The Saintly Buccaneer (18 page)

He turned to go, but she caught his arm, pulling him around. The moonlight changed the tears in her eyes to silver as she whispered brokenly, “I—don’t want to do that, Hawke! Forgive me!”

Knowing instinctively that her pride had been hurt as perhaps never before, his anger receded. He shook his head, and a smile came to his lips touched by the depth of sadness in his eyes.

“It was my fault. But it won’t happen again. I’m a common sailor, Blanche, and for you to think of me any differently would be wrong. So—I thank you for taking care of me—but this can’t happen again.”

He turned and walked away, and she slowly moved along the line of flowers toward the house. The scene had left her trembling and empty, but there was a stubborn and rebellious streak that ran deep in Blanche Rommey, and she thought,
No, he’s not a common seaman. I don’t know what he is—but he’s not a common man—in any way!

****

The sultry heat of summer gave way to the cool breezes of winter, bringing refreshment to the crew of the
Neptune
—at least to those not stricken by the virulent attack of fever that had fallen on the ship.

It was mid-January, and for six months Captain Rommey had been highly satisfied with the crew and the ship. They had taken three heavily laden American merchant ships, and even had a slight taste of combat with a fast frigate that had refused to be fully engaged. “Fine training exercise for the men!” Rommey had smiled grimly. “Not enough to bloody
them, but a taste of powder and the sound of the guns. Now—we’re ready for
real
action!”

But then on the second of February, Jenson, one of the lower deckhands, had fallen to a bone-cracking fever, and in five days, a quarter of the crew was down. Dr. Mann’s treatment was the same as for every other illness—purging and bleeding. His brutal methods almost destroyed those he treated, and many of the crew dragged around sick to keep out of his hands.

Langley nervously approached Captain Rommey on the poop deck, saying, “Captain, wouldn’t it be wise to put about? I mean, we don’t have enough men to fight an engagement.”

Rommey’s frosty eyes considered the young lieutenant briefly; then he shook his head. “We’re able to handle any rebels that come our way.”

There was no room for argument, so Langley moved aft and said moodily to Burns, who was staring off in the hazy distance, “Captain won’t hear of going back to port—so I pray God we don’t run into an enemy frigate!”

“That’s as God wills, Clarence.” The dour Calvinism of the reply angered Langley, and he turned and left the deck. Two hours later when the lookout cried, “Deck! Sail off port bow!” Langley had a premonition, and he yelled, “What ship?”

“Sloop, sir! Twenty-four guns!”

Ordinarily the
Neptune
would be able to take care of such an adversary with ease, but with so many men ill, there would be little difference in the firepower of the two ships, and the sloop had the advantage of being faster and far more maneuverable.

“Beat to quarter!” Captain Rommey called the order loudly, and two small marine drummers ran to the larboard gangway, pulling on their black shakos and fumbling with their sticks. They beat a tattoo, their faces tight with concentration, and men poured up from below. The marines hurried aft and aloft to the tops, their uniforms shining like blood in the sunlight, with Captain Baxter in the lead.

Below deck Burns had the guns run out, and then walked along the larboard guns, his heart filled with doubt as he saw the pickup crews. At one gun a man stared without comprehension as a captain put a rope into his hand. Burns tried to instill some courage in the crew, calling out, “Men, we are going to engage that ship. Do nae hurry—just take your time and obey orders, and all will be well.”

Hawke crouched beside his gun, sweating freely in spite of the breeze blowing through the open port. He saw the sloop, rebel flag flying, making a turn and his heart pumped against his ribs like the beating of a drum. It was like one of his nightmares with every detail clear and stark, but he was not afraid.

The men he had been given were pallid with fear, so he said easily, “Well, lads, we’ll give the rebels a lesson, eh? Come, Harry, see to the slow match—quickly now!” He gave them something to do, keeping their minds off the ship that drew ever closer; and his eyes met those of Whitefield, who gave him a nod and a wink.

Topside Rommey was waiting until the last moment to set his sail, for if he timed it right, the smaller ship would come under his guns for one brief moment sooner than the sloop could bring her own guns to bear. “It has to be just right, Langley,” he insisted, then watched the closing ship carefully. Finally he shouted, “Stand by to go about!”

The mizzen yard was squeaking and the helmsman, Spence, cried out, “Ready, sir!”

“Put the helm down!”

The order came from Rommey. Up forward the headsail sheets had already been released, and as the wheel went over and the great hull began to swing very slowly into the wind, Langley urged the men at the braces to even greater efforts as they strained back, their eyes on the yards above them.

Sails boomed and swelled, and as the ship continued to swing, Rommey commanded, “Off tacks and sheets!”

This was the moment, they all knew, and there was a tangle
of flapping sails and jerking shrouds—and then they saw it! “Captain! There’s not enough men to handle the sail!” Langley called out in horror. The ship fell back, helpless in the water as the foretopmen struggled like madmen to set the sail.

“She’ll blow us out of the water!” Langley moaned.

“Order the marines to open fire!” the captain ordered, disgusted with Langley’s fright. “Get more men on those sails!”

Below deck, Burns felt the ship fall back and knew what to expect. He stood near Whitefield and their eyes met. “For what we are about to receive,” Burns said so quietly that only the gunner could hear him, “may we be duly grateful!”

Looking out the port, Hawke realized that in the next few moments he might be dead. He took a deep breath, studied the sloop, then said, “Lads, we’ll have to let them have first shot—but our turn will come!”

Suddenly the hull shuddered beneath his feet and splintering woodwork flew in every direction. The air quivered and shook with the crash of guns and the nerve-jarring scream of cannon balls as they whipped through the smoke like beings from hell.

The scream of passing shot mingled with closer, more unearthly sounds as flying splinters ripped into the packed gunners and bathed the smooth deck with scarlet. In the midst of this, men ran blindly, hopelessly trying to escape. Midshipman Symmes, who was in charge of gun number seven, fell to the floor clawing at it as if he could burrow into it and hide. Burns hurried to him immediately and kicked him hard, screaming, “Get up, you coward!” and lashed at him with a cane until he resumed his position with wild, mad eyes.

Hawke saw splashes of blood and gristle on the bulkhead, and as he turned he realized that one of the guns had been upended and its crew annihilated. One man lay legless, a handspike still gripped and ready.

Panic ran through the gun deck, and only the will of Lieutenant Burns and a few old hands like Whitefield kept the men at their stations.

Another broadside like that,
Burns thought,
and we’re done!
He waited, knowing that only if the ship regained the wind could they avoid the hail of metal that would sweep them to bloody death. Slowly he felt the ship tilt and he shouted, “She’s comin’ about; get ready to fire!”

But just at that moment, a ball came screaming across the water and flew right through a gunport. The shot struck a deck support, which broke its powerful flight—but a splinter went whirring through the air, striking Lieutenant Burns in the back.

He fell to the floor with a cry—panic, until now held in check, spilling over. Helplessly, he writhed on the deck, pain driving him half mad. Still he struggled to regain his feet, for he saw the crews leaving their guns, running mindlessly toward the hatch.

If we don’t return their fire, they’ll blow us out of the water!
he thought—and he called on his God to help.

Hawke knew nothing about tactics—but even in the midst of the screaming shot and the terror-stricken men, he saw clearly through the port that the sloop was coming back to finish them off. He felt also the ship lift beneath his feet, and quick as flash, he knew that if the
Neptune
could get off a broadside, they would not be lost.

But how? He leaped to his feet, and was almost knocked down by the blind, stampeding crew. Then he saw Enoch and three other gun captains fighting to keep the men away from the hatch—but it was a losing battle, he realized instantly. The crew was clawing blindly, deaf to any orders; only a miracle would turn them.

Suddenly Hawke caught sight of Burns writhing on the floor, bathed in his own blood, but struggling to get to his feet. Without a logical process of thought, Hawke sprang to his side, and Burns looked up with a plea in his eyes. With a sudden gesture, Hawke ripped the man’s sword from his side, and with a piercing cry threw himself into the fray.

He was a madman among madmen—but there was more
fury in his madness than they could face. Like a screaming banshee, he ran along the line of men who were forcing Whitefield and the other gunners to the wall, and he slashed them with a blade that was a mere flash of silver in the smokefilled air. “Back to those guns!” he screamed. There was no man able to face that blade—so they fell back, one, then another; and finally, as Whitefield and the others grabbed their weapons, the tide turned.

From where he lay, Burns watched in awe, and as the men were driven back to the guns, he looked up and breathed a faint prayer, “Thank ye, God!”

Back and forth down the line, Hawke shouted, pushing men into position, cursing and slashing with his sword. “Load!” he screamed. “Look, the captain’s got us moving! All we have to do is let her have a belly full, lads! Fire! Fire! Bring your guns to bear!”

Topside, Captain Rommey was staring at the sloop as she took the full brunt of the heavy guns. He had been expecting nothing but death and disaster. After the terrible pounding the ship had taken, he had scarcely dared hope that his men could return the fire—but now he saw the sloop riddled by the heavy shot, and the crew gave a shout as she suddenly turned and fled.

“Not a victory, perhaps,” he said quietly to himself. “But we’ll fight another day.”

“I’m going below,” he announced to Langley. “Handle the ship.”

He hurried to the gun deck, swept the scene quickly, then went to where the hands were pulling Lieutenant Burns to a sitting position.

“How bad is it, Burns?”

“Painful, sir—but it’ll nae be the death o’ me.”

“You did well, sir!” the captain expressed with thankfulness, kneeling beside the wounded man. “You saved the ship.”

“No, sir,” Burns objected through white lips. “I was doon
on the deck. It was Seaman Hawke who rallied the men. We’d ha’ been gone if he hadna taken over when I went doon.”

“I see.” Slowly Captain Rommey rose, his eyes fixed on Hawke, who was trying to stop the flow of blood from a wounded man. “He did that, did he?”

“Aye, sir, he did.” Burns was gritting his teeth against the pain, but he nodded across the gun deck, adding, “Midshipman Symmes is dead, sir.”

“Let’s get you to the surgeon, Burns,” Rommey said. “And I’ll see to it that he does a good job—or I’ll keelhaul the butcher!” He did exactly that, standing right behind Mann, who was so nervous he did the best job of his life, extracting the splinter from Burns’s back.

Then Rommey left, and when the battle damage was being repaired, he sent for Hawke. He was seated at his desk staring out the stern windows when the man came in.

“Yes, sir?”

Rommey stood up and came to stand before Hawke, saying, “Burns told me how you rose higher than your duty during the action. I commend you.”

“Why—”

“And I have a daring scheme to propose to you. I intend to make you midshipman, effective at once. You are old for that rank, but I’ll give you a brevet commission as an ensign, or even as a junior lieutenant, depending on how rapidly you advance. I
must
have a navigator, and now that Lieutenant Burns is out of action for an indeterminate period, I need a man who can stand watch.” He paused and studied Hawke’s face. “Well, what do you think?”

Hawke’s face did not change, though a light leaped into his eyes. He considered the face of the captain, then slowly smiled. “Sir, I think you’ll be letting yourself in for a great deal of trouble. I’m not an officer.”

“How do you know?”

“Why...!”

“You’re a man who isn’t anything—which means really,
you can
be
anything.” The stern features of Rommey softened, and he said warmly, “I’m aware that this is an unusual action—but we are in an unusual situation, Hawke. I
must
have help to sail this ship, and there’s precious little help coming from the Admiralty! So—I’ll use what I can lay my hands on, and let the Lords of the Admiralty whistle up a dead tree! Now, will you be my officer?”

Hawke stared at the tall captain, doubt in his even features. Finally he nodded. “I’ll do my best, Captain.”

“Fine! Fine!” Rommey beamed. “It’ll be a shock to the crew—but you’ll just have to make them like it! Now, we have to get you a uniform, Midshipman Hawke—and then we have to let my officers know they have help.”

The new midshipman smiled, and reminded his superior, “I’m an American, Captain. Have you thought of that? What if my memory comes back? You’ll have a rebel for an officer.”

“Blast it, no!” Captain Rommey growled. “You’re too good a chap to be one of those wild-eyed fanatics! I’ll wager when you recall who you are, you’ll be delighted to find yourself a good, safe servant of King George!”

“Well, sir, I’m your man for now. God knows what I’ll be in the future.”

“We all must say that, sir,” Rommey stated soberly, then turned to his work as the newest ensign in the Royal Navy left the cabin.

CHAPTER TWELVE