Blood and Oak, Issue 5
Sullivan must get the truth out of Lieutenant Ryland before the ship makes landfall or lose his family forever.
Part II
The Islanded Lion
4th Lieutenant Chester Ryland of USS Philadelphia. Art by Pablo Fernandez.
Chapter 21
The USS Philadelphia
The Atlantic Ocean
Wednesday, August 17th, 1803
On a normal afternoon, the sun would flicker on the water like a longhouse fire. Melisande Dufort would close her eyes and feel the warmth on her skin. For a moment, she would hear the whispering pines. She would pretend the yardarm was a dogwood branch, the mast a treetop. She would be home. On a normal afternoon.
Today, clouds roiled across the sky. Gray twilight smothered the sun. The sea foamed and boiled. The wind roared in Melisande’s ears as if she’d angered the Thunder Spirits. She endured a wave of nausea as the Philadelphia sledded down a roller. The yardarm, some hundred feet over the ocean, swooped low enough to almost touch the water. Melisande held on for her life as the yardarm soared upward again. A blue bolt sliced the clouds. She felt the thunderclap in her gut.
“Hrmm!” moaned the giant to Melisande’s left. Seventeen-year-old Seaman Kelham snapped his eyes shut. He was tall as a horse and thick as an ox, but the seaman had always been a picture of docility. Not today. “Hrmm.”
“Come on, Big Paw,” Melisande yelled over the wind. Kelham had taken a liking to Melisande the moment she gave him the nickname. That didn’t help her now. Kelham dropped his share of canvas, preventing the rest of the maintop men from reefing the sail. “You’re ok, Big Paw. Just a little thunder. You gotta haul, now.”
Further down the main topgallant yard, the leader of their crew yelled, “Hold, men! Hold.” Able Seaman Meadows put a hand to his mouth and called to Kelham, “Take ahold of yourself, lad. Furl sail, or we’ll lose the canvas!”
The sky spat a cascade of lightning. Kelham shook his head and gripped tighter.
“Ahoy,” Meadows cried to the other side of the yardarm. “Ahoy there, lads. Hold.”
Melisande looked to her right where half of the sail was lopsided. The men on the port side were still spooling the canvas. Seaman Prince, a bully the same age as Kelham, was ignoring the trouble to starboard. He and his mates were risking a tear.
“What’s the matter, boy?” Prince yelled at Melisande. He turned his long face toward them, the rain pelting his grin. “Can’t get your village dunce to work?”
Prince’s mates tittered. Melisande boiled with anger. They were always teasing poor Big Paw—calling him slow or a dimwit.
“Just give him a minute!” shouted Melisande. “He’s not himself, is all.”
“What is he normally?” snickered Prince. “A walrus?”
Prince’s friends broke into snotty laughter. Added to the thunder, their voices took on a hint of madness.
“You lads, hold, I say,” Meadows shouted. But the wind kicked up and sound melted into the howl.
Melisande caught sight of Lieutenant Ryland and John Sullivan on deck, squinting up through the rain. Their lips moved, but their words were lost.
Melisande drew close to Kelham’s ear. “You want to know why I call you ‘Big Paw?’ I mean, the real reason?”
Kelham’s eyes were shut, puffy cheeks ashen.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” said Melisande, trying to sound as if the wind wasn’t about to fling them into the ocean. “It’s ’cause you remind me of Nyah-Gwaheh—the Naked Bear.”
One of Kelham’s eyes crept open. One terrified pupil fixed on her.
“He was a hairless, man-eating beast,” she went on. “The other children were terrified when Papa Fox told the story. But not me. I knew the others had it wrong—poor Nyah-Gwaheh just wanted a friend. After all, he was naked in the forest, without a longhouse fire. I wanted so badly to invite him in, give him some furs, and feed him. Then I would have a friend like no other. Nyah-Gwaheh—my own special protector.”
Kelham’s other eye opened. Melisande saw Meadows watching them intently.
“I used to go out looking for Nyah-Gwaheh,” Melisande went on. “I tried to tempt him with berries, corn, even a rabbit leg—nothing worked. I was so sad. Until I met you, Big Paw. No one in the world’s got a friend like you. Except me.”
At this, Kelham’s head lifted off the yardarm. He looked at Melisande, his brows relaxing. She snatched a look at the spar deck. Sullivan was still yelling, his words lost in the wind.
###
“Let fall!” shouted Midshipman John Sullivan. “I say again, let fall!”
“It’s no use, Sullivan,” said Fourth Lieutenant Chester Ryland. Water spilled from the brim of his bicorne hat. “They can’t hear. Merrick!”
A skinny midshipman snapped to attention. “Sir?”
“Lay aloft and tell them to let fall and start again!”
“Aloft, sir?” stammered Merrick, shocks of brown hair lashing his face.
“The weather topgallant brace!” John cried, pointing to the lengths of rope running from the starboard end of the yard to the rail. The cable was waterlogged and shrunken. It vibrated under the tension. “Do you see it, sir? It’s took up with the rain.”
Ryland looked up through the driving rain. “Damn. It’s liable to part. Sullivan—”
“Ahoy, men!” John yelled at a group of sailors. He had only moments—if the weather brace tore, the main topgallant yard would spin around the mast. The force might break the spar. Melisande and her mates could be thrown into the sea. “Let go the lee sheet! Let go the lee brace and halyards! Let go…”
A row of seamen jumped into a line near the port rail. They let out slack on each line as John gave commands. There was a pop and creaking of wood, and the weather topgallant brace broke away. The yard jolted and stopped. The deck crew had eased the strain just in time.
“Well spotted, Sullivan!” said Ryland. “Merrick, get the weather quarter lashed to the shroud.”
“Aye, sir!” said Merrick, snapping a salute.
###
“Hrmm,” cried Kelham.
The yardarm lurched, and Melisande felt her grip slip. There was a panicked moment when she had to dig in her fingernails. But the yard steadied, and her footing held. Her heart pounded as she watched Sullivan commanding the deck crew.
“Good ole Sully!” Melisande yelled. She turned back to Kelham. “All right, Big Paw. You’re my Nyah-Gwaheh, aren’t you? You’re not scared of a little wind and rain!”
Like a turtle peeking out of his shell, Kelham looked up at her again. He shook his head.
“That’s the way, my lovely!” smiled Melisande. “Now, let’s furl this t’gallant!”
A smile tugged at Kelham’s lips.
Half an hour later, as Melisande stepped off the shroud and onto the deck, she sighed with relief. Her trick with Kelham had worked. The big chap not only forgot his fear, he hauled up the canvas in record time. The repairs to the weather brace went fast. And finally, she could piss.
“Well done, lad!” cried Meadows, as he hopped off the shroud. He clapped Kelham on the back.
Kelham stood at his full six feet, smiling into the punishing rain. He might really have been the Naked Bear at that moment. “Thanks, Meadows.”
“‘Thanks Meadows!’” echoed Prince, mimicking the tone of a dunce. “Look, the ox did something right for a change.”
“Belay that, Prince,” said Meadows. “Get below before I tell the lieutenant you ignored my orders.”
“But, sir…” Prince whined. “With all the wind, I couldn’t—”
“Get you below! Now! And take your mates with you. We’ll talk later.”
Prince shot a scowl at Melisande and Kelham. “Come on, boys.” Prince stalked off with his friends.
“Everything all right here, Meadows?” asked Sullivan as he approached.
“Just fine, sir,” said Meadows with a chipper tone. “In fact, let’s have three cheers for our Midshipman Sullivan and his quick thinking!”
“Meadows…” Sullivan objected, looking a bit sheepish.
“Hip-hip!” Meadows cried over the wind.
“Hooray!” replied Melisande and the others.
They repeated the cheer twice more, and Melisande threw her arm around her long-time buddy. “Sully’s always got our back, doesn’t he boys?”
Another whooping of approval. Meadows clapped Sullivan on the shoulder. Kelham followed suit, his unusual strength knocking the midshipman forward a step.
“All right, all right,” Sullivan grinned. “Get below for some vittles and rest. You’re all back on watch at eight bells.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said Meadows with a quick salute. “You heard him, lads. Off to our mess. Dufort, where are you going?”
Melisande stopped mid-step. “Just going for a piss, sir.”
“Aye, all right. Careful you don’t go overboard. And don’t forget to bring the vittles. It’s your turn.”
“Aye, sir!” said Melisande, tapping her toe out of anxiety. When meadows turned away, she beat a path forward.
There were no other sailors near the gangway—it was a perfect spot. She edged past the main hatch. Rain poured into the large rectangular opening in the spar deck. It ran off the ship’s boats, stacked over the hatch in their cradles. The ship launched up under her feet. Seawater washed around her, reflecting columns of clouds. Forward of the main hatch, the steel chimney from the galley puffed smoke.
Melisande stepped up to a gap in the port side—the gangway—where wooden rungs on the hull formed a ladder. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a small goat horn, which served as a funnel. She held onto a wooden peg as the ship pitched and bucked. Just as she finished relieving herself, cold spray washed her backward.
“Dufort!” called a sailor dashing towards her. “You okay?”
Melisande coughed and spluttered saltwater. She scrambled to pull up her trousers. “Fine, fine.” A beefy hand reached down.
It was Kelham. He said, “You’ve got to be careful.”
“Yeah…right.” Melisande took Kelham’s hand, and he launched her onto her feet with ease. She looked around, but the goat horn was nowhere to be found. Damn, she thought. “All right, Big Paw. Let’s go.”
They went down the main hatch, just in front of the ship’s boats. This took them to the gun deck, where long iron canons lined either side of the ship.
“Hold my place in line, would ya?” said Melisande, gesturing toward the galley.
“Okay, Dufort,” said Kelham with a nod. He’d spoken more in the last hour than he usually did all day. He lined up with other shivering and wet sailors near a brick-enclosed stove. Beans and stewed salt pork bubbled on cast iron burners. The cook ladled a portion into each man’s mess bowl, along with a few hardtack biscuits.
Melisande walked the long continuous deck. The wooden beams between each iron cannon looked like the ribs of an enormous whale. She reached hers—gun number five—named “Liberty and Death.” In battle, if her mates weren’t assigned to the foretop, they would form the five-man crew for this gun. Melisande had begged for the job of firing the massive artillery piece, but Meadows made her the “spongeman.” She had the boring job of cleaning the bore and ramming in the shot. Ten strides aft, a Marine stood guard near the door of the captain’s cabin. Melisande took the quarterdeck hatch down to the crew deck.
She wove through the warren of wooden partitions, past the quarters of the warrant officers and midshipmen. The door to Dr. Cowdery’s tiny little office was open. She stuck her nose inside and found Ethan Auldon studying by candlelight.
“Fiddles!” smiled Melisande.
“Dufort.” Ethan looked up from the little chair at Cowdery’s desk, nestled between two of the ship’s ribs. Even sitting down, Ethan’s head almost touched the planks. A cabinet of tonics and potions rattled above his head. He closed the book on his thumb. “Cowdery has gone to his hammock. Are you seasick?”
“Not a bit.” Melisande batted her eyes. “Why?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Ethan, tapping his chin with a quill. “Because you filled three buckets with sick your first day?”
“Pish!” said Melisande, swatting the air. “You got me over that, and now I’m aces.”
“And it only took three weeks.” Ethan opened his book again. “So, what then? I’m way behind in my studies.”
“I need a goat horn,” Melisande whispered.
“You lost another one? That was the steward’s last goat.”
“Come on, Fiddles. You’re smart. You gotta figure something out.”
Ethan sighed. “I’ll…fashion you a funnel out of something. Just use the head for now.”
“No one goes all the way to the head to piss!”
“I’ll see to it,” groaned Ethan, pressing the door closed.
Melisande forced her nose through the closing gap. “Hey, when are you going to play for us again? I’m writing a dance number. It’s a duet.”
“Goodnight, Dufort,” said Ethan. The door snapped shut.
Melisande bent close to the keyhole. “Books are making you grumpy.”
There was no reply.
After a quick stop by the galley stove to pick up her messmates’ dinner, Melisande headed down the forward ladder to the crew deck. The notes of a fife mingled with hundreds of voices. The ship groaned as it pitched and tossed in the storm. Hammocks rocked like cradles, dangling from hooks in the beams. Where there weren’t partitions, sailors sat in groups, eating with their messmates. Boards hung from ropes, serving as tables. Sea chests served as chairs. Melisande could feel the heat of their bodies—and smell the odors of sweat and salt water.
“It’s about time!” said Meadows when Melisande reached their berth. “I’m starving.” The old sailor passed out the wooden trays. His curly gray hair was dry, and he wore a fresh striped shirt and neckerchief.
A sight to make Melisande jealous. She itched the gauze under her shirt. Every day, she carefully bound her womanly figure. Loose sailor’s shirts and peacoats completed her disguise. The men aboard simply attributed her comely face and higher-pitched voice to boyish youth. They thought she was fifteen-year-old Michael Dufort from Philadelphia. Just to be sure, she often dusted her face with a little coal soot from the galley. A shameful waste of beauty, if you asked Melisande.
“Now don’t lose your place, lad,” said Meadows as he slopped beans onto William Butler’s tray. “What was her name again?”
“Lucy, from Charleston,” said Butler, a seaman in his early twenties.
“Lucy!” said Meadows. “A fine name, that.”
“By the third pint, she was sitting on my lap,” Butler continued as he told another story of dockside conquest. “She gave me a view right down her bodice.”
Melisande’s attention wandered, and her eyes drifted to the starboard side of the deck. Across the way, Prince sat with his mates under their hammocks. The snotty adolescent puffed out his cheeks and widened his eyes. He flopped his head back and forth to parody Big Paw Kelham.
“…Then she says, ‘Don’t stop!’” crowed Butler behind her. “So, then I really lay into her, biting those beautiful bosoms…”
Melisande tuned out the lurid story, fixing her gaze on Prince. The brat flashed her a taunting grin as he picked his teeth with a pork bone. She gave him a dark look as she gnawed a stale biscuit. At that moment, Melisande wanted two things most in the world—to beat the tar out of the bully Prince and a hunk of warm maize. If she couldn’t have one, she’d settle for the other. She stood and balled her fists.
“Dufort!” said Meadows.
Melisande snapped her attention back to the table. “Huh? I didn’t do nothing!”
“Not yet,” Meadows admonished. He was always carping at her like a mother hen. As bad as Grey Feather. “Now are you going to answer or not?”
“Answer what?”
“About your first sweetheart. That is, if you’ve had one.”
“What?” Melisande asked. She hadn’t been listening to the conversation. “Oh, I’ve had lots.”
Her messmates broke into laughter.
Butler pointed at her. “You’re at least seven years my junior. ‘Had lots’ my eye!”
Melisande folded her arms. “Look, Bill, when Lucy called you the best she ever had, she was being kind.”
“Bullshit,” said James Dixon, the youngest at their table. “Nobody knows more about women than Butler.”
“Really?” Melisande cocked her head. “Then why does he think ‘don’t stop’ means ‘bite my teat like a donkey?’”
Meadows coughed stewed potatoes all over the table. A fork fell out of Dixon’s frozen hand. Sawyer, Kelham, and Butler were slack-jawed.
“Don’t get me wrong, Bill,” said Melisande, patting her messmate on the shoulder. “You’re comely and all, but you lack practice.”
“Now, boys,” Melisande said, planting her hands on the table as though plotting revolution. “If you want a lass to beg for you like a cat for cream, here’s what you do.”
All five men leaned forward.
###
Curtains of rain hung over the sea. The clouds formed strange, mountainous shapes. They looked heavy enough to fall. Something about this storm unsettled John Sullivan, and he couldn’t stop running his thumb over the edge of the Islanded Lion. He turned the silver coin over and over in his pocket. Sky and sea twisted like the landscape of a nightmare.
“Well done today, Midshipman,” said Lieutenant Chester Ryland, flashing John a rakish smile. “Time for supper and a tot of rum. Or two.”
“Thank you, sir,” said John, yelling over a crashing wave. His friendship with the jocular lieutenant began as a ruse, but over the last three weeks, it had become something real. Soon, John would need to press Ryland for a clue to finding the Silver Hand. For now, it felt good to have a mentor. “I was only following your example.”
“Finally,” Ryland quipped. “Someone to appreciate my talents. And while I have you studying at my feet, I should mention something else. I’ve noticed you’re very friendly with the seamen in your division.”
John smiled proudly. “I hope the men think of me as a friend.”
“You shouldn’t. Seamen aren’t your peers.”
“Sir?”
Ryland cupped a hand over his mouth, raising his voice over a gust. “You’re an officer, Mr. Sullivan. Those under your command must remain at a distance.”
“But shouldn’t a good officer inspire loyalty?”
“Aye. By becoming the example they follow—not their drinking chum. One day, when they’re looking death in the eye, they won’t want a friend. They’ll want a leader.”
John looked at Ryland, letting the advice sink in. “Aye, sir.”
“Come,” said Ryland, starting toward the quarterdeck hatch.
Before John could follow, a violet arc snaked through the heavens. A shape at the edge of the world caught John’s eye. He dashed to the starboard rail, pulled out his spyglass, and strained for a look.
Vines of light crackled across the horizon. Through the drops on the lens, John could make out the shape of sails…two masts…a hull. Far in the distance, a brig-of-war drifted like a ghostly shadow. Unlike a typical brig, this one had a third mast set very close to the main. John remembered seeing the sleek, graceful curve of her hull four years ago—when she launched from the Philadelphia shipyards. A ship built by Samuel Humphreys—the pleasant young shipwright at Aubert’s brag game. A work of art given as tribute to the bey of Tunis.
“What’s keeping you, Sullivan?” complained Ryland as he came alongside John.
“Sir!” said John, pointing south. “A ship in the distance. A snow brig—the one given to Bey Hammuda.”
“How can you tell in this soup?” Ryland took the spyglass and searched the horizon. After a moment, he handed it back. “Nothing out there, Sullivan.”
“It’s right there, sir, it’s…” John trailed off. Another flash lit up the sky, but the snow brig was gone. “It was…right there. She must have slipped below the horizon. I think we’re being followed.”
“Unlikely,” said Ryland. He headed below, and John reluctantly followed. As they stepped into the shelter of the gun deck, Ryland shook the water from his coat. “Even if the bey of Tunis were at war with us, he wouldn’t send the pride of his fleet out so far. He calls her the Wolf of Tunis. She’s his finest warship. Wolf or not, she’s no match for Philadelphia. I’m sure it was a trick of the light.”
“How could we give that beautiful American frigate to a tyrant?”
“Every year, the Barbary princes demand more for the safe passage of our sailors,” Ryland lamented as he led the way to the wardroom. “The more one prince gets, the more the next one wants. I’m sure the gift of a frigate to Bey Hammuda was on Pasha Yusuf’s mind when he declared war. Still, if we hadn’t given Hammuda the Wolf of Tunis, we’d be fighting two Barbary states instead of one. It’s a sad thing, but that’s the price of peace.”
“More like the price of surrender,” groused John.
Ryland slapped John’s back. “Don’t be glum. Join me in the wardroom for a drink. We’ll commiserate over the poor girl’s fate.”
John nodded absently, still haunted by the phantom ship. “I’ll be along.”
Ryland nodded and headed down the next hatch.
A minute later, John ducked into the corridor by the warrant officers’ quarters. He knocked on the surgeon’s door.
“What now, Dufort?” came Ethan’s annoyed voice.
“It’s me, John.”
Ethan snapped the door open. “Oh. Sorry, mate. I’ve had a devil of a time finding peace and quiet.”
“I won’t keep you, then,” said John. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Do you have what I asked for?”
Ethan rubbed his temples as if massaging a headache. “Ah, yes. That.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” John said. “I’ve nearly got Ryland where I want him. I can feel it. Winning him over might be my family’s only chance.”
“Of course,” Ethan sighed. He pulled open a drawer in the mahogany desk, then produced a key. “Just…bring it back as soon as you can, all right?”
John snatched it from Ethan’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, mate. You won’t regret it. I owe you one.”
As John headed off to the wardroom, he heard Ethan say, “More than one.”
Chapter 22
Dock Street
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Four Years Ago
Ethan crouched near the retaining wall, peeking through the rod-iron fence. He rubbed his hands for warmth. His breath fogged in the cold February morning. A bitter day to deliver newspapers on Dock Street. He scanned the frozen yard. Nothing but barren birches. An empty rocking chair on the porch. No sign of Grover.
There was no sign of Mr. Dunlap either. Perhaps the old man had slept in. As Ethan crouched back down, the cold biting through his wool coat, he considered throwing the paper. But what if he missed? Braving the yard with Grover’s whereabouts unknown was out of the question.
There were other customers waiting, Ethan decided. He resumed his route, hoping Dunlap wouldn’t miss one edition of the Gazette. By the time Ethan noticed Dunlap’s gate was open, it was too late. An ear-splitting bark echoed across the yard. The muscular hound came bounding around the house. Ethan tore off at a sprint, hoping his head start would be enough. By the time he reached the nearest alley, he could hear Grover’s feet scratching the flagstones behind. The farrier had left a mess of crates stacked against his building. Ethan flung himself onto the stack and scrambled up the shed. Grover’s jaws snapped just below his heel. Ethan skittered back onto the roof, watching the frustrated dog jump at the crates, unable to gain purchase. Damn dog, Ethan cursed.
A few minutes later, as Ethan climbed atop the farrier’s house, he thanked the heights of Philadelphia for saving him again. He sat against a chimney to catch his breath. A family of pigeons cooed in the eves. Grover eventually gave up, and his barks died away. That’s when Ethan heard the tune. A song echoing between the buildings. Ethan climbed down to the opposite ledge and peered into the alley. Huddled in a pile of wet straw, shivering in the cold, a boy was singing in an Irish accent.
My lips smile no more, my heart loses its lightness;
No dream of the future my spirit can cheer.
I only can brood on the past and its brightness
The dear ones I long for again gather here.
Such a beautiful tune, but so sad. Ethan felt wrong to spy, but he couldn’t tear himself away. As he listened to the next verse, a tear ran down his face.
From ev’ry dark nook they press forward to meet me;
I lift up my eyes to the broad leafy dome,
And others are there, looking downward to greet me
The ash grove, the ash grove, again is my home.
Ethan saw plenty of beggars in Philadelphia. Plenty of orphans. Some of them ran in gangs he knew to avoid. Most were taken in by churches or orphanages. Something was different about this one. Ethan had never seen anyone so alone in the world. Ethan somehow knew he’d suffered a terrible loss.
The boy started another round of the song but trailed off in the first phrase. Ethan ducked beneath the parapet, thinking he’d been spotted. When he heard voices at the end of the alley, he looked down again. At the alley entrance, three older boys were milling about, chatting and laughing with one another. The orphan looked at them the way Ethan looked at Dunlap’s vicious dog. The others chattered and shoved each other, and finally moved on. The boy breathed a sigh of relief. He pulled a beautiful silver watch from his pocket, settled back into his nook, and gazed at the timepiece until he nodded off.
For the next couple of days, Ethan repeated that detour. After Mr. Dunlap’s estate, he would find his way back to the farrier’s, climb the stacked crates, and listen to the boy’s songs. When the boy wasn’t looking, Ethan would drop a bundle of food onto a bail of straw. A little bread, jam, and cheese from the larder of St. Thomas Church. Each day, the previous bundle would be gone.
On the eighth day of this routine, with snow falling in heavy flakes, Ethan was about to climb the farrier’s crates when he heard voices. The snow on the roof would be treacherous anyway, so Ethan went to the alley entrance. As he peered around the corner, he saw the same three boys, all in their early teens, crowding around the Irish orphan.
“You’re lying, Maggoty John!” an Irish voice gloated. “I can always tell when you’re lying.”
“Give ’im the glass, Fin!” said a pudgy boy, tallest of the three. His beard belied his youth.
Backed against the wall, John said, “I haven’t got anything left to steal. Eamon would have sniffed out any food.”
Eamon swung a fist into John’s stomach. John gasped and doubled over.
Fin, the shortest and skinniest of them, took a step forward. “I think Eamon’s got a point.” Fin pulled a broken bottle-neck from his pocket. He waved the jagged edge under John’s chin. “You’ve still got that pretty face.”
“You have any idea how long we searched, maggot?” squeaked the third boy. He had a curly nest of red hair and ghost-white skin. “Glass him, Fin!”
“Not yet, Sean,” snapped Fin. “I’m feeling merciful. I want to give Maggoty John a choice.” He took another menacing step. “What do you say, Captain Maggot? Give me that bobble in your pocket, or I give you the glass.”
“I pawned it,” insisted John. “For food.”
“No you didn’t, maggot. Hand over the watch.” He pressed the bottleneck closer.
With the wall at his back, John was cornered. “Please, Fin. I’m sorry. I’ll sleep somewhere else. Leave the city. Whatever you want.”
“What I want, Maggoty John is for you to hand over the watch. Then, you’re going to lick my boot.”
Ethan’s heart thumped. Freezing sweat beaded on his skin. He wanted to help John. He knew he had to. It was the right thing to do. The Christian thing to do. But there were three of them.
John snarled and bared his teeth, despite shedding tears. He muttered something Ethan couldn’t hear.
Fin’s voice turned deadly. “What did you say, maggot?”
John balled his fists. “I said fuck you!”
Ethan’s heart pounded. His mind raced.
“Oh, you’re the one who’s fucked, maggot!” Fin seethed. “I’m going to turn your face to sheep guts.”
“Let him be!” Ethan cried. It sounded like someone else’s voice. The blood froze in his veins.
Sean, Eamon, and Fin turned their gazes on him. “What’s this?” said Fin. “A darkie with a death wish!”
John stared at Ethan in disbelief.
Now Ethan could see the jagged scar on Fin’s face. A circle of mangled flesh cut across his right cheek, close to his nose and mouth. Ethan was terrified, but he stood his ground. “That the best you got, dimwit?”
Fin’s mouth fell open. His face flushed red. “You’re dead, darkie!” he screamed.
“I would be,” taunted Ethan, “if ugly could kill.”
“Get him!” ordered Fin. The three bullies charged after Ethan.
Before Eamon could make two steps, John kicked out a foot. The lumbering adolescent toppled to the ground. John shot past Fin and Sean.
“This way!” Ethan said, waving to John. He took off down Third Street.
Ethan and John sprinted for all they were worth. Fin trailed close behind, his face full of murder. Sean wheezed a few paces back.
Ethan rounded the corner onto Dock Street. He knew exactly what to do. And knew it might be the most insane thing he’d ever done.
“He’s gaining,” panted John.
“Keep going,” encouraged Ethan. Chancing a look over his shoulder, he saw the brown bottleneck glinting in Fin’s hand. He pushed his legs harder.
“He’s still gaining!” shouted John.
Just as Ethan felt fatigue setting in, he saw the iron bars of Mr. Dunlap’s yard. “Come on,” he waved to John. He put on one last burst of speed, then skidded to a halt in front of the gate.
John nearly tumbled into Ethan. “What are you doing?”
“You’ll pay for this, Maggoty John!” rasped Fin as he came around the corner.
“Trust me,” Ethan said to John. Then he yelled to Fin, “Well? What are you waiting for, dimwit?”
Fin ran straight for them. Sean came around the corner next, then Eamon.
Ethan heard the scratch of paws. Saw a brown mass of canine muscle in the corner of his eye. Fin was two strides away when Ethan popped the latch and opened the gate. Fin stopped short, blinking. Grover leaped out of the yard. The dog froze, baying indiscriminately, unsure who to bite first.
Fin pointed his bottle-neck at the mutt. “Shut it, dog!”
Grover raised a mane of hair. Fin took a step back. Grover paced forward. Fin’s scowl melted into fear, and he took off running. The mutt gave chase.
“Let’s go!” Ethan cried.
He and John ran several more blocks before stopping to rest.
“Thanks, mate.” John panted. He hunched over, hands on knees, fighting to catch his breath. “How did you…know the dog would…chase Fin and not us?”
“I didn’t,” Ethan huffed. “But I figured…creatures that mean deserve each other.”
John and Ethan exchanged a look. They broke into laughter.
“You’re right about that,” John said. He extended a hand, and Ethan accepted. “John Sullivan.”
“Ethan Auldon.”
“I owe you, Ethan.”
“You’re welcome. John.” Ethan noticed a silver chain dangling from John’s right fist. “Is that what they wanted?” Ethan asked, pointing.
John looked down at his hand. He opened his fingers to reveal the silver pocket watch. “Aye.”
Ethan wanted to ask why it meant so much, but sensed it was a sore subject. “Well, I’m glad we deprived them of it.”
John’s eyes lingered on Ethan a moment. He nodded and slid the watch into his pocket. He started back toward the street, holding his bruised stomach.
Ethan watched him go for a moment, then said, “John, wait.”
John looked back.
“Do you have anywhere to go?”
John looked toward the steeple of the Presbyterian Church. “I’ll be all right.”
“It’s freezing. And Fin is still out there. Come home with me. We can give you a place to stay.”
John’s eyes searched Ethan as if reluctant. Or perhaps distrusting?
Ethan hurried to add, “Just until you find somewhere of your own.”
“But…” said John, breathing clouds of steam. “Don’t people keep to their own kind?”
Ethan shrugged. “Would that be the guy with the glass?”
“Aye, it would,” said John, scratching his head.
The two of them shared a grin.
“I don’t know,” said John. “It wouldn’t be right to burden your family.”
“You wouldn’t be a burden. My father owns a small tavern, and he volunteers with the Free African Society. He can always use another pair of hands. You would be trading work for room and board.”
John considered a moment, then nodded. “In that case, Ethan Auldon, I gratefully accept your offer of work.”
Ethan’s eyes lit up. “It’s settled then.”
John smiled.
Chapter 23
The USS Philadelphia
The Atlantic Ocean
Thursday, August 18th, 1803
“I suppose playing blind is better than another bad call,” said Chester Ryland. The fourth lieutenant sat directly opposite John. “Nothing else has worked for you tonight, Sullivan, but I do hope you’ll keep at it.” The leader of Philadelphia’s outcasts chuckled into the rim of his bourbon bottle.
“It’s worked for me before,” said John. “And against better players.” He sat on an overturned bucket at a surgical table. A single lamp swayed with the ship, dimmed by a cloud of pipe smoke. Dingy light washed over the four faces awaiting his action. John studied his poor hand of cards. With any luck, Ryland would believe a bluff. “I raise two pence.”
“I doubt you’ve met a better player,” said Ryland, smothering the last word in a drink of expensive whiskey.
The others scoffed. They were playing brag in the surgeon’s cockpit, a dank room on the lowest level of the ship—the orlop deck. The low ceiling required a doctor to kneel when performing surgery, hence the low table. It was a young ship, and the oily smell of new paint cut through the odor of tobacco and rum. A wooden scent still clung to the new timbers. The notched table snagged John’s calloused fingers as he added his bet to the mess of cards, coins, and cups.
“Is it true you won a blind hand against Captain Aubert?” asked Quartermaster Wilson, a blonde and muscular pleasure seeker. He smiled like a drunk asking for his favorite joke. “And won the whole game to boot?”
“I played blind until the showdown, anyway,” John said. “Long enough to lure him in. Spring the trap.”
“Damn,” said Wilson. “I wish I’d seen the look on that boot-licker’s face!”
“Aye, hear hear,” agreed Midshipman Merrick, risking a smile. At twenty-four, he was old for a midshipman—his commission was the last hope for a destitute father. He lacked any skill at cards, so he passed the time by losing money and laughing on cue. “I fold,” he said.
Sailing Master Knight brooded over his cards, pinching his bushy eyebrows. “Richard Aubert is rated the best brag player in the service,” he said, folding. “You got lucky, Sullivan.”
“No victory comes without a little luck,” said John. He scratched his neck when he felt another of Merrick’s awkward, fawning smiles. For some reason, he had the admiration of the awkward junior officer.
“You’ll need a lot of luck tonight, Sullivan,” said Ryland. His finger traced down his blonde stubble.
And there it was again. Ryland’s tell. An unconscious gesture when pondering a decision. Ryland looked confident, but then he always did. Only this time, like only a few times before, the cocky lieutenant touched his beard. It either meant truth or deception. But which? John said, “Then place your bet, Lieutenant, if you’re so sure.”
Ryland smirked and took another drink. He pounded the bottle down on the table. “Very well, Sullivan. A dollar it is!” He thumbed a coin into the air. It pinged off the iron bottom of the lantern and skittered across the table.
“Horse’s ass,” griped Wilson. He flashed a pair of sevens before throwing them into the muck. “You cost me my lucky pair.”
“Your only lucky pair,” Ryland said. He reached as if to touch Wilson’s cheek, and the quartermaster jerked away. “I think I can still see the handprint from that barmaid in Newport.”
The room erupted in laughter.
“Aye, very funny,” said Wilson. He never took offense to teasing when it came from Ryland. “At least I tried for her affection. I don’t recall you leaving with any barmaids.”
“I always leave the homely ones to you,” said Ryland.
“No wonder you’re so lonely on shore leave,” said John, winning a few laughs of his own. He feigned a friendly, if competitive interest in the game, but Ryland was the sole focus of his mind. He couldn’t win this hand—even a weak hand would beat him. But he was playing for something far more valuable than money. Information. “Make the bet a dollar, and I’ll see your cards.”
Ryland’s snickering trailed off. “Damn. I admit, I didn’t think you had me, Sullivan. A pair. Threes.” He turned over his cards and fanned them across the pile of coins.
“You bluffing bastard!” groused Wilson, only contributing to Ryland’s glee.
Deception, then, thought John before mucking his hand. “Threes will do.”
“Really?” crowed Ryland as he collected his winnings. “Don’t tell me you paid-to-see with an ace, Sullivan. You almost had my respect.”
“Sometimes, an ace is all you need,” said John.
Ryland chuckled. “Not today, Midshipman.”
Let him gloat, John thought. I have what I need.
A series of chimes filtered down from three decks above. The Philadelphia’s newly minted brass bell was tapping out the hour. Ting-ting, ting-ting, ting-ting…ting.
“Seven bells, sir,” said Merrick to Ryland. “Morning watch starts soon.”
“Yes, yes, Mr. Merrick,” fussed Ryland. “I can tell time. One more hand. Come, men. Can’t be I’ve emptied all your pockets.”
“Merrick’s right, Lieutenant,” said Knight. “You insisted we adjourn at half-past three. We can’t be crawling out of the hold when the watch changes.”
“Aye, so I did,” Ryland admitted ruefully. “Very well. A toast to Mr. Sullivan, for finding us this very fine venue.”
“Mr. Sullivan,” replied the others, and raised their bottles and pewter cups to John.
John clinked his pewter against theirs. He sipped the same small ration of grog he’d been nursing all night.
“Yes, a fine venue indeed,” said Merrick. He wrinkled his nose as he looked around the room. The ceiling was painted white, as in most of the ship, but the boards underfoot were bright red. “Although, the floor could do with a more pleasant color.”
“Wait till you see the surgery in battle, lad,” said Ryland.
Merrick chuckled. He looked at his only friends on the ship, grasping for approval. “What do you mean?”
Wilson leaned close to Merrick as if telling a ghost story. “When 18-pound balls are smashing through bulkheads, you’ll agree—red is just the color.”
Merrick’s beardless face went pale. The five men exchanged a sober look. The Philadelphia’s ribs murmured in the silence.
###
The sun spilled its rays over the horizon. Pools of golden light settled across the placid sea. Philadelphia tacked across the wind, her port side basking in the warmth of dawn. As John passed the foremast, he found Chester Ryland near the bow, watching the sunrise.
The lieutenant had a leather-bound book of paper in his left hand, a shard of charcoal in his right. Ryland braced the sketchbook against the rail as he brushed small arcs of black across the page. He studied the horizon as he drew, eyes creased with concentration. As John came alongside Ryland, he watched the charcoal strokes turn white space into clouds on the water. Gulls in a flock. Bursts of sun.
“You have a gift, Lieutenant,” said John, feeling the breeze wash through his hair.
Ryland smiled to himself and drew another wave crest. He blew a mote of soot off the page and said, “The images live in my head. Sometimes for days. Drawing them is the only way I can get them out.” He smiled at John and nodded toward the sea. “No, Sullivan, the gift isn’t in me. It’s out there.”
Inhaling the scent of surf, John said, “I think if you saw my ill-fated attempt to draw the queen of spades, you’d beg to differ.”
Ryland gave John a sympathetic pat on the back. “Take heart, Sullivan. Mother Nature can inspire in other ways.” Ryland looked over his shoulder for eavesdroppers. Just a few foretopmen laying out on the yard and some idlers holystoning the gangway. A crew, further aft, replacing the parted topgallant brace. No one in earshot. “Do pass my thanks to your friend Auldon. The surgeon’s cockpit proved ideal during the midwatch. It’s been ages since I played a game of brag.”
Guilt niggled at John. The key to the surgery had been a lot to ask of Ethan, but what other choice was there? Despite his jovial nature, Ryland kept his peers at a distance. John couldn’t ask for the truth until he knew the man. As it happened, Captain Bainbridge forbade gambling aboard ship, and Ryland pined for a game of cards. A perfect opportunity. “It was nothing. Ethan and I have always looked out for each other.”
“A friendship like that is a rare thing.”
John felt a chill as he recalled sleepless nights on wet straw. “Aye. But for Ethan Auldon, I would have starved in the streets—or worse.”
“Good for us that he found you,” Ryland smiled. The wind tugged a few blonde strands from his hat. “I do hope we’ll have another game soon. That is, if a midshipman’s pay can cover your losses.”
“I went easy on a superior officer.”
“Ah, just a little boot-licking for good measure? Shrewd, Sullivan. Shrewd.”
“Just the once. Next time, I’ll have your epaulets.”
They shared a chuckle and another moment of silence.
After three weeks of manipulating Ryland—befriending him, earning his trust, learning his tells—John’s moment had come. But it was harder than he expected. He hadn’t counted on actually coming to like Ryland. “Mr. Ryland, I must thank you for your mentorship. Growing up on my father’s ships, I thought I learned everything. But a Navy officer has to know more than braces and bobstays.”
“Quite right, Mr. Sullivan. It’s no easy thing to lead men into battle. And it’s a rare few that put in the hard work. Keep this up, and one day you’ll have your own command.”
“Me?” said John. His eyes drifted dreamily toward the sunrise. He’d been so consumed with his personal mission, he hadn’t considered the idea of commanding his own ship. “A captain?”
“I see a leader in you, Sullivan. If you can learn discipline. It doesn’t hurt that you already know seamanship.”
John feels the cool oak of the wheel. The warm touch of his father’s hands. Captain or not, Declan still loves to stand on the crosstrees. “Feel that, John? A ship will always tell a good captain what she needs, if he knows to listen.”
John hadn’t thought about Declan for some time. He cleared a lump in his throat. “Aye. My Da taught me well.”
“That will come in handy when we fight the Barbary Pirates.”
A swell of heat rose in John’s chest. He closed a fist around the Islanded Lion, squeezing until the coin felt like a knife. “When that day comes, I’ll do a lot more than fight.”
Ryland’s brows drew together. He went to back to scribbling.
It was all John could do not to walk away. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts—and his anger. “Mr. Ryland, can I rely on your confidence?”
A smile tugged at Ryland’s cheek. “Of course.”
John folded his arms on the rail. He leaned over, far enough to see a few steely fish racing near the waterline. “I told you of my family and our ordeal, but not the whole story. A few weeks before we set sail, a man named James Gilroy came to me in the night. He carried word from my mother and sister, still captive in Tunis. Proof they live.”
“That’s extraordinary. Are you certain this Gilroy spoke the truth?”
John held up the silver piece between thumb and forefinger. “He had proof.”
Ryland accepted the coin from John and tilted it toward sunlight. “An old piece of eight.”
“I call it the Islanded Lion.”
“Come again?” Ryland blinked as he handed it back.
“A silly child’s story, really. My sister Kaitlin was always frightened of the sea. So, I spun a story about a magic piece of eight that could protect her. She held onto it, even after the pirates took us. I called it the Islanded Lion.”
“Wait, you don’t mean…this coin?”
“Aye. Kaitlin sent the Lion back to me as proof her message was genuine. Only she and I knew what it meant.”
“Your sister must be very clever.”
John smiled as he recalled six-year-old Kaitlin, tip-toeing over a log in a creek, arms carefully balanced. “Clever. And nimble. I called her Rabbit.” John’s thumb dug against the edge of the coin.
“I’m so sorry for what you’ve lost, Mr. Sullivan. If there’s anything I can do to help—”
“Actually, there is,” said John. He watched Ryland carefully as he spoke. “Gilroy didn’t know where to find them, but he did know someone who could help. A thief called ‘The Silver Hand,’ who helped him escape slavery in Algiers. He claimed he’d seen the Silver Hand talking to an American naval officer on the day of his escape. He overheard their conversation and the name of the officer.”
Ryland’s charcoal fell still. The lieutenant’s gaze lifted from the page. “He did?”
“It was you, Mr. Ryland. He said the two of you looked to be friends.”
“Me?” said Ryland, looking at John with an awkward smile. “Friends with a thief?”
“I’m not interested in your associations, Mr. Ryland. I need to find the Silver Hand. I need your help.”
“Of course. I’ll help in any way I can.” Ryland traced a finger along his stubble—just as he had during the brag game. It was his tell. “But I don’t know any man calling himself the Silver Hand, nor any other thief. Your Mr. Gilroy was mistaken.”
Deception, thought John. He felt a stab of anger. And sorrow. Having a new friend on a ship of strangers—a senior officer no less—had felt good. And that friend had just lied to him. Why?
John wanted to scream, You fucking liar! But losing Ryland’s trust would gain him nothing. “I see. I suppose it was a forlorn hope.”
“Don’t lose heart, Mr. Sullivan. We’ll make Gibraltar within the week, and then it’s on to Tripoli. I’ll offer whatever help I can to find your family.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryland,” said John. “Your help is most welcome.” He walked off before Ryland could reply, afraid his disgust might overwhelm him.
As John reached the steps of the main hatch, he raked his thumb over the Islanded Lion harder and harder. He thought his anger would boil over. He wanted to throw the holystoning crew’s bucket. He wanted to take an ax to the mainmast. He wanted to…
A white smudge on the horizon caught his eye. The only sight, in that very moment, that could have calmed him. He walked over to the starboard rail. The sails of the Allegheny drifted on the sea like puffs of smoke. This far away, the black hull looked like a lump of coal. She’s aboard that ship right now, thought John. He imagined Dominique walking along the Allegheny’s gangway, looking west toward a tiny Philadelphia. He pictured her hair tied back, a few golden tassels tickling her nose. Her blue eyes narrow in the sunlight. A defiant smirk as she smoked her corncob pipe. John wondered if, at this very moment, Dominique was looking at him.