Blood and Oak, Issue 4
John Sullivan finds himself and his friends at the mercy of the ruthless pirate Pierre Laffite.
Chapter 16
Church Creek Mill
Outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Monday, July 4th, 1803
Samson shoved John into a chair, hands bound. For hours, John, Melisande, and Grey Feather struggled at their bonds in vain. The ropes were tied well—certainly a testament to Samson’s seamanship. Now, Laffite stood over John, puffing his pipe. Blood-stained floorboards drew John’s eye. The image of Martin Jameson’s pale corpse flashed through his mind, dead eyes locked in eternal surprise. The mill door scraped open, and the sound of heavy boots approached from behind.
Laffite looked in the direction of the newcomer. “Your cargo, delivered in promised condition.”
Spurs rang with each footfall. A towering, grizzled man circled into view. His salt and pepper hair, beard, and mustache hid much of his weathered face. Sweat beaded below the wide brim of his hat. John could never forget Francis Whitlock. The grotesque slave-driver who once served Clyde Tindall, a wealthy Virginia planter. That is, until their attempt to enslave Ethan Auldon ended with John killing Clyde Tindall in a duel.
Whitlock stared at John with narrow eyes. “Good.” He handed a heavy purse to Laffite. “All eagles.”
Laffite opened the purse and ran his index finger through the coins. “Very good. Do convey my gratitude to Monsieur Henry Tindall…”
“Aye,” Whitlock replied in a Virginia drawl. “Mr. Tindall regrets this unpleasant misunderstanding. He welcomes your renewed business in the Chesapeake.”
In his most phlegmatic French accent, Laffite replied, “Of course. My best to Monsieur Tindall and his kin.”
Whitlock stepped forward. He loomed above John like a cliff. “As I hoped. You look healthy. Vigorous.”
“As I expected,” John replied, “you smell like horse piss.”
Whitlock’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t reply. He brought his right hand to rest on John’s left shoulder. His grip closed like a bear trap.
A deep bundle of scar tissue seized up. John felt the phantom bullet like a hot spike. The pain forced out a yelp. He flushed red as he resisted the urge to cry out again.
Whitlock released his grip. “I’ll return directly.” He strolled out of the mill.
Laffite sighed, shaking his head at John. “Don’t be cross with me, John. I can hardly apologize for applying a firm hand in business.”
John’s eyelids drooped as he recovered from the jolt to his shoulder. “You’re scum, Laffite, and so is your brother.”
“This from a man who smuggled in my employ? Used his friends like pawns? Killed Clyde Tindall in cold blood?”
“Clyde Tindall profited from human misery—like you. He got what he deserved.”
“Mon Dieu, there is your proof!” Laffite spread his hands like an attorney before a court. “You chose your own tiresome sanctimony over survival! I’m just a trader John. I can’t help it if flesh is in demand. A man is only as good as the world allows him to be. There is an order to things that will never change.”
An odd movement stirred in John’s periphery. It came from somewhere up high, in the northwest corner of the mill behind Laffite. With Laffite’s eyes on him, John couldn’t risk a better look.
###
Ethan watched from his hiding place at the base of a rotating wooden column. Fernando Pavia carefully climbed onto the west end of the Church Creek Mill’s catwalk. While Ethan waited for Pavia to get into position, he heard John Sullivan crying out in pain. Francis Whitlock was squeezing Sullivan’s shoulder, tormenting an old wound. Ethan’s hands had been shaking with anger ever since he saw Whitlock enter the mill. The scars crisscrossing his back began to itch. His breathing quickened. He felt cool beads of sweat pooling on his chest. Sullivan cried out again.
The rope cuts like piano wire.
“Ten!” Shouts Whitlock. The whip slices across Ethan’s back.
Each new stroke sets his body on fire. Each is more painful than the last. His legs buckle under him. The twine rips deeper into his hands.
“You learnin’ yet, boy?” Another stroke. “Eleven!”
Like a fishhook ripping his flesh. He feels urine running down his legs. He hangs from his hands, bound high on a post. Blood runs down his body.
“Twelve!”
Ethan forced the memory away. He slowed his breathing the way Pavia taught him. The fear could wait. The rage could wait. His friends needed him. He resolved to follow his Basque friend’s lead.
Be with me Lord, in the watches of the night, he prayed.
Ethan threaded himself through the assemblage of machinery, grist barrels, and workbenches on the north side of the mill. The cranking shafts and squealing gears were so loud he hardly needed to quiet his footsteps. As he listened to Laffite and Sullivan talk, he crept behind the stacks of barrels until he reached a patch of open floor. Just ahead, Grey Feather and Melisande sat with hands tied to thick support beams. A series of turning shafts behind them would give him some cover, but he would need to cross the gap. Laffite and the four men with him were distracted by the conversation with John. Hopefully, they wouldn’t see him in their periphery.
I cling to you; your right hand upholds me. His father’s favorite prayer.
None of them were looking. Ethan struck out, crossed the gap, and came to a pair of bound hands. The beam was just wide enough to hide him. He gently tapped Melisande’s forearm.
Melisande kept her eyes forward.
“Pavia and the Basques are here,” he whispered. “Be ready.”
Melisande gently squeezed Ethan’s hand. She remained perfectly still as he cut through her bonds. When the rope parted, Melisande kept her hands against the sides of the beam. Ethan pressed the hilt of a copper dagger into her palm. She closed her grip around it. Ethan shuffled to the next column where Grey Feather waited.
###
“You’re wrong, Laffite,” John was saying. “The world is changing. You won’t be able to sell slaves forever.”
“I doubt it, but either way, I will be alive and well.”
The movement in the corner came closer. Towards the back of the mill, a figure nimbly dropped from the railing of the catwalk onto one of the horizontal gears spinning ten feet above the floor. The man timed his landing with the loud cuh-clunk of a nearby sprocket.
“Whitlock doesn’t have me yet,” John replied.
“Always the gambler, eh John? I’m afraid that lucky card isn’t coming this time.”
Fernando Pavia came into view as he ran across the series of interconnected gears. He stopped on the last one, six feet behind Laffite. Two pistols were tucked into his gold sash. He wore a saber across his back, and a long, curved dagger on his hip—his favorite Sikh kirpan. Another dagger hilt poked out of his tall riding boots. He held a piece of slow-burning cord in his right hand, a grenade in his left. Making brief eye contact with John, he looked in the direction of a stack of grain nearby.
Laffite patted his prisoner on the cheek. “Au revoir, mon ami.” He turned to walk away.
Pavia crouched as the rotating gear brought him around. He lit the fuse.
“Don’t you find, Pierre?” John said, causing Laffite to pause. “Men are always most careless a few feet from their door.”
The smuggler frowned.
Pavia tossed the grenade. John dove onto the floor. A blinding flash as several sacks of grain ignited. A deafening concussion. Flaming grist filled the air. Renaud screamed as he landed on the ground, fire spreading over his jacket.
Pavia leaped off the gear and tumbled forward. “How about an easy surrender, eh amigos?”
Laffite, Samson, and Nichols, recovering from the blast, reached for pistols.
Pavia shrugged. “Worth a try.” He charged, saber singing out of its sheath. He drove the blade between Samson’s ribs, carried forward a step, and hooked the kirpan into Nichols’s neck. Renaud slashed at the Basque’s stomach with his cutlass, but Pavia turned it aside. Steel struck steel as the two traded blows.
Laffite had his pistol cocked and aimed at Pavia. John, hands still bound, charged headfirst into the pirate’s stomach. The two men sprawled on the ground. Laffite’s pistol slid away. Laffite thrust his right knee into John’s side. Sitting atop Laffite, John head-butted the smuggler. A gash ripped open above Laffite’s right eye. White light shot through John’s vision with the impact. Before John could land a second blow, he caught sight of Francois running towards him, saber drawn.
John rolled beneath Francois’s swing just in time. Now on his back, John looked up to see Francois pulling back for the killing thrust.
A copper dagger thudded into Francois’ right side. He growled in pain and fumbled at the hilt. Melisande, following her throw, charged his flank. She swung the beak of her war club full force into his knee. The leg staved in with a wet snap. The pirate collapsed in a fit of wailing. Melisande piled onto his belly, plucked her dagger free, and reversed the grip.
She wore a gleeful smile. “I did promise, didn’t I?”
Her knife plunged with the speed of a pouncing cat. She opened his belly from ribs to groin. The flesh parted so fast, there was no blood. Then it welled up like a spring.
“Alumno!” Pavia called as he pressed a boot into Renaud’s corpse and pulled his saber free.
John saw Laffite reaching for his pistol. Following Pavia’s cue, John dashed the few paces between them and turned his bound hands toward the sword-master. Pavia severed the ropes with a swift stroke.
“Move!” Pavia ordered. He, Melisande, and John dove behind a grouping of columns and gear shafts. Laffite fired. The ball bit the corner of a beam in front of John.
“Kill them!” Laffite shouted to a group of his men who had stormed into the mill.
The men hesitated at the door. Fire was spreading through the grist and machinery on the south wall. The air was choked with ash and burning kernels. They held out their hands against the heat. One managed to level a musket toward John. Before he could fire, a hail of shots poured into him. Several of Pavia’s Basque mercenaries charged into the mill behind the smugglers, swords drawn.
Seeing his men outnumbered and engulfed in a losing melee, Laffite ran for a ladder onto the second-floor mezzanine.
“Where does he think he’s going?” said Ethan, coming up beside John. Grey Feather crouched beside him.
“To a fiery death,” said Melisande.
John clapped Ethan’s arm. “Glad you could make it, mate.” They exchanged a grin.
“How did you find us?” Grey Feather asked Pavia.
“We did as Señor Sullivan instructed,” said Pavia, looking past the column for a clear path to the door. “We watched Señorita Melisande. When Laffite’s man Nichols followed her, we followed him. Facil.”
“You knew?” Melisande punched John’s arm.
John smiled. “I knew you’d be you.”
That got her beaming.
Pavia’s men had cleared Laffite’s men out of the way, and the Basque signaled for his companions to make their exit.
“And you didn’t tell us?” Grey Feather demanded as they broke cover.
“I couldn’t tip my hand in front of Laffite, could I?” John winked. “Pavia, get them out of here.” John hurdled over debris, shielding his face from the withering heat.
“Where are you going?” Melisande called.
“Laffite and I have business,” John called back. Over his shoulder, he saw Pavia lead a charge into a few pirate stragglers. The mercenary’s saber sliced through the first. Grey Feather buried his tomahawk in the chest of a second. Melisande clubbed a third.
From a barrel near the spreading fire, John snatched his rapier, Ace, and his dagger, Spade. The hilts were hot to the touch. He grimaced as he sheathed them in his belt and made for the ladder.
Smoke stung John’s eyes when he made it onto the catwalk. Soot clogged the air, but he could make out movement in the northeast corner. He crossed over the rows of millstones and gears beneath, then wove his way through the clutter of crates on the mezzanine. He found a ladder thrust through a window, but no sign of anyone. He scanned in every direction. Flames licked up the walls from the first floor. The teeth of gears ground and snapped. Shafts and beams sheared apart. John heard footsteps behind him.
Spinning just in time, John deflected Laffite’s thrust. The rail boxed in John’s sword arm, so he fell back, dodging Laffite’s slashes. He ducked a swing aimed at his throat, then zagged behind Laffite. The two enemies faced each other. Laffite held his sword high and level; John kept Ace low, close, and pointed at Laffite’s chest.
“You see, John?” Laffite said. “You’d rather burn here with me than escape with your friends.”
“I’m not here to burn, Laffite. I’m here to deliver one last piece of cargo—in promised condition.”
“You forget how our last bout ended.” Laffite lunged.
John’s hand smarted as he blocked Laffite’s strikes. Peals of clashing steel joined the crackle of the fire. Laffite sneered and launched into an ambitious lunge. The smuggler was angry. Giving up tells. Sloppy.
John let Laffite take ground. He kept his stance low, concentrated on turning away the precise strikes and staying clear of the wild ones. He watched for another sneer—his opening. Infuriated at the stalemate, Laffite fell back onto the catwalk. John pursued, forcing him back and back again.
Laffite’s upper lip twitched. John saw the sneer and darted back, letting his opponent stumble with failed momentum. With a quick thrust, John opened a hole in Laffite’s shoulder.
“Agh!” cried Laffite, backing off. “It’s wasted effort, John. Poor Papa is feeding the buzzards by now. And Maman? Dead of whore’s disease.”
John relaxed his grip. Leveled his rapier. “You’re bested, Pierre. Drop the sword.”
A cloud of grain dust ignited and exploded. The shudder in the catwalk sent both combatants reeling. John felt like he was in a kiln. His white shirt clung to his skin, soaked with sweat. Black clouds of soot roiled overhead. He grabbed the rail to right himself.
Laffite looked around as if only now noticing the mill on fire and Church Creek swarming with Basques. He dropped his sword. “I guess you win, John. Savor this moment. Because I can promise you: the Laffite Brothers have a long memory.”
The catwalk shuddered again. Then dropped five feet as the supporting column gave way. Boards parted under John’s boots. He dove for the next supporting beam. The catwalk collapsed underfoot. His fingers barely caught the ledge. Ace clattered on the walkway above. Columns of fire rose from barrels and collapsing machinery nearby. Flames licked up towards his dangling feet. Over his shoulder, he saw Laffite fleeing along the opposite mezzanine.
The fire below crept higher. The soles of his boots heated like coals. John struggled to pull himself up, but he couldn’t find purchase. The harder he tried, the more his fingers weakened.
He was slipping…Slipping…
“Sully!” Melisande appeared above him on the catwalk.
“Melly?” John looked up in astonishment. “Where did you…?”
“What? You thought I’d let you roast like a rabbit on a spit?” Melisande grabbed John’s right forearm with both hands. She braced her feet and helped him up. When they were both sitting on the catwalk, panting, she smiled like a gambler gloating after a win. “That’s two you owe me, ole mick!”
Choking on smoke, John scooted back from the ledge. “Laffite…”
“Forget the frog!” Melisande tugged John to his feet. He scooped up Ace, and the two ran for the mezzanine.
A chunk of the third floor came crashing down in the center of the mill. Fire crackled in every pile of crates. No path down, no path to the windows. “Melly, we need a way out.”
“The way I came. Hurry!”
John followed Melisande up a ladder leading to the third floor. His lungs burned. His head swam, and his balance faltered. Melisande caught his arm when he tripped over a fallen plank. They staggered through the crumbling mill until they reached a door in the corner. Melisande threw it open, pulled John inside, and slammed it shut.
John realized he was inside the small jetty that extended over the creek. The large trap door in the floor looked down onto the docks below, where John and Laffite had walked only hours ago. A series of pulleys fed a thick rope through the opening, down to the cargo platform. A hook dangled at the bottom of the rope, inches above the dock. Firelight flickered in the inky surface of the creek. The rope was on fire, and a trail of flames was climbing towards them.
“Shit!” Melisande jumped onto the rope and quickly sawed through the piece inches below her feet. Just as the fire neared her toes, the burning length fell away.
John stared at the coil of cable, now burning on the dock some fifty feet down. “Shit.”
Still wrapped around the rope, Melisande pointed to the cleat mounted on the wall. “Lower me down.”
John untied the rope. When he gained a hold over Melisande’s weight, he doled out slack. He reached the end after twelve feet. Melisande still hung two stories above the platform. He tied off and said, “That’s it.”
“What do you mean ‘that’s it?’”
The timbers of the jetty groaned, threatening to collapse. John jumped onto the rope and slid down to Melisande’s level. He entwined his feet with hers. Her eyes flickered like those of a wolf beyond a campfire.
“The creek,” said John.
Melisande looked at the water below. She grinned. “I like it. You think it’s deep enough?”
“One and a half—two fathoms. At least.”
“Sully…”
“Well, we’re about to find out.”
She tightened her grip. “Towards the mill…Go!”
They kicked their feet in unison, first towards the building, then back towards the water. Steadily, they built momentum. After several swings, John managed to land a foot against the mill. He kicked off, and the two went hurdling. Then they kicked off again.
“Now?” Melly asked.
“No.”
Another swing got them a foot past the platform.
“Now?!” she said.
“One more.”
A final kick off the wall and they passed over the water.
“Jump!” cried John.
They dropped. John brought his feet together. Straightened his legs. The water hit his feet like the canes of his former captors. Cold swallowed his world. He landed in the soft mud of the creek bed. All motion ceased. He drifted in the depths, the heat of the fire driven out. At last, in this place, he could breathe.
John breached the surface and gulped in air. He found himself treading water beside Melisande. They stared at the spectacular blaze.
“You realize, Melisande,” John said. “If we’re being truthful, you are a frog.”
Melisande pondered a moment. “And you’re one lucky mick.”
The pair snickered.
The mill’s roof fell in, and they snickered a little louder. The walls collapsed next, and their snicker became a chuckle. The silo crumbled to kindling. They looked at each other for a moment, then back at the blaze. They reveled in the cold water, the fresh air, the joy of being alive.
They howled with laughter.
Chapter 17
Near Church Creek Mill
Outside Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Monday, July 4th, 1803
Ethan Auldon ran as hard as he had ever run in his life. His heart pounded in his chest. He felt pure terror. He scrambled up an embankment with a pistol in his hand. He slipped in the soft earth, then grabbed a wet tuft of grass to regain his balance. He crashed through brush. Trampled stalks of teasel. Ignored the switch of stinging nettle ripping across his arm. He could hear footsteps nearby, crashing through reeds. He could hear gunfire and the roar of the burning mill far behind. He felt the fire of adrenaline in his muscles. He was closing in. About to catch his quarry. Ethan Auldon was terrified—of himself.
Ethan had no name for what drove him. But it pushed his legs past exhaustion, his senses past their limits, his mind past fear. The thick tangles of grass, weeds, and brush parted into a clearing. Ethan’s momentum nearly sent him sprawling. He slid to a stop and looked around. He stood in a copse of tall pines. Blackberry brambles threaded between thick trunks. Treetops obscured the dying light of the moon. Without a lantern, Ethan could only see by starlight. The sounds of battle faded in the distance. Even the crickets sang softer, as if afraid to disturb the night. He heard no footsteps. He wanted to rush ahead, but his wits took over. He ducked behind a tree and waited.
Being still felt like standing on hot coals. To busy his mind, he checked his pistol. Half-cocked. When he saw the target, he would bring it to full-cock. He carefully watched the clearing. Concentrated on slowing his breathing. Deep breaths from the belly. One at a time.
He listened. A rustling of leaves. Shouts echoing in the distance.
And then: footsteps. Ethan tensed. He repositioned his grip on the pistol. His finger settled on the trigger guard. He waited.
Francis Whitlock peered into the clearing from behind a spruce. He calmly searched the woods. Satisfied, he stepped into the clearing. A well-worn trail cut north towards the city, and the slave-driver headed for it. When he had his first foot on the path, the unmistakable cocking of a pistol hit the night like a thunderclap. Whitlock froze, staring into the woods.
“Hmm,” Whitlock scoffed. “I tried to out-skulk a nigro. Guess it serves me right.”
“Fuck you,” Ethan said, his pistol aimed straight at Whitlock’s head. He stood ten paces away. The gun trembled in his grasp. “Turn around, you ugly shit!”
Whitlock turned a slow circle to face Ethan. He put his hands up. “We got to know each other pretty well on the Tindall Plantation, didn’t we, boy?”
“Aye, and I’ve been dreaming of this moment ever since.” Even as Ethan savored his revenge, he thought of his late father.
Another log pops as it catches fire. The light of the hearth illuminates Father’s face. The Bible is the only book Seth Auldon can read, mostly because he’s memorized the words. Mother sits on the couch holding Priscilla. Judith and Ansel lay on their stomachs on the floor, legs kicking in the air. Ethan prods at the fire, listening to his father recite the Gospel of Luke.
“‘Love your enemies, do good to them which hate you.’”
“I don’t think you got it in you,” gloated Whitlock. “I think—”
The hammer struck. There was a pop. A flash lit up Whitlock’s wide-eyed shock.
Whitlock grasped at his chest. He patted himself, swiveled his head both ways. But there was no wound. No holes in the tree behind.
Ethan’s arm remained suspended in midair, a puff of smoke rising from the hammer. The pan had flashed, but the powder failed to ignite. A new feeling washed away the old one—a sickness. He stared at the man he had failed to murder. He couldn’t move.
Whitlock gushed a sigh of relief. He shook his head, clucking his tongue. “Misfire. Damn shame. Don’t worry—I reckon this will be a short fight.” Whitlock’s shoulders straightened. His hands balled into fists. He took a step forward.
A new voice came from the dark. “Shorter than you think, señor.”
Fernando Pavia burst out of the nearby brush and kicked Whitlock’s legs. As Whitlock fell to his knees, Pavia followed with a palm strike to his face, then a jab to the ribs. Caught off guard and off balance, Whitlock didn’t bother with fists. With speed that didn’t seem possible, the larger man launched headlong into Pavia like a charging bull. He lifted the Basque in a crushing embrace, then slammed him to the ground.
Whitlock closed his hands around the mercenary’s throat, ignoring three punches to his face.
Ethan’s ramrod piped a sour note as it plunged down the barrel of his pistol. When the ball and wadding reached the bottom, he snatched the powder horn from his belt and started to pour. As badly as his hands were shaking, he spilled most of the black powder on his feet. How many times had he loaded a gun with ease and speed under Pavia’s watchful gaze? But now that a man’s life depended on it, he could hardly remember how. A howl of pain drew Ethan’s attention.
Pavia had plunged his kirpan into Whitlock’s beefy arm. He yanked the dagger, then wrapped his opponent in a leg hold. With the precision of a Greek wrestler, the Basque twisted his opponent to the ground and slipped free. On his feet, he sauntered around Whitlock, greasy ropes of blood hanging from the kirpan. Whitlock struggled to get up, but Pavia harried him with a slash to the thigh. Another cut to the triceps and the hefty overseer crumpled to the ground.
“‘Bless them that curse you, and pray for them which despitefully use you.’”
While Whitlock sputtered on the ground, Pavia calmly cleaned his blade and sheathed it. Even from a quarter mile away, the burning mill cast the clearing in a dim glow. As Whitlock struggled to his knees, cradling his arm, Ethan felt like throwing up. Water gathered at the edges of his vision. He felt hate. Guilt. Fury. Despair. He longed for home. And he longed to sail to places unknown and never return.
Fernando Pavia came alongside Ethan, still panting from his fight. He pulled a pistol from his belt. He traded it to Ethan for the half-loaded one.
“Go on then, Señor Auldon,” said Pavia. He cocked an eyebrow at Whitlock. “Like I always say, practice is the key.”
Whitlock half sneered, half smiled. “Well, how about that? It’s your lucky day. Don’t even have to break a sweat for your revenge! Just like your kind to let someone else do all the work.”
To kill a man on his knees—it went against every lesson Ethan’s father ever taught him. Christ died on the cross to save all—even men like Whitlock. To Him alone did vengeance belong. It was a fact. So why did Ethan find himself stepping forward? “It doesn’t matter who kills you,” said Ethan, the pistol in point-blank range of the slave-driver’s forehead. “It’s justice.”
“Oh, let’s not go fooling ourselves with all notions of civility, boy. Go on and murder a white man. You’ll never get a better chance.”
“Do what you must, Señor Auldon,” said Pavia. “So long as you’re prepared to live with your choice.”
The cool metal of the trigger dug into Ethan’s finger. Ethan wanted to squeeze it. At that moment, there was nothing he wanted more.
“‘And unto him that smiteth thee on the one cheek, offer also the other.’”
“Three slaves go free,” Whitlock said, “if you spare me.”
Ethan’s finger loosened. “You’re lying.”
“Ain’t lying,” Whitlock calmly argued. “I brought three house slaves with me for personal needs. They’re on a farm with friends of the Tindalls. It’s not far.”
Ethan ground his teeth. He looked at Pavia.
The swordmaster shrugged his shoulders. “Up to you, alumno. But you should know, chances for retribution don’t come often.”
Ethan shifted his balance forward. He pressed the gun to Whitlock’s skin.
“Go ahead,” Whitlock crowed. He pressed closer to the gun barrel. “Hollow out my skull and send them slaves right back to the plantation.”
Ethan’s face twisted into a snarl, his nostrils flared, and he roared. He jerked the gun barrel to the right and fired into the dirt. Whitlock recoiled from the deafening shot. Pavia sighed and looked at the ground. Ethan felt his muscles go slack.
Ethan handed the pistol back to Pavia and murmured, “He’ll tell you where they are. In exchange, he lives.”
The mercenary tilted his head by way of a nod. He touched Ethan’s shoulder, then drew his saber. “On your feet,” Pavia commanded Whitlock.
Ethan turned back. He trudged through the brush, not bothering to avoid thorns or twigs. He felt numb. The glow of the smoldering mill poked through the forest. From the depths of the past, while he walked in the dark, it wasn’t the words of the Savior whispering to him, but his father’s.
“We can’t choose the world we live in, but we can choose how we live in the world.
“When it’s your time to choose, son, I’ll be with you.”
Hot tears ran down Ethan’s face.
Cover Artwork by Pablo Fernandez. Title Design by Kerem Beyit.
Chapter 18
Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Thursday, July 28th, 1803
In the parlor mirror of Mrs. McClintock’s Water Street Lodging, John Sullivan inspected his navy uniform. The double-breasted coat was the perfect shade of dark blue. The trim was gold, though for the lapel buttons he had to settle for brass. His white stockings, breeches, waistcoat, and under-collar fit without a wrinkle. His black bicorne hat pointed forward and back, rather than side to side, in keeping with modern fashion. Ace and Spade were sheathed at his belt. His new shoes were polished to a perfect jet-black, his beard clean-shaven, and his hair tied back. Godfried sat behind him panting as if to share the moment. John thought he hadn’t wanted an officer’s commission, but now that he had it, he felt euphoric. For the first time in five years, he felt true freedom. John Sullivan was going back to sea.
“You look very handsome, Mr. Midshipman Sullivan,” said Grace Auldon.
John hurried to remove his hat and tuck it under his arm. Mrs. Auldon came into the frame of the mirror and hung an arm on his shoulder. She admired the image, her cheeks dimpling as she smiled. If he didn’t know better, he might have described her expression as one of pride.
“I suppose I do,” John smiled.
“A bit lacking in humility though.” She feigned a disapproving frown.
John awkwardly scratched his head and turned to face her. “I meant to say—thank you very kindly, Mrs. Auldon.”
She cocked an eyebrow. “Better.”
“Come for tea with Mrs. McClintock?”
“Not today. I came to say my farewells.”
John looked around the otherwise empty room. “Ethan is coming here?”
“No, Mr. Sullivan. Ethan went aboard the Philadelphia yesterday. We’ve said our farewells.”
“Then you’ve come to say farewell…to me?”
“You are departing for the Barbary Coast today, are you not?”
“Yes, ma’am, I am. I suppose I’m just a little surprised, given our differences over the years.”
“You’ve grown on me. By small degrees.”
“Well I…I don’t know what to say.”
“You usually don’t. But you’re young.”
John smiled. He stared at his feet a moment. “I suppose I could say that…I’m grateful. That I will never forget your kindness. Or everything you and Mr. Auldon, and Ethan, did for me. I hope you can forgive me for the trouble I brought to your family.”
“You misunderstand, Mr. Sullivan.” She straightened John’s upper collar. “You’re part of the family now.”
Taken aback, John replied, “I’m honored.”
“Oh, don’t get too excited just yet. Family means duty. It means you can sail to the far side of the world, but you’ll never be rid of us.”
“Doesn’t it follow that you’ll never be rid of me?”
Mrs. Auldon frowned. “Yes, it had occurred to me. I did say ‘by small degrees.’”
“I can’t help it if I’m charming,” John shrugged.
“There’s a lot about yourself you can’t help. Fortunately for me, I’m getting something out of it.”
“And that is?”
“A promise. That you’ll look after Ethan for me.”
“Actually, he tends to do a lot of looking after me.”
“I know. You don’t have to tell me he’s strong—I know he is. This is different.”
John knit his brows, waiting for her to elaborate.
“You and I—we do what it takes. We survive. We fight for our own, and we let go of the rest. Not Ethan. He has so many passions. So many dreams. So much that he carries.”
“Mrs. Auldon, I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking me.”
“You remember the story of Icarus?”
“One of my favorite fables. Icarus’s father made him a set of wings with feathers and wax.”
“And we know what happened next. You and I see a sun that could melt our wings. Ethan just sees the sun.”
“You want me to keep him from soaring too high?”
“No. Be there to catch him if he falls.”
“You never had to ask, Mrs. Auldon. I’ll look after Ethan with my life.”
“I know.” Trying for a more chipper tone, she said, “Well, Midshipman? This is the chance you’ve wanted for a long time. Are you ready?”
“There’s no going back now. I sold all that was left of my father’s business, as my uncle wanted. Then I signed over every penny of my proceeds to Fernando Pavia for his help against Pierre Laffite.”
“You gave up your inheritance?”
“I wouldn’t have seen a penny, what with Uncle Peter turning all his Belfast connections against me. But he’ll think twice before cheating a band of battle-hardened mercenaries. Better they should have it. My small share of prize money went to naval books, a few personal effects, and this very handsome uniform.”
“What if you reach the Barbary Coast and what you find isn’t what you expected?”
“Mam and Katie are out there. They’re alive, and they’re waiting for my help. Their message proves it. I will bring them back.”
“Well then, John. I wish you luck. And Godspeed.”
John nodded. She embraced him warmly, if briefly. She looked at him a moment with the same haunted expression he had seen in the Sawduster. Without another word, she left the boarding house.
John felt a wooly shape nuzzling his hand. He looked down and saw Godfried begging to be petted. John tousled the hound’s shaggy head.
“I shall miss you, boy.”
Godfried gave a loud woof.
###
Midshipman John Sullivan stood on the pier, under the shadow of the U.S.S. Philadelphia gently rocking at anchor. He looked up at the figurehead of Hercules on her bow. The mythical Greek hero, carved into the same live oak that built the ship, wore only a loincloth and rippled with muscles. He carried a gnarled club in his right hand at the apogee of a swing. He strangled a snake in his left as it slithered up from underfoot. Above the sculpture, the bowsprit jutted forward over the Philadelphia wharf. The foremast teemed with sailors working in the rigging, some of them a hundred sixty feet above the water.
John walked the one-hundred-fifty-foot length of the vessel. Her copper plating shimmered below the waterline. Sailors hauled supplies over the side of her boot-polish black hull. A glossy yellow stripe of paint ran along her eighteen starboard gunports. Gone were the raised and segmented decks of British ships from his youth; the young American frigate’s single, flush spar deck defied centuries of shipbuilding convention. His eyes landed on the stern where the flag of the United States fluttered from the ensign halyards. Eight red stripes, seven white stripes, and a constellation of fifteen stars. John felt suddenly astonished to stare at the colors of a country barely older than him.
“We almost left you, mate,” said a familiar voice behind him.
John smiled and turned around. “Nah, mate. I’m a fast swimmer.”
Ethan Auldon strolled up to John, smiling just as wide. His arms were tucked neatly behind his back, the tails of his double-breasted coat trailing in the breeze. He reached out, and the two friends clasped hands.
“Have a look at us,” John said. In the corner of his eye, he caught a few sideways glances from sailors and dockworkers. No doubt they found this warm exchange strange between men of different races. In another time, he might have cared. A time before the Auldons gave him a home. Before Ethan stood with him against Pierre Laffite. Before he lost everything to the Barbary Pirates. So John smiled the brighter. “I’d say Captain Aubert was as good as his word.”
“So were you,” Ethan said.
“I couldn’t have done it without you, mate,” John replied. “But I bet Laffite won’t be long for prison. Not with all the men he’s bribed and his brother’s influence.”
“At least he’ll be choking on Whitlock’s stink for a while. Never were cellmates more perfectly matched. And don’t forget—the Navy got his ships. The Marines got his loot. And we both got a share. If a small one.”
There was a ringing of spurs as another set of feet clunked toward them. “And you only had to burn down a mill with you inside,” added Fernando Pavia, his arms spread with a dramatic flourish. He looked every inch the Spanish don with his mirror-polished breastplate and waxed mustache.
“I don’t recall throwing the grenade,” said John.
“True, alumno,” said Pavia. “Your approach, I think, would have been much less…ah, what is the word?”
“Subtle,” said Ethan flatly.
Pavia shot an index finger at Ethan. “That one! Subtle. That is the word.”
“We won, didn’t we?” John grinned.
“Right,” Ethan said, looking at John. “Do they have mills in Tripoli? Because I’d prefer not to fight outnumbered, outflanked, and surrounded by fire.”
“Don’t worry,” John said. “Next time we’ll have cannons.”
“Very subtle,” said Pavia.
“I feel better already,” said Ethan.
“Avast, there!” cried a sailor.
They narrowly avoided collision with a crewman pushing a wagon full of chicken cages. The hens trundled by in a flurry of clucking and flapping.
“I should get aboard,” Ethan said. “Dr. Cowdery is expecting me.” He touched a closed fist to his forehead by way of salute. John and Pavia touched their hats in kind, and Ethan hurried away.
After a moment, Pavia said, “That was a near thing, alumno. Not that I don’t appreciate the generous gift of the Sullivan inheritance, but had we lost Nichols in the woods…”
“You didn’t,” said John, his eyes wandering over the black lacquer on Philadelphia’s hull. “And here I thought you only came to bid me farewell.”
Pavia’s gaze followed John’s as though they were two strangers happening to stand side by side. “Allow your old swordmaster to impart one final lesson before you set sail.”
How often had John groaned at Pavia’s lectures? His lessons had often consisted of arguments and shouting as often as swordplay and marksmanship. John had been impatient to learn, frustrated by Pavia’s methodical attention to technique. He should have felt like protesting as he had always done before. But today, he found himself grateful for—even relishing—one last piece of advice from his mentor. He wouldn’t dare admit it, so he listened.
“I’ve always told you where to find your sharpest weapon,” said Pavia, and he pointed to John’s forehead. “But never forget where to find your greatest strength.” The Basque mercenary closed his fist and pressed it to his student’s chest. “Stay true to the man you are, and others will continue to follow your lead. Let the enemy take that away, and you have lost.”
John nodded and shook hands with his mentor. “Thank you for everything, Comandante Pavia.”
“Good luck, Señor Sullivan,” said Pavia. He tipped his hat and said in his Basque language, “Nola bizi, hala hil.”
John loitered on the dock a moment longer, watching Pavia go. Just as he decided to head to the gangway, a sailor sidled up to him and said, “What, no salute for me, sir?”
John frowned, puzzled. He looked at the short, skinny boy standing next to him. The boy was somewhere between twelve or fourteen. Judging by his white shirt, blue dungarees, and black neckerchief, he was among the lowest ranked crewmen.
Considering the impertinent way the young man had addressed one of the ship’s officers-in-training, John felt magnanimous to reply, “I beg your pardon, Seaman?”
“What, all your other friends get a fancy salute, but not even a ‘hello-how-are-you’ for the lowly cabin boy?” The sailor looked up at John with a grin.
Sullivan went slack-jawed. He recognized the wolf-like blue eyes. With shock, the boy’s identity dawned on him. “Melisande?” he said under his breath. “What are you—Melly?”
Her eyebrows wiggled with the delight of a prankster. “Had you fooled!”
John looked around. The sailors on the docks were far too busy with their own tasks to take notice of the exchange. Keeping his voice low, he said, “What the hell are you doing?”
Mimicking John’s surreptitious tone, she leaned in with her hand cupped over her mouth. “What does it look like, sir? I’m setting sail. In the Navy. On a big boat.”
“Melly, you can’t. You—can’t.”
“I know,” cooed Melisande, tilting her chin like an opera singer basking in a rain of roses. “You’re probably thinking, ‘Our boys’ll be so dazzled they’ll run the old boat right into a reef.’ Don’t fret. If Melisande Dufort is the height of charm and radiance, Michael Dufort is the sheer peak of dull and ordinary.” As if revealing the dramatic linchpin of a conspiracy, she whispered, “He’s a boy.”
“We’re going to war.”
“I’m good at war.”
“What about Grey Feather? He must be up in arms about this.”
Melisande poked her tongue at the tobacco in her lip. “Aye, he gave me a big earful of all that. I tried to talk him into enlisting with me, but he said me and Dom are stubborn fools and he’s done coming to our rescue. I told him how dare he call me stubborn and there’s no way he could change my mind.”
“But—you hate the ocean.”
“I thought I hated jumping out of burning buildings, but that turned out pretty fun.”
“What about Dominique? You’re going to leave her?”
“I’m not leaving her—I’m following her.”
“What?”
Melisande scoffed. “You didn’t know.”
For a moment, John forgot he was a midshipman. Forgot about the docks, the sailors, the ship. “Didn’t know what?”
“That poncy ass is taking her with him.”
John absently stared across the river. He could barely see the rigging of the U.S.S. Allegheny above the masts of its neighbors. It was rare, but not unheard of, for a captain to take his wife to sea. But aboard a naval ship in a time of war—this was almost scandalous. “Aubert is taking Dominique to sea?”
“Oh, I get it. You thought she would be here at home, no husband around, pining for ole Sully. Sorry, but you had your chance. Aubert thinks he owns her now. He thinks he can hurt a Dufort and get away with it. I’ll teach him different.”
“But you won’t even be aboard her ship.”
“The Allegheny is sailing with the Philadelphia. That’s close enough. I’ll find a way to protect her.”
John sighed. “Melly…”
“We always find a way, Sully. No matter what. ‘Draw for the ace, win with the deuce.’” Melisande saluted with the wrong hand—her left. Her palm faced out—an insult to an officer. “See you aboard. Mr. Midshipman, sir.” Then she trotted away.
John pulled off his hat. He thought for a moment as he smoothed a wrinkle out of the brim. “I suppose we’ll have to work on that salute.”
John put his hat back on. He turned around to take in the busy wharves, shops, and taverns of Philadelphia one more time. A boy, perhaps ten or twelve, dashed from door to door, delivering one of the many city newspapers. A tavern keep rolled a wheelbarrow full of flour sacks. Mrs. O’Malley sipped tea on a coffeehouse patio in her plumed hat. Bricklebrack was arguing with Horace over who baked better bread. John reached into his pocket.
He withdrew the piece of eight and held it on his open palm. John had called it “The Islanded Lion.” He told Kaitlin it was magic. Somewhere on this ship, John would learn the clue he needed to find her. A clue he would get, one way or another, from a fourth lieutenant named Chester Ryland.
“I’m coming, Katie. Just hold on.”
John closed his fist around the coin. He turned away from the bustling riverfront. He tucked the Lion back into his pocket and boarded the USS Philadelphia.
Chapter 19
The Merchant Schooner Wandering Hart
The Mediterranean Sea
Tuesday, June 12th, 1798
“I don’t feel good,” Kaitlin mumbled.
“So I see, Rabbit,” said John. He had found his eight-year-old sister standing near the bow of the Wandering Hart, heaving over the side. Her freckled face was pale. Tears ran from her cognac eyes. A few red curls had slipped her blue ribbon. A spot of vomit flecked her chin. “Look at you. Worse than dolly after her little tumble over the pier.”
“You threw Cora!” snapped Kaitlin, sticking her tongue out.
“I’m teasing, Rabbit,” laughed John. “I said sorry and fished her out of the Thames, didn’t I? Why don’t we get you below. I’ll read Tommy Gingerbread if you like.”
Kaitlin shook her head.
“What’s the matter?”
“It’s scary.” She looked away bashfully.
“Nonsense. The goblins under the deck won’t be hungry for at least a few hours.”
Katlin’s freckles screwed up in resentment. “I know there’s no goblins—Mam even said so.”
“Well, there you have it, then.”
“What if the ship sinks?”
“Nah, a little wind and rain won’t sink our Hart.”
“How do you know?”
John thought a moment. “Mother and Father, and Isaac and I, the crew—we look after the old girl, and she looks after us. Just like I look after you.”
“What if another storm comes?”
“Don’t forget who we are, Rabbit. We’re Sullivans. We always find a way.”
Another tear ran down Kaitlin’s cheek. “I don’t like it here. I want to go home.”
John sighed. “This is our home.”
Kaitlin buried her head in her arms, one eye scowling at John.
As her elder by seven years, John knew this was the time to be a caring brother. But how could he console her? The sea wasn’t an adventure for Kaitlin—not like it was for John or the rest of the family. She had always been a girl that loved to run and jump. It was solid ground and wide spaces she wanted, not seasickness and damp.
Then John remembered something. A present his father gave him in Barcelona. He pulled the old silver coin from his pocket. Nearly a hundred years ago, it had been stamped with the seal of the Spanish throne. A crest stamped with a cross. In two opposing corners of the cross, there should have been two lions, and in the other two corners castles. But one lion was missing. Over the years, a crack had snaked around the lone lion, marooning him.
“Hmm. I suppose you’re old enough to hear about…” John began but stopped short. He gave a severe frown. “…No, I couldn’t possibly.”
“What?” asked Kaitlin, curious in spite of herself. “I’m old enough!”
“All right,” said John reluctantly. “But you can’t tell anyone.”
“I won’t.” John’s little sister whispered as if they were discussing a map to buried treasure. “I promise.”
“Open your hand.”
Kaitlin did as he asked. John dropped the silver piece in her palm.
“What is it?” she asked, her face drawing close to her hand.
“That is The Islanded Lion,” John said, marveling at his clever improvisation. “It’s a magic piece of eight. You see, a long time ago, there was a wealthy, fearsome pirate named Samuel Bellamy. He was one of the cleverest pirates that ever lived. But his dear love, Maria, worried about the dangers of him being at sea.”
“She was afraid of the ocean too?”
“Aye, she was. But, it so happened that an old fortune teller from the West Indies gave her an enchanted silver coin—a bit of Spanish treasure said to make any man’s ship impossible to sink. So Maria gave Captain Bellamy the magic coin and made him promise to always keep it close.”
“And did he?”
“For a while, he did. And for a while, the worst storm, the sharpest reef, even cannon fire—nothing could sink his ship. And he became one of the richest pirates ever. But old Captain Bellamy didn’t believe in magic, you see. So one day, when he said goodbye to his love, he foolishly left the piece of eight behind. On his return voyage, his ship got caught in a terrible storm—much worse than anything we’ve ever seen. Without The Islanded Lion to protect him, the ship went down.”
“He drowned?” She said, becoming distressed again.
“Uh…Well, yes…” Clever indeed, John, he cursed to himself.
“That’s so sad,” Kaitlin said, on the verge of fresh tears.
“Yes, it’s very sad. But that will never happen to us…is my point. Because the coin you hold in your hand is the very magic coin that Maria gave to her love to protect him. If he had believed in the magic and kept this coin close to him, he would have come home to her safe and sound.”
“This coin?” Kaitlin said.
“This coin.”
“How did you get it?”
“Father gave it to me.”
“Where did he get it?”
“Well, he got it…from his father…who got it from a friend who knew Maria’s cousin, who had a…The point is, it’ll keep you safe.”
The silver reflected in Kaitlin’s eyes as she stared transfixed. “Magic…” she murmured.
“Magic,” John smiled.
Kaitlin smiled back.
“Will you keep the Lion safe for me, Katie?”
She nodded.
John feigned a stern tone. He wagged a finger for extra effect. “This is important now. The safety of everyone aboard the ship is in your hands. You mustn’t let him out of your sight.”
Kaitlin closed her hand on the coin. She nodded eagerly. Her tears had dried. Color had returned to her face. “Don’t worry, Johnny, I won’t. I’ll keep the Lion safe. I promise.”
She threw her arms around him.
“Whoa,” John said, a bit taken aback. He returned her hug, chuckling. “Easy now. I haven’t forgotten about you spilling ink on my Navigatio Britannica.”
“Thank you, Johnny,” she said.
“You’re welcome, Rabbit.”
“Avast!” cried the lookout from his perch on the foremast. “Pirates to starboard! Pirates to starboard!”
There was a commotion aft. Sailors scrambled to the sides. Mother and Father were looking towards the Dolorous Fénnid. But something was wrong. Dozens of men lined the decks and clung to the rigging, shaking swords, shouting curses, firing pistols.
John watched as the pirates ran the Union Jack down the halyards. A flag striped in red, yellow, and green rose in its place.
Chapter 20
Aboard USS Philadelphia
The Atlantic Ocean
Monday, August 8th, 1803
John swayed over the briny depths of the sea. He held onto the bowsprit, one hand on a lanyard, one foot on a ratline. The bow of the Philadelphia cut through the waves, bathing the curly hair and beard of mighty Hercules in the surf. John looked over his shoulder. The last edges of the American shore were disappearing astern. Looking forward, the Atlantic Ocean spread as far as he could see. He closed his eyes, feeling the wind coursing over him. He listened to the seamen sounding off in the rigging behind. Felt the steady rise and fall of the bow. Filled his lungs with the smell of salt and sea life. His world became wind, water, sky, and the racing of his heart.
John reached into his pocket. He opened his mother’s silver hunter-case watch and admired the engraving. The words were etched in his heart, but he wouldn’t abandon his morning ritual. He ran his thumb over the letters and read, then snapped it closed. He smiled and looked to the horizon.
Awake, dear heart, awake. Thou hast slept well.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
John looked over his shoulder to see one of the senior lieutenants edging his way along the bowsprit a few feet behind. His uniform had much more gold trim than John’s, a pennant on the bicorne, and prominent epaulets. John realized he had not seen the officer before. In the breakneck hustle of his new duties among three hundred other crew, perhaps John had simply not made his acquaintance. He looked about twenty-five. A few tufts of his short, dirty blonde hair rustled in the wind. He had spirited hazel eyes, weathered at the edges, and a round, handsome face. There was a quick clip to his speech, typical of New Yorkers.
“Sir?” asked John.
“At ease, Midshipman,” said the officer. “Mind some company while you’re off watch?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“I didn’t think anyone else spent their leisure time here,” said the affable lieutenant. He edged along the port side of the bowsprit until he was abreast of John. He inhaled a deep breath of sea air. He scanned the horizon with a smile. “Such a beautiful view.”
“Like it’s just you and the sea,” John added.
“Exactly.”
They exchanged a smile.
“I don’t believe we’ve had a proper introduction,” said the officer. “I only came aboard a few days ago, when the Beagle joined the squadron. Midshipman John Sullivan, isn’t it?”
John was caught off guard. “Yes, sir. How did you—?”
“My brilliant gift for arithmetic—naturally,” said the lieutenant, his eyebrows rippling with bravado. “I met the other ten midshipmen in the books. Your name was the only one missing a face.”
“Your intellect truly towers,” smiled John.
“Chester Ryland. Ship’s fourth lieutenant. A pleasure.”
John felt his pulse rising. A flood of adrenaline. The titillating thrill of both danger and opportunity. Like any good card player, he knew how to hide his tells. With his most sincere smile, he said, “The pleasure’s all mine.”