Read Online Captain of My Heart by Danelle Harmon - Free Book Online Page A

rectangular building hosted
political, patriotic, and social gatherings, as well as travelers
of all sorts. Here, men gathered to hear the latest news on the
war, engage in spirited debates, or just amuse themselves with a
game of cards. Back in ’65, when the local Sons of Liberty had
terrorized Newburyport, roaming the streets and making the lives of
those in favor of the hated Stamp Act terrible, it had been in
Wolfe Tavern that they’d met. Davenport had died back in ’73, but
the tavern had continued under the capable management of his sons
Anthony and Moses, still offering stout drink and hearty food for
weary traveler and townsman alike.
    It would have been safe to assume that it was
the stout drink and not the hearty food—although that was certainly
being consumed with equal ardor—that had drawn Annabel’s company after they’d brought the battered sloop into port with the
help of two Newburyport privateers. Now the mortally wounded Annabel lay in her bed of riverbank mud, while every man
Jack and officer of her crew—with the exception of her missing
captain—sampled the fine food and drink for which the tavern was
famous.
    Miraculously, not a soul had been killed or
injured during the short but scrappy engagement with Crichton’s
frigate. Oh, Dalby complained that his chest hurt when he breathed
in—too much smoke had got into his lungs, he insisted—but aside
from that, and a few scrapes and scratches here and there, Annabel ’s crew had been lucky.
    Dalby sat now with a mug of ale before him
and a plate of beef and potatoes growing cold beneath his nose, his
shipmates, no doubt the rowdiest bunch of tars to put into
unsuspecting Newburyport all week, surrounding him. The tavern was
clean enough, with well-swept, wide-boarded floors scuffed by the
heels of a thousand boots and shoes, a huge fireplace, and
wainscoting painted an unpretentious shade of ocher. The light from
a tin chandelier, set with spitting candles, cut through the
smoke.
    His brow furrowing, Dalby scrutinized the
other patrons. Men lounged at sturdy walnut tables drinking foamy
mugs of beer and puffing on long clay pipes. Three tables away, a
group of finely dressed gentlemen, either merchants or, more
likely, shipowners, were engaged in a lively game of backgammon. A
dog lay half asleep at their feet, and a seaman dressed in baggy
trousers, torn shirt, and a threadbare vest sat on a stool sipping
ale and conversing with a disreputable-looking man in buckskins and
a fur hat.
    None of them looked to be ill . . .
and his own companions had never seemed to enjoy better health. He
eyed them with increasing annoyance. Liam’s laughter was growing
louder with every tankard of cherry rum he downed, and Dalby knew
it would only be a matter of time before he picked up the fiddle
propped against his chair leg and struck up a lively jig. Across
from him sat John Keefe, his flowing silver hair caught in a
leather tie. McDermott had his nose in a book, and Amos Reilly and
George Saunders were guffawing over something Liam had said.
    Dalby’s pinched mouth anchored itself in a
frown. He stared down at his plate; it was the only one that had
any food left on it, and his companions were all eyeing it like a
pack of half-starved wolves. If the captain, God rest his soul,
were here, he’d have finished it off. But the captain was gone.
Dalby bit his lip and blinked back tears, wondering if life was
worth living. The captain was gone, Annabel was a wreck, and
his beef didn’t taste right. Probably spoiled. As if to affirm that
assumption, his stomach lurched and he had to swallow tightly to
quell a quick flood of nausea.
    A hearty whack across the back from Liam
nearly brought the beef straight back up. “God Almighty, Dalby,
ye’re spoilin’ the fun! First time into port in three weeks and
ye’re sittin’ there lookin’ like it’s the end o’ the world. Cheer
up, would ye?”
    “My stomach hurts.”
    “Yer stomach hurts? Then here,