Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “And where do you hail from?”

  “From Glasgow, where else? Ye mean ye canna tell me Lalan’s dialect frae the rest o’ ’em?”

  Robbie laughed. “No, to tell the truth. Your English is as perfect as any born Londoner.”

  “That’s what Oxford will do to a man. But as for yourself, I still detect a ring of the Highlands about you—Grampian, I would say. Perhaps Aberdeenshire.”

  “Bravo!” said Robbie. “But my father traveled about so much that we never settled in on the speech of any one place. I suppose that’s why I’m just a conglomeration—a true Britisher!”

  “So you may say. But once a Highlander always a Highlander, or so I’ve heard.”

  “You’re not so far off the mark there, Drew! Well, it is nice to find a fellow Scot among this aggregate mass of the world’s peoples!”

  “Ah yes—Scotland, the fairest homeland among all homelands,” he said with overstated feeling, before launching into verse:

  “‘O Scotia! my dear, my native soil!

  For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!

  Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil

  Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content!’”

  quoted Drew, with just enough sarcasm to his voice to rob the poem of all sincerity.

  “That is—” he began to add, but Robbie interrupted.

  “I do know Burns, Mr. Drew,” he said, recalling their meeting that morning.

  Drew laughed again, the laugh with which Robbie would soon become quite familiar. Like Pike’s, it held no merriment, but unlike the skipper’s, it did contain a good deal of humor—though not always of a pleasant sort.

  “Of course,” he said. “Every Scotsman knows ‘Robbie the great bard,’ if nothing else.” Then he quickly added, “No offense intended!”

  “None taken,” replied Robbie good-naturedly. Folding his arms over his chest, Robbie leaned against the forecastle rail, warming to the man despite his propensity toward cynicism. “Might I ask how you came by the label of Vicar?”

  “Oh, that,” Drew said, waving his hand carelessly. “Nothing but a nasty rumor circulating that I was once a man of the cloth.”

  “Only a rumor?”

  “Come now, Taggart,” he replied. “One look on my unesteemable and decrepit person ought to answer that question.” Then he deftly changed the subject. “There are likewise rumors circulating concerning you, to the effect that you resigned a commission in the Royal Navy to join this rat-trap.”

  Robbie caught Drew’s evasive ploy, and though disappointed to get nothing more from the Vicar, decided to let the matter pass. “That rumor is indeed true,” he answered. “I gave up the constriction of a prison for the freedom of this . . . rat-trap, as you so unjustly call it.”

  “Was it not Samuel Johnson who likened the life of the sailor to that of a prison? His comment, preserved for all time in the annals of our country’s literature, was that being in a ship was to be in jail with the chance of being drowned to top it off. Moreover, a man in prison has more room, better food, and commonly better company to boot.”

  “Is that how you see it, Drew?”

  “A man is his own prison, Taggart.” With the words he reached into his coat and withdrew a small flask. “’Tis a cold night—I could use some warming for the innards. Won’t you join me?” He uncorked the flask and held it out to Robbie.

  “No thanks,” Robbie replied. “I don’t wish to trade one prison for another.”

  Drew laughed. “Well said, my friend! You’ve a wit to match your amicable nature.” He had a swig from his flask, then wiped a grimy sleeve across his mouth.

  “You know, of course,” said Robbie, nodding his head toward the flask, “there will be none of that after we set sail.”

  “To be sure . . . to be sure,” answered Drew lightly. “All the more reason to indulge now before the dawn breaks. But have no fear, Mr. Royal Navy Taggart, I’m a perfect teetotaler at sea.” He lifted the flask once more to his lips and drank long and greedily. When he finished, he turned the bottle upside down, showing it to be quite empty. “It’s gone now. I’ll behave myself from here on.” He jammed the cork back into place with morose finality, and dropped the flask into his coat pocket.

  “Good night, Drew,” said Robbie. “I’ve enjoyed our talk.”

  “You are too kind, Taggart. Especially when I can see our talk has disturbed you.”

  “You are a difficult man to understand,” Robbie answered truthfully enough, for he realized their conversation had only deepened the enigma of the Vicar.

  “Then don’t try. ‘A double-minded man is unstable in all his ways.’ So beware, Robbie!” He knocked his pipe on the capstan, then slid to his feet. “I shall join you, for I see no point in prolonging the dread coming of morning any longer.”

  As he gained his feet, he swayed dangerously, his knees almost buckling under him. Robbie jumped forward and caught him, then slung the Vicar’s arm around his shoulder, and led him all the way to the crew’s quarters below. At the doorway Drew paused before staggering to his berth.

  “You’re a good Scotsman, my friend,” he said, with an intensity that Robbie decided could be as much from the alcohol as from sincerity.

  “Get to bed, Drew. Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

  “And I think you should know,” Drew continued as if Robbie had not spoken. “All those nasty rumors . . . they are entirely true. A stickit minister, that’s me, with all the privileges and mockeries thereof.” He wheeled around and disappeared into the darkness of the cabin, where the snores and movements of his sleeping shipmates accentuated the lateness of the hour.

  Robbie turned and found his way to his own cabin. He was no nearer finding sleep than when he had left an hour before. The entire conversation with Drew replayed itself in his mind, and he found the man no less puzzling now, lying in bed, than he had seemed in the chill air on deck.

  As sleep eventually began to overtake him, a new thought caught hold in his mind. But just as quickly as it flitted into his consciousness, he quickly and willingly let it go, for it was not something he wanted to dwell on. He and the Vicar were, oddly, very much alike.

  10

  The Tiger Sets Sail

  Robbie awoke the next morning refreshed despite only four hours sleep.

  Johnnie was already busy over a pot of gruel in the galley. He tossed the cook a cheerful “good morning” and set about doing what would have naturally fallen to a first mate before Pike came above deck. All the gear would have to be cleared or secured for running, the hatches battened down, the sails prepared for trimming, some of the anchor cable brought in. Enthusiastic at the mere thought of being at sea, Robbie’s buoyant countenance was greeted with scowls by Digger and Turk as they came on deck.

  By the time Pike came up, the fore and mizzen yards had been trimmed and the ship was ready and waiting for the skipper’s final commands. He appeared none the worse for his late-night activities. But Robbie knew well that if anything, Pike was tough. Life at sea was not an easy life for any man, and Pike had survived that life for nearly thirty years with only one leg. Robbie knew few of the particulars of Pike’s accident, or what struggles he had faced as a result afterward, for he was extremely private concerning his personal life. But Robbie did know that Pike had been very near to making his first mate’s certificate when it had occurred. He had no doubt cherished hopes of achieving a master’s license by the time he was thirty. Yet those hopes had been amputated along with his leg. A seasoned and proven master might well be kept on—handicap or no. But a young man just breaking into command had little hope of being given a fair shake. Yet the sea was the only life Pike had known since he had shipped aboard an East Indiaman at the age of ten.

  After the accident he had knocked about from ship to ship, a deck hand here, a cook there. He had been sweating in the galley of the Macao when Robbie met him. Probably in consideration of his friendship with Robbie’s father, Pike immediately t
ook the novice sailor under his wing.

  Pike had been fortunate, indeed, to have achieved his present position. Robbie had never imagined Pike as a leader of men. Even now the thought of him as a captain was incongruous to everything Robbie had ever known of the man. He was a loner, even surly at times—though not often to Robbie. As a seaman he was certainly adequate, perhaps even above average. But commanding a ship required so much more. This would be his second run as master, and Robbie had heard of no ill reports from his first voyage. Thus Robbie refrained from passing judgment. Benjamin Pike deserved a chance, even at this late stage in his life.

  Setting sail would be but the first test of Pike’s mettle. Yet it would be a vital one, and would go a long way to set the tone of his command. Everything had to be timed to perfection for a smooth departure. If the anchor was raised before the sails were properly set, the ship might lay to helplessly; but if the sails were set before the anchor came up, the ship would heave forward, causing the anchor to grip even more firmly to the bottom. Such a rough, disjointed beginning was as portentous of evil to follow as embarking on a voyage on a Friday, an absolute taboo among sailors and a fact certain to be made much of by a doomsday prophet such as Lackey.

  Robbie walked to the forward end of the Tiger to supervise the raising of the anchor. But when he arrived, Digger was already standing on the forecastle deck, apparently in complete control, in none-too-subtle defiance of the mate’s traditional position during cast-off. It was foolish to make a row of such a small thing on the first day of the voyage, and Robbie’s initial reaction was to relinquish him the position. Perhaps he had merely forgotten.

  Yet as Robbie glanced quickly around, he realized that the eyes of the other men were fixed upon him. The time had come, sooner than he had anticipated, when he would have to prove his strength. This was a test of wills, and he knew that the men would subconsciously follow the one who emerged as strongest. No man in his position could hope to command respect and obedience if he retreated from such a simple and yet flagrant act of insubordination. Already Digger had his contingent of followers, a half-dozen or so men who had made it clear, albeit silently, that they were only following Robbie’s orders because Digger had given them leave to do so. They were humoring the newcomer, and still seemed to regard him with the sort of skepticism they would accord an eighteen-year-old novice. If Robbie bowed at this point to Digger’s defiance, he would no doubt lose even further the respect of the rest of the crew.

  Robbie approached and focused a steady gaze on Digger.

  “I believe you have the starboard watch, mate,” he said coolly.

  For a long, tense moment Digger did not budge. Robbie could feel the mental processes working in the man’s thick head.

  Finally he opened his mouth. “Now, just you—” he began, then stopped abruptly. “I must’ve gotten confused,” he said after a pause. But even as he stepped down, he shot Robbie a piercing glance of defiance, almost as if to throw down the gauntlet with a glare.

  Robbie swung up on the forecastle deck, and as he turned he caught a trailing glimpse of Pike hobbling away from behind the main mast. So, Robbie’s apparent victory had in reality been but a superficial one; the muscular boatswain had only succumbed under the scrutiny of the captain. The incident had been nothing but a stand-off, and there would inevitably be another confrontation, more than likely at sea—the most dangerous place of all for such a showdown. Robbie had known plenty of men like Digger; the only strength they knew was measured by the might of their fists and the intimidation of others.

  But such thoughts of impending trouble were shoved out of Robbie’s mind almost immediately; the work before him was demanding enough at present, made more so by his inexperience of recent years. And if Digger’s challenge had been observed by the men, how much more would they be watching his ability to command the weighing of anchor? In the end, if the Sea Tiger made a perfect departure, the first mate could be praised no less than the captain.

  Robbie fell to his work with gusto. He knew his ship, even in the short time he had been aboard her. And he knew his work.

  “Ready on starboard?” he called to the men on the right side of the ship.

  “Ready on port?”

  “Prepare to cast off!” he called, then he jumped down and ran to where Elliot Drew was having difficulty managing his sail assignment in the rising breeze. “Steady, Drew,” said Robbie, correcting the angle. “Now . . . you got it?”

  Drew nodded, but said nothing.

  Robbie ran back to the forecastle, surveyed proudly the scene before him, visually checked each man’s position and that of every sail, then called out:

  “Weigh anchor!”

  Almost immediately he felt the first tentative, jerking surges of the great clipper beneath his feet as it floated free from its encumbrance. But there was not an instant to lose. “Sails, men . . . now!” he called out.

  Immediately the great flapping sound of the wind against the unrolling of the magnificent white canvas sails filled the air. What a grand and glorious sight, thought Robbie!

  Gradually the enormous white wings filled with air. Robbie left his post again and ran aft, where he grabbed up a slack rigging and held it firm. As he did so, his eyes were on Drew, but the Vicar now seemed to have his assignment in hand. As soon as he had the rope secure he hurried around checking all the rest of the sails, from the poop deck to the fore. By the time he again took his position on the forecastle, she was well underway. He paused a moment to relish the feel of the rolling deck beneath him.

  What a supreme pleasure it was! And though the speed was not yet up to two knots, the gentle breeze fanned his face as he peered forward in the direction of their course. The day was perfect for his first sail as a free man again. High white clouds scattered across the sea of blue above; below, turbulent whitewater was churned up under the Tiger’s prow. Robbie breathed deeply with satisfaction. He had done it! They were underway, and he had not disgraced himself.

  It mattered little to Robbie who received the praise, for what was important was that the Sea Tiger had again made a good account of herself. It would not have done to make a grand ship as theirs a laughingstock. But she had demonstrated her nobility that day, just as a living steed with good bloodlines would have. Her sails unfurled and filled with the wind, she gradually increased momentum and sped away from Gravesend, where they had lain at anchor, toward Southend with great purpose, and out to the Channel. Robbie did not want to leave the deck—he could have viewed that sight for a lifetime, he thought. But he had matters to discuss with Pike, who had retired to his cabin for a rest from the rigors of the morning. Eventually Robbie tore himself away, walked along the deck, descended through the hatch, and made his way into the bosom of the ship.

  Robbie had just lifted his hand to the door when he stopped short; the bo’sun’s voice from inside arrested his attention, raised well above propriety.

  “It’s a bloody rum deal, I tell ye!” he barked.

  “You was out of line up there, Digger,” returned Pike. “I told you how it was goin’ to be.”

  “Well, I don’t like it!”

  “Ye made that clear at the beginnin’,” rejoined the skipper, “an’ I told ye that you’d do it my way or not at all.”

  “It don’t make sense.”

  “I got my reasons.”

  “What’d ye want the blimey bluejacket for anyway?”

  “That’s my business. Yours is to do what I say.”

  “I just better be gettin’ my usual cut.”

  Robbie turned and left the door, wanting to hear no more. Whatever Pike’s mysterious words could mean he did not know, nor whether they were spoken in reference to him. Was there something more here than Pike’s initial assertions when they had met at the Rum Runner about Robbie needing the freedom of the sea?

  He quickly let it go, perhaps unwilling to think ill of a man who had been in a sense his mentor and his father’s friend. Loyalty had always been something o
f a code of honor with Robbie, one that usually stood him in good stead. But there were times when his fealty could blind him to realities that others would have been able to spot in an instant. Pike had always been good to Robbie, whatever his reputation with others. Robbie had heard him called crazy, and worse. And he had occasionally seen flashes of, if not insanity, certainly a lack of stability and balance. But Pike had been through a great deal, Robbie told himself, and he could excuse his eccentricities. It was Pike who had visited him every day on his sickbed after the accident on the Macao that had nearly killed him. Visited him, that is, until he suddenly shipped out on another vessel.

  And Pike had also made an effort to find him all those years after they had been separated. He owed something to the man for that alone, notwithstanding that Pike and his father had once sailed together—no little thing among comrades of the sea. So Robbie went a long way to gloss over Pike’s faults, of which there were more than a few, even if they did seem sometimes to border on lunacy. Whatever had been the implication of Pike’s words to the bo’sun, Robbie refused to attach any sinister meaning to them. And, as if to cement the validity of Robbie’s decision in his mind, in the days that followed, Pike treated him with a respect bordering occasionally on deference, as if Robbie himself were captain of the ship.

  As the days passed, almost without his noticing it at first, Robbie gradually developed his own contingent of loyal followers, those who saw in the young lieutenant not only strength of limb but a seasoned savvy in practical matters of ocean travel and a sensitivity to each individual under his command. These saw in Robbie one they could trust; and they did trust him, refusing to be cowed by Digger’s size, brute strength, and position of authority under Robbie, or by Turk’s silent menace. Though Robbie had not set out to exert his position over the men of the crew, most who observed him in action could not fail to see his ability. It was clear, whatever other motives swirled beneath the surface of his complex and cynical face, Pike’s choice of first mate had been well made. But it was not only Robbie’s grasp of the ship and its workings that made him a first mate worthy of any crew member’s trust—though at sea such an understanding is vital. The men who followed him could also not fail to appreciate his fairness and honesty and sympathy to those about him. Robbie was, in a word, a leader.