The Saintly Buccaneer (40 page)

He looked down to see Thad Alden, who had come to his aid, the blade of Captain Whitaker buried in his stomach almost to the hilt. Thad looked up at Paul with unbelieving eyes and whispered hoarsely, “Please!”

The eyes of the lieutenant were fixed on the boy, gaping at the captain’s blade trapped in Alden’s body. Quicker than a striking cobra, Paul ran the lieutenant through the throat and even as he fell to the deck kicking and gagging, Paul whirled to face the captain.

Whitaker saw Paul’s red blade, and his eyes bulged as he saw the merciless face of Winslow, but he could not move fast enough, and instantly the blade that had killed his lieutenant was buried in his chest. He touched it almost delicately with one hand; then a dullness came to his eyes and he fell backward, dead before he hit the deck.

There was a shout, and Paul heard men crying for quarter. Looking around he saw that it was over. He dropped his sword and knelt to lift Alden’s head. The boy opened his mouth to speak and was gagged by a rush of crimson blood. Paul wiped the blood from the boy’s lips and Thad moaned, “Now I never—won’t never be able to—marry Miss Charity—take care of—” Unable to finish, he died in Paul’s arms.

Winslow rose to his feet sick at heart, but then he saw Dan getting up, holding his head where the ball had creased it.
The big man was smiling, and he came and threw his arms around Paul, saying, “God has been good to us, Paul.”

Paul looked around at the dead men and those that would soon die but who now were crying out with pain. He bowed his head, filled with sadness. Then he looked at Dan and cried, “Why do men treat each other worse than beasts?”

Dan shook his head, compassion filling in his eyes. “Why, God’s not finished with us yet, Paul. One day we’ll study war no more.”

“I wish I never had to lift my hand against another human being!”

“Why, thee
should
feel like that. Don’t thee suppose that Gilbert Winslow and all thy people felt the same? We’re weak vessels, Winslow, but God will see us through.”

Winslow nodded, and began tending the wounded and the dying. Charity came running up and stopped short as she saw his bloodstained garments and bloody head.

“I feel like something out of the sewer, Charity,” he groaned, and a wave of fatigue and horror gripped him. “Thad is dead. He died with your name on his lips.” She gave a cry and fell down to touch the forehead of the boy, and when she looked up Paul had moved away and was speaking to the crew.

All morning the cries of the wounded sounded as the surgeon tried to sew them together, and by noon the warship
Jupiter
of the Royal Navy was
The Gallant Lady
once again, under the command of Paul Winslow, Captain.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

ADMIRAL DE GRASS

Lieutenant General de Armees Navales, Le Comte de Grass, Commander in Chief of His Most Christian Majesty’s naval forces in the West Indies, paced the high poop of his flagship, swinging at anchor in Port Royal bay. Fore and aft, he paced, taffrail to quarterdeck.

He had fought in thirty campaigns, this man, and for more than forty-five years he had served French kings. In the American war for independence he had already taken part in eight engagements. His thoughts turned longingly toward home—the Chateau de Tilly, near Versailles. He yearned to feel the rich earth of France underfoot, treading his family estate instead of hard oak decks. His love for home and France was written in his will; no matter in what part of the world or on what sea he might expire, his heart was to be sent to repose eternally in the chapel of his chateau.

But short of death, the count knew that months must pass, perhaps years, before he would see home and family again. There was much to be done for his king on this side of the Atlantic, and he had done little. Rodney and Hood, the English admirals, had checkmated every attempt he had made to bottle up the American coast.

His second in command called from the wheel, “Ship is arriving, monsieur.”

The count moved to starboard and saw a fleet three-masted ship that could only be American-built skimming over the water. As he admired the way she seemed to glide in the
peculiar fashion of her type, he mentally added up his triumphs since arriving in the West Indies with his fleet two months before. He had attacked St. Lucia, where the English fleet was a constant threat to French ships, and had driven Hood farther north. He had captured the island of Tobago, but had been repulsed at Barbados, one of England’s richest and largest naval supply bases.

All in all, it had been a stalemate—a duel of the minds, a threat of fleets. Thrust and parry and thrust again. He had not succeeded, but M. de Grass well knew the final test was still to come. The war for American independence would be decided not by armies but by ships. The sea lanes along the American coast would be decisive. If he could gain control of those water routes, the war would soon be won. Yet he dared not leave the West Indies until Rodney’s fleet had been drawn away.

He said, “I will speak with the captain of that American schooner.” Going below, de Grass spent the next two hours poring over maps, as he did every day. So engrossed was he that he did not hear the steward enter, and he looked up with a start when he heard the man say, “Sir, the American captain—he is here.”

“Bring him in, Pierre.”

He straightened up stiffly, and moved in front of the map table to meet the three Americans who came through the door. He greeted them politely, surprised to see that one of them was an attractive young woman dressed in a man’s trousers.
Ah, who can tell with these wild Americans?
the count thought, but he said only, “Welcome to my ship. I am Count de Grass.” His English was flawless, and the richness of his French accent gave a fluid motion to the language that invested it with life and interest.

“I am Captain Paul Winslow, Continental Navy, and this is my first lieutenant, Mr. Daniel Greene.” The trim young captain introduced the third member. “And may I present Miss Charity Alden.”

“We have so few ladies out here, it is indeed a pleasure to have you, Mademoiselle Alden.” He moved forward and took the hand she extended, then bent to kiss it.

The gesture brought a blush to Charity’s face, and she said in a flustered tone, “Oh, thank you, sir!” The count was a handsome man, over six feet tall, powerfully built, yet moving with agility and grace. His advanced years were evident only in his graying hair, drawn back from wide temples and gathered by a ribbon at the back of his neck. His eyes beneath heavy brows seemed aware of everything; a patrician nose marked his noble lineage.

“Are you attached to any commander, Captain?” de Grass asked, motioning them to take their places around the large oak table.

“Well, sir, we are in a rather peculiar position.” Paul spoke quickly of the way they had recaptured
The Gallant Lady,
and the count was properly impressed.

“Indeed, you have done well!” he exclaimed. “I have never heard of such a thing in all my years in the navy.” He gave Charity a warm smile and said, “I take it that the ship will be in your name as the original owner?”

“I ... I’m not certain, Your Excellency,” she answered. “Captain Winslow’s uncle, a major with General Washington, persuaded the general to give us a commission. If we could recapture
The Gallant Lady,
she was to be under the authority of the naval forces of the United States until the end of the war. He also gave Paul Winslow a commission as captain.”

“Ah, and what were his intentions—General Washington?” the count asked, his face intent. “I have had a recent communication from His Excellency—and he is very insistent on our plans.”

“General Washington sent us word through Major Adam Winslow that we were to come to you as soon as possible, to be of any aid we could,” Paul spoke up.

“Good! I have no ship as fast as yours. You will be my eyes, Captain! If we are to be of service to your country, we must
somehow slip through the fingers of the English admiral and strike the British fleet off your coast. That is what General Washington urges. He thinks the time is ripe—but it will not be easy.”

“You will take your fleet to America, sir?” Charity asked.

“My fleet needs to be in three places at once,” the count replied. “To escort the trade home, to go to the American coast to aid Rochambeau, and to protect our West Indies while the British fleet remains.”

“My uncle thinks that Rodney will take his fleet from here to reinforce the British blockade. And he says if that happens, there’s not much hope of winning the war.”

“Yes, that is what General Washington warns me of in his dispatch.” A frustrated look came to the count’s eyes. “I must decide,” he stated slowly, “for this is one of those times when history hangs in the balance. Most of the time, history is slow, seeming not to move at all, or if things do happen, they have little impact. But every now and then, there comes a moment of destiny, and the decision rocks empires. I think we are now at such a time—and what happens now will change the nature of America—and of the world.”

“I agree, sir,” Greene replied. “If this war is lost, England will rule North America. That would be the end of France as a world power, as you well know—and it would mean that America would remain forever a minor colony instead of becoming a powerful nation.”

Count de Grass smiled at him. “Lieutenant, you have said it well. So, I would have you be at my call at all times. I must find a time when Rodney is looking the other way—and when that moment comes, we will drive across the sea at full speed. I will need your ship desperately.”

“It will be our pleasure to serve you, sir.”

The count rose and the others followed. He went with them onto the deck, saying as he walked, “I will give orders for your ship to be supplied, and if you need men, I will have
them transferred to your ship. I want you to be battle ready as soon as possible.”

They left the ship and returned to the
Lady,
where they brought the crew up-to-date on their new assignment. There was a meeting with the nucleus of the original crew—Miles Lester, Laurence Conrad, who would be the second lieutenant, and Benjamin Smith, the new master gunner. They met in the captain’s cabin, and as Paul outlined the plan, speaking swiftly and moving with authority, Dan leaned forward and whispered to Charity, “He’s a born leader!”

They all received their assignments, and Paul continued. “We’ll take on all the powder and shot we can carry. Smith, you’ll get some new hands, experienced men, and I’m expecting you to hit with those guns like they were Kentucky long rifles!”

Ben Smith, a wiry brown man of few words, spit on the floor before he thought, wiped his mouth with embarrassment, then said, “I’ll shoot the eyes out of them Britishers, Cap’n!”

“We’ll go out every day for firing practice, and I want you to get the crew so sharp they can spin the
Lady
around like a shake of a duck’s tail! We’ll likely run up against ships with more fire power, but if we’re ready, they’ll never be able to get a shot at us. Anything else?”

“I think we ought to investigate Port Royal’s social life, Captain,” Conrad spoke up. “I mean, if we’re going up against the whole British fleet, why, we ought to have a fling first, don’t you agree?”

Winslow’s white teeth gleamed as he smiled at the lean form of Conrad, and he nodded. “Shore leave for everyone—but in shifts. I want the ship manned and ready for action twenty-four hours a day. One third of the crew can ruin themselves at a time.”

Conrad let out a long sigh. “Well, then, here I go to the fleshpots to get drunk again.” He shook his head mournfully, and added, “And do I dread it!”

****

There are few spots on planet earth more beautiful than the West Indies in spring, and for the next two weeks the crew of the
Lady
had the most pleasant time of their lives. The fitting of the ship was not difficult, but the training was hard, though brief. Captain Winslow was a hard-eyed slave-driver during morning drills, pushing the men with a single-minded determination; but when the ship returned to her slip in the afternoon, a third of the crew piled off and eagerly headed for downtown Port Royal.

Dan and Charity found time to explore the town, though Paul refused to leave the ship until everything was to his liking. It was a time of relaxing pleasure to stroll along the narrow streets, which appeared to have had no preconceived plan as they wound through the ancient city. The two also spent time shopping and watching the pageant.

One afternoon when they had stopped for a fruit drink, Dan asked suddenly, “Does thee think Paul has changed?”

She sipped the sweet drink, shrugged, and thought for a moment. Her skin was already a golden color from the southern sun’s rays, and very becoming to her. “Oh, I suppose—but it’s just the responsibility.”

He studied her profile a while and smiled. He was such a big man that the cup of juice looked fragile in his large hands. He rolled the drink around, took a sip, then commented solemnly, “We have changed, too. How long is it since we were engaged? Now look at us.”

“Poor Dan!” she comforted teasingly, and her teeth gleamed against the tan as she added, “Be glad you didn’t get me, Dan. I’ll be a frightful wife. Bossy and mean!”

“Not true!” he protested.

“Anne will be perfect for you—if you can convert her.”

He blinked at her in surprise, and she laughed at him and shook his shoulder. “You think I’m blind as well as stubborn? She’s so much in love with you she can’t see straight!”

“I—I don’t want to rush into a marriage, Charity. Once bit, twice shy, as they say.”

“Oh, you’re still sensitive over getting passed over by Julie—and by me,” she shrugged. “Does a man no harm to get rejected a few times, Dan. Makes him humble.”

“It’s not much pleasure. Makes me feel like a fool.”

She got up and pulled at him until he arose. “Come on, let’s walk. Maybe I’ll make you buy me a parrot.”

As they left the crowded street and walked along the white beach, she had a thought, and asked him, “Did you ever hear the old tale about how lovers find each other?”