The Emerald Embrace Read online

  “For you, whipping is a perverse pleasure!”

  He lifted his enormous clenched fist, then with an effort dropped the arm, and swollen shadows danced in the hall. “By God, if I teach you nothing else, you’ll learn one thing! At the end of this year you’ll not speak to me this way!” Rage clotted his voice.

  Captain Yarby had come to stand at the parlor door. As Amos Thornton strode toward him, the long hall reverberated with the sound of his boots. The two men greeted one another—they had often met at our house. Amos Thornton bowed to Mrs. Yarby.

  He said, “The military courier ran into a British raiding party and was forced onto back roads. It took me two full days to receive your letter. Otherwise I should have been here sooner.”

  “It was unnecessary for you to make the trip. You could’ve written,” said Captain Yarby.

  “Liberty’s welfare is my prime consideration.”

  “Then you agree to her remaining here?”

  “I do not.”

  The captain grunted audibly, and Mrs. Yarby put down her knitting. They both stared at Amos Thornton, a massive, self-confident presence standing in the middle of the room.

  After a short pause, Captain Yarby said, “I’ll not beat around the bush. An unmarried girl needs the care and advice of a woman. And my wife has reared two daughters, both fine wives and mothers.”

  Amos Thornton inclined his head to Mrs. Yarby. “With all due respect, Liberty’s a different story entirely. Her father was a scholar and her forebears in England titled. She shouldn’t be answering doors like a scullery maid.”

  Mrs. Yarby rose angrily to her feet. “She’s as dear to me as my own girls, and I treat her as I did them! We live in the United States of America, so what difference does titled ancestry make? Liberty’s not the type to have her head turned by such claptrap. But she is well set up. Very. And you have no wife or sister.” The redness of her square face was deeper than the glow cast by the firelight. Her meaning was inescapable.

  “Judge Lee took my lack of family into consideration when he appointed me her guardian. I have the document with me. Perhaps you better examine it, Captain.”

  While Captain Yarby unfolded and read the parchment, I stared down at the balled handkerchief clenched in my trembling hand.

  “It seems in order,” he sighed. “But surely you understand that she feels happy with her godmother.”

  “The proper setting for her is Willowood.”

  “Willowood? Not your home in Washington?” Captain Yarby braced himself on his short, thick legs, staring up at Amos Thornton. A sturdy bulldog braving a massive bear. “How can you, a single man, even consider having her at a remote plantation alone with you?”

  “I’m a respected, God-fearing man, and I resent these insults. Liberty’s coming with me tonight!”

  “In this storm?” Mrs. Yarby cried. “She’s just gotten over a severe illness.”

  “Twice she’s seen fit to disobey me on the matter.” He turned to Captain Yarby. “There are laws, Captain, against those who come between parent and child—or legal guardian.”

  A hard burst of rain punctuated the long silence. I couldn’t look at either Captain or Mrs. Yarby.

  Finally the captain said in a defeated tone, “At least let her stay the night.”

  “My men are waiting.” Amos Thornton spread his coattails to sit in the fireside wing chair. “Liberty, you have a half hour to ready yourself.”

  My knees were weak as I left the parlor. Upstairs in my cold little room, my brain whirled around and around It had all happened too fast. I felt as if I were a hooked fish being drawn swiftly, inexorably from my element. My home, my godparents, Washington, my dreams and hopes of my mysterious rescuer.…

  Now my plans seemed childish and full of holes. How could Captain Yarby have taken me to France against my guardian’s wishes? And how would I have supported myself there? Besides, what made me so certain that Monsieur Champollion would spring to defend a dead scholar’s theory? And at my request?

  A sense of my own inadequacy swept me. There’s no choice, I thought. Slowly I began taking off my clothes to change to warmer things for the inevitable journey. The mournful hush of autumn rain filled the night.

  I didn’t hear Mrs. Yarby’s footsteps on the stairs. Normally she knocked, but tonight, nearly as shaken as I, she opened the door. I was pulling my flannel chemise over my head, so I heard rather than saw her horror. At her gasp, I jerked the thick fabric over my nakedness.

  She set her candle on the bureau next to mine. It was only too obvious she’d seen my scars. She sat heavily on the chest, her head bowed and the ruffle of her matron’s cap shadowing her face. The rainy silence was so absolute that the snap of my garters sounded loudly.

  At last she said. “He did that to you, didn’t he?”

  Swallowing, I nodded.

  “So that’s what ailed you. But why didn’t you tell me the truth, child?”

  “I’m so ashamed,” I mumbled. My face burned but my fingers were icy.

  “When did he whip you?” she asked grimly.

  “He … came to get me that night … you went to … Georgetown.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” she said, and her tone was brisk again. “You can’t live at Willowood. You can’t live with him.”

  “But what alternative do I have?”

  At this a hard expression froze on her mouth. “You’ll sail aboard the Ithaca,” she said.

  “Captain Yarby already refused. He said it’s too dangerous.”

  “He’ll realize the dangers here are greater.”

  “You mustn’t tell him!” I cried. “You can’t. I’m so humiliated.”

  “Liberty, the humiliation’s not yours,” she retorted. “Now hurry up and finish your dressing.”

  In my agitation I followed her orders but continued to argue. The high, tight wool bodice of my winter frock itched as I buttoned it. “When I’m eighteen he says he’ll marry me.”

  “When you’re eighteen you’ll be free of him,” she replied. “Until then you’ll be in Le Havre with the captain’s shipping broker, Mr. Tull. He’s got a large family and he can use a sensible American girl to educate his children.”

  “Mrs. Yarby, don’t you understand? There’s no escaping Mr. Thornton. He has his Militia men stationed on your porch.”

  “That means they can’t see the back door. Hurry, child. Get your boots laced.”

  “But my things—”

  “The captain’ll bring them aboard.”

  “Father’s papers—the important ones—are tied together on top.”

  She was pulling my black cassimere cloak from its hook. “The captain’s master of his ship, but still you better tell Mr. Groeningen to hide you in the hold.” She wrapped the heavy cape about me, pulling up the hood “I’ll go down and give Amos Thornton a large piece of my mind. That should occupy him while you sneak out the back.”

  “But what about you? To help me, you’re breaking the law.”

  “Liberty, stop wasting precious time,” she snapped. Then she clutched my hands with both of hers. “Child, I meant what I told him. You’re as dear to me as my own girls.”

  I pressed my cheek to hers.

  She picked up her candle. “Wait till I’m in the parlor, then get out the back door as fast as you can.”

  I stood on the cold, dark landing, my cloak wrapped around me, watching as her candle flickered, outlining her square-lined back. She slammed the parlor door shut, and I heard her voice, muffled yet angry.

  In pitch darkness, I ran downstairs, opening the back door to cold, hard rain.

  An hour later I was hidden in the hold of the Ithaca, surrounded by roped-down hogsheads. Around me was blackness that smelled of pungent tobacco, tar and tidewater salt.

  All at once I jerked. In my haste I’d neglected to say anything to Mrs. Yarby about telling my rescuer where I had gone. Would she know to tell him I was in Le Havre if he inquired? How stupid I was not to have insist
ed on his name, I thought, and then corrected myself. Not stupid. Drugged. And then, like a cold, premonitory hand around my heart, came a question: would I ever see him or my home again?

  TWO

  Islam

  One

  Afternoon sun threw blinding mosaics of gold onto the swells of the Atlantic and I raised a hand to shelter my eyes as I gazed anxiously at the faraway speck that was a ship.

  It was November 28, exactly nine weeks since we had sailed from Washington, and thus far we had encountered none of the wartime dangers that Captain Yarby had predicted. This was the first vessel we had sighted on the high seas, and on our leg to Boston we had passed but a few American fishing boats. Our only peril had come that first night from Amos Thornton, who had demanded his men search the Ithaca. Captain Yarby hadn’t permitted them aboard. From the wharf my guardian had boomed angry threats about court orders and prosecutions. In Boston, though, we had received a letter from Mrs. Yarby: Amos Thornton came by to tell me we were guilty of wrongdoing, she wrote, but “out of deference to Professor Moore’s memory” he didn’t intend pursuing the matter. My own opinion is that his vanity dissuaded him from having gossip that Liberty ran away from him.

  Since then my problems had been a minor case of seasickness and the hot glances of the sailors—but Captain Yarby kept his crew well in line. We had had fair winds. And as each day brought us nearer to France, I had become more complacent about the smoothness of my escape.

  Captain Yarby, high overhead in the crow’s nest, held his glass steady on the tiny black shapes on the brilliant horizon. After several long minutes he clambered down, surprisingly agile for an elderly man. Wiping sea spray from his ruddy forehead, he came over to me. I felt a twinge of alarm that he wasn’t addressing Mr. Groeningen, the first mate, as he usually did.

  “Is she British?” I demanded.

  “I can’t tell. She flies no colors,” he said. “But if she is an enemy, I prefer her to be British. Liberty, I’ll not beat around the bush with you. In Boston I heard that the corsairs are again preying on our merchantmen.”

  Something clicked in my mind. My rescuer, too, had spoken of corsairs. Swallowing down the fear in my throat, I said, “But after the lesson Commodore Delaplane taught them in Tripoli, all four of the Barbary States signed treaties to respect our vessels.”

  “That was years ago. And piracy’s the main source of income to Algiers, Tunis, Morocco and Tripoli. They’re cruel captors to women.”

  “Don’t worry, she’s probably a friendly Hollander,” I said, but my voice rang false.

  “Get below, Liberty. Whatever she is, I’m going to try to outrun her.”

  The ship caught up with us during the night.

  I woke to a thunderous roar and a blazing light at my porthole. From above-deck came a confusion of shouts, orders, the thudding of many bare feet and one long, hideous scream.

  My heart hammering against my ribs, I pulled on my cloak. I was forcing open my cabin door when another round of cannon fire reverberated. The Ithaca, shuddering and groaning as if she were coming unformed to return to raw planks, listed violently.

  My legs shot out from under me. Arms flailing, I jarred against the bulkhead.

  My left wrist snapped loudly.

  Tears filled my eyes, as I cradled the injury to my breasts, sprawling until the ship righted herself to a tendegree angle. With the use of only my right hand it seemed to take me an eternity to push open the door. Then, at last, I was running through the listing, empty main cabin past the galley, up the ladder, and shoving wildly against the hatch, when both sides swung up.

  A tinge of dawn grayed the sky, but it was by a sudden blaze of orange gunfire that I saw Captain Yarby’s grimly set face.

  “Is she a corsair?” I cried.

  “She is. I was coming to warn you.”

  “Let me help fight! Reload rifles or—”

  “You’re a brave lass, Liberty,” he interrupted tersely. “But the place for you is below. Douse the lamp and lock yourself in your cabin.”

  The thought of being in that narrow, black hole ignorant of how the battle went appalled me. I was ready to argue. But a sudden plunge of the ship gave me a view of bleeding, fallen men as they grasped at ropes, masts, leather hoses, anything to prevent themselves from slipping under the rail and into the sea. I saw the corsair vessel then. A scant two hundred yards away, the tall frigate towered above the small Ithaca.

  How could I make matters worse for my godfather?

  In the galley I reached for the cleaver. I blew out the lantern—the stove had already been doused. Fire aboard ship is a sailor’s greatest fear.

  After I bolted myself in my dark little cabin, I managed to open the roped-down ship’s trunk that Mrs. Yarby had packed for me. In one corner I felt Father’s well-thumbed letters and notes. Fumbling beneath them, searching among my linen, I found a handkerchief. With fingers and teeth I pulled it tight enough to support my wrist.

  By the time I’d managed the last knot, the opaque glass of the porthole was bright with morning.

  It grew dim again as, with a mighty, shivering jolt, the corsair drew alongside.

  There were sharp cracks of musketry and wild shouts. Stories of pirate cruelty bubbled through me and I began to quake.

  Heavy boots thudded below. Bodies rammed at my door.

  I stood, grasping the cleaver under my worn cassimere cloak.

  The door fell from its hinges.

  The pirates seemed to fill the main cabin. Yet there were only three. They wore filthy pantaloons and short, sleeveless vests. Two were turbaned. The one in front with the huge belly wore a red fez.

  Their eyes raking me, they showed their teeth in a kind of smile. My flesh rose in goose bumps.

  The one with the huge belly spoke a few sentences, using a language that was incomprehensible to me. From the way the others wet their lips, it was obvious he was telling what he would do to me.

  He stepped onto the fallen door. I backed against the bulkhead.

  “Come any nearer and I’ll kill you,” I said, amazed by my strong tone.

  They obviously didn’t understand English, yet they laughed. The other two pushed the big-bellied one forward. He wore no shirt and under his vest the black-haired rolls of flesh were stained with powder and caked with dried blood. He flicked at my hair, turning momentarily to speak to his mates.

  Swiftly taking the meat cleaver from the folds of my cloak, I raised it over my head, then drove down the broad blade. How did the strength come to my injured left wrist? I don’t know.

  I aimed at his fez. The others yelled a warning. He dodged. The blade, with a thwacking jolt, buried itself in his shoulder. The force of my blow threw me off balance. Still grasping the wooden handle, I staggered. He, like a partner in some hideous dance, moved with me. In that endless heartbeat, I smelled his foul breath, felt the thud of my own pulses. And despite my terror, I experienced a hot and awful joy. In a small way I had avenged the Ithaca.

  The other two pushed into the tiny cabin, their boots splintering the fallen door. As the wounded man fell back into the bunk, pulling at the cleaver, the others dragged me into the main cabin. They stripped off my cloak and held me between them, trembling in my night shift.

  Soon the big-bellied man emerged, his vest off, my sheet tied over his shoulder and knotted under the opposite arm. He drew his cutlass from his red sash. The curved blade shone. Positive he intended to kill me, I forced myself to stand erect. As I inhaled, my breasts rose sharply. The three men gave awful, lusting groans. Slowly the cutlass descended. Steel cut through crocheting, and a sharp coldness, like ice, traveled between my breasts and down my stomach.

  My night shift parted and fell off me. My naked body exposed, they shoved me onto the nailed-down table, holding me so my legs dangled.

  The wounded man unloosed his sash, lowering his baggy pantaloons. Below the folds of his belly protruded a red, engorged spear of flesh.

  He pushed my legs apart, fi
ngering my private flesh. A loud scream like death filled the world.

  A hand clamped over my mouth. Gasping, snorting, I realized the scream had been my own.

  Suddenly the fat man was flung backward. The hands dropped from my mouth and body.

  Over me hung a different face.

  A bloodless face, all angles, as if an avaricious will had pared the flesh to the bone. There was none of the coarse brutality of my attackers. Indeed, it was the coldly proud face of a Spanish grandee. Black hair seemed painted on the narrow skull and the bony chin rose from a high, gold-braided captain’s collar. Very dark eyes examined me. Pale lips narrowed in admiring awe, then tightened with greed.

  He asked a question.

  The others babbled obsequious reassurances.

  He gestured. They held me hard against the table. His fingers entered my body. When Amos Thornton had whipped me, I had thought it the ultimate degradation. How wrong I was. It was nothing compared to this awful public probing.

  “She’s still a virgin,” he announced. This time he used pure, Castilian Spanish.

  I understood him, yet made no sign. Trembling, I kept my eyes closed.

  Two

  Footsteps sounded on the companionway from the hold.

  “Mr. Stephens,” called the Spaniard. “Come here. You said this little American brig wouldn’t be worth the powder to take her, and I want to prove how wrong you were. We have loot worth a fortune. And in prime condition, too. No thanks to these sons of dogs. Did you ever see skin so white. Legs so long and slender? Or such ripe breasts? And take a look at the face!”

  “Oh my God,” said a familiar voice in English.

  A heavy shock ran through me.

  I opened my eyes and for the first time saw by daylight the handsome face I had yearned to see again. He turned white under his tan, as if he’d just suffered a mortal wound.

  Looking up at him I was trapped in a nightmare, naked on a ship’s table, surrounded by powder-stained, lewd-eyed men, betrayed by everything including love. For what seemed an endless time, I stared up into his agonized brown eyes. Though I was no longer being held down, I couldn’t move.