by Andre Norton
For the Yankee tars for fighting are the dandy.
—the Constitution and the Guerriere
For generations St. Malo had existed as a well-regulated hornets' nest, which even the redoubtable Marlborough—though he had burned her sister town of St. Servan across the bay—had not been able to reduce to a proper humility. The fishermen of that old island town, who dared to sail the North Atlantic and take their toll from the Grand Banks half the world away, were not men to be dictated to easily or often. And when war came they turned joyfully to the business of privateering, needling their ancient enemy across the Channel with force and fervor.
The Retaliation might have had some trouble winding her path through the maze of granite blocks, half hidden in the sea, which guarded the outer approaches to the safety of the harbor. But shortly after dawn she | fell in with one of the Malouin raiders, port bound, shepherding before her two fat prizes. Compliments having been exchanged in the grand manner, the American fell in behind the victor and won into an anchorage which was probably safer for her than her own Baltimore.
St. Malo rose out of the Ranee's mouth like a vision from a fairy tale. With foundations on the solid granite of a small isle, the town was completely enclosed by a thick wall built in the middle ages, with only the tops of the castles and towers showing above it. Fitz had never seen anything to equal it as he stood on deck, marveling at the activity on the docks, while the welcoming cannon boomed out salutes to the successful Malouin ship and her escort from overseas.
The American crew, one and all, were determined to get ashore as soon as possible. A town which made its living from the sea would know best how to enter-i tain a sailor, and Fitz guessed that Crofts might well have a real mutiny on his hands if he did not grant shore leave. He himself was as eager as any to see what lay behind those massive walls which girt the French stronghold.
However, as the youngest and least important officer on board, he saw no way of realizing that desire—until j after his elders and betters had done as they wished. ' But an interview with the Captain changed his prospects.
"Mr. Lyon," the Captain spoke abruptly before he had time to come to full attention, "do you find yourself at ease in the French tongue?"
"I can speak it a little, aye, sir."
“With as murderous an accent as all the rest of us, I suppose. Well, since most ashore speak Breton anyway, I cannot complain too much. Dr. Watts wishes to gather some supplies and has asked that you accompany him. If you are not on duty, you may do so. I need not remind you, sir, that ashore my crew are to conduct themselves in as circumspect a manner as possible. These Saint Malouins are somewhat hot of temper and do not brook a haughty spirit in return."
Fitz thought resentfully that the Captain need not retravel this familiar road. He was as thoroughly sick of his exploit on the dark deck as Crofts could wish him to be. And if the Captain thought he was going to act the gamecock ashore he was badly mistaken.
However he could not suppress a thrill of excitement as he walked with Watts through the gate, past the thick walls of the rampart. The surgeon prodded the stone with his cane as they passed.
"You can walk all around the town on top of this. If we have time we shall try it. Lord, what a smell and what a noise!"
The streets of St. Malo were cramped, and the ancient houses looked like thin slivers of stone pointing up into the sky. Fitz could well imagine armored crossbow men clanking down the cobbled way before him. Though all that really walked there, was an amply pet-ticoated matron, her starched Breton bonnet wide as a sail in the breeze. The screech of oxcarts and the smell of very dead fish made a vigorous assault on the ear and the nose, as Watts had already remarked.
"How do they breathe here?" Fitz wondered. The closely packed houses certainly shut off all air except a certain musty exhalation which appeared to belong to the ages themselves.
"One doubtless becomes used to it," Watts answered absently, consulting a list he had taken from his pocket. "I grant you that it seems a little confined. But this is a rich town—it lives on loot. Look you here "
He pulled Fitz's sleeve until the marine came to stand before a small, many-paned shop window. Behind the polished bluish glass hung a length of stuff which made the Marylander gasp in surprise. The filmy golden tissue, caught here and there with a flashing star which appeared to be a part of the fabric, was like nothing he had ever seen before.
"East Indian," Watts identified it. Taken out of one of the worshipful company's homeward-bound ships, no doubt. Malouins can bathe in tea and drape their persons in that kind of thing to their heart's content if they so desire. They've been bred to the privateering trade while we're as yet the merest dame-school boys learning the horn book of it."
Fitz looked wonderingly at the brown-faced, rather soberly dressed citizens who passed. "They're not so tough looking," he observed a bit doubtfully.
"You haven't seen them in action. And then, too, this is the merchants' quarters. Go down into the waterfront dens our men are yearning for and you'll see Saint Malo's teeth, all shining and bright. They have a regular procedure which they follow in wartime—they load one of their fishing boats with as many fine fellows as they can pack aboard, sail out into a homeward-bound English convoy, dump a round number of fighters on the nearest merchantman and leave them to battle it out, while their boat sails on to repeat the trick with the next ship. And very seldom is such a boarding party pushed back into the sea. Malouins can fight. And here we are " Watts had been reading street signs, and now he popped into a shop doorway. Fitz followed, rather disliking to change the open street for a dark shop where the strong and awful smells fought in savage battle.
By the bunched herbs on the wall and the jars set around on the shelves, he identified the place as an apothecary's shop. Watts, in stumbling French, had plunged into a duel of words with the owner. Each raised his voice to make his speech more intelligible to the poor benighted foreigner, and each understood perhaps one word in four of what the other spouted forth.
Fitz stared at a jar on the counter and recognized in the viscous liquid it contained a kind of lizard creature. The thing's white and sightless eyes were slewed around so that they were apparently regarding him in a most disconcerting fashion. He speculated as to how it was intended to serve the cause of medicine, as Watts won his side of the argument. At last the shopkeeper was bringing out a series of packeted powders and roots, each of which the surgeon opened and smelled or tasted before he accepted or rejected them.
"That's finished." With a sigh of relief Watts watched the packets being made into a bundle, which was ticketed with a slip he had written out.
"What—no lizards?" Fitz tapped the jar on the counter with his fingernail and the lizard obediently swayed a trifle.
Watts examined the glassed creature. "Ugly brute. I suppose that sells as a genuine dragon or some such nonsense. As if a bit of that pounded up would stop lung fever! Short of scaring a child out of his wits I cannot see that it has any value. Now I'm for a shore meal that is not flavored with bilge water and shark broth."
Fitz speedily forgot the lizard. "For the first time this morning I am one with you," he returned. "Where does one dine in Saint Malo?"
"There is the Golden Cock," Watts began to count on his fingers, "and the Basket of Plums "
"You've been here before?"
"No. But Saint Malo has been a port of call for other ships from Baltimore and such information gets around. Clauswitz of the Fidelity made a list for me six months ago when I was first put in mind of sailing on a privateer. I've some good addresses in London, too. Remind me to name them for you."
Fitz laughed dutifully but Watts remained sober.
"I mean that, my boy. If were snapped up out in the Channel "
"We go to Mill Prison and starve," Fitz returned. "I've heard plenty of tales about that, and your addresses in London wouldn't be worth much to anyone in a Plymouth prison."
"Not if he stays there, naturally. But a
good many men have won free. There was Henderson of the Darter —he racketed around half of England after he walked out of Mill before he decided he'd done enough sightseeing and shipped out on a smuggler to the continent. No, Mill Prison is not the final end for any American if he is resourceful. And there are those who will help him along his way, too. Not that I should have to worry —being noncombatant I'd probably give my parole and rot until I could get passage home again. Well, here is the Golden Cock. Shall we dine?"
Fitz and Watts were bowed to one of the better tables by the proprietor himself. But the marine was more interested in what the surgeon had been saying than he was in the proffered refreshment.
"You mean that there are Englishmen who'd help an escaped prisoner of war out of the country?" he demanded, after the waiter had taken their order.
"Not all England was in favor of this war," Watts pointed out. "But I do not mean that all our helpers are English, no. Scattered about are Tory refugees, American-born 'exiles' for the King's sake cumbering up lodgings in London—who are not quite that at all. If a prisoner can once win free of Mill and contact certain people, he'll soon find himself on his way to fight again. Sailors are almost like packaged goods being delivered by the carter."
"I'd like a list of those 'certain people’ " Fitz said.
Watts chuckled. "Planning an unlucky voyage, my friend? I trust you have taken all the proper precautions then, assigned your shares to your next of kin and so forth "
"You've assigned yours?"
"No," admitted the surgeon. "Not that I subscribe to the silly superstition that to assign one's shares is as good as signing one's own death warrant. But I'm lacking a soul to assign them to—being without family or connections."
"And I'm in a like case," returned Fitz. "For I can't believe that those at Fairleigh will ever have need of cash; and as for my father's kin "
"No, the Earl of Starr would never need a privateers-man's gains to help line his deep pockets."
Fitz's fingers curled into fists. "How did you know?"
"By that," Watts put out a long finger and tapped the ring on Fitz's left hand. "One of my hobbies is heraldy. Four stars above a lion's head is an easy crest to remember. And your house has often been in the public eye—and ear—in the past."
"I know nothing about the Lyons of Starr," Fitz said between set teeth, "and care less!"
"Is this soup or stew?" He turned with relief to the vast bowl the waiter had just placed before him.
"A little of both and fit for all the godlings of Olympus!" Watts sniffed the fragrant steam. "I think I detect the lordly crab, among other things."
Fitz was already spooning up his portion. The tang of unfamiliar herbs laced the smoothness of the fish. And he was not above wiping the soon-emptied bowl with a piece of bread in order to mop up the last of its rich contents.
Watts had ordered a bottle of wine and now sipped delicately at a glass of his choice. Once the first taste slipped across his tongue he relaxed.
"Pirates' port, indeed. This is fit for fat George's own cellars—it is."
Fitz sighed and fingered the catch of the belt which supported his hanger.
"How long do we roost here?" he wanted to know.
"Until our worthy Captain unloads his tobacco, plugs a few shot holes, and gathers some lead pills for the Channel work. Though I won't deny that I could find a short visit ashore here a pleasant excursion. Do you care to inspect the ramparts, the venerable church of Saint Sauveur, the fifteenth-century towers, or the Castle? I would not deprive a young and growing mind of these rich treats."
"What I'd chiefly like," Fitz returned frankly, "is to see some of these wild Malouin privateersmen you've been telling me about. Biggs said were short of men "
"And you'd like to present him with a couple. Why? Is it our worthy marine lieutenant's birthday?" inquired the surgeon lazily. "Not that we would find the Malouin brand of marine especially useful, I am afraid. They have a certain untamed freedom which would not appeal to our Captain, liberal minded as he is upon such subjects. But never fear, my young friend, if you wish to be Jack ashore then we shall play that role. And better in the company of such an elderly, steady hand as myself, than under the wing of some brave spirits I could name. Don't guzzle that, boy—it's golden nectar to be sipped more genteelly—not poured down the throat as if it were Jamaica rum!"
Fitz hurriedly lowered his glass. Watts had praised the wine, but to his semi-educated palate it didn't taste much different from the two bottles of stuff they had served to them in mess to celebrate their first prize taking.
"And don't fidget," warned his companion. "I've reached that comfortable age when the delights of the table have begun to mean something. I will not be hurried from them and it will do you no good to squirm on the edge of your chair. Settle back and look about you, sop up some of the atmosphere of this strange new world. Why must women make themselves so hideous?" He indicated with an upraised fingertip a city miss mincing along, footman and maid at her heels, her upswept mop of dingy powdered hair making her hold her head at a disdainful angle. Fitz decided that the narrow streets must preclude the use of coaches. When the ladies of St. Malo went abroad, they did so on foot.
"Glass butterflies . . ." Fitz mused aloud. "Anyway they looked like butterflies," he amended doubtfully and craned his neck rudely to get another glimpse of the pyramid of hair.
"Do, do control that overwhelming curiosity of yours. She might think you were smitten with her charms and then we would have an indignant papa or suitor breathing down our necks before we could gain the safety of our ship. Myself, I believe those ornaments to be hummingbirds, without the added attraction of the honey. But if you must gawk, we'd best give you something to gawk at." He glanced at the bill the waiter had submitted and laid down the amount, waving aside Fitz's demands to share.
St. Malo, for all its compactness and smallness was a true treasure box of strange sights and sounds. Fitz had to be dragged by main force from a gunsmith's shining display, and he, in turn, spent precious minutes prying the surgeon out of the bookseller's. Though their destination was the sailor's part of town, it was some little time before they reached it. The sun was almost down and the quarter was awaking to its vigorous night life when they entered it.
Truly the swarthy, brawny, half-fishermen half-pirates who strode the cobbles were of a different breed from the shopkeepers. Fitz noticed the long-bladed knives handy in each sash belt and the swaggering step which marked the arrogance of an undefeated fighting man. Their own American uniforms attracted no little attention and many frank and not altogether complimentary remarks flew back and forth around them.
Watts dutifully escorted his companion into such of the waterfront taverns as catered to the officers—though Fitz could distinguish little difference between the Malouin officers and the men they commanded, either in dress or deportment. In the third tavern they came upon a select party from the Retaliation, consisting of Matthews, who was looking about, as Watts described him, with the disapproving nose of a Massachusetts parson at a hunt ball, Biggs, eating heartily of stew, and Ninnes, who stared rather moodily and seemed ill at ease. Matthews hailed Watts with an air of relief, and Biggs welcomed his junior with a grunt which Fitz took to be one of approval. He followed Watts' lead and sat down at the table the others had chosen.
"Cargo out yet?" Watts asked the sailing master.
"Nigh out. Th' Cap'n is talkin' th' Frenchies into givin' us supplies. Wish he'd get some Christian rum outa 'em. This swill's fit for hogs—not men." Matthews regarded the contents of the thick glass before his place with marked distaste. "Rot out a man's guts, it would "
Biggs came out of the stew dish for air and emptied his glass in a single gulp. "It ain't so bad, Noll," he was generous. "A mite on the weakish side, aye."
Ninnes drank without comment. He was paying little attention to his tablemates, watching a group of men across the long room. They were all Malouins and spending freely, as a row of
empty bottles under their table testified. The Breton chatter was beyond Fitz's powers of translation, and he wondered why the lieutenant was so enthralled.
"... a den of thieves . . ." Matthews was announcing sourly as the marine was drawn back to the conversation.
"Could a privateering port be anything else?" Watts baited him. "After all, some English gentlemen could pay us the same compliment."
The Malouins were singing a tune that Fitz found himself beating time to. One of the singers emphasized the end of each chorus by bringing his bottle down hard upon the table. This amateur musical director glanced up, caught Fitz's interested eyes, and grinned widely. A moment later he was on his feet, walking with surefooted grace toward the Americans' table.
"M'sieur," he sketched a bow, "permit me, I am Alfonse Musat, first officer of the Sainte Anne, privateer. We had the good fortune to enter the harbor in company this morning. It has been a lucky voyage for both of us, no?"
His English was good, if heavily accented, and the beaming good will with which he regarded their circle was contagious. Watts arose to the occasion.
"You are right, M'sieu' Musat. And you must allow us to drink to a continuation of that luck! Will you join us—you and your fellow officers, M'sieu'?"
"I, Alfonse Musat, will accept your invitation. Those others, they do not have the English sufficient to speak. I shall explain your kindness."
He raised his voice in a bull roar which carried not only to the other table, Fitz thought, but probably all over the harbor. And the cheers which answered his announcement proved that Watts' offer was thoroughly understood and appreciated. The waiters trotted out with a second round of bottles which were greeted eagerly, and Fitz found himself raising his glass in answer to a rapid incantation of which he was not able to translate a single word.
This courtesy over, Musat pulled up a stool and joined in the conversation with a will, addressing most of his remarks to Watts, whom he must have considered the ranking officer.
"Your voyage has been long?"