The Saintly Buccaneer (14 page)

“I agree. We’ll set all sail and make for port. You may give
the orders as soon as the wind picks up. I’ll have Lieutenant Langley plot the course.”

“Aye, sir.” Burns was somewhat embarrassed, for he was a poor navigator, though excellent in every other aspect of seamanship. He spoke up hurriedly to cover his shame. “The men will have a heart for it.”

“How’s that man doing—Hawke?”

“Not bad, Captain. He’s vurry strong an’ healthy. Whitefield say’s he’s a first-class hand with the gun.”

“Keep an eye on him,” Rommey suggested, then left the deck to Burns. He thought sourly as he went wearily to his cabin:
And if you don’t have time to keep an eye on him, Burns, my daughter will take care of the duty!

The captain was not wrong, for at the same time that he was speaking with Burns on the forecastle deck, Blanche and Hawke were sitting at the small table in the galley. The men were in their hammocks, exhausted from the day’s taxing drill, and Hans, the cook, had watched the pair furtively as he made dough for bread. He was a gossip, as most ship’s cooks were, but the couple spoke so quietly that he was unable to hear. As he finally left the galley and went to bed, he was thinking up ways to improve on the telling of the thing—the captain’s daughter and the strange man called Hawke who didn’t even have his own name. He licked his lips and thought of how he could report their being alone in the galley, sitting
very
close indeed ... and so his fertile imagination built on the incident until he dropped off to sleep.

Blanche looked up as the cook left. “I think he suspects us.”

“Suspects us of what?”

The question took the girl off guard—as Hawke’s remarks often did, and she colored slightly, an unusual thing for Blanche Rommey!

“Why, he suspects us of—of being—” She broke off, unable to meet his steady, inquiring gaze. “You know, Hawke.”

“No.”

The stark simplicity of his remark and the clear, dark eyes
looking directly into hers made her give an uncertain laugh. “You are a difficult man to talk to!”

“I am?”

“Yes. Any other man in the world would have known
exactly
what the cook suspects. But you really don’t know, do you?”

“No.”

“No!” she mocked him, then leaned forward and tapped her finger against her chin, studying him as if he were some exotic specimen. She had done that a great deal for the past three weeks, and there was still an excitement in it that she could not explain. He was an enigma to her, of course, as he was to all, even to himself, and she was fascinated by what she was constantly finding out about him.

Things he didn’t know himself came to light as they sat for hours in the dimly lit galley. She’d discovered that he knew the names of the newest fashions, exotic foods, a little about French dances and manners, though he spoke no French. He was not a common man, she had discovered quickly.

He had grown well and strong, she saw, staring at him directly. His face was reddish with a slight sunburn, which was evening out to a golden tan. The work he’d done with the ropes and the tackle of the ship had roughened his hands, but they were well-shaped, not the hands of a laboring man.

“What would Hans be suspicious of, Miss Rommey?” he asked when she did not respond.

“Oh, Hawke, he’s thinking it’s not right for a man and a woman to be alone like this.”

“Why not?”

“Because they might—do things they shouldn’t,” she answered with some discomfort in her face.

“What things?”

Impulsively she shook her heavy hair in an extremely feminine gesture, and quickly put her hand on his arm and squeezed it, feeling the steely muscle beneath the thin cotton
shirt. “Why, most men would try to kiss me if they were here alone with me.”

He thought about that, and she watched his face carefully, wondering at the openness in his eyes. That, she knew, was what fascinated her. She had tried to explain the man’s innocent behavior to her mother in answer to the charge that she was spending too much time with a deckhand. “Oh, Mother, he’s not a deckhand—he’s not anything. At least, no one
knows
what he is. He doesn’t know himself. He’s like a baby, really. Most people put on a mask, try to be somebody else. But Hawke doesn’t even know enough to do that. He’s the only person I’m aware of who doesn’t have anything to cover up—or who doesn’t
know
anything he has to hide.”

Her mother had been totally bewildered, but now as Blanche sat there with her hand on his arm, she knew that part of the thrill of being with Hawke was his extreme attractiveness, and part of it was the excitement of discovery—finding out who he was. But, at the same time, she knew that once she had found out his identity, he would not be nearly so interesting.

She looked at him, a glint in her eyes. “We’ve talked about so many things, but we’ve never talked about women.”

He flashed her a smile and said with the trace of humor that sometimes burst from him, “I don’t know anything about women—just about you. You’re the only woman I know, Miss Rommey.”

“Now that’s fascinating! All men say the same thing!”

“What do they say?”

“Oh, they all say ‘I love only you!’ ”

“And they don’t mean it?”

“No. Certainly not.”

“Why do they say it then?”

“Why—!”

She halted, and he said frankly, “You’re the only woman I love.”

She gasped and then shook her head. “You are a danger, Hawke. It would be unsafe to let you go into society.”

“A danger?”

“Yes. Either you’d charm the ladies out of their virtue with your point-blank simplicity—or you’d get snared by some hussy—or you’d marry a widow with six children because you felt sorry for her!” The last amused her and she laughed until the tears ran down her face.

Hawke rarely laughed, but he smiled as he watched her. His body had healed, but he felt incomplete, and for this reason said practically nothing to anyone but Blanche and Whitefield. Those two he felt safe with, for they never probed at him unkindly as a few of the crew had tried to do.

He sat there relaxed, trusting the woman, and submitting to her questions, for they were kind. Finally she rose and he got up with her. “I hate to go to bed. I always hate to go to bed.”

“Why is that?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Afraid I’ll miss something.”

“But nothing happens at night. Everybody’s asleep.”

She could never get used to the absolute simplicity of his mind, and she smiled, coming closer to him. “I know,” she stated, hating to leave. The ship swayed slightly, bringing her mind back to why she was on board. “Wind is picking up. Father told me we’ll be in the Indies in a few days with a good breeze.”

“Will you be glad?”

“No. It’ll be boring.” She stirred restlessly, and added, “I won’t be able to see you. The ship will sail in a few days.” She waited for him to ask where, and when he didn’t, she questioned, “Don’t you want to know where you’re going?”

“No. Places are all alike to me,” he answered quietly.

“One of them isn’t! Your home.”

“I—can’t remember it.”

A thought struck her and she voiced it, looking carefully at him. “You may be married.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and then replied with one of his small smiles, “I don’t
feel
married.”

The statement pleased her, but there was a light of speculation in her eyes. The ship was still except for the creaking of timbers, and impulsively she turned fully to him and asked a little breathlessly, “Do you know what a kiss is?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him, then put her hands up and drew his head down, kissing him full on the mouth. She held him there, and was not displeased to feel his arms go around her waist. But as he pulled her closer she drew away. Looking at him with a smile, she remarked, “You are very proficient in that area, Hawke. I think you must have had practice.”

He stood there, a look of sadness in his eyes. “I can’t say, Miss Rommey.”

The hurt she saw pulled at her and she was sorry she had teased him. “Forgive me, Hawke. My father says I like to play with people as if they were toys. I hope you don’t think I’ve done that with you.”

“No. If you hadn’t helped me, I couldn’t have borne it.”

“What’s it
like?
Can you tell me?” All of a sudden she found herself filled with compassion, a rare emotion for Blanche, and she waited expectantly.

“It’s—like being in a large room with all sorts of objects. I see them and I know what they’re for—but I don’t know how I know. And when I’m alone, in my hammock, I have bad dreams—or not dreams, really, but thoughts that come as I lie there in the darkness.”

He paused and she whispered, “What do you dream?”

“Faces—all sorts of faces. People I don’t know—but who seem to know me. And sometimes it’s—scenes, like in a play. I seem to be in the play and I’m doing things—sometimes just simple things like eating a meal with someone. Sometimes
doing something I don’t even understand—that seems to make no sense.”

He had grown pale, and she realized that beneath the even demeanor of Hawke, there was a frightening void, and she longed to comfort him. “It’ll come to you, Hawke,” she murmured, putting her arms around him. This time she did not kiss him, but held him as he stood there with an emptiness in his eyes. Then she drew back and said, “Good night. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Miss Rommey.”

After she had left, he went to the crew’s quarters. A single candle threw a feeble yellow beam over the swaying hammocks, and he slipped quietly into his, not knowing that more than one set of eyes marked his progress. He lay there quietly, and for once slipped into a deep sleep, not awakening until the sun piped all hands up.

Whitefield had already risen and was gone, but a few of the hands still there spoke to Hawke as they began to pull their clothes on and stow their hammocks. As he left the cabin, he was abruptly caught by a strong hand and whirled about to look into the face of a tall, strongly built man with jet black hair and eyes to match—Dion Sullivan, an Irishman. He was the carpenter and also part of a gun crew. Hawke had been aware that the man was considered a bully. Sullivan had whipped one man badly, one of the new pressed men; and most of the crew suffered his bluster, fearing his powerful fists. He was a crony of the cooper, Grimes, and Hawke saw that the spider-like man was standing beside Sullivan, an ugly gleam in his beady eyes.

“Well, looky wot we got, Mates,” Sullivan yelled. “A real ladies’ man, that’s what we got!” He did not notice that Pickens, a foretopman, had slipped out of the door. The Irishman continued holding Hawke in an iron grip, an unpleasant smile on his lips. “Now, wot I says is, when a fellow has himself a woman friend as purty as that there captain’s daughter, why
he owes it to his mates to give some details! Now that ain’t askin’ too much, is it?”

“Too right, Sullivan!” Grimes moved to block the way when Hawke would have pushed by the Irishman. “You’ve been cuddlin’ up to that gel fer weeks now. Come on, wot’s it like, eh?”

Hawke stared at the pair, confused, and several servile followers of Grimes began to join in, yelping like dogs.

Hawke pulled free from Sullivan’s grip—and the ease with which he did it both surprised and angered the carpenter. “I have to be at my station,” he said quietly, and would have gone through the door but Sullivan caught a wink from Grimes. He made a leap and threw a blow that caught the smaller man between the shoulder blades with such force that Hawke was driven against the bulkhead with a crash. Sullivan cried, “You ain’t learned ’ow to act to yer betters, lubber!”

He threw a punch that caught Hawke high on the forehead and knocked him to the floor. A small protest went up from one or two of the hands, but Grimes cried, “Shut yer face!” and Sullivan pulled the smaller man to his feet and began to strike him in the face and body with hard, driving blows. Hawke held his hands up to protect his face, but made no attempt to strike back, which pleased and infuriated Sullivan.

“Look at the rat!” he cried with a twisted grin. “Won’t even put his hands up!”

He began to strike again, but at that moment Whitefield came flying through the door with a marlin spike in his hand. He took a swing and knocked Sullivan to the floor with one fierce blow, dropping the spike in the process. Quick as a flash Grimes reached out one arm, plucked the spike, and proceeded to beat Whitefield to the deck with it. Grimes would have killed him, but Lieutenant Langley shot in, shouting, “Blast you, Grimes! Drop that spike!”

That was the end of the fight, but it was not the end of the matter itself. Langley was in a fit of rage, and he reported to
the captain instantly. Rommey stared at him and said, “I’ll have the lot flogged!”

Immediately Langley lost his anger, saying, “Oh no, sir, that would be too severe!”

Burns had come along with the first lieutenant, and he agreed. “It would nae be a guid thing to blow this up, Captain. The men will fight, an’ that’s all there is to it.”

Rommey was angry, but allowed himself to be pacified. He said impatiently, “Well, take care of it. If it happens again, we’ll see what a taste of the cat will do.” Then he had a thought. “One of them was Hawke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll see the man in my cabin.”

As the two officers walked away, Langley told Burns, “I’ll work the tallow off Grimes and Sullivan. You send Hawke to the captain.”

Ten minutes later Rommey opened the door at the sound of a knock, and found the seaman there. “Seaman Hawke reporting, sir,” he stated, well schooled by Whitefield.

“Yes.” Rommey beckoned impatiently and went back to sit at his desk. He stared at the sailor with a hard glance, noting the livid bruises on his face. When there was no response, he continued. “I understand there was a fight and you were involved, Hawke.”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Rommey waited for an excuse, but none came, so he probed further. “I’m aware of your misfortune, Hawke, and am inclined to believe that you are innocent.” He waited to be thanked, but Hawke simply stood there, his eyes alert but revealing nothing.