The Seekers

by John Jakes

  The American captain told Hull he had eluded a real British frigate only the day before. Within an hour, the news spread through the ship. Oliver Prouty repeated it to Jared. “The captain thinks he’s on to Jimmy Dacres. Decatur outran a frigate slower than we are. A big one, too—it must be Guerriere!”

  Excitement gripped the ship all through the night. Next day, at three bells into the afternoon watch, Constitution was plowing through a heavy sea. Men aloft searched for signs of a sail—

  But Jared, below, had forgotten all about the pursuit. He had just been dispatched from the galley, carrying a lunch of salt beef, suet, biscuits and hot black coffee.

  The lunch was for Sixth Lieutenant Stovall, who had stood the watch till dawn, and was now indisposed in his cabin.

  Chapter IV

  The Devil’s Companion

  i

  JARED’S HAND TURNED SWEATY as he knocked. He glanced along the dim starboard gangway. Overhead, he heard men moving. But the gangway was empty and still, the officers’ sector of the berth deck totally, deserted.

  The sea boomed against the hull. He started to knock again, hesitated. Perhaps Lieutenant Stovall had fallen asleep. Perhaps he wouldn’t have to face—

  “Come in.”

  Jared stood unmoving, his left hand white on the handle of the wicker basket. The second time, the voice was less languid. “I said come in.”

  Reluctantly, he did.

  It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the feeble light of Stovall’s single lantern. Tobacco smoke coiled slowly in the tiny cabin, fanned to motion by the opening and closing of the door. Through the haze Jared saw the young lieutenant lounging in his bunk, his throat stock undone, a long-stemmed pipe clenched between his perfect teeth. He didn’t look a bit ill.

  Stovall set aside the wooden lap desk on which he’d been playing some form of patience with an oversized deck of hand-colored cards: crimson diamonds, purplish-red hearts, blue spades, green clubs. As he swung his legs out of the bunk, two of the court cards slipped to the floor.

  He leaned down gracefully, picked up the cards. One was a heart king with the face of President Washington, the other a queen in the form of a classical goddess. He replaced the cards in the deck.

  With a straight face, he said, “I trust you won’t put me on report, having discovered me with this—” He waggled the deck. “New England divines call it the devil’s picture book, don’t they? Alas, I’m more comfortable as a companion of devils than of divines.”

  Jared kept his head down, knowing he was being mocked. He set the basket on the small bolted-down table.

  “There is your meal, Lieutenant Stovall.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kent. I wasn’t up to the wardroom. Caught a touch of grippe in the damp night air, I think.”

  Jared took a step, backward.

  “If that will be all—”

  “Not quite.”

  Stovall’s manner was cordial enough. But his dark eyes had a bright, cold gleam. Walking slowly toward the boy, he talked with his pipe clenched in his teeth. “I had no idea you would be on duty, Mr. Kent—”

  Jared believed that was probably a lie, but said nothing.

  “I thought they might send the lunch with that coarse Prouty fellow. However, since you’re here—improperly dressed, I might add—”

  Before the boy could stop him, the lieutenant tucked the bottom of Jared’s blouse into his slops. For a moment he felt warm fingers probing past the waist of his pants—

  Stovall withdrew his hand, sat in the chair beside the table, examined his pipe. It had gone out. He knocked dottle into his palm, carelessly discarded it on the floor.

  “—since you are here, I say, we should perhaps discuss your clumsiness in the wardroom. Tea, as you know, leaves an abominable stain. You quite ruined my best breeches.”

  The dark eyes slid to Jared again. The boy felt a strangling tightness in his throat, a sense of being utterly cut off from the world. He spoke with difficulty. “As the captain said, it was an accident—”

  Stovall sat up straight. “An accident, sir.”

  Jared’s cheeks reddened. His hands shook a little. But he gave Stovall what he wanted. “An accident—sir.”

  Stovall licked his lips, his eyes moving again. To Jared’s throat, his arms, his chest.

  “I am prepared to be forgiving—”

  “Captain Hull seemed to think the matter settled. Sir.”

  “What Captain Hull thinks and what I think are not the same thing. You will sit down, Mr. Kent”—Stovall vacated the chair—“while we consider whether reparations are in order, and if so, what kind.”

  “Begging the lieutenant’s pardon, the steward and the cook instructed me to come straight back to the galley after—”

  “I take orders neither from the steward, who is a syphilitic sot, nor the cook, whose swill would win this war instantly if it were served to the enemy three days in a row. That a human being should be expected to eat suet—Christ! What barbarity!”

  Then he smiled. “You will sit down.”

  Jared slipped into the chair. Stovall strolled to the door, leaned against it, his handsome face a pale oval in the smoky gloom. The single hooded lantern swayed gently from one of the beams supporting the gun deck. Jared knew with a dismal certainty that it wasn’t going to be easy to get through that door again.

  Hamilton Stovall returned to the bunk. He picked up his cards, began to shuffle them as he perched on the bunk’s edge.

  “You don’t seem to be adjusting to naval discipline too well, Mr.—turn and look at me, please!”

  Jared swung his legs from one side of the chair to the other.

  “Every time you’re given an order, I notice a certain—shall we say—hostility? Perhaps you don’t even realize you’re reacting that way. But as I advised you once before, you won’t do well in the service until you curb your rebellious temperament. Of course”—a slow, limp gesture—“in other, more informal circumstances, your lively nature might have a certain charm.”

  Stovall’s hands, somehow seeming quite independent of the rest of him, resumed the shuffling of the deck, pulling cards from the center and bringing them to the front. The rustling sound began to torture Jared’s nerves.

  He worked up the courage to speak again. “May I ask the lieutenant the purpose of this—?”

  “Damn your impertinence! I told you the purpose. We are discussing the damage done to my breeches. You will sit there and listen until I dismiss you!”

  The cards moved again, whispering in counterpoint to the crash of the sea against Constitution’s hull. Abruptly, Stovall smiled.

  “I want us to settle our difference amicably. You already know I consider us to be kindred spirits. Like you, I am not all that fond of the fuss and protocol of the navy. I accepted a commission out of necessity, frankly. A suitable position in my family’s iron finery in Baltimore won’t be available until my grandfather passes, bless his soul.”

  There wasn’t a shred of feeling in the last remark. Jared knew Stovall was toying with him. Short of outright insubordination, he didn’t know how to put an end to it.

  “I don’t intend to get myself killed in this war, I promise you that. I believe I mentioned that my father died in the army almost twenty years ago—of carelessness, I presume. That’s the only reason a clever man comes to harm in a war. I am not careless. On the other hand, navy life can broaden a young man’s perspectives on the world. It can be salutary in developing—oh, how shall I say it? Manly traits—?”

  The soft rippling of the cards stopped. Stovall tossed the deck down, stood and rummaged beneath the bunk bolster. With his back turned, he said. “Mr. Kent, have you ever had a woman?”

  Jared’s spine crawled. He couldn’t answer.

  Stovall swung around, a metallic object gleaming on a chain in his right hand.

  “Damme, you’re a rude lout!” he exclaimed softly. “You will answer any and all questions put to you by officers of this ship!”
>
  He took two long strides forward, planting his boots wide apart. Jared’s mouth turned dry at the sight of the bulge beneath Stovall’s tight trousers.

  “I repeat—have you ever had a woman?”

  “N-no, sir, I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you think about it? Many young men your age are fathers.”

  “I think about it, yes—”

  “Do you think it would be pleasant?”

  “I—I imagine so.”

  “Louder, Mr. Kent. You’re whispering.”

  “I said—I imagine so.”

  Stovall flicked a catch on the oval locket. One side fell away to reveal the most astonishing miniature Jared had ever seen: a reclining nude, a voluptuous woman. Her fingers hid only part of the dark triangle between her legs.

  “Lovely creature, isn’t she? Her name is Mrs. Freemantle.”

  He leaned down toward the seated boy, his breath ripe with the smell of the tobacco he’d been smoking.

  “Does the sight of a naked woman excite you, Mr. Kent? Make you imagine those pleasures and sensations you’ve never experienced before?”

  Jared jerked his head up, so that he didn’t have to stare at that obscene picture cupped in Stovall’s hand. He said in a hoarse voice, “Not really, sir.”

  Stovall’s right brow hooked up. “Indeed? Why not?”

  “I expect it would be better to—to wait for the real thing.”

  “You’re a clever one.” Stovall chuckled. “Practical, too, since we’ve no women on board.” He snapped the locket shut, tucked it into the pocket of his breeches. “Still, Lord Cock can be a most impatient master. Surely at night, you sometimes feel his yearnings. His strainings—”

  Stovall’s hand dropped toward Jared’s knee, touched it lightly.

  “Surely you understand there are ways in which discreet gentlemen—pledged as friends—can relieve—”

  “Take your hand away.”

  “What’s this? You giving orders to me?” The fingers caressed his leg.

  “I’m just telling you—take your hand away, or—” Jared swallowed.

  “Or what, Mr. Kent?”

  “Or I’ll kill you.”

  Stovall’s eyes widened. Jared braced for a blow of the lieutenant’s fist. Instead, the young man guffawed. “Kill me, will you? How, in heaven’s name?”

  “With—with my fists or any way I can,” Jared said, having decided at the last second not to reveal his one small advantage.

  Stovall let go of his leg, slapped him on the shoulder. Jared wrenched away.

  “By God, Mr. Kent, those blue eyes tell the truth. You’ve spirit. Style! Imagine!—telling an officer you’re going to kill him. That’s incredible brass! But I admire it—” He picked up the cards from the bunk. “I admire it because it’s so atypical. The deeds—the lives of most men—are so pathetically small and ordinary. Scruples hamper them—scruples being another name for fear. I never permit myself to be cowed that way. When I gamble, it’s for thousands, not pennies. I don’t shrink from the pleasures cowardly little men call vices—I seek them out!”

  He gestured flamboyantly with the oversized cards. Jared’s earlier suspicion had become a conviction. Although the lieutenant might put on a respectable face for his superiors, he was dangerously deranged. The boy pressed his palms against his knees to keep the lieutenant from seeing how badly he was shaking.

  “That’s why I do admire that chap Bonaparte,” Stovall went on. “Everyone else damns him, but I appreciate the scope of his ambition. His willingness to abandon himself utterly to a grand vision. For the same reason, I rather admire our highly moral captain, surprising as that may sound. His escape from those five Britishers was magnificent! No mundane fellow could have accomplished it—or would have tried. We gambled everything—risked everything for a single puff of wind, a quarter mile of distance—we staked our lives and damn near broke our backs, but we won—!”

  Abruptly, Stovall drew a deep breath and riffled through the deck. Jared watched with mingled fascination and horror as he plucked out a blue-tinted spade—a knave represented by a scowling Indian chief with upraised tomahawk. Stovall twirled the card back and forth between thumb and index finger. “I’m telling you all this, dear boy, to show you that we are much alike—”

  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.