Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (5 page)

 
          
 
Watts
smiled. "Oh, the situation is not desperate, I assure you. It has been
done before and will be done again during this war. And now here is what I have
for
you "

 
          
 
From among his own belongings and surgical
supplies he produced Fitz's rifle and the saddle bags which he had last seen in
the inn.

 
          
 
"Sorry I could not have the mare for you
too. But that is a little beyond my powers. She will be delivered with a note
to Mr. Crampton. He is the Fairleigh factor, is he not?"

 
          
 
"But How did
you "

 
          
 
"Very simple.
When Ninnes and his merry men dumped you on board last night they were a little
dismayed at your condition. Since they are more used to banging the thick
skulls of wharf rats, they began to wonder if they had gone a little too far
with you. So I was routed out—at past one, mind you, and it was damned cold,
too—to look you over."

 
          
 
"Why didn't
you "
Fitz began with some indignation.

 
          
 
"Why didn't I report the strange manner
of your arrival, sir? Report to whom? Ninnes was the senior officer aboard at
the time. I see that you are woefully unaware of the facts of life in our
little world. Ninnes is a lieutenant, placed in charge of recruiting by Captain
Crofts. I am a surgeon, a noncombatant. For all

 
          
 
I knew, Crofts himself might have ordered you
delivered aboard like a roll of sausage. But I will admit my curiosity was
aroused. I was moved to make a few inquiries. Hence the procuring of your
missing baggage and the favor—for which do not hesitate to thank me."

 
          
 
Fitz could not suppress real laughter. "I
do, oh, I do, sir. I am beginning to think that only a magician could ever win
free of the pack of you."

 
          
 
Watts
'
countenance was sober but his eyes danced. "Crofts
is
a very determined man with a reputation for both luck and stubbornness. I think
that some of that determination rubs off on those who follow him. You will
discover us to be something novel in a crew."

 
          
 
"I would find any crew novel. But I tell
you frankly, I think that you are all harebrained!"

 
          
 
"There is a purpose in our madness,"
Watts
returned. "And now, since it is almost
time for mess, may I escort you back to your den to observe how Biggs has
rallied to the cruel blow of having to divide into two a space already too
small for any human being?"

 
          
 
Biggs, once the initial shock had worn off,
seemed to be taking it rather well. He even achieved a welcoming grimace, as
Fitz ducked into the low cabin, and indicated a bundle of blue on top of his
sea chest.

 
          
 
"That is the best I can do for you in the
way of uniform," he told his new junior officer. "I borrowed the the
coat from Mayhew and the breeches from Pike. Best get into 'em."

 
          
 
"
But "
Fitz's protest was interrupted by
Watts
.

           
 
"Faith, sir, is that the only word you
can say? It is one we don't use here overmuch.
Crofts wants
his officers in uniform—that's the navy in him. You will note that this one is
different from naval regulations. That is because we are not navy and we wear
stuff from a cargo of British cloth which Crofts captured last year."

 
          
 
Both of them withdrew with a last warning to
hurry and left Fitz to struggle with the problem of stripping and redressing in
confined and swinging quarters. Biggs must have an exact eye for measurement,
thought the Marylander, for the result was not bad at all. The coat was only a
trifle too loose across the shoulders. When he had fastened the last button of
the waistcoat and pulled at the stock, which seemed like a collar of iron after
he had gone a week without it, he stepped out of the cubby to have
Watts
seize him by the arm and propel him
forward.

 
          
 
"Mess," urged the surgeon.
"There is but one wardroom and the underlings—you and me, my friend-share
the bottom of the table there."

 
          
 
So Fitz found himself in the wardroom of the
Retaliation, content for the moment to share a very small part of the table
with Watts and to see those officers, now off watch, with whom he would be
sharing the chances of war for some time to come.

 
          
 
The boarding nettings are triced for a fight;

            
Pike and cutlass are shining
bright;

  
          
The boatswain's whistle pipes loud
and shrill;

            
Gunner and topman work with a
will.

 
          
 
—JACK CREAMER

 
          
 
FlTZ WAS GLAD TO NOTE THAT LIEUTENANT NlNNES
HAD duty elsewhere and was not at the table. And the forced marine hoped that
this state of affairs would continue to keep them as far apart as possible.

 
          
 
From James Matthews, a lank-bodied, dour-faced
sailing master hailing from
Nantucket
,
to Harvey Langston, third officer, out of
Virginia
, the wardroom occupants of the Retaliation
were a mixed lot. And, as they were talking about their work, only about a
third of what they said was in the least intelligible to Fitz. By dint of
keeping his own mouth shut and his ears open, he learned that Crofts was not
only a captain of some renown, but that he was also deemed an exceptionally
''lucky" commander, and that his officers had unbounded confidence in him.
The lack of guns did not appear to disturb them at all, and they were far more
interested in the prospect of prizes than they were in their present appalling
state of military nakedness.

 
          
 
"Now in the old days when we still had
Orangetown to run to," Langston, by raising his voice to a trumpet bellow,
caught their attention, ''it was damned easy to make a fortune. Lord, the Dutch
welcomed us to
Saint
Eustatius
with
open arms and a round of salutes. You could run a cargo of tobacco down, trade
it for guns, and go out among the rest of the
West Indies
for rich pickings. Why, I've seen bales of
silk bundled out on deck as if they were common linsey-woolsey. And there was
that time we took the Queen Anne and got us a paymaster's chest to dabble
in!"

 
          
 
But Matthews was looking at the dregs in his
tankard with a sour frown. "Th'
North Sea
ain't fer
th
' likes o' th' Retaliation. Saint
Malo!" he snorted. "Best rig us some life lines on deck—we'll need
'em. We'll ship half
th
' ocean on this course."

 
          
 
"Saint Malo's a snug port for
privateers," Langston pointed out.
"Right within
sniffing distance of
England
.
Here's to good hunting!"

 
          
 
Fitz drank with the rest to honor that toast.
Lang-ston's confidence was reassuring—even to a misplaced landsman.

 
          
 
"If
th
' lobsters
don't snap us up, an' if we don't have trouble ashore." Matthews refused
to fall in with them now. "I'd like it a mite sight better if we were
headed south instead of north."

 
          
 
Fitz clung to the edge of the table and
thought that he would like it a great deal more than a mite sight better if
they were
Baltimore
bound again. The odor of salt pork was much
less appetizing than it had been some moments before. By not taking another
mouthful and concentrating on what he hoped were higher thoughts, he managed to
leave the board a respectful pace behind his elders and superiors without
disgracing himself.

 
          
 
And then he was at once seized upon by Biggs
and introduced willy-nilly to the joys and pains of marine duties. For what
seemed a lifetime thereafter he had no time to nurse any qualms.

 
          
 
Sea-going soldiers had duties right
enough—plenty of them, Fitz discovered, trying to sort out the flood of
instructions and admonitions which Biggs poured out on him. The marines formed
a guard, which on less contented ships, under less popular officers, sometimes
had the unenviable task of protecting the commander from the crew, as well as
being responsible for any treasure aboard. In battle they were the
sharpshooters, their foremost service being to pick off the expert gun captains
and deck officers on board the enemy, to go over with the boarders, and to lead
any landing party which might be sent ashore in a dangerous port.

 
          
 
"The Retaliation has no fighting
tops," Biggs pointed out the obvious, for the only observation point where
a man might perch above her deck was the iron hoop against the mast where a
lookout balanced, eager to win the extra quarter share which went to the man
who first sighted a prize, "so we form up fore and aft on the deck—makin'
every shot count, mind you. Don't aim at a man's head—his middle is a bigger
target."

 
          
 
Such words of wisdom were drummed into them
all as the lieutenant, seconded by the single veteran sergeant, drove his new
recruits hard through the days which followed. Sergeant Collins Fogler was a
tower of strength in those hours, and Fitz leaned hard upon him.

 
          
 
Fitz was discovering that there was an
underlying method in this life and that a sense of security could be born of
familiarity with duty and discipline. The army could not be so very different,
he decided. And what he could learn now should be invaluable later on. So he
plunged into the business of becoming a marine officer with the single-hearted
determination of a scholar at his books. And since he was used to handling men
and concentrating on the job in hand, he did not often find himself beyond his
depth.

 
          
 
It was Fitz and Fogler working together who devised
the floating target, a section of board equipped with a triangular sail, which
could be towed behind the ship to offer a mark to shoot at. Gradually the
marksmen, some of them good enough on shore but wild at sea—not being used to
shooting when the ground they stood on plunged and cavorted—learned to center
their shots. And even Biggs grunted that perhaps—in a year or so—he might
command some fairly passable marines.

 
          
 
Off watch, Fitz tumbled into his hammock
utterly worn out, to sleep dreamlessly. His world had narrowed, and he had
little time to think of anything which lay beyond its very limited confines.
But he was brought out of this soon enough. He and Fogler were working on the
target float one day when the voice of the lookout rang down.

 
          
 
"Sail ho!"

 
          
 
"Where away?"

 
          
 
"Two points off
th
'
port bow, sir!" the lookout answered Ninnes's demand.

 
          
 
Crofts was
already on
deck, his leather-bound spyglass in his hand.

 
          
 
"She's a two-
master
"
the lookout added details.

 
          
 
The Captain leveled his glass. Fitz
instinctively headed for his battle station as the whistle Fogler wore shrilled
out until the drummer popped up to beat to quarters.

 
          
 
Since there were no guns except the deck
swivels, the other gun crews, armed with hangers, muskets, and pikes, lined up
on deck.

 
          
 
"Dutch colors," Crofts ordered, and
that flag went up.

 
          
 
"Is she British?" Fitz asked Fogler.
The sergeant shrugged.

 
          
 
"Who knows? She might be another
privateer. 'Twouldn't
be
th' first time we have chased
our own flag."

 
          
 
Ninnes and Langston were down among the crew
giving orders which set the men up at the rail like pit-dogs slavering to get
at the enemy. And under deck there seemed to be some sort of activity behind
the empty gun ports.

 
          
 
"A lobster!"
Fogler shouted.

 
          
 
The British Jack whipped out in the smart
breeze which was bringing the Retaliation down upon her prey.

 
          
 
"Change colors." Crofts might have
been commenting on the fairness of the weather.

 
          
 
At the sight of the rippling stars and stripes
the other ship fired—an ill-aimed and ragged broadside— the shots skipping the
waves pebble-wise, well out of range. Fogler spat over the rail, his contempt
for such gunnery too deep for words.

 
          
 
"Mr. Lyon," Fitz turned obediently
to face the Captain, "
pick
me off that helmsman."

 
          
 
Almost automatically Fitz's rifle came up and
he squinted against the sunlight on the waves, trying to align his sights
against the small figure in the red and white jersey. The sharp crack of his
fire was swallowed up in the heavier boom of a second broadside from the enemy.
And, for the first time, Fitz felt the shock of solid shot hitting wood. But
the red and white figure was no longer at his post, and the ship across the
water fell away from its course.

 
          
 
"Ahoy there!"
Crofts himself jumped to the rail and stood, trumpet in hand, exposed to fire.
"Do you strike or do we board?"

 
          
 
At this cue the seamen in the privateer set up
a shout which must have carried well across the water. The interval of waiting
which followed seemed years long and then—to Fitz's utter astonishment—the
British Jack began to flutter down.

 
          
 
"What the " he was beginning when
Fogler interrupted.

 
          
 
"Take a look down along
th
' ports, sir. That lobster ain't as chicken-livered as
you'd think."

 
          
 
"But we haven't any guns!"

 
          
 
"No? Well, he
ain't
knowin'
that. Take a look, sir."

 
          
 
Fitz moved up to a vantage point and looked.
From the open gunports below poked the snub noses of a wicked battery. But
there was something odd about them, and when Fitz studied he could see that the
guns of the Retaliation were wood. It was easy enough now to understand Crofts'
bluff. The wooden guns needed no men to serve them, so the crews had been
mustered on deck as a stern threat of an overwhelmingly large boarding party. A
prudent commander who did not want to lose half his complement dead and wounded
might do just as this opponent had done.

 
          
 
This first prize was not a rich one. A Tory
privateer out of
New York
—the Spitfire—she carried no cargo. But her guns, transshipped to the
Retaliation, set Matthews to purring for once in his salt-encrusted life and
satisfied even the master gunners.

 
          
 
Transshipping the guns was, as Fitz and the
marines and the rest of the crew
discovered,
a
tortuous process. Officers and men alike hauled on the ropes and put shoulders
to it wherever necessary. When the last gleaming cylinder was in place, Fitz
made his way to
Watts
' domain to beg salve for a raw rope-burn.

 
          
 
The surgeon greeted him with amusement.
"Your first battle wound—you should cherish it." He rubbed oily stuff
across the tender skin in what Fitz considered much too cheerful and vigorous a
fashion. "Keep that covered for a day or so and you'll survive, my boy.
We're a lucky ship—no broken arms or smashed legs out of this."