The Saintly Buccaneer (12 page)

Forward there were groups of men yarning, men skylarking; there were solitary men who had each preempted a square yard of deck for himself and sat, cross-legged, with tools and materials, doing embroidery or whittling at models, oblivious to the tumult about them. Similarly aft on the crowded quarterdeck the groups of officers strolled and chatted, avoiding the other groups without conscious effort.

Blanche had had the injured seaman brought up out of the stuffy crew’s quarters below, as she had done on the previous two days. The wind had grown balmier, and Whitefield had rigged a hammock on the port deck aft of the mizzenmast; there he had gotten well acquainted with his captain’s willful daughter as they had sat beside the man. He admired her spirit, but realized clearly that the same impetuous impulse
that had been the means of caring for the helpless man would be just as likely to lead her into less noble causes.

The two of them had been idly talking when Captain Rommey appeared unexpectedly, and Whitefield, wily enough to see a storm cloud in the face of Blanche’s father, hastily slipped away. Rommey, towering over the girl, said with obvious displeasure, “You don’t give a hang about this man!”

“Neither do you, Father,” Blanche retorted sharply. She threw her head back, her eyes flashing. His daughter took a perverse delight, he saw, in taking him on in the matter, and added defiantly, “Perhaps you’re right. He’s just a common sailor. But you pulled me out of the only life I cared for—now I have to do something to entertain myself.”

He bit his lip, pondering how to answer her. Finally giving up, his mouth drawn in displeasure, he said sternly, “The whole ship is rumbling about this thing. It’s not good for discipline!” He waited for her to answer, but saw that she intended no such thing. Her rebellious disrespect flooded him with anger, for he was a man who could brook no opposition. Now he could only add, “You’re doing this to spite me, Blanche. Or maybe you’re playing dolls again.”

His words stung her, and she stood up to face him, her features hard and her voice brittle. “What does
that
mean?”

“It means that you’ve always liked to play god with people. Even when you were a child, you had to rule the other children you played with. And as an older child, you learned you were smarter than most girls, and better looking, so you did as you pleased. Later when you became a woman, you played with men—just as you’d played with your dolls—pulling them to pieces when you got bored with them.”

“Oh, Father, that’s
wonderful
coming from
you!
” He knew her, and his words had cut deep—so deep that her face for all its rich color was a trifle pale. “You’ve done nothing all your life but rule people—and now you’re saying that I’m the one who’s spoiled!”

He looked around uneasily, for her voice had risen, and he
realized that she did not care a pin if every seaman on deck heard her—but
he
cared, for he was jealous of his dignity and knew well that a captain must be aloof from his men. He shook his head and turned, saying only, “I’ll be glad to get you to the Indies!”

She glared at his broad back as he wheeled and marched away toward the forecastle deck; then as quickly as it had arisen, her anger faded and she laughed aloud at herself. It was typical of the girl to shrug off anger so easily, for her emotions were quick rather than deep. Her father, she realized wryly, was right, and it was part of her charm that she was able to see a weakness in herself as readily as she could in another.

Curiously, she moved beside the gently swaying hammock, and with a gesture made easy by the practice of the last two days, lifted the battered head of the sailor and spooned some thin soup between his lips. She held his head, not missing the finely structured bones, the broad forehead, the high-bridged English nose, the small, neat ears, and the wide mouth, firmly molded and somehow a little stubborn even when relaxed. She paused before giving him more soup, and thought,
I wonder if I’d be doing this if he weren’t so good-looking?
She smiled disdainfully and admitted,
Of course not! If he were homely, I’d never come near him.

Blanche Rommey was a fickle, changeable, spoiled girl—but she had the rare gift of being honest with herself, and she knew that her father had been entirely correct in his evaluation of her motives—that she was doing it just to spite him and to play god.

She was furious with him for interfering with her life and bored to tears with the ship. She was not a girl given to books; her very being was the essence of action, and tending the sick man was just one handy way of burning up the energy that seethed inside her—and had the additional benefit of irritating her father!

Forward on the deck, as he emerged from the hold, Whitefield had been stopped by Oscar Grimes, the cooper. Grimes
was shaped like a spider with a huge torso supported on thin legs, and his abnormally long arms, thin and sinewy, completed the illusion. His head was small, covered with a thatch of stiff black hair, and he had a pair of small, beady eyes, black as tar. Most of the crew were rough in their ways, but Grimes had the kind of evil in him that fascinated normal men. Repulsive as he was, in person as well as in mind, he drew a segment of the crew by the very power of his warped spirit.

“Wait up there, Whitefield,” he called in an oily voice, and with a simian gesture reached out and caught the gunner by the arm. “Wot’s this agoin’ on?” he queried, nodding his head toward the spot where Blanche was tending her patient. Leering slyly, he added, “If that gel is that hot to ’ave a man—why, I reckon I can accommodate ’er!”

Whitefield was a small man and seemed dwarfed by Grimes’s powerful bulk, but there was something in his light blue eyes that made the cooper hurriedly remove his hand. “You just fly right at it, Grimes,” he said menacingly. “Touch one hair on that woman’s head, and you’ll be hangin’ from the yard arm by sundown—and feedin’ the fish by dark.”

His words angered Grimes, and the cooper’s neck swelled; however, he well knew that Whitefield spoke no more than simple truth. In spite of that, he raised his voice as the gunner walked away, “All right, holy man—but I’ve got me ways! Oh, I’ve got me ways!”

Whitefield walked up to the hammock, looked down at the still face, and asked, “Any change, miss?”

“No, Whitefield.”

“Aye—well, if you’d like to rest a bit, I’m off for four hours.”

“Nothing to do on this awful ship!”

“Not much, miss—not for a lady like yourself.” As he spoke his eyes caught sight of a large bird gracefully flying back toward the coast on powerful wings.

“What sort of bird is that?” she asked, following his gaze.

“Frigate bird, miss.”

“Looks like an eagle. What do they eat?”

“Oh, pretty much what all sea birds eat—but they
are
different. They don’t bother with doing much fishin’ themselves, you see.”

She looked at him with a puzzled light in her eyes before turning back to the bird. “How do they get their food?”

“Take it away from them what does work for it,” Whitefield answered. “Like—a pelican will dive and get himself a nice fish; afterward he’ll likely rise up and head off with it. But Mr. Frigate Bird, why, he’s been asailin’ round up there just waitin’ like—and finally he says, ‘Why, there’s my supper, right in Mr. Pelican’s beak!’ So down he dives—and it’s a fair sight, Miss Rommey, to see a frigate in a dive! So he hits Mr. Pelican and knocks ’im loose from the fish—and there’s his supper!”

Blanche stared intently at the disappearing bird. “That,” she said with a quick grin at Whitefield, “is the kind of bird I’d want to be if I had to be a bird.”

He chuckled and nodded, pulling at a lock of his hair. “I thought you was a bit in that way—if you’ll pardon me for sayin’ so, miss.” He waved his arm around and added, “That’s why they call this kind of ship a
frigate,
you see? Light, fast, strong, and got enough guns to throw plenty of iron. She sees a ship filled up with good things, hits like a lightning bolt, and
bam!
She’s got the goods and the poor old merchant ship ain’t got no more than the pelican!”

She laughed, and although Whitefield would never have felt comfortable speaking freely with the captain, this girl had a natural quality that won his confidence. She was curious about everything, and for over an hour he kept her entertained with yarns of the sea. Her eyes glowed as he related some of the stories of sea fights between the great ships of the line, her desire for action and activity drawn to the excitement of that part of life.

Eventually she grew sleepy, and put her head back against the wooden bulkhead. He sat there quietly, finally pulled a small book out of his pocket and began reading. He looked
up with a start when she said, “You read the Bible a lot, don’t you, Whitefield?”

“Why, yes, miss. It’s ’bout all the books I do read, you might say.”

“Are you any relation to the Methodist preacher—what’s his name?”

“That’d be my cousin George, miss.”

“Of course.” Blanche acknowledged, looking curiously at the sailor before responding. “Your kinsman, he’s set the whole world buzzing! He’s the talk of the court, you know. I was at a ball given by the Countess of Huntington, and
everyone
was there. The actor, David Garrick? Well, he said that he’d give anything to have a voice like Rev. Whitefield.” She laughed and added, “I remember he said that Whitefield could make a congregation weep by pronouncing the word
Mesopotamia!
”

“I reckon the gentleman ain’t far wrong, miss. George is a powerful man of the Word.”

“Tell me about him.”

Whitefield was reluctant, thinking that this wealthy girl would scoff at his simple beliefs, but she did not. She was, on the contrary, as fascinated by the phenomena of the enormous successes of the outdoor preaching of Whitefield and the Wesleys as she had been with the habits of the frigate bird.

Finally, she remarked, “Some people really dislike him, Whitefield—especially the clergy, I understand. Why is that?”

“Well, that’s because he insists that people have to be born again.”

“Born again?”

“Yes, miss.” He opened his Bible and read her the opening lines of the third chapter of John, concluding with the words, ‘Ye must be born again.’ He looked at her earnestly, saying, “You see, Miss Rommey, most people in the Established church of England thinks that if a man behaves himself, don’t do no big sin, is good to his family and attends services—why, he’s all right in the sight of the Lord.”

“Well—isn’t he?” Blanche asked instantly.

“Not according to what the Lord Jesus said.” Whitefield shrugged. He explained in his rough way what it meant to have a change on the
inside,
but he saw at once that the girl had no concept of the matter.

She was just beginning to argue when a slight noise caused her to look at the man in the hammock, and she leaped to her feet, crying out, “Whitefield! Look, he’s waking up!”

“Glory to God!” Whitefield exclaimed, breaking into a broad smile. “So he is!”

They stood there staring down, watching in anticipation as the eyelids seemed to flutter, then slowly opened, revealing a pair of murky eyes. They closed almost at once, but Whitefield moved to shade them. “Come, lad—open your eyes now.” And once again the eyes opened. At first there was no expression in them, but as the two waited with bated breath, the gaze shifted, focusing on something to the left, later coming back to stare up at the face of Whitefield, who was leaning over the side of the hammock.

They were strange eyes, Whitefield decided. There was a bright intelligence behind them, giving them life, but there was something else—something the gunner could not identify.
Poor lad is terrible confused,
he thought, and he said in a mild, soothing voice, “Don’t be too quick now, lad. Just lie easy till you gets your bearings.”

Blanche moved closer, and immediately the eyes turned, taking her in. But there was no response on seeing her. He lay there considering her face, then looked back to Whitefield. They both waited for him to speak, but he seemed either unable or unwilling to open his lips.

“Are you all right?” Blanche asked. Once again his eyes shifted to look up at her, but as before there was no sign of recognition and no attempt to speak.

The wind was whistling through the shrouds, and the noise of the men’s voices was like a hum of distant bees. Both Whitefield and Blanche unconsciously leaned forward to hear
what the man would say—but he remained mute. Finally Blanche gave the sailor a puzzled look, somewhat fearful, and whispered, “Whitefield—something’s
wrong!
”

He did not answer at once, but considered the eyes focusing on him. “Well, Miss Rommey, he’s come a long way. You have to remember, this is all new to the lad. He was on shore, maybe in a cold, dark place, and now he wakes up in this warm sun on a ship. Let’s not rush the poor chap.”

“Water ... !” They both jumped at the sound of the man’s hoarse voice, rusty with disuse, but Blanche whirled and poured a cup of fresh water from the jug beside the hammock. She lifted his head and held it while he drank thirstily. When he stopped, she let his head fall back, holding it gently. “Do you feel better?” she asked.

He looked at her, slowly nodded, closed his eyes again and relaxed so completely that it frightened her. “Whitefield—he’s dead!”

“Not a bit of it, miss,” the sailor assured her. “Just went to sleep right sudden-like. Ain’t uncommon in such cases. Men that’s been wounded bad, they fall off like that—especially at first. But he’ll wake up soon, and it’s hungry he’ll be.”

“He looked at us so strangely,” she murmured, looking down at the still face. “Do you think he’ll be all right?”

“Oh, I should think so,” Whitefield responded. “I been afraid he’d go out without waking up at all.”

“You mean—die?”

“Yes, miss.”

The thought troubled her, and she shivered slightly. “I’ve never seen anyone die. It would frighten me, I think.”

“Takes most of us that way.” He shrugged. “I’ll be glad to talk to the lad—see if he’s ready to meet the good Lord.”