them alone? Hadn’t they done enough damage?
The ship righted again. Wind whipped strands of Eliza’s hair into her face. She brushed them aside just in time to see a yellow flame jet from the Union ship.
“Hands down!” the captain yelled, but Eliza had already anticipated the command and lowered herself to the deck planks. The smell of dank wood and tar filled her nose. A heavy body pressed against her back, barricading her from danger. The colonel again. She knew his scent, the feel of his steely muscles.
The snap and crack of wood split the air. Curses ricocheted over the brig. Captain Barclay loosed another string of orders, something about tacks and sheets and the helm. But Eliza was more concerned that someone may have been injured. Thankfully, she heard no screams.
“Go below, Mrs. Crawford.” Colonel Wallace’s breath wafted on her cheek before he jumped to his feet and assisted her up. Gone was the warmth in his gaze. Instead, steel coated his eyes, his mannerisms, even his voice. He’d slipped into command, ready for battle, as easily as one slipped on a coat.
“Can you manage a ship’s gun, Colonel?” the captain asked, stealing the colonel’s gaze from Eliza.
“I can.”
“Then take command of one of them. My boys are bringing up shot, gunpowder, and a fire wick.”
The colonel nodded, gestured with his head for Eliza to go below, and leaped up the foredeck ladder.
“I can handle a cannon as well.” Hayden jerked hair from his face.
“And I can handle a pistol or sword.” James joined him, standing before the captain.
“And us too!” several of the male passengers shouted.
Captain Barclay nodded in approval. “Very well, arm yourselves, men. I hope”—he stared at the Union ship—“we’ll not be gettin’ close enough to use them.”
Sails thundered. The deck rose as the ship thrust boldly into the next roller, sending white spray aft. It swirled around Eliza’s ankle boots before escaping through scuppers, joining a sea that roared against the hull as if it too had joined the fierce call to battle.
Clinging to the railing, Eliza faced the enemy ship. Closer now. She could make out the naval officers manning the gun at the bow.
“Get below, Mrs. Crawford!” Captain Barclay’s voice startled her, and she swung around, nearly bumping into the beefy man. He sent her a warning glance before he charged across the deck, blaring orders as he went.
Eliza knew she should go below. But she had never been very good at obeying authority. Besides, she’d rather be blown to bits on deck than die below cramped in the rank belly of the ship. Or worse, sink to the bottom of the sea with no way to escape.
Balancing herself on the heaving deck, she headed toward the companionway but slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck instead. From there she had a good view of the front portion of the ship. The colonel included. With his shoulders stretched taut, his body stiff, and his face like flint, he commanded the men working on the cannon with authority, assurance, and determination. Wind flapped his shirt as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, ready to do his duty. Here was a man accustomed to getting dirty in the trenches right beside his men. A rarity among other colonels Eliza had met.
Movement caught her eye, and she spotted Graves slinking around the foremast. Why hadn’t he gone below with the other passengers? Or better yet, if he was going to stay on deck, why wasn’t he helping, arming himself? Instead, he leaned against the mast and began to whistle as if he were taking a Sunday stroll.
“Fire as you bear, Colonel!” The captain bellowed, pacing across the oscillating deck, his hands clamped behind his great coat. How he maintained his balance was beyond Eliza. Sails roared as they sought the shifting wind then snapped their jaws upon finding it. The brig jerked and listed sideways. Foamy seawater clawed at her larboard bulwarks. Yet still the Union
The ship righted again. Wind whipped strands of Eliza’s hair into her face. She brushed them aside just in time to see a yellow flame jet from the Union ship.
“Hands down!” the captain yelled, but Eliza had already anticipated the command and lowered herself to the deck planks. The smell of dank wood and tar filled her nose. A heavy body pressed against her back, barricading her from danger. The colonel again. She knew his scent, the feel of his steely muscles.
The snap and crack of wood split the air. Curses ricocheted over the brig. Captain Barclay loosed another string of orders, something about tacks and sheets and the helm. But Eliza was more concerned that someone may have been injured. Thankfully, she heard no screams.
“Go below, Mrs. Crawford.” Colonel Wallace’s breath wafted on her cheek before he jumped to his feet and assisted her up. Gone was the warmth in his gaze. Instead, steel coated his eyes, his mannerisms, even his voice. He’d slipped into command, ready for battle, as easily as one slipped on a coat.
“Can you manage a ship’s gun, Colonel?” the captain asked, stealing the colonel’s gaze from Eliza.
“I can.”
“Then take command of one of them. My boys are bringing up shot, gunpowder, and a fire wick.”
The colonel nodded, gestured with his head for Eliza to go below, and leaped up the foredeck ladder.
“I can handle a cannon as well.” Hayden jerked hair from his face.
“And I can handle a pistol or sword.” James joined him, standing before the captain.
“And us too!” several of the male passengers shouted.
Captain Barclay nodded in approval. “Very well, arm yourselves, men. I hope”—he stared at the Union ship—“we’ll not be gettin’ close enough to use them.”
Sails thundered. The deck rose as the ship thrust boldly into the next roller, sending white spray aft. It swirled around Eliza’s ankle boots before escaping through scuppers, joining a sea that roared against the hull as if it too had joined the fierce call to battle.
Clinging to the railing, Eliza faced the enemy ship. Closer now. She could make out the naval officers manning the gun at the bow.
“Get below, Mrs. Crawford!” Captain Barclay’s voice startled her, and she swung around, nearly bumping into the beefy man. He sent her a warning glance before he charged across the deck, blaring orders as he went.
Eliza knew she should go below. But she had never been very good at obeying authority. Besides, she’d rather be blown to bits on deck than die below cramped in the rank belly of the ship. Or worse, sink to the bottom of the sea with no way to escape.
Balancing herself on the heaving deck, she headed toward the companionway but slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck instead. From there she had a good view of the front portion of the ship. The colonel included. With his shoulders stretched taut, his body stiff, and his face like flint, he commanded the men working on the cannon with authority, assurance, and determination. Wind flapped his shirt as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, ready to do his duty. Here was a man accustomed to getting dirty in the trenches right beside his men. A rarity among other colonels Eliza had met.
Movement caught her eye, and she spotted Graves slinking around the foremast. Why hadn’t he gone below with the other passengers? Or better yet, if he was going to stay on deck, why wasn’t he helping, arming himself? Instead, he leaned against the mast and began to whistle as if he were taking a Sunday stroll.
“Fire as you bear, Colonel!” The captain bellowed, pacing across the oscillating deck, his hands clamped behind his great coat. How he maintained his balance was beyond Eliza. Sails roared as they sought the shifting wind then snapped their jaws upon finding it. The brig jerked and listed sideways. Foamy seawater clawed at her larboard bulwarks. Yet still the Union
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