The Saintly Buccaneer

by Gilbert, Morris

  About an hour after she joined him, they heard a hail from the port side, and Dan looked down to see a small boat making for the Jupiter. “It’s Paul,” he told her, turning back.

  They waited until the boat was alongside and saw Paul leap over the rail. “Paul,” Dan called. “Over here.”

  There was a hesitation in Paul that neither one missed. For a moment Charity thought he would turn away, but instead he came toward them. His eyes were shaded by the cap he wore, hiding any information they might glean. “You two still up?” was all he offered.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Dan stated.

  “Everything go all right?”

  “Fine.” Dan hesitated, then said, “I was worried about thee. If thee hadn’t made it back, the whole affair would probably fail.”

  Both Dan and Charity were waiting for him to explain his errand, but he only replied, “Oh, there was no danger of that,” and turned to go. “I guess I’ll turn in. Whom am I bunking with, Dan?”

  “With me and Enoch. I’ll show you.”

  “All right.” His eyes fell on Charity. “It’s late. You must be tired.”

  “I am, a little. Good night.”

  She left without another word, and Dan led the way to the small section of the crew’s quarters where he and Paul strung their hammocks. Some of the Jupiter’s crew were already occupying the quarters, so there was no possibility for talk. Dan fell asleep thinking, He is surely behaving in a strange way!

  Paul lay awake for a long time, immobile in his hammock, thoughts running through his mind that left no mark on his face. He stared blindly at the deck overhead, oblivious to the watch sounding the calls that night.

  In the morning the crew ate in shifts. There was no room for all the sailors to eat at once, not to mention the passengers, so in the days that followed, life consisted of shifting from one section of the ship to the other, eating and moving out of the small cabin so that others could come in and have their turn.

  Usually some of the ship’s crew were close, so meetings between Dan and Paul and the other passengers had to be rare. Charity seemed to keep to herself, and Paul found himself missing her, but there was little opportunity for a meeting.

  Day followed day, and everyone became more edgy with the strain of the situation. Finally Conrad growled, “If I have to talk about potatoes or beans one more time to fool these dolts, I’ll die.”

  “Don’t you like vegetables, Conrad?” Paul asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  Conrad drew himself up to his full height and answered solemnly, “I ate a pea once!” As everyone burst into laughter, he stalked off, offended at their rudeness.

  The one completely happy person aboard was Thad Alden. He found Charity willing to talk to him more than she ever had. They spent time together in the bow of the ship, talking about the days back in Boston before the war. Charity should have known better, but she didn’t notice how her attention brought the lad into a state of blissful joy.

  She was scarcely listening to him one day when he inquired, “You figure a man like me could ever get married and have a family, Miss Charity?”

  She was half asleep from the warmth of the tropic sun, and answered, “You, Thad? Why, a girl would be lucky to have a fine man like you for a husband.” She almost named Lucy Gambell, knowing that the girl, daughter of a local butcher, was wildly in love with Thad. But she didn’t, and she failed to see the flush that came to his face.

  “Thank you, Charity.”

  ****

  On Sunday the thirty-first, the group met for church on deck, the only place large enough. Dan preached, and the rest congregated around him. Charity felt someone squeeze in between her and Laurence. She looked up to see that it was Paul. He smiled at her, and asked, “Room for one more sinner?”

  “Why, I think so.”

  She sat there so disturbed that she was unable to concentrate on the sermon, but when she glanced at Paul, he was listening intently. After the service was over and they got to their feet, he said, “Come to the stern. I want to talk to you.”

  She followed him, and by some miracle there was no one at the rail. He was silent at first, just gazing across the shattered water that the ship sent boiling in its wake. Finally he asked quietly, “Charity, are you angry with me?”

  “Why—no.”

  “You’ve not said ten words to me on this voyage.”

  She bit her lip, shrugged, and replied evasively, “I ... I suppose I’m a little bit afraid.”

  He searched her face, trying to read beneath that facade. “You’ve been so distant. I... I’ve missed you.”

  She looked at him, startled, and fingered her bodice nervously. “I didn’t think you would.”

  He saw that she was unhappy, so he hurried on. “Charity, we take the ship day after tomorrow.”

  “Paul!”

  “And I want you to promise me something.”

  She smiled, the sadness leaving her. “I know. You want me to hide until it’s over.”

  “That’s it. You see, I’m very fond of you, Charity. If anything happened to you, I’d—”

  She waited for his next words, and prompted him. “You’d what, Paul?”

  He searched for an answer, then turned his dark eyes on her. “I don’t know what it would be like—not having you.” He reached out and stroked the rail nervously. Suddenly he blurted out, “I don’t have much to think about, Charity. My memory’s coming back—but it’s very limited. I have a few items stored there—a few people. But if you were to be taken away, it would be like having the sun disappear!”

  She dropped her head, feeling a mixture of joy and hope at his words. She heard the hissing of the water and the flapping of sails, but there was an ease in her heart, a diminishing of the weight she had felt since they had left New York.

  “I’ll stay out of danger, Paul, if that’s what you want.”

  “I thought I’d have to beat you again.” She looked through the darkness to see him smiling in the old way.

  “I’ll be glad when it’s over. Keep yourself safe.”

  “I will,” he promised as he turned and disappeared down the deck.

  ****

  It had been decided to seize the ship just before dawn. That was when the majority of the crew were asleep. Paul met with Enoch, Dan, and Conrad at dusk. “We’ve been over this a dozen times, but remember, if we can get the marines disarmed, that’ll be the best we can hope for. I’ll take that detail—oh, and be certain the men wear their uniforms. Enoch, you take care of the watch, and Dan, you take the captain and the officers. All right?”

  “It’ll be a piece of cake,” Conrad yawned.

  Dan stared at him, shrugged, and said, “It ought to be.”

  The night slipped by, and finally Paul whispered quietly, “All right—it’s time.”

  He had tried to time the attack so that no one element of the crew would be able to unify against them. His was the hardest job, for the marines were tough, and he gripped his sword tightly in one hand and saw that the others had only cutlasses. Those taking the crew would have muskets, but the marines would have to be hit hard and swiftly.

  He stopped the group of ten men that he had chosen, and murmured softly, “All right. They’re not expecting us. They’ll be asleep, so when—”

  He gave a start, for a musket had gone off midships, and the explosion rocked the night air. Cursing the fool that had thrown them all in danger, he yelled, “Come on—they’ll be armed in a minute.”

  It was too late, he saw, for the door of the marines’ cabin burst open, and the deck was filled with the figures of marines half dressed but carrying muskets and sabers. “Cut them down!” Paul screamed. A musket exploded almost in his face, and he heard a scream and a body hit the deck. He cut the marine down with one stroke of his blade, but was nearly skewered on a bayonet that he avoided only by twisting his body to the side in a violent movement. He was too close to use his sword, so he pulled the pistol from his belt and fired it straight int
o the staring face of the startled marine. The man fell at Paul’s feet.

  As he cut down another marine who came at him with a wild swing of his saber, he heard the sounds of gunfire and yelling from forward and from below. The crew of the Jupiter came swarming up the ladders, and soon the deck was a bloody tangle of men, screaming and slashing at one other. The rising sun cast reddish beams on the deck, and Paul saw Dan and a small group besieged and fighting like madmen at the foot of the mizzenmast.

  He lost track of time, and once he was knocked to the deck by a blow of a musket barrel, and came to his feet blinded by the blood that ran into his eyes. He wiped his eyes free with his sleeve and yelled, “Come on—we’ve got them now!”

  He had no idea if the men would follow, but as he went charging across the deck, he heard the pounding of feet behind him, and his group struck the knot of men that was about to annihilate Dan’s small team. It was knife, club, bayonet, and saber now—all the muskets and pistols had been fired.

  The clash of steel was a ringing chorus that sounded over the screams of battle. Paul was all over the deck, lifting Conrad up where he’d fallen beneath the attack of a burly sailor, directing a counterattack at the stern where Middles and Lester were cutting their way through a wall of flesh. He saw Middles lift his sword, but a seaman with only a dirk leaped under it and cut Middles’ throat. For one terrible moment the man stood there, trying to yell, then fell to the deck grabbing his throat and died as Paul watched, helpless to aid the man.

  Others went down, and as Paul raced across the deck, he saw Captain Whitaker with his first lieutenant driving his remaining men toward the center of the fray. If I don’t break up that charge—we’re whipped! Paul thought. He yelled at Dan, “Look! We’ve got to get those officers—then the crew will quit!”

  The two of them hurdled side by side over the bodies of the dead and dying, and Whitaker looked up to meet them, his face livid with rage. He lifted his pistol and fired—and Dan went down on the deck. Paul lunged at the captain, who was trying to draw his sword—but it would not come free. The lieutenant leaped forward and caught Paul’s blade on his own sword, giving the captain time to draw. The two officers lunged at Paul, and he parried both flickering blades and took one step backward.

  “Get him, Stevens! He’s the leader!”

  They pressed him, and he kept his feet by a miracle, for the deck was slippery with blood. Both of the men were good swordsmen, and they divided so that he could not keep his eye on them at the same time.

  He knew it was a matter of time until he was caught, for they were playing him just right. One would lunge while the other waited; then when Paul’s blade was engaged, the other would strike. Three times they maneuvered him into position, and only by fighting like a madman did he escape.

  Finally their lethal thrusts came as he knew they would. The lieutenant pulled his blade to the right, and he saw the captain to his left driving forward at his unprotected side! He expected to feel the steel driving through his body—but instead he heard a cry and someone fell against him.

  He looked down to see Thad Alden, who had come to his aid, the blade of Captain Whitaker buried in his stomach almost to the hilt. Thad looked up at Paul with unbelieving eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Please!”

  The eyes of the lieutenant were fixed on the boy, gaping at the captain’s blade trapped in Alden’s body. Quicker than a striking cobra, Paul ran the lieutenant through the throat and even as he fell to the deck kicking and gagging, Paul whirled to face the captain.

  Whitaker saw Paul’s red blade, and his eyes bulged as he saw the merciless face of Winslow, but he could not move fast enough, and instantly the blade that had killed his lieutenant was buried in his chest. He touched it almost delicately with one hand; then a dullness came to his eyes and he fell backward, dead before he hit the deck.

  There was a shout, and Paul heard men crying for quarter. Looking around he saw that it was over. He dropped his sword and knelt to lift Alden’s head. The boy opened his mouth to speak and was gagged by a rush of crimson blood. Paul wiped the blood from the boy’s lips and Thad moaned, “Now I never—won’t never be able to—marry Miss Charity—take care of—” Unable to finish, he died in Paul’s arms.

  Winslow rose to his feet sick at heart, but then he saw Dan getting up, holding his head where the ball had creased it. The big man was smiling, and he came and threw his arms around Paul, saying, “God has been good to us, Paul.”

  Paul looked around at the dead men and those that would soon die but who now were crying out with pain. He bowed his head, filled with sadness. Then he looked at Dan and cried, “Why do men treat each other worse than beasts?”

  Dan shook his head, compassion filling in his eyes. “Why, God’s not finished with us yet, Paul. One day we’ll study war no more.”

  “I wish I never had to lift my hand against another human being!”

  “Why, thee should feel like that. Don’t thee suppose that Gilbert Winslow and all thy people felt the same? We’re weak vessels, Winslow, but God will see us through.”

  Winslow nodded, and began tending the wounded and the dying. Charity came running up and stopped short as she saw his bloodstained garments and bloody head.

  “I feel like something out of the sewer, Charity,” he groaned, and a wave of fatigue and horror gripped him. “Thad is dead. He died with your name on his lips.” She gave a cry and fell down to touch the forehead of the boy, and when she looked up Paul had moved away and was speaking to the crew.

  All morning the cries of the wounded sounded as the surgeon tried to sew them together, and by noon the warship Jupiter of the Royal Navy was The Gallant Lady once again, under the command of Paul Winslow, Captain.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  ADMIRAL DE GRASS

  Lieutenant General de Armees Navales, Le Comte de Grass, Commander in Chief of His Most Christian Majesty’s naval forces in the West Indies, paced the high poop of his flagship, swinging at anchor in Port Royal bay. Fore and aft, he paced, taffrail to quarterdeck.

  He had fought in thirty campaigns, this man, and for more than forty-five years he had served French kings. In the American war for independence he had already taken part in eight engagements. His thoughts turned longingly toward home—the Chateau de Tilly, near Versailles. He yearned to feel the rich earth of France underfoot, treading his family estate instead of hard oak decks. His love for home and France was written in his will; no matter in what part of the world or on what sea he might expire, his heart was to be sent to repose eternally in the chapel of his chateau.

  But short of death, the count knew that months must pass, perhaps years, before he would see home and family again. There was much to be done for his king on this side of the Atlantic, and he had done little. Rodney and Hood, the English admirals, had checkmated every attempt he had made to bottle up the American coast.

  His second in command called from the wheel, “Ship is arriving, monsieur.”

  The count moved to starboard and saw a fleet three-masted ship that could only be American-built skimming over the water. As he admired the way she seemed to glide in the peculiar fashion of her type, he mentally added up his triumphs since arriving in the West Indies with his fleet two months before. He had attacked St. Lucia, where the English fleet was a constant threat to French ships, and had driven Hood farther north. He had captured the island of Tobago, but had been repulsed at Barbados, one of England’s richest and largest naval supply bases.

  All in all, it had been a stalemate—a duel of the minds, a threat of fleets. Thrust and parry and thrust again. He had not succeeded, but M. de Grass well knew the final test was still to come. The war for American independence would be decided not by armies but by ships. The sea lanes along the American coast would be decisive. If he could gain control of those water routes, the war would soon be won. Yet he dared not leave the West Indies until Rodney’s fleet had been drawn away.

  He said, “I will speak with the captain of that Ame
rican schooner.” Going below, de Grass spent the next two hours poring over maps, as he did every day. So engrossed was he that he did not hear the steward enter, and he looked up with a start when he heard the man say, “Sir, the American captain—he is here.”

  “Bring him in, Pierre.”

  He straightened up stiffly, and moved in front of the map table to meet the three Americans who came through the door. He greeted them politely, surprised to see that one of them was an attractive young woman dressed in a man’s trousers. Ah, who can tell with these wild Americans? the count thought, but he said only, “Welcome to my ship. I am Count de Grass.” His English was flawless, and the richness of his French accent gave a fluid motion to the language that invested it with life and interest.

  “I am Captain Paul Winslow, Continental Navy, and this is my first lieutenant, Mr. Daniel Greene.” The trim young captain introduced the third member. “And may I present Miss Charity Alden.”

  “We have so few ladies out here, it is indeed a pleasure to have you, Mademoiselle Alden.” He moved forward and took the hand she extended, then bent to kiss it.

  The gesture brought a blush to Charity’s face, and she said in a flustered tone, “Oh, thank you, sir!” The count was a handsome man, over six feet tall, powerfully built, yet moving with agility and grace. His advanced years were evident only in his graying hair, drawn back from wide temples and gathered by a ribbon at the back of his neck. His eyes beneath heavy brows seemed aware of everything; a patrician nose marked his noble lineage.

  “Are you attached to any commander, Captain?” de Grass asked, motioning them to take their places around the large oak table.

  “Well, sir, we are in a rather peculiar position.” Paul spoke quickly of the way they had recaptured The Gallant Lady, and the count was properly impressed.

  “Indeed, you have done well!” he exclaimed. “I have never heard of such a thing in all my years in the navy.” He gave Charity a warm smile and said, “I take it that the ship will be in your name as the original owner?”