The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

"Men will do anything if you give them enough money. Besides, the orders will come from Mr. Whayles. That is, if I can convince him to go along."

  He understood that. "I might sign up myself if the pay is good enough. But tell me, Katie, what will you do if the Marquis gets too friendly on board?"

  "Man overboard, lost at sea. And that's reason enough to go too."

  * * * * *

  On board the Stalwart, Sir Hugh Tobin and Captain Lindsay stood for a long time on deck taking in the wind before going below to take their tea.

  "I always forget how good it feels. It is only when I am back on board that I realize how much that I am missing this life,” the Vice-Admiral said.

  "I did not recognize the men with the Earl," Sir Edward said as they headed below to the captain’s great cabin.

  "I can help you there,” Sir Hugh said, “but it will not make much sense to you in any case. They should both be gone soon, I am hopeful."

  "Gone, how do you mean?"

  "The Wilde will be going, the Earl and the Marquis and his supposed-cousin will go with it. He is a favorite enforcer of the Republican inner circle, by the way."

  "How do you know—”?

  "Sometimes an idea that comes to you out of the blue is not really your own idea at all."

  Sir Edward said, "How did you manage . . ."

  Sir Hugh beckoned for milk in his tea and passed his cup back to a waiting servant. "Your supplies have been ordered from the livestock warehouse on the quay. There’s an old man there who’s a friend of mine from times gone by. As for putting the notion into a Frenchman’s head, who better than a favored trollop in a brothel.”

  “Strange bedfellows,” Sir Edward murmured.

  “I think you best be on your way as well, Captain Lindsay."

  "Sir?"

  "Follow them, see what they are up to." Then Sir Hugh gestured toward the servant.

  Sir Edward ordered the man to leave them. They waited in silence as he left, and then he said, "By the sound of it, it seems you already know, sir."

  "Knowing is one thing. I am afraid our British courts still require proof, especially when treason is suspected. That usually means the miscreants have friends in high places. They will protect their own and deal with it privately, if needs be. I can live with that, but I must have a full hand when I go to the Admiralty. I do not want them to have any chance of false exoneration, not this time. I grow weary of playing games with my ships and my men."

  With that, Sir Edward agreed whole-heartedly. He said, "You think they are going out to meet someone?'

  "I am particularly interested in how close they come to the coast of Spain. One of the hottest points of counter-revolution is in Bordeaux. Good wine, bad politics, and near enough to Spain to be a worry. There is something going on, and I am not sure which side of the coin will end up. In any case, you must hang back and not be too obvious."

  How could one not be obvious when there are two ships alone in a world of water? In these times, you either signaled a ship as an ally, or you fought it as an enemy. The idea of following another ship by stealth struck Sir Edward as ludicrous.

  He said, "Is that an order, sir?"

  "I know, you feel like a school boy playing hide and seek on the wide open moors. But believe me, it's all for the best, it really is."

  "If you know these men are spies, why not just arrest them now?"

  "Because they are small fish—couriers at best, informants maybe. They might even be doing it as a lark. We want the big fish."

  "I wonder, what defines a big fish? What makes the difference between hanging them now or hanging them later?"

  "A big fish is someone who knows all the pieces on the chess board."

  "Another game?"

  Sir Hugh held out his hands to placate. “You like the directness of a fight head on, I know. Let the cannons roar, and the Marines fire as they will, and the ropes swing over toward the boarding. War is war, and it is all the same to you. But times change, and with so much at stake, men will get what they want however they can and damned to the rest of us.”

  “And damn the consequences?” Sir Edward said.

  “You mean that honor suffers, of course. But not everyone places as much merit on honor as you or I, my boy. Those days died with knights in armor, I am thinking.”

  Sir Edward said, “Only because we let them.”

  “How philosophical you have become. Tell me what is really bothering you.”

  “If I follow them out, sir, provided we do not lose them to the wind or the fog or the storms, they will know they are being followed. That would have to affect their plans. In the end, it will be a waste of time and an embarrassment as well.”

  “They would know they are found out, you mean,” Sir Hugh said. “Maybe, but whoever they go to meet now will not know, my boy. We have people watching elsewhere.”

  The light dawned for Sir Edward. He was not so devious as to have thought of it himself. He turned to stare out to sea, thankful that his servant knew him well enough to have opened up so that they could still feel the coolness from the water.

  “It may be my failing in this line of work, still I have no shame in the lack,” Sir Edward said.

  Back on land, the nearby church bells started chiming. First one steeple, then another, then many joined in the peals. The music turned into chaos of clanging, and Sir Edward flinched at the noise.

  It was the twelve-noon hour: The bells rang for a long time. He thought they would never stop and realized how much his nerves were on edge.

  The Vice-Admiral leaned close and tapped him on the arm. "Let us go find something a little stronger than this tea, shall we. I know of an inn with some decent claret. Perhaps we can play some cards where no one will admit to knowing us."

  Translation: The Vice-Admiral must have a spy there as well.

  * * * * *

  CHAPTER 11 - Mr. Whayles

  Getting enough sailors for the ship’s complement was not easy when the Royal Navy went to war. While able-seamen were a valued commodity, any capable body would do in desperate times. The King’s press-gangs were known to use all tricks and means to fill the quota and meet the navy’s needs for both sailors and men who could fight hand to hand.

  Let a drunken man sign up for another pint of rum. When his reason returned, he was in the King’s Navy.

  Lure a man into an alley, and then knock him in the head. When they woke up, he was far out to sea and in the King’s Navy.

  Slip the King’s shilling into a man’s pocket, then claim he had already accepted the terms. When the argument was over, he was in the King’s Navy.

  When all else failed, the Impress Service went to the jails and poor houses, even the prisons, to find men. No hardened criminals were usually taken, mostly smugglers, debtors, those of public nuisance. But it was one reason why the officers, who were often men of means or position with purchased commissions, preferred to keep themselves distant from the rest of the crew.

  None of this was true of the American service. Since the British blockade of Europe, there were more sailors available to them than there were positions in the fledgling United States Navy. The crews on American ships tended to be the pick of the lot and the officers of the highest caliber too.

  In this era, the Royal Navy still considered any man born in a British colony—whether now a former colony or not—to be a British subject, and therefore available to serve in the King’s Royal Navy. On occasion, they took sailors from American ships, a rising sore point in relations between the two countries. Any man over the age of twenty-three was considered a British subject, American citizen or no.

  Because the American sailors were employed as skilled volunteers, they had better pay and were fairly treated. There was no problem in allowing them shore leave, since they had reason to come back. This was not true of the British sailors, who were usually not allowed to leave their ships. And in the case where an American sailor did not come back, it may well have been because he was
pressed into the Royal Navy in the interim.

  Sailors from merchant ships were considered chattel, an especially valuable commodity. They were seasoned and worth three men from the press gangs. This made the American merchant ships of particular interest to the Royal Navy as well.

  So Kate understood when many of her crew didn’t want to stay around when the Wilde came to port in Plymouth. Some had gone on to Africa with her Uncle Lewis in his squadron. Some had headed to family and friends they may have had left in England long before the Revolutionary War. A few stayed on and kept a low profile in order to help direct the renovations on the ship they loved as much as Kate did.

  That included Mr. Whayles, who had been the boatswain on the Wilde. He also acted as master when the urge took him. It usually left him before anything permanent came of it though. Kate respected his desire to be where he felt he could serve them best, but also his desire to avoid the heavy responsibility of more.

  The boatswain, commonly called the bo’sun or bosun, was responsible for the rigging and the sails on the ship. He was also accountable for the anchor, the rowboats, and the booms. He commanded the sail makers and rope makers. The bosun was also the motivator on deck. It was his job, along with his mates, to see that the seamen did their tasks well enough and quick enough without too much noise or confusion.

  It was Mr. Whayles’s suggested she lease the Wilde to the Earl in the first place. Better that then rotting in some port. She was tired of traveling and wanted to settle down for a while to get her sense of Grandmother Earth once again. She had to refill her supplies of herbs and brew up her tonics and ointments. Sometimes that took a full season or more.

  France had been her first choice. She had planned on learning how to make a decent wine. But the troubles there with Louis Dumars ended her plans along with his life. So she ended up in Plymouth with the only familiar thing around in this part of the world, her ship. They had both ended up in the same place—that she believed was fate taking a hand once again.

  It was also more by chance than by choice. She felt lucky to be alive with her hide still intact. Mostly. She couldn’t explain how or why she got in that situation to those in the fishing village who fished her out of the tide. They found her bobbing there in a crate, and she didn’t want to mention anything about France. They might have turned her into the authorities, and she didn’t want to escape a French prison only to end up in a British one instead.

  But the villagers were helpful anyway. And she quickly got away with more curiosity than fanfare before they could organize their questions. She was surprised and quite glad that Mr. Whayles was still in port in Plymouth.

  She hadn’t planned on seeing to the renovations, but now that she was here . . .

  Her bosun had been overly glad to see her. Some things Mr. Whayles couldn’t deal with, including some the Earl’s eccentricities. Then there was the bartering. For the new teak wheel, she had traded a gown with particularly fine lace that would be used for a Dutch ship’s captain’s daughter’s wedding dress. No way Mr. Whayles could have done that. He had neither the subtleties of tact, nor art of weaseling out the best deal. She had her father to thank for her own skill in that.

  Still, she did mourn the passing of the gown; it was one of those her father had bought her in hopes she might take to regular society someday. He also bought her books and gems, and she now studied some of the stones.

  Even in the half-moonlight, she could see the colors: golden citrine, smoky topaz, blood-red rubies, and clear, sparkling diamond ice mixed in with shots of fire. There were a few sapphires and emeralds too. Those stones were pretty, but a poor substitute for the color of the sea and the sky.

  Still, she liked to hold them in her hand like this and watched them sparkle in the sun or the moonlight. Kate had taken a liking to rocks since she found their true worth at the age of four: Rocks were weapons, even these. Gems were more subtle weapons than a stone you could throw with good force and better aim. But what you couldn’t accomplish with strength of arms, you sometimes could with money or other things of value.

  On the high seas, sometimes healing was enough to offer up in trade, especially on ships just a few days out from harbor, with passengers who often had old men too sick or spoiled women who had been complaining. Most times, it was better to have surplus supplies, trade goods, and even skills. More than once, her Uncle Lewis had lent out his carpenters for a quick unexpected repair in exchange for gun powder or a bit of fresh galley supplies—all the while watching the other ship to make sure his men didn’t get taken away under a quicker sail.

  But trade was difficult these days, especially in the ports, for the Royal Navy got the best pick of all things nautical. The deal with the Dutchman wasn’t out in the open, of course, since the Dutch were also at war with Britain. It might not have been the best deal, but that was the price she had to pay to get what she needed. Kate felt very little guilt in serving the devil in order to benefit her own.

  Not that she had her own anymore. The Earl had it now. And most of the regular crew would still be gone for the excursion. It would seem sad sailing without them, but she had to do it. Now they were nearing time to depart, Kate had a strange sense of foreboding.

  No, that isn’t quite the word, she thought. Something was going to happen that would change her life. She had felt this way before. She felt it in her bones—but why? And what?

  For the good or the bad?

  Was it forever or just for a while?

  She had the same feeling right before they knocked down the doors of Louis Dumars’s home and dragged them away with the rest of the household.

  And long before. She closed her eyes tight, as the pain in her head grew so intense that it brought tears to her eyes. Still, she forced the remembrance.

  She had it once before when she was nearly six. That day had been sunny with full-blown spring sweetness. The bees were buzzing, the birds were chattering, the flowers bobbed their heads in the breeze. But she had been cold on that day all the same.

  Her mother sometimes gave her rose hip tea with honey to help her feel better, feel warmer whenever she got chills like that. It wasn’t often, usually after a trip to the trading post, or after a visit from the natives. Ambrose Standish’s grandmother told her she was feeling the spirits of the old folks then, but her mother said she was just being melodramatic. Kate knew the word, for her mother explained it, and she had remembered it ever since.

  Remembered that word, but not that last day . . .

  She shuddered and tried to think of better things again. Sometimes she got cocoa, her favorite. She liked it darker and bitterer than the sweet milk and honeyed concoction her mother made for her brothers. Her mother told her was just contrary then. She knew that word too.

  She smiled, but another sliver of pain shot through her head from side to side, as if piercing the back of both her eyes. She blinked it back, but remembered . . .

  “But we were out of cocoa by then.”

  Waiting for her father to bring more on his return, which would be any day.

  Suddenly Kate remembered that chill, the deep coldness that never went away on that day.

  But she could never recall what actually happened, only those strange and horrible feelings.

  She gave scant attention as Mr. Whayles explained how he got a crew signed on and ready to go under the noses of the King’s press-gangs.

  There was a moment of silence. He touched her arm. “Mattie Little?”

  She reassured once again, “I have no problem with secrecy or higher wages, Mr. Whayles, if the men had no problem with the risks involved.”

  Mr. Whayles was safe enough, she knew. He had lost an eye, half a leg, and a few parts of a few fingers here and there along the way in his long career. He was missing some toes as well, though that was due to cold work on a whaler and not warfare at all. But a man needs some dignity, and she had never mentioned those in mixed company.

  He fought in the American war all the sam
e and had known her father all of her life. Kate trusted his judgment as well as her father’s, her uncle’s or Mr. O’Malley’s. That was enough reason to listen before she made up her own mind to anything.

  He stopped talking and was waiting for her to respond. Kate felt a twinge of guilt at not paying more attention. But he was patient, she knew that for a fact, and he knew her well enough too.

  Mr. Whayles had a few teeth left, enough to chew with a little bit of effort. And when he smiled or laughed his eyes crinkled so much that his eye patch flapped up and down. He was one of the few men around that still called her Mattie Little.

  It was a remnant of long ago, when she first came aboard the Wilde. Mr. Whayles played the piccolo and gave her the first one she ever had. The only one she ever had, even now. She made music then, even when she could not speak. That was something she could share with him when she could share life with no one else.

  He carved wood in his spare time, and he had made her a dolphin and a horse on their first long voyage. She still had the carvings in her trunk, and she thought of them as good luck. Kate liked Mr. Whayles very much. He was an absolute ally.

  “I don’t like it, Mattie Little, not at all,” he said, and she realized he had just repeated the notion.

  “I leased it over, it’s part of the deal. The Earl’s was the best offer, and I’m nothing if not my father’s daughter. If I recall, it was your idea.”

  He spit, and they both watched it hit the water far below. “Aye, you’re that, and that I know, as long as you know that I don’t like it,” he said.

  “How would you like being the captain, Mr. Whayles?”

  He laughed at first, and then scratched what was left of his eye under the patch. “Even less. Get somebody else.”

  “You would still follow my suggestions, I just need a figure head.”

  He laughed at that too, only longer and harder.

  “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

  “You caring a fig or a farthing for how it might look. Or have all those fancy gee-gaws gone to your head, Mattie Little?”