The Saintly Buccaneer (24 page)

“I’ve heard you think I’m an easy man, Spinner. We’ll see if you think so tomorrow.”

At punishment the next day, all hands were fully expecting that Spinner would get a taste of the cat, and the officers expected no less than three dozen lashes. But Captain Rommey put the option into the hands of Hawke himself: “Punishment will be assigned by Lieutenant Hawke.”

Spinner watched fearfully as Hawke motioned to Lattimore, the husky sailmaker, who handed him a small object. It was, Angus saw, a canvas bag with straps. “Put those two shot into the bag, Spinner.” Every eye was on the gunner as he picked up the two thirty-two-pound round shot that Lattimore had placed by the rail and put them into the bag. “Now, put that bag on your back,” Hawke commanded.

“On—on me
back,
sir?” Spinner stared into the ebony eyes of the officer, swallowed at what he saw, then obeyed. There were two straps for the arms; he struggled into the knapsack-like bag, and the dead weight of sixty-four pounds pulled him backward, so that he could keep himself upright only with an effort.

He stood there with fear in his face, thinking perhaps
that he was going to be thrown overboard—a thought which flashed through the mind of Angus Burns as well!

“Now, climb the mizzenmast,” Hawke commanded in a hard voice, “all the way to the crow’s nest—then back to the deck at once!”

Spinner licked his lips and cast a fearful glance up at the towering mast. He was a gunner, not a foretopman, and had seldom been aloft since his youth. Even then he had been uncomfortable, and his years spent in the small, confined world of the lower gun deck had made any work higher than the deck unwelcome. The empty spaces of sky and the thin lines that he slowly began to climb were alien to him, and the crew saw his fear as they watched him grasp a line and pull himself slowly upward. He was a strong man, but the dead weight of the shot pulled at his shoulders, throwing him off balance, dragging him away from the safety of the lines, and only by grasping the ropes with all his strength was there any hope. There was no relief, Angus saw, from the intense pressure of the weight that threatened at each laborious step to pluck him off the shrouds and send him plunging to the deck below.

By the time he was halfway up the mast, the sound of his ragged breathing was audible to the crew. Every man saw him look down once, saw his face turn pale at the sight of the deck below. They heard the gurgling cry of fear that rose to his lips and for one moment it seemed he would faint and fall, but he recovered and began his creeping progress until he reached the platform. He gave a glad cry of relief and fell into the safety of the small structure. His joy was cut short by a loud command from Hawke below.

“Now—down with you!”

Spinner had no choice but to begin the painful descent to the deck. It was no better going down, for there was still the weight jerking him back.

Something about the punishment frightened the crew. They were accustomed to a world of order, for there is no more rigid order than on a ship of war. All is by count and by
routine, and seldom is that order broken. The seamen may have suffered under the rigid discipline of the navy, but even if they did not realize it themselves, they were “comfortable” under its rule.

Now the order was broken, and the crew to a man was touched with something akin to fear. If Spinner had been raked with three dozen lashes of the cat, it would have been hard—however, they were accustomed to that. But there was something frightening in Spinner’s white face, his eyes bulging with fear—and his terror communicated itself to the sailors who stared at him as his feet touched the deck.

“Now, back to the top,” Hawke barked, adding, “Mr. Rackam, you will see to it that this man carries those shot to the lookout and back.”

Rackam looked at the stern face of Hawke, swallowed and asked in a strained voice, “How long, sir?”

“Until I give the command—or until he falls and kills himself.”

The words struck against the minds of the crew, and one look at the dark face of Lieutenant Hawke gave them no assurance. Later Pickins, the foretopman, said in awe to Sullivan, “Did you see his face, Sullivan? Like stone it is, and he wouldn’t have no more cared if Spinner was mashed to jam on the deck than if he’d squashed a fly!”

“All hands dismissed from punishment.” Hawke nodded and turned to his duties, his face a mask of stony indifference for the rest of the morning. He was the only man on the ship who seemed to be unaware of the drama of Spinner’s punishment. All morning long the gunner toiled to the top of the mizzenmast, then back to the deck. As time dragged on, the sun rose in a fierce blast of heat, and the weights seemed to grow heavier. By eleven o’clock Spinner had lost count of the journeys he had made, but he was paralyzed with a fear that was worse than anything he had ever known. In battle there was the sound and fury to take a man’s mind off the idea of death, but the silence as he went up and down like a
crippled beetle made every second a painful reminder that if he relaxed his grip one time, he was a dead man.

His hands, tough as they were, soon were bleeding, rubbed raw by the ropes, and the sun burned his lips and the sweat blinded him so that he had to grope for the lines overhead. Once he asked in a croaking voice for water, but when Rackam relayed his request, Hawke replied indifferently, “He can have water when he’s learned to be a seaman.”

Captain Rommey and Blanche had been watching the drama, and when Hawke came into the great cabin to report that one of the convoy had gotten out of position, Blanche was there. Rommey heard the report, nodded, then as Hawke turned to leave, cleared his throat and said with a touch of hesitation, “Lieutenant—I must say that your method of punishment is—well,
unorthodox!
”

A flash of humor appeared in Hawke’s eyes, and he commented, “I suppose so—but they get so accustomed to the cat that it’s lost some of its usefulness. They’ll remember this for a little while, I believe.”

“But—what if he falls?” Blanche asked uneasily. She was staring at his face intently; this was a side of his nature she had not seen, and she was baffled.

“He’ll die.”

“That’s a little stringent for a small offense, surely!” Rommey protested.

Hawke’s lips were wide and mobile, and now the corners of them turned up as he answered, “Well, sir, I remember what Queen Elizabeth once said in such a case as this.”

“Queen Elizabeth?”

“Yes, sir. One of her admirals had been accused of treason and was scheduled to be executed the next day. One of the Queen’s counselors tried to get her to pardon the man—it seems the evidence against him was very weak. But she refused. She said, ‘It’s good to have an admiral executed from time to time as an example to the rest of them.’ ”

The humor left his eyes and there was a steely quality in his
voice as he continued. “I may never have the love of these men, but I’ll have obedience—or I’ll tear the hearts out of them!”

Rommey stared at him, wonder in his eyes. “Obedience is required, of course. You are dismissed, Hawke.”

When the door closed behind him, Rommey turned to his daughter. “What do you make of that, Blanche? The man’s got ice water in his veins!”

Blanche shook her head, biting her lip nervously. “He’s—he’s like two men, Father. One man is quiet and gentle. That’s the man we’ve seen. Now we see that it’s not that simple. He’s got a cruel streak as well—but which of us doesn’t have some of that?”

“Yes—but what
other
side will we see of him?” Rommey asked. Then he did something most unusual. He went to her, put his hands on her shoulders and when she looked up at him in surprise, there was a gentleness in his eyes that she had not seen in a long time—not since she had been a child and he would take her onto his lap on rare occasions.

“I know we’ve been hard on each other—my fault, I think. I’ve not been gentle. But I care for you—and that’s why I ask, Are you
certain
this is the man you want? You can never really know him, can you?”

She shook her head, a far-off look in her eyes. Reaching up, she touched his cheek, saying softly, “No—but I have to have him.” She slipped away, and for a long time Rommey stared out of the window, seeing nothing, but filled with the most profound sense of futility he had ever known. He was a hard, demanding man, and fully aware that he had taken his naval habits into his family life. Now he was grieved that he had not spent more time with his daughter—but it was too late. He struck the bulkhead a terrific blow with his fist and slumped down at his desk, defeat graphically written across his face, cursing the moment the battered form of the pressed man without a memory had been brought on board!

By noon there were bets being made in the crew’s quarters as to how long it would be until Spinner fell to his death.
“That Hawke, why, he’s goin’ to let the poor blighter die just to show us wot the rest of us can expect from ’im!” Grimes scowled.

“I didn’t think he was so bad—up till now,” Sullivan responded moodily.

“Bad—you’ll think
bad
by the time this voyage is over!” Grimes screwed up his face, spat on the floor, bitterness spilling over. “Don’t make no mistake ’bout this one, lad. He’s a bad ’un! Oh, he’s been nice as a kidney pie up to now—but nobody crossed him. And now he’s an officer—that’s the point! Oh, he’s a killer, no doubt of it! Ain’t I seed enough of that breed!”

“Right you are, Grimes!” Teller, an undersized dwarf of a man, nodded sagely. “Did yer see his face? ‘Let him go till he dies!’ That’s wot he said! Oh, he’ll be the death of poor Spinner—just to teach the rest of us a lesson!”

“Spinner won’t last till one, is wot I says, and I’ll bet on it,” Grimes predicted—and soon there were bets made all over the ship on the hour of Spinner’s death.

Looking down from the quarterdeck, Langley remarked to Burns, “Like a flock of buzzards! Look at them!” He waved his hand toward the crew, who were all staring skyward as Spinner groped his way up the mast, leaving red bloodstains as he moved. He was moving so slowly now that each step seemed to take forever. When he almost fell off the ropes at the deckward part of his journey, Hawke suddenly appeared and said, “That will do, Spinner. I believe it’s your watch.”

Spinner fell to the deck limply, the shot in the knapsack making a
clunk
as they struck the oak boards. Rackam took one look at Hawke’s face, reached down, and began hauling the exhausted gunner to his feet.

“I trust you’ll keep yourself out of trouble from now on, Spinner,” Hawke told him in a voice that was a quiet threat. “If I have any problem with you at all, I will have two shot added to your load and you’ll carry them for twenty-four hours up the mast.”

“No—no, sir! Mr. Hawke!” Spinner gasped and trembled in every joint. Fear sprang his mouth open, terror coursing through him as though the devil himself had appeared. “No trouble, sir—I swear it!”

That had been the end of it, but from that day, Angus reflected as he looked at Hawke’s pleasant face, there had been no trouble at all from the crew. The term
Hawke’s Bag
had become a symbol of dread, for all the third lieutenant had to say was, “Perhaps you’d like to carry my bag for a time?” and the hardest man on the crew was instantly turned to jelly! There was not a man among them who wouldn’t rather fall into the hands of any officer on board than into disfavor with the slender black-eyed Hawke.

****

Now, however, there was a mildness in Hawke’s eyes as he spoke. “They’re having a good time, aren’t they?”

Angus glanced down at the figures of the crew below, detecting at the same time a trace of envy in Hawke’s face. “Weel, more power to ’em,” Angus growled. “This convoy duty is drivin’ me mad! If I could get doon on the lower deck there, and dance a hornpipe like Jenkins there, it might cheer me up a bit.”

“It is boring, this duty,” Blanche agreed. She smiled brightly and suggested, “When we get to New York, let’s have the biggest ball that place has ever seen! I know enough pretty girls to satisfy you two.” Taking the arms of Burns and Langley, she teased, “You two can’t wind up crusty old bachelors smelling like dirty socks!”

“Weel, now,” Angus nodded, “I’ll take the party, but like the man once said about marriage, ‘Many that set sail on the sea o’ matrimony wish they’d missed the boat!’ ”

“You’re just too
stingy,
you old Scot!” Blanche taunted. “And you’ve got too much religion, too. Why, you wouldn’t know what to
do
with a pretty girl!”

“Probably read psalms to her,” Hawke agreed with a grin.

“I’d not be so sure o’ that—but in any case, it would do neither o’ ye harm to read a bit of a psalm now and then.”

Blanche was still holding Burns’s arm, so Hawke pulled her away, saying lightly, “If you can’t appreciate the merchandise, don’t handle the goods, Angus!” Then he did something that surprised the three of them. He had never shown any affection for Blanche publicly, but now he put his arm around her and drew her close. Looking into her face with a smile that made him look much younger, he scolded, “You’ve got
me
going to the altar, woman—now don’t torment the rest of the crew!”

She responded at once to his caress, leaning against him. “I’m not sure of you yet! I’ve seen too many hunters counting the fox as caught only to see him go to cover.”

“No—I’m a lost man,” he sighed, his lean, tanned face relaxed, almost playful. It was a side of him that Burns and Langley had never seen, and Blanche but rarely. She knew, as they did not, that beneath his stern face lay a lively spirit, playful almost, when he would permit it to be seen.

“I’ll go check the course,” Langley blurted out, leaving them abruptly, a bitter expression in his blue eyes. Angus and Blanche exchanged a quick glance, for they had spoken of Langley’s jealousy—not being able to adjust to her engagement.

“Not much need for that—not with this calm,” Hawke remarked, staring at Langley’s retreating form. “We couldn’t drift off course even if we tried.”

“Not quite right, I’m afraid,” Angus shook his head glumly. “The
Blue Cloud
managed to get herself lost. I’m a bit worried aboot that one.”