“Thank goodness you changed your mind,” she said, settling in, comfortable. “I trust I am strong enough for these farewells.”
It remained unspoken between them, the thought that any farewell could be the final one.
The household woke at first light to the fragrance of ham, eggs, applesauce, cinnamon toast and beans from Mrs. Perry’s kitchen. Avon joined them from across the street and they all tucked into a monstrous breakfast. No Rat complained. They, their master included, never forgot workhouse lessons of eating when the food was there, against a time when it was not.
After breakfast, Meri made her Rats open their duffels. She advised all of them to take more socks and smallclothes and waited until they obeyed.
“I put in enough socks and smallclothes,” Able whispered in her ear. He whispered something else and she gasped.
He had never seen her blush so much. She thought a moment, this wife of his. “I could sprinkle more lilac talcum on whichever shimmy you stole.”
“Not this time,” he said. “It’s a short voyage. I’ll use it for my pillowcase and go to sleep a happy man.”
Funny how the whole school decided to walk with them by the Gunwharf where the Mercury bobbed on the receding tide. Sailing Master Durable Six felt the wind precisely right against his cheek. Ideal. Over shorter heads, he smiled at Headmaster Croker, who shrugged and came closer.
“It was rank insubordination, but my instructors said the Gunwharf Rats walked out of class, so here we are.” Thaddeus Croker appeared not even slightly unhappy about this minor mutiny.
What did surprise him about Headmaster Croker was the cane he leaned upon. “Sir, is this an old injury?” he asked, as he slowed his pace to accommodate the man.
“Something that flares up now and then,” Thaddeus said. He changed the subject beyond redemption, but Able wondered.
It touched Able’s heart to see others. The entire St. Brendan’s kitchen staff, and look, Portsmouth’s constables, headed by Walter Cornwall and his wife Betsy, were there, too, along with Royal Marines. He didn’t see Captain Ogilvie, but suspected the man was already below.
With an audience, the Gunwharf Rats raised the sail on Smitty’s command.
“Kiss me quick, Mrs. Six,” Able said. “Ben, mind your mother.” As if to leave no doubt, he added, “Ben, obéissez à votre mère.” To be extra sure he added, “Obedece a tu madre.”
Ezekiel Barnaby stopped him next. “We will all watch over your loved ones,” he said. “Would that I could come along, too.” The baker handed him a pasteboard box. “In case someone gets peckish in the next few days.”
It was heavy. The baker must have stuffed in all of yesterday’s leftovers and then some. “Watch over my dear ones, too,” Able said.
“I already do,” the former deepwater man said, “plus I left some iced rout cakes at your front door for t’missus.”
Meri gave Able the sort of kiss that made him want to throw her down on the dock and have his way with her, but not before an audience. She did know how to send off a sailor, however. He took a step onto the yacht and nodded to Tots, who stood closest.
Lady St. Anthony herself, aided by Mr. Ferrier, untied the knot that held them to the dock. Mr. Ferrier tossed the line to Tots, who coiled it like an expert.
They set sail from Portsmouth into war.
Chapter Thirteen
Midsummer was the best time to sail across the English Channel. The sun was warm, the winds abundant but not overpowering. July provided days of suitable length to practice life aboard a sweet-sailing vessel with clean lines, a deep keel and impressive qualities unknown before a regular voyage. Sir B had known exactly what he wanted in a yacht. True, they had regularly sailed around Portsmouth harbor and the Isle of Wight, but the Channel was different. Sir B had built a seagoing yacht, nimble and powerful.
Predictably, as soon as the channel chop came into play, Able spotted Davey Ten kneeling by the railing, tossing up Mrs. Perry’s magnificent breakfast. No one teased him. They knew better, especially when Smitty spent his own quieter time on the opposite side, feeding unwary fish. No one was about to twit Smitty over seasickness.
His brain was often a burden, except in moments like this, when he helmed the Mercury in solitude and recalled every detail of last night’s General Merrymaking. He tried to wipe the silly smile off his face before Ogilvie came on deck, but