Chapter 24

24

The world was buzzing. Bright colored lights, a dusting of shadows, and the infernal hum of insects adding to the heat and the sticky stench of the sweat pouring between his shoulder blades. Adrian tried to moisten his lips but the effort was too much and the spittle too valuable to waste. He had been in the fields all day. The sun was boiling down mercilessly, frying the top of his head, turning the leather of his saddle mushy and acrid. The air was steamy with summer humidity; the sweet aroma of tobacco mixed with the pungent leather, horse lather and his own grime to cloy at the back of his throat like a layer of tar. There was no breeze to wash the heat away. No salt air to cool his skin. No snap and crack of canvas overhead to break the monotony of the azure blue sky.

The slaves worked lethargically. They examined each green leaf of tobacco for dirt and worm, then filled their sacks and carried them to the wagons at the end of each long row. Adrian wiped a hand across his brow, and it came away slick with sweat and blood. He must have forgotten his hat, either that or it had melted in the heat. The collar of his shirt was choking him. The heavy broadcloth frockcoat was pricking his skin; the satin waistcoat was glued to him like weighted armor. Black Amos, the overseer, was standing in front of Adrian's horse, grinning. He was pointing at the swollen sun and shouting something about it being a nice cool day for working. Over and over: cool day for working, Massa Ballantine. Cool day. Black bastards, did they never sweat? Adrian could feel it running in rivers down his neck, down his back, pouring into the hole in his thigh where someone had thoughtlessly cut his breeches so the sun could blister his flesh raw. He reached down to cover it and was horrified to realize he was groping air. Groping air with a stump where his left hand and forearm should have been.

Someone was screaming. Adrian let go of the reins to cover his mouth. Everyone was staring! To his shame, he felt himself beginning to fall off his horse. For some reason, the crash to the ground did not hurt—not right away—because he had fallen on something soft. He opened his mouth to scream again, seeing Otis Falworth's face, but in the next instant the brown eyes became a clear, vivid green, and she was smiling up at him. Courtney. She was smiling, wrapping her arms around him, and holding him close. And he felt so safe. So cool. So healed.

"Adrian?"

"You said you would not leave me. You promised."

"Adrian?" A pause. "I think he is coming around. Will someone fetch the doctor?"

"Courtney?"

A cool, clinical hand was laid briefly against his brow. "I think you are right, Miss. The fever seems to have broken. You should really try to get some rest now."

"Perhaps I will. I ... I just needed to know he was going to be alright."

Voices. Adrian could hear voices but he could not convince his eyes to open. Courtney was there. He could hear her, he could feel her, by God. But he did not recognize the other cool, crisp voice. It was the voice of another woman, but who the devil was she?

"Courtney?" Good God, was that his voice? It sounded like a child's whine.

"I am here, Yankee. You are going to be alright. The doctor will be back soon and he will tell you himself. "

"Courtney ...?" Why couldn't he say anything else? His tongue was so thick it felt as if his mouth was stuffed with a wool stocking.

Something cool was pressed to his brow. Not a hand. It touched his brow and his cheek and then his lips, and he could taste a salty sweet wetness left behind.

Lips, dammit. They were lips.

"Courtney?"

There was no answer this time. The warmth that had seemed to surround him left suddenly, and there was only a hollow chill in its place.

"Courtney? Please ... Courtney?"

Adrian lifted his hand and circled it feebly in the air, hoping to come into contact with something solid. There was nothing. Nothing. And the effort brought on a darkness, a deep, descending darkness and he had no choice but to fall into it ...

"Adrian?"

The lieutenant frowned and tried to open his eyes.

"Adrian, it is Matt. Are you in there?"

"Matt?"

"In the flesh. About high time you joined us again, old friend. We have had a hell of a time keeping the weeds from growing between your toes."

Adrian groaned and opened one eye a slit. Matt was standing by the side of the bed. He looked disgustingly clean and cheerful, his shirt and breeches a dazzling white.

"We were beginning to think you would sleep forever, you lazy bastard."

"Sleep?" Adrian queried. "How long?"

"Five days now."

Adrian frowned and tried to raise a hand to knuckle himself fully awake, but his arms would not move.

"We had to strap you down," Matt explained apologetically as he moved quickly to unfasten the cotton strips. "From the sounds of it you relived and re-fought every battle you had ever been in. You grew up all over again, had fights with your brother, your father, your commanding officers. Thank you, Sister Agatha, I can manage the rest."

Adrian turned his head and caught a glimpse of a white wimple surrounding a red, cherubic face.

"Where am I?" He asked, craning his neck to see the rows of beds on either side of him.

"The naval hospital in Gibraltar."

Adrian moistened his lips with difficulty. "How ...?"

"We were picked up by the Argus and brought here. Mind you, when her captain heard about the Falconer he was set to run after her, overcrowded decks or no, but Rowntree managed to talk him out of it, at least long enough to transport the wounded back here. We made record time getting into the base, I can tell you, and Lieutenant Allen was turned about with all sails set within a couple of hours. Rowntree went out with him, as did MacDonald, bandages and all."

"They went after Shaw?"

"With blood in their eyes."

Adrian laid back and cursed his incapacitation. A memory returned, and he lifted both his head and his left arm, and was relieved to see a hand at the end of the thick padding of bandages. His thigh was heavily wrapped as well, but it was there, with movement and a hell of a lot of feeling, most of it painful.

"You were damned lucky on both counts," Matt said quietly as he read the relief on Adrian's face. "But hold off your thanks until after you see the scars."

Adrian tested his arm and flexed his hand carefully. The arm ached and there was a great deal of stiffness, but he welcomed both over the thought of a bandaged stump. "I do not have to wait to thank you for my life," he murmured and clasped his hand over Matt's.

"Hell, I owed you my life ten times over. Besides, I had plenty of help. Now, can I get you some hot soup? Are you hungry?"

"Starving," Adrian admitted. "But I would trade a bucket of soup for a single glass of cold water."

"Done." Matt grinned and poured some out of a nearby pitcher. He noted that Adrian forced his damaged arm to reach out to accept the cup and he frowned. "Because I know you so well, I will only warn you for the sake of hearing my own voice, but try not to push too hard too soon with the arm or the leg or you will undo all the good work I have done. The doctor here wanted to take a saw to both. Oh and, as soon as you are up to it, Commodore Preble is anxious to see you. He has been to the hospital twice to look in on you."

"He has?"

"With half the admiralty in tow." Matt's grin broadened and he tilted his head in amusement. "They have made you out to be quite the hero, you know. The escape is the talk of the town as well as a triumphant coup for the navy. Even the British are impressed."

"Why? Because I lost the Eagle to the corsairs?"

"Jennings' incompetence lost the Eagle," Matt reminded him. "And had you done nothing about it, the Eagle would be sitting in an Arab port at the moment, and we would be clinking around in iron bracelets. Before Rowntree and MacDonald left, they gave a full report to the commodore about how you planned and organized the escape; how you insisted on destroying the Eagle even if it cost every last life—although I do believe they exaggerated shamelessly there. Or at least, I hope they did. They even told the commodore how you hung in the shrouds for twenty-four hours through a thunderstorm and still came away spitting vinegar. I must confess, it all sounded quite heroic."

Adrian scowled and raked his good hand through his dark blond hair. "The last thing I wanted was any special recognition. Every last man on board deserves equal commendation for what they did and what they went through."

"Agreed. And they will get it, never fear. Preble has already sent a courier home with the news. Unfortunately, they do feel the need to single out a particular head to wear the laurel wreath and, my cocky friend, that head happens to be on your shoulders. Good Lord, how could they pass you up? Look at your record: from court-martialed renegade to national hero in under six months. The folks at home will eat you up. Hell, your father might even admit to a passing acquaintance with you. Think of it as leverage, both at home and in the navy. Now, relax. Doctor's orders. I will see about getting you that soup."

"And something stronger than water?"

"I might be able to scrape up a jug or two of ale," Matt chuckled. "I will be right back."

"Matt?"

The doctor stopped.

"Where is she?"

"Who?" Matt asked, feigning ignorance.

"You know damned well who."

Dr. Rutger had been expecting the question, yet had almost escaped before having to face it. He made a pretence of straightening the blankets at the foot of the bed, but it was no good. His smile faded and he was forced to meet the iron gray eyes.

"She is gone, Adrian. She left sometime last night."

"Gone? Gone where?" He struggled to prop himself up, and Matt hurried back to his side.

"She left the hospital late last night. She stayed as long as the fever was in you, but as soon as it broke and she knew you would be alright—"

"You let her go?"

"Apart from revealing her identity and having her arrested, how was I supposed to stop her? You could not have stopped her either, even if you had tried."

"Tried? Goddamnit, I was unconscious! It was up to you to make sure she stayed here, at least until I had a chance to speak to her."

"And what would you have said? Stay with me and be my love?"

"That is not fair and you know it." Adrian snarled.

"A lot of things in her life have not been fair. Adrian, you are my friend and I know you mean well, and no doubt you care for her more than she thinks you do—but what good would it have done either of you?"

Adrian pushed Matt's hands away from his shoulders. "I have to go after her. I have to find her and bring her back."

"To what end, Adrian? After everything she has been through, surely she deserves to decide for herself what she wants to do now, where she wants to go. What could you do for her even if you managed to find her?"

"I could offer my protection. At the very least, I could offer that."

Matt snorted dryly. "Who do you think held off the other doctors with a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other when they wanted to come at you with their saws? Who do you think sat by this bed for four days and nights protecting whom?" He shook his head. "I suspect if she wants to vanish, she will vanish and there is nothing you or I can do to prevent it. But by all means, if you want to kill yourself, go ahead and try to chase after her."

Matt stood back, his arms folded over his chest as he watched Adrian strain ineffectually to push himself upright. Ballantine's intentions were a good deal stronger than his abilities, however, and the combined agony of his arm and thigh sent him collapsing back against the pillows. When the threat of nausea passed, he appealed to Rutger again.

"Have you any idea where she went?"

Matt shook his head. "None. And that is the truth."

Ballantine turned and stared out the window. "God knows, I did not set out to deliberately hurt her."

Matt blew out a long breath and the harsh gleam faded from his eyes. "I am fairly certain she was not too happy about falling in love with you either."

Adrian's shock deepened and looked at Matt again. "In love with me?" he whispered. "She told you she was in love with me?"

"Not in so many words, no. But once you figure out how to read past the stubborn tilt in her chin and the funny little way she chews on her lip, she really is not all that good at hiding what she is feeling."

"Then why did she leave me?"

"If I had to guess, I would say it was because she was afraid."

"Afraid? Afraid of what ... me?"

"Or what you represent. A third lifetime."

Adrian closed his eyes. "You are not making any sense."

Matt smiled and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "I will fetch that ale and then we can have a long chat about revolutions and pirates and lazy southern plantations."

From a sitting position in his bed, Adrian was able to stare out the window of his room. He had spent a goodly number of hours watching the activity in the busy harbor below. British ships, American ships, Spanish ships came and went in flotillas with the tides. Gibraltar was a port of call for most trading vessels en route to or from the Atlantic, as well as home for hundreds of fishing boats of all sizes and shapes. Towering over the lot was the United States frigate Constitution, forty-four guns, her regal masts strung with miles of rigging, her decks gleaming beneath the hot sun, her gracefully curved hull barely hinting at the power behind the closed gunports. She was one of only six massive warships the fledgling American navy boasted. She was Commodore Preble's flagship and mother hen to the dozen smaller gunboats, sloops, and light frigates that formed the fighting force in the Mediterranean.

Adrian shifted uncomfortably against the pile of soft pillows and grimaced at the stab of pain in his thigh. Matt had not exaggerated about the time it would take to heal his wounds, nor had he underplayed the ugliness of the scars. It would take weeks, however, if not months to mend properly—a fact which the commodore had pointed out as delicately as his dour, irascible temperament would permit.

A gaunt, sharp-featured New Englander, Commodore Edward Preble had strutted into the hospital ward in the midst of an argument Ballantine was having with Sister Agatha about the need to have her assistance in using the chamber pot. He had been on the verge of banishing her in most unholy terms when the commodore arrived and sent the nun scurrying away with one of his infamous piercing glances.

"Thank you, sir." Adrian said. "They treat me like a prize goose around here, or a child who hasn't the strength to see to his own business."

The commodore's mouth twitched in a brief smile and he signalled an adjutant to bring a chair to the side of the bed. His pale brown eyes moved with concern over the bandages on Adrian's temple and arm, then to the thick padding beneath the blanket.

"You do indeed look as if you have been through rough weather, Captain Ballantine. My compliments and my gratitude seem trifling at best."

"Sir, I would rather the men have your compliments. They are far more deserving than I."

"False modesty, Captain? It hardly becomes you. Of course the men are deserving of my praise and their country's praise and indeed they shall have it. But it is you who spurred them on. You who led them. You who accepted a dangerous and thankless mission and succeeded far beyond what could humanly be expected of you. I have read the formal statements submitted by your Sergeant-at-arms, Rowntree, and by Corporal MacDonald, both of whom have already been promoted to higher ranks. I have also listened closely to the scuttlebutt which, even as we sit, is spreading from tavern to tavern like wildfire. This war needs heroes badly, Captain Ballantine, and you happen to fit the mold perfectly.

"And if I prefer not to play the hero?"

"Then you should have allowed the Eagle to fall into Pasha Karamanli's hands. You should have allowed your men to suffer a life of slavery and degradation. You should have allowed the traitor to go free and unpunished so I could have chosen another young pup, eager to prove his mettle. That sir, would surely have demonstrated a preference for anonymity."

Ballantine returned the commodore's steady gaze. Hero or failure: there was no middle ground.

"Perhaps it will ease your distress, Captain, for me to tell you I share your repugnance for fame and notoriety, but alas, it is a burden we must learn to bear with some amount of grace."

"Yes, sir," Adrian admitted defeat with a sigh.

"Now that the demons of humility and modesty have been assuaged, am I permitted to hear the details, or are you too tired to satisfy my curiosity? If so, I can return at a later time."

"Please, sir, all I have done for the past six days is sleep."

"Indeed, and you should sleep six more. The doctor has recommended a recuperation period of several months, with which I whole-heartedly concur."

"Several months?" Ballantine shifted uneasily. "I am sure it will not take that long."

"Nonsense. You need the time to heal in spirit as well as in body. The navy can stumble along without you for a while—or do you consider yourself so indispensable as to argue with a senior officer?"

Parry and thrust. A conversation with Commodore Preble was like a duel of wits. Perhaps it was why Ballantine admired and liked the old soldier. He had a sharp, no-nonsense attitude; he respected the intelligence of his men and did everything in his power to see that even the lowest ranked cabin boy won recognition if it was deserved. Loyalty down begets loyalty up: it was his staunch belief.

"Not indispensable, sir, not by any means. Merely unwilling to sit out the war in relative ease, while—"

"While my other captains are making names for themselves? Decatur, Lawrence, Stewart ... they are, indeed, earning the right to wear their sabers proudly, as I knew they would. As I knew you would. As for sitting out the war in relative ease, have a care you do not mistake compassion for cleverness. The Secretary of the Navy has plans for you, m'boy. And yes, I have made him well aware of the risks you took, how you gambled with your life and your reputation for the sake of rooting the traitor out of our midst. You will not be overlooked when the next postings for promotions come due, you have my absolute word on that. In fact, I warrant you will have your choice of ships to command, and I happen to know there are three beauties under construction in Norfolk as we speak. That is, of course, if you decide to return to active duty."

"If I decide?"

Preble chuckled and there was glint of conspiracy in his eyes. "I understand you have a fiancée eagerly awaiting your return to Norfolk. She is an Edgecombe, is she not? I know her father well. I have also heard a great deal about your own father, Samuel Ballantine. I warrant the two families will have their ideas on how you will be spending your future days."

"Their ideas are not necessarily mine," Adrian said quietly.

Preble studied the stern, confident features a moment, then smiled again. "Good. I was hoping to hear you say that. Now then, from the beginning, if you do not mind."

Adrian accepted one of the commodore's fat brown cigars and after a dizzying moment of savoring the first taste of the harsh tobacco, he took the commodore back, step by step, through the attack on Snake Island and the events of the subsequent two weeks. The commodore's face remained impassive throughout; only the pale eyes betrayed any sign of anger or disgust or sympathy. He interrupted infrequently, and Ballantine sensed he was merely filling in gaps left by Rowntree and MacDonald for the actual sea battle, capture, imprisonment, and escape. Only when he began to speak of Otis Falworth's involvement did the questions become more pointed. The confrontation in the sail locker was met with a grunt and a nod; the name of Falworth's informant on the commodore's staff caused the him to stand and pace to the window, his hands clasped angrily behind his back.

"When a man comes to a position of trust and responsibility, he must be trustworthy and responsible. I can tolerate no disloyalty, regardless of the fellow's culpability or lack of it. He will be dismissed at once and brought before the naval court on charges. As for Captain Jennings' unfortunate demise—" Preble turned from the window, his thin face tense with displeasure— "the man should have been drummed out of the service years ago. Incompetence and cruelty no longer have a place at the helm of a ship, not when hundreds of lives and the pride of one's country is at stake. Publicly, you realize, he will be lauded as a martyr. Death by torture tends to paint people that way. And I suppose it would serve morale no good measure to brand the man a coward and tyrant. Men seem to shy away from enlisting if they hear too many tales of despots at sea." He grimaced and added, "At least, that is the basis of the argument my superiors will give me."

Ballantine leaned back on the pillows, his throat dry from talking, his energy deserting him. Preble noticed instantly and glanced at a gold pocket watch.

"Good heavens. It is past four o'clock. I have kept you talking for well over three hours."

"Time well spent, sir," Ballantine said. "I hope I have not left anything out."

Preble pursed his lips thoughtfully and snapped the lid of the watch shut. "There is this matter of the young woman I have heard mentioned. Courtney Brown? Both you and the doctor say she gave you invaluable assistance."

Ballantine's gaze slid away from Preble's. "I do not know if it was her real name, sir. She seemed reluctant to trust us fully in the beginning."

"Understandable. And yet from all accounts she trusted you with her life, and you trusted her with yours."

"She helped defuse the situation on the Eagle when the prisoners broke out of the hold. She won decent treatment for our men on the Falconer, helped in the actual escape, then helped later with our wounded until the Argus came. I would like to petition for a full pardon for her, sir."

"Mmmm. Only the fourth such request."

"Four?"

"Messrs Rowntree, MacDonald, and the good doctor. I hardly see how I could refuse. Very well then, Captain. I will leave you now. I am afraid you will be here a fortnight longer until the Carolina sails for home. She is a good swift ship and should get you back in time for the accolades and celebrations."

"Thank you, sir," Adrian said dryly.

The commodore retrieved his tricorne from the small wooden table where he had left it, and tucked it up under his arm. "Get yourself well, Captain Ballantine. We need good men like you. With a little help and the grace of God, we will win this blasted war in short order. We will have these corsairs on the run and drive every last one of them, down to their sons and daughters, into the sea!"