HMS Diamond (7 page)

      
Walker didn’t really want to get into a theological discussion, but he also didn’t want to offend the old monk.

      
"Yes, father, I suppose it is," he replied, hoping that would be the end of it. It wasn’t.

      
"Take those children back in that cave. By all rights they should have been killed; but they weren’t. God protected them because he had other work for them to do. It was their fate to live on, don’t you think?"

      
"To be honest, I am not a great believer in ‘God’s hand’ or ‘fate’ or whatever you want to call it. I am a man of science."

      
He paused for a moment and glanced over at the monk. "Please don’t misunderstand me, father. I am not denigrating your religion, in fact I respect it. But, I am a man of science first and foremost."

      
"And do you not see God’s hand in the mysteries of the earth and stars?"

      
"No, I see puzzles that need to be solved."

      
"And do you not see God’s hand in the way you were joined with your friends... like Lady Whitney?"

      
Both Walker and Whitney turned around to look at the ancient monk. What could he possibly know about the strange way in which Lucas came to know Susan and Sidney? The look on his face, however, was completely without guile, as if he had merely asked them about the weather. So Walker dismissed the old man. Susan, however, had a more thoughtful look on her face.

      
The two said nothing more, and the donkey kept on walking.

***

      
To Susan it just looked like a pile of rubble. To Walker, however, it was sheer magic. It was as if his mind’s eye could reconstruct that rubble and see the living building as it once stood.

      
"Look, Susan," Walker said excitedly. "Over there. That must have been the main gate with the two towers next to it. And, over there, other gates on the east, west, and south walls." They walked further into the rubble.

      
"This is where the basilica must have once stood. See how it was laid out in the shape of a cross?" Susan still saw only rubble but she could see that it did have a more-or-less cross-shaped pattern to it.

      
Walker hurried along ahead of her. "Let’s go to where the main altar must have been."

      
When Susan and the monk caught up to him, he was standing reverently in front of a rectangular slab of marble on the ground, guarded on each corner by a white marble column.

      
"This," Walker began, "must be the place where St. John is buried."

      
No one said a word for several moments. Finally, the monk said in a low controlled voice. "You can see it, can’t you, Dr. Walker?"

      
"What?"

      
"This burial site. This building. These grounds. You see them all as they once were, don’t you?"

      
"I... Well, yes, I guess I do. It’s very strange. It’s as though I once knew this building when it was whole and all I am doing now is recalling what it was like. It must have been... No, it
was
a magnificent building."

      
"Yes, indeed it was," John replied but gave no explanation as to how
he
knew that.

      
More silence. The wind had picked up and was blowing across the courtyard. A fine brown powder seemed to be coming from under the marble slab. The silence was broken again, only this time by Walker.

      
"Father, do you think John is really buried here?

      
"No, my son, he is not."

      
"You say that with such confidence. How do you know?"

      
"I told you. I am John and..."

      
"Yes, but you must have a reason other than being named after him."

      
Just then, the rhythm of horse’s hoofs could be heard coming up fast to the ruined basilica. An Ottoman midshipman and a sailor came pouring through the ancient main gate. Their horses were in a lather.

      
The midshipman jumped off his horse before he had come to a complete stop and saluted. "Dr. Walker. Lady Whitney. Captain Smith," he said in surprisingly good English, "sends his compliments and requests you join him immediately."

      
"Where is the Captain?" Walker asked.

      
"The last I saw of him, he was at the docks at Pamucak. You take our horses. Osman here will drive me back in your wagon, but you must leave now."

      
"What is it? What’s happened?" Susan asked, alarmed.

      
"My lady, a mail packet arrived late last night from England. France has declared war on your country."

      
Walker rushed to his horse. Susan paused, however, and turned around to say good-buy to the old monk; but he raised his hand in the sign of a blessing and spoke first.

      
"God’s hand is on you, my child, and on your friend, and your captain."

      
"Father, who
are
you?"

      
"I am John twenty-one, twenty," he cryptically replied. Then he turned, and walked away.

***

      
The small boat carrying Walker and Whitney approached the ship from the stern where they could read her newly painted name, the
Swallow
. She was a xebec and the strangest ship Walker had ever seen.

      
She was a coastal vessel, about 80 feet long with long sleek lines and a very shallow draft. Her hull was pure white except for the top few rows of strakes, which were painted pitch black. Four gun ports, trimmed with yellow paint, were cut into each side. But easily the most distinctive things about her were her sails. The
Swallow
had three masts, with the foremast raked forward at a sharp angle and a poop deck that hung out over the stern like a small theater stage. The masts were fitted with lateen sails and, about three-quarters of the way up each, was a very long spar—twice the normal size—that was connected at a 45-degree angle. From each of those spars hung a huge triangular sail that gave the xebec it’s distinctive look.

      
Xebecs were famous for their speed, maneuverability and their ability to sail both close to the wind and close to shore. For those reasons, they were very much favored by Mediterranean pirates and very much detested by Royal Navy captains. Simply put, they were faster into the wind than any ship in the British fleet. That meant they could quickly catch up to almost any prey and just as quickly escape from any foe.

      
Neither Walker nor Whitney had the slightest idea what Smith was doing with the thing and it would be over an hour before they would find out.

      
The
Swallow
got underway as soon as the two were aboard and the boat hoisted in. On deck all seemed to be in chaos. Smith stood on the elevated quarterdeck; megaphone in hand, giving orders to what seemed to be an all-British crew. Physically they all looked like experienced seamen; but they were stumbling around like raw "lubbers" trying to figure-out how to work the lateen sails. Orders were being shouted left and right, men were bumping into each other, and at one point Walker had to attend to a seaman who had been knocked unconscious by a wildly out-of-control spar.

      
Eventually ordered prevailed, although Walker never did figure out if that was because of luck or skill. Either way, the sails were drawing, the ship was pointed in what Walker assumed was the correct direction, and Smith looked more than a little relieved. Walker and Whitney climbed the short ladder to the quarterdeck.

      
"Captain Smith of the
Swallow
, I presume?" Walker quipped as the two walked to the windward side where Smith was standing.

      
"Yes, indeed," he replied. "Isn’t she wonderful?"

      
"She is, but what are you doing with her?"

      
"Well, that’s sort of a long story."

      
"That’s all right. We apparently have a lot of time."

      
"Well, yesterday I was in Smyrna trying to get the Pasha’s Navy to understand the concept of rapid fire, when a courier arrived from Constantinople. It was a dispatch from my brother informing me that France had declared war. He didn’t know much about the reasons; just that it had definitely happened.

      
"I knew I... that is...
we
had to get back and the only way that was going to happen was by ship. So, I went over to the civilian piers and tried to book passage for the three of us. No luck. Nothing was leaving, or even planning to leave, for the eastern Mediterranean. At that point, I had a stroke of genius.

      
"I noticed that this ship had just completed off-loading, so I went over to talk to the Captain, who also turned out to be the owner. I said I’d offer him £1000 for his ship."

      
"£1000? Where are you going to get £1000?"

      
"Remember, I had the £1500 the Lord High Commissioners of the Admiralty gave me for my expenses on this little journey.

      
"Anyway, I had the money so I offered him £1000 for the ship. He, of course, laughed at me.

      
"So, I had my interpreter explain to him that I
needed
his ship. And he could either accept my offer or I would confiscate his vessel in the name of the Sultan. In other words, take the damned money now, or you’ll get nothing later. So, after about five minutes of listening to him swear in multiple languages, I became a ship owner."

      
"But, where’d you get the crew?" asked Susan. "They’re all British, aren’t they?"

      
"Almost all. I’ve also got three Americans, two Spaniards, an Italian, a Frenchman and one unknown—no one can figure out what language he’s speaking. The rest are British. They’re all castaways—all 40 of them. For one reason or another, they missed their ships, found themselves stranded ashore and gravitated to the seaport at Smyrna to try to ship aboard something that was heading in the general direction of their home."

      
"Missed their ships, or deserted from their ships?" asked Walker.

      
"At this point, to tell you the truth, I don’t much care. This ship normally requires a crew of 80. I’ve got 40 and the whole length of the Mediterranean to traverse. If a body is above room temperature and he can hand, reef and steer us roughly in the right direction—he’s welcome aboard."

      
"Where exactly are we going? Walker queried.

      
"Not sure, really. I am going to point her west toward Gibraltar and hope to come across someone who can tell me where the fleet’s located."

      
"Did the merchant you... ah... acquired this barky from also gladly part with those guns?" Susan asked as she nodded toward the two rows of four 6-pound guns.

      
"No, they were a gift from the port Admiral at Smyrna," Smith replied. It was in recognition of my talents as a trainer. Eight guns, shot, swabs, hooks, slow match—everything but powder."

      
"What?" Walker and Whitney asked in unison.

      
Smith shrugged and looked sheepish. "He gave me the guns but no powder. It seems he didn’t think I was
that
good of a trainer."

      
"Now there’s a comforting thought," said Susan tartly. "These waters are so thick with corsairs they hold conventions out here and we have eight 6-pound pop guns with no powder."

      
"We’ll be all right," replied Smith. "We’ll be able to out sail just about anything afloat, as soon as we figure out how to use the sails."

      
"Oh, I feel so much better. Thank you for telling me that."

***

      
The Mediterranean is one of the few seas in the world where each wind has its own name. The east wind that whistles through the Straits of Gibraltar is called a "levanter." It’s usually light and brings with it a hot muggy atmosphere. The same wind from the west is called a "vendavale" but instead of being a light gentle wind, it’s a sure sign of thunderstorms and violent squalls.

      
Coming out of the north in the Gulf of Lyon is the "mistral," usually, but not always, a sign of good weather. A mistral can reach gale force and whip up a violent sea in no time at all. If you get down along the northern coast of Africa, sooner or later you are bound to run into the blast furnace of a "scirocco" coming off the desert. And if you make it up into the northern Adriatic, you could run into a "bora." With little or no warning, it can crank-up 100 knot winds that will tear the masts right out of your ship if you can’t get the sails off her in time.