Surrender the Stars (11 page)

"Ah, that's right. Those charts could prove quite valuable to the British, couldn't they?"

Andre nodded grimly. "They're filled with information about strategic means of entry into harbors all along the eastern seaboard. I should have removed them before we set sail, I suppose, but they might prove the difference for our own survival someday. Well, no point in worrying now. The charts are hidden, and with luck no one will ever have cause to search for them."

"If anyone can outrun that frigate, it's you, sir," Ryan said reassuringly.

"We, you mean!" Raveneau smiled, then turned to his businesslike first lieutenant, Mason, and gave the "all hands" order.

Within moments, the decks and ratlines bristled with seamen clad in loose, knee-length trousers, striped jerseys and tarpaulin hats that had been waterproofed with tar or paint.

Coleraine knew that he was probably the most competent privateer captain in active service at that time, but he felt no overpowering urge to offer advice to Andre Raveneau. Although the older man may not have been faced with this sort of challenge in recent years, he had practiced for more than thirty years, and Ryan never doubted that the outcome of this encounter would be governed by Raveneau's sure hand. The marks of a competent privateer captain were smart sail-handling and maneuvering abilities, good judgment of wind power and direction, and an intimate knowledge of his ship's capabilities. Captain Raveneau was expert in all three areas.

Freed of responsibility, Ryan climbed the ratlines to join the topmen on the mast high above the slanting decks to supervise the energetic pulling and hauling of sails that accompanied Raveneau's orders to tack leeward. The wind was with them, fueled by the burgeoning storm clouds. Ryan prayed that the rain would wait.

Belowdecks, Lindsay listened to the thundering of the slatting canvas and the stamping of what sounded like hundreds of feet as the sheets and braces were let go and hauled. In no time, she had shed her gown, replacing it with Nathan's shirt and breeches. She then dashed out into the gangway and collided with her mother, who was similarly garbed.

"What's happening?" cried Lindsay.

"From the sound of it, I'd say that we've been spotted by the British!"

"Papa won't mind if we go above?"

Devon, already on her way, tossed a smile over one shoulder. "Oh, certainly he'll mind, but if we stand our ground, he'll doubtless be too busy to press the issue. Better yet, he may not notice us for a while if we stay out of the way!"

They clambered up the ladder and out through the hatch. Lindsay's first impression on the gun deck was that pandemonium reigned, but she soon realized that each seaman was engaged in a specific activity. Spotting Drew, she demanded, "Is there going to be a battle?"

Devon overheard and blinked in surprise at her daughter's excited tone.

"The captain says we should try to outrun them," Drew shouted above the din before he disappeared.

La Mouette
heeled over as the shifted sails caught a fresh blast of wind and altered the ship's course. Lindsay had adjusted to the pitching decks her first day on board, and now she balanced neatly, standing with arms akimbo.

"Outrun them?!"
she yelled at her mother. "Is this possible? My own father is turning tail? What has happened to simple bravery?!"

Hanging above, a yardarm braced between his chest and arms, Ryan looked down and watched Lindsay enacting an all-too-familiar drama on the gun deck. Hard droplets of rain began to pelt his face as he sighed and reached for the ratlines. He didn't need to hear what she was saying; the sight of her shouting and pointing in outrage was enough.

"Lindsay!" Devon was exclaiming. "What's come over you?"

"I want to see justice done! I'm tired of watching Americans roll over like befuddled dogs and simply
give up
without a fight!" Spinning around, she started toward the quarterdeck. "I'm going to talk to Papa!"

A hand caught Lindsay's shirt from behind, halting her progress. "I'd advise against that," Ryan said firmly.

The sound of that voice only increased her fury. Whirling, she challenged, "You have never had any right to dictate to me, Captain Coleraine, especially not
here,
on my family's ship in the presence of my parents! I am an adult, and demand that you treat me as such!" She tried to wrest her shirttail from his grasp. "Let go!"

"Not if you're going to storm the quarterdeck and deliver an ill-timed harangue to the captain!"

Lindsay looked imploringly to her mother. "Will you please tell this—this
person
to leave me alone? He has persisted in giving me orders and manhandling me since the day we met. Is it not plain to you why I detest him?"

The sight of her offspring, wet and wild-eyed amidst the melee on deck, inspired a strong mixture of emotions in Devon. It was as if she were looking at a stranger, for Lindsay had never behaved thus in the past, and yet, at the same time, it seemed that she was seeing herself thirty years earlier. The breeches, the ship, the tangled mass of golden-rose curls, and most especially, the unchecked temper... all of these recalled Devon's own early days with Andre. Unfortunately, she could not encourage Lindsay's intention to confront her father, at least not
now.
Marriage to Andre also meant that she had learned from him, as he had from her, and she had considerably more understanding of his judgment and wisdom than she'd possessed at eighteen. Also, Devon was his mate, his partner, and no matter how devoted she might be to her children, her husband had always come first, just as she was the most important person in
his
life.

"Lindsay, darling, you'll hate me for saying this, but I don't want you to bother your father right now. I understand your feelings, and I doubtless would have shared them at your age, but after thirty years, I've learned to trust the judgment of my husband. He knows what he's doing."

"Judgment?!" she cried, all the while trying to twist loose from Coleraine's grip. "Don't you mean
cowardice
? Have you forgotten that the British burned every ship anchored at Pettipauge? That they humiliated the town? I tried to console myself by thinking that if Papa had been there,
he
at least would have fought back, but now I'm not so certain!"

Ryan spoke up, hoping to end the conversation. "The issue is not cowardice, Miss Raveneau, but common sense. The entire village of Pettipauge might have been burned to the ground if we had resisted. I can assure you that if I'd thought there was a chance for victory, I would have risked my own life, but that chance was not there. As for our present circumstances, it would be folly to fight a British ship when we hope to be welcomed in London."

"If America had been governed by common sense, we would never have fought and won the Revolutionary War!" Lindsay shouted.

Slanting a bemused look at Devon, Coleraine murmured, "Perhaps you weren't aware of your daughter's bloodthirsty tendencies...."

"I hadn't a clue!" she replied dazedly.

"How dare you join forces with this beast?" Lindsay accused her mother. A sudden blast of rain stung her face, bringing her near tears. Ryan was sufficiently distracted by the conversation so that when she jerked her shirttail free, his fingers tightened a second too late. Lindsay ran into the rain toward the quarterdeck, her hair streaming out behind her. Ryan was only a step short of catching her when Lindsay's foot struck a coil of rope and she pitched sideways, striking her head against the carved rail.

Chapter 7

May 5-10, 1814

For more than a dozen hours,
La Mouette
and her two able captains led the pursing British frigate on a wild and exhilarating chase over the Atlantic Ocean. The storm joined in the game, moving behind
La Mouette
shortly after sunset so that the frigate was forced to fight twice as hard to keep up. The rain continued, but the wind was more manageable. Under the guidance of Raveneau and Coleraine, and with the skill of their crew,
La Mouette
gradually lengthened the distance between the two ships until the frigate had been left behind the western horizon.

It was past midnight, however, before Raveneau let his wife coax him below for some sleep. Approaching his daughter's cabin, he murmured, "I still find it hard to believe this wild tale about Lindsay's antics up on deck."

"I found it hard to believe when it was happening!" Devon exclaimed, her voice rising slightly. Whispering, she continued, "Your daughter behaved like an absolute hellion!"

"'Twould seem that she takes after her mother after all. I seem to remember an incident long ago when you defied my order to remain below during a storm—and ended up falling and hitting
your
head against the deck...."

"I fell because I was struggling to throw a line to you after you had dived overboard to save Caleb Jackson! If I hadn't been there, you might have died!"

"I'm aware of that,
petite chatte.
I realized that day that a hellion might have redeeming qualities." Smiling, he wrapped an arm around her diminutive form. "I must say that I find this uproar about Lindsay's behavior rather disconcerting. Have you not always bemoaned the fact that she was so unwaveringly self-contained?"

Devon shook her head, gazing across the cabin to the polished mahogany bunk where her daughter lay, pale against the white sheets, apricot-hued tresses spread out in contrast. Cassie sat in a chair inches away, mending an apron. "It's just that this new aspect of her personality has displayed itself suddenly. Each time she rails at Ryan Coleraine, I am
stunned
! Today, I could hardly believe that I was in the presence of my own daughter."

"Well, the crisis has passed. Lindsay did open her eyes and smile momentarily, so we know she'll be all right. Somehow,
La Mouette
performed a miracle and escaped that British frigate—"

"The miracle was performed by you, my love," Devon put in.

"Don't forget that I had assistance from Ryan and the crew! In any event, we're all safe, and I am exhausted and know you must be, too, after sitting with Lindsay for a dozen hours. Are you aware that it's past midnight,
cherie
? Let's go to bed."

"Thank goodness for Cassie." She sighed.

The Raveneaus stepped into the gangway just as Ryan Coleraine came down through the hatch. Though the rain had nearly stopped, his black hair was still wet and his white linen shirt clung to his hard-muscled chest. Quickly, he approached them.

"How is she?"

"Still sleeping, but the surgeon assures us that's normal after a head injury," Andre replied. "Did you receive the message that she regained consciousness momentarily a few hours ago?"

"Yes. If not for that encouraging news, I couldn't have remained on deck." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "If I had not relaxed my guard and let her get away from me, this would not have happened."

"Don't be silly!" Devon admonished in a heated whisper. "Lindsay is a grown woman, and you must not hold yourself accountable in any way for her actions!"

Ryan sighed harshly. He wanted to say that, after his experience with Lindsay during the British attack on Pettipauge, he thought that he knew better than anyone what she was capable of in a temper, and he couldn't help feeling that with the knowledge came an implied responsibility. There was no point in verbalizing those thoughts to her parents, though. It was plain that they had not been acquainted with Lindsay the spitfire—until now.

"Would you mind if I look in on her?" he asked quietly.

"Go right ahead," Raveneau said. "Cassie, our housekeeper, is with her, and we were just about to retire for a few hours." Almost as an afterthought, he asked, "Is the situation still stable above?"

"Fine, sir." Ryan gave him a tired smile. "The men are still marveling over the fact that we eluded confrontation with that frigate."

"Why? Are not the two finest sea captains in America on board? Failure would have been a bigger surprise!"

After bidding the Raveneaus good night, Coleraine cautiously entered Lindsay's cabin. He half expected her to sit up and order him out, but she lay still and silent in the flickering lantern light.

Cassie rose to meet Ryan halfway. "It's good to see you, Captain Coleraine," she whispered. "Would you mind staying with Miss Lindsay for a few minutes? I should go and tell my husband that I'll be spending the night here."

He nodded and then, alone with Lindsay, approached the bunk. Clad in a fresh, snowy-white bed gown, she was the picture of innocent, serene beauty. Ryan reached over and ran a fingertip along one long, shining curl, and his mind spun back to the moments just after Lindsay had fallen. The instant that he'd realized she was unconscious, he had quickly checked her pulse, then lifted her limp form gently in his arms to carry her below to her cabin. Devon, with a mother's reserve of alert composure, had not panicked but sent a boatswain's mate to fetch the surgeon before following Ryan through the hatch.