Whispers from the Shadows Read online

  The mere thought of home was enough to bring the images to his mind. Not so much the places, though they served as backdrops. But the people. The farmers and merchants and smithies all laboring to build a legacy for their offspring. The fishermen who could weave a yarn like no other, the trappers who had explored the great unknown to the west, the lawyers who philosophized on what their land could be with the proper guidance. The strangers who could someday be friends.

  And his family. Mother and Father, Amelia and Jacob, Philly and Reggie, Arnaud and Jack. And Gwyneth. Dear Lord, Gwyneth. More words than that would not come, though his spirit called out still on her behalf as it had so often during the five days since he’d left. How could he give utterance to all that filled him at the thought of her? Hope and fear, love and regret. And that constant, soul-deep prayer that God would wrap her in His arms.

  “Captain?”

  Blinking his eyes open again, Thad turned from the Tonnant and back to the Masquerade and the crewman needing his advice. Seeing to such needs filled the hour until the six newly arrived British vessels made their way into port, and then that pull in his feet toward the rowboat told him it was time to go ashore.

  Minutes later the wooden vessel bobbed beneath him on the turquoise waters of the bay, and the white sand beckoned from the beach. He had always enjoyed his stops in Bermuda—looking up the cliffs at Mount Wyndham—the Admiralty House—that sat hunkered amid the rocks and tropical trees.

  Perhaps he and Gwyneth could sail here some winter after the war was over, warm their toes in the water that matched her eyes, and lounge about on the beaches. It would make a happy wedding trip, if she accepted the proposal he intended to offer.

  Assuming she would even speak to him when he got home.

  The boat slid onto the sand beside a row of similar small craft, and Thad exchanged a nod with Michaels, his first mate. They both knew the plan.

  Of course, they had no sooner angled toward the tavern where General Ross had been taking his dinners than Thad paused, that familiar sensation sweeping up his back. He looked to his left and saw Ross striding along with Vice Admiral Cochrane, their feet pointed up the hill toward Mount Wyndham.

  Time to adjust course. He opened his stride, dodging the throngs of red-coated pedestrians choking the streets.

  Michaels ran after him. “What’re ya doing, Captain? At this rate, you’ll catch them!”

  “Exactly.” He had learned long ago that a man of his height best not try to slink about unseen. When he went information seeking, he did it under the pretense of openness. “Do try to keep up, Mr. Michaels.”

  His first mate sidestepped a brutish-looking fellow. “You shoulda brought Arnaud with ya. He can actually grasp the fool workings of that brain o’ yours.”

  A chuckle slipped out. “That he does. Unfortunately, neither of us excels at obeying the orders of the other, so we make it a point to stay off each other’s vessels. And so, my friend, it falls to you to dog my heels and try to convince me I have gone daft.”

  Michaels grunted. “I daresay ya know it already.”

  “Aye. I daresay I do.” And if he were going to be mad, he might as well do it wholeheartedly. Jogging up the sloping road, he held up a hand and called out, “Admiral! General!”

  “Heaven help us,” Michaels muttered under his breath.

  The men were already halfway up the incline that curved toward the Admiralty House, looking so deep in conversation that Thad doubted they even noticed his shout. However, one of their aides glanced over his shoulder at him.

  Good. He had been noticed, which would make his following them look purposeful and not surreptitious.

  The aide held up, his countenance reflecting idle curiosity. “Have you business with the admiral or general, sir?”

  “I have.” Thad drew even with the man—a lieutenant, given his insignia—and then brushed past. As he spoke, he was careful to maintain the clipped syllables of his English cousins. “I am Captain Thaddeus of the merchant brig Masquerade, and I have a profitable proposition to make Cochrane. Or Ross, if he will be taking authority of the forces in America.”

  “Now see here, Captain.” The lieutenant pivoted and then jogged a few steps to keep up. “They are busy men. They cannot be expected to give an ear to every merchant’s ideas and concerns.”

  “Of course not. I only ask them to give an ear to mine.” He nearly laughed at the incredulity in the lieutenant’s small brown eyes.

  “I am sorry, sir, but now is not a convenient time for them.”

  Thad breathed a scoffing laugh. He had only to keep the man talking a while longer. The Admiralty House was just ahead, its verandas giving it an inviting look. “Nonsense. They will be eager to hear my proposition, and it must be now. I have precisely twenty minutes to spare.”

  “You seem to be missing the point.” But the young man looked more baffled than put upon by his obtuseness. “As…interesting as I am certain your business is, neither General Ross nor Admiral Cochrane have the attention to spare. They are fully engrossed in the matters of the campaign—”

  “Come, man.” He slapped the lieutenant’s shoulder, friendly but too hard. “You think me an imbecile? My proposition has to do with the campaign!”

  The officer frowned, looking dubious and mildly irritated on top of it. Perfect. “Does it now? Prithee, how?”

  Thad came to an abrupt halt. Cochrane and Ross had reached the steps of Mount Wyndham, and he would give them plenty of time to settle inside. Slamming his hands onto his hips, he glared down at the lieutenant. “You think I intend to share my ideas with you? A lowly aide?”

  Ah, there it was, the sizzle of dislike in his eyes. “I am a lowly aide because Admiral Cochrane trusts me, sir. He trusts me to keep the charlatans out of his company so he can attend to important matters.”

  “Charlatan?” Blustering with the presumed outrage, Thad reached for the pistol at his hip.

  Michaels, thankfully, knew his role well. He jumped to his side and stayed his hand. “Now, Captain.” He somehow managed to make his tone both panicked and placating. “Calm down, sir. You remember what happened last time you called out a fella. We haven’t been able to step foot in St. Lucia since.”

  Thad sniffed and made a show of lowering his arm. He wasn’t sure if the lieutenant looked more relieved or disappointed.

  “There now.” Michaels gave his arm a pat and motioned toward their companion. “Why not give this gent an idea of our business so he can present it to them?”

  He grunted and pursed his lips. Then let out a gust of breath and leaned toward the lieutenant. “Tobacco.”

  After a momentary pause, the lieutenant shook his head and walked again toward the house.

  Thad took two large steps to put himself beside the officer again. “I am sure they will want to speak with me right away.”

  The glance he received bordered on weary. “With all due respect, sir, tobacco has nothing to do with the campaign. Now, if you are interested in buying a commission and—”

  “A commission? What good would one more soldier do?” Thad waved that idea away. “Better to affect the morale of them all than add one more body to the mix. Though granted, I am a crack shot and a natural-born leader.”

  ’Twas all he could do not to echo the lieutenant’s snort of mocking laughter. He could handle a weapon as well as most, but Mother and Amelia both put him to shame.

  Which was neither here nor there. “Tobacco, my good man, is as crucial to our soldiers as gin. Provide good tobacco, and you provide an escape from the perils of war for a blissful five minutes at a time. With my suppliers, I can guarantee enough of the finest tobacco for the entire army.”

  The lieutenant sighed. “The army has tobacco enough, Captain.”

  “Enough perhaps, but good enough? Do our chaps not deserve the best?”

  The veranda loomed a mere stone’s throw away, close enough that Thad could get a gauge of it and calculate the best approach to his plan. The stai
rs were always an option, but trickier to handle. The door, though, if low enough…which it was. With a silent apology to his forehead, he clapped a hand to the officer’s shoulder. “I do appreciate your willingness to vouch for me, Lieutenant. I shall be sure to put in a good word for you. Now I shall show myself in.”

  “No! Sir, you must wait in the receiving room.”

  Thad bounded up the stairs, onto the wooden decking, and toward the door. And he winced well before allowing his head to make contact with the lintel. The thwak of collision brought Michaels rushing up to support him.

  The officer didn’t hurry in the least.

  Thad pressed a hand to his forehead, which protested despite his apology to it. Once the lieutenant passed him, he blinked rapidly, careful to keep his eyes unfocused. “I think…I think I shall await the admiral out here, Lieutenant.”

  “You do that, sir.”

  A moment later the door shut behind the blazing red coat. Thad stumbled along the veranda—in case anyone watched—until he rounded a corner. Then he went silent, easing from open window to open window until he heard the voices he sought.

  “Ah, there you are, Lieutenant Grey. Who was that who detained you?” Admiral Cochrane’s voice. Thad had heard him speaking yesterday in town.

  He caught Michaels’s gaze and grinned.

  The sound of a clearing throat floated through the window. “No one of import, Admiral. I dismissed him.”

  Ah, so he intended to leave Thad waiting indefinitely. Not the most active offense, but it had a certain charm.

  “Very well. Cigar?”

  “Ah. No. No, thank you, sir.”

  Shuffling sounds floated out, and idle chatter. Thad noted everything they said, though none of it struck him as more than gossip. After five minutes or so, he heard the opening of the front door again, and those in the room all seemed to rise.

  “General Gosselin, Admiral Codrington, how good to see you again. You remember General Ross, I assume?”

  Gosselin. Thad closed his eyes as he slowly ticked down his mental list of officers. That would be major general, and for longer than Ross had owned the title, which meant he was the higher in rank. And Codrington—Rear Admiral Sir Edward Codrington, the captain of the fleet. Esteemed company.

  Pleasantries were exchanged but kept brief. Codrington soon cleared his throat. “I thought I had better speak with everyone at once and produce the orders to clarify why we need two major generals in attendance.”

  Thad could hear the sounds of nervous laughter, the scuffle of paper, the crack of wax seals breaking. “Ah, yes. As I assumed. Gosselin, you will take your force to the Canadian front. Ross, you will lead yours to the Chesapeake, and Cochrane will join you.”

  “Yes, sir. And what shall we do there? Have we a target?”

  “That is for you and Cochrane to decide, along with Cockburn, once you have arrived and had the chance to speak with him. Having been there so long already, he no doubt has an opinion on the most logical places to attack.”

  Several of them spoke at once, but Thad’s ears focused on Cochrane’s low words. “Join me on the Tonnant this evening, Ross. We will discuss our plan.”

  Ross’s affirmation was all he needed to hear. Silent as ship rats, Thad and Michaels crept away. Around the veranda, down the steps, and back onto the road. Not until they were back in the hubbub of town did either of them speak.

  Michaels broke the silence first with a warning cough. “Tell me you don’t intend—”

  “What was the point in coming otherwise?”

  His first mate sighed. “You have the counts. And the destinations.”

  “The greater destinations, yes. But knowing they will go to the Chesapeake tells us no more than we already guessed. We must learn their target.” Thad shook his head, his mind churning.

  “How will you…?”

  ’Twas his turn to sigh. “There is only one option, really. I can hardly sneak aboard.”

  Michaels muttered a curse. “’Tis a fool plan.”

  Hoping to lighten his friend’s mood, he jabbed him with an elbow. “Thus far your disapproval has been the kiss of good fortune.”

  And really, how terrible could a nighttime swim in the warm Bermuda waters be? So long as no sharks or mantas had the same idea to eavesdrop on the officers, he would be fine.

  Or at the least, the hope got him through the next few hours. He was back aboard the Masquerade, in his cabin, when a knock sounded on the door and Henry stepped in. “Michaels told me about your ‘fool plan.’ Need a second?”

  “Bless you.” Henry, he knew, could swim like an eel. Dabbing black greasepaint onto the last open inch of his forehead, Thad turned around. “I was hoping you would volunteer.”

  Henry regarded his darkened skin with raised brows. “You make one ugly black man, Captain.”

  Thad laughed and smudged the greasepaint over his hands as well. “So long as I am invisible in the night, I can live with being ugly.”

  “Guess you have some practice.”

  What choice did he have but to lob a boot at him?

  Henry dodged it with a laugh of his own, and then he glanced down at his tan breeches. “I think I oughta put on some darker clothes. And just so you know, if any sharks come calling, you get to fight them off.”

  “Noted.” Alone again, he finished concealing any flesh that could be visible over the water, tucked his black shirt into his black breeches, and headed for the door.

  He got within a foot of it when a sudden image swamped him. Gwyneth, so vivid he felt he’d slammed into her. Gwyneth, with shadows back in her eyes and a frantic pencil in her hand. Gwyneth, wringing at his heart.

  Turning from the exit, he lurched toward his bed and fell to his knees beside it, clasping his hands upon the extra-long mattress.

  “Ready, Captain?”

  Ready? No. He could not leave, could not budge, could not do anything until this hand had lifted. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut, and prayed.

  Twenty-Four

  The monsters roared and snapped. Gwyneth could hear them, could feel them, and from the corner of her eyes, could see them. But if she turned toward them, they vanished. Like smoke, like vapors. Like life.

  She drew in a deep breath as she positioned her hand over the paper again. But she trembled too much and didn’t dare to touch the pencil down.

  “Help me. Lord, please.” The words slipped past parched lips and buzzed about her head. But did they then float through the drawing room ceiling? She looked up, frowned. Not the drawing room, her bedchamber. When had she come up? Or had she never gone down? She was still in her nightdress, and it was dark outside the window.

  It always seemed to be dark. A time that had once meant rest and peace. Or had signaled dancing and laughter, and then a sweet fall of exhaustion onto a down-filled bed.

  Maybe that had been the illusion, nothing but a dream. Maybe this was reality, this endless tunnel of echoes and locked doors. She could bang upon them for hours and only give herself a headache.

  You cannot know, the monsters whispered from their crevices. You are not strong enough to know. The truth would break you.

  She looked at the corner it had come from, expecting to see the gnashing teeth and yawning mouth. Nothing. Breath heaving, she squeezed her eyes shut. She needed sleep. That was why the monsters had returned, that was all this was. Hallucinations. Waking dreams.

  A hand touched her shoulder, and she shrieked.

  “Gwyneth child, you said you was going to bed.” Rosie. Just Rosie.

  She dragged in a breath and shoved her hair from her face. “Did I?”

  A tsk was the woman’s only answer. Steady hands smoothed the tangled hair away and started to braid. Slow, deliberate movements that brought a single notch of order.

  There is no order, only chaos. Your father is gone.

  Gwyneth shuddered and couldn’t stop.

  Rosie sighed. “You gotta take better care of yourself, child. You eat the pud
ding I brought you and then get yourself into bed.”

  Your father is gone.

  She looked at the bed and her stomach cramped. ’Twasn’t a soft mattress, nay. ’Twas hard wooden planking covered only in a red-stained rug. Hard. Forbidding. Cold as the grave. “I…can’t.”

  Thad is gone.

  The heavens cried out, low and moaning, and a slender tongue of fire shot through the sky. Gwyneth jumped. “What was that?”

  Rosie’s breath came out and in, slow and steady. “A summer storm over the bay, child. Thunder and lightning. Nothing more.”

  Thunder and lightning. Death and destruction, to take him away forever. Another mocking laugh from the clouds.

  Air wouldn’t come, her lungs wouldn’t fill. A cloud of gray edged out her vision.

  “You stay with me, now. Take pity on an old woman, I can’t carry you into bed alone if you faint. You hear me?” Rosie gave her a little shake.

  She blinked until the fog retreated a bit. “I can’t do it again. I can’t lose anyone else, I can’t. I can’t.”

  Rosie crouched down before her. Somehow her face looked soft and comforting while her eyes snapped with flint. “You haven’t lost anyone else, Miss Gwyn.”

  Thunder roared. We will devour him whole. We will steal him from you, we will kill him…and we will destroy you.

  “The storm.” She choked back a sob. She mustn’t cry. Uncle Gates would hear her. He would come. “The storm will take Thad.”

  Rosie gripped her shoulders and leaned close until her face was all Gwyneth could see. “That storm’s here, not in Bermuda with Thaddeus. Do you understand that? It’s our storm, not his. He’s fine and well, and he’s out adventuring like he loves to do.”

  Like he loves more than you. Because you are nothing but a broken glass figure. Shattered. Worthless.

  Though she closed her eyes tight, still she could see the sizzling flash of lightning. “He is never coming back.”

  Warm hands framed her face and bade her listen. “Look at me, child.” When she obeyed, she found Rosie’s eyes damp. “I don’t believe that for a minute. But what if you’re right? What if Thaddeus never comes home?”