Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (6 page)

 
          
 
Then Fitz noticed for the first time the sand
spread on the decking and, with a shiver, glimpsed the charcoal brazier pushed
to one side, and the cruel array of instruments laid out on a towel. His
imagination saw what this cockpit might have been like had one of those
broadsides struck home on the Retaliation.
Watts
began to pack away his unnecessary
supplies.

 
          
 
"Yes, we're lucky," he repeated.
"What little knowledge I possess shall doubtless rust away before we reach
home port again. I shall be reduced to reading Dr. Jones' Plain Remarks on
Wounds and Fractures' to keep the fine points of my trade in mind."

 
          
 
But Fitz was thinking of something else.

 
          
 
"What about those on board the
Spitfire?"

 
          
 
Watts
had
gone aboard her with the first party. No prudent captain ever took the chance
of letting his men board a plague-ridden ship.

 
          
 
"One holed shoulder," the surgeon
dropped the last of his instruments into their case, "which I hear is your
contribution to the battle, Mr. Lyon."

 
          
 
Fitz ran a tongue-tip over lips which suddenly
seemed too dry. That few seconds with the rifle had not stayed in his mind
during the past hours—he hardly remembered that he had obeyed Crofts' order
without question. But, what if his opposite number on board the Spitfire had
been as quick? Why he might be wriggling now under
Watts
' probe.

 
          
 
"One doesn't make an omelet," the
surgeon's cool voice continued, "without smashing eggs. And when one goes
into battle the usual result is bloodshed-more or less."

 
          
 
Fitz nodded dumbly.

 
          
 
"You were on your way to join the army, I
believe, Mr. Lyon, when our Mr. Ninnes diverted your attention? The common
employment of the army is the firing of guns and the blowing of holes through
one's enemy as neatly and speedily as possible—lest he chance to serve you in
the same grisly fashion."

 
          
 
"All right!"
Fitz brought his teeth together. "You've made your point, Dr. Watts!"

 
          
 
"And I am not to twist a knife in a green
wound?
Very well, sir.
But you need not worry. Reuben
Haskins is going to survive your attention and will live to fight another day.
D'you
know
,
Lyon
,"
Watts
seated himself on the edge of a chest,
"at times you surprise me. I compliment myself on my judgment of men.

 
          
 
A doctor is no good if he cannot read
character—that ability is one of his tools, he has to see into his patient.
But, I repeat, you surprise me. Underneath that neat, hard husk which you've
been at such pains to cultivate you've a curiously thin skin. You should study
our good Lieutenant Ninnes as a
model "

 
          
 
"Study Ninnes!"
Fitz was not only shocked but hotly resentful.

 
          
 
"Why not?
I am
afraid you are, my poor boy, a perfectionist of sorts, always grasping for the
unobtainable. Well, Ninnes is a fighting machine of excellent quality and
durability, carrying out his duties with neatness and dispatch—and very seldom
at fault.

 
          
 
"He has risen to his present sphere of
control by the work of his own calloused hands, too, winning from deck to
quarter-deck without favor or backing—and in a remarkably few years. If this
endless war continues to drag along, Lieutenant Ninnes, in a year or so, will
either command his own ship or he will be dead. And I would not wager against
you on that. He knows what he wants and he is single-heartedly pursuing that
goal."

 
          
 
"And I should study him?"

 
          
 
"I take it you have set yourself some
goal. What do you think you want,
Lyon
?"

 
          
 
Fitz's faint frown of puzzlement deepened. For
the first time since that night in the Eagle, he really considered the future.
What did he want? A week or so ago he would have said at once a commission in
the Maryland Line, a chance to answer with action some of the sly insinuations
he had been forced to swallow at Fairleigh, and eventually perhaps to ride his
own fields, build his own manor. A week ago he could have answered that
question at once. But now he hesitated.

 
          
 
"You see,"
Watts
prodded, "you don't honestly know.
Ninnes does."

 
          
 
"Well, what is your plan for the
future?" Fitz countered to hide his uncertainty.

 
          
 
"If and when,"
Watts
put his finger tips together and regarded
Fitz over them with a mock-judicial squint, "
when
and if the war ends I shall do some traveling. There are doctors in
Europe
who have forgotten more than our best pill
rollers ever knew. Some of them might be persuaded to share a few crumbs of
their wisdom. Only, such traveling and study demand a full
purse
"

 
          
 
"So you go a-
privateering
"

 
          
 
"So I go a-privateering. Also, surgery
under the difficulties presented in this cockpit has much to teach. There is
something strange about hot wine now,"
Watts
had begun to think aloud. "Why does a
wound heal cleaner if the instruments are laid in hot wine before one uses
them? And green fractures—someday we'll learn how to save a limb in spite of
splintered bones."

 
          
 
Fitz yawned. The misused muscles in his back
and shoulders were aching terribly. If Biggs were not so duty-minded he might
be able to get a little sleep. He held up his bandaged hand.

 
          
 
"Thanks for the patching, sir."

 
          
 
"Take care to keep it covered. If you
give that a second scrape it may not heal well."

 
          
 
"I take it that we don't manhandle guns
every day in the week."

 
          
 
"No. Just often enough to keep down the
hog-fat on all of you,"
Watts
flung
the last word after him.

 
          
 
The Spitfire went off manned by a prize crew,
prisoners under hatches, hoping to dodge the blockading British frigates and
win safety up the bay. And at mess there were calculations as to the amount of
prize money to be expected after her safe arrival in an American port.

 
          
 
"A tidy sum," Matthews announced,
"will set a man up in his own ship after the war."

 
          
 
"For what, the coasting trade?"
asked Langston.

 
          
 
The New Englander shook his head.
"Coastin' trade is for 'em that likes it. Me, I'm thinkin' o' tea an'
China
seas."

 
          
 
"You'll need swift sailers for the tea
trade,"
Watts
struck in. "Tea spoils easy. And the
voyage to
China
is no fortnight jaunt."

 
          
 
"The Britishers now—they build their
India
merchantmen for cargo carrying,"
Langston mused. "Broad in the beam as an old sow and wallow along like a
cart horse. They can plan on a high rate of spoilage and still show profit. But
with a swift sailer you could carry less and still be ahead in the game."

 
          
 
"A ship such as this
one?"
Fitz asked. "But could anyone risk a voyage halfway
around the world in a Baltimore Clipper? I've heard of storms in the far south
which would smash us to bits with one gust."

 
          
 
"True enough," Matthews agreed.
"No, this old lady was not made for
th
'
China
seas. But that ain't a-sayhV she mightn't
have her some daughters comin' after her—larger but still showin'
all their
dam's speed. You'll live t' see 'em."

 
          
 
"And sail 'em!" Langston's voice
came a little thickly through a mouthful of salt pork.

 
          
 
"An' sail 'em!" Matthews echoed.

 
          
 
Fitz shook his head, "You do not tempt
me. But are you so sure that we shall be able to take the
China
trade after the war? What of the French and
the Spanish? They may court us now, but that is because we are baiting their
old enemy. If we win, that will put another face on the matter."

 
          
 
"
France
," Langston answered. "Perhaps we
may have some trouble with
France
. But she is not a trading nation. We are.
And
Spain
is fast wearing out. Her great days are behind her. I think that we
shall face only Dne rival—
England
."

 
          
 
"Then it behooves us," Fitz sipped
his wine, "to remove as many British ships as possible from active duty and
pave our way to a bright
future "
He gulped and
choked. The sour wine rose of its own accord and filled his nostrils as well as
his mouth. His fellow officers across the table were going up as he slid back
down.

 
          
 
"What's to
do "
he began but was shoved aside in the stampede for the door and had to pull
himself along by handholds as he won out. The Retaliation was bucking like an
unbroken horse, rising and falling in sickening swoops.

 
          
 
The sky which had been bright enough when he
had gone below was stark gray, drifts of black clouds gathering, and the
waves
flung spray high enough to wet down the sails. Fitz
clung to the nearest rail and wondered if wood, even sheathed with copper,
could withstand such battering by the water. There was a sort of ordered
confusion on deck, and men clawed their way aloft when it seemed that every
toss of the ship would spill them out into that wilderness of water from which
there could be no possible return.

 
          
 
He could hear, even above the roar of the
wind, Crofts' shouted orders and the hoarse cries of the other officers. Then
someone seized him by the shoulder and shook him out of the dizzy whirl of the
pitching.

 
          
 
"Get below!" He was given a hearty
shove to help enforce that order and he found Biggs before him in their
quarters.

 
          
 
Fitz braced himself against a beam.
"What's to do?" For the second time he asked that question, trying to
outscream the lashing wind and the creaking of tortured wood.

 
          
 
"Storm,” replied Biggs unnecessarily.
"
We stay put here, 'less they rouse us out to man
th
' pumps. We're no use aloft an' can only get in
th
' way. Best try for some sleep. Pumpin' ain't th' easiest
job in th' world."