Rhys strode into the hut and set the crate on the table. At first glance, his home did not seem to be in disarray and everything was how he had left it, except the long table had been turned with the benches on either side adjusted. It did allow for more room to move about, not that he would comment on that fact.
He retreated to the terrasse. “When did you get here?”
“Last evening. I was told we would find shelter here. I assumed the captain meant the hut. He probably did not know anyone was living in it.”
“What Captain? What boat?”
“Captain Jonathan Goodard of the Francis,” she answered.
Rhys tried not to react to the name. However, Goodard knew damn well that he was here.
“Why did he leave you here and when is he coming back?”
“He will not be back.”
“Why not?”
“His boat was sunk by the French.”
That was the very ship and captain that he used when messages and dispatches needed to be sent and received.
“You were on his ship?” Rhys asked. Why did Goodard have passengers? His ship was a merchant cutter owned by Mr. Philip Chandler of Barbados, and both were part of the network that shared information between the Royal Navy and spies on the remaining French-controlled islands in the Caribbean.
“He was returning me and my sisters to our home in Dominica. We had just spent the Christmas Holiday with my uncle on my mother’s side.”
“Who is this uncle?”
Rhys already suspected the name but needed to hear it from her lips.
She looked him up and down then sniffed and tilted her nose as if dismissing him. “I do not see why that is a concern.” He’d been treated similarly in ballrooms in London and it hadn’t bothered him there and it certainly did not now because Rhys was long past caring what anyone thought of him.
“I like details,” Rhys grumbled. “What is his name?” he demanded.
“Philip Chandler.”
Chandler was the first man Rhys had met when he arrived in the Caribbean. It was the man Lionston had sent him to with a letter of introduction. It was Chandler who explained how the British network of espionage operated in the Caribbean, where he would be sent and his duties and purpose, which Rhys had already been told by Lionston. It had been Goodard who captained the ship that had delivered him to Martinique and acted as the transport for dispatches. A sailor named Cornelius was the one who rowed to and from the island for those exchanges of information.
If the boat sank, how long would it be before Chandler or anyone else realized the loss. Goodard’s ship had been scheduled to arrive here tonight or tomorrow evening. It would likely be another two before the Royal Navy expected his coded message to arrive. Then it was only a matter of time, which could be days, before they discovered what had happened to the ship.
“Did anyone else survive?”
“No.”
“Then how did you get here?” He found it difficult to believe that a seasoned captain and crew went down with a ship but a woman and children survived.
“We were put on the ship’s boat by the first mate, Cornelius, and he rowed us ashore.”
“Where is this Cornelius now?” Rhys demanded and worded in a manner that gave nothing away that he already knew the man.
“Dead,” one of the little girls answered.
His stomach tightened and he was deeply saddened by the loss, but Rhys kept his features schooled as if names meant nothing to him.
“We buried him over there.” Another girl pointed to the forest.
“Very well, who are you?” he asked with resignation since he was going to be stuck with them for a short time at the very least. He could only hope that Chandler quickly realized that something had gone terribly wrong and came searching for the females to take them away from here.
“Who are you?” she countered the demand.
