by Carla Kelly
“Maybe a corpse fell overboard,” Tots said.
“Seems unlikely,” Able replied. “Are you certain, John?”
“Sir, I am,” came the firm reply.
After a lightning-fast determination of wind and water motion, Able carefully glassing the surface of the water between the death boat and the harbor. He held his breath to make certain he was not bobbing with the yacht. John Mark was right. A figure swam toward them, making poor progress.
“You’re right, John,” he said softly, almost as though he feared the death boat crew might be listening. The cutter carrying the week’s corpses from the hulks lumbered on toward the still-distant wharf, apparently unmindful that it had lost someone quick from among the dead.
He made a rapid decision, one he hoped he wouldn’t regret, mainly because Meri’s struggle in the water was still fresh in his ever-active brain. “Smitty,” he called over his shoulder. “Someone is in the water at two points off the larboard bow. I mean to shield him with the Jolly Roger. Take us between the death boat and the swimmer. Can you do it? If not, I’ll take the helm.”
“I can do it, sir.” Smitty called to his classmates. “Watch the sails, Rats. I’ll tell you what to do.”
A few precise commands, and the yacht wore ship and sliced through the water toward the cutter. Able removed his shoes and his uniform, his eyes on the swimmer, who had stopped and was leaning back, looking upward.
“Handsomely now, Smitty,” Able called. “He’s almost done for.”
With enough skill to make any sailing master on any Royal Navy warship beam with pride, Smitty took the Jolly Roger between the death boat and the swimmer. They came close enough to see bodies under the tarp because the wind had picked up and ruffled the canvas.
“Luff the sails, Smitty,” Able said. “I’m going in. Steady as she goes, please.”
Able slid over the larboard side of the yacht, gasping from the frigid water. He looked back, relieved to see that no one from the death boat could tell what he was doing. Using an underhand motion, Nick slid a ring buoy in his direction, with two lads at the ready on the rope to pull them in.
Able approached the swimmer carefully and spoke in French. “I’m going to reach across you and pull you toward me. Don’t struggle, because I have no qualms about letting you drown, if you resist.”
“I’m trying to escape!” the man replied in French. “How can you be French? What alchemy is this?”
“I’m English, you idiot. Don’t argue,” Able said, with some asperity.
“In that case,” the man said in excellent English. “Good God, I am cold.”
What in the world have we here? Able asked himself as he took the man into the same position he had used to carry his wife only a few days ago.
Damn, it was cold. Able swam them toward the ring buoy and looped his arm through the blessed little thing. “Haul away, lads,” he called, but quietly.
They hauled. Able tightened his grip on the exhausted man as the Rats towed them to the Jolly Roger. “You’re no corpse,” he said in French, thinking that perhaps idle conversation wasn’t out of the question. “You’re a prisoner?”
“These two long years,” the man said. His voice was faint and his breathing labored. “I could not manage one more moment.”
“I was a prisoner once of the damned French,” Able said. “Jesus God, it’s cold. Did you really think you would make it to shore?”
No answer. Able slapped the man’s head.
“I am alive,” he said distinctly. “Don’t do that.”
“Just making certain. Why should I not turn you over to the authorities?”
“I cannot think of a single reason except humanity.”
They had reached the yacht. Able held up the prisoner’s arms and the boys hauled him to the deck. “Cover him with something,” Able said, as John and Nick dragged him up and over the railing. “Anything.”
Other of the crew grabbed Able. Nick took two blankets from the quarters below deck, draping one over the man who lay silent, his eyes closed, and handing the other to Able, who wrapped it around himself and sat down cross-legged by the prisoner.
“Smitty, take us back to the wharf. No. Take us to the stone basin instead. We can tie up there for now. You and you, turn him on his side and start rubbing him. I had better get dressed.”
Able took off his soaked small clothes and dried himself with the blanket. He put on his uniform and his shoes and watched the Rats at work.
Is this our spy? he asked himself, as the prisoner shivered and moaned. If he is, he is truly inept.
— Chapter Twenty-four —
Like the mariner he obviously was, even if he had come from nowhere he would state, Smitty brought the Jolly Roger neatly to the stone basin in the rear of St. Brendan the Navigator School. The yacht was far too large to gain admittance to the basin, but there was a small berth and iron rings outside. Soon the vessel was tied fast.
The sun was still too high in the sky for his next move, so Able helped the boys carry the Frenchman below deck to the snug cabin. “Shut up and stay here,” he ordered, feeling no particular animosity, but wanting the prisoner quiet because he didn’t need any more competition to the rousing clamor going on in his brain. “Topside, lads, smartly now.”
He gathered his boys close to him on deck, speaking softly. “When it is full dark, we are going to help this man to my house. I am going to summon Sir B and ask his advice. Until then, you will watch him.” He took his time gazing into each earnest face. “There are moments in your naval career when you must say absolutely nothing of what has transpired. This is one of those moments. Need I say more?”
Head shakes all around on serious faces. “Good. Smitty, here is my knife. Go below. If he makes any move toward you, kill him.”
“Aye, sir,” Smitty said as he took the knife. No question, no comment, no hesitation. Smitty had the makings of an admiral. That would never happen, of course, but even better would Smitty as a valued first mate. The boy went below without a backward glance.
Able put his hand on the other upperclassman. “Remain here on deck, Tots. I will return soon with blankets and food for the prisoner. Don’t allow anyone else on the Jolly Roger. There’s a cudgel here somewhere. Use it if need be.”
“Aye, Master Six.”
Able squeezed out his smallclothes, dumped them into the now-empty canvas bag of food that Meri always insisted upon and slung it over his shoulder. “Nick and John, come with me.”
Silently they hurried to the most wonderful house in England. Both boys sighed when they crossed the threshold. “I always feel better here, too,” he said. “Let’s see if we can find Mrs. Six. Ah, here she is, mending our stockings. What a brave woman.”
Nick chuckled. He and John moved quickly into the sitting room, Able right behind, after he indicated that Mrs. Perry follow them. The housekeeper set down the folded laundry without a question.
“This is a delegation,” Meri said after he kissed her cheek and the boys sat down. “Am I in trouble?”
She immediately became serious as he told her what had happened on the water, and who was now under the watchful eye of the Gunwharf Rats. He knew what she would say and she didn’t fail him.
“Poor man. He needs dry clothes. Able, is he your size?”
“He’s not so tall and decidedly thinner. Any thoughts?”
“Jamie MacGregor left his outgrown clothes behind with Betsy on his last visit in port,” Mrs. Perry said. “I’ll go ask her, and heat up some water for the pig.”
“Beef stew is on the hob. Should I get a tin ready?” Meri asked. “I have bread and petit fours, too.”
“Oh, Mam, not too many of the petit fours, please,” Nick said. “He’s a prisoner, after all.”
“Gluttony is one of the seven d
eadly sins, but I see your point, Nick,” she said, then smiled. “A little mercy is a good thing, but we’ll limit him to two.” She left the room.
Able thought John Mark might question him, and he was not disappointed. “May I ask? Sir, what do you plan to do with him?”
“You may always ask,” Able said. He reached in his pocket for a coin. “Hail a hackney and go to number Twenty-five Jasper Road. Tell Sir B what has happened and ask him to come here after dark. Tell him you will take dinner with him.”
John’s eyes widened with the responsibility but Able saw no reticence. “Aye, sir.”
He took the coin. Able half-expected him to ask where to hail a hackney, because he knew John had never attempted what he had just been told to do. The boy saluted smartly and hurried on his errand. Good lad, Able thought.
“And me, sir?” Nick Bonfort asked.
What for Nick? In seconds, Able recalled Meri’s conversations of the past few days, sorting through them, and arriving at the perfect duty immediately. After putting Ben to bed two nights ago, Meri had speculated on various ways to draw Grace Croker more into Sir B’s orbit.
“Go to Miss Croker. We will spare the headmaster, because he is still not well. Tell her to come here after dark, as we need her advice.”
“If she asks me questions?”
“Tell her it’s for the good of the navy, and you have your orders.”
He could have laughed out loud at Nick’s doubtful expression. “She has a way of wanting to know everything all at once.”
Able had never heard a better description of the efficient, intelligent Miss Croker. “She does, but you are under my orders, Nick. Then come back and eat your dinner.”
“Aye, sir.”
Able went in search of Meridee, who was scooping beef stew into a tin. “What are you thinking, Able?” she asked, which made him laugh and slap her fanny. “Oh, you know what I mean,” she said, pinking up and looking as luscious as the petit fours on the table. “Silly genius, why do I tolerate you?”
“A question for the ages, Mrs. Six! I am thinking this could be our spy that Trinity House warned us about,” he said. “I am certain he will never tell us the truth or at least the whole truth. I am also thinking about next Tuesday’s algebra lesson, and what must happen in the next few months to put William Pitt back in power. Which of those to you want?”
She threw her arms around him, and he was happy to hold her. “I want the one where you tell me you love me.”
“That’s so easy,” he said, and kissed her soundly. “I love you. Give me a challenge, wife.”
“Oh, you,” she said in that gruff voice he liked so well. As he watched, she found a basket for the food and added a towel. Mrs. Perry came out of the storeroom with some of Jamie MacGregor’s clothes he had outgrown on his last voyage, and held them up to her generous waist.
“What do you think, sir?” she asked.
“Mrs. Perry, he kissed me when I asked him that same thing,” Meri teased.
“Actually, I was about to say that they won’t fit you, Mrs. Perry, but I value my life.”
The African housekeeper gave him a formidable look that took Able back to earlier days when she had sailed with her carpenter-husband on Able’s second ship, under the command of Sir B. He held up his hands in surrender.
“Mrs. Perry, those trousers will do, and that shirt. Oddly enough, he is wearing regular clothing, well cut, and not convict garb. That might be our first question to him.”
“Who is he?”
“That I doubt he will divulge. Mrs. Perry, let’s see what we find out.”
Carrying their goods and trying to look inconspicuous, the three of them strolled beyond the stone basin to the Jolly Roger. Tots greeted them by touching a wicked-looking marling spike to his hat.
“Anyone come nosing around?”
“Just a cat and two dogs, sir,” Tots replied. “I sent them on their way.”
“Excellent. Mrs. Perry, perhaps you could give this good fellow a petit fours.”
She could and did. Able moved in front of Meridee and she followed him down the narrow companionway to the cabin, her hand on his shoulder, because the stairs were steep.
There sat Smitty in the hammock, leisurely pushing off with his foot and swinging in the small space. The Frenchman’s eyes were closed, but the half smile on his face looked like nothing more than relief. If he was a spy, he certainly was serene about it.
The man’s nose began to twitch like a dog’s when he smelled the stew Meri carried. “If I open my eyes, is this a dream?” he said in excellent English.
“Not at all,” Meri said. “I would advise you to not gobble it down, though.”
Able watched in appreciation as the man opened his eyes and just gazed at Meridee Six for a long moment, as if he could not imagine the good fortune of food and a pretty woman at the same time. Under his appreciative scrutiny, Meri stepped back until she touched Able’s body. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Meri, let me introduce this ogler to you,” Able said, “or at least I would if I knew his name. Sir?”
The prisoner paused a moment, as if wondering the wisdom of giving his true name, then gave a Gallic shrug. “Jean Hubert, madame, at your service. Lieutenant, that is, of the late sloop of war Calais, captured near Saint Domingue.”
“Meri, may I introduce Lieutenant Jean Hubert to you? Lieutenant, this is my wife, Mrs. Six. I am Sailing Master Able Six, currently assigned as a professor of nearly everything at St. Brendan to Navigator School.”
Lieutenant Hubert’s eyes grew small as he smiled. “Charmed, Madame Six and Master Six.” He took a deep breath. “I know I am showing the worst kind of manners, but you said there was food in that tin…”
All business now, Meri opened the tin and poured its contents into the cup she had brought. “Careful, it’s hot,” she warned as she handed it to Hubert. “Here is a spoon and bread.”
Able doubted the starving man heard a word she said. The stew was too hot, so he dipped the bread in and sucked it, pausing only to wipe the tears from his eyes.
“I…I have more at the house, lieutenant,” Meri said, then turned her face into Able’s sleeve, because she was tenderhearted.
Able heard Mrs. Perry sniff, but he knew better than to glance at the big woman. He had seen her around shipwrecked sailors before – French, English or Dutch, it never mattered.
“Did he say anything to you?” he asked Smitty.
“No, sir. Of course, I was tapping the knife in my hand. Sir, do I look formidable?”
“A little. Consider it an asset.”
“He looked at me and said ‘C’est formidable,’” Smitty said. “I think it was the knife, Master Six.”
“You do have a bit of an air about you, Smitty,” Able said. “I knew you were the man for the job.”
He turned his attention to the prisoner, who was just accepting the two petit fours from Meri with a bow. Trust the French, once they were not on the sorry side of starvation, to pay attention to the ladies. How he managed to look in control of his situation – a blanket wrapped around him, and his lips nearly blue with cold – was one of the mysteries of life. The occasion called for some plain speaking, but not with Meri and Mrs. Perry within earshot.
“Meri, you and Mrs. Perry may return home. I’ll see to this fellow.”
“Is he coming home with you?”
“That will depend entirely on what I learn from him in the next few minutes, and if I believe anything he tells me.” That was plain enough, and entirely for the lieutenant’s ears.
Meri seemed to understand his game. She put the empty tin in the basket and handed the towel to Lieutenant Hubert. “We’ll eat at six,” she said, and blew Able a kiss.
Now it was Smitty, Lieutenant Hubert, Able
and Tots, who came below when Able called him.
“Now, sir, strip and dry off and see if these clothes will fit,” Able said.
“With an audience?” Hubert asked.
“Absolutely. I might even ask you to spread your cheeks. If you’re going to cross the street with me to the house where my wife and baby sleep, there will be nothing on your person except, well, your person.”
“Fair enough.” Hubert removed his shirt, revealing ribs ready to poke out of his sides, and a back well-acquainted with a lash. Once naked, he turned around and spread his cheeks, which struck Able as more of a taunt than a wish to comply. The man was a Frenchman, after all. Able made no comment, even though Smitty was hard put not to laugh.
Jamie’s old trousers went on easily, if too short. So was the shirt, but at least he was decent. Able draped a blanket around him.
“I’ll repeat an earlier question: why should I not summon the marines and turn you in?” Able asked, when the lieutenant was dressed, barefoot still.
The prisoner opened his mouth to speak when they heard the noise of feet overhead. Tots went to the companionway and came down with little Pierre carrying a pair of Able’s old slippers.
The boy dropped the slippers and turned as ghostly white as the spectre Able still considered him: a quiet lad who said nothing and tagged after John Mark. Able looked at the lieutenant. He saw every emotion cross Hubert’s face, starting with amazement and ending with relief of a profound nature.
“Pierre Deschamps,” the prisoner said and held out his arms. “Master Six, he was my powder monkey on the Calais.”
The boy tumbled into them, sobbing in French, “Lieutenant Hubert, he abandoned me!”
What is this? Able thought, wishing he could hear more of what they were saying. Hubert had immediately whispered to Pierre, and they spoke softly, urgently.