Yankee Privateer Page 2

  "You've ridden far." That was a statement rather than a question as Fitz came to hold cold-stiffened hands to the heat of the hearth blaze.

  "Some distance, sir. I have been on the road two days." Fitz loosened the throat thongs of his hunting smock. He wore no stock, and the linen shirt underneath clung to his damp skin.

  Crofts shivered in sympathy. "And in beastly weather. The back roads must be mud sinks!"

  "Where they are not bottomless wallows," agreed Fitz heartily.

  Slightly toasted, he discovered that he now had energy enough to wash in the basin of tepid water a maid had brought in. As he wiped his hands on the towel he found Crofts at his elbow with a steaming tankard.

  "With this under your belt, you'll even be willing to face that mud again, sir."

  Fitz sniffed at the fumes. "Oh, and with a song on my lips into the bargain, no doubt?"

  He swallowed and gasped. "What did mine host dump into that now—the full contents of his pepper box?"

  The Captain nodded solemnly. " 'Tis an old family recipe—or so he informed me. I think the base must be gunpowder."

  "Then, should I go off like a nine-pounder, think nothing of it! But, can that be ham I see?" Fitz watched hungrily as Crofts, taking the hint, set to work with a carving knife.

  The Captain had sense enough not to make light conversation and so delay the serious business of eating. It was not until Fitz reached the stage of dallying with biscuits and cheese that his table mate pushed back his chair and spoke.

  "You are in Baltimore on business, Mr. Lyon?"

  "On the business of getting transportation north, Captain." Fitz was so content that he readily answered this question which he might have resented an hour earlier. "It is my intention to take ship to the Head of the Elk and then go overland to join the army.”

  "Oh, then you are returning from leave?"

  "No," Fitz was curt. "Heretofore I have been otherwise engaged."

  "Not by your own choice, I take it?"

  Fitz watched the yellow flames flicker against the sooty brick of the fireplace. He was tired, so very tired. All the bitterness which had burned in him for years, all the tension of the past two days, tore at his habitual reticence. He was a fencer who could no longer hold his foil at guard. He did not try to reason what there was about Daniel Crofts that could drag words out of him—but they simply spilled over, boiled out, tearing his old caution to rags.

  "My father," he addressed the fire, "was an officer of the King. He died on the Plains of Abraham before Quebec in the French Wars. My mother had married him against the wishes of her family, and his people never admitted the marriage at all, for she was a colonial and beneath their notice.

  "Her sister gave her shelter at Fairleigh Manor. I grew up there, not as a son of the house, of course, though my aunt was always kind to me. When the war began my uncle concerned himself with the Assembly—now he is a member of Congress. He is much interested in public affairs. My cousins were of an age to join the army and they did so. One is now a major in the Maryland Line, the other has just been invalided out of the service."

  "But you stayed at the Manor?"

  "In trying to be useful in return for my daily bread I had learned my trade as bailiff too well. Someone had to oversee the planting, and my aunt could not do it. My mother had long since withdrawn into a world of her own; she died of a fever last year. I did what I could to keep Fairleigh running. It was hard. Half our market was gone. We grew wheat, and before the war Ireland took our crop for cash. Now we sell to the army for promises. . . .

  "A month ago my cousin returned home. His wounds will keep him from active duty, and so he has assumed the duties of bailiff. My presence was no longer necessary "

  Fitz willed himself not to remember that final interview with Ralph. That night the shell he had so painfully grown to protect himself from cousinly spite and shafts of wit had not been strong enough. Ralph had had ample revenge for the jealousy he had apparently long cherished.

  "So now you go to join the army?"

  "Yes. I have hopes of an ensign's commission in the line. My cousin Francis owes me that much."

  "Have you ever thought of going to sea?"

  Fitz shook his head. He pushed back a little, out of the direct light of the fire, and wriggled uncomfortably in his chair. Lord, how he had let his tongue run. Why? Why? He must have been moonstruck!

  "I'm a landsman. I'd be more hindrance than help on shipboard. Tomorrow I'll head north for Gists' command."

  "And tomorrow, if luck does not desert me, I'll be halfway down the bay," mused the Captain.

  Fitz welcomed the change of subject. "The navy's sending you to sea?"

  "Not the navy, no. The American Navy"—there was a bitter edge to Crofts' reply—"has almost ceased to exist. I am doing what many better officers have done before me—I'm taking out a privateer."

  "Well, you do not come home from that kind of voyage with your pockets empty."

  "That is part of the bait, right enough," the Captain admitted, but there was an impatient note in his answer. "Yet there is another side to the sail, too. Pinch the British merchants in their pockets, pinch them often and hard, and they'll raise their voices so loudly that even that dottle-witted Lord North will be able to hear them. What d'you think the English people know of this war? Or what do they care what happens to a few regiments pushing around in a raw wilderness half the world away from their own shores? But every time one of our privateers beats up the channel and snaps up a fat merchantman homeward bound, or everytime we dog a convoy until we are able to cut out a slow sailer or two—why, then the English know that they are at war!"

  He leaned forward his eyes alight and eager.

  "D'you know what rates Lloyd's are quoting now —-if they will consent to insure at all? Thirty per cent for a vessel in convoy, fifty per cent if she chances the run alone! They even have to provide escorts for the linen ships out of Dublin to England across the Irish Sea. And it is the privateers who have brought that about. They worry and worry away, and someday the merchants will break. Then we shall have peace and free seas and a chance for a seaman to make a living for himself, with no press gangs to hunt him down in port, and no revenue laws to cut his honest profits. If privateering will lead to that—then I go privateering!"

  "And the best of luck to you, Captain."

  Captain Crofts' white teeth flashed in answer. "Wish me a capture for every gun—that is the best of luck for those in my trade. And to you, sir, I wish luck with the army."

  Fitz arose and stretched. "Fair enough, Captain."

  The door behind him opened and the host stood haloed by the light of the candle he held.

  "Mr. Lyon, sir, the party who was to lie this night in the Sloop has been offered passage out. You may have his room if you wish."

  Fitz reached for his coat. "Then I shall trouble you no longer, Captain Crofts. My thanks to you for your hospitality, sir."

  He was glad to get away. He would be pleased not to see Daniel Crofts again. That wagging tongue of his . . . Fitz was ashamed. Out in the hall he did not enter the room into which he saw his saddle bags being carried. He knew that the inn groom was competent, but he wanted to see that Lady did not want for anything.

  Fitz went downstairs. The common room was rilled with rank tobacco smoke, and a babble of noise assaulted his ears. At the far end the recruiting officer had pre-empted a table and was signing up a couple of men who swayed dangerously as they leaned over to make their marks.

  Through the smoke Fitz's eyes met those of the lieutenant for an instant and the officer stirred as if to rise. Fitz turned quickly out of the door; he had no wish to meet with naval conversation again that night. He plunged into a fine chill mist which made him pull his collar up about his ears.

  2

  First Port—St. Malo

  Your harvest, bold Americans,

  No power shall snatch away!

  Our fleets shall speak in Thunder

  To
England, France and Spain!

  —FREE AMERICA

  FlTZ LEFT THE STABLE REASSURED AS TO LADY'S WELL-being. He lingered a moment in the foggy inn yard. There was a yellowish glow down by the docks. A ship must have been loading by torchlight at that hour. Fitz wondered if it were Crofts' privateer.

  "Mr. Lyon!"

  At the sharp hail Fitz's head jerked around. Someone stood just outside the door to the common room. And in spite of the muffling folds of a boat cloak, Fitz was sure he had caught a glimpse of a red and blue uniform.

  "Yes?"

  The answer was violent. A hard blow between his shoulders sent him staggering forward off balance. Then a blasting pain in his head blocked out all light and feeling.

  "Douse him with a bucketful and he'll come around all right, Ninnes. Or let him alone and he'll rouse for himself. You've spoiled his beauty for a day or so, but he'll recover. . . ."

  The languid voice faded away. Fitz cringed beneath a pounding torture which hung above and behind his closed eyes.

  "The next time you go recruiting," the voice came back, "I would advise a little less zeal. Even my hard-learned skill cannot put together a really broken skull. Stow him in a hammock and let him find his own wits then—if you are not for extreme measures now."

  Fitz sank down into the dark for the second time. When he awoke again it was into a curiously unstable world. The bed on which he lay was surely not made fast to any sensible floor, but swung in a half arc as he lay staring at a beamed ceiling not many inches above his nose. Now the headache was just bearable. He began to piece together the happenings of the immediate past. From this he was aroused by the unmistakable sounds of someone being thoroughly and vigorously sick.

  His own middle section responded unpleasantly in concert. Moving cautiously, he half rolled, half fell out of his frail support, landing with more force than dignity on the floor beneath. Fitz got to his feet and, by the very dim light of a single small lantern, made out a row of hammocks, most of which were occupied. The swaying of the floor made plain what had happened to him. He was aboard a ship!

  Flaming rage crowded out both nausea and headache for a short space. So this was Captain Daniel Crofts' game, was it? He had been tapped on the head and lugged aboard as if he were any rum-soaked half-breed on the beach. Well, Crofts was going to discover that a Lyon was not a friendless dock loafer!

  Clutching at the hammocks for support, in spite of the growls and oaths of their half-awakened occupants, he made for the single door of this cubby. But it did not yield to his impatient shove. And when pounding with his fists raised nothing but splinters, Fitz was forced to conclude that the door was fastened on the outside.

  He dropped to the floor, as far from the hammocks as he could squeeze, grimly determined to wait out the end of imprisonment. In the meantime he occupied his mind with the thought of what to say to Crofts when they at last stood face to face. And he did not intend this time to curb his temper.

  But at length the odor in the cubby, combined with the motion of the decking under him, banished everything from his mind but the desire to reach the open and there die in peace. And, judging by dismal sounds coming out of the shadows, he was not alone in his misery.

  So, when the door was at last unbolted, Fitz paid no heed to what was shouted at him, but lurched past a cluster of uniforms and by bald luck found himself out in the fresh salty air where he was content to clutch at a convenient rope and draw in great gasps of the untainted wind. As his stomach settled back somewhere near its normal position he began to think of Crofts. But the shouting behind him also made sense for the first time.

  "Form up! Form up, you mutton-headed, cow-legged, fish-brained sots! Get into line. You! You on the end there! Get into line if you don't wan t a stinger laid across your rump!"

  Fitz's fellow prisoners"were being herded out before a small man with a very red face who shouted his orders in a booming bray and pounded on the deck with a sheathed boarding cutlass to underline them.

  "Doncha hear th' lootenant, you?" A beer-scented voice broke the Marylander's fascinated absorption and he was given a shove which propelled him in the general direction of the line.

  Dumbfounded he stood where the sergeant had pushed him. Another officer appeared beside the marine, a thin man with an amused quirk to one eyebrow and a general air of boredom which made him contrast greatly with his energetic companion. When the line had been pushed and prodded into some order this newcomer stepped to the nearest recruit, ordered him to open his mouth, and gravely inspected and counted the yellow teeth thus revealed. Fitz snapped out of his bewilderment as he realized that he was about to be presented to the ship's medical officer for examination. But before he could protest, the surgeon stood before him.

  "Ah, it's our young friend with the broken head," the doctor observed genially. "Bit of an ache in the mainsail haven't you?"

  "It's nothing compared to the one your Captain is going to have," Fitz snapped back. "I was kidnapped!"

  "Were you?" The surgeon's amusement became more marked. “Now Mr. Ninnes has told a different story altogether. Best think yours over again before you see the Captain—he might not take kindly to your version. Well, since you are baring them so freely, I can certify that you have all your teeth. And save for that purple bump on your crown, you seem otherwise to be all of a piece, sound and whole. That is all, Lieutenant Biggs," he said to the marine over his shoulder. "They're all passed for service."

  "Right face," bawled the marine. "Forward march!"

  Fitz paid no attention to the command, remained where he was to look about him. Although he had belittled his knowledge of ships, no one could live in water-logged Maryland, where men used rivers as roads, without learning something of the sea. And he identified the vessel he stood in as one of the slim, swift-sailing schooners known to the country as "Baltimore Clippers."

  Her two tall and slender masts were sharply raked to catch the best of the bay winds. The low freeboard would make sailing in the North Atlantic a wet and even dangerous business. But the warmer waters of the Caribbean were her proper home. Designed to fit smugglers' needs in the days before the war when the king's ships prowled as revenue-enforcement agents, she was the perfect answer for privateering, being well able to outsail most ships now afloat.

  "You there—get below!"

  Fitz, startled, turned to see the recruiting officer bearing down upon him^ Luckily he had a full moment to force down the sudden surge of anger which might have made him send a fist into the other's face.

  "I'm getting overside, not below—after a suitable apology from your Captain. And he'll be a lucky man if I don't lodge a complaint against him ashore."

  The deep tan on the other's squarish face showed a tinge of dusky red. Fitz had adjusted to the roll of the ship and now stood, hands clenched. If the lieutenant wanted to try force

  "Mr. Ninnes!" a peremptory hail rang down the deck. "What is the meaning of this disturbance?"

  Crofts was coming across the deck. When he saw Fitz he appeared honestly surprised and then he smiled.

  "So, Mr. Lyon, you decided to join us after all. Now that is "

  Fitz cut him short. "I was aided in my decision by a belaying pin, Captain Crofts. So this is the way you do your recruiting? I am thinking that the authorities in Baltimore will have something to say about the matter after I report to them. No more press gangs! I believe that that was one of your aims in fighting this war, sir? But it makes a difference who is sending out the press gang, doesn't it?" He had raised his voice and there was an audience gathering. A hand clapped his shoulder and tightened its grip, almost dragging him off balance.

  "Pay no attention to him, sir, he's still gone in drink!" That was Ninnes.

  Goaded beyond endurance Fitz twisted free from that grasp and rounded on the lieutenant.

  "Have the goodness to keep your hands to yourself, sir, or I'll teach you better manners! Though your actions are certainly of a piece with your Captain's "

/>   "That," Crofts' quiet voice had a touch of ice, "does not sound to me like the speech of a drunken man, Mr. Ninnes. Both of you will come to my cabin at once!"

  Fitz, caution overruled by righteous indignation, followed Ninnes into the small, low-ceilinged cabin which served as the Captain's quarters on board the Retaliation.

  Crofts had seated himself at the small desk-table but left them standing. It was as if they were two schoolboys called up for a birching, thought Fitz scornfully. "Now, what is the meaning of that brawl on deck?"

  Fitz refused to be repressed or impressed. "Just this, Captain Crofts. Last night I went out to see to my mare before going to bed. In the inn yard I was waylaid by your bully boys and struck down. I awoke to find myself on this pestilent privateer of yours and at sea. If you know what is good for you, you'll see me set ashore at once with proper apologies."

  Crofts' mobile mouth straightened into a thin slit, two tiny dents showed under the curve of his nostrils. He did not answer Fitz but turned to his lieutenant.

  "Well, Mr. Ninnes?"

  Ninnes' seaboots rasped on the cabin planking as his feet moved. His voice was colorless and a monotone as he made his report.

  "We signed men at the inn all evening. Many of them were well gone in drink and had to be handled. When we bundled them aboard, this man was among them "

  "Mr. Ninnes, I am neither drunk nor besotted with age."

  Fitz thought that he would not have cared to arouse Daniel Crofts to that tone of voice. He was uneasily aware that he had passed from a familiar and ordered world—where he could, to some extent, always foresee the future—into another where he was as lost as an Englishman in the wilderness across the mountains.

  "I think, Mr. Ninnes, that I am beginning to understand."