Unlikely Heroes (St. Brendan Book 3) Read online

  Able heard sniffles nearby. He had married such a tender woman. He leaned toward her. “Meri, think how resourceful Nick is.” Her answer was another sniffle; he could comfort her later. “Carry on, Mr. Bonfort.”

  “I can do that, Master Six,” Harry Ferrier said. “Nick is gazing at your excellent beef roast like a starving man.” He nodded to Meridee. “Mrs. Six, let me compliment you on a fine table.”

  “We always have more later, in case someone gets the urge to nibble,” she said.

  Able glanced around the table to see nods of agreement. He even remembered an earlier maid from a workhouse, Jamie MacGregor’s twin, who had squirreled away food, too. Now she lived a few doors down, mistress of her own household and wife of a respected Portsmouth constable. The Sixes seemed to nurture more than Gunwharf Rats.

  “Very well then, Master Ferrier,” he said. “If you’ve taken the edge off your own hunger, do continue.”

  “I invited him in. Standing right there in the foyer – soaking wet, I might add – Mister Bonfort carefully explained the dilemma. With that cheerful demeanor I am certain you are familiar with, he told me I wouldn’t be making much money. To sweeten the pot, he assured me I’d be living in a drafty monastery, but the food was good and my country needed me. All that in practically one breath. He was a man on a mission.” Ferrier looked around at the others. “Who could say no to that? Retirement is a damned bore. Here I am. Now you can do your duty at sea, Able, as I fill in for you here.”

  That was quintessential Harry Ferrier, not a man to waste words. He had one more thing to say before he returned to his dinner. “Is this your Mercury crew?”

  “Aye, master. Smitty here is my sailing master, Tots and Whitticombe are good with sheets and sail, Davey Ten is my acting surgeon and Avon March comes highly recommended by another instructor. We will see what he can do. You already know Captain Ogilvie.”

  Mr. Ferrier took a leisurely glance at each face, stopping at Meridee. She reached for Able’s hand under the table. “You, Mrs. Six, must be the glue that holds this crew together.”

  “All I do is love them,” she said softly.

  They sailed three days later on the Mercury, bound for the blockade off Rochefort, three busy days of acquainting Harry Ferrier with his duties, and Able feeling his own awe at such an exalted sailing master taking on this gaggle of workhouse lads.

  “I must be honest,” Ferrier said late the last night ashore, after Meridee had gone to bed, and they were drinking rum with Headmaster Croker across the street. “How does a man go from constant activity to nothing? I should never have retired, except that my eyesight isn’t what it once was.” He chuckled and pointed to his milky orb. “Especially in this eye.”

  He pulled out a slim case and put on his spectacles. He grinned his famous gallows grin that had startled many a midshipman laboring over sightings and paperwork. “Thought I’d wait to put these on until after I signed that contract for thirty-five pounds annually, plus quarters and found. A man can’t be too careful.”

  They all laughed, even Captain Ogilvie, who had been remarkably quiet during the past few days. In fact, Ogilvie accompanied Able back across the street, after the headmaster’s diabolical butler stoppered the rum bottle and gave men used to power a fishy stare of his own.

  Ogilvie turned back to look at St. Brendan’s. “If Bertram were my butler, I would shoot him.”

  Able couldn’t help laughing. Perhaps he had drunk more rum than the law required, but it was funny. He held out his hand to Angus Ogilvie. “Good night to you, sir.”

  “And to you.” He didn’t leave. “Able, may I accompany you to the blockade?”

  “We’ll be crowded. The Mercury only has six berths.”

  “No matter,” Ogilvie said, brushing aside any obstacles. “You’ll be on hot racks anyway, with your small crew.”

  “True enough. I’ll be acquainting my seafaring pupils with the joys of watch and watch about, so there should always be empty berths. Why now, sir, if I may ask?”

  “If the occasion arises, you can set me ashore in Spain. I suspect Admiral Calder will order you to join his squadron for a while.”

  “Dangerous work,” Able said, wondering how Headmaster Croker would appreciate the students of St. Brendan’s heading into deeper trouble than mere messaging. “I’ll remind you that my oldest crewmember is fourteen.”

  “If you can believe him. Smitty looks older.”

  “You were at the reading of Sir B’s will. His brother Edward’s by-blow would be fourteen. Why were you there at the reading?”

  It sounded presumptuous to a man whose ears buzzed a little from overmuch rum. Even Euclid was silent, perhaps already sleeping off the rum. Still, Ogilvie’s answer surprised him.

  “I like Grace St. Anthony. Good night to you. You sail on the tide?”

  And that was that. Able hoped Meri wasn’t asleep. She wasn’t. When he came into their chamber, she rose from bed, took his hand and walked him toward Ben’s room. “Our son has turned into a bit of a martinet. He thought to order me about in French. I told him what I thought about that and he sobered up considerably.”

  Able watched their sleeping son, admiring such a complex creation from two people who loved each other. He would never tell Meri in a million years, but he stored up in his heart those wonderful moments when he had tapped on his sleeping wife’s swollen belly and felt answering taps. They had developed a little code that he tried out, once Ben was born – two taps, answered by three taps, then so on through a lengthy sequence. He had sired a mathematician.

  Meri didn’t need to know that. “He’ll always keep you on your toes,” Able said.

  “We’ll manage. Come now, Able. We’re wasting time and I know you sail on the tide.”

  She loved him thoroughly, and then again before anyone was awake. He hated partings as well as the next navy man. At least she was kind enough to brush the tears from his eyes.

  “I don’t like to be wept on,” she whispered. “I do want another baby, however. You know, just a normal child this time. It might be a novelty.”

  How did she do it? Make him chuckle, and tear up, and go through the ecstasy of mad, slow love in an ordinary bed? He looked closer and saw her tears this time. “I did not know you when I sailed to war before,” he said. “At the dock, I had watched other partings of my mates from their wives, and resolved never to do that to a woman.”

  “Thank goodness you changed your mind,” she said, settling in, comfortable. “I trust I am strong enough for these farewells.”

  It remained unspoken between them, the thought that any farewell could be the final one.

  The household woke at first light to the fragrance of ham, eggs, applesauce, cinnamon toast and beans from Mrs. Perry’s kitchen. Avon joined them from across the street and they all tucked into a monstrous breakfast. No Rat complained. They, their master included, never forgot workhouse lessons of eating when the food was there, against a time when it was not.

  After breakfast, Meri made her Rats open their duffels. She advised all of them to take more socks and smallclothes and waited until they obeyed.

  “I put in enough socks and smallclothes,” Able whispered in her ear. He whispered something else and she gasped.

  He had never seen her blush so much. She thought a moment, this wife of his. “I could sprinkle more lilac talcum on whichever shimmy you stole.”

  “Not this time,” he said. “It’s a short voyage. I’ll use it for my pillowcase and go to sleep a happy man.”

  Funny how the whole school decided to walk with them by the Gunwharf where the Mercury bobbed on the receding tide. Sailing Master Durable Six felt the wind precisely right against his cheek. Ideal. Over shorter heads, he smiled at Headmaster Croker, who shrugged and came closer.

  “It was rank insubordination, but my instructors said the Gunwharf Rats walked out of class, so here we are.” Thaddeus Croker appeared not even slightly unhappy about this minor mutiny.

 
What did surprise him about Headmaster Croker was the cane he leaned upon. “Sir, is this an old injury?” he asked, as he slowed his pace to accommodate the man.

  “Something that flares up now and then,” Thaddeus said. He changed the subject beyond redemption, but Able wondered.

  It touched Able’s heart to see others. The entire St. Brendan’s kitchen staff, and look, Portsmouth’s constables, headed by Walter Cornwall and his wife Betsy, were there, too, along with Royal Marines. He didn’t see Captain Ogilvie, but suspected the man was already below.

  With an audience, the Gunwharf Rats raised the sail on Smitty’s command.

  “Kiss me quick, Mrs. Six,” Able said. “Ben, mind your mother.” As if to leave no doubt, he added, “Ben, obéissez à votre mère.” To be extra sure he added, “Obedece a tu madre.”

  Ezekiel Barnaby stopped him next. “We will all watch over your loved ones,” he said. “Would that I could come along, too.” The baker handed him a pasteboard box. “In case someone gets peckish in the next few days.”

  It was heavy. The baker must have stuffed in all of yesterday’s leftovers and then some. “Watch over my dear ones, too,” Able said.

  “I already do,” the former deepwater man said, “plus I left some iced rout cakes at your front door for t’missus.”

  Meri gave Able the sort of kiss that made him want to throw her down on the dock and have his way with her, but not before an audience. She did know how to send off a sailor, however. He took a step onto the yacht and nodded to Tots, who stood closest.

  Lady St. Anthony herself, aided by Mr. Ferrier, untied the knot that held them to the dock. Mr. Ferrier tossed the line to Tots, who coiled it like an expert.

  They set sail from Portsmouth into war.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Midsummer was the best time to sail across the English Channel. The sun was warm, the winds abundant but not overpowering. July provided days of suitable length to practice life aboard a sweet-sailing vessel with clean lines, a deep keel and impressive qualities unknown before a regular voyage. Sir B had known exactly what he wanted in a yacht. True, they had regularly sailed around Portsmouth harbor and the Isle of Wight, but the Channel was different. Sir B had built a seagoing yacht, nimble and powerful.

  Predictably, as soon as the channel chop came into play, Able spotted Davey Ten kneeling by the railing, tossing up Mrs. Perry’s magnificent breakfast. No one teased him. They knew better, especially when Smitty spent his own quieter time on the opposite side, feeding unwary fish. No one was about to twit Smitty over seasickness.

  His brain was often a burden, except in moments like this, when he helmed the Mercury in solitude and recalled every detail of last night’s General Merrymaking. He tried to wipe the silly smile off his face before Ogilvie came on deck, but the dratted man was wise to him. Feet braced apart, he stood next to Able at the wheel. “Either you prodigiously entertained the missus last night, or you’re damned happy to be at sea again,” he commented frankly.

  Lord, but the man was vulgar. “Bit o’ both, sir,” he said, which made Ogilvie chuckle and say, “Touché.” Surprisingly, the captain also added, “From now on, belay the sir. You’re commanding the Mercury at sea and I am crew. I call you captain. I thought we already discussed this.”

  “I suppose we did. Very well, Angus. Smitty and I have set a course for Rochefort. We anticipate four days.”

  Ogilvie nodded. “That should be true, with no surprises.”

  As it turned out, there were two surprises on the first day, both of them pleasant, and both Avon March’s doing, the quiet little fellow recommended by Lady St. Anthony. She had urged him on Able at the last minute with no explanation, but with a smile in eyes that hadn’t done much smiling lately. He took her at her word.

  The sun beamed on the Mercury as she bowled along, her sails catching every bit of wind, which was the secret weapon and glory of a yacht. Ogilvie took the wheel as Able summoned his young crew for a lesson in signaling.

  “We’ll be flying our signals from the mainsail. That’s where the line and pulleys are and so is the flag locker. Refer to your signal books, if you please.”

  For their seamanship class at St. Brendan’s, Able had insisted that every boy have his own book. Thaddeus Croker balked a bit at what seemed unnecessary expense for mere students, but Able knew better. The already much-used books came out, along with pencils and tablets. They looked at him, ready, even little Avon, who had joined Able’s course a few times when Lady St. Anthony cut him loose from plane geometry.

  As it turned out, Avon startled them all. No signal threw him, even the more complicated, “’Lay alongside enemy,’ followed by ‘Fire on command.’”

  Able noticed Tots and Whitticombe exchanging humorous glances. He fixed them with an inquiring eye, and Tots gestured to Avon, who sat there, all innocence, hand folded.

  “Lord bless me,” Able said. “Avon, are you even looking up the signals?”

  “Nossir. I know them.”

  He did. Better test him at the mast. “Let’s see how fast you can string’um in proper order. Ready? I’ll give you random orders. Maybe throw in some names.”

  Well, that was a revelation. Up they went at Able’s command, flying in a spanking breeze. Avon didn’t even forget the query flag when specified, or the answer flag, a common error of new signalmen.

  Able looked around at the others, including Angus Ogilvie at the wheel, each as surprised as he was. “Good work, Avon. The best, in fact. Let’s try a few more just for fun.”

  They did, with the same results. When Able finished, Avon folded the flags and put them away in their individual cubbies in the newly installed flag locker. Able rested a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. March, you are now signal officer on the HMS Mercury.”

  The other Rats cheered, and Avon bowed most formally, somehow touching in a lad of eleven. “Captain Six,” he said. “I can also cook.”

  “D’ye cook as well as you signal?” Able asked, delighted by this crew member.

  “Aye, sir.”

  No false modesty there, either; he did. Working in the Mercury’s miniscule galley at noon, Avon produced a pease porridge to accompany the figgy dowdy that Ezekiel Barnaby had stuffed in that pasteboard box. With the exception of Davey Ten, who still wasn’t up to food, the crew pronounced it good and wanted more.

  Able sent Angus Ogilvie below for his dinner and took the helm again, after telling Smitty to shoot the sun and give him some figures while the others watched. Able didn’t need the reading, but Smitty did. The result was spot on or near as, which was all Able wanted.

  What he wanted most of all was what he had, the Gunwharf Rats seated around him by the wheel. “What’s the principal task of small ships in a fleet action?” he asked, happy to be in a seagoing classroom instead of cooped up in a building.

  They all knew; he saw it on their faces, which grew suddenly serious. Whitticombe’s hand went up first. “To repeat signals from the commanding vessel to other ships more distant where signals are obscured by smoke,” he said promptly.

  “It’s dangerous work, Rats,” Able said, “weaving in and out of the line of fire.” He smiled, thinking of past actions, with all their heart-pounding, gut-wrenching moments. “Protect your signalman with your life.”

  “But what if we’re afraid?”

  Bravo. He had trained his Rats well to speak up and never fear censure. “Good question, Tots,” he said, with a glance at Smitty. “Smitty, take the wheel and steer another point closer to the wind.”

  “But sir.”

  “Do it.”

  Smitty did, and the Mercury heeled starboard abruptly. Able laughed to hear Ogilvie curse from the galley below. “I think he spilled his pease porridge,” Able said. “As you were, Smitty.” The yacht righted itself. “Men, we will be doing more heeling and backing, serving the fleet as repeaters. Get used to that fear. You can all swim. You know you have been through worse fright living in a workhouse.” He saw nods all aro
und and it broke his heart as he knew it would. “But you’re here and you survived, didn’t you?” More nods, this time with confidence.

  “Are you ever afraid, Master?” Whitticombe asked.

  “I’m captain now.”

  “Captain Six,” the boy corrected.

  “Aye. I have many fears.” Able smiled when Van Leuvenhoek and William Harvey gasped in fake surprise inside his brain. “I want with all my heart to always return from sea to Mrs. Six and my son. I also want to prove to the Royal Navy that St. Brendan’s turns out splendid mariners. How we do that will require all our courage and knowledge. We rely on each other, and we trust to Providence. We calm each other’s fears as we do so. This is our work, as long as France and Spain threaten our shores.”

  Here endeth the lesson, he thought.

  “Ben, we must accustom ourselves to finding Papa away at sea now, and not just across the street,” Meridee told her boy as they folded clothes on her bed.

  She smiled to watch him stare at the unmatched stockings, and then venture to roll two inside each other. The task eluded him, which made her wonder how it was that genius could occasionally run aground on simple chores that everyone else accomplished as a matter of course.

  “Mama, this is hard!”

  “I’ll show you slowly. See? Like this. You try it.”

  Ben did, with better success. He matched and rolled two more, then plumped himself down on the bed, neatly tidied after a night of magnificent tumult with her man. “Is this why Papa always comes to you to fix his neck cloth?”

  “Ah, yes, it is. He’s not very good at that.”

  “He’s good at other things.”

  “My love, we all have our strengths and weaknesses.”

  It had taken her months to accept as normal that conversation with her child of one and a half years was unlike anything she had anticipated. In some ways, Ben was precisely normal, if a little ahead of most tykes his age. For the most part, he did not mess his nappies anymore or wet himself, but at times he did. He wasn’t a neat eater.