Unlikely Heroes (St. Brendan Book 3) Read online

  Even Davey Ten, now serving his apprenticeship as assistant pharmacist mate, had commented on the propensity of men to die in the wee hours. “Why, sir?” he had asked Able only last week over Sunday roast beef at the Sixes’ home when he was granted leave from Portsmouth’s Haslar Hospital.

  “I don’t know,” Able had told him, a statement that hardly ever crossed his lips because he usually did know. Apparently even Euclid and Able’s other unseen cranial friends were not privy to some secrets. People died when God dictated. Even a man of science understood that.

  Able knew the end was close when he said goodnight to Sir B, and left the St. Anthonys’ bedchamber arm in arm with his wife. He had watched his wife Meridee droop and wilt through the evening, partly from sorrow, and partly from her slow recovery after last month’s miscarriage. She had offered no objection when Lady St. Anthony – better known still as Grace Croker – had quietly summoned the family carriage for the ride back to their house across from St. Brendan’s School.

  In the carriage, Meridee had gone right into his arms, or perhaps he had gone into hers, because the loss of someone so dear couldn’t be borne alone. Thank God, yet again, that he was married. At the moment, Able couldn’t fathom enduring such a death by himself. The loss of their much-wanted baby had been difficult enough, but Sir B had winkled out Able’s great mystery, and set him on a true course that had taken him to Portsmouth, St. Brendan’s, and this life.

  “This is hard,” he whispered to Meri, realizing how inadequate that puny phrase sounded.

  She held him closer. “I wanted our baby, oh my word, I did, but as much as that, I…I know we will have more children. There is only one Sir B.”

  It was a brave admission from the best woman he knew, and the best mother to both their little boy Ben, and to the Gunwharf Rats of St. Brendan the Navigator School she also mothered. The workhouse lads had earned their title of Gunwharf Rats, the result of finding the sorry carcass of a rattus norvegicus and prevailing upon squeamish Meri to help them boil the bones and then see them mounted on a plaque. Who knew how things like that took on a life of their own, and a meaning that went beyond a rat on a plaque? Because the rat belonged at St. Brendan’s now, so did they, who had never belonged anywhere before. Simple.

  There was never any question that Meri Six had enough mother in her heart to add the Rats to her special stewardship. She had told him once, as if he might think her a low-achieving failure, that all she wanted was to be a good wife and mother, and there was no way she could match or even fathom his brain. He had been happy to assure her that her practical, grounded nature, plus her bounteous love and fine looks, were precisely what a man with a too-busy brain craved. He thought she believed him, but he was never precisely certain. After one domestic disaster, she had wisely but firmly forbidden him from ever handling the simple arithmetic from butchers or tradesmen. Theirs was a fortunate marriage, because the easy stuff eluded him.

  She was right; there was only one Sir B, Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, who, along with Captain Benjamin Hallowell, had grasped the enormity of Durable Six’s amazing brain and put it to good use. Sir B had commanded him in two oceans and on two seas, had seen to his mentorship as a sailing master, and landed him at St. Brendan School for Navigators to teach boys much like himself, bastard workhouse children with untapped promise.

  Now Sir B lay dying, the result of seven years of pain from wounds earned the hard way at the Battle of the Nile in 1798. The loss of his leg had led to additional complications, over which physicians had no power. No physician knew enough.

  When his wife Grace, a fellow St. Brendan instructor, had walked the Sixes to the door, her arms around both of them, she had told them her dear man had survived long enough for the birth of his son George Belvedere Routledge St. Anthony.

  “Georgie kept him alive,” Grace said, as they stood together, waiting for the St. Anthony carriage. “I could wish for more, but Able, he is so weary of pain.”

  “We know that,” Able said. “Grace, should we…”

  “No,” she said softly. “Get Meridee home. She’s drooping but she’ll never admit it. Get her to bed. If something happens tonight, I believe you will know.”

  “I believe I will.”

  After getting Meri home and into her nightgown, she insisted on their nightly ritual of another look at Ben before she agreed to crawl into bed. They stood a moment, arm in arm, looking down at a sleeping boy, arms and legs stretched out so confidently: Benjamin Belvedere Six, seventeen months old, and ruler of all he surveyed.

  “I hope he and George St. Anthony will be great friends,” Meri whispered. She tucked his blanket a little higher.

  “They will be,” he agreed. “C’mon, Meri. You’re about to drop.”

  “Am not,” she insisted as her eyes closed. He picked her up and carried her to their bed, scene of much General Merrymaking, as his lover liked to call it. She was asleep before she even stretched out.

  He watched her a moment, deeply satisfied and still a little amazed at so wonderful a creature in his bed, he who had come into this world with less than nothing, except for a prodigious brain often more curse than blessing. Now, in descending order of importance, he was a husband, father, respected instructor, Younger Brother at Trinity House, friend of Billy Pitt, England’s First Minister, and almost-father to Nick Bonfort who slept down the corridor, a Gunwharf Rat at St. Brendan’s. Last and often least, Able was a reluctant member of a group of genius dead men who gave him good advice upon occasion and ignored him if they felt like it.

  Meri was always first, and their son a close second, Ben who would grow up knowing who his father was. Alas, poor Ben. Only last week, Able had sat Meri down in the dining room for the bad news. The conversation – remembered in its entirety, of course – made Able smile even now, when he was at his lowest.

  “Meri, I have made a most unfortunate discovery.”

  “How bad can it be? You’re holding our son and reading dear Euclid to him.” She gave him her brightest smile. “Ben looks so happy. You two are such a pair.”

  “Brace yourself, Meri-deelicious. I have been reading with my finger under each word. Bless me if our little scamp didn’t push my finger aside because I wasn’t reading fast enough. Meri? Meri? Are we still friends?”

  “Dear sir, I am digesting this news. He’s reading? Tell me the worst: Is it the English translation or the original Greek?”

  “I hate to admit it.” He kissed his son’s head. “The Greek.”

  “Lord help us.”

  He laughed softly at the memory. When he told Sir B last week, his mentor and friend Sir B had laughed, too. Grace told him later it was the final time he laughed.

  Able took off his shoes and unbuttoned his trousers, but crawled into bed otherwise as-is, knowing the night had more sorrow ahead. Meri moved into his warmth and he pulled her close.

  He woke three hours and ten minutes later in the Middle Watch. No one knocked on the door, but in his mind he heard the St. Anthony carriage coming down Saints Way.

  He got up quietly, buttoned his trousers and pulled on his shoes. He was almost to the door when he noticed Meri beside him, knotting her robe, her slippers already on.

  “You weren’t trying to sneak out without me?” she asked in her sweet way. It was no accusation, but very near. As a dutiful husband, he knew he had lost.

  He hurried down the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Perry’s door to tell her that Ben was asleep and they didn’t know when they would return. The carriage pulled up when Meri joined him at the front door, buttoning the last button and smoothing down her dress.

  Lamps glowed in the St. Anthony rowhouse, sandwiched between other equally elegant homes belonging to successful captains and admirals who preferred to distance themselves from the bubbling broth of commerce and sin that was Portsmouth.

  They hurried up the stairs and into the bedroom, lit with one lamp. Head bowed, Grace looked up. Her relief could have lit the old lighthouse of
Alexandria. Able came to her first and rested his hands on her shoulders. He looked down at his dear captain, pleased to see his month-old son nestled in the crook of his arm, asleep.

  “He wanted George to be here,” Grace whispered when Able bent down. Her voice went even softer. “I do believe George kept him alive.”

  “Aye, Grace,” Able said. His mind went to Euclid, always hovering nearby. You, sir, could you and your strange friends not allow this good man more years? he asked the nosy Greek that Meridee had banished from their bedroom. Euclid chose not to reply, as he seemed to do more and more lately.

  Sir B’s eyes fluttered open. He tried to raise his free hand to Able, but the effort eluded him. Able knelt beside the bed and took his hand, holding it close to his chest.

  “Captain…” What could he say? Able rested his head against his captain’s arm instead.

  “And you, Meridee?” Sir B asked. His voice was clear enough, but it had a dreamy quality. “You should be resting.”

  “I’ll keep,” Meri said. “Look here. I brought you a rout cake, one with the sugary sides that you always accused me of eating to excess, along with the lemony ones.”

  Sir B shook his head. “Can’t swallow,” he managed.

  Meri knelt beside Able. “Doesn’t matter. Let me touch it to your lips. I know you like the sugar.”

  She touched his lips gently with the little delicacy. Sir B licked it and smiled. “Capitol, my dear. Able, what did you ever do to deserve her?”

  “I have no idea, sir,” he said, nearly overcome.

  Meri pressed close to him, then put her hand on Sir B’s arm, too. “I’ll take good care of him, Sir B,” she said. “I promise. You told me I was his keeper.”

  “That’s all I ask.” He turned his head an inch or two toward them. “Able, you can do one thing for me.”

  “Anything, sir.”

  Able felt twelve years old again, when he had first come to Sir B’s – Captain St. Anthony’s – attention. It was in the southern Pacific near Otaiheite. The captain had caught him correcting the numbers on the blackboard on deck where Sailing Master Ferrier and midshipmen had been wrangling over an algebraic equation then left it, lesson over.

  He had turned around to see the captain regarding him with something close to awe. Certain he was about to be flogged for some infraction or other, Able had stood there with his head bowed. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said.

  “For what? For getting the equation right?” Captain St. Anthony had asked. “Master Ferrier told me about you.” Right there on the deck by the main mast the captain erased the board and wrote a whole string of equations. He left out salient details, then ordered Able to fill them in. It had been the work of mere minutes for Ordinary Seaman Six. His life was never the same after that.

  All the memories crashed down on him as he rested his now-wet cheek against his captain’s hand. “Anything for you,” he repeated.

  “Good,” Sir B said, sounding almost like himself. “I am nearly certain you will be recalled to the fleet this year.”

  Meri gasped. Sir B patted her cheek. “Meridee, we all knew it might happen,” Sir B said. “That was the stipulation of your man’s employment at St. Brendan’s as our resident genius.”

  “I know, but…”

  “My dear, we have reached that time of national emergency.” With an effort, Sir B turned his attention to Able. “You must obey, of course, but do this: Speak to the Elder Brothers at Trinity House, specifically Warden Captain Rose.”

  “What do you have in mind, sir?”

  “My Jolly Roger is a dandy yacht to use as a smallish sloop of war,” he said. His voice began to fade. “Carry messages from the fleet to… Admiralty…House. Train the Rats in speed … evasion.”

  He was right. Able saw it instantly. He could fit his Gunwharf Rats for fleet actions and relay messages, because the Jolly Roger was fast. “Aye, aye, sir,” Able said, twelve years old again for a millisecond. He kissed his mentor’s hand. “Thank you for everything.”

  “You’re welcome. Thank you.” Sir B turned his attention to Meri one last time. Able knew it was one last time. “Keep doing what you do…Mrs. Heart of Oak…your Ben… Able…Gunwharf Rats.”

  She kissed his hand, tugged Able to his feet and stood back, her face calm and lovely in its serenity. “We’ll leave you alone with Grace, Sir B.”

  Meri took him into the hall, then held him close in a fierce embrace. Only minutes passed. Grace opened the door and motioned to them. They joined her at her husband’s bedside.

  Sir B had drifted to sleep, his arm still firm around his infant son. Grace stood between Able and Meri. “He told me he loved me – had for years, wretched man – and not to wait too long to remarry, because George needs a father. What a man I married.”

  Meri kissed her and stepped back. Grace lay down beside her dying husband with a sigh.

  Able took out his pocket watch. Grace’s arms went around Sir B and Meri covered them with a light blanket. He put his arms around his wife and she leaned against him. He knew how tired she was, his Mrs. Heart of Oak.

  The door opened and Junius Bolt came in, Grace’s old retainer and Sir B’s valet of sorts. To Able’s surprise, Smitty sidled in, too. “I heard you leave, master,” he said to Able. “I ran all the way.”

  “I’m glad you’re here, Smitty,” Able said, and he was, if puzzled to see him. His face giving away nothing, this most enigmatic of Gunwharf Rats stood beside Junius Bolt.

  They waited in silence. Two or three rapid breaths and exhalations, a long one, and the final longer one that went on and on until the room was silent. Able heard an early bird, and then another, announcing a new day. George stirred and stretched in his dead father’s arms.

  Able looked at his watch. His dear friend, captain, mentor and almost-father had lived through the Middle Watch and into the Morning Watch. Able heard the imaginary two bells in his head. Five a.m., when the bosun roused the men for another day at sea, another day to protect England and her possessions from harm and folly. Sir B had told Able once that the Morning Watch was his favorite time of day. “I always think of the possibilities, at five o’clock,” he said. “Anything is possible at five in the morning.”

  “Two Bells. Five in the morning. Good night, dear captain,” Able said. “We will now stand the watch for you from this moment forward.”

  Chapter Three

  “I don’t like to wear black, Able,” Meridee said, as she tucked a white crocheted collar into her dress, unworn since Mama’s funeral some years ago. Grace’s seamstress had kindly altered it to fit the fashion of 1805, but it was still so relentlessly black.

  “You look nice in black,” was the best her husband could come up with. She knew he was suffering, and felt some regret at her shallow remark.

  “Thank you, my love,” she said quietly. “I think the larger issue is that I do not care for this occasion of burying a dear, dear man.”

  He held out his arms to her and she found herself at home there, as she had through the last few days between death and this moment. No, it was longer, going back a month to her miscarriage. She knew she should stop dwelling on that sad event. After all, weren’t well-meaning women telling her to cheer up because there would be other babies? To say, “I wanted this one,” would disappoint well-wishers. “So hard,” she whispered, uncertain whether she meant Sir B alone.

  “I will always see little George crooked in his arm, never to know his remarkable father,” Able said. “He won’t know Sir B any more than I knew my father.”

  She never faulted Able’s logic – how could anyone? – but in this he was not entirely correct, or so she reasoned. She held herself off enough to look into his eyes. “He will know who his mother is, and he will have stories a-plenty from all of us about his father.”

  “Aye, he will.” He spoke into her hair, then kissed her head. “C’mon, Mrs. Six. Straighten my neck cloth.”

  She did, always happy to perform those mundane tasks
that he had difficulty with, because his brain was too large for small things.

  Finally satisfied with her man’s appearance – never difficult because he was handsome with or without a neck cloth – she looked around for Ben. She reminded herself that Mrs. Perry had taken him across the street to St. Brendan’s to stay with George’s nurse. She would have left him with Mrs. Perry, except that her African housekeeper had stared down Able Six and insisted she was going to the funeral, too. He never argued with Mrs. Perry. Nor do I, Meridee thought.

  She saw Able looking around for Ben too, and they smiled at each other; such a small thing. She hoped small things would usher them more gently into a world without Captain Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, Knight of the Bath, wealthy man, excellent seafarer, wounded warrior, more-than friend.

  They came downstairs to a hall and sitting room filled with boys in the black uniform of St. Brendan the Navigator School her husband wore, with the patch of the saint himself over the left breast, close to the heart. The sight of well-scrubbed, earnest faces – some white as hers, others tan, some with almond-shaped eyes, others with curly hair and olive skin like her own dear man – never failed to move her. They came from everywhere and nowhere, the workhouse their one feature in common.

  Here also were John and Pierre Goodrich, tidy and dressed as civilians, because they were the adopted sons of Simon Goodrich, who ran the block pulley factory, and his wife, who never could carry a child to term. Meridee felt Able start, and then move forward to bow to famed engineers Henry Maudsley and Marc Brunel, whose idea the factory was. Too bad it took a funeral to gather so many people with whom Meridee knew Able wanted to simply visit.

  At her side again, Able knew what to do. “Very well, lads, I’ll have no fidgeting in church,” he said. “You’re – we’re – Gunwharf Rats and Sir B specifically wanted us to escort his coffin. You pall bearers walk alongside the hearse with me. Ladies: in the carriage with Gra…Lady St. Anthony. Remember: Handsomely now and eyes to the front.”