Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (9 page)

 
          
 
"So that is it? But I would have sworn
that no one out of
Paris
knew that trick!"

 
          
 
Fitz, thoroughly chagrined, drew back and
dropped the point of his foil. "You do, sir," he pointed out the
obvious rather reproachfully.

 
          
 
"And so do you,"
Watts
commented, "
probably
the pair of you could keep up that maneuver all day without either scoring. It
is checkmate."

 
          
 
"No," Fitz was quick to declare
honestly. "Captain Crofts is the better. He could have laid me on the deck
anytime in the first three minutes. I'll have no conceit of my skill after
this."

 
          
 
"You're a slow beginner, Mr. Lyons,"
the Captain agreed. "But the man who can get through that defense of yours
after you're warm to the play must be more of a master than I claim to be. As
for that underthrust, had I not been instructed in it, you might as easily
had
dealt with me as you did with Dr. Watts. It's a French
trick which has done some deadly work in its time."

 
          
 
"So D'Aulony said when he taught it to
me," Fitz admitted. "He was the fencing master who had us to plague
him for his sins, my cousins and I. But for some reason I pleased him one day
and he taught me his big secret as a reward."

 
          
 
Crofts was
putting on
his coat. "It's a dangerous bit of knowledge that, Mr. Lyon. It can be
used to kill as well as to disarm."

 
          
 
Fitz handed his foil to
Watts
. "I've never been 'out,' sir. And it's
not a thrust you would give with a boarding hanger. So there's little danger
that I'll ever see its true finish."

 
          
 
"Just as well," Crofts' low answer
barely reached his ears. "I have."

 
          
 
What else he might have added was drowned out
in a triumphant bellow from the lookout.

 
          
 
"Sail ho!"

 
          
 
Yankee sailors have a knack,

            
Haul away! Yeo ho, boys,

            
Of pulling down a British Jack,

            
'Gainst any odds you know, boys.

 
          
 
—THE YANKEE SAILOR

 
          
 
FlTZ WAS SEA-WISE ENOUGH NOW TO IDENTIFY THEIR
quarry as a brig, and she was either an excellent sailer, or was in the hands
of an expert master, for it looked for a space as if she might win free of the
privateer. But the Retaliation kept to the chase, hauling up slowly but surely
on the Jack which waved in smart defiance from the other's mast.

 
          
 
Crofts ordered their own colors broken out and
lobbed a warning shot at the brig, which continued to hold to her course. It
looked as if it would be a running fight. Fitz shifted his weight from foot to
foot, and heard an impatient rustle down the short line of marines. Until they
were in rifle-shot distance marines were, perforce, spectators only.

 
          
 
The Marylander knew little of the art of
seamanship, but he guessed that Crofts was now using every trick known to his
trade to bring up the privateer. Below, the gun captains crouched at their
stations, glancing now and then at the ready matches. And when for the second
time the bow chaser was fired, and the white splash of the shot was seen almost
within fair range, a satisfied shout arose from below.

 
          
 
"Best not cheer too soon," Fogler
said gloomily. "Luck can be pushed too
far "

 
          
 
"Sail ho!"

 
          
 
That scream from the lookout brought them all
up short, even the Retaliation herself appeared to pause. It was Crofts who
questioned.

 
          
 
"Where away?"

 
          
 
"Three points off the starboard astern,
sir "

 
          
 
Crofts swung into the rigging, pulling up to
the lookout's flimsy perch, his glass dangling from a cord about his neck. The
Retaliation held to her course after the fleeing Britisher.

 
          
 
When the Captain's heels hit the deck again he
had the full attention of all within eye and ear range.

 
          
 
"My compliments to Mr.
Ninnes," he said to the boy who dogged his steps during engagements,
"and say that I want a mast out of the brig.
As
quickly as possible!"
The boy took a running jump for the gun deck
where Ninnes was on duty.

 
          
 
As two shots thudded out, the brig changed
course. White splinters sprayed from her rail.

 
          
 
"Too low!"
Fogler spat.

 
          
 
A second crash—the result of extra speed in
loading-slammed out almost before the echoes of the first had died away. A long
rent split the mainsail of the brig, and then her foremast curved toward the
sea, toppling down on the already battered rail. But the privateer did not move
in to finish off the crippled enemy.

 
          
 
Instead, under Crofts' orders she angled wide,
sending only a single broadside into the brig as she swept past. The other
sails behind could be seen from the deck now, and Fitz tried to identify them.

 
          
 
"A frigate!"
The lookout was quick with the bad news.

 
          
 
"A trap," Fogler bit out the words.
"An' if
th
' Cap'n o' that there frigate hadn't
bin a mite too anxious, he coulda snapped us up as easy as easy! Now we gotta
show our heels an' lose
th
' brig into th'
bargain!"

 
          
 
"If we waited to nibble at that bit of
cheese the cat'd claw us sure." Fitz watched the disabled brig fall
astern. "There's a time when it's best not to be greedy."

 
          
 
But if the impatience of the frigate's
commander had spoiled the success of his trap, the Retaliation was not yet out
of danger. With her mast down the brig could not run, but the frigate came
grimly on, maintaining a speed which was little comfort to those on board the
privateer. They settled down to a steady flight northward.

 
          
 
In the hours which followed, Fitz believed
that he would never forget the sight of those pursuing sails. He knew that the
privateer, for all her speed and the skill of her gunners, dared not stand up
in open fight to a frigate. But running away from the first real competition
which they had met set his teeth on edge.

 
          
 
Captain Crofts, however, had another trick up
his neat blue sleeve.

 
          
 
"So that's it!" Fogler had been
quicker than his superior officer to catch a hint of what was in the Captain's
mind.

 
          
 
It was close to sunset and the privateer was
changing course, so slowly that Fitz had not been aware of the move until the
sergeant's exclamation drew his attention. The crew was alert, standing by in a
sort of mouse-hole crouch by the guns.

 
          
 
Slowly the Retaliation lost way, lagging a
little as if the wind which had been cupped in her canvas so skillfully all
afternoon were failing her. The pursuing sails grew taller against the evening
sky.

 
          
 
"That is a frigate," the words
formed in Fitz's mind, "she can blast us out of the water without even
using her full strength. We're plagued fools if we tempt her to do it!"

 
          
 
But even as he thought, he checked the priming
of his rifle.

 
          
 
Then the deck shook and a blast of smoke and
flame curtained up. Their broadside was on its way, a few distant white slaps
on the waves marking misses. But not all had missed. And the frigate tacked,
halting her forward rush.

 
          
 
"Double-shotted!"
Fogler cried exultantly. "That's givin' 'em a sour cud t' chaw on!"

 
          
 
Fitz shouted out the orders which had been
drilled into him during the past weeks. Moments later the men of his small
command went into action. In the gathering dusk they fired at will, picking out
targets which gun flashes or the last remnant of sunlight disclosed.

 
          
 
"
Yeeee "
the wild scream of a woods panther almost split Fitz's eardrums and a hand
clutched at his arm. "See 'at lobster kick then? I got him—plum
center!"

 
          
 
Then the Retaliation reeled under their feet.
A choking cry slashed through the dimness, sinking to a thin whimper. The crash
of the privateer's answer came evenly enough. And the guns' steady beat was a
thunder, almost drowning out the sharp crack of the rifles and the duller
reports of the marines' issue muskets.

 
          
 
A sheet of flame leaped up almost in Fitz's
face. He staggered back and lost his footing; it was as if the deck had melted
away. Then he crawled up again, clawing for support at a swinging bit of
cordage which dangled out of the sky but had firm anchorage above somewhere.

 
          
 
"Be y' hurted, sir?" someone bawled
in his ear. He shook his head and pushed away the helping hands. His own were
wet and red and he wiped them on his breeches.

 
          
 
"Rifle," he said dully,
"where's rifle?" He stooped to grope for it but his hands found only
dampness which he shuddered away from.

 
          
 
"Here y'
be "

 
          
 
His fingers closed about the hot metal barrel.
Fumbling he loaded. He must try to get the wheels-man ... If he could sight him
through the smoke and gathering darkness.

 
          
 
Another broadside shook the ship. It was pure
hell down with the guns when the concussion of the firing put out the battle
lanterns at every round.

 
          
 
"Langrage!"
He caught the word which had no meaning. ''That'll strip her down t' proper
size."

 
          
 
Across the water he saw the whip of tattered
sailcloth blown out by the wind as he shook his head, trying to clear the mist
from his eyes.

 
          
 
"I do not think,” observed a steady voice
behind him, "that we shall have any more trouble. A pity we cannot take
her—but we couldn't pull her teeth and survive the
pounding
"

 
          
 
A sort of growl answered that, and then came a
full round of orders which Fitz only half heard. The privateer began to pull
away from the crippled frigate-free now to run without death sniffing
full-fanged on her trail. Fitz turned to assess the damage to his own force. By
the light of a lantern he counted. He was short two men.

 
          
 
"Sims's bad,
sir "

 
          
 
A lump which had been squatting on deck
ministering to another shadow showed a white face. Fitz shuffled up to the
quiet body on the planking. He stared down at the awkward, sometimes stupid,
but always willing boy who had admitted readily that he had run away to sea to
escape the life of a tavern pot-boy.

 
          
 
"Best shift him to the cockpit,"
Fitz began,
then
someone held the lantern closer. He
gagged and swallowed sickly. There was no need to ask
Watts
' aid for that.

 
          
 
"Th' lad's gone . . ." Stanley, the
frontiersman, pointed out the obvious. "
Them
splinters be right crool. ..."

 
          
 
"Splinters
be
right cruel," Fitz quoted to himself some hours later, eyeing his own face
in the scrap of mirror Biggs kept for them to scrape their chins by. At least,
he supposed it was his own face he saw there. But he did not recall those two
deep lines bracketing nostrils and mouth.

 
          
 
Doubtless every face aboard the Retaliation
would carry its share of lines in days to come—for all, they had peppered a
frigate so badly that it would be of little use to His Majesty's Navy for quite
some time. But this time they had paid toll in blood themselves. Fitz tried not
to remember Crofts reading from a worn Bible over three sacks they had
committed to the sea.

 
          
 
Every league they were logging now brought
them closer to the hunting ground of ships to which their late opponent would
be as a longboat to a schooner. St. Malo might be a happy and safe port for
privateers, but hounds kept watch on the foxes' earth, and now they might be
forced to run more than fight.

 
          
 
On the other hand, the Retaliation had faced
up to a more formidable foe than she had ever been fashioned to bait. And her
crew, having shaken off some of the dangerous over-confidence in
their own prowess which the easy victories over the disabled merchantmen had
given them, were
more alert.

 
          
 
"What is langrage, sir?" Fitz
flipped the soap from his razor.