"Bastard!" the Englishman snarled, baring yellow teeth.
Scott's own teeth gleamed wolfishly in a face streaked with blood, sweat and grime. He neither knew nor cared what the Englishman said. He bore in desperately, bent on slaying this man who opposed him so courageously.
Suddenly he scored with a slashing cut that broke through his opponent's guard and laid his head open. The man's knees buckled. He pitched forward, dropping his bloody cutlass.
The Mary Bell's crew fought well so long as their captain led. When he fell, though, those nearest him flung down their weapons and bawled for mercy. Their voices carried, and others took up the cry.
"Quarter! Quarter! We surrender!"
Arms clattered on the deck.
"They yield!" Scott cried ringingly. "Hold!"
He turned to find Peary at his side, breathing hard and gripping a reddened cutlass. "Secure the prisoners, Mr. Peary."
The second officer's voice rose in a shouted command. Men fell in behind him to herd the captives toward the main mast. Giving no further thought to the English captain, Scott leaped back into the Jasper.
Rousseau still lay on the poop. He was conscious and he looked up inquiringly at Scott.
"Aye, sir," Scott said, kneeling beside the wounded officer and looking for the wound draining away his life, "we took her."
Rousseau managed a faint smile. "I—I'm—hit—in—the— belly—I think."
Scott probed with a dirty hand, finding a splinter of wood about the size and shape of a sheath knife. When he pulled it out, the captain fainted. Scott noticed with relief that the hurt was not really in the belly, but in the flesh to one side. Tearing a piece of cloth from his sweat-soaked shirt, he jammed it against the wound in an effort to staunch the blood flow.
"Bosun!" he cried, looking about him. "Bosun! Lay aft to the poop, bosun!"
Surprisingly, the boatswain, who was aboard the captured craft, heard him and recognized his voice. He came running on bare feet.
"Find somebody who knows how to staunch this wound," Scott ordered.
The petty officer, a grizzled man of middle years, dropped to his knees for a closer examination of the hurt. "I think maybe I can do it, sir."
It came to Scott suddenly that, in effect, he was captain now. He could not remain at the side of his friend to the exclusion of all the other things that must be done as the result of the morning's bloody business. Reluctantly he turned away and descended into the waist. His mind snatched at things that must be done: care for the wounded ... commit the dead to the sea in a Christian manner . . . inspect both ships and clear away the shambles in the wake of bitter combat. . . get under sail. Especially make sail. It was imperative to get under way as soon as possible. We're too close to Kingston, he thought; much too close to the warships there. One or more may come over the horizon any minute and take away the prize.
2
LINKED by the grapples of the privateer, the two vessels drifted on the blue, calm Caribbean like clinched boxers too spent to raise their fists and strike. Their poles were bare except for fluttering shreds of dirty-gray canvas, their sides were pitted, their housing stove in, and their decks sticky with drying blood and strewn with shot-cut cordage and smashed tackle. Work parties labored at clearing the merchantman of litter and repairing her rigging. Over and about the drifting ships white gulls wheeled, dipping and mewing, their wings flashing in the sun.
Moving about the deck of the captured craft, directing here and lending a hand there, Scott was conscious of depression gnawing at the edge of the triumph he felt. The prize was rich; his share would suffice to pay for a substantial amount of good South Carolina land . . . get him and Rowena truly started on a life of their own. But the price of victory had been high. He had committed seven Americans and twelve Englishmen to the sea, commending their souls to God. Rousseau and several others, including the English captain, might yet die of wounds. And the Jasper, clinging stubbornly to the side of the ship she had taken, was making water.
Peary, however, was merely elated, particularly by the cash he had found in the Mary Bell's strongbox. His manner toward Scott was almost friendly. "What'll we do with the Jasper?"
"We could keep her afloat with all hands at the pumps," Scott said tiredly, "but it wouldn't be worth the effort. We'll clean her out, salvage her guns, and cut her adrift. Think we can make sail by midafternoon?"
The second looked up at the sun, which was almost directly overhead. "I think so. You know, this'll be as fine a prize as ever was sailed into Charleston harbor."
Scott nodded agreement. "Drive the men, Clay. We're barely forty miles off Kingston. We've got to get out of these waters quickly—or, at least, be ready to fight again."
Peary, who had fought as valiantly as any man, laughed shortly. "Let's not talk about fighting. I'm too tired. How's the Old Man?"
"He's alive, and that's about all. He doesn't even know we've moved him into the Mary Bell." Scott paused. "I'm going to have a look around in the Jasper before we cut her free."
Aboard the privateer, Scott didn't have to go below to know there already was a great deal of water in her. He went into the cabin and, on an impulse, sat down at the table and opened the logbook. The entries read at random were depressingly similar: "Nothing sighted. Wind light and from northeast all day. . . . Nothing sighted. Light airs. . . . Chased by enemy warship. Got away in rain squall. . . . Nothing sighted. Gale brewing. . . ."
Picking up a quill pen, Scott rolled it in his fingers. Then he laid it down and opened the locket suspended from his neck. The face painted on the ivory was beautiful, patrician, and somehow loving. Just looking at it reassured him of her reality ... of the goodness of their love. The last of the battle-harshness went out of his bony features as he closed the locket and restored it to its place inside his torn shirt. I'll be home in a couple of weeks, he thought, and we'll find a place to live away from your folks' home, Rowena. We'll find the land we want. Damn this seafaring life, especially in wartime. You'll never be sorry you ran away and married me.
Suddenly he caught up the pen again, dipped it in ink and poised it over a blank page. He wanted to make one final entry in the Jasper’s log . .. end it on a note of victory for Rousseau and for himself. Finally he began writing, moving the pen slowly, as does a man not given to expressing himself in ink. Painfully the entry came into being:
20 Jan. 1815
This day took English brig Mary Bell, Bristol to Kingston, Capt. Nehemiah Tait. Fighting began 7 a.m., ended 8:40 A.M. Killed: 7 of ours, 12 of theirs. Estimate prize worth about £ 14,000. Jasper unseaworthy and being set adrift.
Scott Rogers, Mate
When he had finished, he wrapped the book in a piece of canvas, planning to take it to Captain Rousseau. The man would appreciate it, he knew—if he lived to read it. Then he returned to the deck just in time to hear the masthead lookout in the merchantman sing out:
"Sail on th' starb'd quarter! Sail... sa-ail!"
It was a cry to be dreaded now. Clutching the log, Scott rushed back into the Mary Bell. His brother-in-law eyed him questioningly.
"Clear for action, Mr. Peary!"
Peary grimaced. "Aye, aye, sir. But what about the Jasper? We haven't had time to get her guns out."
"Salvage her powder and shot, then cut her free, guns and all."
"Those guns are worth money, Scott."