Norton, Andre - Novel 08 by Yankee Privateer (v1.0)

water, and his lashes were sealed by it to his
cheeks. Both his hands and arms were numb and he moved only to the swing of the
pump. Fogler loomed up in the dusky light.
                   "Here be th '
relief, sir. Give over t' th' boys now!”
                   But Fitz remained stupidly where he was until
someone elbowed him aside, and he found himself with langing hands watching
another line of men at work. Fogler caught his arm and turned him around as if
le were a wooden puppet.
                  "Best get below, sir. Rub yourself down
like an' take a swig o' th ' right stuff int' warm yer
belly. 'Tis cruel cold."
                   Perhaps the sergeant propelled him there,
perhaps his own numb feet carried him; Fitz had no clear memory of how he reached
his cabin. But once there he summoned sufficient energy to strip off his salt-encrusted
clothing and towel himself with one of the blankets. He was pulling on a dry
shirt when Biggs bumped in, caught a hammock square in the face and swore
bitterly.
                   The marine lieutenant was as soaked as Fitz
had been, and his face was pinched blue with cold. When he attempted to pull
off his coat his hands shook uncontrollably and tears of fatigue and pain cut
through the salt stains about his bloodshot eyes. Fitz pushed the fumbling
hands aside and plucked his superior officer out of the wet wool and linen,
using a second blanket to rub circulation back into the other's shivering body.
                   " Rum " Biggs forced out the word. "Top tray . . . chest . . ."
                   Fitz found the squat bottle. But on his first
attempt to drink, Biggs spilt more across his chin than he got between his
chattering teeth. A second gulp made him sputter, and then he forced the bottle
on Fitz who choked and gagged as liquid fire trailed down his throat and came to
full blaze in the pit of his stomach.
                  "When do we founder?" Fitz's tongue
was limber enough now to shape words.
                   "Not yet," Biggs had recovered
enough to start pawing through his chest for fresh clothing. "Though only
the Good Lord knows where we are. Matthews was right when he said this ship
wasn't built for th ' north seas. She's shipped half o'
'em down her gullet already."
                   Fitz tried to stretch the kinks out of his
aching shoulders. "Yes, and we've pumped 'em all out again! I'll warrant
I've sprung all my muscles."
                   "Be glad you've still got 'em t'
spring," snapped Biggs. "Under any other master you might well be
shark food by now!"
     

4
     
A Capture for Every Gun
     
                   Where we fell in with a British ship,
                 Bound homeward from the Main ;
                 We gave her two bow-chasers,
                 And she returned the same.
                   —cruise of the Fair American
     
                   But the crew of the
Retaliation were far from becoming fish-fodder. When Fitz came back on
deck the sun greeted him, lighting a scene of feverish activity as the sailors
set about repairing storm damage. Waves had shrunk from mountainous reaches to
reasonable swells, and a circle of white birds dipped and screamed above the
mainmast.
                   Fogler stood by the pumps, watching the
outflow with a judicious and experienced eye. As Fitz joined him the sergeant
glanced up.
                   "She's a stout-bottomed piece, sir, that she is! Wi ' all that
batterin' she's started nary a seam. Th' Cap'n, he knows how t' pick a ship, he
does!"
                   "How long do we keep at the pumps
then?" Fitz wanted to know.
                   " 'Til we
lighten her t' th' bilges, sir. She answers a right smart quicker now than she
did even a half hour ago. We're past th ' worst."
                   The wind