* * * * *
The Phoenix arrived in Jamaica in the middle of the night. Immediately after breakfast, Garret made preparations to go ashore. Ritcherd watched as he adjusted his pistol and cutlass in his belt, then he motioned toward equivalent weapons laid out on the table. “You’d better take those,” he said. “Wearing them generally means less chance of having to use them.” Garret pulled on his gloves as Ritcherd picked up the pistol. “In fact, just keep them.”
Ritcherd absorbed the craftsmanship of the weapons. He’d used them before, but he had to say, “I’d be happy to pay you for them. They’re too fine—”
“They’re not for sale,” Garret said. “I’m giving them to you. Just because I want to,” he added as if he knew Ritcherd’s next question.
Ritcherd swallowed and reminded himself to be gracious. “Thank you, Garret,” he said. “This means a great deal to me.” Their eyes met, and Ritcherd thought of the hours Garret had invested in teaching Ritcherd to use the weapons. That in itself made the gift doubly meaningful.
“My pleasure,” he said. “Now hurry up. We need to make good time here, and . . . oh, have you got any coins packed away? Odd trinkets? Anything like that?”
“I’ve got money. Why?”
“Take some with you. British coin has more value here than you can imagine. It’ll be well worth it.”
Garret left the cabin and Ritcherd dug out the coins he’d packed. He filled his pockets, adjusted the weapons in his belt, and hurried to the deck. Patrick and George were the only ones to accompany the captains ashore. There was no pier, so it was necessary to take one of the longboats in to the beach. It felt good to Ritcherd to feel the earth beneath his feet. He only wished it was American soil.
The recent broadening of Ritcherd’s mind was aided as they wandered into a nearby village. The poverty of the natives was immediately evident. Their dress and culture was startling. But Ritcherd was most fascinated with the way dozens of dark-faced children flocked around them, chattering incessantly in an accented form of English. Garret laughed at the children’s attention. He tickled them and growled at them, and they tugged at his coat until he brought out handfuls of candy that made them jump up and down with excitement.
The children stayed with them as they came to a spot in the center of the village where they sat next to some semblance of a tavern, beneath a huge awning made from some kind of enormous leaves. A woman served them drinks and food, and Garret gave her money. He spoke to her amiably, as if they were previously acquainted. The children gathered around with obvious expectancy, and many adults stood back to observe with pleasure. Through the following hour, Ritcherd watched as Garret told them stories, George told them jokes, and Patrick performed magic tricks. The children moaned when Garret told them they had business to be about. But he dug into his pockets again and pulled out a number of odd trinkets. There were strings of glass beads, satin ribbons, polished stones, and other odd paraphernalia. One by one each child received a gift with wide-eyed pleasure and gave Garret a hug. When he was nearly finished, he winked at Ritcherd and said, “I think Cap’n Buckley might ’ave somethin’ for ye, as well.”
Ritcherd dug into his pockets and brought out handfuls of gold coin. The children gasped and hovered around Ritcherd, who laughed as he placed one into each outstretched hand. When he realized he had plenty left, he gave each child a second one.
“You see,” Garret said quietly near Ritcherd’s ear, “what greater value can you get for your money than that? That will likely feed their families for a month.”
Ritcherd swallowed, wishing he could find the words to tell Garret how he appreciated his insight, and the opportunity to experience such perspective.
With their socializing apparently completed, they made arrangements for supplies with little difficulty. But Ritcherd nearly went mad when they had to wait a number of days for new sails to be made. Ritcherd wanted to insist that they could manage—or get some elsewhere before sailing for England. But he knew Garret wouldn’t bend. Some of the sails had been damaged beyond repair in the storm, and Garret wouldn’t sail without more than a complete set of extras.
When the sails were finally delivered, they sailed with the evening tide. Ritcherd was glad to be one step closer to putting all of this behind him. He resumed his fencing lessons with Patrick, which helped to occupy the time. Patrick proved to be a good teacher and an amiable companion, although he was guarded about his background. But they came to be on good terms, and Ritcherd quite liked him.
The Phoenix was just a few days out of Jamaica when the albatross began trailing it. Garret pointed it out to Ritcherd, and he was immediately fascinated by the lone bird with the huge wingspan. As with any bird, it made him think of Kyrah. Had she been with him, she would have been fascinated, spending hours speculating over its past and future.
Ritcherd’s interest in the albatross increased when Garret told him of the well-known adage among sailors that it was a symbol of luck. It would follow a ship to eat tidbits of food from the refuse thrown overboard. As long as it followed and was satisfied, good luck would abound. But if it were shot down by one of the sailors, they would all be doomed.
“Then luck is with us,” Ritcherd said without taking his eyes from the bird as it soared and dipped into the water to feed.
“Aye, Cap’n,” Garret said. “Luck is with us.”
But in spite of the albatross, as the days passed Ritcherd found his mood turning steadily more sour. Time slipped by, and he felt subsequently helpless. He often became lost in deep thought, wondering what Kyrah might be doing. Had she arrived safely in the colonies? Did she have shelter? Food? Safety?
“Where are you?” Garret’s voice interrupted Ritcherd’s thoughts one evening. Ritcherd glanced up from where he sat at the table in the cabin to see Garret stretching his arms as he finished a session with his book work.
“Just thinking,” Ritcherd said.
A minute later, Garret moved to a chair opposite Ritcherd and sat down. “You’re doing very well with the old sword,” he said, “don’t you think?”
“Patrick’s a good teacher,” Ritcherd replied.
“Aye, he is.”
“And as you said, a good man. I’ve come to think a great deal of him.”
“One can’t help it,” Garret smiled and went on. “So, you are gaining some confidence with the sword, are you not?”
“I’m feeling good about it.”
“Then what’s eating at you?”
“What do you mean?”
Garret leaned closer and his eyes deepened. “Listen to me, Buckley, and listen well. I have done my best to let you know that I’m a man you can trust, that I respect you and what you’re about. And I appreciate the respect you have given me. But respect is only half the quotient here. I keep expecting you to let me know exactly what you’re doing here. And I have to wonder why you’re so hesitant to talk about it.”
Ritcherd kept his eyes focused on Garret, but he couldn’t find words to respond.
“All right,” Garret said, leaning back, “let me approach this from my perspective as the captain of this vessel. I tend to get suspicious of a man who goes to sea for no apparent reason—then sulks around and has nothing to say about himself or his purpose.”
“Are you saying you don’t trust me?” Ritcherd asked.
Garret chuckled. “I trust you enough, Captain. But we’ll be reaching our destination soon. We’ve got serious business to be about. If we’re truly going to be partners in this endeavor . . .” He hesitated. “Well, you know why I’m doing this, but I have no idea why you—”
“Tell me,” Ritcherd interrupted, looking across the table at Garret with the lamplight accentuating his dark eyes. It was still difficult to envision this rugged man as a baronet. He knew Garret had a love for the sea and a certain patriotic zeal for the colonists, but the reasoning behind his motives was a mystery.
“I feel very strongly about what the colonists
are fighting for. I admire it.”
“Why?” Ritcherd persisted.
It was apparent that Garret didn’t want to answer, and Ritcherd added, “If this conversation is about trust, you’d better be willing to give what you’re asking.”
Garret scowled slightly as he said, “England’s done nothing for me.”
“Are you speaking politically or personally?"
“Does it matter?” Garret asked pointedly.
Ritcherd remembered what George had said to him about understanding a partner completely, and the question was easy to answer. “It matters to me.”
Garret shifted uneasily in his chair. “You might say that I’ve got a few resentments toward some of the social barriers I grew up with.”
The statement surprised Ritcherd, only because he knew Garret was a baronet. But immediately he felt scenes from his own life fitting the same description. “I can relate to that,” he stated.
“You can?” Garret asked, lifting his brows.
“Who is it that caused your resentment?” Ritcherd tried to keep the conversation steered toward Garret.
“Who is it that caused your resentment?” Garret returned with a slight smirk, and Ritcherd chuckled.
“It was mostly my mother,” Ritcherd said at last, sensing that it would take confessions on his part to keep Garret talking.
Again Garret lifted his brows. “In my case, it was my father.”
Ritcherd remained silent, making it evident that he wanted to know more. “It wasn’t until I was oh, thirteen or so,” Garret continued, “that I realized my father’s attitude toward me had made me think so little of myself that I . . . Well, I became an outcast, you might say—from family, friends. Until then I’d thought it was just me. But one day I woke up and realized that I wasn’t such a bad guy, and I would find a life where none of what he said mattered.”
“Is he still living?” Ritcherd asked, knowing that if Garret had inherited the title, his father would not be alive.
“No,” Garret answered dryly. He drew a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. Ritcherd remained silent, waiting for him to go on. “He’s gone now,” Garret said at last, “and I don’t miss him a bit.”
Ritcherd related to that as well. He’d hardly felt anything when his own father died.
“But,” Garret went on, “perhaps that’s because he’d always made such a point of letting me know that he wasn’t really my father.” Ritcherd tried not to look surprised as he began to understand. “It was never brought up publicly,” Garret said, watching his fingers drum against the table. “He was too concerned with social distinction to ever jeopardize his image. But it was well known whenever he—my mother’s husband—was in the same room with me, that I was not his son.”
Ritcherd hoped his tone of voice expressed that the confession had not affected his opinions one way or the other. “And that’s why you’re a privateer for the colonists?”
“That’s a good part of it,” he stated.
“Despite having fought for England,” Ritcherd said for reassurance, “I have often felt bitter against the system that doesn’t allow a man,” or woman, he thought to himself, “to be judged for what they are, rather than the circumstances under which they’re born—or are forced to live.”
“Well then,” Garret said, “I suppose that needs no more explanation.”
“I suppose,” Ritcherd repeated. When Garret said nothing more, Ritcherd took the opportunity to ask something he’d often wondered about. “So, might I presume that Garret is your given name, and you prefer not to use your legal surname?”
“Very good,” Garret drawled with a subtle smile, as if to compliment Ritcherd on his perception. “Of course, I’ve long ago come to terms with my feelings toward my parents. I no longer have difficulty with using the name, but . . . well, in this business, people know me by the name I’ve been using. Perhaps one day when I settle down, I’ll go back to using the name.”
“Which would be . . .” Ritcherd pressed.
Garret chuckled. “Stick around, Ritch, and one day I just might tell you.” He laughed and added, “Not that it’s any great secret, but . . . well, one day.”
Again Garret became silent, and Ritcherd figured that the conversation concerning his name had been ended.
“Now,” Garret went on with his original purpose, “you know why I’m going. Why are you going? Why didn’t you just buy this ship and let us take it?”
“This is a big investment.” Ritcherd smirked slightly. “I want to keep an eye on it.”
“Nice try,” Garret nodded, “but there’s more. Are you running from something? Someone?”
“No.”
“Then what is it in the colonies that makes you stand at the bow, gazing westward with a desperate look in your eyes?”
Ritcherd stood up and turned away, clasping his hands behind his back.
“George told me it wasn’t a week before we left port that you announced you were getting married,” Garret went on in a cautious voice, and Ritcherd felt something wrench at his heart. Hearing his pain verbalized somehow freshened it. “Why would you leave the country when the woman you love is there?” he asked when Ritcherd remained silent. “I’m guessing it’s because she’s not there anymore. And I’d bet she—”
Ritcherd turned quickly and interrupted, feeling a need to even out the odds. “You know, something, Captain? George Morley is nothing but an old gossip. But maybe you don’t realize that he gossips both ways, so I’m going to let it slide.” Garret actually looked unnerved and Ritcherd chuckled, glad for the way it suppressed his rising emotions. “What? The great Captain Garret is worried that I might know his secrets?”
“Do you?” he asked with disgust.
“Yes, actually . . . Sir Garret.” Ritcherd laughed when Garret’s disgust increased. “Do you know how long I’ve been wanting to call you that . . . you scoundrel, you.” He mimicked Garret rather unkindly. “Most of the men I know shoot aristocrats for sport.”
Garret finally laughed, but his eyes betrayed that it was against his will.
“Admit it,” Ritcherd said more seriously. “We’re two of a kind and you know it. We’re victims of a system we resent, and too arrogant and proud to admit that we can’t always be in control.”
“I have no trouble admitting that,” Garret said. “But you’re trying to change the subject. Our time is running out, and I need to know why you’re here.”
Ritcherd sighed and turned his back again. While it was difficult to voice, he couldn’t deny a degree of relief in—as Garret had once suggested—sharing his burden. “She’s not in England anymore.”
“I was right then,” Garret said with conviction. “It is a woman.”
“That’s right!” His voice picked up an edge as he turned to face Garret.
“Where is she?” Garret asked coolly.
“If I knew,” Ritcherd nearly shouted, “I wouldn’t be tearing myself apart wondering where to start looking for her.”
“Now, Captain Buckley, there’s no need to bring that raging temper to the surface, I was only—”
“What is it about you,” Ritcherd said, leaning his hands against the table and looking into Garret’s eyes, “that enables you to practically read my mind? You knew I needed to learn to fight. You know why I’m on this ship. You know I’ve got a temper.”
“I’m perceptive,” Garret said as he stood to lean across the table in exactly the same manner, meeting him eye to eye. “And the moment I met you, I knew you were a man I could relate to and understand, or I never would have agreed to be your partner. I don’t really care what it is you’re searching for, only that I know so I can understand what we’re facing. I’m not going to have the lovesick Captain Buckley blow my operation all to hell because he suddenly finds what he wants and the rest doesn’t matter anymore.
“Now, I’m willing to help you if you’re willing to help me. But we can’t do that without perfect trust between us. There’s no reaso
n we can’t find a woman when you consider all the other impossible odds we’ve come up against. But we’ve got to deliver these guns, and our first law around here is that nothing is worth the life of one of these men—not even a woman.
“If you’re honest with me, Ritcherd Buchanan, and do what you can to assist us in this, I will do everything in my power to help you find this woman. You’re a good man and I could use you. I also think there are probably some things I know that could help you.” He inhaled deeply as he stood up straight and tugged at his waistcoat. “Is that fair enough, Captain Buckley?”
Ritcherd leaned back and put his hands on his hips, chuckling slightly. This partner of his never ceased to amaze him. “That is more than fair enough,” he stated and their eyes met, “Captain Garret.”
Garret held out his left hand and Ritcherd took it. They gripped forearms strongly across the table. Garret laughed and went to the trunk at the foot of his bed. He dug deep into it and brought out a bottle of brandy. “This calls for a drink,” he smiled slyly.
“So the captain breaks his own rules,” Ritcherd smirked.
“One bottle can’t get anybody too drunk. And I save it for special occasions. Being the captain should allow for certain privileges.”
He poured out two moderate glassfuls and returned the bottle to its hiding place. “You’re the only one who knows that’s there,” he smirked, “so if it disappears, I’ll know who’s to walk the plank.”
Ritcherd laughed as their glasses rang together. They each downed their drink and set the glasses down in unison.
“Thank you, Ritcherd,” Garret said.
“For what?”
“For trusting me, and even . . . for believing in me.”
“The feeling is mutual,” Ritcherd said, appreciating the lack of tension between them that had been there ever since Garret had implied his knowledge of Ritcherd’s motives.
Ritcherd motioned toward Garret’s fine waistcoat, which was typical of his attire, and chuckled. “Here all this time I thought you were wearing clothes you’d taken off dead aristocrats.”
Garret smirked. “Maybe I am.”
“But you’re not, are you,” Ritcherd said.
“Most of the clothes are mine,” he said. “There are a few pieces, however, that . . . I came by through . . .” He laughed then said nothing more, as if he found pleasure in leaving Ritcherd guessing. Ritcherd figured that was his privilege, but he felt certain that Garret wasn’t nearly as formidable as he’d once wanted Ritcherd to believe.
“So, how is it that you gained so much experience at sailing?” Ritcherd asked. He bit his tongue from saying that he was amazed to see a man under twenty-five years with such incredible knowledge, and a commanding presence that put his crew—most of them much older—in awe of him. That kind of finesse couldn’t have been acquired with only a year or two at sea.
“Well, I owe that to my grandfather,” Garret said. “My mother’s father was likely the only person in my life who seemed to understand me—or care about what was really going on inside of me. He always had a fascination with sailing, and after my grandmother passed away, he invested nearly everything he had in shipping. He started going along on voyages—to get away from the loneliness, I suppose. During his visits through my childhood, I believe he sensed my unrest. I was twelve when he talked my mother into letting him take me. I never went home again more than a few weeks at a time. I watched. I asked questions. Sometimes he actually had a tutor sail with us so that I got my education. But it didn’t take me long to learn where my real interests lay. When my grandfather died, he left me his prize vessel.”
A thought occurred to Ritcherd and he had to ask, “The Falcon Star?”
Garret just nodded. The fact that it had been shot down became doubly poignant.
A loud knock at the door startled them. “Can’t be George,” Ritcherd said. “He never knocks.”
“Yeah?” Garret called, and the door flew open.
“Cap’n!” Patrick said breathlessly.
“Yes?” they both said together.
“Land on th’ ’orizon, Cap’n.” He paused then added, “And Cap’n.”
Garret let out a whoop of excitement and followed Patrick down the narrow hallway with Ritcherd right behind him. The deck was lit well by an almost full moon. Although they couldn’t yet see any shoreline with the naked eye, the sailor manning the mast saw the captains emerge from the stairs and lifted his telescope high above his head, shouting, “Land ’o, Cap’ns!”
Captains Garret and Buckley saluted him casually. Charlie handed a telescope to Garret, who put it to his eye and adjusted it carefully before he laughed aloud. He handed it to Ritcherd, who laughed as well when he saw the evidence for himself. When the excitement had died down a bit, they walked together toward the bow. Ritcherd’s heart beat quickly. He was almost on the same continent again as Kyrah.
“We’ll find her,” Garret said almost tenderly as they both leaned their elbows on the rail. Ritcherd made no reply and he went on lightly, “She must be a beauty, eh?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Ritcherd said, and Garret smiled.
“You’re getting pretty good at that,” Garret said.
“You think I can open my mouth in the taverns without getting shot?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Garret repeated. Then his voice turned serious. “I can’t help being curious. Why is it that you were about to marry her, and now you don’t know where she is?”
Ritcherd looked down and blew out a long breath. “She’s in the colonies,” he said, wanting to avoid the rest.
“I figured that much.”
Ritcherd looked at him directly, figuring Garret had a right to know what they were dealing with. “She was deported.”
If Garret looked surprised, he covered it quickly. His voice lightened as he turned to lean back against the rail, lifting one foot to press it up behind him. “Tell me about her,” he said. “Tell me what I’ll be looking for.”
Ritcherd’s voice became dreamy as he described Kyrah the way he remembered her. Barely realizing what he was doing, he went on to tell Garret how they’d met and grown up together, and the problems he’d had with his parents concerning her. He told him that when his father had died, his mother’s bitterness had more than made up for the absence of his father’s criticism. With a strained voice he told Garret what he knew about Kyrah Payne’s having been deported, and how he’d torn apart his mother’s china closet. Then he suddenly had nothing more to say.
“Didn’t I tell you that you had a nasty temper?” Garret said lightly. “But I daresay if I’d have been there,” his voice became intense, “I’d not have stopped with the china.”
“I’m not sure I know why I did,” Ritcherd said, chuckling without any trace of humor. “So why is it that I feel some kind of guilt or regret or something, when I realize I never want to see my mother again? And even more so when I think about her never knowing what a good woman Kyrah is, or that she’ll never even care to see our children.”
“She’s your mother,” Garret stated. “You’d be no better than her if you felt no qualm in having such animosities toward the woman who brought you into this world.”
“I suppose,” Ritcherd said distantly.
“Perhaps,” Garret added, “there’s a reason for the way she acts about Kyrah—something you don’t understand.”
“Oh, I understand it,” Ritcherd said. “Kyrah has nothing of value in my mother’s eyes. No great family name. No old money. Questionable background.”
“Well,” Garret said, “it could be that. It could be more. What I mean is, well . . . for years I thought my father hated me because I wasn’t his son, and . . . I suppose that was part of it. But one day I realized that I was an only child. Stopping to analyze the circumstances, I honestly believe that he would not have resented me so much if he could have had children of his own. It doesn’t take away any of the pain he caused me, but it helps me understand why he behaved the way he did.” r />
“You make it sound so simple.”
“Sometimes it is,” Garret said. “I believe there are times when people can’t see the answers because the problem is too close to their face. If they’d step back a few paces and take on a different perspective, it usually is just as you said—simple.”
Ritcherd wondered if Garret’s philosophies had any merit in his own situation. But at the moment his mind was too preoccupied with finding Kyrah to analyze it any further.
“So, what’s our first move,” Ritcherd said easily, “now that there’s land ho?”
“Before the sun comes up, we’ll be in a nice secluded cove. We’ll send a few men ashore to check out the situation and go from there.
“I’m going to get some sleep,” Garret added, slapping him on the shoulder. Ritcherd smiled and Garret left.
Alone at the bow, Ritcherd reached into his pocket and pulled out the gold band that Sarah had given him. Just as he had a hundred times before through the course of his journey, he thought of how Kyrah should have been wearing it by now. Fingering it carefully, he thought of the years Sarah had worn it as a symbol of her love for Stephen. He knew she had made a sacrifice in giving it to him. Every bit of his wealth could not have bought a wedding ring that meant more to him than this. And he would find a way to get it onto Kyrah’s finger. He looked again to where he knew the colonies lay just out of sight, and whispered aloud, “I’ll find you, Kyrah. Somehow I’ll find you—if it’s the last thing I do.”