“Small arms, Captain?” Baxter gave a languid look around the room and asked, “May I ask for what purpose, sir?”
“I think it not unlikely that we’ll have to board an enemy ship, and it’s not impossible that we might make a raid on a port city. Your marines are well trained—but we may need to fill out our numbers with men who can handle a musket and a blade.”
“If you wish, sir—but they’re a scrub lot.”
“Do the best you can, Captain.”
During this exchange Burns had been watching Langley, and saw what he expected—disappointment. The tall lieutenant had fallen hopelessly in love with Blanche Rommey, and the thought of not seeing her turned him to putty! Burns shook his head in despair, for he had watched the one-sided courtship closely. The captain had installed his wife and daughter in a fine mansion twenty miles in the interior of Jamaica. After each short venture to sea in the Neptune, Rommey had gone there, usually accompanied by Langley and Burns.
Mrs. Rommey was satisfied—as she would have been in any place. She did her embroidery, went for rides through the countryside, and made infrequent trips to the port city. She seemed not to grieve when her husband left, not happy when he returned. She was, Burns had thought, the closest thing to a vegetable he’d ever seen.
But Blanche Rommey was a different story. She was almost out of her mind with boredom. Her quick spirit and impulsive nature were the worst possible combination to fit her for living in a secluded rural paradise, and she had been so hungry for company and excitement that she had practically forced Burns to take her to a party at a plantation over fifteen miles away.
He thought of it as he sat at the table looking at Clarence Langley, and felt very sorry for the man. Blanche had flirted with every man she saw at the party, even with Burns himself on the way home. When the Scot had cut that short by mentioning Langley, she had laughed and said lightly, “Clarence? He’s a dear—but such a stick!”
Burns had tried to warn his friend, but given up in despair, for the tall lieutenant was deaf to his words. The meeting broke up, and Langley went to set the new course. “Lieutenant Burns, a word,” Captain Rommey requested, catching him as the other left.
“I have a rather unusual order; that’s the best word I can apply to it,” he hesitated.
“Yes, sir?”
“We will be taking prizes, almost certainly, when we get into the lanes.”
“I’ve nae doot we will.” All the crew would share in the prize money, and Burns was as thrifty as his ancestors in far-off Scotland.
“There is a problem,” Rommey frowned. “The prizemaster I put on board to take the captured ship to port must be able to navigate.”
Burns flushed and shook his head. “Sir, I’m embarrassed to say I canna!”
“No time for that now, Burns. It’s a weakness, but there are worse things in a King’s officer. I have a plan I believe will work—but it’s so unusual, I’m not going to order you to do it. You’ll have to volunteer.”
Burns was mystified, for this captain was not the sort to avoid giving orders. “I’ll do anything to help, sir.”
“I thought you would. Now, I trust that soon we’ll be getting some new midshipmen who can navigate, but until we do, you’ll have to learn. When we make port, I’m leaving Langley in charge of provisioning the ship. It will take about a week. I want you to learn to navigate during that time. You’ll have no other duties—and I have a teacher in mind.”
“Yes, sir?”
“This man Hawke, he’s an excellent navigator.” Rommey shrugged and gave a slight grimace, but went on. “I know he’s only a seaman, and you’re an officer. But he’s all we’ve got. Will you let him teach you?”
“Why, I’ll nae make any promises, but I’ll do my best, Captain Rommey.”
Rommey smiled and put his large hand on Burns’s thin shoulder. “I knew you’d take it like that,” he beamed. “Some officers have too confounded much pride, but I’d take instruction from Lucifer if it would make a better seaman of me!”
The next morning every hand knew that he would have shore leave, and the officers were careful to mention the rich possibility of prize money. “Just one fat merchant ship, men,” they promised, “and you can retire for life.”
After that Captain Baxter had no problem getting the men to drill. Sergeant Potter drilled the hands in the use of the musket, and reported to Baxter, “Captain, they’d do more damage if they throwed rocks at the enemy! Never seen such rotten shots.”
“Well, we thought it would be that way, didn’t we, Sergeant?” Baxter smiled. “In the morning I’ll find out if there’s a good blade in the lot of them. Which I most sincerely doubt.”
The exercise the next day was no better than Baxter had anticipated. Most of the ship’s crew had never had a sword in their hands, and only three showed any skill. Most of them hacked away as if they were threshing wheat, but Baxter said to Potter after about half of the crew had been tested, “Sir, I reckon we may have six men who are fair. Sullivan is the best, in my judgment.”
“Quite so, Sergeant. He’s had some training. I’ll try a bout with him.”
Captain Baxter loved the sword. It was the only thing that ever caused him to drop his languid air and come alive. He had been a student of the foil, the saber, the cutlass, and every other form of blade for years, and his reputation was formidable among those who knew the art.
It had been boring to watch the heavy-handed crew hacking away, but when he squared away with Sullivan and saw that the big man was no amateur, he allowed a smile of excitement to crease his thin lips. “Have at me, Sullivan!” he cried out.
“Sir! These blades ain’t got no buttons!”
It was the custom to blunt the tips of the foils for use in practice, but Baxter waved his free hand, saying, “Oh, I think it’ll be safe enough.”
Sullivan grinned and began advancing, his left foot extended in a long stretch behind him, his right knee bent at a sharp angle, his left hand well back. He came in quickly, so quickly and so skillfully that Baxter was taken aback, in fact, and was hard put to keep himself from getting embarrassed. But he was very good, and soon he controlled the bout. He did not have to exert all his skill, and he did not want to discourage the best prospect among the crew, so finally he called a halt. “Very good, Sullivan! Very good, indeed! If we had twenty like you, I’d not hesitate to tackle a ship of the line.”
The drill continued until the last day, and Baxter had Potter pair the men off for practice. “Don’t let them cut each other to bits, Sergeant,” he warned. “And you might use Sullivan to help with the more clumsy fellows.”
The last drill was at sunset, and most of the crew gathered either to participate or to watch. Baxter and Potter had grown tired of the routine, but were forced to stay and watch. They were paying little attention, so when Sullivan called Hawke out of the crowd they paid no heed.
“You there, Hawke,” Sullivan called out. “I ain’t seen you in the drill. Give him that blade, Atkins, and let’s see what he’s got.”
Immediately the entire crew sensed that a drama was about to unfold. The officers were not paying attention and everyone knew that Sullivan was smarting under his defeat at the hands of Hawke. Several men had received minor wounds at the sword drill, and it would be easy for Sullivan to stab Hawke—and then protest that it was an accident. Who would there be to say differently? Surely not the officers.
Sullivan had waited for the right time, but had despaired. Always either Burns or Langley was in charge of the deck, or else Whitefield was present. But now Burns was far aft drilling some boat crews, and neither Whitefield nor the first lieutenant were in sight, so he had grabbed at the chance.
Hawke came forward slowly, taking the foil from Atkins, and he saw the cruel gleam in Sullivan’s eye; this was not to be a drill! He slowly lifted the blade as Sullivan came forward with a grunt of pleasure, and the blades rang with a silver sound on the salt air.
Sullivan came in dancin
g, his blade flashing like liquid lightning, and there was no pretense of a “drill.” He lunged with all his force, directing his blade straight at the heart of his opponent—but he did not succeed.
Hawke had known the moment the hilt of the sword nestled in his hand earlier that day that this was not a new thing. Now, after some fresh practice he felt like a natural as he picked the tip of Sullivan’s blade out of the air with the tip of his own foil, directing it to one side with an ease he knew was born of a thousand hours of practice.
I’ve done this before, he thought as Sullivan recovered, his face red with murderous desire. I’ve stood and faced men and I’ve felt my blood run down—and I’ve seen them fall to the ground pierced to the heart.
And he could have killed Sullivan, he knew. For the man, for all his skill, seemed slow and clumsy. Hawke moved little, standing in one spot for the most part, parrying the thrusts of the other with ease, refusing to drive his own blade home.
Captain Baxter heard the rapid clashing blades and saw in one experienced glance that Sullivan was in the hands of a master. Why, that fellow could have killed him half a dozen times! he thought. Then he hurried forward, calling out, “Good enough for now!”
Sullivan was gasping for breath and his eyes were filled with astonishment and rage. “Sir, just let me have—!”
“Oh, you’ve done too much, Sullivan.” Baxter reached out and took the blade from the Irishman, and moved to stand before the man with the scar. “I see you’ve done a little along this line before, Seaman Hawke.”
“I couldn’t say, Captain.”
The even tenor of Hawke’s voice and the bland look in his eyes stirred the captain’s temper. He was not at all certain that the fellow was really all he claimed, and in any case he was anxious for a good bout.
“Well, let’s see how good you are,” he said, and raising his blade he began to advance toward Hawke. They circled one another, for Baxter had seen enough of the man to be cautious. He tried a feint, and to his chagrin, it was parried; for one instant he saw the tip of Hawke’s blade poised and knew that he was helpless to prevent the thrust. But the thrust did not come, and a smile on Hawke’s face caused Baxter’s face to redden. This one is no beginner, he thought, and tightened his guard, taking no chances.
The crew saw two men, both light as a breeze on their feet, both quick as a striking snake with their hands. They circled slowly, but their blades rang and clashed so rapidly that it was impossible to follow the motion. Captain Rommey had come up out of his cabin and stood on the forecastle watching the contest with an inscrutable expression on his craggy face.
On and on it went, and suddenly Baxter realized that his opponent was playing with him! The dark face of the man was not triumphant—if anything, he looked slightly bored!
Desperately the marine tried to break Hawke’s composure, driving at him like a madman, but always the flashing tip of the sword caught his own and parried it with ease.
Finally, Baxter stepped back, lowered his foil and stared at the man in front of him. It was almost dark, and the deep-set eyes of Hawke were hidden by the shadows of his brow and high cheekbones. He was not smiling now, and for one instant a sadness pulled his lips into a hard line—and at that moment Captain Baxter knew that Hawke was indeed a man without a past.
“You are a fine swordsman, Seaman Hawke,” Baxter told the man quietly. “I never saw one finer.”
The compliment slid off the other man, and he said only, “Yes, sir. May I go now?”
“Certainly.” Baxter watched him go to stand alone peering out over the rail into the gathering darkness, then said, “Drill is over, Sergeant. Dismiss the men.” Looking up, the captain saw Rommey staring down from the forecastle, and he went to stand beside him. “Well, sir, what did you make of that?”
Rommey shook his head. “Another surprise from the man from nowhere, eh, Baxter?” He shook his head slowly. “He’s educated, knows the world, handles a sword like a demon out of the pit—I don’t know what the fellow is! A broken-down gentleman, perhaps?”
“I didn’t get the ‘broken down’ part,” Baxter replied with a rueful expression. “What are you going to do with him?”
Rommey looked at Hawke, who was still standing alone at the rail. “Do with him, Baxter? Why, I’ll use him—just as I use you and myself and every other soul on this vessel. He may not have a past,” he added grimly, “but I’ll see to it he has a future!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BEAT TO QUARTERS!
“I canna learn this blasted book!” Lieutenant Burns was a mild man, but his struggles with math had almost destroyed his patience. He stood up abruptly and threw the thick book he had been poring over against the wall. “Blast!” he cried in despair, pulling his sandy hair as if to remove it from his head. “I can do anything on the Neptune as weel as any man—but this—this accursed navigation—”
Hawke rose from his chair and walked over to pick up the book. Bringing it back to the small desk where the two of them had been seated, he said evenly, “Let’s just go over it one more time, sir.” He began to go over the problem, pointing from time to time at a large map stretched out on a table, and was pleased to see the officer stop glaring at him and come back to resume his seat.
Hawke could sympathize with Burns, for he realized that there was some part of the canny Scot’s brain that was almost impervious to anything mathematical. For nearly a week the two had met to study at Captain Rommey’s house, and the seaman had patiently gone over the fundamentals of the science of navigation, wondering at how difficult it was for Burns. Time after time the lieutenant had given up, but Hawke had sat there calmly, then continued his instruction as if nothing had happened.
Burns had become so distracted with his slow progress that he had allowed his temper to boil over, at time fastening fury on Hawke, but the seaman had never shown the least reaction. And now a light of respect came to the eyes of the Scot, and he laughed aloud. “Hawke—I dinna see how ye’ve put up with me! I know how tedious it is to drill a banana-fingered deckhand—but it’s worse to work with a slow-witted lieutenant.” He nodded, and added sincerely, “I thank ye for your patience, Seaman Hawke.”
“Why, you’re not slow-witted, sir.” Hawke gave the other a rare smile. He had learned to respect the tenacity of the man who sat there; for many, he knew, would have given up. “It’s just not your strong point. You’re a fine sailor.”
Burns’s face flushed at the compliment, and he wondered at it, for he had never cared particularly what the crew thought of him. But his feeling for Hawke was different, and he was kept from forming a more personal tie only by the vast gulf that had to exist between officer and common seaman.
“Weel, that’s guid of ye to say so, Hawke.” He looked up as a clock chimed somewhere in the distance, and closed the book, saying, “It’s time for dinner.”
“Yes, sir. Tomorrow at the same time?”
“I don’t rightly know. We may sail tomorrow—Langley tells me the Neptune’s fully provisioned.” He walked to the wall, plucked up his coat, and slipping it on, remarked thoughtfully, “This partying every night is a bit much for a simple lad like myself. I’ll be glad to put to sea.”
He referred to the nightly festivities that went on at the house, for Blanche Rommey had made it a point to have a formal dinner each night, with dancing and cards after the meal. Since Burns neither danced nor played cards, he had gone to fill out the number, but had returned to his room as soon as possible.
Burns left, saying, “Better be ready, Hawke, in case we pull out early.”
“Yes, sir.” He picked up the books and shoved them into a small leather case; next, he took down the map and folded it carefully, placing it with the books. Closing the case, he put it on a mahogany table beside the bed and left the room.
Passing down the wide hall, he heard the sound of music—the small orchestra of native musicians. He smiled slightly, then turned left and passed out of the house into the warm night air.
The mosquitoes made a whining harmony, and he brushed them away automatically with each step. He followed a stone path beside the house, down a line of flagrante plants rich with perfumed blossoms to a long, low stone building in a grove of mango trees.
Most of the building was taken up with a blacksmith shop, and he found Whitefield at the forge. He had been working for most of the week making spare parts for the ship, and when not instructing Burns, Hawke had watched and even helped a little.
“What’s that you’re making, Enoch?”
“Vent fittings.”
Hawke came over to look more closely at a row of tapered cast-iron plugs laid out neatly beside the forge. Picking one up, he turned it over. “These go in the vent hole?”
“Right.” Enoch gave him an approving glance and nodded, “You’ve picked up a heap ’bout gunnery in a short time, Hawke.”
Hawke shrugged and asked, “How many of these do you need?”
“Well—a gun ain’t worth spit without one, is it, now? So I thinks we better have fifty at least.”
“Show me how.”
“Right, lad.”
Enoch had found Hawke to be a quick learner, and in less than an hour he had gone through the process. “If you think you can carry on, I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Seems simple enough—and I’m not sleepy. Lieutenant says we may sail tomorrow.”
“Figured we might. Don’t worry if you don’t do all them vent fittings, Hawke. We probably got enough.”
After he left, Hawke worked steadily at the forge. It was not a demanding task, but he was getting little exercise and as a result could not sleep well. As he methodically filed the fittings, time slipped away. It was quiet in the forge, the silence broken only by the sounds of horses stomping the ground outside and the faint sound of music drifting across on the night air from the big house.
He realized after some time that his fingers were aching, and also that he was thirsty. There was an olla of water hanging on the wall, but he thought of the cold spring that fed the house, and left the smithy to get a drink.
The Saintly Buccaneer Page 13