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The Sugar Baron's Ring

By Lorri Dudley

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Off the Coast of Nevis, Leeward Islands, March 1829
Chapter One
If he lost his journal, he lost his future. Bradlee Miles Granville’s hand grasped thin air as the leather-bound book slipped from his fingers. His writings were his only chance to prove he wasn’t an irresponsible disgrace to his family name. The journal landed with a thud and skidded across the weathered floorboards, dangerously close to the spilt tankard of ale. Bradlee’s shoulder slammed against the ship’s rail. He winced. The hull emitted a groan followed by the crack of splintering wood. The eerie sounds raised the hair on the back of his neck and tingled his scalp, distracting him from the pain.
“Zounds!” Colin Fitzroy pushed himself up from off the deck and frowned at the black stripe from the contents of Bradlee’s inkwell, now staining his white muslin shirt. Whether his impeccably groomed Gand Tour companion and valet swore due to the ship hitting bottom or over his ruined shirt was still to be determined.
The scraping of the ship’s bottom as it ground against what must have been a coral reef held the same pitch as fingernails down slate and continued for almost a full minute. The stench of ale and rum wafted under his nose, blending with the briny air. Inebriated sailors cursed as the contents of their tankards puddled about their feet. The billowing white sails deflated, and the familiar whistling of the wind ceased along with any forward progression.
The ship could merely be stranded on a reef, or it could be capsizing.
Blood surged through Bradlee’s veins, quickening his pulse. He hooked Colin under his arm, dragging him to a stand.
Colin’s eyes widened. “The ship didn’t just… Please tell me…” He raked a hand through his windblown hair and groaned.
The contents of the spilt tankard ran down a seam in the planks toward Bradlee’s journal. He snatched it up and examined the pages to make certain the ink hadn’t smeared, breathing a sigh of relief when his research notes from his travels appeared unaffected. He slid it into his knapsack for protection.
“Sink me!” The captain cussed from the helm. He fumbled with his hat and plopped it back on his head. It fell over one eye. With his other hand, he wiped his drink off the front of his shirt. “We’vee run-agrounds.” The captain slurred his commands, “Goeth below tah see if her keel hasth been breached.” He grabbed the first mate’s lapel and shook him, but in his foxed state, lost his balance and toppled the crewman in the process.
The panicked screams of the crew and passengers permeated the deck like a gale of wind. In the chaos, the crew bumped into one another. A couple of drunken sailors sprawled on the deck snorted and tipped back the last of their bottles, while the halfway-sober men clambered to their posts on unsteady feet.
Colin’s face paled whiter than the sails. “The ship is sinking, and the captain and crew are as drunk as wheelbarrows.” His fingers dug into Bradlee’s forearm. “We’re going to die.”
“No, we’re not. Look.” He pointed to the dark shape on the horizon and speckled lights. “We’re in sight of land. We can always swim for it.”
“It could be ten miles away.”
“Try to be positive.”
“Fine.” Colin stared at the melee ensuing on deck. “I’m positive we’re going to die.”
Bradlee looped the strap of his satchel over his head and shoulder. “Stay here.
I’ll be right back.” He raced below deck to gather their belongings from the cabin. He couldn’t afford to leave behind another one of his journals. They were his only hope of graduating, and he was not about to let it sink with the ship.
The ship groaned and tilted toward the port side. Bradlee grabbed hold of the rail to keep from missing the stairwell. Men spilled out of the hold and crew’s quarters, pouring onto the deck. Bradlee pressed against the wall to squeeze by the outflow of people.
“We’re taking on water, captain!” a sailor yelled.
Sure enough, below deck, an inch already filled the hold. The stamping of running feet splashed through the water. Bradlee pushed through the narrow passage. Men brushed against him, knocking him back a few steps. He reached his cabin door and slid into the room as the ship tilted further.
Hurry!
He grabbed his journals from his bunk, a few spare changes of clothes from the dresser, and his meager change purse from under the mattress, and stuffed it all into his knapsack. A piercing whine followed by a loud crack split the air. Bradlee slipped on the wet floor, whacking his head on the hanging oil lamp. He grunted and grasped the writing desk for support. His textbook on agricultural studies glared at him—a reminder of his father’s expectations.
Confound it.
He stuffed the book into his satchel and climbed uphill out of his cabin. Fewer men filled the passage. The ocean trickled in through the cracks and seams like the Grecian fountains he’d seen in on the Continent. The water now sloshed halfway up his boots. He turned the corner and mounted the stairs leading above deck.
“Help!”
He froze.
“Please, sir. I don’t want ta drown.”
The voice called from the galley. Bradlee turned. The elderly cook clung to the pot rack, across the splintered deck, unable to pull his weight up the steep incline.
Feet pounded above deck, and flashes of people passed by the opening of the hold, but no one heard the man’s cries.
“Help!”
Bradlee picked his way over the cracked boards. The wood scraped against his boots and breeches. He grabbed hold of a beam and leaned over as far as he could. “Give me your hand.”
The man stretched but couldn’t reach.
Bradlee scanned the area for a rope or something to grab hold. Rations and utensils lay strewn about the floor, but nothing useful for aiding the trapped cook. Bradlee blew air past his lips. A loud groan echoed through the empty hold. The gap between them widened.
“Colin!” Bradlee yelled up the stairs.
No response.
His hand rested on the strap of his bag. He glanced down. It might work.
He unlooped his knapsack from around his head and shoulder and dangled the strap down to the man.
An inch short.
“Colin! Get down here this minute!”
After a long pause, Colin’s face peered into the stairwell. “You told me to stay put.”
“Since when have you started heeding me? Get down here. I need you.”
He glanced back towards the upper deck. “We’ll lose our place in the lifeboat.”
“Dash it all. We’ll be fine. Get over here.”
Colin clamored down the stairs, grumbling under his breath.
“Grab the beam and lean me out.” Bradlee locked arms with Colin and swung over the splintered boards. Beneath the rift, crated cargo floated in the ship’s hold. “Take my hand.”
The cook clutched Bradlee’s outstretched palm.
“Hold fast.” Sweat broke out across Bradlee’s forehead. He strained with all his might and heaved the man over the divide. The cook didn’t waste time thanking him, merely dashed up the steps. Bradlee and Colin followed in his wake.
“I’d heard being a hero was a thankless job,” Colin hissed in Bradlee’s direction.
His companion’s aptitude for sarcasm didn’t change even in a crisis.
They chased the cook up the stairs. Bedlam had erupted on the top deck as men pushed and shoved to claim a spot in the few remaining dinghies.
“Stay close.” Bradlee pried away from the crowd and found a spot near the rail. A warm breeze flapped the loose sails. He sucked in a deep breath and blew it out past his lips. Stars twinkled brightly in the night sky and stood in stark contrast against the pandemonium that surrounded him on deck. The moon reflected off the water, shimmering in the rise and fall of the waves. Lights shone in the distance, a beacon of hope. “That must be one of the Leeward Islands. I knew we had to be close.”
Bradlee searched the deck. “Here.” He grabbed a small barrel full of rum and opened the stint. The golden liquid spilled over the wooden boards, wafting the scent of spiced vanilla through the air.
“What do you plan to do?” Colin snorted. “Toast to our demise?”
Bradlee ignored him. “Use this or anything else you can find to help you float.”
The stream lessened, and Colin closed the stint. “Can’t hurt to save some. After all this, I might need it.”
“If we have to jump…” Bradlee gripped Colin’s shirt near the collar and locked gazes. “Swim as fast and far as you can away from the ship. The suction might pull us under.”
Colin nodded, and they both turned toward the rail. The sea seemed calm compared to the mayhem on board. One dinghy rowed toward land with slow, steady strokes.
“You realize this is your fault.” Colin didn’t look in his direction.
“My fault?” Bradlee’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t blame me for the captain dipping too deep and running the ship aground.”
“It’s your spirit of adventure that keeps getting us into these messes. Before this, I lived a peaceful life as a humble Servitor at Oxford.”
“You hated serving the professors and other students. You complained about dull discussions regarding the crop rotation of turnips. I saved you from boredom.”
“Indeed, and you have excelled to an extreme. There is no time to be bored when you’re caught in the middle of a Spanish bar fight, dodging Indian arrows, or clinging to a sinking ship.”
Off the starboard side, the dinghy heavy with passengers tipped and plummeted its occupants into the black water below. The zip of the line hissed as it flew through the winch, and the rowboat toppled after them. Another loud groan reverberated the boards beneath their feet.
“Grab hold—” Bradlee’s boots slid as half of the ship upon which they stood pitched forward, dipping its bow into the ocean.
He gripped a metal cleat bolted into the decking. His satchel dangled in the air and bumped against his side. Colin clung to a rail post with one hand and the rum barrel with the other. Below them, men splashed in the water, stirring up white foam at the bow. Grown men screamed like children as the dark water swallowed them whole. Others grabbed hold of barrels or masts as lifelines. This couldn’t be the end. What about his family? Would they remember him only as their foolhardy son?
God, get me through this. I promise I’ll go back and take my final exam—even if it kills me. I need to redeem myself in my father’s eyes before I die.
Bradlee adjusted his grip to ease the ache in his fingers. His strength waned. He couldn’t keep hold much longer.
Colin released the rum barrel to grasp the rail with both hands. It rolled down the steep slope of the deck, splashed into the water, and submerged. A second later, it bobbed in the waves.
A blood-curdling scream howled above the wails of the drowning men. A man frantically slapped the water. His scream muffled into a gurgle. A moment later, he disappeared.
An eerie hush fell over the water.
“Shark!”
***
Hannah Rose Barrington ducked out her bedroom window into the humid night air. Her Uncle Reuben’s rantings pounded her ears. Miss Albina Craft’s screeching fury followed. Hannah cringed. The bickering between her uncle and his frequent guest had, as of late, exploded in full out battles. Their tension permeated the house easily spilling under Hannah’s door and stirring her sleep.
She inhaled the salty air and the sweet smell of molasses drifting on the light breeze from the neighbor’s boiling houses. Her feet knew the path down to the beach by heart. Small crabs raised their pinchers but posed no real threat. They darted into their holes before she passed by.
She crawled into her favorite spot, her uncle’s overturned rowboat, careful not to obtain splinters from the weathered underside. Flakes of peeling paint poked at her skin as she tucked her skirt under her feet. The warm night hadn’t allowed the sand to cool completely from the scorching heat of the day. The ocean breeze played with her hair, and the rhythmic breaking of waves washed the day’s tension away.
It’s unsafe for a lone woman to be wandering the island at night. Lady Clark, the reverend’s wife, warned after she mentioned slipping out in the evenings to escape her guardian’s quarrels.
Hannah glanced over her shoulder back at the house. The silhouette of Uncle Reuben tossing back the last of the rum shown in the lighted window.
She released a sigh and turned back to the tranquil ocean. Was it evil to find comfort in something that took everything from her? Twelve years next month. She swallowed against the lump that still formed in her throat. That’s how long it had been since the sea stole her parents. Her hand moved to her chest and fumbled for the gold ring that lay hidden under her gown—her father’s ring.
An unsettling sound drifted across the waves raising the fine hair on the back of her neck.
A ship sailed into the harbor. Its white sails illuminated by the moonlight. It was not an uncommon sight, but most ships came in on a different angle to avoid the coral reefs. Cheers, or shouts, split the air. The crew must be having a boisterous night, or perhaps they were celebrating reaching their destination.
Strange. It didn’t appear to be moving.
She rose onto her knees and squinted at the black outline of the ship. It seemed to bend in half. She blinked to clear her vision, but the masts continued to tip in opposites directions.
Her heart stilled, and her veins turned to ice.
Merciful heavens.
The ship was breaking in half. Those weren’t cheers. They were screams.
She scrambled down to the sand and pressed her hands against her ears to block the sound. Bile rose into her throat, strangling out her breath as she was drawn back to her six-year-old self, the night she’d run away from her nursemaid as the squall hit. The sailboat her parents had navigated toward the Isle of St. Kitts had been much smaller than this ship, and it sank fast, faster than any fishing boats could get there.
She had stood on the shore, screaming for her mama and papa, while they drown.
Hannah plunged her fingers into the sand, grasped the edge of the rowboat, and heaved it over. With a strength she didn’t seem capable of on her own, she dragged the dingy to the ocean’s edge.
This time, she wouldn’t be helpless.

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