Unlikely Spy Catchers (St. Brendan Book 2)

by Carla Kelly

To turn them in or not? Able had nothing of a concrete nature on which to base his next move, nothing beyond a certain instinct that every seaman in any navy seemed to share. Enemy he might be, Lieutenant Hubert also looked after his men, even the little ones.

  Whether this would prove to be a blessing or a dreadful mistake, Able had no idea. None of the characters who roamed about in his brain seemed to have any idea, either, or at least they weren’t divulging it. Trust genius to fail you when you need it.

  Better appear decisive, at least. “Smitty and Tots, return the Jolly Roger to her berth. Can you do that without embarrassing St. Brendan’s?”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Able smiled to himself, knowing what he had asked. It was their first independent command, taking the Jolly Roger from her ad hoc mooring by the stone basin to her regular slip near the Gunwharf, the distance of one quarter mile. From Smitty’s serious expression, it might have been from Portsmouth to the Scillies through rough Channel chop.

  “See that you do it handsomely and to St. Brendan’s credit. Report across the street when you are done. There are more petit fours.”

  When the boys hurried above deck, Able formally motioned his prisoner toward the companionway.

  “What have you decided?” his prisoner asked.

  “I trust you not at all, Lieutenant Hubert, but I do value the opinion of a little boy, who seems happy to see you,” he said. “You’re coming home with me. Whether I regret this bit of generosity on my part is up to you.”

  — Chapter Twenty-five —

  To pretend to feel alert and stout-hearted or let down his guard? That was Jean Hubert’s question; he had no answers. All he wanted was more warm food, and a bed with sheets and blankets. Mrs. Six seemed to be a soft-hearted lady. Having her on his side would do him no harm. The question of whether leaning on Able would earn him more sympathy entered his mind and left it quickly, when he realized he really did need the sailing master’s help to stand upright.

  Jean was rewarded with a tender glance from Master Able’s wife who stood in the open door across the street. His delight in his continuing power over the weaker sex turned to sackcloth and ashes when he saw the master’s frosty expression. I think I cannot fool this one, he thought, chagrined that he had even tried.

  He would not even attempt to solicit sympathy from the African woman, who appeared completely capable of thrashing him and feeling no regret. And the big lad, the one with such broad shoulders? Where in the world did a boys’ school find a hound of hell like that?

  It was a worthy question and he did want an answer. He leaned on Master Able’s arm as they slowly crossed the street. “Tell me, sir: if I had moved toward…toward…Smitty is it?... would he really have killed me?”

  “Aye, lieutenant. I gave him an order.”

  I shouldn’t have asked, Jean thought. Suddenly he knew, somewhere deep in his brain, that no matter how long this conflict raged, the British were going to win. There seemed to be no shortage of young men like Smitty.

  “How old is he?” Jean asked as Able helped him up the first steps toward a pleasant stone house with empty window boxes waiting for spring.

  “He is twelve.”

  Jean wondered why he felt this need for conversation with his captor, except that the man had an engaging quality about him, despite his frosty glare. “Twelve? I would have thought him older.”

  “The workhouse will do that,” Master Six replied, leaving Jean to wonder just what sort of school St. Brendan’s was, and whether he had been wise in impulsively striking out for shore from under a pile of corpses.

  Perhaps he had been hasty in thinking himself capable. The mere sight of four more steps up to the house’s front door exhausted him. “I don’t think I can,” he murmured.

  “We can,” Master Six replied. “Smitty?”

  Hands under his arms, they lifted him right up the steps and into the house, with Mrs. Six holding the door open.

  “I don’t know why I thought that hard,” Jean said, then promptly fainted.

  When he came around, he was lying in a bed with sheets and blankets, just as he had dreamed of for the past year and a half. Sitting on one side was Mrs. Six, this time holding a sleeping baby. Standing on his other side was a tall, thin woman with intense-looking eyes and an expression suggesting she had no love for the French.

  “I’ll get Sir B,” she told Mrs. Six, who nodded.

  “Where am I?” Jean asked.

  “You’re in my home.” Mrs. Six smiled as if she had knowledge he would never possess. “We share it with students we call our little boarders – two lads from St. Brendan’s, across the street.”

  “St. Brendan’s, St. Brendan’s,” he said, almost afraid to look around for the menacing Smitty. “Your husband mentioned a school for boys. What…what sort of school is it?” He couldn’t resist smiling back, because Mrs. Six seemed so genuinely interested. “Smitty fair terrifies me.”

  “They are lads like my husband, in this case being trained for service with the fleet,” she began. “Well, sort of like my husband. No one is quite like him. Like him, though, they were raised in workhouses. They are England’s cast-offs, her by-blows, her unwanted.”

  No fool he, Jean had already noticed the glances between Master and Mrs. Six. Able Six certainly wasn’t unwanted.

  “Trained as what?”

  “Sailing masters, mainly, but we are discovering they have other talents. One of our boys is now an apothecary’s apprentice at Haslar,” she explained. “That is the royal naval hospital. Three are at sea already, apprenticed to sailing masters and acquitting themselves well.”

  She turned her attention to the open door and her expression lightened. Jean knew without even looking that her husband stood there. The connection between the two was palpable. “Able, he’s alert. Should I leave you and Sir B with him?”

  “No. Stay here. You know I value your opinion.”

  Mrs. Six took a seat closer to the fire. She put her baby to her shoulder and settled herself. The man he already knew as Able Six came in, followed by a man in a wheeled chair, pushed by what must be his valet, a pale fellow with deep-set eyes that wore a look of worry, for some reason. Do you think I can leap up and smite you? Jean thought, wondering at the expression. His next thought surprised him. I do believe you are French. We Frenchmen have a look, don’t we?

  The tall, thin woman returned and sat beside Mrs. Six. Her glance went to the man in the wheeled chair and lingered there, telling Jean even more about this singular collection of humanity crowded into a fairly small room.

  He closed his eyes for a moment, wondering who everyone was, wondering how much truth to tell. There was no fear in the room, except what he seemed to see in the eyes of the valet. Ah well, he was merely a servant and of no particular account.

  To his surprise, the young lodgers, as Mrs. Six called them, crowded in at the door, Smitty among them. Working his way closer was Pierre Deschamps. Jean thought of the times his powder monkey had wormed his way into shipboard meetings on the Calais, simply because he was small and blended in.

  Since Pierre was watching him, Jean shook his head slightly, hoping to ward him off from any possible comment or exclamation. To his dismay, Smitty seemed to intercept the admonition, too. The boy’s eyes darted from one to the other. Blast and damn, Jean thought.

  To his relief, the tall woman shooed the boys from the door, only to see them replaced by the African behemoth in turban and matching apron. He didn’t think the tall woman would shoo her away, and she didn’t.

  Master Six began with no preamble. “Monsieur Hubert, what are we to make of you?”

  Interesting. Jean had expected the man in the wheeled chair to preside. He seemed to be the aristocrat among the bunch, but no, this was Able Six’s house, and he was in charge. How did the wind blow in th
is house and with these people? He had better figure it out. Perhaps sticking to the truth as closely as he could might be advisable. Master Six’s eyes had a restless quality to them, as if they searched for more than the average man even suspected.

  “I am who I said I was,” he began. “Lieutenant Jean Hubert, late of the sloop of war Calais, captured off Saint Domingue by the frigate Venture. I cannot recall the captain’s name.”

  “Edward Bartlett,” Master Six informed him, “dead these five weeks after a sharp engagement near Gibraltar. Don’t try to look sympathetic.”

  Good Lord, who is this man? Jean asked himself, startled. “I shan’t.”

  “Why were you wearing citizen’s clothing?”

  Master Six did have a relentless air about him. Jean saw no need to lie about the matter. “I had been instructed to give drawing lessons to the daughter of Captain Tobias Faulke, who commands the Captivity. Mrs. Faulke didn’t care for prisoner garb.”

  “Nicety in a hulk? How singular,” the man in the wheelchair said. “By the way, I am Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony.” He rationed out a smile. “I am called Sir B, in most circles.”

  He seemed kind enough, without Master Six’s edgy ways. “Sir B, who are you in this gathering of mortals?”

  The man smiled at Jean’s small witticism, then quickly set him straight. “I am another mortal who can return you to the hulk, if I don’t like you.”

  “Wretched place, full of disease, lice, rats, and starvation rations,” Jean said quickly, not willing to waste Sir B’s time, now that he had made himself perfectly clear. “I was crossing the deck to instruct Ianthe Faulke in her daily art lesson. The weekly pile of dead men lay on the deck and no one was paying attention. I slid among them on a whim and here I am.”

  Mrs. Six was obviously the room’s softest touch. He saw real sympathy on her face. He glanced at the tall lady and saw a studied, neutral expression. The African woman looked ready to toss him out the window.

  “Art?” Master Six asked. Jean heard all the skepticism. “So you say.” He went to the door, leaned out, spoke a few words, then leaned back in with a tablet and pencil. “Prove it.”

  “You don’t believe me?” Jean asked, suddenly tired and sore and hungry.

  “I don’t. I subscribe to Admiral Nelson’s philosophy. I hate the French as I would the devil. Draw something.”

  What to sketch? Jean knew the lovely rolling hills above Rive Loire well, and the high-cliff Normandy beaches were close to his home. He looked and found his subject, because he was not a stupid man, merely a desperate one. Mrs. Six was the ideal subject. She wasn’t watching him, which made it better. She had leaned forward, her attention on her baby, who waved his arms around. Madonna of Ratty Portsmouth, he thought as he sketched. She was perfect, all serenity and loveliness, and by God, he knew he could snare Master Six with his effort.

  Play your hand well, Jean Hubert, he told himself as he handed the completed sketch to Master Six.

  The sailing master saw right through him. He gave the sketch a perfunctory glance, flipped a page in the table and handed it back. “Draw me a sloop of war, you master manipulator.”

  Properly chastened, Jean drew, resolving never to attempt fooling this man again. Well, no more than he had to. He drew the clean lines of the Calais, remembering sunny days in the Caribbean, pliant women on shore, flowers in bloom no matter the season. He lay back and stared at the ceiling, utterly spent.

  “Your ship?”

  “My ship.”

  Master Six put the tablet in Sir B’s lap. They spoke quietly. He turned to the previous page, and the invalid smiled, showing the drawing to the tall lady.

  “Your English is excellent, by the way,” Sir B said. “Don’t you agree, Able.”

  “Aye, Sir B. I also suspect he is an opportunist, probably in any language.”

  “Able, really.” Mrs. Six said.

  “I never trust a Frenchman, my dear.” He held out his hands for their child, and put the tablet in her lap when she handed over the baby. “He thought to appeal to my emotions.”

  “I do that all the time,” she said, which made everyone laugh, clearing the air. “What a lovely drawing, Mr. Hubert. May I keep it?”

  “It is yours, Madame Six. Shame on me for playing on anyone’s sympathies, but I do not wish to return to the prison hulk. May I be of service here somehow?”

  “We’re considering it,” Sir B said. “Excuse us. Gervaise? Wheel me into the hall.”

  “Stay here, Smitty,” Master Six said. Still carrying his baby, he followed Sir B and the tall woman. He closed the door. Jean was not surprised in the least to see that Pierre had remained behind, crouched in the corner. Smitty seated himself so he could observe everyone.

  Jean had questions. “Madame Six, who is that tall lady?”

  “I should have introduced you,” Mrs. Six said, as calmly as if this were a sitting room, and not part of a tribunal deciding his slender chance to remain here. “That is Miss Croker, the sister of St. Brendan’s headmaster. She teaches beginning mathematics now, English grammar and log writing, general medical treatment, and whatever she thinks future leaders in the fleet should know.”

  Well and good. “The man in the chair?”

  “He is a hero of Aboukir Bay – perhaps you know it as the Battle of the Nile. He is a good and true friend of St. Brendan’s. He also has amazing connections.”

  “And your husband?”

  “He is a genius,” she said simply. “Don’t ever try to fool him.”

  That was plainly said. Perhaps Mrs. Six was as tough as the others in the room, the ones deciding his fate right now. For the first time in his life, he found himself silenced by a woman.

  The door opened and in came his tribunal. Sir B indicated for his valet to wheel him closer to the bed.

  “Because you are an officer and prisoner, and with the consent of the Admiralty, I have the power to grant you a parole,” he began. “With your pledge to remain on the premises of St. Brendan’s, unless we ordain otherwise, we would use you to teach French and art, particularly art of a maritime or mechanical nature. We will watch you closely. At the first hint of trouble, you will be returned to the Captivity. Able?”

  “You’ll be paid for your services,” Master Six said. “You will lodge here in my home. We have one extra bedchamber, the one where two of our St. Brendan’s lads lived last year. What do you think?”

  Jean nodded. Was it even possible that he was going to be allowed to sit out the war in safety? Had his fortunes finally turned? “Mais oui,” he said, relieved not to have to brave another encounter with Claude Pascal or Captain Faulke, who were probably scouring the hulk right now for him.

  “Sir B will make the legal arrangements,” Master Six continued. “I trust you won’t mind sharing your room?”

  “Solitude is always nice,” Jean ventured.

  “I agree,” Master Six said, sounding most amiable. He looked over his shoulder and gestured. “However, I do not trust you. Smitty, would you like to become a lodger here?”

  Good God, Jean thought, with a combination of resignation, rue, chagrin, and grudging respect for the tall, curly-haired man who hated the French as he would the devil.

  “I would like that above all, Master Six,” the boy thug said. “I have never been a sound sleeper. You’ll be in safe hands.”

  “Precisely,” Master Six said, as he returned the baby to his wife. “And now, Meri, I think our new lodgers would both like something more to eat, while Mrs. Perry makes up that other bed.”

  I have been played by a master, Jean thought in dismay.

  — Chapter Twenty-Six —

  Jean found it easy enough to tell Mrs. Six a bit more of the truth, when she and a pretty redhead returned to the room with a tray of food. Mrs. Six told Smitty to go bel
ow with Betsy to eat.

  She walked Jean’s new and unwanted roommate to the door. Smitty stood there a moment.

  “Yes, Smitty?” she asked.

  Master Six’s enforcer looked suddenly young and precisely twelve years old, to Jean’s eyes. “I’ve wanted to live here,” he said in a rush. “We all do.”

  “I wish I had room for all of you,” the lady said. “When you finish your meal, fetch your belongings and bring them back. You are welcome here.”

  Smitty grinned, and Jean saw all the genuine pleasure. It had been years, but he remembered his home, and Maman and Papa. Those were simple times, before Maman died, Papa married a dragon, and France plunged into the Terror. And now I am here in an English seaport, because I dove into a pile of corpses. Life is strange.

  Still Smitty hesitated. “Should I leave you, Mrs. Six?”

  “I will be fine. Go eat before your food is cold. Sir B and Miss Croker are staying for dinner, too, so mind your manners.”

  “That’s the hard part about living here, isn’t it?” he asked, and Mrs. Six laughed out loud.

  As Jean watched the little scene with growing appreciation, Mrs. Six planted a kiss on Smitty’s cheek – Smitty the enforcer – and pulled him close for a second.

  “Smitty, think what you can learn by listening to such august company,” she said. “There will be dessert.”

  No thug now, Smitty beamed at his benefactress and clattered down the stairs, spurred on, no doubt, by dessert. And look, there was dessert on Jean’s tray.

  “Madame Six, you have achieved excellence in the management of boys,” he said, then tucked into the food in front of him.

  “I treat them kindly, and have never been disappointed.”

  Madame, have you any idea how charming you are? he thought. Jean felt every care in his life slide away, if only for a moment. Pleasant smells – except for him – filled his nostrils. True, the food was English, but why quibble? The mattress was soft, and he was warm enough for the first time in the long winter. No one argued or babbled or shrieked or raged. True, he had lost all his art supplies, but he knew there would be more. He doubted that St. Brendan’s boys would be as sly as Ianthe Faulke. He closed his eyes, happy to blot out her petulant face.