The Saintly Buccaneer (15 page)

“I want to ask you—”

The door suddenly opened and Rommey turned angrily to find Blanche coming in with an innocent look on her face. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Father, but Mother wants me to get a book for her.”

He knew instantly that was a lie, for his wife read practically
nothing. She had come, he knew, because she was fascinated by the man Hawke. Going to the bookcase, she looked over the books, took one, then stood there. “Good morning, Hawke,” she nodded.

“I would appreciate it if you would take the book to your mother, Blanche. I need to talk to this man.”

“Perhaps I can help.” She sat down, settled herself firmly and added with a disarming smile, “Hawke and I have spent some time together, and I believe I understand more of his problem than anyone else.”

She would not be budged by anything less than a charge of gun powder, Rommey saw. And not willing to give her the satisfaction of an argument, he gave in. “Very well. Stay if you must, but remain silent!”

“Certainly, Father. Anything you say.”

He gritted his teeth at the over-sweet reply and turned to ask, “You remember nothing, Hawke—not even your name?”

“No, sir.”

Puzzled, Rommey began to inquire further, asking technical questions about ships and the sea. Hawke answered them slowly and with great care, and finally Rommey stated, “You can answer all my questions about the tackle of ships—except for arms, and you even know a smattering of that.”

“I’ve learned all that from Whitefield, sir,” Hawke responded. “He’s taught me that since I ... came on the ship.”

“I see,” Rommey nodded slowly. “That means, of course, that you’ve done considerable sailing—but not on a warship.”

“Yes, sir. That’s what Whitefield decided.”

Captain Rommey caught a smile on Blanche’s face and flushed, for he knew what she was thinking:
A lowly seaman—but he found out as much as the captain!
It flustered him, and he continued his inquiry but could find no pattern.

Finally he remarked, “Well, Hawke, I don’t know what you
were
—but I know what you are now. You’re a seaman aboard the frigate
Neptune,
and I will expect you to do your duty.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Rommey was caught off guard by the quick, respectful answer, and he turned and walked to the window. He stood there silently staring out. After a few minutes he spoke as he continued to gaze at the waves and the sky. “England is on the brink of a war, and it is ships like this one that will save her. It always comes to that—the navy is England’s strength.”

He began to pace the floor, forgetting momentarily the pair who were watching. His next words were intense. “The politicians and the merchants and the public—they all want peace. Good for business!” he snorted. “But they’ll not get peace. Never! Then when war comes, they start to cry for the soldier and the sailor!” He shrugged and went on, “We’d all like peace, but when war comes, what good is a man of peace? That’s when we need men of war. Let me see, there’s a blasted good line about that ...” He paused and tugged at his ear, staring at his books. “What is it? Something about a tiger! Imitate a tiger? No, that’s not right. What
is
it?”

Suddenly Hawke quoted:

Captain Rommey stared dumbfounded at Hawke, shot a startled glance at Blanche, then back to Hawke. “Do you know that line? Who said it?”

Hawke closed his eyes, thought for a moment, his brow wrinkled. “I believe,” he replied, “it was Henry V, wasn’t it, Captain?”

“By Harry, that’s the piece!” Amazed, he burst into laughter, saying, “A scholar in our midst! And I need gunners!”

Immediately a thought struck him, and his eyes gleamed. He wheeled, walked to the large table that was covered with a nautical map, and picked up a scrap of paper and a quill.
After scribbling something on it, Rommey extended the paper to Hawke, who took it and read it.

“Do you recognize what that is?”

“I suppose, sir, they are two positions.”

“Exactly! The first is our present position. The other is our destination.” He hesitated, looking at him intently. “Do you think you can take those two figures and plot a course on that map?”

Hawke bit his lip, stared at the paper, shrugged slightly and answered, “I can try, sir.”

“Do it then!”

Hawke walked to the table and surveyed the project. He seemed to forget the captain and Blanche as he pored over the figures and the map. Finally he picked up the dividers, moved them across the map, then looked at the paper again. He checked his figures carefully, using some of the tools on the table. After several movements and rechecking, he put a mark on the map, traced a line, and stepped back. “I believe that’s right, sir.”

Rommey came over, stared at the map for a long time, and without looking up, said, “You may go, Hawke.”

Blanche, fascinated by this unusual man, watched him leave. As soon as the door closed, she rushed over to stand beside her father. “Is it correct?”

“Yes,” he said in a strange tone.

“What’s the matter, Father?” She saw he was troubled, the cloud of anguish evident in his eyes, and for the first time in weeks Blanche felt a compassion toward him.

“What’s the matter? I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he said quietly. “There are only two men who can navigate this ship—myself and Langley. And three times in my life I’ve known of ships that lost their captain and first mates in action. A ship without a navigator is a piece of wreckage, Blanche.”

“But—!”

“And now I have a man who can navigate this vessel—and he doesn’t even know his name! Can you imagine what they’d
say at home if I put a man like that in any sort of position of responsibility?”

She stood there appraising him. “You would never let a common seaman chart a course.”

He stared at her, then declared slowly, “Daughter, this is a fighting ship and I am a fighting man. That’s all either of us is good for. And if fighting comes, and if it means victory—I’d let the devil himself man the guns of the
Neptune!
”

CHAPTER TEN

THE BLADE

The frigid cold of the North Atlantic and the American shore was only a faint memory now to the crew of the
Neptune
as they sailed toward the Indies. The blazing June sun beat down like a fist on the crew as they sought the small islands of shade on the deck, and the southern breeze baked the lips dry and turned the pallid hides of the pressed men to a rich copper.

Whitefield glanced to where Hawke was sitting with his back against the bulkhead, his eyes half shut as he stared across the rolling troughs of green topped with sparkling white caps of spray. The young man was a source of never-ending wonder to the gunner, who had kept close watch on him since the trouble with Sullivan and Grimes—and the thought of that time prompted him to speak.

“Hawke?”

“Yes?”

“You ain’t never said a word about that pair—” He waved a hand toward the stern where the two sat in the middle of a small group laughing loudly. “I been waitin’ for you to complain about the way they beat you up—but you ain’t said not one word.”

“Nothing to say about it, Enoch.” Hawke did not even shift his gaze, but suddenly his eyes opened and he said in excitement, “Look—what’s that?”

“What? Oh, them’s flyin’ fish.” Enoch watched carefully, and as usual tried to make some sort of connection with the remark. “You never seen flyin’ fish?”

“No—at least, I don’t think so.”

“You ain’t never been in these waters, then.” He pondered that, chewing on his lower lip. But he was a stubborn man, and he went on doggedly, “Now, it ain’t in a natural man to take a beatin’ like you took from that pair an’ not get mad.”

Hawke took his eyes off the fish and considered the older man with a glint of amusement. “Why do you think that is, Enoch?”

“Well, I’ve been ponderin’ on it—and it come to me that you might be a Christian man. The Bible teaches us to turn the other cheek, and that’s just what you done, Hawke. And besides, you know more ’bout the Scripture than a sinner would know.”

Whitefield was a single-minded man, eager to see all men embrace Jesus Christ; in that he was much like his cousin, George Whitefield. Hawke had been aware of the gunner’s fervent desire, and had listened carefully to Enoch’s preaching as well as to their conversations.

But he now shook his head, saying quietly, “I don’t know what I am, Enoch. From what you’ve told me, a Christian has some feelings—but I’m just a blank. Maybe I had parents who read the Bible—or perhaps I attended a school where it was read aloud. And as for not wanting to get revenge on Sullivan and Grimes, it could be that I’m a coward.”

The answer did not satisfy Whitefield, but he said no more. For the next hour they sat there quietly, Enoch from time to time relating some of his life to the young man. They were disturbed by the crowd on the stern who came milling to the mizzenmast with loud cries.

“They’re tormentin’ young Jones again,” Whitefield said in disgust. He got to his feet, spat over the rail, and then shook his head, saying, “Why can’t they leave the poor boy alone? He’s sick. A fool could see that!”

Will Jones was one of the pressed men and, unfortunately, one of those human beings who is constitutionally unfit for life at sea. He had been seasick since the day he was brought
aboard, unable to keep down any food, much less the unpalatable, rough fare served on a warship. He was nothing but skin and bones, his clothes flapping about him in the breeze as he was pulled roughly along by Sullivan toward the mast.

“Bully boy!” Whitefield said. “Ain’t happy unless he’s makin’ some poor devil weaker than himself miserable! He’d ’ave been after you, Hawke, if Lieutenant Burns hadn’t put the fear of the cat in him.”

That, Hawke realized, was true. Burns had stood looking up into the face of the hulking Sullivan and in his quiet Scottish burr, had informed the sailor that if he laid one hand on Hawke, he would kiss the Gunner’s Daughter—an expression that meant he would be tied over a cannon and flogged.

Since that hour Sullivan had not touched Hawke, but there was a burning hatred in his eyes, and now, as he held fast to the unfortunate Jones, his eyes were fixed on Whitefield and Hawke, addressing his words more to them than to the trembling sailor in his grasp.

“See here, Jones,” he snarled loudly, “I’ve had enough of your play actin’! You ain’t done nothin’ but lay around and let these good men do your work. Now you climb them shrouds or I’ll make you wish you had!”

Hawke saw that young Jones’s thin face trembled as he looked up to the top of the towering mizzenmast; and bloodless as he was, his pallor seemed to wash to an even paler hue. “I—I can’t do it!” he whispered. “Never could bear high places.”

“Never could bear high places!” Sullivan mocked the boy with a grin, then gave him a shake that made the thin frame tremble violently. He held up his large fist in front of Jones’s eyes. “I’m tellin’ you, boy,” he warned; “you climb that mast, or I’ll bust you up!”

Pickens, one of the foretopmen, protested, “Sullivan, he’s not lying. He tried once, and we had to pry his fingers loose. Some men is like that—can’t stand no height.”

“Shut your mouth, Pickens! I say he’s a whining quitter and I aim to cure him right now.”

“Let the boy alone.” Whitefield left his place and came to stand beside Jones. “I don’t remember nobody makin’ you an officer on this ship.”

“The officers expect us to make sailors out of these lubbers, Whitefield, and you can’t deny it!”

There was some truth in that, and Enoch could only say, “They do expect that—but this boy is sick.”

Hawke did not miss the look that passed between Sullivan and Grimes, and he realized instantly that this scene was directed at him. Then, when Sullivan spoke again, he was certain of it.

“Every man on this ship knows you’re a great one for taking care of strays, Whitefield—like that one there.” Sullivan gave a nod at Hawke, adding with a sneer, “You sold Burns a bill of goods on that dummy, didn’t you?”

“He does his work!”

“He’s a bleedin’ coward, that’s wot he is!” Sullivan said. “Won’t fight like a man! Well, I can’t touch your stray cat—not till I catch him ashore—but I can build a fire under this one!”

Hawke had been standing with his back to a bulkhead, watching as he always did. He was not touched by the plight of Jones, for he had seen much suffering on the part of the landsmen who’d been roughly handled on the
Neptune.
But he was disturbed by the troubled face of Whitefield. The gunner had become his touchstone with the world, and it was only through Enoch’s constant attention that Hawke had been able to keep his mind off the sinister darkness—the frightening void that lay behind him. He saw Enoch’s helplessness, and suddenly without knowing why, he stated quietly, “The boy’s pretty small game for you, Sullivan.”

Instantly the big Irishman swung his head, his eyes fixed on Hawke. “Well, well—another country heard from!” His eyes gleamed and he jabbed a thumb toward Hawke, saying, “And
it’s yourself who’s takin’ this lubber’s part,
Mister
Hawke—who can’t even do his own fightin’?”

“Let him alone. I’ll fight you if that’ll make you happy.”

The challenge came so quickly that Sullivan’s jaw dropped, and he retorted, “Well, that’s what I’d like—”

“Don’t do it, Mate!” Grimes, his ungainly body a blot on the bright sunlight, moved forward and put a restraining hand on Sullivan’s arm. “Burns would ’ave you cut to rags.” Then he smiled craftily and suggested with a sly look toward Hawke, “But just make a friendly wager with the man.”

“What sort o’ bet?” Whitefield broke in.

“Oh, a fair show, Enoch!” Grimes offered, lifting his hand in a mock oath. “Like, mebby, if Hawke can beat Sullivan to the crow’s nest, why, Jones will ’ave no more trouble.”

“And if I lose?” Hawke asked.

“I’d say six months’ wages to my friend here would be fair.”