“Well sir, you’ll always be close-stay in sight of the masthead lookout. If there’s trouble we can send up a flare.”
Anthony nodded. He’d been thinking along those same lines once the idea had been presented. Anthony also knew Gabe wanted command of the ketch, but this was a job for someone who had more experience. He would let Gabe go along as second, but Lieutenant Pope, who in the past had commanded a cutter and a brig, had the necessary experience as well as the knowledge of the local waters. Looking at Gabe, Anthony said, “And who do you think should lead this search?”
“Ere-I was hoping to sir, but I’d be glad to second Lieutenant Pope. I’m sure he’ll be your choice.”
“Aye, that he is,” Anthony agreed. “But don’t you worry. You’ll get your command soon enough. And who knows? This little trip may even present us with another little prize to fatten your purse.”
This comment brought a smile to Gabe’s face even though Anthony sensed his disappointment.
It had been three days since the flotilla had beat its way out of English Harbour on a heading that most merchantmen would use going to Barbados. Drakkar and her consorts would lie hove to or move along under reduced sail while the ketch, Shark, made her way through the shallows around Dominica, Martinique, St. Lucia and finally St. Vincent. Now it was time to rendezvous as planned and sail into Barbados. Though disappointed at coming up empty-handed in their pursuit of the pirate’s lair, Anthony had to admit Pope knew his business. The trip was not a total waste, as Anthony felt the experience was needed for the new hands. They were already decent seamen, but they needed to learn the Navy way of doing things. As McMorgan, the bosun, was so fond of saying, “They’s the right way, the wrong way, and then there’s the King’s way. From this day forward, lads, its me duty to teach you the King’s way.”
Standing on his quarterdeck, Anthony watched ships of various sizes and descriptions coming and going as Drakkar made her approach into Barbados. Most were traders, but a few were naval vessels and one was a sleek yacht. Small boats could be seen plying their way between shore and anchored ships. A water hoy was tied up alongside a brig. Lord Howe was there in his flagship, the sixty-four gun Eagle. She was old, her keel having been laid somewhere around 1740. She had been with Rodney’s squadron off Cape Finisterre in 1747. Drakkar having begun her life as a sixty-four, suggested comparison to Eagle. Drakkar’s lines appeared to be sleeker, and she didn’t appear to be as broad in the beam. Eagle would never have been the fast sailor Drakkar was, Anthony decided.
“Damn the French. But they knew how to build ships,” Anthony said aloud without realizing it.
“Sir?”
Anthony looked down. Lavery, one of the new mids, looked puzzled. “I’m sorry sir, you were saying?”
Feeling embarrassed for speaking his thoughts aloud Anthony said, “Its time we honor the flag, is it not? Prepare to fire our salute.’’
“Aye, sir,” Lavery answered. He then sped away to relay the message to the gunner who was already prepared to render honors.
Bart was laying out Anthony’s best coat when he walked into his quarters. “Silas will help you change sir, while I see to it the gig’s ready,” Bart said and then departed. He had been around long enough to know the Admiral would likely signal “repair on board” as soon as the last shot was fired and the salute had been rendered.
Lord Howe cheerfully greeted Anthony and offered refreshment while congratulating him on hoisting his pendant. Anthony quickly filled the Admiral in on their successes and failures to this point.
“My word, but the man sounds like a black-hearted devil,” Lord Howe had said upon hearing how Reaper and her cohorts were slaughtering their captives.
“Means to anger you so you’ll make a mistake,” the Admiral exclaimed. “Keep your wits about you. Otherwise…”
Anthony had noticed Lord Howe kept watching his door as if expecting someone to enter. Finally, the flag lieutenant did so.
“Excuse me, sir. It is time, my lord.”
“I beg your forgiveness, Gil,” Lord Howe said. “I have a meeting with the Governor. We’ve just been told things are heating up in the colonies, and I’m going to have to try to deal with it. Bad business, Gil. Bad business.”
Anthony stood and shook Lord Howe’s hand. Almost as an afterthought Lord Howe called, “Flags. Have you not been introduced to the commodore? His father and I were friends.” Turning back to Anthony, Lord Howe offered his condolences. “I’m sorry to hear he’s gone, Gil.”
Returning his attention to the flag lieutenant, Howe said, “Our commodore’s father was known as ‘Fighting James Anthony.’ Like his father, our guest has already made a name for himself as a fighter. I expect he’ll follow in his fathers footsteps and raise his own flag before long.”
After returning to Drakkar and finishing a light evening meal of kidney pie, wine and a small dish of plum duff, Anthony was reading his log and going over his entries when the marine sentry announced, “Lt. Anthony, zur.” Gabe entered, trying hard to appear normal, but he was obviously the worse for drink.
“ I say, Gabe. Are you in your cups, sir?”
Anthony was somewhat taken aback by Gabe’s appearance. Nodding his head in the affirmative, Gabe managed an “Aye, sir,” with the “sir” being belched. “Sorry, sir, but my present state is the result of upholding the honor of the Navy, sir. More precisely, the honor of Drakkar.”
“Hmm! How so?” Anthony questioned.
“Well sir, Julian, ‘ere Mr. Pope, Stephen Earl and myself stopped in at a tavern for a ‘wet.’ As we were enjoying our first tankard, this bullock major comes in and tells Nancy she…”
Anthony held up his hand stopping Gabe in mid-sentence. “Nancy? Who’s Nancy?”
“Oh, she’s a sassy little wench who was trying to decide which of the three of us would offer her the most pleasure when we bedded her.”
Anthony’s eyes widened. “You were all going to bed the same wench?” he asked, not sure if he wanted to hear more.
“Oh no, sir,” Gabe assured him, “Just the one she chose. That’s when this bloody bullock said if she truly wanted pleasure, she needed to forget about us Navy slobs and cast her lot with him-a marine, a true man.”
“I see,” said Anthony, who was now starting to warm to what promised to be a good story.
After pausing to collect his thoughts and steady himself, Gabe continued. “Then Caleb…”
Once again Anthony interrupted. “Is Caleb the bullock major?”
Gabe was shaking his head. “No sir. He’s a doctor from the colonies who got run out of Massachusetts after being caught ‘flagrante delicto’ with the governor’s niece.”
“My God!” Anthony exclaimed, not believing his ears.
This time Gabe was shaking his head negatively but responded in the affirmative. “Caleb said a finer piece of mutton didn’t exist.”
Now Anthony was shaking his head. “Pray tell me how this doctor is involved in upholding Drakkar’s honor?”
“Oh, yes sir. It was Caleb-that’s the…belch doc…tor, who said we should have a competition, and the victor would enjoy the wench’s pleasure.”
This is getting interesting, Anthony thought. As Gabe seemed to have lost his train of thought, Anthony said, “Please continue.”
“Er-we decided to have a drinking contest. The major brought in two of his bullock mates, and we-Stephen, Julian and I-took them on. I won! I was the last man standing.”
Unable to hide his amusement, Anthony asked, “Was the lass worth it?”
“Oh, ah, well sir, the contest took so long Nancy got tired of waiting and went upstairs and bedded Caleb.”
“Well, damme,” burst out Anthony, laughing. “I hope the good doctor don’t get the pox.”