by Carla Kelly
“You would know,” came the dry comment.
“I would,” Able agreed, his voice calm. “Believe me, I do.”
He sat down and John Mark moved closer. Meridee yearned to stand next to both of her Gunwharf Rats. For all his forthrightness, John still trembled at loud voices. She looked at Sir B, giving him the full wattage of her glance. To her gratitude, he nodded.
And then to her dismay, he cleared his throat and looked about the suddenly quiet room. “Brothers, you need to hear from another person in this room. You need to hear from…what should we call her, Able? St. Brendan’s house mother?”
Her man turned and grinned at her. She saw the relief on his face, even as hers drained of all color.
“The lads call her Mam. I prefer to think of her as my sheer delight and St. Brendan’s secret weapon.”
“Very well, then,” Mr. Pitt said. “Sheer delight, is it? She’ll make you pay for that! Mrs. Six, front and center, please.”
— Chapter Six —
Even a genius doesn’t get the facts right all the time. Perhaps he had finally asked too much of this gentle lady who wed him willingly, had no objection to loving him generously, and gave him a son gladly. As he had admitted last spring, he didn’t always comprehend social nuances, no matter how prodigious his brain. His palms didn’t usually sweat, but they were sweating now.
“Oh, really…no,” Meri said. “What can I possibly say?”
“Volumes,” Sir B replied. “You know Master Six better than any of us, and the Gunwharf Rats, too, I would wager.”
Did he dare ask this of her? Certainly, he did. They were partners in everything. Just the mental reminder of that simple fact put the heart back into his body.
“I need you, Meri,” he said and held out his hand.
She was on her feet and by his side in no time. He indicated the chair he had vacated, but she shook her head. John Mark took that as a signal to stand beside them. When Meri pulled him close to her, there was no mistaking the little fellow’s sigh of relief.
Considering that he had no idea why he had been summoned to Trinity House, and where the questions would come from, Able needed to know something first, before he would subject his wife to questions. That wasn’t too much to ask of a careful husband.
“Sirs, before there is any interrogation of my wife, I would like to know why I was directed here,” he said, taking in the men at the table, and the others seated against the wall. “I know your business is licensing sailing masters and pilots who bring ships over the bar and up the Thames. I know you of Trinity are the men who see to the regulations of buoys and markers and lighthouses and their maintenance. Why are you interested in St. Brendan’s?”
“Captain Rose here,” said the Elder Brother seated next to Mr. Pitt. “I can answer your questions, for they are valid ones.”
Able sketched a creditable bow. He knew of Hector Rose. Who didn’t?
“Master Six, we at Trinity do all that you mentioned. You are likely aware that we provide almshouses for poor and infirm seamen and their widows and orphans.”
“I am. It does Trinity House credit.”
“We do more.” Captain Rose said it firmly, then paused, which gave the simple statement a certain heft and weight. “During this time of national emergency, we do things that no one in England is aware of.”
The silence following that statement was so loud that Able consciously asked the typical cacophony in his brain to settle down. Sometimes genius was a noisy burden.
Captain Rose stood up and walked around the long table until he stood before them. He smiled at John Mark, who leaned closer to Meridee. Her hand went to his head.
“What I say here, anything you hear… is between us. John Mark, is it?”
The boy nodded. When Meri patted his cheek, he gulped and said, “Aye, sir.”
“Absolute silence is a requirement of the service, at times,” Captain Rose said. “Do not disappoint me.”
“N…no, sir.”
“Mrs. Six?”
“I understand, captain,” she told him. “Complete and total amnesia,” which made the Brethren chuckle.
“I needn’t ask you, Master Six,” he said. “Or any of the rest of you? Very well. Captain St. Anthony has requested that we consider St. Brendan not only as a noble experiment in meeting the growing needs of the fleet, but also in relation to Portsmouth Harbor and the prison hulks.”
“How is that, sir?” Able asked.
Captain Rose was silent a long moment. He looked down at John Mark. “Lad, you’re partly the reason we called your master here.”
“Me, sir? Gor!”
Captain Rose smiled, suggesting to Able that the august man knew more than a little about small boys. “Master Six, you gave some of John’s drawings from the block pulley construction to Sir B, along with other work from your students.”
“Aye, captain. Sir B requested it when I came bounding in one afternoon, ready to show off what we were learning in that hodge-podge, after-school class I teach. John’s sketches were among the material.”
“A seamanship course?”
“It started that way, sir, but everything seems to catch our attention.” Able glanced at his wife. “Well, mine, at any rate. Meri started calling our class the Gunwharf Rat Symposium, and the name stuck. Now the class is in addition to our formal seamanship.”
“I assume you have a full day of classwork,” another captain said, one of those who had originally sat back with his arms folded. He was leaning forward now. “Where did you stick in this class?” The Brother grinned at Meridee. “Gunwharf Rat Symposium, Mrs. Six? Are you as singular as your husband?”
“I wouldn’t have thought so,” she said, then turned kindly eyes on Able. “But who else would marry such a man?”
“Hear, hear,” said the irrepressible Sir B.
Able shook his head at the humor, and suddenly realized that Meridee was humanizing them all. Bless her. “We took a vote between early in the morning or later at night, you know, after Mess Call and before Dowse Lights. Later won out. We meet from eight bells to two bells. Our only rule is that we can discuss anything we want. No subject is off limits, which means John Mark dragged all of us to the block pulley factory. You tell them, John.”
“I went to the butcher’s with Mrs. Perry one day and we walked by,” he said. Able watched the light in his eyes grow. “I heard steam whistles and banging and I was curious. I stood on a box and looked in the window. Gor! There were machines moving and wood turning on lathes! I never saw the like.”
“And…?” prompted Captain Rose, by all appearance equally captivated.
“Here, sir.” The boy ran to Grace and picked up his sketchpad. He handed it to the dignified captain and flipped through earlier pages. “I drew what I could. A nice man inside the building showed me everything.” His face fell. “Mrs. Perry wanted me to hurry along because the dead chicken in her basket wasn’t getting a minute younger.”
All the brethren laughed at that. Meri put her hand to her mouth and laughed, leaning against Able. He put his arm around her.
“It was Mr. Marc Brunel’s invention, sir,” Able said, when the merriment subsided. “Mr. Maudslay refined it and Mr. Goodrich is assembling the machines to Brunel’s specifications. We, uh, managed to gain entrance a few days later and walked through the whole factory, or what is completed now.”
“And wouldn’t you know, sir? Master Six had a suggestion to fix a pulley-making part to run smoother.” John was nearly jumping up and down in his enthusiasm. “He does that.”
“So I have heard,” Captain Rose said. “May I borrow your sketches, Mister Mark?”
“You may,” the boy said. He flipped a few pages. “I should take out this one.”
“What is it? My stars, this is lovely.” Captain Rose
looked at Meridee. “Is this little Ben?” He bowed toward Sir B. “Named, I am told, after that Yankee captain Hallowell and our own Belvedere.”
Meridee left Able’s side and approached the end of the table. Able watched her eyes grow soft. “I didn’t know you sketched him, John.”
“Master Six said you are going to be twenty-five soon. I wanted to give you a drawing of something I know you like,” he said, then looked around when the men – probably husbands – laughed some more. He hung his head. “I shouldn’t have said you were that old, should I?”
Meridee pulled him close. “I’m younger than Master Six, and he doesn’t mind! I want to frame this, but only after you sign your name in the lower right corner like all true artists.”
“This lady, sirs, is my secret weapon,” Able said. “Mrs. Six scolds the Rats when they need it, reads to them, tucks them in bed each night and holds them close when there are night terrors.” He took a deep breath. “We all have those, upon occasion.”
“You are not along there, master, workhouse or not,” someone else said. “But don’t you fear molly-coddling the lads, Mrs. Six? Both the merchant marine and Royal Navy are hard services, never more than in wartime.”
“Oh, no,” she assured him. Her hand went to her heart. “No one in St. Brendan’s has a mother, do they? Who is there to teach such boys manners and kindness?” She clasped her hands together and looked at Able for reassurance. “I treat them as I would my own. And probably as your wives treat your children. They are no different, no matter the circumstances of their birth.”
Captain Rose nodded and returned his attention to John Mark. “I’ll borrow your sketches, if I may, and return them soon. Tell me, lad: what would you like to become when you grow up a little more? Your master here would probably tell you that any answer will be a good one, as long as it is your idea.”
The boy nodded. Able knew he was a thoughtful child, one prone to silent consideration before he spoke, unless enthusiasm carried the day, as it often did.
“I would make block pulleys in the mill,” he said. “Maybe I would find a way to improve upon the mechanicals, then keep them running day and night, if need be.”
“Not for you the glamor of a fleet action?” This question came from Mr. Pitt himself. “Pretty ladies strewing flowers on the water when you return? Ceremonial swords presented?”
“Puking is never glamorous,” John Mark said, startled at the laughter that followed. “It isn’t! Master Six says I will get my sea legs eventually, but it hasn’t happened yet, no matter how many times I sail in the harbor.”
“Yes, but making block pulleys?” Mr. Pitt asked.
“Sir, do you know that some nine-hundred-plus pulleys are required on the average frigate? If they are not there, the ship does not sail. We cannot all be admirals, especially if there is no ship to sail.”
“No, we cannot, Master Mark,” Captain Rose said. He turned his attention to Able. “Carry on, Master Six.” He gave a nod to Meridee. “And Mrs. Six. Carry on with your excellent work. Let me add one thing more.” He looked around, as if the walls had ears.
“Watch the harbor. I believe you have a vantage point in your home, with chambers that overlook the bay, and St. Brendan’s below you.”
“Captain, do you fear mischief?” Able asked.
“Every day and night,” Captain Rose replied, his voice heavy now, his words weighty. “Let me quote the illustrious Admiral Horatio Nelson: ‘You must hate a Frenchman as you hate the devil.’”
He bent down from his great height to address John Mark alone. “You, too, lad, and your fellows at St. Brendan’s. Be alert there in your school by the harbor.”
Able wondered, as he had wondered since his youth, if his father was one of those Frenchman to be loathed and despised. It was a disquieting thought. Thank God no one except Euclid, William Harvey, Nicholas Copernicus, Anthony van Leuwenhoek, Isaac Newton, Galen, Aristotle, and if he was supremely lucky, his very own keeper, Meridee Six, could read his mind. In her case, she read the portion that mattered: his whole heart.
— Chapter Seven —
Mr. Pitt broke the silence. “There we have it, gentlemen,” he said, keeping his voice soft. “Upon request, we have learned a little about St. Brendan’s, and admonished even the very young to be alert for mischance.”
He returned to his seat, folding his hands in front of him. “Brethren, I would propose that we add a reasonable sum to help in the running of such a school. Do I hear any objections?”
Meridee’s eyes went to the Brethren who had earlier looked resistant. Beyond that one captain who still stared hard at Able, she saw others who appeared more receptive.
“Master Able, how many courses do you teach?” a Brother asked suddenly.
“Two mathematics courses, and the calculus to two students before breakfast,” Able replied. “That was all the time we had available. Seamanship fills the afternoon, and our Gunwharf Rat Symposium after dinner, sir.”
“Could you add more classes?”
“No, sir. I have a wife who likes to see me now and then, and a son, who unlike me, has a father.”
“War demands sacrifice, Master Six,” another man said, his tone milder.
“What more would you have me do, sirs?”
“What more can he do?” Meridee asked, speaking entirely out of turn. “The sea already has his whole heart, sirs. My son and I get what’s left. We don’t begrudge his long hours, but sirs, he’s a better man and teacher because of us. Only ask him.”
“She is right, Brethren,” Able said. “Scoff if you will, but I have a mind that never stops. It does slow somewhat in the comforting association of those I love the best. I need them. Meri sends me back to duty with peace in my heart.”
“We ask enough of you, then,” Mr. Pitt said with all the finality in his voice from years of serving as the nation’s prime minister. “Gentlemen? This is a small school, and an experimental one, if you will. And we have not even mentioned the fact that Miss Croker over there is one of the instructors, as well.”
Heads swiveled. Meridee heard a gasp or two.
“Miss Croker, what do you teach?”
“I teach English grammar and penmanship,” Grace said, her right and privilege to speak as firm as Mr. Pitt’s. She rose and stood beside Meridee. “Heaven knows they need it. Perhaps you did, too, sirs, earlier in your careers.”
She had them and she knew it. I could never do that, Meridee thought, enchanted.
Mr. Pitt surprised Meridee. “What else could you teach, Miss Croker?”
She could see even Grace was surprised. The elegant woman pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling, as if expecting something to appear. Perhaps it did, because she did not falter.
“Sir, I could teach rudimentary medical treatment,” she said, then nodded, as though the new idea struck a welcome chord. “I could also manage the elementary mathematics, which would free Master Six to even more advanced effort.”
“Excellent,” Mr. Pitt said. “Master Six? What would her help allow you to do?”
“We could move that calc course after breakfast,” he said, which made some of the Brethren chuckle. He turned toward Grace. “Grace, I could devote more time to actual navigation if you did take that lower mathematics class. Seamanship is so vast a course. Headmaster Croker could probably add more charting and intermediate reading to his plate.”
Mr. Pitt nodded. “Do you need more instructors?”
“Someone to teach French conversation,” Able said promptly. “If we’re going to keep fighting the blokes, we’d better understand them, wouldn’t you agree? I would like…”
He looked down. John Mark was tugging at his sleeve. “Aye, lad?”
“Something mechanical, if you please,” John said earnestly. “Something with gears and bolts and wheels.”
“I heartily concur, John Mark,” Able said. “I could teach that, but there is still only one of me. Perhaps we can encourage Marc Brunel himself to drop by, or Henry Maudslay.”
John’s eyes grew wide. “Gor!”
“We can ask, can’t we?” Able said, as if only the two of them stood there, master and student, workhouse boy to workhouse boy.
Captain Rose raised his hand, as if he sat in a classroom. “Master, would St. Brendan’s ever consider taking on regular lads from good homes?”
“No, sir, I would not,” Able said promptly.
“Why not? St. Brendan’s could benefit everyone, as far as I can tell.”
Able reached for Meridee’s hand again. She clasped both hands around his.
“It has been my experience – ask any Gunwharf Rat – that as soon as someone of even the smallest privilege is thrown in with workhouse lads, these privileged newcomers try to exert superiority. St. Brendan’s is a tender flower, a social experiment, if you will. Let these boys be.”
Meridee watched her man’s old eyes as he surveyed the room, taking his time to observe each face. “They come to us expecting nothing. No one wants or needs them. They discover skills in demand in our wartime naval service and they apply themselves. They find out who they are – not merely castoffs and byblows, but lads of worth and intelligence. They are already making their mark in the Royal Navy. Let us continue our work with them alone.”
Mr. Pitt took his time. “I know you Brethren well,” he said finally. “There is nothing you would not do to further our skill in this time of national emergency.”
“St. Brendan’s is so unorthodox!” one of the Brethren burst out.
“A woman teaching? A workhouse bastard himself in a position of authority?” exclaimed the red-faced man, his face even redder. “Unheard of.”