Bound by the Heart (25 page)

"She obviously pleases Admiral Stonekipper."

"Unfortunately the same cannot be said for the
intrepid admiral. According to Lettice, he's all sweat and no results."

"Perhaps you should have taken the night with
her," Roarke suggested. "Given her something more than a coin to
remember you by."

"Aye, maybe." Wade glanced away. "Tell
me what Marlowe had to say that was so interesting. I'm beginning to grow weary
of all these games, Stuart. Just once I'd like to have it out with them
...
all of them."

"The time is coming, Morgan. War is so thick in
the air you can smell it. But we aren't ready yet. You know that as well as I
do and as well as Stephen does."

"Aye, but it leaves a man wanting just the same.
What have you found out about the
Caledonia?"

"Winfield had her stripped and refitted with
lighter guns. She's carrying eighty-two, all told, not a threat to be easily
dismissed."

Wade snorted. "She's a bloody razee to begin
with. Whoever lopped off her top deck couldn't save her from wallowing like a
sow in heat so it's not likely Winfield can do much better. He won't get close
enough to count our sails."

"He may not have to."

"Meaning?"

Roarke hesitated. Despite his promise, he had a
nagging feeling he should tell Morgan about Summer Winfield.

"Meaning I'm told the Royal Navy has a new toy. A
glass ten times as powerful as anything we could lay a hand to at the moment.
It came to me from two different sources, so I'm inclined to believe it exists.
He'll be able to hug the horizon without giving us a hint as to where we pick
her up."

"And your guess to that?"

"It's not a guess. Winfield's out there now
waiting for us. He's already sent the
Northgate
on ahead to the Sirens to wait for our arrival."

Wade glanced sidelong through the shadows. "The
Northgate?"

"Aye. She has a new captain at the helm, promoted
several weeks ago out of Saint Christopher. Ashton-Smythe. Have you ever heard
of him?"

Wade was thoughtful a moment. "I've heard of him.
Spit and polish, like the rest of them, but he has a brain to go along with it.
What happened to Forbes?"

"I understand he's on a ship bound for home.
He'll be bucking heads with the French by Christmas."

"Winfield must not have liked another showman in
the same arena."

"Obviously not."

Wade sighed. "So. They're planning to sandwich us
at the Sirens, are they?"

"So the rumor goes," Roarke said quietly.

Wade shook his head. "The bastards will never
learn, will they? No doubt this is a bid for those admiral's bars Winfield is
so hungry for. By God, you know I think he'll make it, too. He kisses the right
appendages and warms to the right wives. I'll eat the
Chimera
from the skysails down if it
isn't in his plans to woo the queen within five years." He paused and
chuckled. "Unfortunately he won't get there on my wind. For now he'll have
to content himself with the heat and flies."

"You're going to pass on the guns?"

"I'm going to give it serious thought. I'm also
going to give serious thought to going home for Christmas. What say you to
that, Roarke? Virginia in December is cool and crisp—it puts a man's thinking
back into perspective."

"Are you saying you've lost yours?"

"It feels sadly mauled of late, aye."

"You wouldn't also be toying with the notion of a
visit to Norfolk while you're sailing by, would you?"

"I might be. It's high time Stephen Decatur and I
had a long talk face-to-face."

"Horn to horn is more like it," Roarke said
dryly. "And he will only tell you what he's been telling you all along.
His hands are tied. We have to wait, Morgan. We cannot be the ones to start an
incident now."

"What do you call sending two warships after us—a
friendly sparring contest?"

"Winfield has the excuse that we are smuggling
guns to come after us, whereas we have no reason for an attack against him. If
you want to see him fume to the point of melting his buttons, just stay put in
the harbor for the next few months where he can't touch us."

"Aye, my ship would be safe in port, but that's
not what she was built for. And it isn't my aim to make him simply angry. I
want him making mistakes. Bad mistakes."

"And he will. But don't let him be the cause of
you making any."

Wade scowled. "Between you and Decatur I feel as
potent as a schoolboy pelting stones at the windows."

"Well, you shouldn't. You and Bull have had a
freer hand than any dozen other privateers combined."

"Only because we do what we do so well,"
Wade grinned humorlessly. "And don't you mean because we've been used more
freely? Maybe that is what tires me the most—letting everyone else's judgement
rule my life instead of following my own."

"When has anyone ever told you what to do and
lived to brag about it?" Roarke saw a shadow pass briefly across the
brooding eyes and cursed his tongue. They were nearing the end of a grimy
laneway, and he had to slow his step to match Morgan's.

"You didn't happen to hear anything"—there
was a slight pause, and the black brows came together—"about the lad, did
you?"

"Michael Cambridge? Not a word. Was I supposed
to?"

"No." Wade's frown deepened uncomfortably.
"It was only out of curiosity I asked."

Like hell, Roarke thought. "Then would it ease
your curiosity to know he no longer has a governess?"

Wade halted in his tracks. "Where has she
gone?"

"She's married, Morgan. As to where she's gone, I
didn't ask. I didn't think it was that important to you."

Wade's face remained impassive. "It isn't,"
he said curtly and started walking again.

It would do him no earthly good to know, Roarke
reasoned, and yet. . . "It wouldn't be too difficult to find out if you
wanted to see her."

"No."
Wade's pace quickened. They
reached the end of the alleyway, and at the rear door to a tavern Wade paused
and turned to Roarke. "She was right about one thing. We do lead desperate
little lives, don't we?"

"Morgan—"

"Come along, Roarke, I've a sudden yearning to
see the bottom of that bottle you mentioned."

Wade's blue eyes raked the smoky interior of the
tavern, noting the faces that shouldn't be there and acknowledging the nods
from his men who were already strategically placed. Two more of Winfield's spies
were going to find it difficult to wake up in the morning.

"All—there he is." Wade grinned and slapped
Roarke on the shoulder. "Put a happier look on your face, Stuart, lad.
That's your father-in-law you're frowning at."

Chapter 15

C
aptain
E
mory
A
shton-
S
mythe
maneuvered the fifty-two-gun frigate
Northgate
through the channel dividing
the Twin Sirens and anchored well out of sight off one of the small,
mosquito-infested islands west of the reef. He had two of the new brass
spyglasses on board, and because he knew it would be several days before the
alert would go out to be on the watch for the
Chimera,
he prowled the windward side
of the coral banks by day, hoping to root out an unsuspecting smuggler or two
to prove his worthiness as commander of the
Northgate.
He laid on a double watch and
had his gun crews run through stiff drills. Had he needed any evidence that
Wade was a formidable adversary, he had only to stand on the bridge of his ship
and look down over the newly patched sections of deck planking and rail.

Commodore Bennett Winfield remained in position off
Barbados for three days and three nights, keeping a close watch on the
Chimera,
anchored in Bridgetown's
harbor. He moved in closer by night and marked each hour's passage by the
blinked codes dispatched from high on the crest of a hill. The signals also
assured him that Wade was not using the cover of darkness to slip out of port.
By day he drilled his crews. He regarded their sweating, well-honed
ministrations with a dispassionate confidence. Wade was about to pay for his
past errors . . . and Summer was about to learn a harsh lesson in reality.

Winfield was roused at dawn of the fourth day with the
news that the
Chimera
was weighing anchor and the first of her sails were
appearing up her masts. He kept a tight rein on his emotion as he issued the
order to alert all crews and prepared to follow the privateer's ship.

"His heading, Aslop?"

"South by southwest, sir, as you
anticipated."

"Trinidad," Winfield nodded. "How long
would you estimate it will take us in this weather?"

"If it holds? No later than four bells tomorrow,
sir."

"My prediction is that it will hold, Lieutenant.
Call the officers to breakfast now, if you please. I find myself with a strong
appetite this morning."

"Aye, sir."

"And keep that damned ship well in sight."

"There should be no problem there, sir. She's
presenting us with a clear, sharp target. A shame our guns are not as powerful
as the telescope."

"In due time I have no doubt they will be. For
now, keep me informed of the
Chimera's
movements. And lay us low enough on the horizon not to
give rise to the least suspicion."

Lieutenant Harvey Aslop did as he was ordered, an easy
task since the
Chimera
maintained an unhurried six knots throughout most of
the day. He had to order the
Caledonia
trimmed for she cut through the water like an
impatient mare held to a tight rein. So intent was he on following the
commodore's orders that he was too low to see a second set of sails skimming
across the horizon—sails that were, conversely, in plain view of the
Chimera.

"There she is," Roarke said quietly, handing
the glass to Morgan Wade. "Right on time."

"Trim us down," Wade grunted, swinging the
spyglass to their stern after making his own visual confirmation. "Not too
obviously, though. Bull knows he is to keep ahead of us, but I'd as soon not
take any chances on the
Caledonia
spotting him. Damn—are you sure Winfield's out
there?"

"He's there, all right," Roarke said.

"Like a fly buzzing you at night," Wade
muttered. "You know it's in the room with you; you just can't see
it."

Roarke passed the order to Mr. Phillips to take in
sail. Almost immediately two of the flying jibs were reefed, along with one of
the small foresails.

"Winfield's bound to move up on us with the light
failing."

"Aye. We'd best give them something to look
at." Wade lowered the spyglass. "Light up the deck lanterns and have
the stern cabins bright enough to see a dozen miles away. Another hour and we
can signal the
Gyrfalcon;
then we'll pull up even more to give Bull a clear
run."

"You don't think Winfield will suspect
something?"

"Not when he knows we don't have the guns on
board yet."

"I still say we should pass on the shipment
altogether."

"Winfield has arranged to provide us with five
thousand prime English muskets. How can I, in all conscience, disappoint the
fellow? No, we'll accept his guns and give Commodore Righteous Winfield a lesson
in humility he won't soon forget. Or forgive." Wade chuckled dryly.
"He never could take a loss of face in his stride. As temperamental a son
of a bitch as any the Royal Navy has spawned. He was known to have a penchant
for taking his frustrations out with his fists. I pity his wife and family, if
he has one."

He raised the spyglass to his eye again, thereby
missing the look on Stuart Roarke's face.

Commodore Bennett Winfield lowered his glass, smugly
contemptuous as he saw the lights glowing to life on the
Chimera.

"He always was a cocksure bastard. Look at him,
Aslop. Sitting there like he owns the whole damned ocean."

"I've ordered a total blackout for the
Caledonia,
sir. No lights, not even for
cooking."

"Good. Give the men an extra ration of grog for
their trouble."

Bennett watched the progress of the
Chimera
for several minutes longer,
then handed the telescope to Aslop as he observed the rapidly shrouding dusk.
"Carry on, Lieutenant. I shall be in my quarters."

"Yes, sir . . . sir?"

"What is it, Aslop?"

"Sir, does something . . . well. . . does
something feel wrong to you?"

"Wrong? In what way?"

"I'm not sure. As I say, it's just a
feeling—"

Bennett Winfield relaxed. "If Morgan Wade was the
least bit suspicious of our presence, he would be crowding on sail and cutting
north to lose us. He wouldn't lead us straight to the guns. And he certainly
wouldn't slow down, not with the wind changing as it is."

"I suppose you are right, sir."

Winfield's eyes narrowed. "I am right,
Lieutenant. Now carry on about your duties."

"Aye, sir." Aslop watched his commander
leave the bridge, then released the pressure from his lungs. Winfield's temper
had a very fine thread holding it together, and he knew the commodore enjoyed
playing God when he had the deck beneath
his feet. But the feeling that something was amiss
would not leave, and the lieutenant did a complete sweep of the horizon with
the powerful telescope. He gave an order for the man sitting fifty feet aloft
in the crow's nest to do likewise, and even though the report came back
"all clear," he refused his relief at the end of his watch and
continued to pace the bridge uneasily.

When dawn arrived, pink and hazy, Aslop had still not
managed to shake off the prickle scratching his spine. The
Chimera
was there. The
Caledonia
was keeping an even pace with
her, and there was only the faintest rime of cloud curling over the seascape to
mar an otherwise perfect sky. Yet he refused relief for the fourth time and
only knuckled his eyes harder to drive away the burn of salt and fatigue.

The wind was building. Aslop's prickle grew in
proportion when the privateer failed to take advantage and instead dropped the
speed of the
Chimera
to less than four knots and flew barely a quarter of
its sails.

The lieutenant had just finished giving an order to
have the watch in the nest changed every hour, when Bennett Winfield emerged
from the forehatchway, his fully rested and laughing complement of ship's
officers strutting behind him, picking the breakfast out of their teeth.

Winfield mounted the ladder to the bridge, not a blond
hair out of place, not a visible wrinkle to his uniform, not an embossed anchor
on his buttons angled the wrong way. The pale blue eyes flicked critically over
the loosened neckcloth and the trace of stubble on his adjutant's jaw. He
arched a brow and gazed out across the water, noting the stiff breeze and the
growing crust of cloud.

"Aslop, you look like the devil. Didn't you sleep
last night?"

"No, sir."

"Any particular reason?"

"No, sir."

"Just your . . . feeling?"

"Sir." Lieutenant Aslop approached Winfield
haltingly. "At this pace we're still a full day out of Port-of-Spain. The
wind is strong off his starboard side, and if he cared to run up half as much
sail again as he has, he could be in safe anchorage before noon. Instead he
keeps slowing down."

"Your conclusion?"

"He knows we're here. He's playing with us.
Somehow, Wade knows we know about the guns, and I'll be willing to wager that
within the hour he cuts loose and heads directly into that—" Aslop raised
an arm stiffly and pointed to the clouds. A squall was building, darkening the
surface of the water as it approached.

"Your
recommendations?" Bennett asked quietly.

"Close up on him now,
sir, or we'll lose him."

"And if he sees us?"

"We can gain raking distance within two
hours."

"What makes you think he would allow us to get
that close? Conversely, what makes you think he is not tempting us to do
precisely that?" Bennett glanced toward the squall. "Even if he does
run for the heavy weather, where can he go? He may be only guessing that we're
here; he cannot know for certain. He may be tempting us to do what you are
suggesting for that very reason: to find out. If he runs for the weather, we'll
still be on him. Believe me, Aslop, I have no intention of losing Captain
Morgan Wade. None whatsoever."

"But, sir—"

"Go below, Lieutenant. That's an order. Have a
hearty meal and clean yourself up; you'll feel better for it."

"Aye, sir."

Bennett presented his back to the lieutenant,
dismissing the young man summarily. Aslop handed the spyglass reluctantly to
one of the other smirking officers and left the bridge, but he could not help
pausing at the entrance to the forecastle quarters and staring out across the
dark patch on the horizon. His grip on the oak tightened, and then he shook his
head in resignation and ducked inside.

An hour later the
Chimera
disappeared.

Bennett Winfield watched, unperturbed, as Aslop's
prediction bore fruit. The
Chimera
tacked suddenly on a course straight south, straight
into the curtain of the squall. Wade was fully rigged within minutes of the
turn and miming in excess of eighteen knots, when he was swallowed into the
sheeting rain. Winfield was still not overly concerned. He called for more sail
and closed the gap quickly, surmising correctly that the disturbance was only a
brief trick of the weather. But when the winds and rain played out and the
Caledonia
shook off the last of the
squall, the frigate was gone.

Winfield ordered the heavy sail maintained and scoured
west and south of the
Chimera's
last sighting. When nothing more spectacular than a
British sloop crossed their path, he barked an immediate, hasty course
change—north to Trinidad and the town of Port-of-Spain.

By then the wind was against him. It took nearly
twenty hours to cover the distance, and when he arrived, the
Chimera
was gone. So were the guns,
Winfield discovered, after a second, lengthy delay and an exorbitant bribe. He
was told that the
Chimera
had spent less than two hours in port and now had an
impressive head start due north.

Commodore Winfield drove his ship and his men to the
breaking point in an effort to reach the Sirens in time to salvage his plan.
Days later he stood rigidly silent on the deck of the
Caledonia,
listening to a red-faced and
stammering Captain Emory Ashton-Smythe swear that he had not seen a sail in the
past three days. His captured prizes of two French merchantmen did nothing to
assuage the commodore's fury, and Ashton-Smythe retreated to the
Northgate
with a harsh reprimand ringing
in his ears.

Thereafter by day both warships searched the length of
the coral reef. Nights found them anchored in humid, windless coves slapping at
innumerable mosquitoes and plucking multi-legged beasts from their skin and
food. A month of short tempers and frayed nerves resulted in Winfield using the
pair of French ships as targets for his gun crews, hulling them in under ten
minutes apiece and taking one hundred and twenty outraged Frenchmen as
prisoners.

With his rage still boiling at peak level, he ordered
the British ships home to Bridgetown, stopping off first at the naval base on
Saint Christopher to deliver his prisoners. There he learned that the
Chimera
had not only eluded the
Northgate
and outfoxed the
Caledonia,
she had broken through the
blockade line patrolling Norfolk, Virginia, and was last reported anchored
alongside Stephen Decatur's frigate, the
United States.

Bennett's rage deepened to a cold fury. He lashed out
at the two most readily available victims: Harvey Aslop was stripped of his
rank and left on Saint Christopher to ponder his future. Captain Emory
Ashton-Smythe was cited for dereliction of duty and ordered to pay a heavy
fine. He retained command of the
Northgate
despite Bennett's efforts to the contrary but lost the
right to claim the two French ships as his kill. Neither man said a word
publicly in his own defense, but privately the rumors were set afloat that the
commodore's credibility had taken a sharp dive downward, as with so many others
before him who had pitted themselves against Morgan Wade.