The Saintly Buccaneer

by Gilbert, Morris

  He chuckled and nodded, pulling at a lock of his hair. “I thought you was a bit in that way—if you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, miss.” He waved his arm around and added, “That’s why they call this kind of ship a frigate, you see? Light, fast, strong, and got enough guns to throw plenty of iron. She sees a ship filled up with good things, hits like a lightning bolt, and bam! She’s got the goods and the poor old merchant ship ain’t got no more than the pelican!”

  She laughed, and although Whitefield would never have felt comfortable speaking freely with the captain, this girl had a natural quality that won his confidence. She was curious about everything, and for over an hour he kept her entertained with yarns of the sea. Her eyes glowed as he related some of the stories of sea fights between the great ships of the line, her desire for action and activity drawn to the excitement of that part of life.

  Eventually she grew sleepy, and put her head back against the wooden bulkhead. He sat there quietly, finally pulled a small book out of his pocket and began reading. He looked up with a start when she said, “You read the Bible a lot, don’t you, Whitefield?”

  “Why, yes, miss. It’s ’bout all the books I do read, you might say.”

  “Are you any relation to the Methodist preacher—what’s his name?”

  “That’d be my cousin George, miss.”

  “Of course.” Blanche acknowledged, looking curiously at the sailor before responding. “Your kinsman, he’s set the whole world buzzing! He’s the talk of the court, you know. I was at a ball given by the Countess of Huntington, and everyone was there. The actor, David Garrick? Well, he said that he’d give anything to have a voice like Rev. Whitefield.” She laughed and added, “I remember he said that Whitefield could make a congregation weep by pronouncing the word Mesopotamia!”

  “I reckon the gentleman ain’t far wrong, miss. George is a powerful man of the Word.”

  “Tell me about him.”

  Whitefield was reluctant, thinking that this wealthy girl would scoff at his simple beliefs, but she did not. She was, on the contrary, as fascinated by the phenomena of the enormous successes of the outdoor preaching of Whitefield and the Wesleys as she had been with the habits of the frigate bird.

  Finally, she remarked, “Some people really dislike him, Whitefield—especially the clergy, I understand. Why is that?”

  “Well, that’s because he insists that people have to be born again.”

  “Born again?”

  “Yes, miss.” He opened his Bible and read her the opening lines of the third chapter of John, concluding with the words, ‘Ye must be born again.’ He looked at her earnestly, saying, “You see, Miss Rommey, most people in the Established church of England thinks that if a man behaves himself, don’t do no big sin, is good to his family and attends services—why, he’s all right in the sight of the Lord.”

  “Well—isn’t he?” Blanche asked instantly.

  “Not according to what the Lord Jesus said.” Whitefield shrugged. He explained in his rough way what it meant to have a change on the inside, but he saw at once that the girl had no concept of the matter.

  She was just beginning to argue when a slight noise caused her to look at the man in the hammock, and she leaped to her feet, crying out, “Whitefield! Look, he’s waking up!”

  “Glory to God!” Whitefield exclaimed, breaking into a broad smile. “So he is!”

  They stood there staring down, watching in anticipation as the eyelids seemed to flutter, then slowly opened, revealing a pair of murky eyes. They closed almost at once, but Whitefield moved to shade them. “Come, lad—open your eyes now.” And once again the eyes opened. At first there was no expression in them, but as the two waited with bated breath, the gaze shifted, focusing on something to the left, later coming back to stare up at the face of Whitefield, who was leaning over the side of the hammock.

  They were strange eyes, Whitefield decided. There was a bright intelligence behind them, giving them life, but there was something else—something the gunner could not identify. Poor lad is terrible confused, he thought, and he said in a mild, soothing voice, “Don’t be too quick now, lad. Just lie easy till you gets your bearings.”

  Blanche moved closer, and immediately the eyes turned, taking her in. But there was no response on seeing her. He lay there considering her face, then looked back to Whitefield. They both waited for him to speak, but he seemed either unable or unwilling to open his lips.

  “Are you all right?” Blanche asked. Once again his eyes shifted to look up at her, but as before there was no sign of recognition and no attempt to speak.

  The wind was whistling through the shrouds, and the noise of the men’s voices was like a hum of distant bees. Both Whitefield and Blanche unconsciously leaned forward to hear what the man would say—but he remained mute. Finally Blanche gave the sailor a puzzled look, somewhat fearful, and whispered, “Whitefield—something’s wrong!”

  He did not answer at once, but considered the eyes focusing on him. “Well, Miss Rommey, he’s come a long way. You have to remember, this is all new to the lad. He was on shore, maybe in a cold, dark place, and now he wakes up in this warm sun on a ship. Let’s not rush the poor chap.”

  “Water ... !” They both jumped at the sound of the man’s hoarse voice, rusty with disuse, but Blanche whirled and poured a cup of fresh water from the jug beside the hammock. She lifted his head and held it while he drank thirstily. When he stopped, she let his head fall back, holding it gently. “Do you feel better?” she asked.

  He looked at her, slowly nodded, closed his eyes again and relaxed so completely that it frightened her. “Whitefield—he’s dead!”

  “Not a bit of it, miss,” the sailor assured her. “Just went to sleep right sudden-like. Ain’t uncommon in such cases. Men that’s been wounded bad, they fall off like that—especially at first. But he’ll wake up soon, and it’s hungry he’ll be.”

  “He looked at us so strangely,” she murmured, looking down at the still face. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

  “Oh, I should think so,” Whitefield responded. “I been afraid he’d go out without waking up at all.”

  “You mean—die?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  The thought troubled her, and she shivered slightly. “I’ve never seen anyone die. It would frighten me, I think.”

  “Takes most of us that way.” He shrugged. “I’ll be glad to talk to the lad—see if he’s ready to meet the good Lord.”

  She stared at him, offering hurriedly, “We’ll take turns watching him, Whitefield. I’ll nap a little so when you go on duty I can sit with him.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  For the next forty-eight hours neither Blanche nor Whitefield slept a great deal. There was something a little frightening about the way the sick man would wake up, stare at them with a directness that was disconcerting, and after a time fall back into sleep as fast as a rock falling to the ground. It was as if he came from death, stared at them briefly, then descended back into a nameless cavern of unknowing. Always they tried to talk to him, but never did either one break through; the eyes would watch for a span, and, as though pulled by an invisible force, soon return to that dark place.

  It was on the twenty-fourth, a Sunday morning, when he spoke for the second time. Most of the men slept late or came up on deck for their usual recreation or personal work, but Whitefield and half a dozen other hands held a service on the afterdeck. The sick man had been brought up and placed in the hammock. During the singing, which lasted for about ten minutes, Blanche had listened and watched everything with great interest, for she had never met anyone like the gunner. He was a simple man, truly religious—with the variety of religion called enthusiastic—that is, emotional to an abnormal degree. To be labeled an “enthusiast” was pretty much the same as being called a madman or a fanatic. With the exception of a handful of nobility, such as the Countess of Huntington, most Methodists and other varieties of “enthusiasts” came from the poorer class
.

  There was, however, something genuine about Whitefield, and as little inclined as Blanche herself was to becoming religious, she had a sharp ear for the counterfeit. She was convinced that if Whitefield was a fanatic, he was as gentle and honest a man as she had rarely met. So it was that she listened carefully as he spoke after the song service was finished.

  But before the simple “sermon” had gotten well under way, she was startled when the words “Where is this?” came to her. She whirled around and saw immediately that this time something was different. The somber eyes were fixed on her, but now they held an awareness that was unmistakable. As if to prove that he was himself, he said slowly, “I don’t—know this place.”

  She responded quickly, placing a hand on his head in an act of reassurance. “Don’t be frightened—you’re going to be all right.”

  The commotion had halted the service as everyone watched intently.

  For a moment the man looked out at the fleecy clouds drifting across the azure sky, then brought his gaze back to her and asked again in a voice that was clear and distinct, “Where is this—place?”

  “You’re on the King’s ship—Neptune. My father is the captain—Captain William Rommey.”

  He stared at her perplexed, trying to comprehend. As if thinking action would help, he tried to get up. She helped him into a sitting position, and as she did so, the swinging of the hammock confused him. He grabbed wildly at her, flinging his arms around her neck, and only by grabbing him around his waist did she manage to keep the man from crashing to the deck. “Be careful!” she panted, struggling with his weight. “You’ve been hurt. Here, lean against this wall.”

  He clung to her as she swung him around, setting him carefully against the bulkhead. Leaning back he took a deep breath, looked around, and murmured, “I—feel very queer.”

  “You’ve been very ill—don’t try to do too much.”

  She was holding on to his hands, noting his strength even in his weakened condition. The white shirt that Whitefield had loaned him was thin as silk as a result of many washings, and she was very much aware that his torso was taut, swelling with a set of rippling muscles—not massive, but like a cat, lithe and elastic.

  By now the man leaning against the outer bulkhead was surrounded by the other men. Whitefield asked Blanche, “Is he well?”

  “I think so.”

  Whitefield stepped in front of the man, peered sharply into his eyes, and said exuberantly, “Well, bless God, you’re out of it, are you? I’m glad to see you up and well.”

  The man stared at him, saying simply, “Thank you—but I’m not very clear on—”

  “Don’t be havin’ to know everything,” the gunner responded. “First thing is to get some real food down your gullet!” He helped the man down the stairs, and closely followed by Blanche, led the way to the kitchen where the cook, a fat Dutchman named Hans Boerner, used two of the few eggs left, and some of the bacon and fresh bread to make a meal. The man devoured it wolfishly, washing the food down with a cup of coffee.

  “That was... good.” There was a very slight hesitation in his speech, noticeable to both his listeners, as if he were learning a new language. He reached up and touched the side of his head, now only slightly swollen. “That hurts,” he remarked quietly, a puzzled look on his face.

  “It was a pretty hard lick you got, I’d venture,” Whitefield replied. “Now, I expect you maybe have some questions—but first, what’s your name, lad?”

  “My name?”

  “Sure. We have to know how to call you,” Whitefield smiled. “My name is Whitefield—and this is Miss Blanche Rommey—our captain’s daughter. Now, what’s your name, lad?”

  He stared at them, and his brow wrinkled with a sudden strain. He bit his full lower lip, confused. Finally he shook his head slowly, saying in a voice that was thready with panic, “I—I can’t seem to remember.”

  Blanche and Whitefield looked at each other questioningly. “Well,” she assured him, “you’ve been badly hurt. Don’t be afraid. It’ll come in a little while. But maybe you remember where you came from. Where in America?”

  “I don’t—seem to know that, either,” he answered, the hesitation in his voice now much more noticeable. He rose suddenly, grabbed at his temples, and tried to take a couple steps, but Whitefield caught him.

  “Now, don’t fret! It’ll all come back.”

  “I don’t ... know much ... about anything,” he whispered. There was fear and confusion in his eyes, and he implored them, “Tell me... how did I... get here?”

  The next half hour was unpleasant for all of them. The man was on the verge of panic, and Blanche and Whitefield had all they could do to keep him calm. It was fortunate that he tired quickly, going to sleep almost at once as Whitefield put him in a hammock next to his own.

  Blanche had gone back on deck where Whitefield now found her standing at the rail, waiting for him. “He’s asleep,” he said, “but I fear the lad is not right.”

  “He seems not to be. What if he—what if he doesn’t ever remember, Whitefield?”

  “That would be bad indeed, miss.” He shook his head. “Don’t know as I ever heard of a man who didn’t know who he was. Be a little like bein’ a livin’ dead man, wouldn’t it now?”

  The thought frightened her. “Keep me informed as to how he is, will you?”

  “Yes, miss.”

  ****

  Three days later the captain questioned Burns about the injured man.

  “Lieutenant Burns, about this man who doesn’t know who he is—give me some facts.”

  Burns shrugged. “Weel, sir, I canna tell ye much.” He had been expecting the captain’s question, for as second lieutenant, he was responsible for the muster book, and therefore was expected to know the condition of the crew. But he spoke with even more caution than his Scottish reticence provided.

  “Speak up, man!”

  “Weel, sir, physically, the man is in guid condition. It’s only been three days since he came out of the coma—and he’s fit so far as his body goes—but his mind—?”

  “Claims he doesn’t know his name, is that it?”

  “Yes, sir, and I think he’s tellin’ the truth. I’ve had a talk with him, Captain, and it’s no act. Matter of fact, sir, the thing frightens him—as it would any man.”

  Captain Rommey stared at his feet as the silence ran on. Finally he looked up, perplexity marking his square face. “Well, we’ll have to use the fellow, Lieutenant. Put him to work.”

  “Aye, sir. I’ve put him in Whitefield’s care. He’s a steady man, and he tells me the man’s quite able—a quick learner.”

  “All right. Use him.”

  “Aye, sir, but what shall I put down in the muster book?”

  “Put down—oh, you mean a name.”

  “We must have that, Captain.”

  “Of course.” There was little humor in Rommey, but something caught at his mind and brought a light into his frosty eyes. “Little like naming a baby, isn’t it, Burns? Well, I’ve named a few ships, but never a baby. Let me see ...” he pondered. Shortly he exclaimed, “I’ve got it! You know the Hebrews had a genius for naming their babies, Burns. Like Jacob. Name means deceiver—and he didn’t miss it far, did he now?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I need seamen—so I’m going to name this infant of ours after the best seaman I ever knew.”

  Burns grinned, knowing the captain’s idol. “Admiral Hawke, that’d be, sir?”

  “Of course! Name the fellow that—Hawke!”

  “Aye, sir—and the first name?”

  “Blast the first name! Hawke—that’s good enough for the fellow—probably too good!”

  “Aye, sir. I’ll put it in the book. Hawke, able seaman.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  I’D LET THE DEVIL HIMSELF MAN THE GUNS!

  Neptune’s bell struck two double strokes. It was six o’clock in the evening, and the first dogwatch had come to an end in the gathering
darkness.

  “Sunset, sir,” reported Burns.

  “I see that,” Captain Rommey answered, biting off his words.

  “Six o’clock exactly. The equinox, sir. Now we’ll have a westerly gale, or I’ll miss my guess.”

  “I would not be opposed to a breeze, Mr. Burns. And I do believe the wind’s freshening and the sea’s getting up a bit, sir.”

  Burns shifted his feet and said uncomfortably, “We’re vurry short o’ water, Captain.”

  “Put the men on a pint a day.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Rommey glanced at the small officer, noting the unhappy light in his eyes. “It won’t kill them,” he barked. The captain was not a man to explain his actions. And it wasn’t as if he didn’t know that the entire crew was rebellious and unhappy with the water shortage. Every man on board was aware that the Neptune could make port in five days, and they resented the captain’s stubborn refusal to do what seemed reasonable.

  Rommey thought back over the past five weeks, musing as to how he might have done differently, but nothing came to him. He thought of the first day the pressed men had been forced out on deck, naked and shivering, to rid themselves of vermin.

  Their heads were shaved to the bare skin, accentuating the prison pallor many of them still wore. They had been driven by Thompson, the captain of the forecastle, to the wash-deck pump, fright making them shiver as much as cold. Most of them had never had a bath before, and Thompson’s blood-curdling remarks terrified them: “Perhaps we’ll make sailors of you, but if we don’t, overside with a shot at your feet! Come on with the pump there! Let’s see the color of your hides, jailbirds! When the cat gets at you, we see the color o’ your backbones, too!”

  Rommey had watched, and contrary to the opinion of most on the ship, he took no pleasure in seeing the pain or discomfort of these men. The shearing and the bath were necessary if the ship was to be kept clear of fleas and bugs and lice which would make life miserable.

  The next day had brought one of those sudden, violent storms that seem to rise out of nowhere, ripping the seas to tatters, seemingly possessed with a demonic desire to destroy ships. It had been, in Rommey’s judgment, a miracle that the Neptune had not gone to the bottom, for the new hands had been worthless. Only extraordinary courage on the part of the few old hands had saved them.