"Thank you for those kind words." The voice came out of the dark room behind them where they had left the candles unlighted.
Ninnes slewed around with a little cry. But Fitz was already on his feet as the newcomer struck light and put it to the nearest wick on the table.
"Welcome home," Watts had not moved from his perch on the ledge. "If you've had a dry ride, both these young Ganymedes are alert to cherish you. It isn't the nectar of the Gods, but it may wash down some of the road dust "
Fitz poured wine into the glass Ninnes produced and set it down at Crofts' hand. The Captain was powdered with fine white dust which clung to his face and hair and filmed his coat. He raised one eyebrow at the sight of the marine, but he drank instead of asking questions until he set down an empty glass and sighed gustily.
Watts left his window and came lounging over to the table. With professional skill he stooped, unfastened Crofts' coat, eased him out of it and unhooked the Captain's tight stock.
"Cherish me indeed," Crofts smiled at them win-ningly. "Because I've news, boys—we've a ship to put under us again!"
"What kind—her name—where is she "
At the rain of questions from the three of them Crofts shook his head and looked around for the bottle.
"She's a brig at Bordeaux—the Eastern Queen— brought in as a prize two months ago. That's all I know. For the rest—we shall have to do the best we can. Matthews posted straight down to her from Paris while I came here for you. Ninnes, you get together the men you have selected. Watts, how about supplies? Can we ship them coastwise on one of these fishing smacks? And Lyon," he turned to Fitz, "I promised you a full lieutenancy in the marines. It's yours now for the taking if you have a mind to it!"
Fitz glanced from one face to another of the three gathered in the candlelight.
Ninnes, once his enemy, now—well, half his friend.
They had come to change their estimates of each other during those long hot days in St. Malo—learning that each had strengths the other lacked.
And Watts—Dr. Watts was a man he would always be proud to serve with. He wanted nothing better in life than to be able to meet the surgeon's eyes full and square always.
That brought him to Crofts. The Captain's striking good looks were wilted by fatigue, there were lines and shadows carved in the face which had seemed almost too young when he had first sighted it in Baltimore. Crofts and his luck, his belief in himself and what he could accomplish—his confidence which would draw other men after him all his life—Crofts the born leader, Crofts whom he could not withstand now—nor did he wish to.
He did not doubt that the brig Eastern Queen was a leaky tub which would set them all to cursing her unhandiness in sailing. He did not doubt that he would have to drill and curse raw recruits into passable marines in too short a time, that he would sweat and ache and addle his wits with matters he did not himself understand. He did not doubt that Crofts would sail them all straight into the lion's open jaws and expect them to win free again with half the creature's fangs for loot. He did not doubt that the future had dark patches enough to bring misgivings to all of them— in spite of their belief in their luck. Certainly, all these things were true, as true as the candle flame which brought those three faces to life before him.
His hand touched his forehead in proper salute.
He made his choice, completely and willingly, at last. "Marine come aboard, sir!"
Andre Norton, Yankee Privateer
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