Unlikely Heroes (St. Brendan Book 3) Read online

  He told all this to Headmaster Croker, who nodded. “I’ll keep your lads busy in the classroom for a week or so. Go find that man.” He chuckled. “Tell him we can pay him the grand sum of thirty-five pounds to fill in for you between now and the end of this year.”

  “That’ll tempt a retired master,” Able said with a smile of his own. “May I promise him sumptuous quarters here at St. Brendan’s? Dancing girls in skimpy garb?”

  “Certainly.”

  They both laughed at that. “Start thinking of our Jolly Roger as the HMS Mercury,” Thaddeus said. “Admiralty has informed me that we may rename her. We’ll have a quiet ceremony at the Jolly Roger’s slip by Gunwharf.”

  Able breathed a deep lungful of low-tide effluvia as he stood on the steps of St. Brendan’s and looked up at his home across the street. Thaddeus had given him permission to take Smitty along on this quick trip to Trinity House, and then Admiralty, all in one week or less, because duty called in the classroom. He wanted to know this lad better, who was going to be his second-in-command aboard the Mercury.

  Thaddeus had assured him that Captain Rose was already waiting for him at Trinity House, which meant leaving immediately. He told Meri all this in the pantry, where he had found her counting jars of this and that.

  “My love, until this national emergency passes, I’ll be in and out at all hours and doing strange duty,” he began.

  She stopped him with a kiss, and another one. “I know,” she said. “I know. Just remember where you live and whose bed you’re most comfortable in.”

  “No fears there,” he assured her.

  “You should know something else,” she began, after looking to make sure the pantry door was shut.

  “There is a sturdy cot in here someplace where I can have you now? A blanket at least?” he teased. “I have to leave right away.”

  “Oh, you! No, it is this: Nick is feeling downcast because he has no role in events taking Smitty and you away.”

  “No fears there either.” He took a deep breath, not certain what her reaction would be to his additional news. “As we speak, Headmaster Croker is arranging for a post chaise tomorrow to whisk our Bonfort boy to Plymouth and the counting house of Carter and Brustein.”

  “Whatever for?” she asked.

  “He’ll have a signed directive from Admiralty for David Brustein to give us the direction of Sailing Master Harry Ferrier. All we know is that Master Ferrier banks there. Anything else is privileged information.”

  “Nick is so young. All by himself?”

  Able knew Meri would question it. Nick was young.

  “We are all subject to the requirements of the fleet,” Able reminded her. “I know Nick will succeed. When he gets Master Ferrier’s direction, he will have additional orders to take the information to the harbormaster and forward it to me via coastal semaphore.”

  “My goodness, the semaphore? We do live in a modern age, don’t we?”

  “We do.” In mere seconds he reviewed a calculus class with Jamie MacGregor, now serving in the Pacific, and the late Jan Yarmouth, dead and buried at sea, where his two promising lads had speculated on interplanetary travel and something to do with atoms. Modern age, indeed.

  “And?” she prompted.

  “Smitty and I will locate Master Ferrier and convince him that he wants to get into harness again, earn a pittance, live in a drafty monastery and teach my classes when I cannot.”

  “How can he resist?” she teased, then, “Durable, someone can open this door at any moment. Leave my buttons alone.”

  “But there they are, and you know how I feel about your bosom,” he protested, but did as she said and rebuttoned her bodice. “I’ll be back in a week, when I will hopefully be Able again.”

  “You are always able,” she said. “Oh! That Able.”

  And so he was smiling when two post chaises pulled up to his home. Ben was unhappy in the extreme when his father ushered Smitty inside the vehicle then went in after him. He demanded his mother put him down, was ignored, and pouted. When Nick Bonfort, serious of face and dressed in his best St. Brendan’s uniform, climbed into the second post chaise, Ben couldn’t help his tears. His two favorite champions were leaving him alone with the ladies and he took it hard.

  That left a crying son and Able’s beloved Meridee on the steps, a handkerchief to her eyes, too, but waving them away with kisses. Able blew her a kiss and cheered up considerably to see Ezekiel Bartleby, box in hand, heading toward his house. Amazing how the old tar-turned-baker always seemed to know when something was afoot. Able thought there might be rout cakes in the box to cheer Meri.

  It was two boxes. The postilion obligingly stopped and instructed the post boy to commandeer one, which ended up inside with Able and Smitty, after several cakes were handed to post boy and postilion. Ezekiel’s cheery, “I’ll keep an eye on’um,” reassured Able as little else could have. Never more than now did he appreciate the camaraderie of the fleet.

  “Urgent business?” the postilion asked.

  “Time matters,” was all Able said. “Since we can’t bend time yet, we have to obey the clock.”

  Chapter Ten

  They ate the rout cakes, and whatever else they could grab during brief stops to change horses, and made the trip to London in six hours, long enough for Able to learn more about Smitty and to encourage the lad to acquire a last name.

  Smitty refused to consider his real name of St. Anthony. “He did me mum a wicked turn,” Smitty said and folded his arms, daring Able to change his mind.

  “Aye, he did,” Able said, understanding this young man, understanding wicked men and preyed-upon women. Maybe this was a good moment to sound out his feelings for Sir B. He proceeded cautiously. “The name of St. Anthony may be anathema to you, but to those of us who really know Sir Belvedere St. Anthony, it is not.”

  “He could have helped me years sooner than he did,” Smitty said.

  “I cannot argue that,” Able agreed. “There are times when I know I do not measure up to what my own conduct should be. Let me give you one example.”

  With no preamble, he told Smitty exactly what had happened to his own mother, as far as he knew, done in by a wicked Spaniard named the Count of Quintanar. He saw the shock and surprise on Smitty’s face, when he said, “I am quite prepared to hate that Spaniard until I die. I understand your feelings because I share them.” He took a cautious step. “There is one difference, which you must own.”

  “Maybe,” Smitty said. “Sir.”

  “Sir B didn’t know of your existence until his brother finally blurted it out.”

  “He could have acted once he knew!”

  “He could have. Let us acknowledge, as Lady St. Anthony said, that Sir B was human.”

  Smitty considered the matter. “I will if you will, sir,” he said in a low voice. “Suppose if you actually meet your father?”

  “The possibility is remote,” Able hedged, then acknowledged the obvious. “You are asking why you should be forgiving and I should not?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “That’s fair, Smitty,” he said, even though he didn’t want to. It didn’t help that his cranial spectators seemed to be applauding Smitty. “You win. We can both agree that we had mothers who cared. Yours fed you when she had nothing for herself. Mine could have left me in the back alley to die with her.”

  Smitty understood. “Still, how could men treat women so?” He turned away, trying to isolate himself in the small space of a post chaise.

  “As long as we never treat them ill, lad, we have victory of sorts.” Able touched Smitty’s shoulder and met with no resistance. Wordless, Able put his arm around Smitty. They sat close together as the horses ate up the miles toward London.

  “I have never regretted my own odd name,” Able said, continuing where he had left off, as if the two of them had not shown themselves to be human and vulnerable like the other Gunwharf Rats. “Choose another name besides St. Anthony. Something tells me you will go fa
r in the fleet. You need two names. What’ll it be, lad?”

  “I’ve been Smitty a long while and I like it, master.”

  “It suits you,” Able agreed. “How about this? Brendan for our school, and Smith for your surname? Smitty is a logical nickname.”

  Smitty considered the matter and nodded, serious as ever. “I like it.”

  “We’ll enter that name with the Navy Board,” Able said. “Remember to say Brendan to yourself now and then, you know, so you don’t forget.”

  The boy grinned. “Or better yet, how about Gunwharf? Or would the Board prefer Rat?”

  Delighted at finding quick wit where he had not expected it, Able laughed. Smitty joined in. It was the first time Able had ever heard the boy laugh with such ease and it warmed his heart. “Stick with Brendan, you Rat,” he said when he could talk, which only set Smitty off again.

  Able considered one thing more. “When we get to Trinity House, I have something to show you.” He wondered briefly at his own trepidation, him, a grown man. “It’s a portrait that has given me food for thought.”

  “I would think you have plenty of food for thought already,” Smitty said, with a small, lurking smile that told Able something had happened between the two of them. He sensed their relationship changing from teacher and student, to colleagues.

  “I have ample food for thought, and it’s a burden at times. I’d rather be like everyone else, truth be told,” he said.

  “Thank’ee, sir,” Smitty said. “We know you are a genius, all of us Gunwharf Rats, but we wouldn’t be here without your particular burden. Thank’ee from all of us.”

  Able leaned back, at ease with Smitty, probably for the first time. “D’ye mind my putting you on the spot as my sailing master, when I am relegated to captain of the…the Mercury? I know it is what Sir B stipulated in his will, but if you’d rather not…”

  “I can do it,” was Smitty’s quiet reply. “Could it be Sir B’s way of making amends with me, now that I think of it?”

  “I doubt it not.”

  The sun was moving deep across the afternoon sky when the post chaise pulled up in front of Trinity House. Sutton, the one-legged doorman, must have been alerted to watch for them. Able remembered earlier visits to Trinity House, when Sutton was of all men most suspicious.

  There was no mistaking the disappointment on the doorman’s face. Able thought he understood; he felt the same way. “Sutton, are you languishing because my better half – certainly the prettier one – did not make the journey?” Able asked, by way of greeting.

  Sutton was made of stronger stuff. “Nay, Master Six, nay,” he said, then reconsidered. “Well, a little. Even a one-legged tar gets the dismals seeing mostly wind-scoured faces and squinty eyes. Your lady is a welcome antidote.”

  Wind-scoured faces and squinty eyes, the Royal Navy badge of office. Trust a former deep-water seaman to notice. “Aye, she can cure most ills, but sometimes duty calls at home.”

  The doorman sighed as he held out his hands for boat cloaks and lids. “I’ll take ye to Captain Rose.”

  Trinity’s newest warden waited for them at the top of the elegant branching staircase. Able glanced at Smitty, amused to see the look of wonder on his face, as if he could not fathom why a workhouse boy stood in such a place. He leaned closer to Smitty. “Until quite recently, I had the same look on my face, lad. Let’s go upstairs and see what the good man has for us.”

  The good man had advice. After introductions, he asked them into his office, even as he swung his boat cloak around his shoulders. “Let me explain. We Brothers” – he gave a deferential nod to Able – “are keeping our oar in the water, when it comes to St. Brendan’s. The Sea Lords have an urgent request for you already, you and the soon-to-be-named Mercury.” He gave Able a longer glance. “You, Master Six, and your mentor Sir B – God rest him – are casting a long shadow. Since the Admiralty came calling, I thought you might like a little moral support. I’ll walk you over. We’ll sup here when you’re done.”

  God bless the man, but he understood. Able heard faint clapping inside his skull. “Aye, sir, we do appreciate your interest,” he said. “This is still a strange environment for Gunwharf Rats.”

  Funny how such a rarefied atmosphere at both Trinity House and Admiralty a few blocks away turned Smitty – Brendan Smith – into a boy again, and not the more hardened thug who had the capacity to frighten the younger class at St. Brendan’s. Able could not deny his own trepidation at passing through the three-columned entrance with awe. What am I doing here? he asked himself, and received all kinds of answers from the assorted brilliant minds inside his skull that obviously had nothing better to do.

  A nod to the porter sitting behind a tall desk sent an escort out to direct them to, as it turned out, the chamber of Admiral James Gambier, Admiralty Lord Commissioner.

  “Give him a good bow,” Able whispered to Smitty, as he managed his own bow to such a powerful man.

  Smitty did not hesitate. Luckily, his head was still down, so he missed the lurking smile on Dismal Jimmy’s face. A veteran of all seven seas and their attendant woes, Admiral Gambier had seen it all, including awkward youths, some of whom commanded warships now.

  “Hector, how good to see you again. Master Able Six? I have heard much of you. Very well, you three, let us never stand on too much ceremony. Sit sit.”

  They sat sat promptly, Smitty obviously in awe of the room, Captain Rose at home there, and Able somewhere in between. The lord commissioner wasted not a moment. He leaned forward, giving them the eye that had terrified a generation of seafaring men. “I have need of your services right now, bearing messages to and from the blockade. Can ye do it in a yacht? I hear it’s a fair specimen.”

  “Aye, sir,” Able said promptly. “We’ve only sailed beyond the Isle of Wight a time or two, but she’s seaworthy and raring for more.”

  “Have you other capable lads like this one, Master Six?”

  “Aye, sir,” he said again. “Brendan Smith here will be my sailing master. We at St. Brendan’s have a group of Gunwharf Rats that acquitted themselves well in our dealings with the prison hulks. They’re rough and ready.”

  Gambier nodded. He eyed Smitty for a moment. Smitty sat straighter in his chair and returned the gaze, never flinching. “Pain of death,” Gambier said slowly, enunciating each word.

  “Aye, sir,” Smitty said with no pause and no fear. He understood what was about to happen.

  “I, as well, Admiral,” Able said, when the glance swung to him.

  The lord commissioner leaned back. “We have it on good authority from Admiral Calder, Channel Fleet commanding, that the combined fleet of France and Spain are lurking about Ferrol and off Cape Finisterre.”

  He looked at the map of Europe and Smitty followed his gaze. Able knew the map inside his head and stared at the ceiling instead, plainly seeing Finisterre jutting out from Spain’s far western reach. Finisterre. Lands’ end, where currents were tricky and many a good ship had been driven to death on the rocky shore.

  “Napoleon had counted on Villeneuve leading our Nelson on a merry dance in the Caribbean, and leaving him behind, but it didn’t work,” Captain Rose added. “Sources tell us that the enemy raced back just ahead of Nelson and is contemplating a bolt north from Finisterre. His orders seem to involve driving the Channel Fleet away and protecting those invasion boats at Boulogne. Boney wants to cross the Channel in the worst way and he is getting impatient.”

  Admiral Gambier directed his attention to Captain Rose. “So your agents have informed us.”

  Able nodded. It was what he had suspected, too. Gambier noticed and turned toward him. “What would you do, Master Six, were you in my shoes?”

  “Gather in more blockaders and send them to reinforce Admiral Calder, sir,” he said promptly. “A wall of ship and sail will thwart those designs for a crossing and bottle up the Combined Fleet in Cadiz yet again, if done right.”

  “Precisely. Our sources suggest that Ville
neuve is unloading upwards of a thousand ailing sailors all along the Spanish coast, following his Caribbean adventure. Beautiful islands, terrible diseases. And, Master Six?”

  “Villeneuve will be understrength, sir, “Able said promptly. “He is a prudent man, perhaps too prudent to make much of an effort at Finisterre, if Admiral Calder is bold enough.”

  “If and if again.” Gambier took a canvas bag from the corner of his desk and handed it to Able. “You are to deliver this message to Admiral Calder blockading France off Rochefort, ordering him to move south quickly to Finisterre and battle.”

  Able’s hands closed on the bag, already tarred and weighted, should it be necessary to throw it overboard. He had seen Sir B, Captain Hallowell and other captains hold such bags. Now it was his turn, as commander of the Mercury. He breathed deep of the tar and appreciated silence from his cranial cohorts. He didn’t need them. This was his moment.

  “How soon, you are wondering? Master Six, you have short leeway. If you sail in five days for Rochefort, will that be enough time to see the Mercury victualled and shipshape?”

  The Mercury was ready now. So were the Rats. He still needed to locate Harry Ferrier, however, to cover his classes in seamanship. Five days, and he didn’t even know where Master Ferrier lived. He also knew there was only one answer.

  “Aye, Admiral. We sail in five days for Rochefort, sooner if we can. After that, sir?”

  “Return to your classroom. You will be subject to the requirements of the service, as ordered,” Gambier said. He parceled out a smile then, did Dismal Jimmy, enthusiastic Christian who bored many an unrepentant crew with sermons of hellfire and damnation. “I suspect you will be more out of port than in, so find a suitable substitute at St. Brendan’s for yourself.”

  “I have one in mind, Admiral, provided I can locate him.”

  There was nothing more to say. The three of them made their bows – Smitty’s second time was an improvement on the first – and hurried back to Trinity House for dinner with the available Brothers, and the offer of beds for the night.