The Saintly Buccaneer (43 page)

“We must not lose the ship, Mr. Burns,” Captain Rommey told him quietly. His face was pale, but calm. And he added, “We’ve been outdone—but we have more men than that sloop. We must win the battle on this deck!”

“I doot, sir,” Burns replied, “that we have more men.” He stared about the deck and thought of the carnage below. “But we’ll nae give up, sir!”

“Look at the enemy. That’s their captain getting ready to lead the boarding party. Do you recognize him, Mr. Burns?”

Burns followed the direction of Rommey’s hand and breathed a name. “
Hawke! It’s Hawke!”

“Yes!” the captain hissed. He looked at Burns and asked, “Do you still believe in predestination, Angus? Did God put that man on this ship so we could save him and train him—in order that he would one day be the instrument of our destruction?”

Burns did not answer, for his mind was blank. “Shall I command the deck defense, sir?”

“Yes. We must not lose! If that fleet gets to the coast, we will have lost America—so have no mercy, Mr. Burns! Save that for later!”

****

As the two ships converged, Paul stood beside the rail, his sword drawn. The crew had gone wild as the
Lady
had shot the larger ship to pieces without taking a single blow. Several men had gone down, the victims of the marines firing from the tops of the
Neptune,
but a murderous blast with the carronades had ripped through the tops, shredding men and sails alike.

“Ready!” Winslow yelled, and there was an answering cry as the men waved their swords in the air. He looked at the deck of the
Neptune,
and it gave him a queer feeling, for he knew every inch of it. Now it seemed to be carpeted with dead men—dead and wounded. He looked midships where Angus Burns and Captain Rommey were ready to direct the battle on the deck, and almost parallel with him, he saw Langley. Suddenly their eyes met, and Langley’s jaw dropped, for he had not known until that second who was in command. Then his mild eyes blazed with fury and he screamed, “Ready, men! Kill them all!”

Paul saw two of the marines in the tops drop like red fruit from the foretop, their screams lost in the battle cry that came from both crews. Beside him, a young seaman named Trent took the full impact of a musket ball. The sound, like someone thumping a ripe fruit, went through Paul like fire. Then they were on top of the enemy.

“
Ready, lads!
”

He watched the sea rising and breaking against the
Lady,
the pressure mounting against her yards.

“
Now!
”

He gripped the rail as the helm went over and the bows started to pull toward the enemy. Sunlight flashed on the sloop’s quarterdeck, and then her side exploded in a crash of musket fire, blowing great gaps in the crew of the
Lady.

Winslow almost fell as the man next to him crashed against him, killed by a musket ball. He dragged himself up, and
threw himself over the side. Paul waved his sword above his head and ran toward the deck where Rommey and Burns were waiting.
If we can take them prisoner, it’ll be over,
he thought.

“This way!
” he screamed, and then he was in the thick of battle. The steel of the English was ready, and Winslow crossed swords with a petty officer and then slipped on the deck, the breath driven from his body as he pitched headlong across the other man. He felt the man jerk and kick, and saw the awful agony in his eyes as Whitefield pulled him away. “Be watchful, sir!’ he cried out. “We can’t lose you!”

The deck was so packed with fighting men that it was almost impossible to move; but somehow he made his way to the ladder that was already crowded with men—some of them English, some American. He glanced up and met the eyes of Captain Rommey—but at the same moment he was struck by a blow in the back and turned to put his blade through the chest of a wild-eyed seaman.

The fight raged from stern to bow, and there was no quarter asked and none given. He saw Dan Greene duck under a blow of Langley’s sword, and then leap onto the man like a tiger, the two of them rolling on the blood-spattered deck. Benjamin Smith was killed, fighting beside Winslow. He was run through by a bayonet, and the marine who killed him died instantly, shot in the right eye by Conrad, who was fighting like a madman.

It could not go on long with such intensity, Winslow knew, and the issue was in doubt.
Got to get the captain!
he thought desperately. With a gargantuan effort he scrambled up the ladder and found himself in a fight with the small group that had ringed Rommey.

Angus Burns saw him instantly, and came at him with his saber lifted high. The Scotsman knew he had no chance—not against Hawke’s sword! He had seen the dark American play with the best swordsmen on the
Neptune
as if they were children. Nevertheless he threw himself between the two captains in a wild attempt to save Rommey!

Paul could have killed him with a single thrust—but he could not do it. He avoided the wild slash of Burns; then pulling his heavy pistol from his belt, he struck the man on the head. Burns went down like a dead man, and someone yelled, “Sir! Behind you!”

He whirled to see that a lieutenant with battle-crazed eyes was lifting a pistol, and there was no time to duck. He was frozen to the deck, expecting at any moment to feel the pain of death—and then a form was in front of him, and he recognized Enoch Whitefield’s face. There was an explosion and he felt the man’s body jolt, then go limp.

“Enoch!” he screamed, and struggling to his feet, saw that Conrad had cut the officer down. Dan Greene was there, blood all over his chest. He had a sword, and seeing his captain down, he had leaped forward and Captain Rommey had parried his thrust. Their blades rang like bells, but even as Winslow got to his feet, he saw Dan’s strong blow drive Rommey’s sword upward. Then with another slash, he drove the blade out of Rommey’s hand.

The rage of battle was on Dan’s face, the tears streaming down his cheeks. His mild expression was gone, and there was madness in his eyes.

Rommey stood there helpless but with no sign of fear in his eyes as the American drew back his blade, and he knew he was a dead man.

Then, as Greene’s blade leaped forward, it was deflected, for Paul Winslow had made a lightning-like move with his sword; and Greene’s blow went to Rommey’s left, doing no harm.

There was a single instant when the eyes of Rommey and Winslow met. The older man was bitter, and in the agony of defeat, for one moment he wished more than anything else to destroy this man who had been like his son. Then he nodded and the light in his eyes dimmed.

“The ship is yours, Captain,” he said quietly. Rommey
shouted to his crew, “All hands,
Neptune,
surrender!” He stooped, retrieved his sword, and tendered it to Winslow.

“Keep your sword, sir.” Winslow shook his head, saying, “I didn’t think it would come to this, sir.” Then he turned and knelt down on the deck over Whitefield.

“Enoch!” His voice cracked and he shook his head helplessly.

“Sir?” Whitefield was breathing, but his lips were flecked with blood and his eyes were glazed with death. “I—I’m proud you’re safe—sir!”

“Whitefield! You shouldn’t have done it! You’re dying for me!”

The eyes of the sailor opened, and he smiled. His voice was so faint that Winslow had to lean forward to hear it.

“Sir—I’m not—the only one—who died for you! Jesus did!”

Winslow felt his eyes fill up, and he nodded, unable to speak.

“Sir—would you—like to take Him? He’s come for me—but it’d please Him—and me, too, if’d you’d ask Him to be—your savior. Would you—do it, sir?”

Winslow’s heart suddenly broke and he whispered, “Oh, God! I ask you to forgive me! Jesus, save me!”

At the words Whitefield gave a glad cry, and he reached up to touch the face of his captain. “Sir—it’s happy—I am—”

And then he slipped away, slumping in Winslow’s arms. Paul Winslow knelt on the bloody deck, holding the body of his friend. And looking up to heaven, he said, “I’ll serve you all my life, Jesus!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

IT’S GOD’S WILL

The damage done to both ships had been considerable, though the
Neptune
had suffered the most. More than a dozen balls had punched holes below the water line, so for several days it took every effort to keep her pumped out. Finally the damage to the hull was repaired, but there was not an available spar to replace the foremast, so Winslow commanded Greene to go aboard as prize captain.

“You’ll just have to keep her afloat the best you can,” he said as the two of them met on the deck of the
Lady.
The battle and the loss of many men had etched lines in both their faces. But for Winslow it was worse, for he had stood at the rail to bury his own dead, and then beside Captain Rommey as the still forms of the
Neptune
’s crew slid into the deep.

“Aye, sir.” Dan paused for a moment before asking hesitatingly, “What will happen to the prisoners?”

“Prison for most—but I expect Captain Rommey will be exchanged.”

“His career is over. He’ll never live it down, a frigate being defeated by a sloop!” Greene’s eyes were bright with admiration, and he added, “It was tremendous, sir! Nothing like it ever!”

Winslow allowed himself to smile, saying, “It was—but the credit goes to the crew—and to you.” His face darkened, and he groaned, “Poor Langley! He was a good officer.” Langley had gone down under Greene’s sword, and though he had
not been a close friend, he was part of Winslow’s life, and the loss saddened him.

“Aye, sir. But think of it as a thing that had to be done.”

“It’s still hard.” He forced himself to smile, then said, “Well, off with you, Lieutenant! Make the best speed you can and we’ll lag along behind.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And tell Captain Rommey I’m expecting him and his officers to dinner tonight.”

Actually, Paul had been wondering if he should issue such an invitation. He had slept badly, riddled with guilt as he thought of the captain. The officer had done him nothing but good, and it cut him sharply to know that he had engineered Rommey’s downfall.

All day he walked the deck silently, speaking only to issue necessary orders, apprehensive over the meeting with Rommey and Burns. He made a trip to the hospital area, thankful that it was not in the same condition he’d found it after the battle—
that
had been a scene from hell itself!

Lanterns had revealed a seaman named Cates strapped and writhing like a sacrifice on an altar, his leg already half amputated by Rafe Morgan, the ship’s surgeon. The latter’s face was devoid of expression as his fingers worked busily with the glittering saw. His assistants were using all their strength to restrain the struggling victim and pin his spread-eagled body on top of the platform of sea chests, which sufficed as an operating table. The man had rolled his eyes with each nerve-searing thrust of the saw, and had bitten into the leather strap between his teeth until he passed out from the excruciating pain.

It had taken more out of Winslow to stand there and share that agony than it had to tackle the
Neptune,
but he knew such was part of his duty.

He had been sickened by the sight all around him, as the other wounded had awaited their turn, some propped on their elbows as if unable to tear their eyes from the gruesome
spectacle. Others lay moaning and sobbing in the shadows, their lives ebbing away, and thereby spared the agony of knife and saw. The air had been thick with the stench of blood and rum, the latter being the only way of numbing the victim’s senses before his turn came.

He had gone around to each man, speaking a word of encouragement, and was surprised to find Charity in a corner of the room putting a bandage on the stump of a young man’s leg. The heat was terrible; he saw that she did not have on a dry thread, and her face was worn with strain.

“Don’t do this, Charity,” he said thickly. “It’s not a job for a woman.”

“It’s a job for who will do it,” she retorted, her pugnacious air forcing him to nod and smile grimly.

“If you won’t obey the captain’s orders, then the captain will have to join you.” He had stripped off his coat and all day they had borne the burden of the pain and death that lay heavy in the small room.

They had been drawn closer than they’d ever been, and now as he entered the surgery, he was pleased to see that it was different. Charity had put the surgeon to rout, demanding fresh air for all the men, so that a place had been made for them on deck where they could soak up the life-giving sunshine. She had commandeered the galley, seeing that the wounded men got the best of the food, and even now as Paul entered, she was bathing the chest of a boy not over sixteen who had lost his left arm.

The boy’s name, Winslow knew, was Tommy Hooks, one of the lads from Boston. He’d been a powder monkey and one of the most cheerful members of the
Lady
’s crew, scampering up the rigging very much like a real monkey. Now he lay with his face turned to the wall.

“...won’t have to worry, Tommy,” Charity was saying. “You’ll be able to get a place on a ship. There are lots of jobs for a bright young fellow like you.”

“With only one hand?” he retorted bitterly, and turned his head to look at her. “Wot could I do, Miss Charity?”

“You can serve on the next ship I get, that’s what!” she promised. “I’ll need a quartermaster, and you’re quick with figures and write a good hand.”

“Would—would you really take me, miss?”

She laughed at him, and slapped his chest sharply. “You know what I think? I don’t think you’re worried about a job. You’re worried about what the girls will think!”

His face grew red, and he mumbled, “Aw—who cares what they think?” He swallowed hard and asked timidly, “Do you think they’ll mind much?”

She picked up the towel she’d been using, put it in the basin, then bent over and whispered so that Winslow barely caught it.

“Tommy, I’m a woman, and I’m in love!”

“Are you, miss?”