Chapter 29 #2
Sergeant Ames came to life. “I’ll speak with Captain Lewis,” he said. “We need every doctor we can get.”
Harvey smiled wanly at Virginia. She smiled back and squeezed his hand.
He said, “What are you doing here, Miss Hughes?”
She was grim. “It is Mrs. O’Neill now, Mr. Harvey.”
His eyes widened in real surprise. Then he shook his head, smiling just a little. “And so it all begins to make sense. I had never seen Devlin so agitated, not by anyone or anything, as he was by you.”
She gripped his hand with her free one. “Have you see Devlin? I heard he was shot! I am desperately trying to find him—I am praying he is alive.” And she inhaled hard, seeking to keep hold of the last shreds of her composure.
Harvey hesitated.
And Virginia saw from his eyes that he knew something. “What is it! What is it that you know and are afraid to tell me?”
“I heard he was arrested, Virginia. Arrested by Admiral Cockburn himself. Apparently he went berserk and killed his own troops.” Harvey winced. “It makes no sense and obviously cannot be true, but that is the rumor around here.”
“He’s been arrested?” she gasped, though she rejoiced because he was alive. “Where would they send him? Where would he be?”
“I heard he’s in the brig—on the Defiance,” Jack Harvey said.
“I’m afraid you’ll live, Captain,” Paul White, his ship’s most recent surgeon, grinned.
Devlin was shirtless, seated on the narrow pallet behind bars in the tiny cell that was his own brig.
White had just finished bandaging his right shoulder, which hurt like hell, but he did not give a damn.
He knew the wound was not a serious one.
Fortunately, his senses honed by a dozen years of battle, he had felt the attacker behind him and had turned just in time.
If he had not, he would now be dead, murdered by Tom Hughes.
He knew with every fiber of his being that Hughes had followed him to this war to assassinate him. He did not care.
Because this last battle had reduced his life to one thing, and one thing only: his wife.
He kept seeing Virginia as she turned the corner and came face-to-face with him, her visage pale with exhaustion and marred with blood, her eyes huge with fear, the fear of a hunted animal.
He kept seeing her as she aimed her musket at him, her hands shaking wildly.
He kept seeing her as she was assaulted by those soldiers, her belly swollen with his child.
And even now, the memory was enough to terrify him.
If he lost her, he could not bear it. If he lost her, he knew he would never recover from his grief.
Once, long ago, powerless and afraid, he had watched the redcoats murder his father.
Yesterday he had seen Virginia being assaulted by the British marines, and for one moment, it had been as if he were a child of ten again.
For one moment, the fear and horror had unmanned him and he had been powerless again, watching the woman he loved being assaulted, about to be raped and slain.
But the paralysis gripping him had only been for an instant—because he was not that ten-year-old boy anymore: he was a powerful man, a captain and commander.
And then the rage had come, a rage that knew no bounds.
To save Virginia, he would have murdered every redcoat in Hampton if that was what had to be done.
Devlin closed his eyes, trembling. But Virginia had not been raped, she had not been slain, and dear God, no man had been as foolish as he had been.
He had sacrificed her love and their marriage for his damned revenge.
He had given thanks to a God he had stopped praying to long ago a hundred times in the past twenty-four hours, and he could not be grateful enough that Virginia was alive.
Before he had been arrested, he had seen Frank and Tillie carry her safely away.
He cradled his face in his hands. He desperately needed his wife. He needed her forgiveness and he needed her love and this last battle had shown him that.
His life had been one of death and hate. No more. He was choosing joy and love—if Virginia would forgive him and take him back.
“Do you want some grog for the pain, sir?”
Devlin looked at the ship’s surgeon. There was so much pain, but it was in his heart, and he knew the grog would not ease it. Only Virginia could ease it, if she agreed to return to him, if she could forgive him and if she would love him again, just a little. “No.”
A movement sounded. It was the hatch being opened.
Both men watched as a pair of very shiny boots came into view, descending the ladder, followed by short thighs encased in bright white britches, a blue jacket, gold buttons, numerous medals and two gold epaulets.
Admiral Cockburn faced Devlin and Paul White, as a junior officer descended behind him. It was Thomas Hughes.
Devlin looked at Eastleigh’s son and with some surprise realized that he felt no anger, no rage. He felt nothing at all except an odd indifference—and the intense urge to find his wife.
“How’s Devlin?” Cockburn asked White.
“Got a real sore shoulder, sir, and a right fine lump on the head, but he should be able to resume duties in a few days. I mean, if he weren’t in the brig,” White amended, flushing.
Devlin slowly stood, reaching for his bloodstained shirt, aware of everyone’s eyes upon him. How odd this indifference was, how odd and such a relief. Finally, he was done.
And he felt himself smile as he turned to face Cockburn and Hughes, buttoning up his shirt. He was choosing joy and love.
As Devlin turned, he happened to glance at Hughes. The man’s hostile eyes widened in confusion and surprise when their gazes met. Devlin looked away. He was impatient now to get on with his life, but he had some loose ends to tidy up—he owed Virginia and their unborn child that.
“Release him,” Cockburn said.
“But, sir,” Hughes began in protest. “He murdered British troops!”
Devlin said not a word as he stepped out of the cell, followed by White.
“We’ll speak on deck,” Cockburn said firmly, turning and going aloft first. Ignoring Hughes, who stared, Devlin followed the admiral up to the main deck, where the breeze was gentle, the seas soft, the skies bright and blue. In fact, they had never been brighter or bluer.
He smiled and in his mind’s eye he saw Virginia, her expression bright, forgiving him, wanting him, and his heart quickened.
Devlin quickly took in his surroundings.
He instantly recognized where they were—just outside the mouth of the Chesapeake, perhaps a mile from the Virginia shore.
The day looked to remain pleasant and he did not feel any stronger wind coming.
He saw they were tacking south at three or four knots.
He could be at Sweet Briar within two hours. He could not wait.
“I am being released?” he asked as Tom Hughes joined them.
“Yes, you are. Unfortunate events occur in battle, my boy, and I’ll be damned if I am losing my best captain over some bloody frogs. Besides, any man would have acted as you did to protect his wife.”
Hughes seemed to choke.
“It was a stunning triumph,” the admiral continued. “I will make full reference to the part played by your marines and the Defiance. A good job, Captain, a very good job, indeed.” Cockburn smiled at him.
Devlin did not want to discuss the terrible battle of Hampton. He chafed to leave. Instead, he faced his commanding officer. “I am resigning my commission, Admiral.”
Cockburn gaped. So did Tom Hughes at his side. “What?” the admiral cried.
Devlin smiled. “I do believe you heard me,” he said. “Excuse me. I am going home.” Leaving both men staring in disbelief, he strode to his cabin, something light and joyful unfurling in his chest, like a ready sail in a fresh breeze.
He knew nothing about joy and love but surely Virginia could teach him. For she knew enough about those things for the both of them.
And he laughed.
Then, still smiling, he sat and quickly penned the resignation, blew it dry and folded it, then sealed it with wax. He returned to the deck outside, handing the notice of his resignation to Cockburn. “I would recommend turning the command of the Defiance over to Red Barlow,” he said.
Cockburn was livid. “If I didn’t know better, I would call you a coward, sir.” He signaled his men, indicating that he wished to be taken to his flagship, stalking off.
Devlin shrugged, not perturbed. Then he turned and faced an incredulous Tom Hughes. “I have something for you,” he said mildly.
“Is this a trick? If so, it is exceedingly clever,” Hughes accused, stiff with alarm and watching Devlin’s hands as if he expected to be assaulted with a dagger.
“My tricks are done. The game is over,” Devlin said, “and I am wasting time. Here.” He handed another parchment to Hughes, written while in the brig earlier that day.
Hughes was wary. “What is this?”
“A deed,” Devlin said, and took a deep breath of the sweet Virginia air. It felt different, tasted different, smelled different—it was somehow clean and fresh.
“I have no use for Sweet Briar!”
“The deed is to Waverly Hall. I don’t want it. It’s yours.”
Hughes gaped.
Devlin gestured to a seaman who came running. “I am going ashore,” he said. “Prepare a dinghy.” And his heart raced as he thought of seeing Virginia again.
“Aye, sir!” The sailor ran off, barking orders.
“You are returning Waverly Hall to us?” Hughes had followed him to the railing of the ship. He was clearly in disbelief.
“Yes, I am.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It doesn’t matter.” He stared at the sandy beach and the forest beyond, thinking of Virginia again.
“It matters!” Tom Hughes cried. Then he lowered his voice.
“My father murdered your father. You have committed your entire life to revenge. You have stolen our home, bedded my stepmother, made a mistress out of my cousin, beaten me to a near pulp and I almost murdered you the other day! So it does matter!”