Yankee Privateer

by Andre Norton

  Yankee Privateer

  The author wishes to express appreciation for the assistance given by Miss Nellie Snape of Heeley Hill, Mottram St. Andrew, Cheshire, England, and to Laura and John Harris for the helpful suggestions and source material which they so generously provided.

  YANKEE PRIVATEER

  Then we each manned a ship And our sails we unfurled, And we bore the Stars and Stripes O'er the oceans of the world. From the proud flag of Britain We swept the seas clear, And we earned our Independence On the Yankee Privateer.

  —THE YANKEE PRIVATEER

  Contents

  1

  Right in a Squirrel's Eye

  2

  First Port—St. Malo

  3

  "If You Haven't Guns-Take 'Em!"

  4

  A Capture for Every Gun

  5

  First Blood for a Marine

  6

  Jack Ashore

  7

  “Up with th’ Broom, Boys!”

  8

  "A Rebel Pirate!"

  9

  Stone Walls Do a Prison Make

  10

  Crofts Uses a Needle

  11

  Trouble At The Green Man

  12

  Moor Bells

  13

  At the Sign of the Lighted Candle

  14

  "I Am an American, Sir—"

  15

  A Pride of Lions

  16

  “Ware, Press!”

  17

  For a Prize, and a Battle, and a Breeze!

  18

  "Marine Come Aboard, Sir"

  1

  Right in a Squirrel's Eye

  If thou hast courage to despise

  The various changes of the skies,

  To disregard the ocean's rage,

  Unmoved when hostile ships engage,

  Come from the forest and with me

  Learn what it is to go to sea.

  —CAPTAIN JONES' INVITATION

  Ice was breaking up out on the bay, floating sea-ward. Fitzhugh Lyon gasped as a blast of wind, crossing that rubble, cut into him like the lash of a slave driver. It carried with it the taint of the foul, earthy slime which the winter of 1779 had left to clog Baltimore's principal street.

  The mare, Lady, moved impatiently under her rider. Fitz could feel the shivers which shook her mud-plastered body. But her head was still high and gallantly held for all the punishing pace he had kept her to that day.

  Still he hesitated. Annapolis he knew well, but this raw, unfinished city-village was unfamiliar. Which inn now? . . .

  Lady pawed the mud and shook her head. She wanted warm bran mash under her nose and a knowledgeable groom to curry her clean again. Fitz shifted the weight of the long-barreled rifle which rested across the saddle before him.

  "All right. We shall go "

  But the mare pricked her ears as the shrill piping of a fife and the roll of a drum rose even above the hum of the port. Fitz's shoulders flattened and his chin went up as he watched a small knot of blue-coated men march up the street toward him, a rabble of loafers and half-grown boys trailing behind.

  "Recruiting!"

  But not for the army—at least not for the Maryland Line. They wore brown reversed with red. Fitzhugh's teeth caught hard in his lower lip. He had excellent reason to remember that. He did not allow his eyes to stray down the length of his drab greatcoat and the supple fawnskin hunting smock under it.

  Three years ago he should have been in red and brown. Duty—the pain in his pinched lip did not keep out the thought now so grooved in his mind that it seemed to run of itself—duty was a thankless employer.

  "All you that have bad masters "

  The lieutenant in charge of the recruiting squad caroled out the limping verse in a pleasing baritone.

  "All you that have bad masters,

  And cannot get your due,

  Come, come, my brave boys,

  And join with our ship's crew!"

  Lady tossed her head and sidled away from the flapping bunting of the flag they carried, showing her dislike for the squeal of the fife, until Fitz had to exert knee pressure to hold her. So this was a naval party! And by the number of dropped jaws and bemused eyes to be counted in the crowd, they might well look forward to doing a smart business. Although, by all accounts, Baltimore was almost stripped clean of able-bodied seamen now—what with the city gone fair mad over privateering.

  Fitz transferred his attention from the audience to the principle actor. The lieutenant had taken off his cockaded hat and was blotting his flushed face with a handkerchief.

  And to Fitz's critical mind that linen square was being used with a distinctly staged flourish. Deep within him an old resentment, one which he thought he had left behind him when he rode through the gates of Fairleigh, began to prickle into life again.

  He studied the officer, trying to reason out his sudden aversion for the man.

  The recruiter was square jawed, and his regular features were coated with a deep sea tan which bronzed them for the romantic taste. He carried himself with a swagger, a gallant-enough example to tempt others into his calling.

  Fitz's dark eyes were bleak. These "storm-the-bluffs-m'boys" men, you found them everywhere nowadays. He would have to learn to live with them. And this one had the gift of a glib tongue, too. Listen to the man now, he was getting down to his business with a right good will, addressing the crowd from the steps of the house across the street.

  "D'you want to give the lobsterbacks a proper knock, lads? Do you desire to come home again with a mint of guinea pieces to clink in your pockets? Sign on a lucky ship—under a lucky master! You all know Captain Daniel Crofts "

  A ragged cheer drowned him out. Apparently the crowd did know Captain Crofts and they approved of him highly.

  "You may gain a thousand pounds, mind you," the lieutenant's voice soared again. "One thousand pounds in your pocket, like as not, for spendin' a few months at sea. And a chance to set a slow match to Fat George into the bargain 1"

  This fantastic promise was at once underlined by a spirited burst of noise from fife and drum while the officer took a hasty pull of refreshment out of a flask that one of his listeners thrust upon him. Again Lady tried to draw away, but Fitz, fascinated against his will by this first glimpse of recruiting, navy style, was not yet ready to go.

  The long monotonous years just behind him made this bit of color and life almost as intoxicating as the contents of that flask which the lieutenant still held. Fitz was on his way—free at last—to join the army. But that did not mean that he had to embark for the north that very hour.

  "Able seamen," the carrying voice was developing a slightly husky note, "and sharpshooters needed to serve as marines "

  Fitz measured the crowd with an eye accustomed to marking out the usefulness of field hands. Very few of these ragged, dirty men or hobbledehoy loutish boys looked as if they could qualify for either post. Too many ships had sailed from Baltimore in these past few years. The cream of her native seamen were gone, either now afloat on privateers, tracking down British shipping within hailing distance of its home ports, or, if unlucky, rotting in the filthy prison ships and behind the walls of Old Mill. What was gathered here now was very raw material, and it would take a lucky Captain and a lucky ship indeed to make them worth recruiting.

  "Plenty of places for gentlemen seamen, sir. How about blooding that fine rifle of yours in a proper engagement?"

  Fitz refused to blink and he hoped that the wooden mask of no expression at all—which he had so carefully cultivated—was properly in place under the gaze of the lieutenant. But all those other grimy faces had swung in his direction, too. He forced a shadow of a smile and shook his head
.

  "A clumsy landsman such as I, sir, would be of little value afloat. Best get you men bred up in your trade."

  But the lieutenant, as he might have guessed, thought Fitz, with an inward sigh at his own folly for lingering, was not going to take that hint. The fellow was afire with zeal, or with the rum he had swallowed, and he was raising that quarter-deck voice again. The prickle of resentment in Fitz became a small, steady blaze when the recruiter bellowed:

  "By the Blue Peter, sir, if you can finger that weapon of yours to advantage, we'll soon make a proper marine of you!"

  That boast was seconded by a murmur from the crowd. Fitz's thoughts raced. He would have to handle this carefully—if he said one wrong word some one of the rabble might raise the cry of "Tory." That had happened before. Then there might be a nasty brawl.

  "Maybe he can't shoot!" A ragged boy edged up to stare impudently into Fitz's face. "Like as not he's one o' them up-country king lovers!"

  "Yeah, sonny," a big man crowded against the mare. From a mat of curly black beard, tobacco-stained teeth showed in a cruel grin. "Rifle guns ain't fer 'em wot can't make good use o' 'em. Supposen' yo' show us'ns how that thar pop gun works?"

  Fitz noticed that the weapon carried in the crook of black beard's arm was in some respects twin to his own. He took a chance and offered a challenge.

  "I'll match you. Let our friends here set the mark."

  The crowd took to that with a good will and some show of excitement. This was a better way to waste time of a long afternoon than to just listen to recruiting talk. The big man spat a brown stream of juice and nodded.

  "How about a wager?" The lieutenant pushed his way into the circle which had formed around Fitz and the rifleman. "Let the loser sign ship's papers with me!"

  That tickled the fancy of most of his hearers, and their yells of happy approval made Lady shy.

  The stench of sour rum hung thick on the air as the big man bellowed his agreement. By the greasy hunting smock he wore and the fox-skin cap pulled down over his uncombed thatch of hair, he appeared to be one of the fur-trading frontiersmen who now and then drifted down the road which ran through Upper Marlboro to the western wilderness. And no frontiersman was a poor shot, not if he wished to keep his hair safe on his head.

  Fitz knew that. But something stubborn inside him said that he was not going to lose. The rifle he carried had been his companion too long. And his brain was not fogged with pothouse potions.

  He urged Lady to follow the willing guides who led the way to an open field not far from the dank water of the bay. Here the raw ice-tongued wind had a free sweep, but no one seemed inclined to take cover.

  “I’ll hold the mare for you."

  The lieutenant stepped forward to take Lady's reins as Fitz came reluctantly out of the saddle.

  He had been right in his guess. This blue-coat now overtopped him by several inches. Resentment fed his old antagonism against all such loud-talking, strutting, uniform wearers. Instinctively Fitz used now the only answer he ever had against them, that level, cool, measuring stare which had somehow always managed to disconcert Cousin Francis and even make Cousin Ralph a little less sure of himself.

  And he noted with some pleasure, it had all its old power. The lieutenant didn't redden, or sputter, or exhibit any of the schoolboy responses the stare had once aroused, but there was a certain grimness about his mouth.

  Fitz allowed himself a rather mirthless counterfeit of a laugh. "You are very sure of signing one of us."

  Warmth and color had gone out of the voice which returned: "The Cap'n needs marines, I aim to get them for him."

  "Thank you—I am now duly warned!" Fitz was instantly annoyed at himself for having been stung into that retort.

  If only the fellow didn't look so infernally like Ralph, standing there so solid and sure of himself and of the world. Solid—that was it—solid and secure. Solid family, solid name. Probably this bold hero even had a Fairleigh tucked away someplace to return to. Solid! ...

  Well, he, Fitzhugh Lyon, who as good as had an Ensign's commission in a proper line regiment clipped into his pocket, had no intention of sailing on any privateer—no matter how much its captain might need men.

  He was going to be Ensign, Lieutenant, Captain indeed, if half the tales he had heard were true, there was plenty of room at the top for an ambitious man. He might not be a Danby of Fairleigh Manor, but he'd show them that a Lyon was as good, even if he had no family or manor behind him!

  Then he firmly shut such thoughts out of his mind and got down to the business of the match. He was giving that single-hearted concentration to a distasteful task, a response which he had learned so long ago that now it came automatically. When one is the poor relation in a large household, it behooves one to learn early how to manage one's own affairs, quietly and efficiently, and by oneself.

  He loaded with a methodical ease which was not lost on the frontiersman. When the recruiting officer gave the order to fire, Fitz stepped to the line that one of the town boys had marked off with a stick. He fired, and down the field the freshly trimmed peg whipped. The first of the runners to reach it shouted triumphantly. But the frontiersman could equal that without showing much skill, and he speedily did.

  Fitz blew on chilled fingers and spoke to the lieutenant.

  "I've had a long day in the saddle, sir, and am minded to rest. Let's make a quick end to this."

  "Any boy wot's britched kin hit that," the westerner slouched up. "Set we'ns a real man's mark, sailor boy!"

  "All right. What about that squirrel? Can you knock it off?"

  Along the rail fence at the far end of the field a squirrel was darting, stopping now and again in frozen immobility. Both contestants reloaded without answer. Fitz allowed his opponent first shot. The squirrel leaped as the crack of the rifle broke the silence. But it leaped free and unharmed.

  The frontiersman mouthed an oath as Fitz's rifle came up and he fired. Again the squirrel leaped, but this time because it had been jerked into the air by the impact of the ball, and fell into the mud, a limp handful of fur.

  "Be yo' one o' Morgan's boys?" his rival rounded on Fitz. "That thar was th' prettiest shot I've seed in a month o' Sundays! Come on t' Th' Wild Goose an' Pete Stanley'll set yo' up t' th' biggest jack o' rum yo've ever laid lip over!"

  Fitz shook his head. "I've been riding all day, Mr. Stanley, and I must see to my mare, she's been hard pressed. Then, too, you now have unfinished business with this officer " He took malicious pleasure in that, glancing from the bear-bodied Stanley to the lieutenant.

  "Aye, certainly," the latter answered absently.

  "Look you, sir," he added to Fitz, "if it is a good inn you are seeking, why not try the Eagle? It is a proper place—Captain Crofts himself lies there at present."

  "Th' Eagle," Stanley bit off a generous mouthful of black trade tobacco. "Place fer up-nosed gentry sparks. Best come wi' Pete iffen yo' want t' drink yo'r fill without none o' 'em smellin't down at yo'."

  Fitz shivered under the iron claws of the bay wind. His back and shoulders were all one ache and a warm inn room, with even a half-decent excuse for a bed and a couple of hot dishes on the table, was a beautiful dream. He had intended to claim shelter from the Lux family or from some other of the town folk who were on visiting terms with Fairleigh. But the circumstances of his departure from the Manor made him somewhat reluctant to do that. And now, when Lady whinnied piteously, he gave in, following the directions the officer gave.

  From the appearance of the stable yard, the Eagle was all the lieutenant had claimed it to be. The Negro groom who took charge of his mount satisfied even Fitz's fastidious requirements for the mare's comfort. And he started into the common room, to be met within the door by the host himself.

  "A room, sir? Lord save us, the Eagle is full to its chinking. But if you are minded to share quarters for the night now—there's the Frigate, a goodly sized room, and only Captain Crofts within it. He's a gentleman, sir, and like as no
t he'll welcome company, being a sociable sort of man."

  For a moment Fitz hesitated. He seemed destined today to be haunted by Captain Crofts. But the tantalizing fragrance of roasting meat put an end to his wavering.

  "Well, then, if the Captain has no objection, let us to the Frigate. And, landlord, I am in need of a full meal, too."

  "To be sure, sir, to be sure. The Eagle will supply that, quickly enough. Up the stairs now, sir, and please to step this way."

  Fitz was ushered into a room of medium size where a bed occupied one full corner and a table was pulled up before the fire. The man who sat in the light of the flames looked up with alert interest as Fitz entered.

  "Fitzhugh Lyon, at your service, sir." Fitz made his manners with only such grace as his hours in the saddle had left him.

  The other got to his feet and returned the salute.

  "Captain Daniel Crofts of the Retaliation, at yours, sir.”

  Each stared frankly at the other. Fitz, in spite of his prejudices, liked what he saw. To his mind, Daniel Crofts seemed surprisingly young to be the commander of a fighting ship, for the Captain surely could not have had the advantage of him by more than three or four years. But, he reminded himself that boys scarcely into their teens rode up-country manors as overseers and bailiffs, and that therefore it should not have been surprising to find young men full captains at sea. In wartime one did one's duty. His mouth twisted upon that thought as if he had tasted something sour.

  But Crofts, though only a little over middle height and almost too smooth and handsome of face, had a certain air of competence and authority about him which Fitz recognized and paid tribute to. His blue coat, turned back with red, fitted him snugly, showing off to advantage good shoulders and a narrow waist. His own unpowdered hair was clubbed neatly and its natural fair waves were tight about his head.

  Fitz, who was the same height as the Captain, moved with the loose-jointed walk of a horseman. But he did not slouch, in spite of the fatigue which had put dark smudges beneath his gray eyes—eyes which for several years now had always been a little tired and set. He had no pretense to good looks. His thin face with its sternly disciplined mouth was self-contained, almost too expressionless, and his hair was as thick and black as an Indian's.