Read Online Captain's Surrender by Alex Beecroft - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Alex Beecroft
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faint hopes and just bask in this moment of honest peace. This one night, when he was permitted to stop pretending, allowed to sit in lamp-lit vigil over Peter's troubled sleep and prove the "authorities" wrong. For if he was a monster—if he was—he was now certain he was a monster who could love.
Chapter 8
Summersgill woke in the darkness and clutched the sheets to his chest. Outside the stern window a gibbous moon was turning the waves the color of bone. Stars shone in a sky cloudless from horizon to horizon, yet thunder was shaking the ship. A deep, menacing rumble encompassed him. When he swung out of bed he could feel it rise through the soles of his feet and invade his bones, as though the Nimrod herself were growling.
"Father?"
Emily, too, was awake, her eyes twin gleams of dread in the darkness. He wondered if he looked just as frightened as she and guessed that he did. There was something primal and threatening about the noise, like the howling of wolves.
Was this the moment? He pulled on his clothes and opened the door a cautious crack. At once he was aware there were voices in the noise, voices muttering, cursing in imaginative whispers. Deep voices and the trundle and groan of the thirty-two pound cannon balls being rolled about the decks in a sailors' version of the savages' war dance. The threat and the dread of it took his breath.
Summersgill turned, closed the door behind him and leaned on it, panting, discovering that courage was easier by daylight. He really didn't want to do this. He didn't want to go out of this room at all, among those fiends, sneaking, possibly fighting his way down to certain death.
"Father, what is it?"
Not quite able to look her in the eye, he essayed an unconvincing smile. One breath at a time, one step at a time, he crossed the room, reached out, closed his fingers on the tinderbox and slipped it into his pocket, where it hung remarkably heavy for such a small thing. His wants and desires had nothing to do with it, after all. He had given his word. That was all that mattered.
"Put on your warmest clothes, Emily. I want you to wake my wife and Bess, and tell them to make ready. Take the money and papers from the strongbox, and watch the ship's launch. If you see the young gentlemen getting into it, you are to go with them. They will be expecting you."
She was an intelligent young woman, and he could see that she understood. He blessed her again for her coolheadedness in a crisis. She would need it to control his wife who, though a wonderful woman, was inclined to fits of nerves. "Yes, sir. But, sir ... Father. Are you not coming, too?"
The sound that came out of his throat was somewhere between hysterical laughter and sobbing, he swiftly choked it back into a more normal chuckle, so as not to alarm her. "I have my duty to do, my dear. I don't think that will be possible."
This was no way to go to one's death. There should be a ceremony. He set his wig straight, pulled up his stockings and carefully tightened the garters to keep them smooth. Then he pinned an emerald stickpin into his cravat, affixed the heavy gold brooch of the Order of the Garter to the brim of his hat and placed it on his head. That did feel better.
Sitting beside her on the bed, he hugged his daughter, her arms around his neck and the soft cheek against his ineffably beautiful. She was, thank God, capable enough to survive without protection, to use his savings to set herself up in a small shop in Bermuda. A milliner's, perhaps, like her mother's. It was not what he had wanted for his only child, but it was better than what she would get if she stayed here. "Well," he said, "well, you're a brave, good girl, and you must know that I value you immensely. But I'd better cut along now, or it'll be too late. Mind you do as I say, and get in that boat!"
Outside the cabin, he paused for a second, blinded with tears. The tone of the sailors' muttering had changed. A crack, a thud, and a laugh. Summersgill raised his
Chapter 8
Summersgill woke in the darkness and clutched the sheets to his chest. Outside the stern window a gibbous moon was turning the waves the color of bone. Stars shone in a sky cloudless from horizon to horizon, yet thunder was shaking the ship. A deep, menacing rumble encompassed him. When he swung out of bed he could feel it rise through the soles of his feet and invade his bones, as though the Nimrod herself were growling.
"Father?"
Emily, too, was awake, her eyes twin gleams of dread in the darkness. He wondered if he looked just as frightened as she and guessed that he did. There was something primal and threatening about the noise, like the howling of wolves.
Was this the moment? He pulled on his clothes and opened the door a cautious crack. At once he was aware there were voices in the noise, voices muttering, cursing in imaginative whispers. Deep voices and the trundle and groan of the thirty-two pound cannon balls being rolled about the decks in a sailors' version of the savages' war dance. The threat and the dread of it took his breath.
Summersgill turned, closed the door behind him and leaned on it, panting, discovering that courage was easier by daylight. He really didn't want to do this. He didn't want to go out of this room at all, among those fiends, sneaking, possibly fighting his way down to certain death.
"Father, what is it?"
Not quite able to look her in the eye, he essayed an unconvincing smile. One breath at a time, one step at a time, he crossed the room, reached out, closed his fingers on the tinderbox and slipped it into his pocket, where it hung remarkably heavy for such a small thing. His wants and desires had nothing to do with it, after all. He had given his word. That was all that mattered.
"Put on your warmest clothes, Emily. I want you to wake my wife and Bess, and tell them to make ready. Take the money and papers from the strongbox, and watch the ship's launch. If you see the young gentlemen getting into it, you are to go with them. They will be expecting you."
She was an intelligent young woman, and he could see that she understood. He blessed her again for her coolheadedness in a crisis. She would need it to control his wife who, though a wonderful woman, was inclined to fits of nerves. "Yes, sir. But, sir ... Father. Are you not coming, too?"
The sound that came out of his throat was somewhere between hysterical laughter and sobbing, he swiftly choked it back into a more normal chuckle, so as not to alarm her. "I have my duty to do, my dear. I don't think that will be possible."
This was no way to go to one's death. There should be a ceremony. He set his wig straight, pulled up his stockings and carefully tightened the garters to keep them smooth. Then he pinned an emerald stickpin into his cravat, affixed the heavy gold brooch of the Order of the Garter to the brim of his hat and placed it on his head. That did feel better.
Sitting beside her on the bed, he hugged his daughter, her arms around his neck and the soft cheek against his ineffably beautiful. She was, thank God, capable enough to survive without protection, to use his savings to set herself up in a small shop in Bermuda. A milliner's, perhaps, like her mother's. It was not what he had wanted for his only child, but it was better than what she would get if she stayed here. "Well," he said, "well, you're a brave, good girl, and you must know that I value you immensely. But I'd better cut along now, or it'll be too late. Mind you do as I say, and get in that boat!"
Outside the cabin, he paused for a second, blinded with tears. The tone of the sailors' muttering had changed. A crack, a thud, and a laugh. Summersgill raised his
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