The Seekers (41 page)

Flick,
the knave’s face was hidden.

“We should be, we
will
be intimate friends—commencing now.”

Flick,
the savage popped back into sight.

“I have a certain desire that you can satisfy, and it will be to your advantage to do so. As the special friend of an officer aboard this ship, you would be able to obtain certain favors. Preferred duties. Further, anyone who affronts you would have to deal with me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, but—I won’t have any of it.”

“I’m afraid you’ve no choice.” Stovall released the knave. It fluttered to his feet. “You are expected to obey orders.”

He took hold of Jared’s shoulder again. “Come, now. No more sparring. Pull off your trousers and climb into that bunk.”

Jared shot from the chair, throwing Stovall off balance. He jerked his right knee up, striking the bulge at Stovall’s crotch.

The lieutenant staggered backwards, let out an almost feminine scream. “You filthy little bastard! I’ll have fifty laid on you with the cat!”

“You know twelve’s the limit, you damned—”

“Oh yes? You’ll take a hundred!”

Jared backed swiftly around the table, spun and ran to the door.

“Come here!”

In the distance, Jared heard another man yelling. On the gun deck above, feet thudded suddenly. He had the door halfway open when Stovall’s fist struck the back of his head.

His forehead slammed into the edge of the door. He gasped as Stovall pushed him aside, booted the door shut, whirled him around by the shoulders—then backhanded him across the face three times.

Strong as he was, Jared couldn’t match the lieutenant’s height and weight. He tried the tactic of a knee to the midsection a second time. Stovall jerked backwards at the waist, avoiding the knee. His fist pounded Jared’s temple. The boy staggered, fell.

Stovall kicked Jared’s belly, doubling him in pain.

Then Stovall crouched, hands reaching for his throat. The clamor of voices grew louder overhead.
Constitution
’s gangways echoed with a hammer of running feet.

Jared’s arms were crossed over his aching belly. Stovall seized his neck. Jared slid the fingers of his right hand beneath his left forearm and down to his waist. He tugged the Spanish knife from its sheath, jerked it into the light where Stovall could see it shine.

The lieutenant dropped his hands to his sides, macabre amusement twisting his mouth. “Damn, the pup has teeth!”

Jared’s right hand trembled. It took will to steady it. He held the knife between himself and Stovall. In a moment, staring at the steel glitter, the lieutenant ceased smiling.

Jared twisted the point of the knife in a small circle. He was too frightened to speak, but Stovall understood quite well. He rose slowly, retreated a step, another—

“You touch me again and I’ll cut your face,” Jared whispered. “Whatever else happens, I’ll cut your face to pieces.”

Stovall turned pale, began to curse, monotonous, obscene oaths that gave Jared an odd sort of hope. He’d struck a vulnerable spot—Stovall’s vanity.

Jared dragged himself to his knees, then stood, back against the outer wall of the cabin. He had perhaps three feet to travel to the closed door. He moved his right foot, eyes never leaving the lieutenant. At any moment he expected another attack.

He dragged his left foot after his right, inching down the wall. The beam, lantern swayed, flinging Stovall’s shadow back and forth. The lieutenant’s cheeks glistened with sweat.

Another step to the right. One more and he’d break for it—

Stovall’s body tensed slightly, telling Jared the attack was coming. He raised his right hand higher, at the same time elevating the point of the knife. The blade’s angle was about forty-five degrees.

Stovall’s eyes flicked to the steel. He recognized the risk. One misstep, or a fall, and Jared could impale his face—

Rage overcame reason. Stovall whipped up his right fist. Too late, Jared saw the strategy: knock down the hanging lantern, force him to maneuver in darkness. He whirled toward the cabin door—

Stovall’s smash was stopped in midair as someone knocked.

“Lieutenant Stovall? Captain requests all officers to the wheel at once. We’ve sighted—”

Jared jerked the door open and bowled past the goggling master’s mate.

As if demons were after him, he plunged forward to the ladderway amidships, sheathing the knife as he ran. He streaked up to the gun deck and burst into the light at the waist. In the heavy sea, spray broke across
Constitution
’s rail. He’d never felt anything so welcome as that chilly salt water showering him while he scuttled up the steps to the fo’c’sle.

The Atlantic showed whitecaps with deep troughs between. Towering white clouds hid the sun, yet some of its light leaked through, putting a glare on the slopes of the swelling waves. Everywhere, men were shouting, running, going hand over hand up the ratlines.

Still blinking, Jared stumbled ahead through the press of seamen and marines. A glance over his shoulder revealed Captain Hull near the wheel. Some of the men on deck looked half dressed, but Hull’s uniform was, as usual, impeccable: black silk stock, straight-cut jacket, tight white breeches over his bulging paunch.

The captain paced back and forth, fiddling with his fob. Finally he demanded the glass from the sailing master. One long look, and he began shouting orders.

Jared hurried around the foremast. He had trouble with his footing on the spray-slicked deck. He stumbled into a topman hurrying to the shrouds. Took a cuff on the cheek from the angry seaman, and almost fell.

The man rushed on. Jared searched for someone he knew, spied Oliver Prouty and a half dozen other boys just beyond a group of marines with rifles. Gathered between the fo’c’sle carronades, men and boys were watching a sail that jutted above the horizon off the larboard rail.

Once more Jared risked a look back, saw Sixth Lieutenant Stovall, now in full uniform, climb up from below.

Stovall spotted Jared. His expression made it plain the boy would be punished. Jared guessed the lieutenant would charge him with a long list of infractions, so he could be given the maximum penalty for each.

As if to confirm it, Stovall touched fingertips to the forward edge of his braided half-moon hat, a mock salute. Then he pivoted and walked smartly toward Captain Huh, the center of a growing crowd of excited men aft of the mizzen.

Still limp from what had happened in Stovall’s cabin, Jared joined the other boys. Oliver Prouty elbowed a place for him, then leaned out over the rail. He pointed at the scrap of sail.

“Caught sight of her at two sharp. I’ve already laid six bets that she’s a Britisher.”

The ship hidden below the horizon appeared to be bearing east-southeast. If that were true, her course would take her across
Constitution
’s bow. Jared stared at the sail in a vacant way.

The Charleston boy noticed, brushed windblown hair out of his eyes, took hold of his friend’s arm. “You’re white. What the hell’s wrong?”

“I—” Jared wiped his mouth. “I had to pay a visit to Stovall’s quarters.”

Oliver Prouty blinked, searched the aft part of the spar deck. “I see him near the wheel.”

“Looks mad as the devil, too,” one of the other boys said.

The sea blinded Jared with its glare as he swung around. Positioned between the sailing master and First Lieutenant Morris, Stovall was attempting to get Hull’s attention. Jared knew what the Sixth Lieutenant wanted to say.

Hull wasn’t interested. Eyes shielded with one hand, he watched the setting of canvas in preparation for pursuit of the other vessel. There were scores of men aloft. But all the masthead flags had been hauled down.

Once more Stovall spoke to Hull. The captain’s dumpling face reddened. He said something sharp to the lieutenant. Jared thought he could make out two words:
Not now.

Stovall withdrew, scarlet. Oliver Prouty bent his head close. “What happened in his cabin?”

“What do you think?”

“You mean he—?”

“He tried.”

“And you hollered?”

“Worse than that. I had my knife out, ready to cut him up.”

“Jesus! You’re in for it.”

Jared nodded. “At this point, I’d probably be better off jumping in the ocean. He’ll have the cat on my back as soon as he can.”

“Well,” Prouty said, “that ship’s bought you a little time. Hull won’t put his mind to anything else until we’ve learned whether she’s friend or foe. If they beat to quarters—”

“
When
they beat to quarters,” said another boy. “From the size of that sail, she’s got to be a big ship—and you’ve already wagered she’s British.”

Prouty nodded. “So little Isaac will fight. Look at him! He’s so excited, he can’t stand still!”

Prouty’s expression grew sly. “Suppose we do engage. You can always hope some metal from the enemy’s cannon puts Lieutenant Handsome out of commission. Or that
something
happens to him—”

Jared looked at his friend, comprehension slow in coming. Prouty’s eyes were unblinkingly cruel.

“I never thought of that. Lieutenant Stovall could be one of those killed, couldn’t he?”

“With things confused—cannon going off—marines sniping from the tops—any man can be killed—” Prouty snapped his fingers. “That quick.”

Slowly, Jared moved his gaze to another of the young, tanned faces around him.

Then to a second.

A third.

A fourth—

What he saw in those faces was chilling. He recognized an unspoken promise. The boys would protect him with their silence.

He ran a hand over his forehead. That Hamilton Stovall was both unbalanced and vengeful, he didn’t doubt for a moment. And it would be so easy. During gun drills, he’d seen how much smoke just a few of the cannon produced. Imagine the smoke from an entire broadside—clouds of it—to make faces indistinct, conceal one quick stroke of the Spanish knife—

God, he was tempted.

Prouty sensed his hesitancy. “If you don’t do something, I can tell you what’ll happen. Stovall will have you punished so hard, you’ll be lucky not to be crippled for life. Even if you take the cat and pull through, you’ll be looking over your shoulder the rest of the voyage, wondering when he’s going to come at you—”

Prouty’s hand closed on Jared’s forearm.

“Do it, Jared.
Do it.
”

Jared started to say yes. An image of his uncle flashed into his mind. His shoulders slumped.

“I can’t, Ollie. I want to, but I can’t.”

Scowling, Prouty studied his crestfallen friend. After a moment, he gave a resigned shrug. “All right. It’s your skin. You know you’re being a fool.”

“I know. I’ll just have to take my chances.”

Waves thundered against
Constitution
’s hull. All sails set, she bore off on a course to intercept the stranger. As Jared watched the horizon, he could almost feel Hamilton Stovall’s eyes on his back.

B
Y HALF-PAST THREE, NO
doubt remained. The sails of the ship
Constitution
was chasing identified her as a member of the frigate class.

By four, her hull was in sight. Jared could make out small figures scurrying on her deck. From the wheel, word was passed that the captain had definitely identified the stranger as
Guerriere.

The American frigate drew closer, running in front of the stiff northwest breeze. Her bow rose and plunged in the heavy swells. The deck tilted at increasingly extreme angles.

About half past four, Hull ordered tampions removed from the muzzles of all cannon.

At a quarter of five, he began rattling a stream of orders. The topgallants, the staysails and the flying jib were hauled in, the topsails reefed a second time, the royal yards sent down and the courses sent up. A final order started the drummers beating to quarters. All over the spar deck, men and boys joined in three loud cheers.

Everyone scrambled to battle stations. Jared kicked off his shoes just as the others did; bare skin held a bloody deck more firmly than leather. He stripped off his shirt; lint festering in a wound could bring on gangrene—and amputation. As he took his position on the fo’c’sle, he almost forgot about the ominous presence of Lieutenant Hamilton Stovall, aft.

About half the boys were assigned to running back and forth between the orlop and the upper decks, bringing shot and leather buckets of powder to the guns. Jared, Prouty and three other boys formed a chain on the fo’c’sle to pass the powder and shot to the forward gun crews.

Constitution
plowed ahead under shortened sail. Top-men came scrambling down as the last of the drumrolls died away under the steady crash of the waves. The gunners were busy checking the breeching ropes of the fo’c’sle carronades. The ropes, secured to the rail timbers through eyebolts, prevented the cannon from recoiling too far.

Working next to Jared, Oliver Prouty seemed in high spirits. “Just heard they’re double-shotting the twenty-fours down on the gun deck. Round and grape’ll bloody the fucking British quick enough!”

Jared shivered. He had never seen grapeshot used. But he’d heard about the effects of the small iron balls wrapped in canvas around a wooden dowel, then secured to a wood disc that slid into the cannon’s muzzle; the whole split and flew apart when fired, filling the air with murderous fragments of metal.

Guerriere
showed every intention of fighting. She’d already backed her main topsail, and was no longer making headway. Captain Hull bounced up and down on the balls of his feet, alternately observing the enemy through his glass and snapping orders.

Constitution
bore down on the other ship, approaching with her bowsprit pointed at
Guerriere
’s starboard bow. Jared heard one of the fo’c’sle gunners complain that Hull was playing a dangerous game. From her current position, the American would only be able to fire a couple of the twenty-fours mounted in the bow.
Guerriere,
on the other hand, would be able to rake with a full starboard broadside.