The Saintly Buccaneer (16 page)

“What?” Whitefield was enraged. “Why, Sullivan’s a firstrate foretopman, and—”

“I’ll take the bet.” Hawke spoke almost with indifference, and moved toward the shrouds, the network of rope that formed a weblike ladder to the tops of the masts.

A shout went up from the men who loved any sort of contest, and Whitefield asked nervously, “Hawke, have you ever climbed a mizzenmast?”

“Why, I have no idea, Enoch.” A trace of amusement was on the lean face of the younger man, and he added, “I suppose we’ll find out in a few minutes.”

Enoch could do nothing, but stood there helplessly as the two men took station on opposite sides of the ship, Hawke on the starboard and Sullivan to port. “You give the signal, Whitefield,” Grimes grinned. “Just so all is fair and square. And we’ll all be the judge of who’s the winner!”

Enoch was sick at heart, for he knew that Sullivan, for all his bulk, was agile as a monkey. He was by far the best and fastest in climbing up the shrouds; and there was no hope, he felt, for Hawke. Just the way the two men stood revealed
the difference, for Sullivan was crouched, his hands clutching the shrouds, while Hawke had one hand lightly, as if for balance, on one of the horizontal strands, and was looking bored with the whole affair.

“Go!” Whitefield shouted, and a cry went up from the deck, mostly cheers for Sullivan. The big man moved with practiced speed, not one wasted motion as he sped upward.
No man can beat him—he’s too good!
Enoch thought. But he kept his eyes fixed on the smaller man—and what he saw made him shout with glee!

Hawke did not move as quickly at first as Sullivan. He seemed to fumble slightly as he climbed hand over hand, and his feet had to search for the horizontals. But then he seemed to take wing, and he flew up the web of ropes with a rapidity that not a one of them had ever seen. The cheering stopped abruptly, and Grimes alone raised his voice to yell, “Sullivan! Don’t let the blackguard do you in!”

Sullivan paused long enough to look across at his counterpart and nearly fell off the shrouds as he saw the flying figure of Hawke come even with him, then leave him behind even as he watched. He cursed and drove himself upward with all his might, but a cry from the deck caught him; and ten feet from the top he looked up to see Hawke standing there looking down at him with a slight smile.

“Looks like you’re getting old, Sullivan,” he remarked, then grabbed a loose rope and slid down, almost falling to the deck before catching himself in time to step lightly onto the oak planks.

Whitefield pounded him on the back, exclaiming, “You did it! By the grace of the good Lord, you did it!” Looking up he yelled to the stunned foretopman, who was staring in rage at Hawke, “Mind you, keep your end, Sullivan. I can’t abide a gambler—but a welcher is something the ship won’t stand!”

Jones moved over to Whitefield and Hawke as the crowd broke up. Tears filled his eyes. “I—I can’t say how...”

He paused, and Hawke put a brown hand on his shoulder, reassuring him. “Why, it was nothing, Will.”

Jones looked at him, but could only say to Enoch as the other walked away, “He’s a Christian man—ain’t he, Enoch?”

“Will,” Whitefield agreed slowly, “it’s looking more like that all the time.”

A fighting ship is a small cosmos, a microcosm of the world. And as in the world, news can travel with incredible speed. By nightfall every man on the ship knew the story. The crew was bored, for life at sea is monotonous, and any juicy tidbit was chewed over and over until every morsel was extracted.

The officers had heard a little, but at the captain’s table that night, they got the full story from Burns, who’d gotten it out of Whitefield. When Burns finished, they all looked at Rommey expectantly, but he said only, “We’ll need all the foretopmen we can muster—especially in light of our new orders.”

A hum of excitement went around the room. That morning they had sighted a sail which proved to be HMS
Centaur,
a sixteen-gun sloop fresh out of England. Rommey had gone on board and returned later with a waterproof pouch which everyone had identified as a container from Flag Command in London.

Now there was satisfaction in the craggy face of the captain, and he nodded with a smile. “We have been given some time to get the crew toughened up and the ship smoothed out. Now we can do the job
Neptune
was built for.”

“Action, sir?” Langley asked.

“Yes, Langley. Action!” He rose and pointed to a map tacked to the bulkhead. “We now know that the rebels are sending their ships along these lanes—both privateers and merchant ships.”

“But the winds aren’t favorable in those latitudes, Captain!” Burns protested. Then the truth dawned and he smiled. “Weel, of course! That’s the reason they’re there!”

“Exactly! Now that we know where the scoundrels are, we’ll bag them,” Rommey said fiercely. Then he added, “We’ll head for home at once. On our return voyage and while we’re provisioning the ship, Captain Baxter, I want you to train the seamen in small arms.”

“Small arms, Captain?” Baxter gave a languid look around the room and asked, “May I ask for what purpose, sir?”

“I think it not unlikely that we’ll have to board an enemy ship, and it’s not impossible that we might make a raid on a port city. Your marines are well trained—but we may need to fill out our numbers with men who can handle a musket and a blade.”

“If you wish, sir—but they’re a scrub lot.”

“Do the best you can, Captain.”

During this exchange Burns had been watching Langley, and saw what he expected—disappointment. The tall lieutenant had fallen hopelessly in love with Blanche Rommey, and the thought of not seeing her turned him to putty! Burns shook his head in despair, for he had watched the one-sided courtship closely. The captain had installed his wife and daughter in a fine mansion twenty miles in the interior of Jamaica. After each short venture to sea in the
Neptune,
Rommey had gone there, usually accompanied by Langley and Burns.

Mrs. Rommey was satisfied—as she would have been in any place. She did her embroidery, went for rides through the countryside, and made infrequent trips to the port city. She seemed not to grieve when her husband left, not happy when he returned. She was, Burns had thought, the closest thing to a vegetable he’d ever seen.

But Blanche Rommey was a different story. She was almost out of her mind with boredom. Her quick spirit and impulsive nature were the worst possible combination to fit her for living in a secluded rural paradise, and she had been
so hungry for company and excitement that she had practically forced Burns to take her to a party at a plantation over fifteen miles away.

He thought of it as he sat at the table looking at Clarence Langley, and felt very sorry for the man. Blanche had flirted with every man she saw at the party, even with Burns himself on the way home. When the Scot had cut that short by mentioning Langley, she had laughed and said lightly, “Clarence? He’s a dear—but such a
stick!
”

Burns had tried to warn his friend, but given up in despair, for the tall lieutenant was deaf to his words. The meeting broke up, and Langley went to set the new course. “Lieutenant Burns, a word,” Captain Rommey requested, catching him as the other left.

“I have a rather
unusual
order; that’s the best word I can apply to it,” he hesitated.

“Yes, sir?”

“We will be taking prizes, almost certainly, when we get into the lanes.”

“I’ve nae doot we will.” All the crew would share in the prize money, and Burns was as thrifty as his ancestors in far-off Scotland.

“There is a problem,” Rommey frowned. “The prizemaster I put on board to take the captured ship to port must be able to navigate.”

Burns flushed and shook his head. “Sir, I’m embarrassed to say I canna!”

“No time for that now, Burns. It’s a weakness, but there are worse things in a King’s officer. I have a plan I believe will work—but it’s so unusual, I’m not going to order you to do it. You’ll have to volunteer.”

Burns was mystified, for this captain was not the sort to avoid giving orders. “I’ll do anything to help, sir.”

“I thought you would. Now, I trust that soon we’ll be getting some new midshipmen who
can
navigate, but until we do, you’ll have to learn. When we make port, I’m leaving Langley
in charge of provisioning the ship. It will take about a week. I want you to learn to navigate during that time. You’ll have no other duties—and I have a teacher in mind.”

“Yes, sir?”

“This man Hawke, he’s an excellent navigator.” Rommey shrugged and gave a slight grimace, but went on. “I know he’s only a seaman, and you’re an officer. But he’s all we’ve got. Will you let him teach you?”

“Why, I’ll nae make any promises, but I’ll do my best, Captain Rommey.”

Rommey smiled and put his large hand on Burns’s thin shoulder. “I knew you’d take it like that,” he beamed. “Some officers have too confounded much pride, but I’d take instruction from Lucifer if it would make a better seaman of me!”

The next morning every hand knew that he would have shore leave, and the officers were careful to mention the rich possibility of prize money. “Just one fat merchant ship, men,” they promised, “and you can retire for life.”

After that Captain Baxter had no problem getting the men to drill. Sergeant Potter drilled the hands in the use of the musket, and reported to Baxter, “Captain, they’d do more damage if they throwed rocks at the enemy! Never seen such rotten shots.”

“Well, we thought it would be that way, didn’t we, Sergeant?” Baxter smiled. “In the morning I’ll find out if there’s a good blade in the lot of them. Which I most sincerely doubt.”

The exercise the next day was no better than Baxter had anticipated. Most of the ship’s crew had never had a sword in their hands, and only three showed any skill. Most of them hacked away as if they were threshing wheat, but Baxter said to Potter after about half of the crew had been tested, “Sir, I reckon we may have six men who are fair. Sullivan is the best, in my judgment.”

“Quite so, Sergeant. He’s had some training. I’ll try a bout with him.”

Captain Baxter loved the sword. It was the only thing that
ever caused him to drop his languid air and come alive. He had been a student of the foil, the saber, the cutlass, and every other form of blade for years, and his reputation was formidable among those who knew the art.

It had been boring to watch the heavy-handed crew hacking away, but when he squared away with Sullivan and saw that the big man was no amateur, he allowed a smile of excitement to crease his thin lips. “Have at me, Sullivan!” he cried out.

“Sir! These blades ain’t got no buttons!”

It was the custom to blunt the tips of the foils for use in practice, but Baxter waved his free hand, saying, “Oh, I think it’ll be safe enough.”

Sullivan grinned and began advancing, his left foot extended in a long stretch behind him, his right knee bent at a sharp angle, his left hand well back. He came in quickly, so quickly and so skillfully that Baxter was taken aback, in fact, and was hard put to keep himself from getting embarrassed. But he was very good, and soon he controlled the bout. He did not have to exert all his skill, and he did not want to discourage the best prospect among the crew, so finally he called a halt. “Very good, Sullivan! Very good, indeed! If we had twenty like you, I’d not hesitate to tackle a ship of the line.”

The drill continued until the last day, and Baxter had Potter pair the men off for practice. “Don’t let them cut each other to bits, Sergeant,” he warned. “And you might use Sullivan to help with the more clumsy fellows.”

The last drill was at sunset, and most of the crew gathered either to participate or to watch. Baxter and Potter had grown tired of the routine, but were forced to stay and watch. They were paying little attention, so when Sullivan called Hawke out of the crowd they paid no heed.

“You there, Hawke,” Sullivan called out. “I ain’t seen you in the drill. Give him that blade, Atkins, and let’s see what he’s got.”

Immediately the entire crew sensed that a drama was about to unfold. The officers were not paying attention and
everyone knew that Sullivan was smarting under his defeat at the hands of Hawke. Several men had received minor wounds at the sword drill, and it would be easy for Sullivan to stab Hawke—and then protest that it was an accident. Who would there be to say differently? Surely not the officers.

Sullivan had waited for the right time, but had despaired. Always either Burns or Langley was in charge of the deck, or else Whitefield was present. But now Burns was far aft drilling some boat crews, and neither Whitefield nor the first lieutenant were in sight, so he had grabbed at the chance.

Hawke came forward slowly, taking the foil from Atkins, and he saw the cruel gleam in Sullivan’s eye; this was not to be a drill! He slowly lifted the blade as Sullivan came forward with a grunt of pleasure, and the blades rang with a silver sound on the salt air.

Sullivan came in dancing, his blade flashing like liquid lightning, and there was no pretense of a “drill.” He lunged with all his force, directing his blade straight at the heart of his opponent—but he did not succeed.

Hawke had known the moment the hilt of the sword nestled in his hand earlier that day that this was not a new thing. Now, after some fresh practice he felt like a
natural
as he picked the tip of Sullivan’s blade out of the air with the tip of his own foil, directing it to one side with an ease he knew was born of a thousand hours of practice.

I’ve done this before,
he thought as Sullivan recovered, his face red with murderous desire.
I’ve stood and faced men and I’ve felt my blood run down—and I’ve seen them fall to the ground pierced to the heart.

And he could have killed Sullivan, he knew. For the man, for all his skill, seemed slow and clumsy. Hawke moved little, standing in one spot for the most part, parrying the thrusts of the other with ease, refusing to drive his own blade home.

Captain Baxter heard the rapid clashing blades and saw in one experienced glance that Sullivan was in the hands of a master.
Why, that fellow could have killed him half a
dozen times!
he thought. Then he hurried forward, calling out, “Good enough for now!”