The Saintly Buccaneer

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Yes, Charles, of course,” she assured him, and she was able to compose herself as they made their way to the spacious foyer. Charles was at her side, and she smiled graciously at the guests.

  “Adam, you’re looking well—and you are looking beautiful, Molly.”

  Dorcas thought how unlike they were, these two half brothers. Adam was thickset and dark, while Charles had the tall figure and blonde good looks of the Winslow clan. But Molly fit perfectly with her husband, and Dorcas spoke quickly to her, “How nice of you to come.”

  Molly Winslow was English by birth, with fine facial features. Her ash-blonde hair and gray eyes gave her a youthful look, and she said, “Thank you, Dorcas. We really came just to force you to see our grandson.”

  Dorcas looked up at the tall figure of Nathan and his wife Julie, and a pang went through her as a thought of Paul forced itself into her mind. Nathan and Paul were almost exactly the same age, and though they did not favor each other physically, there was something about Winslow men that could not be hidden.

  To conceal the bitter thought that her own son was gone and this one lived, she looked at the baby Julie held and exclaimed, “What a beautiful child! What’s his name?”

  Julie held the baby to the light. “His name is Christmas. He was born on Christmas night at Valley Forge, Mrs. Winslow.”

  “Well, that’s a fine name—and a fine boy.” Charles Winslow moved to see the child clearly, and Adam, standing to one side, saw what the others missed. He loved his brother, despite the differences they had had in the past, and he knew him well. As Charles looked down on the fat baby and put out a finger for the child to seize, a sudden twitch ran across his lips, and Adam understood that the grief over Paul, his only son, was burning in him like a live coal.

  Charles turned away blindly, saying in a husky voice, “Come, let’s go eat, Adam—and all of you.”

  “Well, there’s more of us than you invited, Charles,” Adam began, then hesitated. Charles paused and turned to see a young couple who had been standing at the door.

  Daniel Greene stepped forward and said, “I tried to talk Major Winslow out of bringing us, but—”

  “I know about that, Reverend,” Charles said with a sudden smile at his brother. “He’s a hard man to say no to.”

  Charity was feeling terribly uncomfortable. Daniel had taken her to see the baby, and Adam had simply swept them along. “We’ve not had an invitation from my brother for a long time, and I want you to go with us.”

  “But, Major,” Daniel had protested, “thee knows about the trouble I had with their son. It would be very uncomfortable.”

  Adam had simply overruled. “I want you to come.” Molly had remained quiet, but Adam had told her when they were alone, “I’m afraid for Charles and Dorcas. Paul is dead, and they’re not accepting it. I hope there’s no bitterness in them against Daniel, but if there is, I want them both to face up to it—because a bitterness that isn’t voiced eats at a man like a cancer.”

  But now Charity’s eyes met those of Dorcas Winslow, and both of them were speechless. Each was thinking of their last meeting. Besides this, Charity’s thoughts went back to the traumatic scene she’d had with their son, and the memory of it was suddenly raw and fresh.

  Dorcas, however, merely said, “We’re happy to have you all. I’m sorry our daughter Anne is away. Come in, please.”

  The moment of discomfort was broken as they made their way down the hall, and Dorcas busied herself seating the guests. She paused only when Charles’s mother, Martha, a small, arthritic figure, came into the dining room, walking carefully, as if she were terribly afraid that her fragile bones would break.

  “Why, Martha, how are you?” Adam went to her at once, and Charity gazed with interest at the sight. She had learned enough of the Winslow family history to know that the relationship between the two had not always been so pleasant. Martha Jakes had married Miles Winslow, and Adam, Miles’s son by another woman, had not been a favorite. She had managed to sway her husband’s favor from Adam to the son born to her and Miles, so that Charles had been the favorite.

  But there was no trace of rancor in Adam Winslow, though the woman who had mistreated him so shamefully was now sickly and at his mercy. He must have sensed that it was gall to her to know that she was safe only because he made it possible. He took her thin hand carefully, and put the other on her frail shoulder, saying, “It’s good to see you again, Martha.”

  How different these Winslows are! Charity thought as she watched. I’ve heard that Charles was a bounder in his youth, and his son was a rotter—but there is such gentleness in Adam and Nathan. There must be a streak of wildness in the Winslow breed!

  The old woman ducked her head, thinking perhaps of the hard treatment she’d inflicted on Adam when she was younger and he was helpless; and when she raised her face, a trace of tears glinted in her faded eyes. “Thank you, Adam. That’s—that’s like you.”

  Charles did not miss this, and laid his hand on Adam’s burly shoulder. “It is like you, Adam.” Then a flash of rare humor struck him and he laughed. “You and Mother weren’t quite so friendly when you and I blew father’s black Winslow chickens to bits—along with her prize rug! Remember that awful cannon you made?”

  The memory brought a smile to Adam’s broad face, and he replied ruefully, “I’ve never forgotten it. Father was so proud of those chickens.”

  “Well, never mind,” Charles laughed. “They survived—or some of them did—we’re having their offspring for supper! Come along now.”

  The meal went well after that, and Charity sat quietly beside Daniel, eating the delicious food, but not missing a word. Adam did most of the talking, mostly about the boyhood he had shared with Charles.

  There was something in Charles’s face that puzzled Charity. He was a handsome man, thin from sickness, and his face hollowed from the illness that had almost destroyed him. He was, she saw, toying with his food, thinking of other things. Finally he said, “I remember when you and Molly came back from Whitefield’s meeting, Adam. You’d been converted.” He paused and asked quietly, “Have you changed your mind?”

  “In what way, Charles?”

  “Well, so many are carried away with these ‘revivals,’ but after it’s over the people don’t seem to have been changed.”

  Adam reached over and took Molly’s hand as he asked, “How about you, Molly? Are you still a servant of the Lord?”

  Molly answered simply, “Ever since that moment when we took Christ as Savior and Lord, we’ve wanted nothing else, Charles.”

  The simplicity of the answer and the light in the eyes of the couple seemed to fascinate Charles, and he stared long at them, saying at last, “I see that you are happy.”

  Adam longed to speak a word to his brother about his soul, but it didn’t seem the right time, so he refrained from saying anything. But he felt Molly squeeze his hand and knew that she would be praying for Charles. She was an intercessor of power, awesome in her efforts when she called on God for someone.

  The rest of the meal was pleasant, and the visit in the long drawing room was equally so. But just before they left, a casual remark brought a sense of discomfort to the group.

  They had carefully avoided any talk of politics, for the Tory in Charles and the Patriot in Adam would never mix. But a chance remark by Daniel in response to something Charles said brought the comfortable atmosphere to an end.

  “How are things with you—in the chaplain business, I mean?” Charles asked Daniel. “Are the soldiers very religious?”

  “Well, sir, I’m not with the army any longer. My uncle, General Greene, has assigned me to a new duty.”

  “What is that?” Charles asked.

  “Why, my fiancee and her father are owners of a privateer—The Gallant Lady. I’m first mate and master gunner.” Ordinarily Daniel Greene was a perceptive man, but he was so full of the past few months on the Lady that he did not see the flicker of warning in Adam Winslow’s eyes. He sa
id with some excitement, “We’ve made six voyages in as many months, and we’ve taken more prizes than we thought possible, Mr. Winslow!”

  As he spoke of the sea with all the enthusiasm of a newcomer to an art, he did not see that Charles Winslow’s lips were trembling, nor catch the warning shake of his head. Dorcas, too, was visibly shaken. Finally he paused, and realized from the awkward silence in the room that something was wrong.

  Charles spoke slowly. “Paul was very fond of the sea. If he’d not died, I think he would have made a most able sailor.” Then he turned and said in a whisper, “I’m not feeling well—pray excuse me, Adam—all of you—good of you to come ...”

  As he left the room, the guests felt a sudden urge to take their leave. They made their exits as quickly as possible, and as soon as they were clear of the house, Daniel said to Adam, “I’m awfully sorry, Major! I never once thought—”

  “It’s not your fault, Dan.” He put his hand in a kindly fashion on the young man’s arm, adding, “Don’t fret.”

  Later on, Nathan brought up the subject, saying, “I know Uncle Charles wouldn’t think so—but it’s best that Paul died. He was marked for a bad end.”

  Charity had been strongly affected by the evening. She wrote in her diary that night:

  I feel so strange tonight. I wish we hadn’t gone to Paul Winslow’s house. It’s like a ghost come back. I remember all the nightmares I had after I struck him and cut his cheek—and then when he disappeared, it was as though I was somehow responsible! But I’m not! I’m not!

  How sad they were, Charles and his wife. To lose an only son when you’re too old to have another! He was bad, but if he’d lived, maybe he could have become better. Nathan says not, but you never know.

  Oh, God, don’t let me dream of that time anymore! Let him stay in his grave—Paul Winslow!

  But that night, she dreamed again of Paul Winslow seizing her. In the dream she moved in slow motion, cutting his cheek open so that the blood ran in crimson rivulets down his maimed cheek. Suddenly her eyes flew open, and she found herself screaming, “Don’t! Don’t come back!” as she woke up, drenched with sweat and so terrified that she could hardly breathe. Filled with fright, fists clenched, she sat straight up in bed waiting for dawn.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE PRIVATEER

  A sea gull, wheeling motionless upwind, suddenly flapped its wings until it hovered stationary, and screamed raucously as it made a swooping dive at the wake of the ship below. Daniel followed it with his eyes from his perch high on the mizzenmast, smiling as he thought how he’d overcome his fear of heights. Only six months ago, he thought as he swept the horizon automatically, I was hanging on to these shrouds until my knuckles were white!

  A fragment of something arrested his gaze, and he instantly whipped the heavy brass telescope up and peered intently across the glittering green waters. He adjusted instinctively to the roll of the Lady, and after one quick look called out, “Deck! Sail off port bow!”

  He slipped the telescope under his belt and slid down the ratlines as easily as a squirrel. When his feet touched the deck, he handed the telescope to a young sailor, “Thad, get aloft and keep an eye on that ship.”

  Thad Alden nodded curtly, and his “aye, sir” was barely audible. Dan twisted his head and framed a sharp rebuke, but changed his mind as he watched the slender youth climb upward. He shrugged and tried to forget, but he knew that sooner or later he would have to rebuke the boy. Ever since Dan had come aboard as First Mate, young Alden had been sullen. He was totally in love with Charity, had been since he was thirteen years old, and his bitter hostility was obvious to the crew. Charity had tried to soften his attitude, but he had stubbornly refused to change.

  “Maynard, I’ll have the guns manned.”

  “Aye, sir!” Giles Maynard, a husky Frenchman, began to call out orders, and soon the deck was a beehive of activity. The powder monkeys scurried below deck to bring the linen bags of powder topside, while the gun crews freed the guns from the tackle that held them firmly in place.

  Dan looked fondly at the twin rows of guns and remembered the long arguments he had had with some of the crew who served as gunners on the King’s warships. He’d spent as much time as possible with General Knox’s men, especially a tall gunner named Ericson, captain of a gun crew on the Victory. Ericson had listened carefully as Dan explained the plan to arm a new privateer, and had given him some revolutionary advice.

  “It ain’t never been tried that I knows of,” Ericson had said. “But was I in your place, I’d use long guns.”

  “Long guns?” Dan had questioned in a puzzled voice. “I’m afraid of long guns. Their pivots are too high and they weigh too much. They’d make us too slow and heavy.”

  “Not if you mount ’em on carriages.”

  “What about carronades?”

  “‘Course you got to have ’em—but they’re for close work. They’re fat guns and can sweep a deck, right enough—but you got to remember that other ship’s goin’ to have carronades as well. What they won’t likely have is long guns. You can stand off and take shots at them till you break them up, then get close and finish what’s left with the carronades.”

  Ericson had convinced Dan, and he had spent weeks searching for long eighteens, traversing pieces, and ten eighteen-pound carronades. He moved across the deck now, pleased with the result of his labors, for port and starboard bristled with ominous cannon, and the crews that manned them were sharp and quick in their movements.

  “What’s away, Dan?” Captain Alden had popped out off the quarter deck and was staring eagerly around the horizon.

  “Sail in sight, Captain. Too far to make her out.”

  Charity cleared the ladder, and as she hurried across the deck to stand beside them, Dan thought once again how impossible it had seemed for a woman to live on a fighting ship—but she had made it possible.

  “We’re about out of room, Dan.” She raised up on her toes to see more clearly through the lines, the brisk wind molding her clothing to the slim lines of her body as she stretched. There had been one scene six months earlier, when Dan had tried to convince her to wear a dress. She had stared at him in surprise, then laughed. “I can’t go up the mast in a party dress, can I now?”

  She wore a pair of dark blue linen trousers, a red and white cotton shirt, and her hair tied in place with a bright red kerchief. The men, of course, had been slow to adjust to having a pretty, young woman on board, and several of them had taken liberties with their language in speaking to her—but that didn’t last long. Dan had simply waited for an example—a hulking brute named Olsen. When the Swede had made a crude remark to Charity in Dan’s hearing, he reprimanded, “Olsen, I could have you under the cat for that—but maybe you’d like to face me man-to-man.”

  Olsen had grinned in anticipation. “Why, I’ll take you up on that, mate.”

  It had been a simple matter; the Swede, for all his strength, was awkward. Dan had let the man wear himself out swinging, then stepped in and with a crashing blow to the sailor’s blunt jaw had driven him across the deck. It had taken six more knockdowns, for the man had the stamina of an ox, but finally his face was a bloody mask and he lay there an inert mass. There had been no more incidents, and if the men chose to sneak a look, they did it secretively.

  “Looks like a brig,” Captain Alden decided after the three had watched carefully. “Lying low in the water—like she’s loaded.”

  “We’ll have to go back if she is,” Charity advised. “Three fat prizes! Not bad for a month’s cruise!”

  When they were close enough to make out details, Dan reported, “She’s got twelve guns—five on a side and two in the stern.”

  “Probably carronade as well,” Charity added.

  The men, eager for prize money, were shouting, “Take her! Take her!”

  Captain Alden asked, “You think like I do, Charity?”

  “Take her!” Charity responded, and Dan turned and called out, “Double-shot
the long guns!”

  As they drew nearer, they could clearly see that the ports were open and the guns manned. She was flying a British flag and ran on silently, a beautiful, high-sided ship, her mass of sails ruddy in the sun. A cloud of smoke puffed from her stern and a spout of water shot into the air two hundred yards ahead of the Lady well off line.

  “That’s a twenty-four-pounder!” Dan said quickly. “We can outrange her and take her from here.” It was exactly the sort of action he had fitted the Lady for, and they had taken nine rich prizes in the same fashion over the past months. “Open fire!”

  Lige Smith sighted his long eighteen. The deck jerked, the gun roared, and white smoke covered the deck briefly. There was a distant crackle, like a dog crunching a stick between his jaws. A small cabin on the British ship seemed to fly apart into a million splinters. Almost before the smoke was cleared, the gun was ready. The gun crew moved with what seemed to be leisurely movements, but actually with precision beyond the ability of most gun crews.

  “Caught her that time!” Captain Alden yelled. A starshaped patch of white splinters appeared at the ship’s waterline.

  It was suicide to resist, and the ship dipped its flag in a surrender sign. It was a matter of minutes until Captain Alden and Dan were aboard. She was the ship Blue Cloud, James Tennant, master, from St. Thomas to the Indies, 518 tons and laden with a wealth of cargo.

  “I should have stayed with the convoy another day,” Tennant mourned. His remark caused Alden and Greene to exchange a quick glance. Good luck for us and bad for the British, Dan thought with a surge of pleasure.

  “Well,” Dan responded carelessly, “we’d have got you in the end. It’s probably a small convoy and weakly guarded—like most we find in these waters.”

  “Not so little—and not so weakly guarded!” Tennant shot back. “Twenty-two sail and guarded by a frigate!”

  Dan stared at him, then shrugged. There was no way for the Lady to take on a ship of that size, so he gave the orders, and the hard work of shifting the cargo to the smaller ship began. By late afternoon Charity informed him, “No room for any more, Dan. We’re stuffed with cargo.”