"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."
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 gu
ns 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."
By extraordinary contortions Fitz managed to get into his hammock. But sleep was impossible. The motion of the ship became that of a barrel-churn, threatening to dash them against its walls. He had no idea (how much later it was when someone thrust in a wet head and ordered them out; he followed Biggs as the marine lieutenant hustled along the reeling, vomiting line of his men to the pumps.
And there Fitz swung into the rhythm of up and down, up and down, long before a faint grayish light :rept out to show them the nature of the machines they labored at. His clothes were plastered to him by a sort of salty glue from the sea water, and his lashes were sealed by it to his cheeks. Both his hands and arms were numb and he moved only to the swing of the pump. Fogler loomed up in the dusky light.
"Here be th' relief, sir. Give over t' th' boys now!”
But Fitz remained stupidly where he was until someone elbowed him aside, and he found himself with langing hands watching another line of men at work. Fogler caught his arm and turned him around as if le were a wooden puppet.
"Best get below, sir. Rub yourself down like an' take a swig o' th' right stuff int' warm yer belly. 'Tis cruel cold."
Perhaps the sergeant propelled him there, perhaps his own numb feet carried him; Fitz had no clear memory of how he reached his cabin. But once there he summoned sufficient energy to strip off his salt-encrusted clothing and towel himself with one of the blankets. He was pulling on a dry shirt when Biggs bumped in, caught a hammock square in the face and swore bitterly.
The marine lieutenant was as soaked as Fitz had been, and his face was pinched blue with cold. When he attempted to pull off his coat his hands shook uncontrollably and tears of fatigue and pain cut through the salt stains about his bloodshot eyes. Fitz pushed the fumbling hands aside and plucked his superior officer out of the wet wool and linen, using a second blanket to rub circulation back into the other's shivering body.
"Rum " Biggs forced out the word. "Top tray . . . chest . . ."
Fitz found the squat bottle. But on his first attempt to drink, Biggs spilt more across his chin than he got between his chattering teeth. A second gulp made him sputter, and then he forced the bottle on Fitz who choked and gagged as liquid fire trailed down his throat and came to full blaze in the pit of his stomach.
"When do we founder?" Fitz's tongue was limber enough now to shape words.
"Not yet," Biggs had recovered enough to start pawing through his chest for fresh clothing. "Though only the Good Lord knows where we are. Matthews was right when he said this ship wasn't built for th' north seas. She's shipped half o' 'em down her gullet already."
Fitz tried to stretch the kinks out of his aching shoulders. "Yes, and we've pumped 'em all out again! I'll warrant I've sprung all my muscles."
"Be glad you've still got 'em t' spring," snapped Biggs. "Under any other master you might well be shark food by now!"
4
A Capture for Every Gun
Where we fell in with a British ship,
Bound homeward from the Main;
We gave her two bow-chasers,
And she returned the same.
—cruise of the Fair American
But the crew of the Retaliation were far from becoming fish-fodder. When Fitz came back on deck the sun greeted him, lighting a scene of feverish activity as the sailors set about repairing storm damage. Waves had shrunk from mountainous reaches to reasonable swells, and a circle of white birds dipped and screamed above the mainmast.
Fogler stood by the pumps, watching the outflow with a judicious and experienced eye. As Fitz joined him the sergeant glanced up.
"She's a stout-bottomed piece, sir, that she is! Wi' all that batterin' she's started nary a seam. Th' Cap'n, he knows how t' pick a ship, he does!"
"How long do we keep at the pumps then?" Fitz wanted to know.
" 'Til we lighten her t' th' bilges, sir. She answers a right smart quicker now than she did even a half hour ago. We're past th' worst."
The wind which curled around their bodies lacked the icy lash which it had cracked during the storm. It was fresh, almost balmy, against Fitz's peeling and salt-sore skin. He noted alongside in
the water trails of brown hairy weed which laced across the deep green-blue of the waves with the grace of a horse's blowing mane.
Fogler pointed to it. "That says we're off course fer sure, sir. Southward. That there's gulf weed afloatin' free. They say as how somewheres off th' islands there's a kinda land o' it what draws t' it ships an' holds 'em tight 'til Judgment Day. It's queer stuff, right enough, wi' all sorts o' fish an' crabs an' such like a-livin' in it."
The word "crabs" awoke certain memories dear to the stomach of any Marylander. For the first time in a great many hours Fitz recognized the empty ache under the curve of his breast bone for what it was—the pangs of honest hunger. And at the same time the thought of the ever-present salt pork aroused in him real revulsion.
"Can one fish overside?" he asked Fogler.
"You can try, sir. Sometimes if a man be quick enough he can git him a fish or two."
"Is it fishing now?" Watts had come up and was regarding the drifting weed with a critical eye. "You are a sportsman then, Mr. Lyons?"
"I'm hungry," returned Fitz flatly. "Do we have lines and hooks on board?"
Watts nodded. "I think I shall join you. And, Sergeant, are you minded to make one of the party? A bit of fish would be most tasty."
Fogler touched the cocked brim of his hat. "Aye, aye, sir. Where d'you favor castin'—from th' stern?"
Watts looked again at the weed and then at the activity around them. "That would seem wisest—'less we wish a mess of Sargasso weed or to be thumped on the head with loose tackle."
The lines and hooks which Fogler brought were outsize. But when Fitz commented on that, his companions laughed and the doctor said:
“Gad, man, you're not tickling a stream trout now. Be thankful if your line holds when you do snare one of the monsters which lurk here. Yes, Sergeant, that is a morsel any sea creature should relish. Over with it, man, before I send my breakfast with it as a free contribution!"