “No, Melly, not in the street.”
Godfried trotted out of the open kitchen door and began lapping up the remains of Melisande’s last tavern stew.
She feebly slapped at John’s hands as he carried her across the alley to Mrs. McClintock’s.
He picked her up in a cradle position. Mercifully, she was nearly passed out and gave in.
John nudged through the door into Mrs. McClintock’s kitchen. The scent of broth and onion filled him with nostalgia. Firelight slipped through the cracked parlor door. He tugged it open with the tip of his foot. Godfried panted by, into the empty sitting room, and plopped down in front of the fireplace. The only light came from embers in the hearth. The plush armchairs on either side cast long shadows towards the dining tables where the tenants would sit down to breakfast in a few hours. John lay Melisande—already snoring—on the sofa. She mumbled something he couldn’t make out and curled into a fetal position. He tugged a knitted pillow under her head and drew a plaid quilt over her.
He gratefully settled into the adjacent armchair. The room spun the moment he came to rest. He and Melisande began the night with an ale-guzzling contest at the Cat and Queen, continued by joining a group of dockside sailors in song, and ended with rowdy dancing at a tippling house on the edge of town. Godfried had followed them all night, begging for ale and scraps. Melisande loved drinking companions, no matter their number of legs. She had frequently tipped her cup in the direction of the dog’s slobbering jowls.
John still felt the sting of Tabitha’s mysterious punch recipe in the back of his throat. He chuckled. “Goddamnit, Melisande.” When he closed his eyes, he heard footsteps on the stairs.
“I’ll pay her lodging for the night, Mrs. McClintock,” said John. “Kitty’s was too far to go.”
A familiar voice replied in an Irish accent. “Your speech—it’s different since my last visit. You sound like a yank.”
Peter, John sneered to himself. His uncle and the last man he wanted to see. What’s he want this time?
A man with red hair combed back and a pair of bushy mutton chops stepped in front of the other chair. Peter Sullivan dressed much finer than his last visit two years ago—a green silk waistcoat, silver buttons, and black corduroy trousers. His belly was getting portly.
“What are you doing here?” John snorted.
Gesturing to the empty seat, Peter asked, “Do you mind?”
“I do. You won’t be staying.”
Peter sighed. He sat down anyway. “I’ve been waiting here for hours, Johnny. The least you can do is hear what I have to say.”
“The name is ‘John.’”
Peter looked over at Melisande, raising an eyebrow. “Is this your…lass?”
“A friend.”
“That’s a blessed relief.”
“Tell me what you want, Peter. The faster you do, the faster you can fuck off.”
“I understand you’re angry, son, but I’m not your enemy. Whether you believe it or not, I’m trying to help.”
“Really? Then you’ve brought Ma and Katie home like you promised?”
Peter sat back in the chair, rubbing his sideburns. “You know how badly I wished it all turned out better. I went to the Barbary Coast with a king’s ransom—all the worldly wealth my brother and I ever had. I was ready to offer it all to the Bey of Tunis. Declan died in the quarries. Nora and Kaitlin went to the markets at Constantinople. There’s no amount of money that could bring them back. I did all I could.”
John shot his uncle a glare. “Did you sail for Constantinople? Did you even try?”
“We’ve been through this. You know as well as I: once a slave passes through that place, they never come back. I’m sorry, truly I am. But they’re gone, Johnny, and that’s that.”
“They’re not gone!” hissed John. “They’re slaves!” He shouted the last word, causing Godfried to whine in his sleep.
“You’ve been through a terrible ordeal, son. But this suicide you’re planning…you have to let it go.”
The younger man bounced his knee, brooding.
“Mrs. McClintock is as worried about you as I. She says you’ve been smuggling, gambling, dueling. That you want to hire a band of Spanish sell-swords. To sail a ship your father planned to break apart for scrap right into the jaws of the Barbary Pirates. John, can you hear how mad that sounds?”
John looked at Peter with a cold smile. “I’d rather be mad than a coward.”
“We have to live in the real world. A terrible thing happened to our family. We’ve no choice but to move on. I’ve come with important news to help you do just that. Hear me out, at least.”
John considered driving Peter out—at the point of a fire poker if necessary. Peter had convinced John, the sole heir to his father’s half of The Brothers Sullivan Shipping and Consignment, to sell his inheritance. Two remaining ships, a warehouse on the Belfast docks, a handful of cargo and salvage. John kept only Declan’s first ship, the Morrigan, which had been rotting at anchor. Peter had taken the money to the Barbary Coast and promised to return with John’s family. Instead, he returned with defeat.
Still, as much as John reviled his uncle, the man’s presence brought a curious feeling of comfort. Perhaps Peter’s familiar smell of shoe polish and pipe smoke reminded John of childhood. Summers learning knots with Da on the wharf. Falls pestering Isaac to take him fishing. Winters watching Mam stir the Christmas pudding over the fire. The spring he met his sister for the first time, a swollen-eyed infant sleeping in Mam’s arms. Or perhaps John knew Peter was right. His uncle was the last of his kin, and better selfish kin than none at all. Whatever the reason for John’s nostalgia, he nodded for Peter to continue.
Peter produced a leather-bound sheaf of papers from his jacket. He laid it open on the table. “Your Grandfather O’Regan has passed away, I’m sorry to say. But, he left an inheritance to your mother. Not much, but enough to start a young man off well. Your grandfather’s last wish was that your mother’s wealth pass to you.”
“An inheritance? It’s mine?”
“Aye, it will be. All I need is your signature, and the money is yours.” Peter pushed the papers toward John. “It simply acknowledges that you are your mother’s heir, allowing you to take possession.”
“And how much will be left after our business debts are paid?”
“Not much,” admitted Peter. “But signing would show me you’re ready to take responsibility as a man. In return, I’d help you get established in Belfast. At least read it, son.”
The firelight flickered over elegant cursive letters. …whereupon Declan and Nora Sullivan have been declared lost at sea…undersigned having assumed legal ownership of all assets…with the aforementioned amount earmarked for funeral expenses…
“It’s the responsible choice, son.” Peter set a quill and inkpot beside the document.
John’s eyes roamed across the page. …Wandering Hart lost with all hands…John Sullivan, sole living heir…on condition of return to Ireland…
Grief welled up in John. The will required him to go back to Ireland. To make the death of his family official. “What the hell is this?”
“Nuthin’!” muttered Melisande, still dreaming. She must have overheard the conversation in her drunken dreams. Now she was contributing nonsense. “Pigs in…red shoes…Va te faire foutre!”
The two men looked askance at the woman drooling on her own hair. She smacked her lips and returned to snoring.
Peter continued, “This is your future, Johnny. What’s rightfully yours.”
“You want me to seal their fate.”
“I want you to grieve. To come home to Ireland. And to move on.”
John flipped the leather cover closed. “My mother is alive.”
“Try to be sensible, lad.” Peter’s tone sharpened. “Your father didn’t just leave us his business. He also left us his debts. You and I have responsibilities in Belfast. You’re a man now, and it’s time to act like one. Sign it, take the money, and start your life.”
John grunted, shaking his head. “You don’t care about my future. I was a slave—fighting rats away from maggoty bread while my father begged you in letter after letter for ransom money. Mother warned us you would ignore those letters, and my fool father wouldn’t see it. He defended you while we slept in chains.”
“Your mother and I never got along, but Declan was my brother, and I loved him. That you could think I’d betray my own kin—it’s a stake through my heart.”
John stood. He walked up to the hearth. He pulled a poker off of its wrought iron rack and prodded the embers. “Just get out.”
“John, don’t throw your life away.”
“I listened to you once. Not again. I will go to the Barbary Coast. I will succeed where you failed. I will bring my mother and sister back. And God have mercy on any man in my way, Uncle.”
Peter stormed to the door. He paused to look over his shoulder. “Fine then. Join these godless traitors. Run with mongrels and whores. Sail to a watery grave for all I care. Turn your back on your home.”
John stared into the blistering coals. “I don’t have a home.”
Peter shook his head. “Just as stubborn as Declan.”
John looked at Peter. “You’re wrong about that.”
“Am I, now?”
“I’m far more stubborn than my father.”
Peter grunted. He stepped into the street and slammed the door.
John heard a low woof at his feet. Godfried craned his neck towards the door. Melisande mumbled a few vulgarities in French.
“It’s all right, boy,” John whispered to Godfried.
The hound peered up at John beneath shaggy brows, then returned to his dreams.
Chapter 4
The Merchant Schooner Wandering Hart
The Mediterranean Sea
Tuesday, June 12th, 1798
“Four, five, six…”
On the lower deck of the Wandering Hart, stuffed into a tiny space under the boards, John listened to Kaitlin count. A stampede of boots flooded through the stacks of cargo. Sharp, foreign words came with them. The men celebrated and bickered as they chopped open every box, chest, cabinet, and barrel. They stomped over the boards concealing John and Kaitlin, raining dust through the cracks. John resisted the urge to sneeze. His heart pounded. His sister squeezed his hand so hard, he lost feeling.
When they found a crewmember, they would spit a flurry of threats and demands. Every now and then, John caught a word he recognized. “Yield, dog!” “Christian filth.” “Open that. Give it here!” They beat anyone that resisted.
“Come out, you fat old blighter!” shouted one of the invaders not far away.
The terrified cook begged for his life. His pleading voice faded as the pirates dragged him above decks.
“Johnny,” whispered Kaitlin, “what if they find us?”
“It’s going to be okay, Rabbit,” whispered John. He looked into her eyes, glinting under a shaft of light. “Be very quiet. Mother will be back soon.”
John marveled at the calm in his voice. It was an act. He was so afraid, he felt as if his throat might close and suffocate him. But he had to be strong for Kaitlin.
How can this be happening? Wasn’t I on the weather deck a moment ago? The sea calm? The Hart safe?
John had been standing at the bow with Kaitlin. Their family’s second merchant ship, Dolorous Fénnid, had been on the way to help them repair their broken mast. His parents, Declan and Nora had been sipping their coffee. His oldest brother Isaac, the first mate, had command of the watch. The storm had frightened Kaitlin, but she was so delighted when John gave her the Islanded Lion—to him a common silver coin but to her, a magic talisman. Then a pirate flag appeared on the Fénnid, and minutes later, armed raiders were swarming over the ship.
“No, please,” came a distant plea. John recognized the voice of Patrick, the boatswain’s thirteen-year-old son. John had been shortening the fore topsail with him just hours ago.
“I’m not armed,” Patrick cried. There were curses and shouts as the pirates dragged the boy away.
Mam and Da were having their coffee. Isaac had the deck. Katie was smiling again. How can this be happening?
As the pirates tore apart his home, terrorized his family, and beat his friends, John felt a madness stirring in him. It scratched under his skin like an animal trying to claw its way out. He imagined finding a weapon—a shard of glass, a cooking knife, a carpenter’s axe. He imagined seeking out the nearest pirate and plunging the weapon into his chest. He wanted to see the look in the dying villain’s eyes. He wanted blood.
A terrible scream came from above decks. The pirates were hurting someone, demanding answers. The cries grew more pained and more desperate. It was Patrick, the boatswain’s boy, pleading for mercy.
And all at once, silence fell again.
Then a tremor of boots pounded down the hatchways. At least half a dozen men were coming towards them. He could see their shapes through the cracks.
They found us.
“Huna! Huna!” cried one of the foreign voices.
The pirates tore off the boards. Hands were all over John. Their grips bit like jaws. John squirmed and reached for his sister.
“Katie!” John yelled. “Katie, no. Don’t touch her!”
“Johnny,” Kaitlin cried. “I want Mama!”
“Fucking beasts! Let go of her.”
A fist struck John’s temple and the world became a blur.
When John came to, he was on the weather deck of the Wandering Hart, surrounded by foreign attackers. There were at least forty or fifty, packed shoulder to shoulder on the gratings, between the starboard boats, perched on coils of rope—everywhere. They were of every height, shade of skin, and age he could imagine. Those not bare-chested wore billowing trousers, sashes, and turbans, in bright colors of every kind. The hate in their glaring eyes terrified John more than their strange, curved swords.
In this clearing among the pirates, John’s family and the twelve hired crew of the Wandering Hart huddled together, kneeling. The men were naked to a man. Patrick lay in the arms of his father, his eyes swollen shut. To John’s right, Declan and Isaac kneeled, stripped of their clothes. Nora kneeled nearby. The pirates had stripped her of her jewelry, shirt, and trousers. They allowed her to keep her shift. John held back tears as he beheld his mother’s humiliation. Her eyes reached for him, like a doe separated from a fawn.
The pirates dropped Kaitlin near her parents, and she ran into Nora’s arms. “Mam!” she cried.
“Katie,” Nora said. Mother and daughter held each other tightly, tears blazing paths through the dirt on their faces.
John felt a strange delirium fogging his mind. As if none of this were real and he was only an actor in a play. Three pirates tore off his clothes. One of them inspected the copper buttons on John’s shirt, smiling with yellow teeth. John watched with detached curiosity as the pirates stripped him. Not to humiliate, he realized with fascination, but to steal. Shirt, belt, breeches, stockings, boots, buckles—they took it all in a race to claim each article and add it to their spoils. John cupped his groin. In his state of shock, he felt more rude than embarrassed. As if he was to blame for his immodestly. It felt as if somewhere, a stagehand was lowering the chandelier above John, but he couldn’t remember his lines.
“We found our little rats,” boomed a strange voice with a Turk accent. The crowd parted for the most ornate pirate of all, decked in green and yellow brocade. He looked first at Kaitlin, then John.
“The old man wouldn’t talk, Re’is Raakaan,” said a younger pirate with long hair and handsome features. His English was much better than his captain’s. He nodded toward Patrick. “Until Hamit whipped this boy like a goat.”
Declan looked up at the pirate captain with pleading eyes. “Please, sir. We surrendered peacefully. We have means to pay a ransom. There’s no need to involve the children.”
“Truly?” said Raakaan. He cocked his head and nodded with great interest.
“Yes, sir. I swear it. I can see you are a prudent man. I am as well. I wouldn’t sail your waters unless able to honor you with tribute.”
A smile spread across the pirate captain’s face. “You are a filthy Christian dog. Your ship, its contents, and its crew belong to me. Your wife belongs to me. Your children belong to me. You belong to me. Your only hope is to beg Hammuda Bey of Tunis for mercy.” The Re’is backhanded Declan, knocking him down.
“Naim,” said Re’is Raakaan to the handsome young officer, “load the slaves.” He looked down at Kaitlin. Raakaan ran a hand down his beard. “Bring the girl to my cabin.”
“No,” Nora said, clinging to Kaitlin. “Take me instead. I’ll go with you to your cabin. Please, take me.”
Raakaan’s eyes glinted with interest. “A fine idea! I’ll take you both.”
“No, you can’t,” commanded Isaac like a judge pronouncing a sentence. “You cannot.”
Raakaan froze, his eyes narrowing at Isaac. He scoffed and said to Naim, “Three hundred bastinados for that one.” Raakaan seized Kaitlin’s arm.
The animal under John’s skin writhed and flailed. It clawed and spit. But John couldn’t move. He couldn’t even speak. Terror froze him in place.
Isaac launched. He spiraled a fist into the bare gut of his nearest captor. He yanked a curved dagger from the pirate’s belt and sprinted the two strides to Raakaan. The corsair captain dropped Kaitlin’s arm, whirling to face the charging youth. Isaac thrust the dagger. Raakaan stiffened, choked on a breath. The re’is teetered, his face frozen in surprise, and fell backwards. He landed with a single, booming thud. Blood spread through layers of colorful silk. The dead captain was gazing straight into the sun. John looked at Isaac.
“Isaac,” Declan cried. “Son?”
Isaac stood frozen, blood trickling from his parted lips. A towering pirate loomed behind him—the one they had called “Hamit.” Under the man’s ornate silk jacket, his muscles rippled like hills. Isaac’s eyes drifted to his stomach where a thick blade had chopped a path from his side to his navel. Where the sword should have had a point, gore dripped from a scythe-like crescent. With a wet, ripping sound, Hamit slid the sword free of Isaac’s trunk.
Nora let go a wail of horror. Isaac’s eyes grew distant and he sank in a heap. “Isaac. My boy,” Nora bawled, clawing toward his corpse.
The pirates exploded into a frenzy. Blades rang out of sheaths. Gun hammers clicked into place. They shouted hateful epithets. The naked sailors cowered as pirates vented their anger with fists. Naim shouted orders in the Barbary language and brought the crew to some semblance of order.
At the young man’s command, the pirates prodded captives toward the gangway one by one. They seized John’s arms. The ocean breeze raised goosebumps on his naked skin. He looked back and saw Isaac’s body face down in a pool of blood. John stumbled over a loose cable on the deck, tears chilling his face. A foot kicked his ribs. All at once, John felt the horror of his nakedness. At the thought of being beaten in this state, he scrambled to his feet.
The next few minutes became a haze of sound and fear. The pirates herded John onto the Dolorous Fénnid—once his father’s ship, now the enemy’s. They prodded him down into the hold. John knew the stale smell of bilge water, but this exceeded all notions of foul air. When he landed in the viscous water, his throat opened and pumped jets of vomit.
A hand pushed John away. “Watch it, ’ere,” muttered a voice in English.
John blinked. He heard coughs in the darkness, shifting bodies. To John’s horror, he realized they were the crew of the Fénnid. One of the pirates came down with a lantern. Flickering light poured across dozens of faces. Naked, bony bodies lined either side of the hold. They’ve taken others! thought John. How many days had the pirates been slaving with Declan’s merchant ship?
The pirates shoved John against the hull and locked an iron ring around his ankle. A one-foot length of chain bolted him to the floor. The cold iron hung like a marble block. They chained Declan directly across from him. One by one, the men of the Wandering Hart were packed in. John read such shame in his father’s eyes, he was relieved when the lantern passed by and left them in darkness. A moment later, Hamit came down with Kaitlin slung over his shoulder. He shackled her beside John and left without a word.
“Rabbit!” John said. “Are you all right?”
The hatch shut the prisoners in and the last rays of light disappeared. Kaitlin didn’t reply at first. She spat something into her hand, then whispered, “It’s ok, Johnny. I did just like you said—I never let go of it.”
John was astonished. He could still hear the tears in her voice, but she didn’t sound afraid. She sounded almost…hopeful. “You did?” he asked dumbly.
He felt her press a coin, wet with saliva, into his palm. The silver piece of eight he had given her that morning. They called it “The Islanded Lion.”
“It’s all right, Johnny,” she said. “Don’t be afraid.”
John looked in the direction of her voice, unable to see her in the darkness.
“I’ve got him, Johnny. The Lion. He’ll keep us safe.”
Kaitlin placed her hand in his, the silver piece pressed between their palms. In the darkness, John wept.
Chapter 5
The Piping Plover Inn
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, July 1st, 1803
One big hand. That was all John needed to reverse his fortunes in this brutal Independence Day brag tournament. He failed to win a single hand in the hour since he sat down at the Piping Plover Inn. At last, he had the hand he needed. The ace of clubs, a king of hearts, and a queen of clubs. The fourth—a worthless deuce—went to the discard pile. It was a “run”—the best hand from Boston to Charleston.
“‘Now stop tearing apart my goddamn rigging and go secure the cargo!’” Lieutenant Richard Aubert said as he leaned into the red velvet back of his chair. He had short curly black hair, a thick mustache, and a neat goatee. Just over thirty, the young captain of the sloop-of-war USS Allegheny was fit, smart, and confident. That, and the fact his wealthy French family owned the inn, made him the preening center of attention. He had been entertaining the half-dozen men at the table with a story from his years at sea.
“Those are lads flirting with a flogging,” said Commandant Pritchett of Philadelphia’s Southwark Naval Yard, whom Aubert had been working tirelessly to impress. Pritchett’s authority would allow the Allegheny to sail to war against Tripoli rather than patrol the coast for smugglers.
“So I said, ‘I want all of you damn idiots out of my sight,’” Aubert continued. “They all scatter, but the powder monkey, who spotted the shifting cargo in the first place, just stands there. I ask, ‘are you disobeying my order, boy?’ The lad says, ‘No, sir. I thought the order was for the idiots.’”
Everyone erupted in laughter. Aubert dropped a few eagles into the pot, the gold epaulets of his uniform gleaming in the light of the chandelier. His boasting turned John’s stomach.
“What a shame our Lieutenant Aubert isn’t out thrashing those Barbary savages,” said Captain Forester. The retired hero of the Revolutionary War had spent most of his time losing money, drinking, and heaping praise on Aubert.
“At least it affords me a little time for the finer things,” Aubert smiled. He swirled a glass of ten-year-old brandy under his nose, then took a sip. Dropping a stack of checks into the pot, he looked across the table at John. “Raise to twenty-five. What about it, lad?”
John sat up straight. Aubert usually bet aggressively against weak plays, often with nothing, but only stayed in a hand this long if he was strong. The lieutenant wasn’t bluffing. John had to be careful.
The Allegheny commander must have read the hesitation on John’s face. He added, “You might have made a fine midshipman on my vessel before your…unfortunate choices. But then, a merchant’s son isn’t a naval officer, and a dockside rogue is no brag player.” A smug grin spread across Aubert’s face.
John’s upper lip twitched with anger. He yanked the entire wad of bills from his pocket and slammed it on the table. Sixty-four dollars. All he had left in the world.
“Mr. Sullivan, are you sure?” said Samuel Humphreys, the man to John’s right. He was the twenty-five-year-old son of famous shipbuilder Joshua Humphreys, and the only gentleman at the table to show John any warmth. “There is no shame in stepping away with what you have left.”
“Call,” said John.
“What have you, then?” Aubert cocked his head. “A flush? A run I think.” He exposed his best three cards: A king of diamonds. A king of clubs. A king of spades. “Will a prial do?”
John felt sick. A prial—three of a kind. The most rare and powerful hand in brag.
Aubert pulled the massive pile of checks, coins, and bills into an unruly heap. With all the mirth of a man bidding his friend farewell, Aubert said, “I’m glad my wife offered you a seat, Sullivan. You’ve been sporting company.”
John stared at the pile, unable to move. His ace, king, and queen sprawled across the felt like corpses on a battlefield.
“Would you stay on as a spectator,” said Aubert, “or have you something to barter for more checks?”
John reached into his pocket. He ran his thumb over his silver watch. “No.” Barely above a whisper, he said, “Goodnight, gentleman.” He stormed out of the gaming parlor.
###
John hurled his fist into a tree behind the Plover. Then again. And again. The fifth time, it left a bloodstain on the bark. Sparrows chirped and chickens clucked in the evening quiet. “Goddamnit,” he breathed.
“Richard doesn’t like to lose,” said an urbane voice. “He also fails to realize he can.”
The voice came from Dominique Dufort—or rather, Dominique Aubert—Melisande’s sister. As she approached, John felt heat in his muscles. She walked with the confidence of a captain and the delicacy of an actress. In the year since they parted, she had traded center-laced jackets, leather breeches, and Iroquois moccasins for a dandelion dress, gold earrings, and a big diamond ring. He gawked at her slender curves.
“I know it isn’t much comfort,” Dominique added as she came alongside John, “but he went to great pains to defeat you in front of his friends.”
She reached a hand towards John’s battered knuckles. “Let me see.”
John looked away. “Forget it.”
“Don’t be a child. Let me see.” Her words carried wisdom beyond her twenty-eight years. As if she were a traveler on the Silk Road, resting at a tavern and trading stories. He did as she said. She felt along the finger bones and said, “Nothing fractured, I think. Don’t know how you plan to swing swords and shoot muskets breaking yourself against trees.”
“You didn’t hear what it called me.”
“Might have been the wind.”
They shared a smile.
“Five years, Dominique. Five years at this one cause. Every gamble, every hardship, every sacrifice to free what’s left of my family. And it’s all come to nothing.” John looked at her. A few blonde strands escaped her ponytail and blew across her cheek. Her eyes were as blue as the bottom of the ocean. Desire flashed through him as he remembered the feeling of her skin against his. How he longed to hold her again. “It’s cost me everything.”
“I’m sorry, Sully,” Dominique said, looking at him sincerely.
“No need to be sorry. I gambled. I lost. Nothing so fair as that.”
“You’ve done more than anyone could have expected. Maybe some odds are just too long.”
“I’m the one that escaped,” insisted John. “Their freedom depended on me, and I failed them.”
“I know what Melly would say to that. ‘Quit mewling and have a chew.’”
John snickered. “Aye, she would.”
“And for once I agree with my sister. Self-pity doesn’t suit you.”
John pulled the watch from his pocket. He flipped open the case and read the inscription. A few tranquil words from his mother’s favorite play. They were John’s daily call to arms. No matter how weary he got, how desperate to lay down his burdens, they always gave him the strength for one more step. One more fight.
Dominique reached for the timepiece, and John allowed the watch chain to slide out of his grasp.
“Still keeping your mother’s watch,” Dominique said. “Perhaps it’s time to let it go.”
“It’s all I have left of her.”
“Maybe that’s why you lost.”
“What?” John shook his head. “No. I got sloppy and made a mistake.”
“Your mistake is that you keep coming back to this city. You keep struggling. You keep planning. You keep holding on to the past. You never leave it all behind.”
“You really want me gone that badly, huh?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“I guess we parted on worse terms than I thought.”
“‘Draw for the ace, win with the deuce.’ Isn’t that what you like to say?”
“That’s just gambler’s nonsense,” John snorted.
She flipped open the watchcase, read the inscription, and closed it again. “You’ve still got a deuce, Sully.”
The two fell silent. A breeze whispered in the pine branches overhead. They were alone in the field of grass behind the Piping Plover and its neighbors on Market Street. The workers had trimmed the gardens, stabled the horses, and carried in the yield of ale from the brewhouse.
“Melly tells me you married,” John said.
“Aye. The first day of spring.”
“I meant to congratulate you. I’m happy for you.”
Her eyes roamed his face. “You are?”
“Of course,” John lied.
Another gust of wind rustled the tree leaves.
“How have you been finding, uh…marriage?” John asked.
“Well.”
“Ah, good. That, uh…is good.”
“It is.”
“And Aubert?”
“Yes, he’s my husband.”
“Right. I mean—he treats you well?”
“Looking for a dragon to slay in my name, Sully?”
“I just meant—does he make you happy?”
“He loves me,” sighed Dominique. “I know my past still bothers him, but I’m doing my best.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your past.”
“Everything is wrong with my past.”
John looked into her eyes. Behind her soft, petite features, he could see the ferocious resolve Aubert would never appreciate. “He doesn’t know you. Not like I do.”
“Unlike you, he was here.”
John looked away.
“I had to make a choice, Sully,” said Dominique. She handed the watch back to John, and he took it. “Now, so do you.”
She gave him a faint smile, then headed back into the tavern.
John held up the watch. He stared at the silver, gleaming in the dusk.
John walked toward the Piping Plover with renewed purpose. A few moments later, he strode into the gaming parlor, the watch in hand. The men at the table stopped their conversations and looked at John. He pulled off his weathered jacket, slung it over a chair, and sat down.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Aubert said in a regal voice. “Forget something?”
“As a matter of fact, I did.” John tossed the watch onto the table. “Perhaps one of you gentlemen would be so kind as to credit me a few checks for good silver?”
Aubert smiled, blinking. He set his drink down. “I think we can oblige.” Aubert dropped ten dollars of checks into a stack. He slid it smartly across the table to John.
John smiled. “My thanks, Lieutenant. Might I jump in now, or shall I wait for the deal?”
Aubert’s smile became strained. “By all means. Forester, deal the lad in.”
The old war hero shrugged his shoulders and began the deal.
“A delight to have you back, Mr. Sullivan,” said Samuel Humphreys. “Good luck to you.”
“Thank you, sir,” John said. He took a slow deep breath. His hands trembled. He peered down at his cards.
###
“Now what could you mean by a bet like that?” said Lieutenant Richard Aubert. John privately celebrated his opponent’s frustration.
Hours of attrition left circles under Aubert’s eyes. Every time he failed to defeat John in a hand, the naval commander loosened another gold button on his navy coat. He burned through his pipe until he was packing new leaves on sooty resin. “Well, Sullivan, I suppose raising blind is a better strategy than another failed bluff. Unfortunately for you, I raise again.” He picked up a stack of bills from the rail and said, “Your five…” Then, thumbing each crisp note into the pot, “…and ten more.”
A few askance glances fell on John. Since his return, he had won every hand he chose to play. Sure, a few lucky draws helped. But his reads were exact, his bluffs believed, his traps unsuspected. Now, the son of a merchant—a dockside rogue—sat before the largest heap of money. Only Aubert still had a stack big enough to threaten. The lieutenant pursued victory as aggressively at the card table as at sea. John opened the current hand by betting without looking at his cards—“playing blind”—to throw his rival off balance. In theory, Aubert would likely have an average hand and be forced to fold to John’s bets. The strategy would be repeated again and again, driving Aubert mad. Instead, John’s dogged opponent raised, suggesting strong cards.
John wore a mask of indifference. But as he waited for each man to act, he privately cursed his bad luck. The point was to appear reckless, not to actually be reckless.
“We might as well play faro!” said Tappling, the owner of a small merchant fleet. He threw his cards away in disgust. One flipped over, exposing a six of diamonds to the room.
“Watch it there, Tappling!” Complained Captain Forester. The first big pot went to John the last time Tappling flashed an ace. Forester loomed over Aubert’s left shoulder as he attempted to coach the younger man back to victory. With each passing glass of brandy, a few more white strands came loose from the captain’s wig.
The action moved left to Commandant Pritchett. “I think it’s good sport.” He dropped a waterfall of coins into the pot.
“Good sport?” said Forester. “He plays like a child.”
“I don’t know,” said Samuel Humphreys, leaning forward in his chair with both hands clasped under his chin. “Mr. Sullivan has played very well so far.” John couldn’t have chosen an admirer with more prestige. It was Samuel’s father, Joshua Humphreys, who had built the United States Navy’s six new frigates, including Philadelphia’s own USS United States. Samuel Humphreys had himself designed USS Philadelphia. Despite John’s private awe for the brilliant builder and his father, he bankrupted him all the same.
“His luck is out, and Lieutenant Aubert has him on the retreat,” said the pudgy trader Martin Jameson, who had long since busted. The wealthy merchant moonlighted as Philadelphia’s most prolific fence for smugglers, pirates, and thieves. But John could no more divulge Jameson’s secrets than his own. Jameson sniffed. “This is what happens when you let a penny-stakes player from the docks into a gentlemen’s game. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve had my fill.” On his way out of the parlor, he leaned close to John’s ear. “Let’s hope your luck holds, boy.” With that, the sycophant left, and John considered it good riddance.
All eyes fell on John, awaiting his action. His heartbeat rose. He had bested Forester, Jameson, and the affable Humphreys. Tappling was still in but always folded easily. Pritchett threw money away cheerfully. But Aubert had enough skill and money to turn John’s victory into defeat. Aubert chewed his pipe the way he always did when holding a powerful hand. John reached for his cards, ready to fold.
“Richard, mon trésor.” Dominique’s voice rang like silver tapping crystal. Her floral perfume cut through the haze of smoke. Her dress rippled like a waterfall of gold. She circled the table to Aubert and slid a white-gloved arm across his shoulder. “How long must I lose my husband to this boring game?” she quipped.
The men replied with charmed laughter.
Captain Forester tried to smooth a strand of his wig and failed. “Forgive our boorishness, madame. The complexities of the game would escape you but suffice to say, your husband rules the table like Charlemagne reborn!”
“Your radiance is a welcome distraction,” added Humphreys.
Dominique pretended to pout. “All this fuss over faces painted on paper?”
Another laugh of delight.
Only Aubert appeared annoyed. “I shall come to you soon, mon chaton. In the meantime, I would ask you not to disturb our game.” The lieutenant took up her hand and planted a kiss on her ring finger.
Eyes shifted awkwardly. Dominique’s smile weakened a little. “Of course, darling,” she said and pecked Aubert’s cheek. With her lips on her husband, Dominique’s eyes flashed to John for a heartbeat. Then she sauntered out of the room. Necks craned after her.
“Make the bet one hundred,” said John.
Forester choked on a gulp of whiskey.
Humphreys shifted uncomfortably.
Tappling snorted.
“Well, I’m far too curious to fold now,” said Commandant Pritchett. He gleefully paid the bet—more than a sailor earned in three months.
Aubert’s teeth clenched on his pipe “As you wish, Sullivan. I raise.” Aubert matched John’s bet of one hundred from his bills on the table. For his raise, he reached into his pocket. He produced the silver watch and tossed it into the pot. “The value of this quaint little woman’s watch. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
The room chuckled.
“Go on then, love. Wind it up.” Nora’s words returning to John, from many years ago. He wanted to climb over the table and belt Aubert. Instead, he stamped on his own foot, focusing on the pain. His mother’s last possession had bought him back into the game. He had looked for every chance to win it back, but Aubert never offered one. Now, Aubert’s largesse was demeaning. When he looked at his cards, and in all likelihood found them wanting, John would have to endure the loss of the watch all over again.
Aubert spoke through clenched teeth. “Well if you’re not sure whether to bet, perhaps a peek at your cards…”
There was no choice now. John cupped his hands over his cards. He revealed each one-by-one. A three of spades. A jack of hearts. A two of spades. John’s stomach tightened. A draw for either a run or a flush. He looked at the last card. One beautiful ace of spades.
And just like that, a running flush. The second most powerful hand in brag. Aubert could only beat John now with another prial, and it would require the hand of fate to duplicate such a miracle. But how to set the trap? How to appear to be a fool overplaying a bad hand?
“You don’t seem happy with your draw,” said Aubert. “Quaint watch. Shame to lose it.”
John had him. Aubert knew what the watch meant to John, which meant John knew which tell would lure in Aubert. “Make the bet three hundred.”
Tappling sighed and folded his arms. Humphreys leaned forward with a smile. Forester shook his head as he poured another whiskey. Pritchett paid the last of his money into a side pot.
“Clever fucking devil,” Forester grumbled. “He’s priced you out of seeing his cards. You either fold or cover the bet and show.”
John smiled. “If Captain Aubert wants to borrow a few checks for his bet, I can spare them.” Time to fake the tell. A little “fear of loss” should do the trick. John allowed his eyes to flash toward the watch, then back to Aubert. John thought he saw the slightest tick in Aubert’s brow, but he couldn’t be sure.
“I might think you were bluffing if I thought you a fool,” said Aubert. He stood up, picked up the brandy decanter, and walked to the window. He stared into the summer night as he poured. As he sipped, only the smoke curling up from his pipe broke the stillness. Outside, a drizzle thickened into rain. Market Street dissolved into mud. Wind battered the tavern’s bird-shaped sign. The lieutenant returned to his seat and tapped his pipe on the rail.
“All right Sullivan,” said Aubert. “Everything I’ve got, and I’ll borrow what I owe to cover the rest.”
“No need,” said Forester. “I’ll cover your bet. You’re about to win, after all.” Forester unbuckled a short, sturdy rapier, still in its sheath, and laid it on the table. Spirals of silver formed the basketwork. A gold sun formed the pommel. He added a matching naval dirk with a fleur-de-lis pommel. “The sword, Roi and the dagger, Soleil,” he said. “Named after the Sun King himself. Fitting they should restore order to this table.”
Aubert protested, “Your prizes from the HMS Ernie? Captain Forester…”
“I’m not letting this failed midshipman win and disgrace our table,” growled the drunken captain. “Or the Navy. Certainly not days before we celebrate our country’s birth. The men at this table have fought too hard.”
Aubert looked at John. He turned over his cards. A four, a five, and a Queen—all diamonds. A flush. “To think, Sullivan. That old beaten watch almost saved you.”
All eyes in the room turned on the brash youth, eager for the reply.
John broke into a grin.
Chapter 6
The Piping Plover Inn
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Friday, July 1st, 1803
After a week of sleepless attrition at every card table in Philadelphia, John stepped out of the Piping Plover Inn with a bag of wealth. The satchel hidden under his coat held all the money he needed to fund his rescue mission, and then some. His heart warmed with pride. And relief. He couldn’t resist reaching into his coat pocket to feel the cold silver of his mother’s watch. Tomorrow morning, he would read the inscription as he did every day.
He heard muffled bickering through the window of the gaming parlor.
“It was a lucky draw.”
“He grifted you, Aubert!” accused Captain Forester.
“Me? You’re the old fucking sod that covered the bet.”
“He’s got you there, Forester. Always blathering advice after you’ve been nipping at the brandy…”
“Oh, piss off, Pritchett. You nursed his bankroll like a great Irish tit!”
And on it went. John chuckled to himself. He drew his rapier Roi and dirk Soleil in a single motion. He posed as if to lunge, feeling their balance in each hand. He admired their double edges and deadly points. For a moment, he was a boy again, fencing bridge trolls with a wooden sword.
John swung the rapier upright. “But I think I’ll call you…Ace.” Then he flipped the dagger and held it by the blade. “And Spade.” He named his weapons after the card that won him the game. Smiling, he sheathed them both and started down Market Street.
John had to be careful. Years on the streets of Philadelphia taught him every trap that could part him from his winnings. The poor boy who lost his way home—and would pick a Samaritan’s pocket. The drunk tramp seducing a man into an alley—where a man waited with a club. Or that eager night watchman who didn’t mind extorting a tax from vagrants or other “undesirables.” He carefully studied his surroundings. Green fields and tall trees lined blocks of red brick houses. A courier galloped by. A drunken reveler nodded off in a coach. Otherwise, the streets of western Philadelphia were deserted.
John ducked into an alley for a while, patiently waiting for any would-be followers to reveal themselves. A dog howled in the distance. Horse hooves sloshed through mud. John looked up to see the North Star adrift in the heavens. It had been a long time since he measured the Pole Star’s altitude on a sextant. Too long. But soon he would be on the deck of the Morrigan and back where he belonged—at sea. Satisfied he wasn’t being followed, John resumed his route to the riverfront.
At last, he sighted the candlelight in Mrs. McClintock’s window. As a year of living on adrenaline came to an end, exhaustion landed on John like an anchor hitting the ocean floor. Soon he would be in his tiny attic room, rocking to sleep in a hammock. In the morning, he would fill his belly with all the biscuits and bacon he could eat. He couldn’t wait to see Mrs. McClintock’s face when he paid his debt like he was tipping a coachman. Distracted by his relief, he didn’t hear the footsteps.
A figure charged out of the darkness and slammed a fist into his jaw. John struck back, but he was already staggering off balance. It felt like punching underwater. His fist hit nothing. Sensing men surrounding him, he reached for his rapier.
“John, please,” a man cooed in a French-creole drawl. John recognized the French privateer, smuggler, and occasional pirate, Pierre Laffite. “That is not wise.”
A taller, more muscular man grabbed John’s sword arm. The attacker overpowered him and twisted his wrist behind his back. Ace fell harmlessly to the ground. A short, bony man held John by the other arm. The smaller assailant wore the deep lines of a man aged by the sea.
“Men are always most careless a few feet from their door. Don’t you find that?” Laffite puffed on the long stem of a churchwarden pipe. The glow flickered over a black goatee and dark eyes. His coat, breeches, and tall hat were jet black. His cravat added a splash of bright red.
A third man approached with a lantern. John recognized the portly merchant from the brag game, Martin Jameson.
“Jameson. You fucking boot-licker.” John clenched his teeth.
“Yes, our little man of the hour,” Jameson crowed. He pulled Spade from its sheath and handed it to Laffite. “You really think a filthy orphan was going to waltz away with the wealth of his betters? Not a chance.” He yanked John’s satchel free and handed it to his employer.
“Merci, Monsieur Jameson. I see you two are already acquainted.” Looking at the muscular man, Laffite said to John, “I don’t think you’ve met Samson.” Laffite nodded towards the bony one. “…And Renaud. They’re quite unpleasant but well suited for this kind of work.”
Laffite jingled the bag with a grin, the pipe pinched between his teeth. “Shall we take account?” He rummaged through the bills and coins. “Hmm. I see. Now then, John. Why did I first hear of this from Jameson’s courier?”
“I didn’t know you’d slithered out of your swamp.”
“Such boorishness, mon ami. And after all my generosity?”
“That’s half again whatever I cost you. Take your share, Laffite, and call us even.”
“Ah, my friend, but interest accrues. I fear you haven’t the head for business. Dallying on a debt has a cost. Particularly a debt of your kind. Our account is far from settled.”
John slammed his head into the distracted Samson. His right arm loose, John sent his hardest hook straight into Renaud’s nose. John felt the nose bone crunch under his knuckles. He scooped up Ace and tore off the sheath.
John froze where he crouched. The point of Laffite’s sword hovered under his chin. A ray of lamplight refracted off the gold basket guard of the privateer’s rapier. Laffite relaxed into his stance, his arm steady as a surgeon’s. John’s sword hovered a foot over the ground. Samson and Renaud rushed forward.
Laffite held up his hand, smoke curling off his pipe. The two men stopped short. Jameson skittered several feet beyond the range of John’s lunge. Laffite said, “Incroyable! You kill one southern yokel in a pasture and think yourself a swordsman. How about it, John? If you think you’re fast enough…” Laffite tapped John’s chin with the flat of his blade.
The rain started again. John’s legs burned as he crouched. His hair turned sodden and clung to his face. He relaxed his grip. He watched Laffite’s eyes for a tick, a moment of distraction. He visualized how to attack: Swipe Laffite’s sword aside, then side-step, and end with a lunge. He could do it. He was fast enough.
Like a mother coaxing a toddler to walk, Laffite said, “Come then.” Another tap. Drops rang on Laffite’s blade like a bell.
Kaitlin whispered in John’s memory. I’ve still got him, Johnny. The Lion. He’ll keep us safe.
John squeezed rage and despair into the hilt. With the slightest twitch of his arm, Ace sang through the air. But Laffite’s sword darted away. Ace missed.
Laffite cuffed John’s left cheek with the acorn-shaped pommel of his sword. John sprawled in the mud.
Samson moved in and kicked Ace away. Renaud kicked John hard in the small of his back. Samson kicked John’s stomach again and again. Renaud threw punches at random. Laffite calmly sheathed his sword and sniffed. He cupped his hand over his pipe and blew on the damp tobacco, trying to relight it.
Laffite looked down at John. “That was not your finest effort, John. But what do you expect? Shit swordsmen, the Spanish. Should have chosen a Frenchman for your teacher.”
Laffite pulled a red silk kerchief from his coat pocket. He dabbed at the blood near John’s left eye. “Awe. Look at this. What a shameful state…easy, now John.”
“You still have a play here,” said Laffite as he concluded his ministrations. “Thanks to your feud with the Tindalls in Richmond, I’ve lost my business in the Chesapeake to Fernando Pavia. He’s bad for business. You’re going to make that right.”
John coughed flecks of blood. Several inches away from his chest, he saw a silver glint. His mother’s watch had fallen out of his pocket.
“The Basque’s have attacked American riverboats, in addition to smuggling over the Florida border. I want the location of their ill-gotten goods.”
“Pavia’s no river pirate. You’d have to frame him.”
Laffite patted John’s shoulder. “You let me worry about the details, John. I just need a location.”
“I don’t…know where his cache is…” John rasped. It was half a lie. John knew every cove Pavia used on the Delaware. He could use Godfried’s nose and the scent on Pavia’s kerchief to find the exact one.
“Of course not. But you know Pavia. He is your old mentor, no? Use a little of your mick charm to get it out of him. Three days from tonight, I will look for you at Jameson’s warehouse with the information I want. If I have to delay my departure for New Orleans and hunt you down, I will be terribly put out.”
“Fuck off, Laffite. I won’t help you get my friends hanged.”
Laffite stood. He gestured to Renaud, who handed over a thin, finger-length stick—a spill—and opened the glass door of his lantern. Laffite calmly lit the spill, sheltering it from the rain with the brim of his hat. He lit the bowl of the churchwarden.
Taking a puff, Laffite said, “I hear Henry Tindall was very fond of the brother you killed. I could hand you over to him tonight and earn a handsome reward. I admit it’s tempting. But I have a forgiving heart. This is your last chance. I know you’ll help me take back what’s mine.
“Of course if you don’t, you won’t be the only one meeting an unpleasant end. I haven’t forgotten the part of the Duforts in your betrayal. Aubert’s good behavior has kept those pretty sisters safe for now—but that can change. Merde, who am I forgetting? Ah yes, your other friend—the black fellow. The Tindalls have a long memory. The bounty for all of you is sure to be high.”
John coughed. Ropes of blood hung from his nose. He reached for the watch. Laffite snatched it up by the chain.
“Fond of this piece? I don’t know why. Shit for taste, the bitch who bought it. Keep it.” Laffite dropped the watch in the mud. John could hear its gentle ticking. “Three days, John.” Laffite smiled and walked away, Renaud and Jameson in tow. Samson picked up Ace before joining the others.
John writhed onto his hands and knees. He crawled toward the watch. The lid of the hunter-case lay open. He closed his hand around it, touching the words etched in silver.
“Mr. Sullivan?” Cried Mabel McClintock. “John!”
John heard footfalls coming towards him. He blinked blood out of his eyes. Pain radiated from the pit of his stomach to his extremities. His mother’s watch ticked softly as he slipped into darkness.
For my mom, my dad, and my sister. You inspired me to always find a way.