As Drakkar made her way through the Channel she was rocked by a blustering gale. Waves swept over the bow and sluiced down the scuppers, carrying anybody and anything not secured with it. Sails filled with wind one moment would go slack, and then with a thunderous pop fill again from winds so perverse the master would shake his head in disbelief. The burly bosun McMorgan’s voice could constantly be heard as he coaxed the men to their duties by either blistering them with his tongue or a thrash from his rope starter.
While life for the crew was hell, it was not much better for those in the midshipman’s berth. For Davy and Gabe it was worse. Davy had unfortunately wound up in Lieutenant Witzenfield’s division.
Witzenfield was clever enough to make life so miserable that young Davy confided in Gabe that death seemed more attractive than life.
All the guns had new lashings. With the constant roll of the ship from the gale a strain was placed on the ropes and they stretched. Seeing loose lashings, Witz ordered Davy to take up the slack on all the twenty-four pounders in his section. A bruised, beaten and silent Davy made his way to his mess after completing his task.
“Damme sir, but what has happened to your face?” Markham asked.
Davy had slipped and butted his face against on one of the big cannons. His lips were battered and bloody. Tasting the wine Markham offered made him wince but soon Davy felt warm and the pain seemed to lessen.
Miller, the normally foul-tempered ex-topman who now served the midshipman showed a gentle side as he used a wet rag to wipe away the blood from the young gentleman’s face and lips. “Ought t’ see th’ surgeon to my way ‘o thinking. You could get festers if ye lips ain’t treated proper like.”
At that time, Gabe entered the mess. He was wet, cold and tired after standing his watch. However seeing Davy’s face and hearing the story behind it caused him to grow angry. “That son of a bitch. Given half a chance I’d run him through.”
“Aye,” Markham agreed. “Maybe we should request to speak to Mr. Buck about it.”
Calming down some, Gabe replied, “No, officially we’ve got no complaint. People get injured going about ship’s work all the time.”
“Who’s injured?”
As the three turned it was a smirking Lieutenant Witzenfield who stood before them. “Who’s injured, I asked?”
“Mr. Davy,” Markham answered, not wanting Gabe to say something he’d he sorry for.
Taking another step into the berth Witzenfield ducked his head to avoid an overhead beam. “Come here boy. Do you need to see the surgeon?”
“No, sir,” Davy answered.
“I see. Are you fit for duty?”
“Yes sir.”
“Do you recall my orders to secure the lashings on my cannons?”
“Yes sir. I was securing them when I fell against one injuring my face,” Davy muttered through his battered lips.
“Huh! Aren’t you the King’s hard bargain? I’ve just checked and every one of the lashings was loose as a fiddler’s bitch. I think an hour or two at the masthead should make you more conscientious when you next carry out a task.”
Unable to remain quiet any longer Gabe spoke out, “But sir, the ropes are new they’ll stretch again in a couple of hours if this gale keeps up.”
“Ahum? You may very well be right, Mr. Anthony. I should have thought of that. However, never to steal one’s thunder, you can wake Mr. Davy every two hours so that he can make sure the lashings are secure.”
“Damn you!” Davy blurted as Witz was leaving the berth.
Wheeling around, Witz glared. “What was that?”
Gabe and Markham were too shocked to reply. Miller, the old salt, used his savvy in responding to the officer, “The young sir said thank you. Only ‘is lips are so busted it be hard to understand. ‘E can barely speak as yer ownself can see.” All the time Miller was patting Davy on the head and shoulders. “It’s a bad time ‘e be avin of it sir.”
Realizing he’d get nowhere with pursuing it, Witz snarled, “One day you’ll make a mistake and I’ll be there. Mark my word, one day.”
As soon as he’d dressed and shaved, Kramer, the surgeon, made his way to the wardroom for breakfast. Settling into his usual spot he spied Lieutenant Witzenfield.
Seeing Witz reminded him of young Davy whose blisters became sores, sores that became scabs only to be torn off and became sores again. His injured lips so battered it was days before he could eat anything but gruel. In his third day of being awakened every two hours to check gun lashings he now had a croup. But the torture was not only directed at Davy but at Mr. Anthony as well. How many times had he been mastheaded? He’d been given three lots of extra duty in three days. How many times had he been sent aloft to check the splices where something had been repaired? These tasks usually given after dark or during a gale. All this time the captain stayed silent. Kramer could only guess at his patience. How much longer would it be before Davy or Gabe broke? Kramer had seen Gabe in a quiet but heated conversation with Dagan. Was Witz so stupid he couldn’t sense the stares he was getting from the man? How long before Dagan threw caution to the wind and took justice into his own hands? Gabe couldn’t control him forever, not with Witz treating Gabe so cruelly. Kramer couldn’t help but think a lot of Davy’s abuse by Witz was to get at Gabe, to make him cross that line.
With as sharp a look as he could muster, Kramer tried to demonstrate all the resentment he felt as he spoke to the wardroom as a whole.
“It appears our esteemed Fourth Lieutenant has singlehandedly taken upon himself all these duties normally carried out by the bosun, the master-at-arms, the First Lieutenant and at times even almighty God himself!”
Peckham, the master, Marine Lieutenant Dunn, Lieutenant Earl and Lieutenant Pitts all looked astonished as the surgeon spoke.
“Tell me, sir,” Kramer was again speaking, this time directly to Witz, “Do you have a grievance against Mr. Anthony and Mr. Davy?”
Shocked that he was being addressed so, Witz replied, “Why would I have a grievance?”
“Your actions, sir. Anybody not totally blind can see you have an agenda.”
“I resent your accusations,” Witz replied, his anger starting to show, “I’m merely doing my duty to make good officers of them, unlike some lickspittles.”
Standing, Lieutenant Earl spoke, “To whom are you addressing as a lickspittle?”
Witz knew he was now in jeopardy as both lieutenants were his senior. He also knew while he outranked the surgeon and the master he’d best trod lightly with both. “Oh, not officers,” he replied. “I just want to do my part to make better seaman and officers out of them as I stated.”
“Huh!” Peckham snorted. “You’d do well to have Mr. Anthony help you, with you’re navigation.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my navigation,” Witz hurled back.
“Nothing wrong…Well, damme, my boy but where’s the black ivory?”
“Black ivory?”
“Why yes, by your noon readings yesterday, Drakkar should be slap dab in the middle of ‘Affrica’ by God!” This caused a howl from the rest of the officers.
Scowling at the Master, Witz almost screamed, “You lie, dammit, tell them now, you lie.”
“Careful sir,” Lieutenant Dunn addressed Witz.
“He can’t talk to me that way,” Witz cried.
“What you gonna do boy, masthead me?” Peckham responded.
Trying to allay the situation, Pitts spoke quietly, “Let’s all calm down.” Being next to Witz, he placed his hand on his shoulder and continued, “It wasn’t long ago I felt I had to prove myself. Now I realize I already have. I made lieutenant. And with good luck I’ll make captain and then admiral.”
This created another howl as Pitts knew it would but at least the situation had been diffused. Later when Witz relieved Pitts on watch, Pitts offered more advice. “I don’t know what you have against Mr. Anthony and it’s none of my business. But just because the cap’n hasn’t said anything don’t mean he isn’t watching and so’s Mr. Buck. I’d not cross Mr. Buck if I was you. He’s got a mean streak for those he doesn’t like.’’
“I’m not concerned about Buck or the Cap’n,” Witz snorted. “Captain or not he has to do his duty regardless of family.”
“It’s your career,” Pitts answered, then turned to go down to his cabin. As he turned he saw Dagan. He had to have heard the conversation. Well, Witz had been warned by all, now his actions were his worry. Pitts was ready for a glass of wine and three hours of sleep.
It had been fifteen days since they had slipped moorings at Portsmouth. Anthony had not spoken to Witz since that first day underway. On the surface, everything appeared fine. Appeared, he thought to himself. He wasn’t blind; he’d been mindful of Witzenfeld’s actions and treatment of Gabe and Davy. How many times had he seen Buck looking at him, just a nod and Buck would have made Witz’s life hell? How many times had Bart said something? Even Silas, the silent one, said, “Mr. Anthony’s bound to break sooner or later, sir.”
Anthony glanced down at his log. It was full of entries, but how could a few lines describe all that went on? A sailor would know, but never a landsman. Fifteen days-but it seemed longer. They had dealt with heavy seas, gales, and strong head winds. Then for a whole day they lay becalmed.
It was all hands to shorten sails, then set more sails, and then reef down. It seemed every evolution was carried out a hundred times. But it all served a purpose. The ship was coming together. All except Witz. Command was a solemn duty at times. Anthony could recall the longing for command he’d experienced as a lieutenant. But as Lord Sandwich had warned, “Command was doing one’s duty, not what one wished to do.” He knew he had to address the Witz situation soon.
Thinking of Buck, Anthony had to give him credit for a fine job with the crew. He was not completely satisfied with gun drill, but even that was improving.
“Cleared for action in ten minutes and fifteen seconds,” Buck had said, snapping his watch shut.
Yes, that was far better than the fourteen minutes plus on their first drill-but not good enough. Fire drill was still dismal. That had to improve. Anthony also sensed camaraderie building among the officers. He commented on his observations to Buck one evening.
“Yes, sir,” Buck agreed. “Did you know young Gabe can sing, sir?”
Anthony didn’t.
“He and Mr. Earl, the second lieutenant, will get together after their watch-weather permitting-and put on a fair show. The crew seems to enjoy it. Mr. Earl has a flute, and Gabe has some sort of little stringed instrument. When they get to going on a real sassy tune, sir, half the damn crew will dance up a jig. You should come hear it, sir.”
“Maybe, I will,” replied Anthony.
“By the bye, sir, Mr. Gabe has the makings of a fine officer. He’ll do you proud, sir. I’m certain.”
“Well, thank you Rupert. I’m glad to hear it. Your evaluation means a great deal to me.”
Hearing the music and merriment through the open skylight, Anthony strolled on deck. He saw the master’s mate nudge the officer of the watch.
Mr. Pitts turned and greeted his captain. “Evening sir. We’re sou’sou’west and about to take in another reef. The master promises a hot night and hotter morrow.”
“Mr. Peckham is usually right. Are you enjoying the festivities?” Anthony asked his third lieutenant.
“Yes, sir. I don’t have an ear for music like some, but it makes the watch go quicker to have something going on. I’ve stressed to the look-outs to keep close vigil.”
Anthony was glad to hear Pitts say this. He was also mad with himself for not thinking the activities on the fo’c’s’le could possibly distract the lookouts from their duties. This was something to consider.
Lt. Pitts had returned to the wheel and made a show of checking the compass. Anthony knew this was to give him his space on the quarterdeck. As Anthony turned, he spied Dagan lounging against the bulwark amidships, puffing on his pipe. Anthony approached the man, wanting to get to know “Gabe’s uncle and protector” better.
“I say, Dagan, I didn’t know you smoked a pipe.”
“Aye, sir, mostly at night when I have the time to fill the bowl and enjoy it full. I can’t abide lighting up, having it go out, and then fetching another match.”
“I see,” said Anthony. “I have my father’s old pipe and I intend to see if I like it better than cigars.”
“I have some fine tobacco,” Dagan volunteered. “Blended for your father by his tobacconist. He always got me a tin when he ordered his.”
“Why thank you,” Anthony said. Not wanting to end his conversation, Anthony volunteered, “The master assures us it’ll be a hot day tomorrow.”
Dagan took his pipe from his mouth and looked at Anthony with cold hard eyes. “Storm on the horizon.”
“Storms!” rebuked Anthony. “The master’s rarely wrong about the weather, Dagan.”
“More ‘n one kind of storm, Cap’n. You’ve been told.” Then he was gone like a ghost. Anthony felt like a midshipman who’d just been dismissed by his betters. Storms!
The day was as hot as the master predicted. A gentle wind blew sou’westerly, but did little to reduce the heat. After a good breakfast and shave, Anthony went on deck with Bart trailing.
“Ah, Mt. Buck! I hope you’ve broken your fast.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Buck replied.
“Well,” said Anthony, “I believe this would be an opportune time for gun drill. Beat to quarters if you will, and clear for action.”
“Directly, sir.” Buck answered and gave the order. He had already taken out his watch.
“Bart!”
“Aye, Cap’n!”
“See the purser if you will. Give him my respects, and tell him I’d take it kindly if he were to donate those barrels that had contained rancid meat for target practice. They should make fair targets for our gunners.”
As Bart turned to go, Anthony saw he was grinning.
“Bart!”
“Aye, sir!”
“What pray tell has humored you so to produce such a grin?”
“I was just imagining what kind of lie the purser would make up to explain the loss of the barrels. No doubt it’ll cover not only the barrels but that beef that we fed to the sharks.”
“Think so, do you?” Anthony asked, seeing the humor in Bart’s prediction.
“No doubt, sir, and in such a way so as to shirk the blame and still show as much profit as plausible for himself.” Bart had the purser pegged right enough.
No sooner had the order “clear for action” been given than the ship became a beehive of activity. The drummer started his roll. The below watch came up on deck with wild cries of encouragement from the petty officers. It was like a mad dash as the crew flung themselves to their tasks.
Bulkheads were removed-with care, Anthony hoped, thinking of the ornamental partitions in his cabin. The decks were drenched with seawater, and then sand was strewn. Breathless powder monkeys ran with their arms weighted down with cartridges for the guns. Fire parties took their places. The marines under Lt. Dunn smartly made their way to their battle stations. The surgeon and his mates had made their wares ready. The gun crews cast off lashings and removed covers from the breeches. Then with a strain, they tugged at the tackles to drag the heavy guns inboard to be loaded. Powder and shot were rammed home. The muzzles were then depressed. Once again, the crews tugged like demons at the tackles. The guns were run out through open ports. The sweat-drenched men then stood back signifying they were ready.
Anthony sensed Buck approaching.
“Cleared for action, sir-nine minutes flat,” Buck said proudly
“Excellent, Mr. Buck, excellent. Now let’s check for their accuracy. Please be certain they know to aim at the barrels and not the boat crews.”
“No fear, Cap’n. The purser is in his hole, not in the jolly boat.” Buck had not been able to contain his own little jab at the purser.
Hearing the snickers from the gun crew who had overheard Buck’s comment, Anthony rebuked Buck good-naturedly. “Mr. Buck, kindly watch your remarks, sir. Mr Lott holds a king’s warrant.”
“And lots more ‘e does when given the chance, sir,” some unknown voice within the crowd quipped, making fun of the purser’s name.
“Silence,” Buck ordered, but doing so with a smile. It is good when men can laugh so, thought Anthony. Laughter usually meant a contented crew.
“Master-at-arms, pass the word for the master-atarms to report aft to Mr. Witzenfeld in the great cabin!” Anthony looked at Buck, who exclaimed, “Jesus wept. By gawd, I’ll string up the sniveling shit before sundown.”
As Buck’s head disappeared below the companionway on his way to the captain’s quarters, Anthony was filled with a sudden urge to follow and see first hand what was going on, even though his better judgment told him to remain on deck. Turning toward the wheel, Anthony saw the second lieutenant and called him over.
“Mr. Earl-you have the watch. Secure from quarters if you please.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
Anthony’s urge got the better of his judgment so he headed to his cabin with Bart trailing. Anthony raised his hand to his lips to silence the marine sentry from calling out and announcing the captain’s presence to all.
Anthony could hear loud voices coming from his cabin as he eased the door open. Lt. Witzenfeld’s high shrill voice was very distinctive. “He disobeyed my order, my direct order. He was insubordinate and insolent. I want him flogged-flogged do you hear? I’ve ordered it. A midshipman can’t countermand my order or talk to me like that. I’ve ordered him flogged and flogged he’ll be. I’ll do my best to see him out of the service for his insolence.”
“Dammit, man shut up!” Buck shouted. “Do you have no need to catch a breath?” Lt. Buck found himself wiping Witzenfeld’s spittle from his face. “I declare sir, you need to get a hold of yourself. You’ve sprayed all in your path with your damn spittle, and I for one have had enough of your outburst.”
“Gawd,” Buck exclaimed, his handkerchief busy wiping spittle from his face and coat. “Have you forgot whom you are addressing?” Buck then called for Paul, the master-at-arms, “Escort Mr. Anthony to the cockpit if you please. I’ll be there directly.”
“You there,” Buck called, addressing the gun crew, “Go see the purser. Give him my compliments, and tell him I’d be grateful if he’d give you all a tot.”
The gun crew’s eyes lit up, “Thank you sir,” they said in unison.
“Mind you now,” Buck continued, “There you stay till I send for you.”
“Aye sir,” each acknowledging his instructions.
Buck then turned his attention back to Lt. Witzenfeld, who was still stammering and sputtering to himself. “Go to the wardroom and have a glass of wine,” Buck ordered. “You need to get hold of your emotions and pull yourself together, then we’ll talk.”
“But sir,” argued Witzenfeld, “I don’t need to pull myself together. I have the smug ‘bastard’ where I want him and he’ll pay for his ways, captain’s brother or not.”
Still standing at the entrance of his cabin, Anthony felt himself tremble upon hearing his brother called a bastard. He started through the door only to feel Bart’s hand restraining him.
Witzenfeld had continued his tirade, “The captain has no choice. He’ll have to flog him. It’s time that young gentleman gets his comeuppance. I’ve promised him a flogging.”
“Gawd dammit man!” Buck was frustrated and about to lose his temper. “You don’t flog a midshipman, they’re caned. Now I’ve given you an order and you’ve not obeyed! You can be arrested, you know. Now go as I’ve instructed.”
Anthony entered his cabin as Witzenfeld fled, not even realizing he passed his captain. Upon his entrance into the cabin Buck approached Anthony. “Should of set him adrift, sir.”
“Pray tell, Rupert,” Anthony addressed his first lieutenant. “What’s the reason for Witzenfeld’s hostility toward Gabe? Is it a way to get to me? Surely, he knows I can only be pushed so far.”
“Aye, Cap’n, he knows. But he also knows, like it or not, that being the captain, you must act accordingly when it comes to regulations. There’s no room for family bias, so to speak.” Buck then excused himself to interview the gun crew.
Anthony turned to Bart, “Go talk with Dagan and see if you can discover the basis for Witzenfeld’s vendetta.”
As Bart left, Silas approached Anthony with a glass. “A little something to settle you, sir.”
Anthony took the glass gratefully.
Buck and Bart returned almost simultaneously. Buck returned from talking with the gun crew, and Bart from talking with Dagan. Buck related his findings first.
“Witz had given the order to fire the larboard gun. As the gun captain went to fire, Gabe shouted, ‘belay! hold your fire.’ It seems one of the gun crew had stumbled and fallen with his leg behind the carriage wheel. Had the gun been fired, Dawkins would have had his leg crushed. When the gun didn’t fire as ordered, Witz shouted, ‘I said fire!’ Gabe shouted ‘wait!’ By that time, the gun crew was helping Dawkins to his feet. Gabe was trying to explain to Witz about Dawkins’ falling, but Witz wouldn’t hear it. According to the gun crew he started ranting and raving like a madman. He kept cutting off Gabe’s attempt to explain the situation and further ignored the gun captain as he tried to reason with Witz-who in his raving called Gabe a spoiled whoreson. Every man in the gun crew heard it. They also heard Gabe say, ‘Witz if you were a man, I’d call you out and take pleasure in running you through. If only you were a man.’ That’s when the master-at-arms was summoned.”
Anthony looked at Bart who said, “I can explain the ‘if you were a man!’” According to Dagan, Mr. Witz and Gabe were both on the Revenue Cutter Raven. Mr. Witz, being the senior, and Gabe a supernumerary. Admiral Lord Anthony was a friend with Lt. Kent, who commanded Raven and got Gabe his billet. The smugglers were having a hey-day against the revenue men, and they were frustrated. Witz and Gabe went down to the local tavern for a wet. After a few, Witz started bragging in a loud voice about what he would do if he could just come face to face with the smuggler’s leader. The rum had loosened Witz’s tongue. He said the smugglers were a thieving bunch of whoreson cowards, who were making a mockery of the King’s taxes. Gabe noticed Dagan motioning to him at the tavern door. Dagan had with him a man who could possibly have information that would help put an end to some of the smuggling. The man was a relation on Gabe’s mother’s side. Gabe shushed Witz, then walked outside to talk with the informant. No sooner had Gabe stepped outside, than a man who had been sitting behind Witz, turned around and calmly jerked him to his feet and laid a sharp blade to his adam’s apple.
“So given the chance you’d gut a smuggler, same as a mackeral, would you?” the man taunted Witz, who was standing on his toes to keep the knifepoint from sticking him. He already had a trickle of blood where the smuggler had made his “point” as it were. About that time, the tavern wench bent double, slapping her knees and laughing.
“Bess lass, what’s got into you girl,” the smuggler asked. “Are you touched?”
The laughing girl replied, “Look at the brave ‘revenoor’ man. E’s pissed ‘is pants ‘e has!” Sure enough the entire front of Witz’s pants was wet and a puddle was forming at his feet. The entire tavern erupted in laughter. Hearing the commotion inside, Gabe and Dagan hurried hack in.
Gabe had taken his pistol out, “Turn him loose.” Quiet filled the tavern. “I said turn him loose.”
“Ah, Gabe,” the smuggler was speaking, “let’s not get into a killing over some ‘piss pot’ who can’t even hold his own water.”
Gabe gestured with the pistol, “Turn him loose, then out the back you go.”
“Your word?” questioned the smuggler.
“My word,” answered Gabe.
The smuggler released his grip on Witz and turned to go. No sooner had Witz been released than his hand flew to his sword. A metallic rasp filled the air as Witz’s sword cleared the scabbard and he cried, “I’ll kill you!”
The smuggler turned and spat in disgust, “Your word, huh!” Then he noticed Gabe was now pointing his pistol toward Witz.
“Let it go, Witz.”
“Damned if I will. He humiliated me-a King’s officer.”
“You’re alive, let it go!”
“No,” cried Witz. The sound of Gabe cocking his pistol instantly gained Witz’s attention.
“I said let it go. I gave my word.”
Witz bolted from the tavern and back to the cutter. Word spread quickly about Witz losing control of his bladder. Lt. Kent had no choice but to have Witz replaced as he had become the laughing stock of the town. It appeared Witz had had it in for Gabe since then.
“Yes, sir. That’s the way it were Cap’n. Had young Gabe, pardon sir, had Mr. Anthony not stopped it, I’d lost me timber ‘fer sure when the gun went off. I’ve seen it happen, sir, same as you I’m sure.”
“Thank you, Dawkins,” Anthony said, “I’ll weigh your comments heavily in my decision. You are dismissed.”
The old sailor was almost out the door when he turned and said, “t’wernt no use in Mr. Witz acting so, sir. I been to sea more ‘n thirty years, man and boy, and I ain’t see’d the like sir. Just wanted ye to know, sir.” Then the wizened old sailor continued on his way.
Anthony had just finished his formal inquiry into the incident. Dawkins had been the last witness. Gabe was guilty all right, but of trying to save an old man’s leg and maybe his life. A better, more experienced officer would have looked at the situation, tried to make something positive of Gabe’s initiative, and been glad they’d not crippled a good seaman. Witz was neither experienced nor mature enough to put his petty differences aside for the good of the ship and crew. Anthony looked at Buck, who had been standing quietly since Dawkins had left.
“Rupert, old friend, would you be so kind as to summon Lieutenant Witzenfeld?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Buck said and left the cabin. He couldn’t ever recall the captain calling him old friend. A sign of weakness? No. No one could ever call the captain weak. Friendship, he was the captain’s friend. Buck felt very privileged to be considered Anthony’s friend, especially when the captain was at his wit’s end.
Buck had sent Paul, the master-at-arms, to find Witz and inform him of the captain’s summons. Then he was to go to the cockpit for Mr. Anthony
“Allow Witz plenty of time with the cap’n before you bring Mr. Anthony aft,” Buck had whispered to Paul.
The salty old sea dog looked at the first lieutenant, “give ‘em time ta feel the heat for awhile, is ‘at what we’s after, sir?” Buck only nodded as Paul ambled of, amazed at how the old sailor always seemed to have a quid of “baccy” causing his tight cheek to bulge to gigantic proportions. A permanent brown stain seemed to fill the crease at the cornet of Paul’s mouth. Yet Buck could not remember ever having seen the man spit. Recalling his own youthful experiment with “chaw-baccy” Buck could only imagine what was happening to Paul’s innards.
Silas had poured Anthony another of his coffee brandy concoctions. “Ta steel yourself, sir,” he said by way of explanation. “His kind ain’t worth loosen ya temper over.”
“The first lieutenant, sir,” the marine had barely gotten the announcement past his lips when the cry from above was heard.
“Man overboard! Man overboard!” Lt. Earl was already turning the ship by the time Anthony and Buck hurried on deck.
“Well, at least that’s a chapter that’s closed,” Buck said, “And I for one am glad.” The man overboard had been Lt. Witzenfeld. Every effort had been made to recover the man but to no avail. The bosun had said, “He musta headed straight ‘fer Davy Jones locker from the onset. No ‘bobbin or cries like you’d expect from a man trying to stay afloat.”
The quartermaster, who had been at the wheel when the incident happened, tried to explain what he saw. “‘E ‘ad a fit ‘e did, sir, went berserk. He was acting like a madman, just a slobbering like and flinging his arms about, like ‘e was swatting at bees, sir. Screaming ‘is bloody head off saying the devil was on him. ‘E was touched sir, so ‘e was, just plain touched. It put a scare in me, cap’n. I ain’t shamed to say it. No sir, it was frightful.”
When things on deck had settled down, Anthony and Buck had the opportunity to talk with Peckham who had also seen the incident. “Witz was headed aft to report to you,” the master explained. “Dagan was standing close to the hatch, outta the wind so he could light his pipe. As Witz approached the companionway, he appeared startled and upset to find Dagan standing there. He gave Dagan an angry scowl. Dagan looked up from lighting his pipe and said, “Careful where thy step sir. Accidents happen, a misstep could haunt you a lifetime.”
“Well, sir, Witz turned ghost white pale. He let go a scream to make yer blood curdle. It ‘twere like the banshee was after him. Then, like the quartermaster said, it was over the side he went. You know the rest.”
Anthony had let the master tell his story without interruption. Then he asked, “Tell me, Mr. Peckham, would you consider Dagan’s words a threat to Lt. Witzenfeld?”
“Nay Cap’n. More like a friendly reminder I’d say.”
Long after everyone had gone, Anthony was lying in his cot looking at the deck beams overhead. He found himself taking in all the sounds a ship at sea will make. The water sluicing down the hull as the bow plunged through another wave. The gentle groan of timbers as they were being flexed as the ship cut through a trough only to have its bow lifted by a swell. The sound of the watch on deck, all familiar but distant. In the stillness, Anthony’s body gave a sudden shiver and once again he could hear his father’s old servant whisper, “He’s a soothsayer, sir. A sorcerer.”