The Saintly Buccaneer (11 page)

“I thought we were at peace with the world—except for these rebels,” Blanche commented. “Whom do you intend to fight?”

Rommey grinned at her and then shot a quick look at his officers. There was a rebuke in his manner as he growled, “I rather expected my first officer would ask that question.”

“I didn’t want to be impertinent, sir,” Langley said quickly, his face reddening at the reprimand.

“I don’t expect my officers to stand on ceremony when there’s a matter of tactics involved, Mr. Langley.” This remark made the face of the first lieutenant grow even more rosy, for he knew—as did Burns—that Captain Rommey was not at all satisfied that his second in command had the aggressive character required of the first lieutenant of a fighting ship. Burns had some of the same apprehension, for he had noted, even in the short time they had served together, that Langley tended to lean more on the judgment of others and was reluctant to drive the crew. It was only a sign, but in the midst of battle when the heavens were falling, one wanted to know that the first lieutenant was capable of instant and sometimes even reckless decisions.

Burns spoke up hurriedly in an attempt to give Langley time to regain his composure. “If it’s action right away, sir, we’d be hard put to hold our own. The gun crews are raw, as ye weel know.”

“Of course, Lieutenant Burns. We have some time to shake them down, make seamen out of them. I doubt if we’ll go into action tomorrow, but sooner or later we’ll have to whip the Frenchies again.”

“I thought that was taken care of in the war, Father,” Blanche queried. She referred to the Seven Years War, which had ended in 1763. “I thought Admiral Hawke sank the entire French fleet.”

“Would God he had!” Rommey said. He took a huge bite
of beef, chewed it thoughtfully, and then began to give a lecture—which was his way. “Hawke did defeat the French. I commanded the
Dominant
in that action, you remember? By Harry, we put them to rout!” He slammed the table and his eyes glowed with the memory, but then he grimaced and added, “We had our chance, and we made the Frenchies renounce to England all Canada and the Ohio Valley, and we routed the Dons out of business in the War of Spanish Succession.”

“Well, who’s left to fight, then?” Blanche asked impudently. She smiled across the table, her blue eyes catching the lights of the candles, giving her a feline look. “You can’t mean to fight the red Indians, can you?”

Langley spoke up, attempting to regain some ground with his captain. “I suppose you think we’ll have to fight the French again, sir?”

“Blast it! Of
course
we’ll have to put them down again!” Rommey’s craggy face grew grim, and he almost tipped the wine glasses as he threw his hands up in disgust. “Our intelligence tells us that the French have eighty first-class ships of the line, and Spain has sixty more. England has only a hundred fifty, and they’re scattered all over the world from Calcutta to Jamaica, not to mention our fleet in the blockade.”

Burns added quietly, “And the Frenchies have been longin’ fer revenge after the trouncin’ they got in ’63.”

“Right you are, sir—and this insurrection is just the opportunity they’ve been looking for.” Rommey gritted his teeth. “It may not come for a time—but sooner or later we’ll be forced to take the French on again. When that time comes, I want the
Neptune
to be the best fighting ship carrying the British flag—the
best!
”

“Ach! It will not be easy, my Captain.” Dr. Mann belched and took a tremendous draught of wine, then wiped his mouth with his napkin and nodded. “Make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, you cannot—and these pressed men will not make a crew. The press gang must have scraped bottom—the
scourings of the earth! Half of them have the pox, all of them are drunks, and there’s not a drop of honorable blood in the lot!”

Baxter nodded slightly. “Not far wrong. Can’t expect to make a well-trained fighting crew out of that material.” Baxter could afford to be critical, for his marines were all volunteers, but the remark displeased Rommey.

“Captain Baxter, the Royal Navy has utilized the press for more years than you have lived—and we shall continue in the tradition!” He shot a command at the surgeon, “Dr. Mann, it is your responsibility to get these men fit for duty!”

“But, sir—!”

Ignoring him, Rommey directed his remarks to his officers, smoldering impatience in his snapping eyes. “You are officers in His Majesty’s Royal Navy, and you will take these men—no matter what methods you must use—and make fighting men out of them. I will accept no excuses from them—or from you!”

The lieutenants knew enough not to argue, but Dr. Mann had taken on too much port, and was rash enough to say, “But, my Captain, I cannot work miracles! There is one of the pressed men who was hauled aboard unconscious—is still not awake. His face is scarred from a drunken brawl, I’d guess, and he’s got a concussion. What can I do with him?”

Rommey paused, letting a silence build up. Finally he stood to his feet, his bulk blotting out the light from the stern windows, and addressed the men in a cold, hard voice. “I will make myself plain this one time. We have on this ship a certain number of shot for our guns. We have so many pounds of powder. We have water and food in casks. And we have a certain number of seamen. All of these are expendable.” His eyes were fixed on Langley, and he added, “Use up the powder, the shot, the food, the water—and use up the men, Lieutenant Langley. Do you understand?”

Langley swallowed, his face losing its color, then nodded slightly and answered in a low voice, “Yes, sir, I understand.”

The deadly seriousness of Rommey fell heavily on the guests, and the meal was finished with little talk. Excusing themselves as soon as it was polite, the two lieutenants left, both drawing sighs of relief as they came up on deck.

Burns took a deep breath of cold air. “Weel, Clarence, I feel like a schoolboy who’s had his bottom whacked by a stern schoolmaster.”

“Too right, Angus!” Langley swore and slapped the rail, shaking his head apprehensively. “It’s not going to be a tea party.”

“Captain Rommey’s a hard man, but he’s fair enough—which is more than ye can say aboot others I could name.”

“We’ll lose some of the men if we drive them too hard.”

“It’s God’s will.” Angus put his hand on the taller man’s arm, something he’d never done before, and smiled. “We’re all in God’s hands, Langley—the crew, me, you. Even Captain William Rommey is just as much under God’s rod as that poor lad below who may never wake up. Think o’ it like that.”

Langley felt a lift of his spirit. “I’m glad you’re aboard, Angus. Can’t say I agree with your gloomy theology—but you’re a comfort.” Then the two went below and dreamed their private dreams as the ship was driven by a sharp wind toward a warmer world.

****

The clear morning brought a promise of the warmth that lay to the south, and the wind held firm. Captain Rommey stood motionless on the forecastle watching his officers and men work the ship.

Each mast had its own division of seamen, from the swiftfooted topmen to the older, less agile hands that worked the braces and halyards from the deck. As the calls shrilled and the men poured up on deck through every hatch and companion, it seemed incredible that
Neptune
’s hull could contain so many. The deck swarmed with figures of seamen and marines formed into compact groups, each being checked
by leather-lunged petty officers against their various lists and watch-bills.

Like the mass of seamen and marines, the officers, too, were at their stations. Langley stood beside the captain on the forecastle, the foremast his responsibility. Burns commanded the upper gun deck and the ship’s mainmast, which was her real strength, with all the spars, cordage, canvas and miles of rigging that gave life to the hull beneath. Lattrimer, the third lieutenant, kept close watch on the crew managing the mizzenmast.

“Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!” Langley cried with all his might through a trumpet. “Loose the heads’ls!”

Released to the wind, the canvas erupted and flapped in wild confusion; while spread along the swaying yards like monkeys, the topmen fought for the right moment to bring it under control.

Burns called, “Man your braces. Bosun, take that man’s name!”

“Aye, sir!”

Take that man’s name.
It was a cry often repeated, for the old hands were few and the new men were many. The bosun ran around the deck like a madman constantly, using his starter, a thick rope with a knot on one end. It fell on the backs of the pressed men most often—for they were totally confused by the mass of ropes and the billowing sails above.

Burns felt a pity for them that the captain did not, for the lieutenant’s sensitive spirit could empathize with the utter bewilderment they had been thrown into.

“Will they ever learn, Lieutenant?”

Burns turned to find Blanche Rommey standing behind him. She was dressed in a fine dress of blue satin that brought out the color of her eyes and clearly outlined her figure as the whipping wind pressed the thin cloth against her body. She was watching with interest as the bosun drew a cry from a thin lad on whom he was slashing viciously with his starter. There was, Burns saw, no real compassion in the girl’s face.
She was no doubt accustomed to the hard life of seamen, but it was the first actual sight she’d had of it.

“Aye, in time, most o’ them will, Miss Rommey.”

She came to stand beside him, and at her request, he explained the basic structure of the sails and spars. She was listening intently when a movement to her left caused her to turn. “What’s the matter with that man?” she asked.

Burns followed her gaze and saw Enoch Whitefield and another seaman placing the limp form of a man on an unoccupied section of the deck. “That’s one of the pressed men—the one Dr. Mann spoke of last night.” He checked the progress of the men, then added, “I believe I’ll see how he is, if you’ll excuse me.”

She ignored his implied order to remain at the rail and followed him as he went to where Whitefield was bracing the man against the rail in a sitting position.

“Has he come around yet, Whitefield?”

“No, sir.”

“What a frightful scar!” The captain’s daughter had moved to stand over the unconscious man, and was staring down at him with interest. “Except for that, he’d be very nice looking.”

Burns glanced at the man and saw that she spoke the truth. The man was naked from the waist up, wearing only a pair of patched canvas breeches. He was not over five ten, but the muscles of his arms and chest were hard and well defined. His dark hair, dirty and uncombed, would lie neatly, Burns could tell, if it were clean. Clean-cut features were marred by a livid, half-healed scar that ran from his lower jaw to disappear into his hair. The wound had been stitched and was puckered, drawing the left side of his mouth up slightly and pulling his left eye into a squint.

“He ain’t no weaklin’, sir,” Whitefield voiced thoughtfully, looking at the dark face. “Look at them forearms! I ain’t never seen such. He’s got smallish hands, but mighty strong, I’d venture!”

“Will he die?” the girl asked, staring down at the man.

“Mebby so, miss.” Whitefield was a simple man, and added only, “It’s in the great God’s hands now.”

“Blanche—” She turned to see her father who had approached and was staring at her, displeasure in his eyes. “It would be best if you did not come in contact with the deckhands.”

A stubborn light leaped into the girl’s eyes, and she retorted instantly, “Father, you have put me on this ship against my will. Now you are telling me that I must not speak with those in the world you’ve consigned me to.”

“These men are not your sort. They’re dangerous.”

She laughed and glanced down at the unconscious man. “I very much doubt if he’s any great danger to me.”

His daughter was, Captain Rommey saw clearly, ready to make a scene right there on the deck. He’d had several with her in the process of separating her from a dissolute French nobleman, and desired no more—especially not in front of his crew. Rommey was not a man to deceive himself, and he realized that while he could command a ship of the line with eight hundred souls aboard, he was totally unequipped to handle this fiery daughter of his.

“Lieutenant Burns, my daughter is your responsibility. See that she is watched at all times.” He felt like a coward as he whirled and left the deck.

“Miss Rommey, your father’s point is weel taken.” Burns bit his lip and gestured at the man at his feet. “This one seems harmless enough right now—but if he was to come to himself, I wouldna trust ye alone with him for one second.”

Blanche Rommey was a strong-willed young woman, and the rebellious fury that had burned in her since her father had snatched her almost bodily from her affair with Jean D’amont still rankled. She looked down at the still figure at her feet, then deliberately took her delicate silk handkerchief and wiped the grime from his face.

“I wouldna do that if I were ye, miss,” Burns warned nervously.

She looked up at him with a challenging smile in her eyes, saying sharply, “But you’re not me, Lieutenant Burns!” She brushed the dark hair back from the unconscious man’s wide forehead and then murmured so quietly that Burns barely heard her words: “And nobody else is me!”

She’ll nurse the fellow to spite her father,
Burns thought, and he caught a brief smile on Whitefield’s lips, and quickly turned away, happy to deal with spars and sails instead of a beautiful, rebellious captain’s daughter who had no place on board the
Neptune
in the first place.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ABLE SEAMAN HAWKE

“You don’t give a hang about the man!”

Captain Rommey had attempted for two days to ignore what every man on the
Neptune
was fully aware of—that his daughter had disrupted the entire ship. There are no secrets on a frigate. A ship of war manned for active service is the most crowded place in the world—more crowded than the most run-down tenement in London’s Cheapside. Every square foot of the vessel was spoken for, planned for, and even now as Rommey stood on the deck, he had to lower his voice to keep from being overheard as he spoke to Blanche, who sat beside the still figure of the injured man.