The Saintly Buccaneer

by Gilbert, Morris

  “It’s the best surprise you could have given me,” he returned, and the answer contented her. She loved adventure, and this was, to her, an opportunity for an idyllic voyage with her sweetheart. I hope it takes a month to repair the ship! she thought as she snuggled close beside him in the darkness.

  ****

  Charity rose from her bed stiffly. Her face felt drawn and tight, for she had wept until she had finally drifted off into sleep. But it had been a troubled sleep, filled with phantoms, and more than once she had almost awakened with her body twitching in terror. She seemed to hear over and over the sound of the thunderous broadside that had killed the crew, and she looked wildly around, not knowing where she was.

  Startled by a knock, she stared at the door in terror. Lieutenant Burns had been gentle, but he had been forced to tell her that she might be treated as a prisoner of war; and fear of what could happen grabbed at her as she stood there helplessly.

  “Miss Alden! We must come in!”

  It was a woman’s voice, and that confused Charity, but she wiped her tear-stained face as the door opened. It was a young woman dressed in a stylish gray dress, flanked by a muscular seaman with a large trunk on his shoulder. She came straight up to the startled girl and put her hand out, a smile on her lovely face, “Miss Alden, my name is Blanche Rommey.” She turned and spoke to the seaman. “Put the trunk there.” When he had put it down with a grunt, she gave him a coin, saying, “That’s all.”

  “Thankee, miss!” He knuckled his forehead, grinned shyly, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Blanche removed her cloak, tossed it onto one of the two beds, then came to stand before the girl, whose face was pale and tear-streaked. “This is very painful for you, Miss Alden,” Blanche said quietly. She had not expected such a young woman, nor one who was obviously very pretty in spite of her swollen features. But there was a vulnerable air about the girl that made her reach her hand out impulsively and say, “I’m so very sorry about your father.”

  She had not intended to say that—in fact, she had not given a moment’s thought to the woman on the privateer. She was not given to such compassion, but now that she saw the squared shoulders and the quivering underlip of the girl, she was moved. Blanche Rommey was a selfish creature, but she had sympathy for anyone in such a predicament—though it would have to be added that she would have been just as moved at the sight of a wounded puppy!

  “What—what are you doing here?” Charity asked.

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with me for the rest of the voyage—but I have good news. Lieutenant Burns told you that there was a possibility you might go to prison, I believe?”

  “Yes...?”

  “Well, my father is Captain Rommey of the Neptune. And I’m very glad to tell you that he has made arrangements for you to be treated as a passenger.”

  “That’s very kind of him... and my father?”

  “He’ll be buried in your cemetery—Lieutenant Burns is making all the arrangements. Does that make you feel any better?”

  “Oh, yes! I’m—I’m very thankful, Miss Rommey.”

  “You had quite a champion in Lieutenant Burns. He was very determined. Not many lieutenants can move my father in that way.”

  “He was very kind.”

  Blanche nodded, adding, “I must tell you, I come with a double purpose.” She hesitated, looked at the other girl, and smiled slightly. “My fiance has been appointed prizemaster of this ship. I asked my father to let me come with him—and he only agreed because there was another woman on board.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “To New York. I am sorry about the loss of your ship. But I suppose privateers look on that sort of thing as an occupational hazard.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  There was such sadness in Charity’s face that Blanche went on quickly. “It will be a short voyage—and I’ll see to it that you have no problems. There’ll be no lock on the door or anything like that. And you’ll take your meals at the captain’s table—that’s my future husband, Lieutenant Hawke.” She hesitated. The girl looked so vulnerable. “Is there any way I can make this easier for you—may I call you Charity?—anything at all?”

  Charity bit her lip. “What about the crew? I—I know that most of them were killed.”

  “I’m afraid so. The severely wounded are on board the Neptune. Those that were not are in the hold under guard. I’ll get the names of the survivors for you.”

  “What will happen to them?”

  “They’ll be sent to a prison until the rebellion is over—Dartmoor, I believe.” She gave Charity a close look, asking intuitively, “Is there one of them you’d like to see? Perhaps a relative? I’m sure I can arrange a visit.”

  Charity licked her lips and murmured quietly, “I was engaged to one of them—Daniel Greene. But he was the cause of all this—my father’s death!” Her youthful face grew tense and she shook her head. “I hope I never see him again as long as I live!”

  Blanche felt a sudden surge of inner pity for the girl. She herself had led a sheltered life, lacking nothing, never a tragedy. Now she looked into the eyes of the girl before her and felt a shame at her lack of compassion. I must do what I can, she thought. Going to her, she put her arm around Charity and said, “We’ll talk about it later. There’s going to be lots of time for that. But now, do you mind too much having to share your quarters with me?”

  “No, of course not, Miss Rommey.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll help me unpack. Perhaps tomorrow morning you can show me the galley and cook a breakfast. I understand there’s no cook, so I hope you’ve more experience along those lines than I!”

  It was a strange night for Charity; she was very conscious of the British woman in the bed so close to her, but she managed to get through the ordeal with some sleep. They rose late, not wanting to interfere with the crew’s meal, and dressed. Charity led her to the galley where she cooked a fine breakfast of battered eggs and toast. The two of them sat down, and finally Charity ate a little. Afterward they went up on deck where the repairs on the ship were already under way, a mass of tangled cordage, ripped sails, and splintered timbers being removed by the crew.

  “That’s my fiance,” Blanche told her, pointing to the bow where Hawke, surrounded by workmen, was supervising the repair of the outer jib. “But,” she went on, “I can see we’re going to be in the way up here.” She glanced up nervously as Sullivan cut away a top yard, letting it fall to the deck with a crash, and said quickly, “We’d better get below. You can meet Captain Hawke at dinner tonight.”

  They went below, but Charity had a thought, and asked as they went down the ladder, “Some of the crew are still aboard—those who weren’t badly hurt?”

  “I heard so.”

  “We were a close ship, Miss Rommey. I know all these men—they’re old friends, most of them. I wonder, could I go see if they need any help? Bandages or medicine?” Charity said, knowing that Dan might be among them, but refusing to let her anger stop her from helping the others.

  “Why, of course, Charity.” Blanche felt that it would be much better if the American girl had something to do other than dwell on her misfortune, so she added, “I’ll go with you. Maybe I can help get what they need.”

  “I suppose they’re in the hold?” Charity inquired. “It’s this way.” The young women descended to the lowest deck, finding there two of Captain Baxter’s marines guarding the door.

  “We’d like to see the prisoners,” Blanche stated.

  “Why, I’m sorry, Miss Rommey, but we can’t let you do that—not without permission from the captain.”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll go get an order. You may as well wait here, Charity.” She made her way to the deck and threaded the cluttered passageway to where Hawke was working. “Oh, Captain! I need you,” she called.

  He raised his head, came to where she stood, and grinned down at her. “I’m not a captain, Blanche. Just a lowly lieutenant.”


  “Well, give me a note and sign it ‘Captain Hawke.’ ”

  “A note?”

  “Charity Alden, the captain’s daughter—she wants to visit the prisoners.”

  “I’m not sure about that!”

  “Oh, it’s all right,” Blanche promised and reached up to straighten his collar. “She’s a poor creature, and it’ll give her something to do.” She smiled at him coyly. “Please—and I’ll give you a reward when we’re alone!”

  He flushed, and gave in. “Oh, all right. You write it and I’ll sign it—or you might as well sign it yourself, I suppose.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t be right!” she giggled as she went off to find paper and ink. After getting his signature, she returned to the hold and handed the paper to the marine, who looked at it carefully, then unlocked the door. “You want us to go in with you, Miss Rommey?”

  “I don’t think we’re in any danger,” Blanche shrugged. “Go in, Charity.”

  The room they entered was a low-ceilinged affair, lit by several lanterns. It had been filled with supplies, but most of them had been removed to make quarters for the prisoners. The lanterns swung with the motion of the ship, casting a series of yellow waves of light over the makeshift bunks on which the men were lying. It was close, and there was the smell of waste and sweat, strong and harsh in the nostrils of the two women.

  “Charity—!” Dan had risen from one of the bunks and stood before her, his eyes filled with pain. “I—I’m glad thee has come—”

  “I came to see if I could help with the wounded.” Even to Blanche’s ears the words sounded flat, even angry, and they struck against Dan Greene like lethal blows.

  He stared at her silently, his wide shoulders sagging in despair, and he responded simply, “That is kind.” He stood back, and a voice suddenly rose from the side.

  “Charity! Charity!”

  She turned and strained her eyes in the dim light, then moved to stand beside a bunk. “Thad!” She knelt quickly and took the hands of young Alden. “Are you badly hurt, Thad?”

  “Ah, not so bad,” he answered, but his voice was reedy and thin. She looked closer and could see the pallor on his face even in the dim light.

  “What is it?”

  Rufus Middles appeared, and his round face gleamed with sweat in the yellow lamplight. “Got a splinter in his side, Miss Charity. He ought to have gone to the Neptune with the others that was bad wounded—but he begged so hard to stay, the Scotsman let him do it.”

  “Can’t you take it out, Rufus—the splinter, I mean?”

  He rubbed his cheeks, thought on it, then said slowly, “I tell you the truth, Miss Alden, just like I done told the boy here, it’s a bad ’un. Got to do a heap o’ cuttin’—and I warn you, he might bleed to death.”

  “But—it’s got to come out!” Charity took Middles’ beefy arm and insisted. “I’ll help you, Rufus!”

  He hesitated, saying, “Well, it’s up to Thad. It’s his life.”

  “Do it!” Thad gasped. “If you’ll help, Charity, it’ll be all right.”

  Charity turned to Blanche. “Can you get us a place where we can treat this boy?”

  Blanche was overcome by the stench of the hold, and she croaked, “Yes! I’ll see to it—I’ll get everything ready—instruments as well.” She turned and almost ran out of the room. Charity knelt beside Thad again, taking her handkerchief and wiping his brow. “It’ll be all right, Thad—you’ll see!”

  “God sent you, Charity!” he cried, and he held on to her hand, his eyes bright with fever. She felt the feeble grasp, and tried to pray, but could not. Then she looked up and saw Dan sitting on his bunk with his back against the wall, his head bowed, the picture of grief—but she felt nothing. He killed my father! was her only thought, and though the rest of the crew spoke gladly to her, Dan did not lift his head, not even when a seaman came and carried Thad to the makeshift surgery. Even afterward, when Charity came back, drained and sick from the bloody operation, Greene was still sitting in the same position, with head bowed.

  Blanche was shocked at the pallor of Charity’s face when she saw her later during the day, and she was relieved that the girl seemed to crave solitude. “I feel so sorry for her,” she said as she sat with Hawke under the shade of the afterdeck. “She’s lost everything—even the man she loves. She blames him, somehow, for her father’s death.”

  “Too bad!” he murmured. “War is like that.”

  “I want you to be nice to her,” Blanche requested. Then she smiled archly and added, “Not too nice—because she’s a very pretty girl! But I’ve asked her to eat with us. You clean up and I’ll manage to get something fit to eat.”

  He agreed, and she spent most of the afternoon locating a sailor named Harrison who admitted having had some experience as a cook’s helper, so the two of them worked the rest of the day preparing the evening meal. For Harrison it was an easier job than moving heavy timbers, and for Blanche it was fun—something different.

  It was growing dark when she went to her cabin and found Charity sitting in a chair, staring at the wall. “Come now, Charity!” Blanche cried out gaily. “We’re having dinner with the best-looking man in the King’s service. We must look our grandest!”

  “I—I’d rather not, Miss Rommey.”

  Blanche went over and pulled her up. “I know you’ve had a hard time—but it will be good for you. Come now, I insist!”

  Under Blanche’s prodding, Charity put on a dress, a green one with white trim, and let Blanche fuss with her hair. “My, what fine hair! Beautiful!” She stood back and looked at Charity, then smiled gaily, “It’s a good thing I’m not a jealous woman—or you’d do without supper tonight! Come now, we’ll be late.”

  Reluctantly Charity allowed herself to be pulled out the door and up to the captain’s cabin. It had occurred to Blanche that Charity might be saddened at seeing her father’s room, but there was no choice. “She’s got to start facing reality,” she had said to Hawke.

  When the two entered, there was no one inside but Harrison, who was wearing a white coat, acting as steward. “Captain will be here soon,” he informed them. “Said for you two to wait.”

  “Well, I’ll teach him better manners than this—after we’re married,” Blanche laughed. “You sit there, Charity, and I’ll take this seat.”

  As they waited for Hawke, Blanche did most of the talking, telling her about her fiance, and Charity responded with a smile at her enthusiasm.

  The door swung open and Hawke entered. He was wearing a blue uniform with white facings. His brass buttons glittered like gold in the bright lamplight, and his hair was neatly drawn back, tied with a blue ribbon. Heavens! Blanche thought with a burst of pride, he is a handsome man!

  Hawke stepped to the table and smiled, his teeth chalk white against his dark tan. The scar on his lower jaw stood out like a white line, and his eyes were kind as he bowed and apologized, “I’m sorry to be late. This is Miss Alden, I believe?”

  He paused, waiting for a reply, but Charity was staring at him, her eyes full of fear. Hawke was taken aback. He glanced at Blanche, who was openly puzzled.

  “Charity—are you all right?” Blanche asked, concern etching her face.

  Instead of answering, Charity abruptly rose to her feet, her face pale. She was trembling, they both saw. She quickly put her hands together, trying hard to control the shaking.

  She sees me as the man who killed her father! Hawke thought, and a glance at Blanche confirmed his thought. He started to speak, saying, “I must apologize, Miss Alden. This is too much—”

  “Winslow!” The name leaped to Charity’s lips, and she threw her hands out in a helpless motion, her throat constricted. The dreams she had of this man—the dreadful nightmares that had come a hundred times to fill her with terror—came rushing back and she raised her voice and cried out, “Paul Winslow! What are you doing here! You’re dead!”

  The last word was a scream, and she fell back in her chair and put her face in he
r hands, weeping hysterically.

  Hawke paled, and he and Blanche stared at each other, speechless. Then slowly, Blanche went over to the weeping girl. She was afraid, but she knew the time had come for something that could be a tragedy for her. She slowly pulled the girl’s hands from her face, saying, “Do you know this man?”

  Charity stared at him, shivered and whispered, “Know him? Of course I know him!”

  “You—you may be mistaking him for another man,” Blanche whispered, almost in a plea. “You can’t be sure!”

  Charity pushed Blanche away, stood straight and pointed at the man whose face had gone pale beneath his tan.

  “There’s no mistake!” Charity seemed to weave and she began to back toward the door, fearfully, as if afraid they would attack her. She reached the door, then turned. They were both staring at her, and there was an expression in the dark eyes of the man who stood before her that would have brought pity to her heart if it had been any other man.

  “Not know him? I put that scar on his face!”

  She turned and with a sob left the room. They heard her feet as she fled down the corridor, and then they stood silently.

  Finally he spoke, his voice heavy with foreboding. “Well, my dear, we don’t have to wonder about me anymore, do we?” He dropped his head, standing there like a statue. After a while he lifted his eyes, and a bitter smile touched his mobile lips.

  “Paul Winslow—I wonder what sort of fellow I’ll turn out to be? It seems we’ll know pretty soon, doesn’t it?”

  They stood there like strangers, and she felt an ominous fear that he had gone far, far away—and that the man she knew as Hawke would never come to her again!

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HERO—OR VILLAIN?

  When Blanche left her cabin just after dawn, she nearly stumbled as the ship took a slow roll that threw her off balance. Twice as she made her way to the deck, she saved herself from being thrown against the bulkhead by sheer effort alone. Stepping out on deck, she saw at once that the sky was no longer blue, but was like a lead-colored bowl pressed over the sea, colorless and somehow ominous. The sea itself was different, for though there were no whitecaps, the surface was flowing with long undulations that slowly picked the ship up, then dropped it into the troughs.