Bound by the Heart (43 page)

That seemed to shake the officer even more. "Who
. . .?"

"I'm afraid I am not familiar with your lists,
but the ship was the
Belvidera."

Ashton-Smythe's eyes were still
locked to Wade's. "I have no recourse but to accept your word on the
matter. My ship—"

"Your ship is beyond salvage.
I have neither the crew nor the patience to tow her to port. If you have not ordered
it as yet, I suggest you have your crew abandon ship immediately. I intend to
sink her before I take my leave of these waters."

"Sink her? For what
reason?"

"The same one you would have
used to sink the
Chimera
had the outcome been
reversed."

Ashton-Smythe reddened and remained
silent.

"We will, naturally, replenish
our stores from your armory first. And any of your crew who can prove to me
that they are Americans—deserters, if you prefer—will be offered the choice of
joining us. As to the rest, I'm afraid you will have to settle for Monsieur de
Ville's generous hospitality. That shouldn't be too much of a hardship—General
de Ville has a rather amiable working relationship with the British."

The last statement produced such a.
smug and haughty sneer on Farley Glasse's face that Wade smiled.

"All of you will be permitted
to sample the general's hospitality, with the exception of Mr. Glasse, that is.
He and I have some unfinished business to settle."

"Mr. Glasse is a
representative of His Majesty's government," Ashton-Smythe said quickly.
"As such, under the terms of war, it becomes your obligation to treat him
with the same courtesy you would any of my men. I expect Mr. Glasse to be
allowed to accompany us ashore in strict accordance with those terms."

"The only terms Mr. Glasse
will be leaving this ship on are my own. I have a badly wounded man below whose
injuries were sustained before any of us were informed that a state of war
existed. I have two women and a child on board as well who will speak volumes
on the courtesies Mr. Glasse extended them. To my way of thinking, he has
himself voided any so-called immunity he may have been entitled to."

"Those same words apply to
your own situation, Wade," Glasse said archly. "Or should I call you
Sir Edmund? A traitor, a spy, a murderer—" He glanced around coldly at the
silent, glowering crew who had gathered about them. "The taint your
captain bears is his alone, as it stands now, but what do you think will happen
if you so much as raise a finger against me? I am unarmed. I am a helpless
prisoner of war. Murder me now and the infamy will spread and you will all be
hunted down like animals."

Mr. Monday stepped forward, but
Wade's hand reached out in time, halting the huge negro in his stride.

"He'll be yours soon enough,
Mr. Monday," Wade said quietly. "Let him speak his piece."

"Oh, I intend to speak, all
right, Captain," Glasse spat. "I will tell anyone who cares to listen
how you raped and brutalized an innocent young woman . . . how you lured her
into a miserable hotel room and forced her to degrade herself, and when you'd
had your fill, you beat her . . . beat her until her own father could not
recognize her. Speak my piece? I have been wanting to shout my outrage for the
past thirteen years!"

Glasse was trembling now. There was
not a sound on the deck aside from the creaking of the spars and the slap and
gurgle of water curling off the frigate's hull. Ashton-Smythe was clearly
stunned by the accusation.

"Have you any proof to support
your charges, sir?" he asked Glasse.

The black eyes were leveled on the
officer. "I don't need any further proof than what I see before me. Look
at him! Do you hear the almighty, brave Morgan Wade denying any of it? Ask him!
Ask him if it's true!"

Ashton-Smythe looked at Wade.
"Well, sir?"

"Your Mr. Glasse has been
chasing his tail for thirteen years," Morgan said quietly.

"A quaint way to avoid a
direct question, Wade," Glasse sneered.

"Ask me a direct question, and
I will answer it. Thirteen years ago I was in a dozen different places."

Glasse's eyes glittered. "Then
I shall rephrase my question. Where were you on the night of May fourteenth,
1799? A night that has seared itself into my own memory like few others."

Ashton-Smythe saw the smile on
Wade's face as the dark blue eyes turned to him. "Perhaps you would be so
kind as to tell Mr. Glasse where I was, Captain Smythe. May fourteenth,
1799."

Ashton-Smythe frowned, then
blanched. Glasse saw the two men acknowledging something silently between them,
and his patience gave way. "Well? Where was he? What further trickery is
this?"

"There is no trickery,"
Captain Ashton-Smythe said quietly. "And I do indeed know where Captain
Wade was that night." He whirled to face Farley Glasse. "And had I
known this to be the root of your actions these past twelve months—these past
twelve
hours,
I would have killed you myself"

"What are you saying! He's a
murderer! He's a—"

"You bloody, pompous
fool," Ashton-Smythe said, shaking his head. "Thirteen years ago, in
May, Morgan Wade was serving as a deckhand on board the British frigate
Africa
...
as he had been for the ten months
prior to that after being impressed into His Majesty's service. He remained on
board until July of that same year, at which time he and one of the commander's
personal slaves"—the Englishman's eyes settled briefly on Mr.
Monday—"jumped ship off Saint Christopher. There was quite a row at the
time, especially when he resurfaced several months later, praised by the
Americans as a hero for his reckless escape, and was taken on by Commodore
Preble himself."

"The escape was not so
reckless, Captain," said Wade. "As I recall, the man holding down the
ghost watch that night was such a poor shot we could have moved an army
out."

"You were lucky it was a dark
night, Wade, and you were doubly lucky my knowledge of musketry was limited at
the time. I would have shot you then with a clear conscience"—
Ashton-Smythe turned to Glasse contemptuously—"whereas I would never
presume to condemn a man without the benefit of giving him a fair trial first
or, at the very least, checking all of the facts before I dared to go to such
lengths to confront him."

Glasse blinked stupidly.
"There was no mention of any Wade on any of the registries. I checked, I
tell you, and there is no mention of a Wade anywhere, any time before the
summer of
'99.
He is Granville, I swear it."

"Indeed he is, sir,"
Ashton-Smythe replied evenly. "And a single question would have told you
he is
Matthew
Granville . . . and as I knew him, Matt Grange. He changed
his name on board the
Africa
to avoid notoriety, yes, but not
for the reasons you mentioned. He changed it again when he joined the American
Navy."

"A man does not change his
name so many times without having something to hide," Glasse insisted,
gropping desperately for straws.

"Nor does he necessarily keep
the one he was given if he thinks it could cause discomfort to someone he has
left behind."

Glasse's jaw sagged and he stared at Wade. "No. I
don't believe it. You're lying!" He looked at Ashton-Smythe, and his face
reddened. "You're both lying! You're lying to protect each other!"

The British captain sighed and gazed out at the hulk
of the
Northgate.
He
could see and hear the confusion as the survivors searched the wreckage for
signs of life.

"Why should I do that, sir?" he murmured
wearily. "I fear nothing could protect me from the scorn my men must be
feeling toward me now."

"You have no idea of the scorn you will be
feeling," Glasse spat. "I intend to see you placed before a
court-martial and have your stripes torn from your shoulders!"

Ashton-Smythe grasped the oak of the deck rail with
his good hand. "Perhaps it is no less than I deserve. My God . . . after
the business I have done here today, perhaps it is better than I deserve. One
hundred brave souls placed their trust in me, and I
...
I squandered them for the sake of one man's twisted hatred.
One hundred dead, and the tally may yet rise." He compressed his lips into
a bloodless line and turned to Wade. "Winfield will not rest until he sees
you dead, Captain. He considers the taking of the
Chimera
to be his holy grail."

"Thank you for the warning. But he should pray
that I do not find him first."

Captain Emory Ashton-Smythe stared long and hard into
the piercing blue eyes before he finally nodded. His shoulders seemed to droop
as if the weight he carried was suddenly too much to bear.

"You had best see to your crew, Captain
Smythe," said Wade. "My men and I will do all we can to help you
transfer your wounded ashore."

"What do you intend to do
with Glasse?"

"Nothing less than he
deserves."

"But. . .you cannot just murder the man. Good
God, you would be as inhuman as he is."

"I did not say he would die from his punishment.
Glasse will leave this ship alive—although I cannot swear he will want to
be."

Ashton-Smythe swallowed
several times, then nodded again.

"Where do you think you
are going?" Glasse demanded when he saw the British captain turn toward
the entry port. "You cannot leave this ship without me! You are
honor-bound and duty-bound to protect me—
with your own life if need be!"

"If I were honor-bound to do anything, sir, it
would be to stand here and witness your punishment for the crimes you have
committed. I'm afraid, however, I simply do not have the stomach for it right
now. I have too many
brave
men who need me more."

Glasse lunged after the captain, but two of Wade's men
stepped quickly in front of him.

"Smythe!
Smythe!
You can't just leave me! Smythe, you bastard! You
can't leave me! I'll have you hung! I'll have you hunted down and scourged for
the yellow-bellied coward that you are!"

"Seize him up, Mr. Powell," Wade ordered
solemnly. "In the shrouds, if you please."

"No!" Glasse backed away and tried to dash
for the freedom of the open gangway. Two burly seamen caught him easily,
wrenching his wounded shoulder and dragging him, screaming and kicking, to the
side of the ship. It took two more men to hold him while his wrists were bound
to the rigging by hempen ropes and the clothing he wore was sliced from his
body.

Mr. Monday stood on the break of the deck, his face
expressionless as he slowly uncoiled a twelve-foot length of oiled leather.

"No!
No!
You can't do this! I am a subject of His Majesty King
George! I am a prisoner of war! I am—"

"Slow and easy, Mr. Monday," said Wade.
"One cut for every man on board this ship . . . and as many again for the
discomfort he has caused Mr. Roarke."

Mr. Monday's teeth gleamed whitely across his face. He
swung the whip over his head in an arc, bending his powerful body to give the
stroke his full force. He brought the leather humming through the air and
cracked it across the narrow shoulders and ribs.

"Aughhhh!”
Glasse's whole body jerked from the agony, and he
writhed against the ropes that secured him to the shrouds. He barely caught his
breath before the lash curled around him a second time, leaving a second thin
weal of blood to mark its bite. The knife wound he had suffered at Thorny's
hands began to weep fresh blood, but after a while, when the hum and crack of
leather became rhythmic, one source of blood became indistinguishable from the
rest.

Chapter 25

S
ummer was exhausted
. Any thoughts she might have had concerning the
noble, valiant duty she had volunteered for had vanished five minutes into the
battle preparations. Thorny had been instantly transformed into a demon,
barking orders and cursing with a vengeance until both girls were more
terrified of what he might do if they balked at an order than of the order
itself. Every spare sheet of linen and cotton had been torn into strips for
bandages. Half-a-dozen needles had been threaded in readiness, and a basin of
rum was heated, into which Thorny had set his dreadful assortment of tools.
Knives, pincers, scissors and even a carpenter's saw were brought from the
stores and placed in the room he would be using as a surgery.

It had been necessary to move Stuart to a lower deck
since the captain's cabin had, on more than one occasion, received the enemy's
shot. Sarah had been bundled into her cradle and placed alongside Stuart's
Utter in the storeroom adjacent to the surgery, and Summer had been dispatched
to remain with them, tearing bandages, until she was needed.

When the terrible pounding from the guns overhead
commenced, she had sat frozen by Stuart's side, the baby pressed to her bosom,
her head buried in the nest of quilts. At one point she had felt Roarke's hand
resting on her shoulder to reassure her, but for the most part, Summer sat
numb, deafened and blinded by the terror of the shelling.

There was no lull to gather her shattered nerves
together and no easy way to learn how to cope with the horror of the wounds
that trickled into the storeroom. The air smelled of lamp oil and blood, of raw
gunpowder and the acrid bitterness of scorched flesh. She cleaned and wrapped
burns. She splinted a broken arm and tied off the stump of a severed finger,
managing to keep her stomach until the poor man had thanked her profusely and
staggered back to his station.