The Saintly Buccaneer (31 page)

Thad was the beneficiary of this time of her confusion, for she spent much time nursing him back to health. She tried as best she could to lay to rest his youthful love for her, but she had only partial success.

While she was changing Thad’s bandages one afternoon, she had her first encounter with Paul Winslow since that fateful night. Charity had just pulled the old bandages free and was carefully sponging the wound when a shadow fell over Thad, and she looked up with a start to see Paul looking down at her.

“How’s the patient doing?” he asked.

“Oh—he’s doing well—no sign of gangrene.”

“From all reports, you’ve done a fine job with these men,” he remarked. When she didn’t comment, he continued. “I’d like to have a word with you when you’re finished here.”

She glanced at him sharply, wanting to refuse, but heard herself saying, “I’ll be finished soon.”

“Captain?” Thad spoke urgently as the officer turned. “What’s going to happen to us—the crew, I mean?”

Winslow looked down at the boy, regret in his eyes. “I’m afraid you’ll be sent to Dartmoor. It’s a naval prison for captured enemies of England.”

“We been hearin’ it’s nothin’ but a grave, Captain. Word we’ve had is that nine men out of ten just die there.”

Winslow shook his head. “I wish I could tell you more—but I know little about the place. It
does
have a bad reputation—but I guess all prisons do.”

The boy’s eyes gleamed with anger, and he spat out fiercely, “Well, they ain’t goin’ to do me in, I tell you flat! I’m bustin’ out of there!”

“Don’t do that, boy!” Winslow shook his head sternly. “It’s a bad place with lots of sickness, and men die—but from what I’ve heard the escape rate is nonexistent. Every man who’s tried to escape has been caught—and most of them killed by the guards. Try to be patient. This war can’t last long.”

“Easy for you to say!”

“I’ll see you on deck,” Winslow nodded at Charity, and left the cabin.

After she finished the bandaging, Charity promised, “I’ll bring you something to eat later, Thad. Try to sleep.”

She left the hold and went up on deck, where she saw Winslow standing on the poop deck looking out over the bow. When she climbed the steps he turned, saying, “I’m sorry about your crew. It’s one of the most terrible aspects of war—prisons. There are no good ones, I believe.”

“What did you want to see me about?”

He seemed uncertain, and took off his bicorn, twisting the hat around nervously, staring at the object as if it held a particular interest. The brisk wind ruffled his crisp black hair, causing a rebellious lock to fall across his forehead. Finally he lifted his gaze and said quietly, “I want to apologize for my behavior. It was unpardonable.”

His frank approach and the directness of his gaze pleased her, but at the thought of his kiss, she felt her cheeks flush. Quickly she ducked her head and turned to look out across the sea to compose herself. “It was not altogether your fault, Paul,” she murmured.

“I must risk contradicting a lady—for I know that in this case you are mistaken. Am I forgiven?”

“Well ...” She shifted her eyes to meet his, and the beginning of a smile touched her full lips. “You are forgiven as far as
I
am concerned, but—”

He grinned ruefully, and came to lean on the rail beside her. “Blanche? You needn’t mention
that!
I’ve already discovered that a woman scorned is a fearful sight!”

“She’ll forgive you. She loves you very much.”

He didn’t answer directly, but traced an intricate design in the encrusted salt coating the rail. When he looked up, he asked hesitantly, “Would you do something for me?”

“Why—I’m not sure,” she answered.

“Let me ask—afterward you can feel free to refuse—and no hard feelings.” He brushed the salt off his hands, and as he began to speak, she saw that he was tense. “I’m in a difficult position, you see. I’m an officer in His Majesty’s Navy—and if I am apprehended by the authorities—the American authorities, that is—I’ll be arrested. But I would like very much to contact my family.”

“How can I help, Paul?”

“You could go see them, Charity,” he responded instantly. “Tell them about me. They think I’m dead, so it’ll be a shock. However, the truth may be even a worse shock, don’t you see?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, I’ve thought about it a lot, and it seems to me that when my family hears I’m alive, they’ll all rejoice—at least I would
hope
so! But they need to be told that they’re not getting their son back again—because I’m not the same man. It’s going to be terrible for them, Charity!”

She stared at him, nodding her head slowly. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“You agree—to go, I mean?” He spoke faster, seeing that she was not convinced. “I know you have to bury your father, of course, but after that, if you could go to Boston and speak with them, I would be so grateful! You know what I’m like—as contrasted with what I evidently was before, and they need to be aware that the Paul Winslow they knew really is dead.”

A small column of smoke was rising from the galley, and she smelled the acrid scent of coal burning. It got in her eyes and she blinked to clear them before she answered. “I’ll go to Boston, Paul.”

“You will?” He involuntarily took her hands, then dropped them instantly, saying, “I suppose
that
won’t do! But it’s like you, Charity. You seem born to take care of helpless creatures like Thad and me.”

“It’s no trouble,” she assured him, and bit her lip. A sadness touched her green eyes, and she stated evenly, “I don’t have anything else to do.”

“That’s my fault, too, isn’t it?”

“No. We knew there was a risk of losing the ship,” she answered. “Don’t blame yourself. Now, what do you want me to say to your family?”

“Tell them what I am,” he began slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. “And tell them that I think it best that we don’t meet at all. I have another life now, and it will never be possible for me to be what I was.”

“I’ll try.”

He nodded, a look of relief etching his face. “I’ll do the best I can for the crew—but it’s out of my hands. There may be a way to help make life there easier. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Dartmoor is a hell, they say.” Charity’s lips trembled, a sadness touching her eyes at the fate of her crew. “Most of them will die there.” She turned hastily, and left him standing on the deck.

For the next two days she kept to herself, but she noticed that Blanche was almost always at Paul’s side.
She’ll fight for him!
she thought; and try as she could, she could see no happiness for the family of Charles Winslow.

****

Twelve days after
The Gallant Lady
dropped anchor in New York harbor, Charity found herself for the fourth time in her life standing at the door of Charles Winslow’s house feeling totally unsure of herself. The first time, she’d come seeking help for Nathan and his wife; the second time she’d come with Dan to apologize; the third time she’d been with Dan and the Winslows; but this time she was even more apprehensive.

She knocked on the door, and while she waited, she thought of the events of the days since the docking of the ship. She had left the
Lady
with tears, for she’d said her goodbyes to the crew. Dan and the rest would be placed on an English warship and taken to Dartmoor the following day, and they all knew it was the last time they’d ever meet—at least for most of them.

She’d fallen into Dan’s arms, grief and shame engulfing her. She knew she did not love him—at least not in the way a woman must love the man she marries—but he looked so alone standing there! “Dan—I’m so sorry!”

“Thee mustn’t weep,” he had encouraged steadily. “Let me see a smile. It’ll have to do me for a time—that’s better! Now, I’m believing the good Lord that somehow I’ll see this country again—and thee must pray with me.”

“My prayers aren’t worth a farthing!” she had sobbed. “I don’t know God! I’m not even sure I believe in Him!”

“Well, He believes in
thee
—and that’s enough.” Then it
was time to leave, and he had smiled, saying, “Thee has my love, Charity.”

The parting had been hard, and just as difficult had been her coming home to Boston to an empty house. She had not realized how much her father had filled the home, had made it happy and full of life. But now it was a burden on her to stay there, and she knew she could not live in the place alone for long.

She thought of the funeral, when the members of the church had gathered around the stark grave, and Pastor Johnson had spoken the old words about resurrection. She had stood there, her mind locked, frozen; when the black casket was lowered into the red clay, she had fainted for the first time in her life.

That had been two days ago, and during all that time she had tried to steel herself to keep her promise to Paul. As the door began to swing open, she had the absurd inclination to whirl and flee—but it was too late. Cory, the same house slave that had told her where to find Paul the first time she’d come, asked, “Yas’um? What can I do fo’ you?” And when she recognized Charity, her obsidianal eyes filled with hatred.

“I would like to see Mr. Winslow.”

“Mistuh Winslow—he not well.”

“Mrs. Winslow? I
must
see one of them!”

“I go see—you wants to come in?”

Charity entered and stood there waiting. The morning sun fell in gold bars through the heavy glass in the door, but it was unable to dispel the depressing silence in the house. Cory came back after what seemed like a long time and said, “You kin come dis way.”

Charity followed the servant down the wide hall, glancing in at the dining room where she’d been entertained on her last visit, but Cory led her past that, around a corner, and finally indicated a door.

“You kin go in, dey say.”

Charity pushed the door open and found herself in a study that had been converted, it seemed, into a bedroom. Charles
Winslow was seated in a leather chair with his right foot on a low stool. His wife was standing across the room, her eyes fixed on the visitor, a hostile expression on her face.

“You must forgive me, Miss Alden,” Charles apologized. “This gout has laid me low. I’m bound to this chair, you see.”

“I’m sorry to hear of it, sir,” Charity responded. She hesitated, not knowing how to begin and it showed on her face.

“Is there something wrong, Miss Alden?” Charles asked. “You seem disturbed.”

“Well, I have news for you—but I’m not sure how to go about it. Is the rest of your family here? It’s something that concerns all of you.”

“Why, yes, they’re here. I can’t imagine what—”

Charity burst out, “Perhaps it’s better if I tell you—and you can break the news to them.”

“Break the news?” Dorcas frowned, coming forward. “That sounds ominous. What news could you possibly have that would be of interest to us?” A thought struck her, and she asked quickly, “Does it have to do with my husband’s family?”

“Oh, Lord!” Charles moaned. “It’s Adam—he’s been killed!”

“No! No! It’s not about Major Winslow at all!” Charity wet her lips and tried again. “Perhaps I’d better tell you where I’ve been for the past few months.”

“I understand from my brother you’ve been at sea—in your ship.”

“Yes, that’s true. And we had bad fortune....”

She began slowly, telling how they’d encountered the convoy, and finally how they’d been captured. Then she said, “The captain of the
Neptune
put a prize crew aboard, and the prizemaster was a young lieutenant named Hawke.”

Winslow noted that Charity was gripping her hands so tightly they were white. “Well, my dear, I don’t believe I recognize that name.”

Charity swallowed, and went on. “You don’t know that
name, Mr. Winslow, but you know the man. He is your son—Paul Winslow!”

A cry broke from the lips of Dorcas Winslow, and her face drained of color. “No! It can’t be so!”

Winslow’s countenance was white, but he admonished, “Sit down, Dorcas, before you fall.” He waited until she sank into a chair, her eyes fixed on Charity, before he spoke. “I don’t understand you, Miss Alden. Our son an English naval officer? You must be mistaken.”

Charity protested strongly, “No, sir, I’m not mistaken. He ... still has the scar from the blow I gave him.” She flushed at that, but forced herself to be calm. “It was a shock for me to see him—so I can’t begin to understand what it must be for you.”

“But—how did it happen? Why hasn’t he come back to us?”

Charity looked at Paul’s mother. She had never seen the woman behave with anything less than iron control—but that was gone now. Her face was twitching, tears running unheeded down her cheeks.

“I must tell you something,” Charity hurriedly went on. “Paul is alive. He was brought on board the
Neptune
by a press gang; he’d been badly injured—and not just in body....”

The couple hung on her words as she related how Paul had completely lost his memory. Then under their questions, she told the rest of it—how he’d become an officer and was engaged to the daughter of a British captain.

“But, why didn’t he come here?” Charles asked when she was finished. “You told him about us, so he
knows
we’re his family.”

“Yes, but he’s a British officer. If he were caught here, he’d be arrested.”

“Of course,” Winslow nodded. He put his head in his hands, his voice breaking as he cried, “And I
can’t
go to him—not with this foot!”

“Miss Alden, you must go back and persuade him to come!” Dorcas Winslow had risen and come to stand beside
Charity. She held out trembling hands. “I must see him! Oh, God! I must have my son!”

Charles, too, voiced his opinion, but was more reasonable. “I realize it would be dangerous, but a thought has come to me. If Paul comes here and sees all of us—might it not jar his memory? I mean, he’s not seen anything familiar. But if he were here with us...?”

“I don’t know about that, Mr. Winslow.”

“Will you try? He can wear his old clothes—and he’ll have his papers! We can send it all. He’ll just be Paul Winslow on a journey home from New York.”