by Andre Norton
Fogler rammed the hook skillfully into a nasty greasy gray ball and threw it over the rail. When they had five lines out and drifting, Watts leaned over, watching the foam spun in the Retaliation's wake.
"Even if we don't raise a fish with our bait we'll have a better meal after this morning's work," he announced. "Salt water has a fine temporary influence on pork, it softens it until a man is well able to chew it."
Fitz was suspicious of that, but Watts was apparently in earnest as he watched the lines with a fond eye.
"How far off course d'you think the storm drove us?" The Marylander inquired.
"Ask one of the deck officers. I make no pretense of understanding the mysteries of navigation. But, before such a wind as tried to trip us up, we must have run far and fast—as far and fast as we might have sailed in several days of fairer weather. It has this advantage for us, however, we may have been driven so far south that we are now bowling along across the path of the homeward bound Indiamen, and if that is so, luck may smile on us to the tune of fat prizes. Ha!"
Fitz crowded to the rail as Watts pulled in the nearest line. Bait and hook were gone, the line cleanly bitten through. With an exclamation of disgust the surgeon tossed the wet coils on deck and started to pull in the next—to discover that it had been served in the same fashion.
Fogler shook his head gloomily. " 'Tis one o' th' big ones right enough, sir. He'll spoil any sport for us "
"Big ones?" repeated Fitz.
"Shark," explained Watts. "And a wary one. He hasn't showed where we might sight him "
"Fishing, gentlemen?" Croft came across the deck. "Well, we can use the fresh meat. The storm found out the storeroom and we're the poorer for several casks of meat as well as for the livestock which went overboard when a gust ripped off the gig."
"We'll have no luck this morning, sir," Watts held up the bitten line. "A shark's taking bait and hook "
"Is he?" The Captain examined the line and then peered over the rail. "Aye," his voice went up with excitement, "there he is now!"
All three of the fishermen joined him in an instant, but it was several seconds before Fitz sighted the dark shadow which kept effortlessly beside the ship.
"Not such a big one after all," was Watts' first comment. "But we might get a steak or two off him."
"My thought exactly, Dr. Watts. Sergeant," Crofts turned to Fogler, "ask the carpenter for shark lines and hooks. And have the boys roll out one of the small kegs of spoiled pork."
"Aye, aye, sir!"
"He's a wicked looking beast," Watts observed, "and dangerous."
Crofts grinned. "Oh, aye, as dangerous as a British mail packet, and with almost as many teeth. We'll have to outsmart him just as we outsmart the lobsters at their games. But he'll be tasty served up with onions! Pass the word for Samkin Jones to stand by with a harpoon —a whaling man has a true eye for this business."
Two of the ship's boys pattered across the deck, rolling a small keg before them. And with them tramped two men, one carrying an axe and a handspike, both well sharpened, and the other, a six-foot Negro, cradling a knife-edged harpoon. Fogler brought up the rear of the procession, a coil of thick line about his arm and several giant hooks in his hand. All the men and officers not on duty were gathering at the rail to point out to each other the skulking shadow below.
Under Crofts' orders the cask was opened and the boys flung chunks of meat overboard. Fitz watched the evil shape rise silently and almost gracefully, flash a mouth of ugliness, and vanish with the bait. The shark fed leisurely and without fear for several minutes until the Captain nodded to Fogler.
The sergeant dug one of the vicious hooks into another lump and pitched it over. The shark took it.
Not only took it but fought while Fogler and the carpenter tried to bring it alongside where the tall harpooner could use his weapon or the clamoring men could slip another line about the flailing tail. That was done at last, and they heaved up a second after the noose slipped into place. But, as the fighting shark broke water, it snapped partially free, slapping the side of the Retaliation hard enough to stow in cabin windows and make the whole ship shudder. Cursing, the men tried to put the rope back. But they were elbowed aside by the harpooner who thrust down several times while the spectators cheered.
"Heave!" The bos'n took a hand on the line. "Heave, ye blasted, butter-fingered landlubbers!"
They brought the shark up but it was not yet defeated. Once over the rail, that murderous tail lashed inward, sending them all flying. The man at the wheel ducked, though he did not desert his post, and arose again to find two of the spokes shorn cleanly away.
An officer sprang to pass Fitz, handspike in hand, just as the Marylander skidded out of the path of that tail. They collided and went down together. Fitz kicked free. His groping fingers closed about the shaft of the handspike as he scrambled up. Hardly knowing what he was doing, he poked the weapon at the slippery roundness of that flopping silver belly. At the touch of the iron, the huge fish contorted, needle teeth scoring the planking, tearing splinters from the deck.
"That's it, sir!" someone shouted. "Tickle 'im again!"
Obediently Fitz prodded a second time, circling warily and trying to avoid the shearing tail.
There was the flash of metal through the air, and a spurt of dark blood fountained up. Fitz stumbled back as the carpenter brought his axe down for a second and fatal stroke. The shark quivered, its tail raised a last inch or two from the deck, and then it was still. Fitz dropped the handspike and stood where he was, breathing hard.
Across the body of the fish Ninnes faced him, hat-less, a rent in the shoulder of his jacket. And Fitz realized it had been the lieutenant with whom he had tangled.
"An excellent bit of diversion, Mr. Lyon," Crofts said. "One might think you had fought sharks before."
Fitz swallowed and answered. "I never even saw one before, sir."
"Well, thanks to you and Rainshaw here," the Captain nodded at the carpenter who was squatting on the deck with several friends investigating the gleaming teeth of the dead, "we still not only possess a ship but have gained a dinner. And this will be a lesson—not to tackle the unknown with too much confidence. Rainshaw "
The carpenter rose from the fascinating dental display.
"To my mind your efforts are worth an extra quarter share out of the next prize. You got us out of a nasty mess with that axe of yours."
"Thankee, sir," Rainshaw's face was one broad smile. "Do you want we should cut up th' critter now, sir?"
Crofts prodded the dead shark with his toe. The skin of the fish was like a coarse file. Watts bent to feel it and withdrew his hand hastily.
"Yes. Tell the cook to break out the last of the butter. I've heard that shark steak was best served up in that fashion. Mr. Ninnes, have the spokes in the wheel and the cabin windows repaired as soon as possible."
"Aye, aye, sir."
But before he turned away, the young lieutenant shot a hot, dark look at Fitz. The smoldering ill will in it jarred the Marylander. Then Fitz thought he understood—Ninnes must have believed that the collision was intentional, that he, Fitz, had seized the chance to belittle him. And if that were true
But what could he do about it? There was no chance to explain. And then Fitz was startled by his own thought. Why in the world did he think it necessary to explain anything to that self-assured lout?
"Fishing," mused Watts as the shark was dragged away, "even fishing, you perceive, can become a menace to life and limb."
Fitz shivered. "I'm beginning to believe that everything aboard this pestilent ship spells danger. Look here," he pointed to the deep lines scored in the planks by the teeth of the dying shark.
"Better there than in your ankle," was Watts' cheerful answer. "And all this exercise should give you a good appetite. I've never tasted shark steak, but there is a first time for every pleasure "
Fitz shook his head. "I don't know about pleasure," he returned. But that was before he sniffed
the odors from the galley.
If shark fishing was their introduction to southern waters, another type of fishing proved to be more profitable, as they discovered during the next few days. For the storm which had driven the Retaliation off course had plainly been sent, as Watts pointed out daily, by providence to aid and abet the American cause at sea, since it had also shattered an Indies convoy and left it, wallowing and pumping, to be picked up by the first lucky privateer to sight its remains. Within a space of hours the Retaliation, almost without having to use her new guns at all, snapped up five fat prizes and pushed her prisoners aboard two more, having first lightened them of the cream of their cargoes. It was the sort of luck every privateersman dreams of but seldom meets.
And, having fared so richly, there was more than a little grumbling when Crofts ordered them north again, heading once more for European waters and the protected port of St. Malo.
"It isn't that we don't trust the Frenchies," Biggs mused one day when the sun seemed to hang right over their heads, and for the sake of coolness he and his junior officer had just paid a visit to the pump to be sluiced down, "they're fightin' on our side. Only "
"Only?" prompted Fitz lazily. He was wearing only cotton drawers and the soft wind was like a warm cloak about him. He thought he could hear a sort of contented hum rising out of the ship's planks, as if she were some giant cat who had filled her belly and was now licking her paws in peace.
"Only I can remember the French Wars. My uncle marched with Braddock and lost his hair "
"My father fell at Quebec." Fitz stretched. "Not that I ever knew him. Well, I've heard it said that war makes strange bedfellows. And from all accounts this Saint Malo is a snug berth for a privateer."
"Aye," Biggs assented. "The Frenchies have been runnin' out o' there t' smack th' British for a goodish time. She lies handy t' Plymouth."
"Not too handy, I trust." Watts came up, his bare feet thrust into hide sandals from the Indies, his shirt open to his belt. Across his arm he carried a bundle wrapped in oiled silk. "At Plymouth they have a cage for flighty gentlemen like us. Haven't you heard of Mill Prison?"
"Hearin' o' it is as close as I want to get!" Biggs tapped the rail.
Watts laughed. "Touch wood if you will, friend. But let us hope that our luck does hold. We've six ships to go "
"Six ships?"
"Yes. The Retaliation carries fourteen guns. We've captured eight ships since we left Baltimore. A capture to every gun is lucky—go over that and you're courting disaster. With every capture we lose men to a prize crew. Cut down our complement too far and we'll be easy pickings ourselves. It is a matter of simple mathematics. Now, I have a mind to some exercise, and here you are all stripped for it. So—let's to work!"
Deftly he unrolled the silken bundle and displayed, with no small pride, a pair of foils. Almost without thought Fitz accepted one, finding its perfect balance a delightful surprise.
"I see you are a knowledgeable man," commented Watts.
"Oh, I've had some instruction. And you?"
Watts lowered his eyes in mock modesty. "I know the hilt from the button after a fashion. Shall we engage?"
Grateful for such a break in the routine, the men gathered to provide a circle of audience and when the slender blades met there was a ring about them.
Fitz found himself standing up against no tyro but a fencer who was something of an expert. He was glad of the hours he had spent with Master D'Aulony who had come to Fairleigh once a month to sigh over the crudities of his American students. To the Marylander's disgust, after three minutes of Watts' attack, he found himself puffing. The surgeon shook his head commis-eratingly.
"Too much high living," he diagnosed. "I would advise a little less shark steak and not so many late nights "
Fitz's mouth tightened. A wrist which had once been steadily drilled in the proper twists and turns began to recover its old suppleness. And now Watts had to give way. Fitz knew real triumph as his button touched the other's upper arm.
But a second later he was answered with a thud under the small ribs which brought a surprised grunt out of him.
"Too much confidence," Dr. Watts breathed as easily as a master in the salle des armes, "is almost as bad as none at all. Yes, you pinked me then. But on return I might have given you your death."
Fitz stepped lightly now, almost as if he were treading the measures of a dance. He was almost ready. His sword arm appeared to waver, the blade dropped a fraction of an inch. Watts lunged but there followed the sharp "ping" of mistreated steel. The doctor stood rubbing his hand ruefully as his foil rolled across the deck.
The Marylander swung his weapon into formal salute. "Too much confidence," he quoted mockingly, "is almost as bad as none at all."
Watts stopped soothing his tingling hand. "All right, you young devil. That was no happenstance—what's the trick of it?"
Fitz raised eyebrows in imitation of the doctor's own expression.
"It's a trade secret you're asking me to disclose, Doctor. And wouldn't I be a bumble wit to throw such a pearl before swine "
"I find myself misliking that last term " Watts began when he was interrupted.
"A fine exhibition, gentlemen." Captain Crofts had picked up the surgeon's foil. "Are you tired, Mr. Lyon?"
"No, sir."
"Then perhaps you will favor me with a few minutes of exercise."
Before Fitz could answer, Crofts had shed his coat and was kicking off his shoes. When he faced the marine it was with the ease of a practiced swordsman.
And, Fitz speedily discovered, if Watts had been good, the Captain of the Retaliation was a master of the art. The Marylander felt the prod of the button tw T ice within as many minutes and guessed that he would have some bruises to mark this engagement. He could only circle on the defensive, parrying as best he could, waiting for the chance to try the same trick which had defeated the surgeon.
Once he thought he saw just the right opening and slipped his blade in, only to have it jar along the length of the other's foil. A faint frown of concentration creased Crofts' forehead—as if he were trying to remember something. Fitz went back to straight defense. He was cool and careful now, and there had been no button on him for sometime. He must play a waiting game.
Then, for the second time, he tried that thrust up which should have broken through his opponent's guard. Only again he struck on a waiting steel barrier. Then Crofts laughed.
"So that is it? But I would have sworn that no one out of Paris knew that trick!"
Fitz, thoroughly chagrined, drew back and dropped the point of his foil. "You do, sir," he pointed out the obvious rather reproachfully.
"And so do you," Watts commented, "probably the pair of you could keep up that maneuver all day without either scoring. It is checkmate."
"No," Fitz was quick to declare honestly. "Captain Crofts is the better. He could have laid me on the deck anytime in the first three minutes. I'll have no conceit of my skill after this."
"You're a slow beginner, Mr. Lyons," the Captain agreed. "But the man who can get through that defense of yours after you're warm to the play must be more of a master than I claim to be. As for that underthrust, had I not been instructed in it, you might as easily had dealt with me as you did with Dr. Watts. It's a French trick which has done some deadly work in its time."
"So D'Aulony said when he taught it to me," Fitz admitted. "He was the fencing master who had us to plague him for his sins, my cousins and I. But for some reason I pleased him one day and he taught me his big secret as a reward."
Crofts was putting on his coat. "It's a dangerous bit of knowledge that, Mr. Lyon. It can be used to kill as well as to disarm."
Fitz handed his foil to Watts. "I've never been 'out,' sir. And it's not a thrust you would give with a boarding hanger. So there's little danger that I'll ever see its true finish."
"Just as well," Crofts' low answer barely reached his ears. "I have."
What else he might have added was dr
owned out in a triumphant bellow from the lookout.
"Sail ho!"
5
First Blood for a Marine
Yankee sailors have a knack,
Haul away! Yeo ho, boys,
Of pulling down a British Jack,
'Gainst any odds you know, boys.
—THE YANKEE SAILOR
FlTZ WAS SEA-WISE ENOUGH NOW TO IDENTIFY THEIR quarry as a brig, and she was either an excellent sailer, or was in the hands of an expert master, for it looked for a space as if she might win free of the privateer. But the Retaliation kept to the chase, hauling up slowly but surely on the Jack which waved in smart defiance from the other's mast.
Crofts ordered their own colors broken out and lobbed a warning shot at the brig, which continued to hold to her course. It looked as if it would be a running fight. Fitz shifted his weight from foot to foot, and heard an impatient rustle down the short line of marines. Until they were in rifle-shot distance marines were, perforce, spectators only.
The Marylander knew little of the art of seamanship, but he guessed that Crofts was now using every trick known to his trade to bring up the privateer. Below, the gun captains crouched at their stations, glancing now and then at the ready matches. And when for the second time the bow chaser was fired, and the white splash of the shot was seen almost within fair range, a satisfied shout arose from below.
"Best not cheer too soon," Fogler said gloomily. "Luck can be pushed too far "
"Sail ho!"
That scream from the lookout brought them all up short, even the Retaliation herself appeared to pause. It was Crofts who questioned.
"Where away?"
"Three points off the starboard astern, sir "
Crofts swung into the rigging, pulling up to the lookout's flimsy perch, his glass dangling from a cord about his neck. The Retaliation held to her course after the fleeing Britisher.
When the Captain's heels hit the deck again he had the full attention of all within eye and ear range.