The Saintly Buccaneer Page 8

  “Why have you come here, Mr. Greene?” Winslow inquired.

  “I would like to settle the matter in a civilized way, sir.” Greene stood straight, his face revealing no weakness as he put the matter into words. “I do not believe in duels, and if an apology will satisfy thy son, I will make it.”

  “Charles!” Dorcas Winslow started to her feet, her face distorted with rage, and rushed to stand before Dan and Charity, lifting her hand in a gesture of accusation. “How can you let that person into our home?”

  She would have said more, her voice on the verge of a scream, but Winslow commanded sharply, “Dorcas, please leave the room!”

  With a baleful glance at her husband, she ran out of the room weeping.

  “I apologize for my wife, but there is some cause.”

  “Certainly, Mr. Winslow. These things are always unpleasant,” Dan replied quickly. “I might add that thy nephew, Nathan, is my good friend, and thy brother, Major Winslow, is a man of whom I cannot speak too highly. That is why I am willing to apologize—even though there was provocation.”

  Winslow stared at the honest face of Dan Greene and then he walked to the window and stared out at the trees without a word. Dan and Charity exchanged glances, mystified. After a lengthy silence, Winslow spoke without turning. “I appreciate your generosity, sir—but it is no longer a matter of importance.”

  “But—Mr. Winslow, we must settle this matter!”

  “There is nothing to settle, Mr. Greene.” Winslow turned, and grief lined his face. “My son is dead.”

  The stark words hit like a blow, and when neither visitor spoke, Winslow added, “Three days after your quarrel, Paul went to New York. He disappeared, and no trace of him can be found.”

  “Mr. Winslow,” Charity offered hopefully, “could he have been taken in the press—for the British Navy? I’ve heard they’re impressing whomever they can get.”

  “That was my first thought,” Winslow nodded. “But it was not the press. I have strong connections in England—particularly with the Navy. A post rank investigation was made, and my son was not taken in the press. The only other explanation is that he was murdered for his money and his jewelry.”

  “I hope not, Mr. Winslow,” Greene expressed compassionately.

  “There is no other answer.” Charles Winslow stared woodenly at the floor and said quietly, “My son was last seen in a notorious brothel on the waterfront—in the worst district. He was drunk—as usual—and the authorities tell me that more than one man has been murdered, stripped, and thrown into the sea there.”

  “Sir, may I—?”

  “I bid you good day.” Winslow’s face broke and he left the room abruptly, leaving them standing alone.

  “We’d better go,” Dan suggested. They made their way to the front door and left without another word. Standing beside the buggy, Charity exclaimed, “Such a waste! Such a waste!”

  Dan nodded slowly, and said painfully, “He was a Winslow, Charity. I wonder how men of the same blood can be so different?”

  There was no answer, and after helping her into the buggy and taking the reins, he drove slowly away from the magnificent home of the Winslows of Boston.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE NEPTUNE

  His Majesty’s ship Neptune, with thirty-two guns, slipped bow-first into the green trough between two steep waves, seeming to burrow into the cold brine like a huge mole tunneling into loam. Clarence Langley, first lieutenant, had not regained his sea legs. He was thrown forward and would have sprawled on the deck if Angus Burns, the second lieutenant, had not grabbed his arm and hauled him upright.

  Langley cursed under his breath, and was rebuked instantly by the other. “Better give thanks to God ye didn’t fall, Langley. If He hadna put me here, ye’d have made a pretty sight fallin’ like a landlubber in full view o’ the crew.” Burns was a small man, slight in build and not over five six. He spoke with the thick burr of Scotland, and he would have been attractive except that a bout of scurvy off the African coast had cost him many of his teeth. He was religious to the bone, holding to the iron-forged, hyper-Calvinistic creed of his fathers, convinced that God’s hand was in everything, that all of them were playing out roles that Jehovah had long ago written out in fine detail.

  Langley opened his mouth to argue angrily, but casting a quick look at Burns’s dour face, laughed and gave it up. “I’d as soon argue with the sun, as you, Angus.” He clapped a hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, and there was affection in his eyes as he added, “Well, I’m glad that God put you here to keep me from making a clumsy oaf of myself before the crew. This is the only decent uniform I’ve got—nothing fit to wear to the captain’s table. I look like a scarecrow!”

  Burns grunted, taking in the tall form of the first lieutenant, noting the neat brown hair and regular features. The Scotsman placed no value on outer appearance, and it was Langley’s seamanship and honesty that drew him rather than his dashing appearance. He shrugged, glanced down at his own worn dress uniform, not caring one pin if the captain would be impressed with it or not, but he realized that Langley’s mind was on the ladies who would dine with them. He said, “I see nae sense in hauling females on this ship. It’s nae guid practice.”

  “Haven’t you heard why they’re on board, Angus? Scuttlebutt is that the daughter got into a torrid romance in New York with some rotter, and Captain Rommey hauled her aboard to break the thing off.”

  “It’ll come to nae guid,” Burns warned.

  Langley stopped and spoke to a thick-chested sailor who was passing. “You’ve got all the new men out, Whitefield?”

  “Yes, sir—’cept him I told you ’bout.” Enoch Whitefield was a slight man of thirty. He was the best gunner in the fleet, some said, and was so effective with new hands that Langley often ordered him to take charge of them until they got their heads straight.

  “What’s wrong with him? Can’t be drunk this long!”

  “No, sir. He mighta been drunk, but he got some kind of bad bust in the head. Left side’s all swelled up. My guess is he tried to fight it out with the press gang and they laid into ’im with a club. Thing is, he got hit right on top of a right fresh cut—a bad one all stitched up.”

  “One of the pressed men?” Burns asked.

  Whitefield nodded his head.

  Burns grunted dourly, “I’ve nae confidence in any o’ that breed!”

  Langley hesitated, then stated, “I’ll have the doctor take a look at him, Whitefield.”

  “Yes, sir,” Whitefield returned, saying no more, but both officers caught the sudden flash of mistrust that flickered in the gunner’s eyes. None of the crew wanted anything to do with the ship’s surgeon; for that matter, neither did either of the officers, but it would not do to let a seaman hear them say so.

  “We’d best hurry, Lieutenant Langley,” Burns urged. “Captain Rommey’s nae a man to keep waitin’.”

  “Certainly!” As the two men hurried along toward the stern, both of them were searching the ship surreptitiously. The Neptune had been refitted in Southampton, brought to America by a skeleton crew—only the officers and a few experienced hands on board. The blockade that stretched along the eastern coast was thin—not nearly tight enough to pin the rebellious Colonists inside, and King George chose to ignore the fact that England had other commitments for the Royal Navy. The Naval Office was sending out anything that would float, and the abysmal conditions which the average seaman lived under in the fighting ships of England enticed few men to join the navy. The long, drawn-out wars had bled the service white, and both officers knew, as they carefully noted the hands, that it would not be an easy task to whip the crew into fighting trim.

  The ship itself, the Neptune, was much more impressive than her crew. One hundred and thirty feet long on her gun deck, and built of good English oak, she was the picture of a shipbuilder’s art. She had cost nearly fourteen thousand pounds, and being a frigate, was well worth it. Frigates were meant for speed and hit-a
nd-run fighting. They were fast enough to catch any fighting ship, and the Neptune’s thirtytwo guns gave her power enough to take on any vessel except a ship of the line.

  The two lieutenants moved swiftly toward the poop deck, descending the steep steps quickly to the great cabin. Langley knocked firmly on the oak door. “Come in!” the captain’s voice sounded. Langley opened the door and stepped inside, closely followed by Burns.

  Captain William Rommey was standing by the stern windows, his feet firmly planted against the ship’s motion. He was a bulky man in his early fifties, square of face and blunt of feature. His mouth was very wide, but thin and pressed together in a habitual expression of suppressed anger. There was a pugnacious air about him, his heavy chin thrusting forward, his body constantly shifting as if seeking to move against a foe, the restless pale blue eyes now falling on the two officers, searching them as for some unconfessed fault.

  “Sit down, gentlemen,” he rasped, motioning with his hand. “I was about to send a search party for you.” He ignored their apology and moved to the table. “The food is probably cold,” he complained.

  The great cabin was the most ornate area of the Neptune. The large stern windows rose almost to the ceiling, allowing the reddish gleams of the sinking sun to filter through, tinting everything with a warm rosy glow. The bench seat around the stern was covered with rich green leather; Rommey’s desk, made out of finely carved mahogany, stood against the starboard bulkhead; and a French-made post bed occupied the space on the port side. Beside the bed was a large walnut bookcase filled to overflowing with expensive leather-bound books; the captain was a great reader. The large table had been extended in order to accommodate the party, and except for the two sixteen-pound guns extending from their ports into the cabin, it looked very much like a fine room in a mansion on shore.

  It was typical of the two men as they seated themselves at the table that Langley began to talk while Burns sat silently, examining the faces of the others. He gave only a glance to Dr. Erich Mann, a burly German of fifty with a bald head, a round face, and small piggish eyes; there was nothing there to interest Burns. He noted, not for the first time, the butcher’s hands that were unsteady now—the result of too much wine. Sooner or later, Burns knew, Mann would inform them all that it was his last voyage, that he would leave the ship and take up a private practice so that he could live like a gentleman. But the private practice, they all realized, would never be, for he was an incompetent, drunken boor, and only men who were helpless—such as seamen in the navy—would let him treat them.

  Robert Baxter, the debonair captain of marines, was a different story. He was highly intelligent, shoulders always squared, and his uniforms molded around his limbs like wax. He spoke in short, clipped sentences. His marines were his whole life, although he hardly ever seemed to utter much in the way of orders. His massive sergeant, Potter, took care of the close contact with the men.

  Burns had little respect for Captain Baxter, for the marine was an atheist, and the Scot thought that any man who held such a view was mentally defective. He gave a quick glance at the three midshipmen, a hulking, bully-faced seventeen-year-old named Rackam, a sharp-featured individual named Symmes, and one small, undersized lad named Arthur Pink. Pink was going to be a problem, Burns realized, for he was not only sickly but totally unfit for life at sea. His relatives no doubt had shuffled him off to the navy to get rid of him.

  That left the two women—and the captain’s wife, though highly decorative, was not a matter for much speculation. She was an attractive woman of about fifty, with a gorgeous head of auburn hair, a pair of beautiful eyes—bright but unintelligent—and a languid manner that never seemed to change. She had the incredible ability to sew for eight hours at a stretch (Angus had discovered on the voyage from England), and he wondered at the vacuity of mind that could concentrate on the trivial for such periods. She had long ago lost any force of influence (if she ever had any) with her husband and her daughter. To Burns, she seemed like an attractive life-sized doll.

  If Captain Rommey’s wife was insipid, his daughter lived as a sharp contrast—for Blanche Rommey was a heady article, indeed! Even the dour Burns could not keep from being somewhat overwhelmed by the girl, and he let his eyes rest on her as she carried on a spirited conversation with Langley over a play they had seen in London.

  Tall, with a beautiful figure, Blanche Rommey was one of the most alive human beings Burns had ever seen. Her face was not pretty, but it was highly mobile, and her eyes moved constantly—huge eyes, almond-shaped, and blue as the sea off the coast appears at times. Her mouth was well shaped, but too wide and full for real beauty, and her high cheekbones were just a shade too high for the perfect proportion. She was, Burns realized, overdone somehow, in a way that was compelling and made mere beauty of no moment.

  Even though the slight second lieutenant had very limited experiences with women, he discerned immediately something predatory about the girl. She was conscious of men, interested in them, and had no doubt for a long time drawn many with her almost overwhelming feminine presence. Langley was flattered by her attention, but Burns knew instinctively that Blanche Rommey was not really interested in the lieutenant. It was simply impossible for her to do other than to fix her attention on the most available man in her sphere, as she was doing now—but if a more interesting or challenging one walked through the door, poor Langley would be dropped at once like a toy no longer desirable.

  “Better enjoy this fresh meat,” Rommey offered as the steward placed platters of fresh beef and a saddle of ham on the table. “After it’s gone we may be eating salt pork until we get sick of it.”

  Baxter looked up and asked languidly, “We’ll not be in touch with the mainland, then?” He cut a geometrically perfect square of beef, examined it, then greedily stuck it into his mouth. “I rather expected we’d be a part of the American blockade.”

  “We’ll be doing a little more than that,” Rommey grunted, then looked up with a smile on his thin lips, adding, “Better get your gun crews trained as quickly as possible.”

  “I thought we were at peace with the world—except for these rebels,” Blanche commented. “Whom do you intend to fight?”

  Rommey grinned at her and then shot a quick look at his officers. There was a rebuke in his manner as he growled, “I rather expected my first officer would ask that question.”

  “I didn’t want to be impertinent, sir,” Langley said quickly, his face reddening at the reprimand.

  “I don’t expect my officers to stand on ceremony when there’s a matter of tactics involved, Mr. Langley.” This remark made the face of the first lieutenant grow even more rosy, for he knew—as did Burns—that Captain Rommey was not at all satisfied that his second in command had the aggressive character required of the first lieutenant of a fighting ship. Burns had some of the same apprehension, for he had noted, even in the short time they had served together, that Langley tended to lean more on the judgment of others and was reluctant to drive the crew. It was only a sign, but in the midst of battle when the heavens were falling, one wanted to know that the first lieutenant was capable of instant and sometimes even reckless decisions.

  Burns spoke up hurriedly in an attempt to give Langley time to regain his composure. “If it’s action right away, sir, we’d be hard put to hold our own. The gun crews are raw, as ye weel know.”

  “Of course, Lieutenant Burns. We have some time to shake them down, make seamen out of them. I doubt if we’ll go into action tomorrow, but sooner or later we’ll have to whip the Frenchies again.”

  “I thought that was taken care of in the war, Father,” Blanche queried. She referred to the Seven Years War, which had ended in 1763. “I thought Admiral Hawke sank the entire French fleet.”

  “Would God he had!” Rommey said. He took a huge bite of beef, chewed it thoughtfully, and then began to give a lecture—which was his way. “Hawke did defeat the French. I commanded the Dominant in that action, you remember? By Harry, w
e put them to rout!” He slammed the table and his eyes glowed with the memory, but then he grimaced and added, “We had our chance, and we made the Frenchies renounce to England all Canada and the Ohio Valley, and we routed the Dons out of business in the War of Spanish Succession.”

  “Well, who’s left to fight, then?” Blanche asked impudently. She smiled across the table, her blue eyes catching the lights of the candles, giving her a feline look. “You can’t mean to fight the red Indians, can you?”

  Langley spoke up, attempting to regain some ground with his captain. “I suppose you think we’ll have to fight the French again, sir?”

  “Blast it! Of course we’ll have to put them down again!” Rommey’s craggy face grew grim, and he almost tipped the wine glasses as he threw his hands up in disgust. “Our intelligence tells us that the French have eighty first-class ships of the line, and Spain has sixty more. England has only a hundred fifty, and they’re scattered all over the world from Calcutta to Jamaica, not to mention our fleet in the blockade.”

  Burns added quietly, “And the Frenchies have been longin’ fer revenge after the trouncin’ they got in ’63.”

  “Right you are, sir—and this insurrection is just the opportunity they’ve been looking for.” Rommey gritted his teeth. “It may not come for a time—but sooner or later we’ll be forced to take the French on again. When that time comes, I want the Neptune to be the best fighting ship carrying the British flag—the best!”

  “Ach! It will not be easy, my Captain.” Dr. Mann belched and took a tremendous draught of wine, then wiped his mouth with his napkin and nodded. “Make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, you cannot—and these pressed men will not make a crew. The press gang must have scraped bottom—the scourings of the earth! Half of them have the pox, all of them are drunks, and there’s not a drop of honorable blood in the lot!”