Heart of Steele (4 page)

I learned that when I rowed Captain Hunter and my uncle one-half mile away to admire the new look. With her shorter masts and her new paint, the
Aurora
seemed somehow fatter and slower than she
really was. Captain Hunter had ordered the oldest, grayest sails to be run up, too. There was nothing of naval smartness about our poor ship now.

To add to the deception, the captain had ordered the decks to be cluttered with barrels and boxes. A small pyramid of these stood amidships, covered with a tarpaulin and lashed down. Anyone would have sworn we were an innocent ship, somewhat slovenly, loaded to the scuppers with trade goods.

“The paint don’t go all the way to the water,” observed my uncle critically. “There’s still a dark rim.”

“It makes no great odds,” Captain Hunter declared. “A ship’s always dirty right around the waterline, from the slush and muck heaved overboard. Anyway, we cannot careen her out of the water and do a proper job of painting her right down to the copper. This will do. If anyone comes near enough to spy the black paint, we’ve let him come too close, anyway!”

Uncle Patch still shook his head, as if unsatisfied. “We’ve far too many men for a merchant vessel. What are our numbers? One hundred and sixty?”

“One hundred and fifty-seven,” Captain Hunter said softly.

I wondered if he was thinking of the men we had lost in battles and through illness, for that was what I was thinking. We had begun our cruise with some two hundred men.

“Far too many,” grumbled my uncle. “I have never known a merchant ship to have more than a couple of dozen.”

“I see no problem there,” Captain Hunter said easily. “We sail with the full crew when we are out of sight of land or other vessels, and when we are closer in, most of the men will hide belowdecks. Mr. Adams can appear as the master of the vessel, perhaps wearing my court wig and with a pillow stuffed into his shirt to give him the proper fat-merchant look.”

“For of course you are too well-known to show yourself,” Uncle Patch said sarcastically.

“Row us back, Davy,” said the captain. To my uncle he said very seriously, “I just may be too wellknown, Patch. For I have the feeling that Steele, devil that he is, has done his foul work all too well.”

It seemed I was ever and again learning new things about Uncle Patch. One calm evening the captain
told the crew to be lazy and enjoy the fair weather, so hard had they worked at transforming the ship. At sunset they gathered in the forward part of the main deck and sat or lay back listening to Lloyd Jones scrape at his fiddle. Jones, a stringy, lean man of forty or so, was scratching out a mournful tune, suited almost to a funeral.

I sat leaning against the mainmast, listening with the rest. Uncle Patch came on deck, sniffed the air, and then walked to the windward rail, where he stood staring out over the sea. Presently he turned and in a chiding voice said, “Jones, the Lord commanded us to make a joyful noise, not a doleful Welsh whine. Play something cheerful!”

Jones coughed and said, “Well, maybe I would if Your Honor would consent to lead us in a song.”

I almost laughed aloud at the very thought of my grumbling uncle bursting into melody, but he chuckled and said, “Fairly spoken! Very well. D’ye know ’Fare thee well, my darlin’ Kathleen?’”

“Spin it out, and I’ll follow,” responded Jones.

To my surprise and considerable embarrassment, my uncle planted his feet, put one hand on
his chest, and broke out in a clear, strong tenor:

He paused, and the whole crew stamped or slapped the deck and roared, “Fine girl you are!” by way of refrain. Jones had picked up the lively tune at once and jigged it out on his fiddle. My uncle took up the song again:

That was the chorus, and as he sang his way through the song, the men always introduced it with their lusty cry of “Fine girl you are!”

Of all the words, I remember only one more verse he sang, an ill-omened one:

There, I forget the rest. But I do recall that Uncle Patch finished his warbling to shouts of approval. I was glad that twilight had come, for to me his behavior was so unlike him that it made my heart heavy to think on him making a fool of himself that way, and I know my face was a-burning red.

And besides, besides, besides …

My dead mother’s name was Kathleen.

I go A-spying

HOW WELL JACK STEELE
had done his work was made known to us only two days later. It was but a bit after noon when we spotted a sail away to the west. Immediately, Captain Hunter gave the order and most of the men disappeared below-decks. This would be the first test of our new disguise.

“Are you feeling like a proper captain, Mr. Adams?” Captain Hunter said, adjusting his good black court wig, which now resided atop the first mate’s head.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but what I most feel like is a proper fool.” Mr. Adams stood patiently as the captain yanked at the wig again. Mr. Adams was
dressed in a blue uniform jacket from the stores, a white blouse and breeches, and a perfectly respectable hat. The only problem was that none of his new finery exactly fit.

“Be glad we talked him out of the pillow, lad,” creaked Uncle Patch, “or you’d be looking like a fat fool on top of it.”

“None of you have any sense of the theatrical,” the captain sighed, finally finished manhandling the wig on poor Mr. Adams’s head.

“Perhaps I’ll grow into it, sir.”

“Close in on her, Mr. Warburton,” Captain Hunter called up to our helmsman. “Let’s see what’s going on in the wide world!”

“Aye,” muttered my uncle. “And what kind of role we’re playing in it.”

Over the next hour, we slowly closed in on the other vessel. It soon became clear that she was a sharp-looking sloop, sleek and well maintained, and like ourselves, stacked high with boxes and barrels. She was also armed with a brace of twelve pounders on each side. As we got closer, I could see men suspiciously crouched over those guns, slow matches at the ready. A tall, slim man with auburn
hair tied back in a queue stood at the stern and stared back at us.

“All right, Mr. Adams,” whispered Captain Hunter from where he lounged on the railing next to him. “Do your duty, sir.”

Mr. Adams squared his shoulders and brought his speaking trumpet to his lips. “Ahoy the sloop! What ship are you?”

The man with the auburn queue stared at us for a moment, then raised his own trumpet. “This be the
Piedmont Star
out of Charles Town, bound for Antigua, George Edwards, captain. What ship are you?”

“This be the
Fairweather
out of Edinburgh, bound for Port Royal. I am Captain Adams.”

The man on the sloop bawled, “Port Royal? Then hoist all yer sails and come about, Fairweather, for ye be sailing into rough waters!”

“Rough waters?” Mr. Adams called. “Mean you storms, Captain Edwards?”

“Has Scotland broke loose and drifted out to sea that you get no news, Captain Adams? I mean pirates! Mad William Hunter prowls the waters around Port Royal!”

Captain Hunter jerked up at the sound of his name but then caught control of himself and, with a nod of his head, instructed Mr. Adams to carry on. Our first mate looked nervous as he raised his trumpet again.

“Mad William Hunter? But we fly the Union flag and he never attacks British ships!”

“Tell that to the crews of the
Lord Marlborough
and the
Princess of Wales
—if only you can find them. Beware a black-and-yellow French frigate—that be the wicked
Aurora
herself. Show her your heels, and may the devil take the dog!”

And with that, the
Piedmont Star
pulled away from us and headed off on her way. No one, not even Uncle Patch, said a word, but all eyes turned to where Captain Hunter leaned back against the railing.

“Well, that does answer the question of whether Steele has taken other English ships,” he said at last.

“Aye,” grumbled Uncle Patch. “And whether or not our reputation has suffered in the bargain.”

Captain Hunter smiled at him, but somehow the smile never quite reached his eyes.

We hailed several other ships but received no more useful news. At last we stood off south of Port Royal.
The time was hours before dawn, and I waited on deck, receiving my orders from Uncle Patch.

“The plan is simple, so see that ye hold to it, lad!” he said, staring me straight in the eyes with never a blink. “You’re to head ashore in the skiff alongside. We’re to continue westward to a quiet anchorage William knows of. You have one week from today to get your snooping done. After that, every night at midnight, we’ll stand off here until three o’clock. Understand? Three o’clock and not a moment past!”

I nodded earnestly, it being at least the fourth time he had told me, then shocked him by giving him a great hug. Before he could do anything more than sputter, I was over the side and into the skiff. Then it was only a matter of seconds before I was loose from the
Aurora
and rowing for all I was worth toward Port Royal.

The night was dark, but the sky was rich with stars and a late moon was was low in the west. I could see the faint harbor lights in the distance. I started to find the rhythm of rowing, putting my back into the effort. Ten or fifteen minutes passed.

“Any luck, lad?”

The voice to my starboard nearly made me swallow my tongue. I stared wildly into the night and could just barely make out another small fishing boat with two men in it. One was chuckling softly to himself. At last it came to me that they were only asking about the fishing. Relief washed over me like a tumbling wave.

“Not a single fish did I have for a night’s work!” I called. “And yourselves?”

“’Twas not a total waste o’ time. Next time go a bit north. The fish there know how to help a poor man earn a penny!”

They laughed again and I with them. They were fishermen, as I was supposed to be. My luck had held true. Around me in the dark I could now see other small boats heading back into Port Royal. Once I was sure of my heading, I risked hoisting the skiff’s small sail so that I could give my weary arms a rest. The wind was only indifferent, but with a careful hand at the tiller and on the lines, I steered for the harbor.

Around me other voices drifted back and forth, complaining and joking about their luck, good or bad. I was just another poor soul trying to make a
little extra money. Just as Captain Hunter had planned.

The sun was slowly starting to rise when I tied up my skiff in the shelter of a lonely dock. Other boats bobbed beside it, enough to keep it safe for the time being. It wasn’t the kind of craft anyone would want to steal, anyway, being old, gray, and splintered. Just about any other vessel would be more tempting to a thief.

Port Royal had changed not a whit since I had landed on these same docks more than a year earlier. Everywhere there was a bustle and crowds hurrying back and forth. For the first few moments I walked in fear, certain that any moment someone would point at me and shout, “There he is! There’s that famous pirate, Davy Shea!” Then, of course, I remembered that I had never been the famous pirate Davy Shea or even the famous loblolly boy Davy Shea. I was just another ragged boy making his way in the world. I walked a bit more jauntily after that.

At last I made my way to the good old King’s Mercy, where my uncle and I had lived before all this excitement had begun. Strangely enough, it too
still looked the same. Surely it should have changed. After all, I certainly had. I pushed open the stout old oaken door and walked into the dimly lit great room. A robust figure in a long dress was bustling around the tables. I walked up to her with my hat in my hands.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Cochran, but my uncle bids me to remind you that he still wishes you to keep his room ready for him. He asked me to give you this”—here I fished a small bag of golden coins from my shirt—“and says he trusts that all is in order.”

Mrs. Molly Cochran, the most levelheaded and straightforward woman I had ever met, turned and stared at me.

Then she screamed.

Some time later, she hovered over me with a scolding tongue. “Davy Shea, ten years you took off my life with your foolishness! Eat; you look like your own ghost, you do!”

I nodded apologetically and stuffed another half rasher of bacon into my mouth. After she finished yelling at me for being an inconsiderate rascal, Mrs. Cochran insisted on making enough breakfast for
me and at least three other boys. Fortunately they hadn’t shown up.

“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I wasn’t thinking. …”

“Like your uncle you are—sets a goal, heads for it, and Lord help anything in his way. Is he himself well?”