The Saintly Buccaneer (17 page)

Sullivan was gasping for breath and his eyes were filled with astonishment and rage. “Sir, just let me have—!”

“Oh, you’ve done too much, Sullivan.” Baxter reached out and took the blade from the Irishman, and moved to stand before the man with the scar. “I see you’ve done a little along this line before, Seaman Hawke.”

“I couldn’t say, Captain.”

The even tenor of Hawke’s voice and the bland look in his eyes stirred the captain’s temper. He was not at all certain that the fellow was really all he claimed, and in any case he was anxious for a good bout.

“Well, let’s see how good you are,” he said, and raising his blade he began to advance toward Hawke. They circled one another, for Baxter had seen enough of the man to be cautious. He tried a feint, and to his chagrin, it was parried; for one instant he saw the tip of Hawke’s blade poised and knew that he was helpless to prevent the thrust. But the thrust did not come, and a smile on Hawke’s face caused Baxter’s face to redden.
This one is no beginner,
he thought, and tightened his guard, taking no chances.

The crew saw two men, both light as a breeze on their feet, both quick as a striking snake with their hands. They circled slowly, but their blades rang and clashed so rapidly that it was impossible to follow the motion. Captain Rommey had come up out of his cabin and stood on the forecastle watching the contest with an inscrutable expression on his craggy face.

On and on it went, and suddenly Baxter realized that his opponent was
playing
with him! The dark face of the man was not triumphant—if anything, he looked slightly
bored!

Desperately the marine tried to break Hawke’s composure, driving at him like a madman, but always the flashing tip of the sword caught his own and parried it with ease.

Finally, Baxter stepped back, lowered his foil and stared at the man in front of him. It was almost dark, and the deep-set
eyes of Hawke were hidden by the shadows of his brow and high cheekbones. He was not smiling now, and for one instant a sadness pulled his lips into a hard line—and at that moment Captain Baxter knew that Hawke was indeed a man without a past.

“You are a fine swordsman, Seaman Hawke,” Baxter told the man quietly. “I never saw one finer.”

The compliment slid off the other man, and he said only, “Yes, sir. May I go now?”

“Certainly.” Baxter watched him go to stand alone peering out over the rail into the gathering darkness, then said, “Drill is over, Sergeant. Dismiss the men.” Looking up, the captain saw Rommey staring down from the forecastle, and he went to stand beside him. “Well, sir, what did you make of that?”

Rommey shook his head. “Another surprise from the man from nowhere, eh, Baxter?” He shook his head slowly. “He’s educated, knows the world, handles a sword like a demon out of the pit—I don’t know
what
the fellow is! A broken-down gentleman, perhaps?”

“I didn’t get the ‘broken down’ part,” Baxter replied with a rueful expression. “What are you going to do with him?”

Rommey looked at Hawke, who was still standing alone at the rail. “Do with him, Baxter? Why, I’ll
use
him—just as I use you and myself and every other soul on this vessel. He may not have a past,” he added grimly, “but I’ll see to it he has a future!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

BEAT TO QUARTERS!

“I canna learn this blasted book!” Lieutenant Burns was a mild man, but his struggles with math had almost destroyed his patience. He stood up abruptly and threw the thick book he had been poring over against the wall. “Blast!” he cried in despair, pulling his sandy hair as if to remove it from his head. “I can do anything on the
Neptune
as weel as any man—but this—this accursed navigation—”

Hawke rose from his chair and walked over to pick up the book. Bringing it back to the small desk where the two of them had been seated, he said evenly, “Let’s just go over it one more time, sir.” He began to go over the problem, pointing from time to time at a large map stretched out on a table, and was pleased to see the officer stop glaring at him and come back to resume his seat.

Hawke could sympathize with Burns, for he realized that there was some part of the canny Scot’s brain that was almost impervious to anything mathematical. For nearly a week the two had met to study at Captain Rommey’s house, and the seaman had patiently gone over the fundamentals of the science of navigation, wondering at how difficult it was for Burns. Time after time the lieutenant had given up, but Hawke had sat there calmly, then continued his instruction as if nothing had happened.

Burns had become so distracted with his slow progress that he had allowed his temper to boil over, at time fastening fury on Hawke, but the seaman had never shown the least
reaction. And now a light of respect came to the eyes of the Scot, and he laughed aloud. “Hawke—I dinna see how ye’ve put up with me! I know how tedious it is to drill a banana-fingered deckhand—but it’s worse to work with a slow-witted lieutenant.” He nodded, and added sincerely, “I thank ye for your patience, Seaman Hawke.”

“Why, you’re not slow-witted, sir.” Hawke gave the other a rare smile. He had learned to respect the tenacity of the man who sat there; for many, he knew, would have given up. “It’s just not your strong point. You’re a fine sailor.”

Burns’s face flushed at the compliment, and he wondered at it, for he had never cared particularly what the crew thought of him. But his feeling for Hawke was different, and he was kept from forming a more personal tie only by the vast gulf that had to exist between officer and common seaman.

“Weel, that’s guid of ye to say so, Hawke.” He looked up as a clock chimed somewhere in the distance, and closed the book, saying, “It’s time for dinner.”

“Yes, sir. Tomorrow at the same time?”

“I don’t rightly know. We may sail tomorrow—Langley tells me the
Neptune
’s fully provisioned.” He walked to the wall, plucked up his coat, and slipping it on, remarked thoughtfully, “This partying every night is a bit much for a simple lad like myself. I’ll be glad to put to sea.”

He referred to the nightly festivities that went on at the house, for Blanche Rommey had made it a point to have a formal dinner each night, with dancing and cards after the meal. Since Burns neither danced nor played cards, he had gone to fill out the number, but had returned to his room as soon as possible.

Burns left, saying, “Better be ready, Hawke, in case we pull out early.”

“Yes, sir.” He picked up the books and shoved them into a small leather case; next, he took down the map and folded it carefully, placing it with the books. Closing the case, he put it on a mahogany table beside the bed and left the room.

Passing down the wide hall, he heard the sound of music—the small orchestra of native musicians. He smiled slightly, then turned left and passed out of the house into the warm night air. The mosquitoes made a whining harmony, and he brushed them away automatically with each step. He followed a stone path beside the house, down a line of
flagrante
plants rich with perfumed blossoms to a long, low stone building in a grove of mango trees.

Most of the building was taken up with a blacksmith shop, and he found Whitefield at the forge. He had been working for most of the week making spare parts for the ship, and when not instructing Burns, Hawke had watched and even helped a little.

“What’s that you’re making, Enoch?”

“Vent fittings.”

Hawke came over to look more closely at a row of tapered cast-iron plugs laid out neatly beside the forge. Picking one up, he turned it over. “These go in the vent hole?”

“Right.” Enoch gave him an approving glance and nodded, “You’ve picked up a heap ’bout gunnery in a short time, Hawke.”

Hawke shrugged and asked, “How many of these do you need?”

“Well—a gun ain’t worth spit without one, is it, now? So I thinks we better have fifty at least.”

“Show me how.”

“Right, lad.”

Enoch had found Hawke to be a quick learner, and in less than an hour he had gone through the process. “If you think you can carry on, I’d like to get some sleep.”

“Seems simple enough—and I’m not sleepy. Lieutenant says we may sail tomorrow.”

“Figured we might. Don’t worry if you don’t do all them vent fittings, Hawke. We probably got enough.”

After he left, Hawke worked steadily at the forge. It was not a demanding task, but he was getting little exercise and
as a result could not sleep well. As he methodically filed the fittings, time slipped away. It was quiet in the forge, the silence broken only by the sounds of horses stomping the ground outside and the faint sound of music drifting across on the night air from the big house.

He realized after some time that his fingers were aching, and also that he was thirsty. There was an
olla
of water hanging on the wall, but he thought of the cold spring that fed the house, and left the smithy to get a drink.

The water was cold, and he sipped it slowly, thinking of what Whitefield had told him about water on ship.
In a few weeks, the water will be getting thick. Bless me! I’ve seen it so thick and green with stuff it wouldn’t hardly pour!
The thought ran through his mind, and he lowered his head to drink, savoring the coldness and flavor of it.

He made his way back to the shop, and was startled when a voice caught at him as he reached the door.

“Well, Hawke...?”

He turned quickly, peering into the darkness, and relaxed when Blanche Rommey moved toward him. She was wearing a white dress, cut low in the neck, which set off her dark hair. “Hello, Miss Rommey,” he said.

She stepped up beside him, saying, “I’m tired of that hot stuffy room.” There was a husky quality in her voice, and she laughed as she took his arm, saying, “Let’s walk a little.”

He knew instinctively that it was not the right thing to do, but she gave him little choice. He found himself walking along the paved walk, listening as she spoke of trivial things. The sweet odor of frangipani was strong, but some scent that she was wearing mixed with it, stirring his senses.

They came to a low wall with a gate, and he stopped. “I don’t think we should go outside the compound, Miss Rommey.”

“What are you afraid of, Hawke?” she smiled. “Me?”

“No—snakes,” he said evenly. “There’s one kind here they call a Five-stepper.”

“A Five-stepper?”

“Yes, because if one of them bites you, you have five steps to get help before the venom kills you.”

She took a quick look at the ground, stepping closer to him involuntarily. “I don’t like snakes.” She took his arm, pressing against him as they walked back toward the shop. The sky was velvet black with icy points of stars, and she looked up and wondered aloud, “Look how bright that star is! I wonder what name it has?”

He looked up casually and said without thinking, “That’s Sirius—the Dog Star.”

She paused, stared at him, then shook her head. There was a smile on her rich, full lips. “I wonder how you know that, Hawke?”

“Common star—Sirius.”

“Perhaps.” She suddenly drew him to a halt, and all of the thoughts she had had of him the past days flashed across her mind. She had enjoyed the nightly parties, but the men had been insipid: a seventeen-year-old son of a planter on the neighboring property (with bad teeth and little charm); two cousins in the military, one aggressive, the other timid (both equally boorish); several cousins of the owner of the plantation (who thought of little but planting sugar cane); and one aging diplomat who fancied himself a ladies’ man. Lieutenant Langley had come twice, and had done everything but throw himself at her feet. She had allowed him to follow her, but his fumbling attempts to pay compliments were so awkward that it was tedious to her.

She had thought often of Hawke, and now as he stood there, she saw he was better looking than she remembered. He had filled out, and there was a regularity in his features that was entirely masculine, but the long lashes and contoured features would have been effeminate in a man with less vigor. He was saved from this, Blanche saw, by the strength of his neck and the direct look in his large eyes, and by the scar on his cheek.

Suddenly she reached up and touched the scar on the side of his face. “I wonder where you got that?”

The touch of her hand on his cheek ran along his nerves, and he was intensely aware of her womanly figure revealed in the dress. “Probably my just deserts,” he said.

“Do you remember any more?”

“Nothing.” The pressure of her hand remained, but he did not know how to react, so he stood motionless.

The silence ran on. Finally Blanche spoke in an enticing voice. “You are a very attractive man, Hawke.” Turning to him she whispered, “Have you thought about the time you kissed me?”

“Yes.”

“So have I!” And then she lifted her face and came into his arms. There was a heavy silence over the earth, broken by the cry of a night bird, and as he lowered his head and met her full lips, softer than down, he did not
think
at all. Her body came against him, and there was only that moment, only a time of coming together, and he pulled her roughly into his arms with a hunger that suddenly came from a depth that he did not know.

She did not draw back, but gave him her kiss freely. She had been kissed many times, but always before, she had been in command of the moment; now she found that she was helpless in his arms, like a swimmer caught by a rip tide, and the thought flashed through her:
He can do anything with me!

This shocked her, for she was a proud woman, and the sense that he was the stronger made her draw back abruptly.

He released her at once, saying shortly, “You’d better go back to the party, Miss Rommey.”

She was breathing raggedly, and bit her lower lip. “Yes ... I suppose so.” Pausing for a moment, she continued. “You’ll be leaving tomorrow. My father told us so at dinner.” She waited for him to speak, and when he did not, she asked coyly, “Will you think of me?”

Anger suddenly rose up in Hawke’s chest, and he took her
by the arms and held her pinioned. His hands were frighteningly strong, but his eyes and voice had a paralyzing effect on her. “You like to play with men. I have no family, no wife, no country—and no God, as far as I can tell.” His voice grew rough, and he released her so quickly that she staggered. “Don’t play with me, Blanche!”