“No, sir.”
Puzzled, Rommey began to inquire further, asking technical questions about ships and the sea. Hawke answered them slowly and with great care, and finally Rommey stated, “You can answer all my questions about the tackle of ships—except for arms, and you even know a smattering of that.”
“I’ve learned all that from Whitefield, sir,” Hawke responded. “He’s taught me that since I ... came on the ship.”
“I see,” Rommey nodded slowly. “That means, of course, that you’ve done considerable sailing—but not on a warship.”
“Yes, sir. That’s what Whitefield decided.”
Captain Rommey caught a smile on Blanche’s face and flushed, for he knew what she was thinking: A lowly seaman—but he found out as much as the captain! It flustered him, and he continued his inquiry but could find no pattern.
Finally he remarked, “Well, Hawke, I don’t know what you were—but I know what you are now. You’re a seaman aboard the frigate Neptune, and I will expect you to do your duty.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
Rommey was caught off guard by the quick, respectful answer, and he turned and walked to the window. He stood there silently staring out. After a few minutes he spoke as he continued to gaze at the waves and the sky. “England is on the brink of a war, and it is ships like this one that will save her. It always comes to that—the navy is England’s strength.”
He began to pace the floor, forgetting momentarily the pair who were watching. His next words were intense. “The politicians and the merchants and the public—they all want peace. Good for business!” he snorted. “But they’ll not get peace. Never! Then when war comes, they start to cry for the soldier and the sailor!” He shrugged and went on, “We’d all like peace, but when war comes, what good is a man of peace? That’s when we need men of war. Let me see, there’s a blasted good line about that ...” He paused and tugged at his ear, staring at his books. “What is it? Something about a tiger! Imitate a tiger? No, that’s not right. What is it?”
Suddenly Hawke quoted:
In peace there’s nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility.
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger.
Captain Rommey stared dumbfounded at Hawke, shot a startled glance at Blanche, then back to Hawke. “Do you know that line? Who said it?”
Hawke closed his eyes, thought for a moment, his brow wrinkled. “I believe,” he replied, “it was Henry V, wasn’t it, Captain?”
“By Harry, that’s the piece!” Amazed, he burst into laughter, saying, “A scholar in our midst! And I need gunners!”
Immediately a thought struck him, and his eyes gleamed. He wheeled, walked to the large table that was covered with a nautical map, and picked up a scrap of paper and a quill. After scribbling something on it, Rommey extended the paper to Hawke, who took it and read it.
“Do you recognize what that is?”
“I suppose, sir, they are two positions.”
“Exactly! The first is our present position. The other is our destination.” He hesitated, looking at him intently. “Do you think you can take those two figures and plot a course on that map?”
Hawke bit his lip, stared at the paper, shrugged slightly and answered, “I can try, sir.”
“Do it then!”
Hawke walked to the table and surveyed the project. He seemed to forget the captain and Blanche as he pored over the figures and the map. Finally he picked up the dividers, moved them across the map, then looked at the paper again. He checked his figures carefully, using some of the tools on the table. After several movements and rechecking, he put a mark on the map, traced a line, and stepped back. “I believe that’s right, sir.”
Rommey came over, stared at the map for a long time, and without looking up, said, “You may go, Hawke.”
Blanche, fascinated by this unusual man, watched him leave. As soon as the door closed, she rushed over to stand beside her father. “Is it correct?”
“Yes,” he said in a strange tone.
“What’s the matter, Father?” She saw he was troubled, the cloud of anguish evident in his eyes, and for the first time in weeks Blanche felt a compassion toward him.
“What’s the matter? I’ll tell you what’s wrong,” he said quietly. “There are only two men who can navigate this ship—myself and Langley. And three times in my life I’ve known of ships that lost their captain and first mates in action. A ship without a navigator is a piece of wreckage, Blanche.”
“But—!”
“And now I have a man who can navigate this vessel—and he doesn’t even know his name! Can you imagine what they’d say at home if I put a man like that in any sort of position of responsibility?”
She stood there appraising him. “You would never let a common seaman chart a course.”
He stared at her, then declared slowly, “Daughter, this is a fighting ship and I am a fighting man. That’s all either of us is good for. And if fighting comes, and if it means victory—I’d let the devil himself man the guns of the Neptune!”
CHAPTER TEN
THE BLADE
The frigid cold of the North Atlantic and the American shore was only a faint memory now to the crew of the Neptune as they sailed toward the Indies. The blazing June sun beat down like a fist on the crew as they sought the small islands of shade on the deck, and the southern breeze baked the lips dry and turned the pallid hides of the pressed men to a rich copper.
Whitefield glanced to where Hawke was sitting with his back against the bulkhead, his eyes half shut as he stared across the rolling troughs of green topped with sparkling white caps of spray. The young man was a source of never-ending wonder to the gunner, who had kept close watch on him since the trouble with Sullivan and Grimes—and the thought of that time prompted him to speak.
“Hawke?”
“Yes?”
“You ain’t never said a word about that pair—” He waved a hand toward the stern where the two sat in the middle of a small group laughing loudly. “I been waitin’ for you to complain about the way they beat you up—but you ain’t said not one word.”
“Nothing to say about it, Enoch.” Hawke did not even shift his gaze, but suddenly his eyes opened and he said in excitement, “Look—what’s that?”
“What? Oh, them’s flyin’ fish.” Enoch watched carefully, and as usual tried to make some sort of connection with the remark. “You never seen flyin’ fish?”
“No—at least, I don’t think so.”
“You ain’t never been in these waters, then.” He pondered that, chewing on his lower lip. But he was a stubborn man, and he went on doggedly, “Now, it ain’t in a natural man to take a beatin’ like you took from that pair an’ not get mad.”
Hawke took his eyes off the fish and considered the older man with a glint of amusement. “Why do you think that is, Enoch?”
“Well, I’ve been ponderin’ on it—and it come to me that you might be a Christian man. The Bible teaches us to turn the other cheek, and that’s just what you done, Hawke. And besides, you know more ’bout the Scripture than a sinner would know.”
Whitefield was a single-minded man, eager to see all men embrace Jesus Christ; in that he was much like his cousin, George Whitefield. Hawke had been aware of the gunner’s fervent desire, and had listened carefully to Enoch’s preaching as well as to their conversations.
But he now shook his head, saying quietly, “I don’t know what I am, Enoch. From what you’ve told me, a Christian has some feelings—but I’m just a blank. Maybe I had parents who read the Bible—or perhaps I attended a school where it was read aloud. And as for not wanting to get revenge on Sullivan and Grimes, it could be that I’m a coward.”
The answer did not satisfy Whitefield, but he said no more. For the next hour they sat there quietly, Enoch from time to time relating some of his life to the young man. They were disturbed by the cro
wd on the stern who came milling to the mizzenmast with loud cries.
“They’re tormentin’ young Jones again,” Whitefield said in disgust. He got to his feet, spat over the rail, and then shook his head, saying, “Why can’t they leave the poor boy alone? He’s sick. A fool could see that!”
Will Jones was one of the pressed men and, unfortunately, one of those human beings who is constitutionally unfit for life at sea. He had been seasick since the day he was brought aboard, unable to keep down any food, much less the unpalatable, rough fare served on a warship. He was nothing but skin and bones, his clothes flapping about him in the breeze as he was pulled roughly along by Sullivan toward the mast.
“Bully boy!” Whitefield said. “Ain’t happy unless he’s makin’ some poor devil weaker than himself miserable! He’d ’ave been after you, Hawke, if Lieutenant Burns hadn’t put the fear of the cat in him.”
That, Hawke realized, was true. Burns had stood looking up into the face of the hulking Sullivan and in his quiet Scottish burr, had informed the sailor that if he laid one hand on Hawke, he would kiss the Gunner’s Daughter—an expression that meant he would be tied over a cannon and flogged.
Since that hour Sullivan had not touched Hawke, but there was a burning hatred in his eyes, and now, as he held fast to the unfortunate Jones, his eyes were fixed on Whitefield and Hawke, addressing his words more to them than to the trembling sailor in his grasp.
“See here, Jones,” he snarled loudly, “I’ve had enough of your play actin’! You ain’t done nothin’ but lay around and let these good men do your work. Now you climb them shrouds or I’ll make you wish you had!”
Hawke saw that young Jones’s thin face trembled as he looked up to the top of the towering mizzenmast; and bloodless as he was, his pallor seemed to wash to an even paler hue. “I—I can’t do it!” he whispered. “Never could bear high places.”
“Never could bear high places!” Sullivan mocked the boy with a grin, then gave him a shake that made the thin frame tremble violently. He held up his large fist in front of Jones’s eyes. “I’m tellin’ you, boy,” he warned; “you climb that mast, or I’ll bust you up!”
Pickens, one of the foretopmen, protested, “Sullivan, he’s not lying. He tried once, and we had to pry his fingers loose. Some men is like that—can’t stand no height.”
“Shut your mouth, Pickens! I say he’s a whining quitter and I aim to cure him right now.”
“Let the boy alone.” Whitefield left his place and came to stand beside Jones. “I don’t remember nobody makin’ you an officer on this ship.”
“The officers expect us to make sailors out of these lubbers, Whitefield, and you can’t deny it!”
There was some truth in that, and Enoch could only say, “They do expect that—but this boy is sick.”
Hawke did not miss the look that passed between Sullivan and Grimes, and he realized instantly that this scene was directed at him. Then, when Sullivan spoke again, he was certain of it.
“Every man on this ship knows you’re a great one for taking care of strays, Whitefield—like that one there.” Sullivan gave a nod at Hawke, adding with a sneer, “You sold Burns a bill of goods on that dummy, didn’t you?”
“He does his work!”
“He’s a bleedin’ coward, that’s wot he is!” Sullivan said. “Won’t fight like a man! Well, I can’t touch your stray cat—not till I catch him ashore—but I can build a fire under this one!”
Hawke had been standing with his back to a bulkhead, watching as he always did. He was not touched by the plight of Jones, for he had seen much suffering on the part of the landsmen who’d been roughly handled on the Neptune. But he was disturbed by the troubled face of Whitefield. The gunner had become his touchstone with the world, and it was only through Enoch’s constant attention that Hawke had been able to keep his mind off the sinister darkness—the frightening void that lay behind him. He saw Enoch’s helplessness, and suddenly without knowing why, he stated quietly, “The boy’s pretty small game for you, Sullivan.”
Instantly the big Irishman swung his head, his eyes fixed on Hawke. “Well, well—another country heard from!” His eyes gleamed and he jabbed a thumb toward Hawke, saying, “And it’s yourself who’s takin’ this lubber’s part, Mister Hawke—who can’t even do his own fightin’?”
“Let him alone. I’ll fight you if that’ll make you happy.”
The challenge came so quickly that Sullivan’s jaw dropped, and he retorted, “Well, that’s what I’d like—”
“Don’t do it, Mate!” Grimes, his ungainly body a blot on the bright sunlight, moved forward and put a restraining hand on Sullivan’s arm. “Burns would ’ave you cut to rags.” Then he smiled craftily and suggested with a sly look toward Hawke, “But just make a friendly wager with the man.”
“What sort o’ bet?” Whitefield broke in.
“Oh, a fair show, Enoch!” Grimes offered, lifting his hand in a mock oath. “Like, mebby, if Hawke can beat Sullivan to the crow’s nest, why, Jones will ’ave no more trouble.”
“And if I lose?” Hawke asked.
“I’d say six months’ wages to my friend here would be fair.”
“What?” Whitefield was enraged. “Why, Sullivan’s a firstrate foretopman, and—”
“I’ll take the bet.” Hawke spoke almost with indifference, and moved toward the shrouds, the network of rope that formed a weblike ladder to the tops of the masts.
A shout went up from the men who loved any sort of contest, and Whitefield asked nervously, “Hawke, have you ever climbed a mizzenmast?”
“Why, I have no idea, Enoch.” A trace of amusement was on the lean face of the younger man, and he added, “I suppose we’ll find out in a few minutes.”
Enoch could do nothing, but stood there helplessly as the two men took station on opposite sides of the ship, Hawke on the starboard and Sullivan to port. “You give the signal, Whitefield,” Grimes grinned. “Just so all is fair and square. And we’ll all be the judge of who’s the winner!”
Enoch was sick at heart, for he knew that Sullivan, for all his bulk, was agile as a monkey. He was by far the best and fastest in climbing up the shrouds; and there was no hope, he felt, for Hawke. Just the way the two men stood revealed the difference, for Sullivan was crouched, his hands clutching the shrouds, while Hawke had one hand lightly, as if for balance, on one of the horizontal strands, and was looking bored with the whole affair.
“Go!” Whitefield shouted, and a cry went up from the deck, mostly cheers for Sullivan. The big man moved with practiced speed, not one wasted motion as he sped upward. No man can beat him—he’s too good! Enoch thought. But he kept his eyes fixed on the smaller man—and what he saw made him shout with glee!
Hawke did not move as quickly at first as Sullivan. He seemed to fumble slightly as he climbed hand over hand, and his feet had to search for the horizontals. But then he seemed to take wing, and he flew up the web of ropes with a rapidity that not a one of them had ever seen. The cheering stopped abruptly, and Grimes alone raised his voice to yell, “Sullivan! Don’t let the blackguard do you in!”
Sullivan paused long enough to look across at his counterpart and nearly fell off the shrouds as he saw the flying figure of Hawke come even with him, then leave him behind even as he watched. He cursed and drove himself upward with all his might, but a cry from the deck caught him; and ten feet from the top he looked up to see Hawke standing there looking down at him with a slight smile.
“Looks like you’re getting old, Sullivan,” he remarked, then grabbed a loose rope and slid down, almost falling to the deck before catching himself in time to step lightly onto the oak planks.
Whitefield pounded him on the back, exclaiming, “You did it! By the grace of the good Lord, you did it!” Looking up he yelled to the stunned foretopman, who was staring in rage at Hawke, “Mind you, keep your end, Sullivan. I can’t abide a gambler—but a welcher is something the ship won’t stand!”
Jones moved ove
r to Whitefield and Hawke as the crowd broke up. Tears filled his eyes. “I—I can’t say how...”
He paused, and Hawke put a brown hand on his shoulder, reassuring him. “Why, it was nothing, Will.”
Jones looked at him, but could only say to Enoch as the other walked away, “He’s a Christian man—ain’t he, Enoch?”
“Will,” Whitefield agreed slowly, “it’s looking more like that all the time.”
A fighting ship is a small cosmos, a microcosm of the world. And as in the world, news can travel with incredible speed. By nightfall every man on the ship knew the story. The crew was bored, for life at sea is monotonous, and any juicy tidbit was chewed over and over until every morsel was extracted.
The officers had heard a little, but at the captain’s table that night, they got the full story from Burns, who’d gotten it out of Whitefield. When Burns finished, they all looked at Rommey expectantly, but he said only, “We’ll need all the foretopmen we can muster—especially in light of our new orders.”
A hum of excitement went around the room. That morning they had sighted a sail which proved to be HMS Centaur, a sixteen-gun sloop fresh out of England. Rommey had gone on board and returned later with a waterproof pouch which everyone had identified as a container from Flag Command in London.
Now there was satisfaction in the craggy face of the captain, and he nodded with a smile. “We have been given some time to get the crew toughened up and the ship smoothed out. Now we can do the job Neptune was built for.”
“Action, sir?” Langley asked.
“Yes, Langley. Action!” He rose and pointed to a map tacked to the bulkhead. “We now know that the rebels are sending their ships along these lanes—both privateers and merchant ships.”
“But the winds aren’t favorable in those latitudes, Captain!” Burns protested. Then the truth dawned and he smiled. “Weel, of course! That’s the reason they’re there!”
“Exactly! Now that we know where the scoundrels are, we’ll bag them,” Rommey said fiercely. Then he added, “We’ll head for home at once. On our return voyage and while we’re provisioning the ship, Captain Baxter, I want you to train the seamen in small arms.”
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 12