To Follow Her Heart Page 2

  Lizzie turned to her nieces. “Get your cloaks, girls, and help us carry these out to the wagon.”

  Mary helped Mercy lift her hood over her hair. “We found a beautiful stone for Jeremy. Mr. Corey says he can carve a proper epitaph on it. Barney is going to write it.” Her eyes became moist as she spoke, and she leaned into her husband’s arms. “We’ll wait for the service for Jeremy until the headstone is ready.”

  “Yes, of course,” Barnabas murmured.

  As he opened the door, Patience came down the staircase and paused just before the landing. “Mary? I thought I heard you.”

  Mary rushed to her. “I didn’t want to disturb you. Are you all right?”

  Patience’s straight blond hair hung loose about her shoulders, and she pulled it around to the side, twisting it like rope. “Yes. I think. Did I hear you say you bought a stone for Jeremy?”

  “Yes, dear. Reverend Youngs will say a sermon for him on Sunday, and then we’ll gather in the cemetery in a few weeks when the stone is ready and have a small remembrance service.”

  Lizzie could sense the tension, like the prickle on one’s skin just before a lightning strike.

  “How can you do that? You don’t know he’s dead!” The words pounced from Patience, and everyone stood silent, mouths agape.

  Mary bit her lip, and Barnabas stepped up to wrap his arm about her shoulder. “Patience, we all grieve. Prithee, do not make this more difficult. We must bring some closure to Jeremy’s life. We owe him that, do we not?”

  She lowered herself to a stairstep and buried her face in her robe. Lizzie rushed to join Mary and the two pulled Patience into their arms.

  “Oh, dearest. We all feel the same way you do. Truly we do.” Mary looked at her sister. “Right, Lizzie?” She pressed her cheek to Patience’s. “But the water has given up nothing but a bit of wreckage and some of the bodies. Most of the crew is simply swallowed by the sea, and we must face that with courage.”

  Barnabas gathered the girls by the door, picking up Mercy as she began to whimper.

  Lizzie drew Patience closer. “I shall take her back to her room, Mary. You go with Barnabas and the girls. I’ll stay here tonight and come to you on the morrow. Patience needs time. Let me take care of her.”

  Mary’s eyes glistened as she left them and followed her family out the door.

  Lizzie put her arm around Patience in a gentle hug and led her up the stairs. She tucked her friend under a thick quilt. The room was already dark, with not a candle lit. Lizzie sank into a chair near the bed, and in a moment she drifted into fitful dreams.

  Patience lay awake, fingering the edge of her quilt. Her eyes were wide, as if they were propped open by her lashes, stiff with dried tears. Sleep would not come. Nor did she want it to. She needed to think of a way to find Jeremy. He couldn’t be dead. She would know it if he were. And even if she could not be certain, she would not give up on him. No, never. She could not.

  2

  One month earlier

  Atlantic Ocean, off the coast of Barbados

  A swell of warm water washed over Captain Jeremy Horton’s body, and he clawed at The Swallow’s hatch door with bloody fingers as he fought to cling to his makeshift raft. The saltwater stung his eyes and swirled in his mouth. He choked as he gasped for air and spat out the brine.

  He laid his cheek against the rough wet wood, the thought of sleep both blissful and terrifying. He struggled to keep his eyes open, fixing them on the chunks of decking and broken mast that bobbed in the choppy sea. Sails that once billowed in the wind now floundered in the water. He searched amongst them for his crew. He lost track of how many times he shouted at a form as it drifted close, only to discover it was yet another piece of splintered deck or an empty cask.

  How long he’d been in the water he did not know. Still, he forced himself to seek signs of life, to count the lap of the incessant waves, to scan the skies for birds, clouds, or stars—any form of concentration to keep him from drifting into a sleep from which he’d never awaken.

  Hours spent calculating how far he might be from Barbados proved futile, as he came to a different conclusion with each attempt. His mind formed thoughts in slow motion, and he gave himself permission to remain in each moment rather than plan the next one.

  Night fell, and he lay on his back and grasped a handle on the hatch with one hand. Fatigue clawed at his eyes. He promised himself he’d close them for ten minutes. And he would count the minutes out. He woke with a start as a sudden downpour jolted him from sleep. Did he ever say five? His hand was loose from its grip, and his legs were in the water. There was one horrifying bump on the back of his thigh, and then another. He turned himself in the water and scratched at the hatch with his fingers, splinters digging in deep as he clawed to pull himself high on the wood.

  A shark was circling. He felt a bump once more. He tried to make himself small on the square door, difficult for a man of his height. He would not sleep this night, nor even close his eyes. Still, as the rain came to an abrupt end—much as it had begun—he prayed thanksgiving.

  He began to count the bumps on the bottom of his makeshift raft. When they finally ceased, he counted the stars in the sky. When the sun came up and there were no more stars, he imagined there were clouds and rain, and he counted the drops that fell until he began to try to catch them on his tongue. His tongue felt like a dry rag.

  The torrid heat from the summer sun parched his throat and cracked his lips. His chuckle at the absurdity of thirst amidst all of the water sounded hysterical even to his own ears. The puddle of rainwater he’d sopped into his felt hat during the deluge last night became diluted with saltwater with each wave that crashed over him, and he prayed for more rain. The bright blue sky held no promise.

  His stomach twisted with hunger, and he tried to remember what he had eaten last. But all he could remember was Mary’s feasts. He tried to remember every supper she had ever cooked for him. And as the sun began to go down at the end of another day floating in the middle of nowhere, he began to panic. Would anyone find him? With each day, nay each hour, that passed, he came that much closer to dying. And it couldn’t be from thirst. No, not in all this water. He wanted to laugh, but then he knew he’d already made all the jokes he could think of about this situation. And so he prayed. He prayed God would give him the means to survive against all of the odds.

  Instead of counting the stars that night, he looked to them for navigation. He named every star he saw, and some he made up. When the sun rose again, he didn’t move. His strength seemed sapped from him, and any effort to move a leg or arm was just too much and beyond his comprehension.

  He let his head fall back to the hatch and listened for the slap of the water. One. Two. Three. Must count. Four. Five . . . I should sit up. The water . . . six. Seven. Eight . . . need to breathe.

  He rolled over with ease and gulped air. Strong hands and deep voices jostled him from a state of confusion, and he fought his way to murky consciousness. He was on a ship. He’d been saved from certain death. Thank you, Lord.

  “He’s alive.” A voice echoed like thunder on an empty oak cask.

  “I am, sir.” Did he say that? Or mayhap he thought it. Try though he might, he could not open his eyes, but he wanted his rescuers to know that indeed, he lived.

  He succumbed to sleep, and when he next woke, a smallish man dressed in a plain linen shirt and breeches sat beside him with a bowl of pale broth that bordered on swill. “Drink it fast, mate, and ye won’t notice th’ taste.” He shrugged as he said it and added, “I wish it were a slab of mutton or beef, but ’tis what we got.”

  Jeremy pushed up on his elbow but teetered to and fro. Was it him or the ship that swayed? His mouth opened to speak, but his throat burned with the attempt, and his tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. He swung his legs over the side of the cot and anchored his bare feet on the floor.

  “I fear ye are not ready to get up. Just sit there.” The man pushed the bowl into his hands.
“This will give ye strength.”

  He took the broth and dipped a spoon into the thin liquid. He gave thanks and took a big gulp. Despite an impulse to spit it out, a surge of renewed energy surprised him, and he ladled another spoonful into his mouth. He swallowed quickly. They served better slop in jail. He studied the little man. “What’s your name?”

  “Samuel.”

  “Thank you, Samuel.” He pushed from the cot, only to find his legs would not cooperate.

  Samuel grinned and stood up to leave. “Not now. Rest a while. I’ll have more for ye later.”

  Oh, wonderful. A stale biscuit would be better. “Yes, thank you.” He croaked the words and received an odd look from the sailor before he scurried out. Perfect. The turnkey couldn’t understand him even when he got the words out.

  He scanned the small cabin and figured he was in Second Officer’s quarters. He finished the broth and ran his hands, raw and burnt from exposure, through his hair, which was stiff with salt, then rested them on his knees. He stared at the floor and contemplated standing. Most likely the captain would seek him out to interview him and would expect to find him here. And most likely his legs would not work for him, so he lowered his head back to the cot to wait. His body shivered, and his head throbbed. Sleep claimed him anyway.

  He woke to three faces peering at him through the early-morning gloom, all with worry lines creasing their foreheads and pursed lips.

  “He’s awake again. His fever’s broke.” It was the short man from the night before—Samuel. Missing half his teeth.

  The one nearest his head straightened to his full height. He was over six feet tall and wore a British officer’s uniform, his hat neatly tucked beneath his arm. “You are a lucky man, indeed.” He rubbed the length of his long nose, his voice terse. “Less of one would not have survived. If I’d been a betting man, I would have bet against it.”

  Jeremy struggled to sit up, but his head swirled and the little man pushed him back to the cot. Still, he struggled to answer. “I don’t believe in luck, Captain, but God has spared me another day, for which I am grateful.”

  A smile cracked the corners of the captain’s lips. “Ah, you are English, eh? Well, sir, you are aboard HMS Providence, and I am Captain Stone. It is my duty to inquire of you who you are and what your business was before you landed in the pond.” His brown eyes bore into Jeremy.

  “Providence I do believe in, sir.” He tried to chuckle, but it worked its way into a coughing fit.

  The third man present stepped forward and studied him as his cough subsided. “There’s much fluid in the lungs after swallowing the seawater, and the lungs are inflamed. I shall be watching for pneumonia,” he said to no one in particular.

  Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “And you are the ship’s doctor, I gather?”

  “Aye, that I be. And ’tis by God’s grace indeed that you are alive. You were in the sea a long time. You are not out of danger yet.”

  The captain scooted a chair closer and sat down. “You know who we are. Now, sir, your name?”

  “I am Captain Jeremy Horton, my ship is The Swallow. Or was, I should say. It wrecked off the coast of Barbados.” He spoke with as much pride as he could muster. “I was on a sugar run to Barbados, loaded with pelts and lumber. My crew was lost. I stayed with the ship whilst they took to the shallops. I never thought I’d be the one saved. Violent waves smashed the boats against each other, and I clung to the mast as my ship listed and broke apart. The mast did me no good once I was in the brine, but a piece of the hatch floated by, and I lunged for it. I don’t know how long I drifted. Days. Were you sent from Barbados on a rescue mission for The Swallow, Captain Stone?”

  “Nay. We are now out of St. Lucia. The Providence is a frigate, a gunner ship with thirty guns. Indian Warner has claimed the island for England, and we sailed into St. Lucia with three hundred men aboard for defense against France. We are now bound for Boston.”

  “Who is Indian Warner, pray tell?”

  “He’s the son of Sir Thomas Warner, the former governor of St. Christopher Island. His mother was a Carib, but he grew up in his father’s household with an English stepmother. After his father died, he went to live with his mother, but he always remained loyal to the English.”

  Jeremy considered all the events Captain Stone described, but his own predicament demanded answers. “Never a dull moment on a gunner, eh? You will be stopping at New Haven on the way? Or mayhap Winter Harbor?”

  “We sail straight to Boston Harbor. You will be confined to this cabin for the duration. You have no papers. There is no method to confirm if you are who you say you are.” He pressed his fingers together into a tent and leaned forward.

  “Aye. I have nothing.” What a state to be in. Did the captain suspect him to be a pirate? Surely if this ship had just left St. Lucia he would have learned of The Swallow’s disaster.

  “You are not a well man, in any case. Doctor Clarke will attend you, and it shall be at his discretion as to what you may eat and what exercise you may have. Feel free to voice any concerns or complaints directly to me.”

  The captain stood, the meeting concluded. Jeremy longed to stand and shake his hand, to reassure this man he was everything he claimed to be, but his body clearly protested at even the thought. His strength had drained into that interminable ocean, and it wasn’t returning in a day.

  Boston. He loved it, but he needed to get to Southold.

  3

  July 17, 1664

  Southold

  Patience stood at her looking glass and pinched her cheeks. Her porcelain skin looked a ghastly white. It didn’t bother her, but everyone else would notice. She didn’t want the comments or the pity. Pink sprang to her face, and she bit her lips to give them color, as well. Cold compresses subdued the puffiness around her eyes somewhat, but she shook her head at her overall appearance. She’d have to keep her chin up. The service this morning would be difficult, and she wanted her friends to think she was in control, though she didn’t trust herself enough for that to be true.

  As she smoothed her long hair into a knot at the base of her neck, someone knocked at the door below. She glanced at her burgundy brocade. Everyone would wear black today, in their mourning clothes for Jeremy. But she would wear color and pray for his return.

  She raised her skirt and hurried down the stairs. “Patience?” someone called as she lifted the latch and pulled the door open.

  “Mary!”

  Mary stepped in and grasped her hands as she pressed her cheek to Patience’s. “I thought I’d come and walk with you to church. I know this is hard for you, and I didn’t want you to come alone.”

  Patience blinked back a tear and hugged her friend. “Thank you. I’m truly all right, though. But I do cherish your company.” She grabbed her hat, a blue wool with a burgundy sash Lizzie had made for her. She set it firmly on her head and tied the ribbon beneath her chin.

  “My, that looks so pretty on you. Not that your eyes need be any bluer, but it does make them pop.”

  “I need that today, I suppose. I could barely open my eyes this morning.” Really. If she wanted Mary to think she was fine, why provide her with details that would say otherwise?

  Mary studied her. “Oh, Patience. Could you not sleep? Of course you couldn’t. Prithee, come stay with us after church tonight. Do not come home to this big empty house.”

  “I couldn’t stay, you know that. I have the little girls coming for Dame School in the morning. I need to ready their lessons before they arrive.” Her shoulders sagged as she retrieved her Bible from the table near the door, and her chin dipped. Though Dame School had its breaks, it differed from the boy’s school that quit for the summer so the lads could help their fathers in the fields during growing season. The littlest girls continued through, and it helped their busy mothers to have them occupied in such a manner.

  “We’ll just get Little Mary and Mercy ready for school early, and we’ll all walk over with you. And goodness, if you need to take
a break, Patience, we shall understand.”

  They walked down Town Street arm in arm. A warm breeze caused the leaves to dance in the branches of the oaks that lined the street. Fall was not far off, and still Jeremy was not with her. Never would be, if what everyone said was true.

  The church bell began to ring, and Mary’s arm tightened. In the service this morning, Reverend Youngs would give a sermon dedicated to Jeremy’s passing. According to the town officials and her dearest friends, and even Jeremy’s family, he was dead. How could they give up so easily? Why were they not praying for his safe return? She could not believe this. She could not. The rain began to fall in a sideways pelt as they rushed into the sanctuary.

  She took her seat in the women’s pew several rows behind the Horton box, and Mary scooted in next to her. Mary often sat with someone who needed a little extra comfort or cheer, and Patience was thankful for her nearness. Lizzie and Zeke sat two rows ahead, with Benjamin Horton and his wife, Anna, in front of them.

  The congregation rose as Reverend Youngs walked to the front, and Patience picked up her psalm book. Voices blended together, but she could not sing. Instead, she bowed her head in prayer and asked God to bring Jeremy home. Safe to her.

  As the service progressed, she listened to the reverend and his stories of the honorable life Jeremy had led. Sniffles and the swish of handkerchiefs blotting tears swept through the worship hall, combined with smiles and nods as his life’s story was remembered. His strength and courage were legendary, and his love of family and dedication to serve friend and foe alike were Horton traits he did not regard lightly. In the early days in Mowsley, growing up, she’d admired Barnabas for those very qualities. When he’d wed Mary, her infatuation with him almost broke her tender young heart. And she’d promised herself she’d never marry unless she found someone just like Barnabas.