Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (3 page)

 
          
 
"My father," he addressed the fire,
"was an officer of the King. He died on the
Plains of Abraham
before
Quebec
in the French Wars. My mother had married
him against the wishes of her family, and his people never admitted the
marriage at all, for she was a colonial and beneath their notice.

 
          
 
"Her sister gave her shelter at Fairleigh
Manor. I grew up there, not as a son of the house, of course, though my aunt
was always kind to me. When the war began my uncle concerned himself with the
Assembly—now he is a member of Congress. He is much interested in public
affairs. My cousins were of an age to join the army and they did so. One is now
a major in the Maryland Line, the other has just been invalided out of the
service."

 
          
 
"But you stayed at the Manor?"

 
          
 
"In trying to be useful in return for my
daily bread I had learned my trade as bailiff too well. Someone had to oversee
the planting, and my aunt could not do it. My mother had long since withdrawn
into a world of her own; she died of a fever last year. I did what I could to
keep Fairleigh running. It was hard. Half our market was gone. We grew wheat,
and before the war
Ireland
took our crop for cash. Now we sell to the
army for promises. . . .

 
          
 
"A month ago my cousin returned home. His
wounds will keep him from active duty, and so he has assumed the duties of
bailiff. My presence was no longer
necessary "

 
          
 
Fitz willed himself not to remember that final
interview with Ralph. That night the shell he had so painfully grown to protect
himself from cousinly spite and shafts of wit had not been strong enough. Ralph
had had ample revenge for the jealousy he had apparently long cherished.

 
          
 
"So now you go to join the army?"

 
          
 
"Yes. I have hopes of an ensign's
commission in the line. My cousin Francis owes me that much."

 
          
 
"Have you ever thought of going to
sea?"

 
          
 
Fitz shook his head. He pushed back a little,
out of the direct light of the fire, and wriggled uncomfortably in his chair.
Lord, how he had let his tongue run. Why? Why? He must have been moonstruck!

 
          
 
"I'm a landsman. I'd be more hindrance
than help on shipboard. Tomorrow I'll head north for Gists' command."

 
          
 
"And tomorrow, if luck does not desert
me, I'll be halfway down the bay," mused the Captain.

 
          
 
Fitz welcomed the change of subject. "The
navy's sending you to sea?"

 
          
 
"Not the navy,
no
.
The American Navy"—there was a bitter edge to Crofts' reply—"has
almost ceased to exist. I am doing what many better officers have done before
me—I'm taking out a privateer."

 
          
 
"Well, you do not come home from that
kind of voyage with your pockets empty."

 
          
 
"That is part of the bait, right
enough," the Captain admitted, but there was an impatient note in his
answer. "Yet there is another side to the sail, too. Pinch the British
merchants in their pockets, pinch them often and hard, and they'll raise their
voices so loudly that even that dottle-witted Lord North will be able to hear
them. What d'you think the English people know of this war? Or what do they
care what happens to a few regiments pushing around in a raw wilderness half
the world away from their own shores? But every time one of our privateers
beats up the channel and snaps up a fat merchantman homeward bound, or
everytime we dog a convoy until we are able to cut out a slow sailer or
two—why, then the English know that they are at war!"

 
          
 
He leaned forward his eyes alight and eager.

 
          
 
"D'you
know
what
rates Lloyd's are quoting now —-if they will consent to insure at all? Thirty
per cent for a vessel in convoy, fifty per cent if she chances the run alone!
They even have to provide escorts for the linen ships out of
Dublin
to
England
across the
Irish Sea
. And it is the privateers who have brought
that about. They worry and worry away, and someday the merchants will break.
Then we shall have peace and free seas and a chance for a seaman to make a
living for himself, with no press gangs to hunt him down in port, and no revenue
laws to cut his honest profits. If privateering will lead to that—then I go
privateering!"

 
          
 
"And the best of luck to you,
Captain."

 
          
 
Captain Crofts' white teeth flashed in answer.
"Wish me a capture for every gun—that is the best of luck for those in my
trade. And to you, sir, I wish luck with the army."

 
          
 
Fitz arose and stretched. "Fair enough,
Captain."

 
          
 
The door behind him opened and the host stood
haloed by the light of the candle he held.

 
          
 
"Mr. Lyon, sir, the party who was to lie
this night in the Sloop has been offered passage out. You may have his room if
you wish."

 
          
 
Fitz reached for his coat. "Then I shall
trouble you no longer, Captain Crofts.
My thanks to you for
your hospitality, sir."

 
          
 
He was glad to get away. He would be pleased
not to see Daniel Crofts again. That wagging tongue of his . . . Fitz was
ashamed. Out in the hall he did not enter the room into which he saw his saddle
bags being carried. He knew that the inn groom was competent, but he wanted to
see that Lady did not want for anything.

 
          
 
Fitz went downstairs. The common room was
rilled with rank tobacco smoke, and a babble of noise assaulted his ears. At
the far end the recruiting officer had pre-empted a table and was signing up a
couple of men who swayed dangerously as they leaned over to make their marks.

 
          
 
Through the smoke Fitz's eyes met those of the
lieutenant for an instant and the officer stirred as if to rise. Fitz turned
quickly out of the door; he had no wish to meet with naval conversation again
that night. He plunged into a fine chill mist which made him pull his collar up
about his ears.

 
          
 
Your harvest, bold Americans,

            
No power shall snatch away!

            
Our fleets shall speak in Thunder

            
To
England
,
France
and
Spain
!

 
          
 
—FREE
AMERICA

 
          
 
FlTZ LEFT THE STABLE
REASSURED AS TO LADY'S WELL-being.
He lingered a moment in the foggy inn
yard. There was a yellowish glow down by the docks. A ship must have been
loading by torchlight at that hour. Fitz wondered if it were Crofts' privateer.

 
          
 
"Mr. Lyon!"

 
          
 
At the sharp hail Fitz's head jerked around.
Someone stood just outside the door to the common room. And in spite of the
muffling folds of a boat cloak, Fitz was sure he had caught a glimpse of a red
and blue uniform.

 
          
 
"Yes?"

 
          
 
The answer was violent. A hard blow between
his shoulders sent him staggering forward off balance.
Then a
blasting pain in his head blocked out all light and feeling.

 
          
 
"Douse him with a bucketful and he'll
come around all right, Ninnes. Or let him alone and he'll rouse for himself.
You've spoiled his beauty for a day or so, but he'll recover. . . ."

 
          
 
The languid voice faded away. Fitz cringed
beneath a pounding torture which hung above and behind his closed eyes.

 
          
 
"The next time you go recruiting,"
the voice came back, "I would advise a little less zeal. Even my
hard-learned skill cannot put together a really broken skull. Stow him in a
hammock and let him find his own wits then—if you are not for extreme measures
now."

 
          
 
Fitz sank down into the dark for the second
time. When he awoke again it was into a curiously unstable world. The bed on
which he lay was surely not made fast to any sensible floor, but swung in a
half arc as he lay staring at a beamed ceiling not many inches above his nose.
Now the headache was just bearable. He began to piece together the happenings
of the immediate past. From this he was aroused by the unmistakable sounds of
someone being thoroughly and vigorously sick.

 
          
 
His own middle section responded unpleasantly
in concert. Moving cautiously, he half rolled, half fell out of his frail
support, landing with more force than dignity on the floor beneath. Fitz got to
his feet and, by the very dim light of a single small lantern, made out a row
of hammocks, most of which were occupied. The swaying of the floor made plain
what had happened to him. He was aboard a ship!

 
          
 
Flaming rage crowded out both nausea and
headache for a short space. So this was Captain Daniel Crofts' game, was it? He
had been tapped on the head and lugged aboard as if he were any rum-soaked
half-breed on the beach. Well, Crofts was going to discover that a
Lyon
was not a friendless dock loafer!

 
          
 
Clutching at the hammocks for support, in
spite of the growls and oaths of their half-awakened occupants, he made for the
single door of this cubby. But it did not yield to his impatient shove. And
when pounding with his fists raised nothing but splinters, Fitz was forced to
conclude that the door was fastened on the outside.

 
          
 
He dropped to the floor, as far from the
hammocks as he could squeeze, grimly determined to wait out the end of
imprisonment. In the meantime he occupied his mind with the thought of what to
say to Crofts when they at last stood face to face. And he did not intend this
time to curb his temper.

 
          
 
But at length the odor in the cubby, combined
with the motion of the decking under him, banished everything from his mind but
the desire to reach the open and there die in peace. And, judging by dismal
sounds coming out of the shadows, he was not alone in his misery.

 
          
 
So, when the door was at last unbolted, Fitz
paid no heed to what was shouted at him, but lurched past a cluster of uniforms
and by bald luck found
himself
out in the fresh salty
air where he was content to clutch at a convenient rope and draw in great gasps
of the untainted wind. As his stomach settled back somewhere near its normal
position he began to think of Crofts. But the shouting behind him also made
sense for the first time.

 
          
 
"Form up! Form up, you mutton-headed, cow-legged,
fish-brained sots! Get into line. You! You on the end there! Get into line if
you don't wan t a stinger laid across your rump!"

 
          
 
Fitz's fellow prisoners"were being herded
out before a small man with a very red face who shouted his orders in a booming
bray and pounded on the deck with a sheathed boarding cutlass to underline
them.

 
          
 
"Doncha hear
th
'
lootenant, you?" A beer-scented voice broke the Marylander's fascinated
absorption and he was given a shove which propelled him in the general
direction of the line.

 
          
 
Dumbfounded he stood where the sergeant had
pushed him. Another officer appeared beside the marine, a thin man with an
amused quirk to one eyebrow and a general air of boredom which made him
contrast greatly with his energetic companion. When the line had been pushed
and prodded into some order this newcomer stepped to the nearest recruit,
ordered him to open his mouth, and gravely inspected and counted the yellow
teeth thus revealed. Fitz snapped out of his bewilderment as he realized that
he was about to be presented to the ship's medical officer for examination. But
before he could protest, the surgeon stood before him.

 
          
 
"Ah, it's our young friend with the
broken head," the doctor observed genially. "Bit of an ache in the
mainsail
haven't
you?"

 
          
 
"It's nothing compared to the one your
Captain is going to have," Fitz snapped back. "I was kidnapped!"

 
          
 
"Were you?" The surgeon's amusement
became more marked. “Now Mr. Ninnes has told a different story altogether. Best
think yours over again before you see the Captain—he might not take kindly to
your version. Well, since you are baring them so freely, I can certify that you
have all your teeth. And save for that purple bump on your crown, you seem
otherwise to be all of a piece, sound and whole. That is all, Lieutenant
Biggs," he said to the marine over his shoulder. "They're all passed
for service."

 
          
 
"Right face," bawled the marine.
"Forward
march
!"

 
          
 
Fitz paid no attention to the command,
remained where he was to look about him. Although he had belittled his
knowledge of ships, no one could live in water-logged
Maryland
, where men used rivers as roads, without
learning something of the sea. And he identified the vessel he stood in as one
of the slim, swift-sailing schooners known to the country as "Baltimore
Clippers."

 
          
 
Her two tall and slender masts were sharply
raked to catch the best of the bay winds. The low freeboard would make sailing
in the
North
Atlantic
a wet and
even dangerous business. But the warmer waters of the
Caribbean
were her proper home. Designed to fit
smugglers' needs in the days before the war when the king's ships prowled as
revenue-enforcement agents, she was the perfect answer for privateering, being
well able to outsail most ships now afloat.

 
          
 
"You there—get below!"

 
          
 
Fitz, startled, turned to see the recruiting
officer bearing down upon him^
Luckily
he had a full
moment to force down the sudden surge of anger which might have made him send a
fist into the other's face.

 
          
 
"I'm getting overside, not below—after a
suitable apology from your Captain. And he'll be a lucky man if I don't lodge a
complaint against him ashore."

 
          
 
The deep tan on the other's squarish face
showed a tinge of dusky red. Fitz had adjusted to the roll of the ship and now
stood, hands clenched. If the lieutenant wanted to try force

 
          
 
"Mr. Ninnes!" a peremptory hail rang
down the deck. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

 
          
 
Crofts was
coming
across the deck. When he saw Fitz he appeared honestly surprised and then he
smiled.

 
          
 
"So, Mr. Lyon, you decided to join us
after all. Now that
is "

 
          
 
Fitz cut him short. "I was aided in my
decision by a belaying pin, Captain Crofts. So this is the way you do your
recruiting? I am thinking that the authorities in
Baltimore
will have something to say about the matter
after I report to them. No more press gangs! I believe that that was one of
your aims in fighting this war, sir? But it makes a difference who is sending
out the press gang, doesn't it?" He had raised his voice and there was an
audience gathering. A hand clapped his shoulder and tightened its grip, almost
dragging him off balance.

 
          
 
"Pay no attention to him,
sir,
he's still gone in drink!" That was Ninnes.

 
          
 
Goaded beyond endurance Fitz twisted free from
that grasp and rounded on the lieutenant.

 
          
 
"Have the goodness to keep your hands to
yourself, sir, or I'll teach you better manners! Though your actions are
certainly of a piece with your
Captain's "

 
          
 
"That," Crofts' quiet voice had a
touch of ice, "does not sound to me like the speech of a drunken man, Mr.
Ninnes. Both of you will come to my cabin at once!"

 
          
 
Fitz, caution overruled by righteous
indignation, followed Ninnes into the small, low-ceilinged cabin which served
as the Captain's quarters on board the Retaliation.

 
          
 
Crofts had seated
himself
at the small desk-table but left them standing. It was as if they were two
schoolboys called up for a birching, thought Fitz scornfully. "Now, what
is the meaning of that brawl on deck?"

 
          
 
Fitz refused to be repressed or impressed.
"Just this, Captain Crofts.
Last night I went out to
see to my mare before going to bed. In the inn yard I was waylaid by your bully
boys and struck down. I awoke to find myself on this pestilent privateer of
yours and at sea. If you know what is good for you, you'll see me set ashore at
once with proper apologies."

 
          
 
Crofts' mobile mouth straightened into a thin
slit, two tiny dents showed under the curve of his nostrils. He did not answer
Fitz but turned to his lieutenant.

 
          
 
"Well, Mr. Ninnes?"