idea, either. Better get the worst of it over. He took a deep breath. “All I know is that she gave birth to me on a cold February night in Dumfries, Scotland,” he said, trying to control a flood of emotion and failing. All the swallowing and smashing of two fingers against the bridge of his nose amounted to nothing as his tears came. “She left a trail of blood as she dragged me to the steps of the parish church and laid me there wrapped in her cloak. She left a Book of Common Prayer with the name Mary inside. She…she crawled back to the alley and died alone.” He kissed the count’s hand. “She has a name now and I have a father.”
They wept together.
Chapter Twenty-five
Able’s plans to snatch some time, upon his return to Portsmouth, to begin the search for his mother came to nothing when they encountered the Pickle the following morning.
No one had slept well except the count. Once his story was told, he fell asleep. After tucking him in the berth, much as he would tuck in Ben, Able came on deck. Seven serious people sat close together wrapped in blankets, because the night had turned cold. They looked at him, full of questions.
Smitty. Tots. Whitticombe. Davey Ten. Avon March. They were his loyal crew, his true Gunwharf Rats, nearly as dear to Able as his own child. There at the wheel stood Frenchman Jean Hubert, with his own conflicts and loyalties all askew. He nodded to Angus Ogilvie, a man most ruthless and secretive, but tonight, tenderly kind. Able sat with them by the binnacle as Jean helmed the Mercury, and told them everything, word for word.
He wondered at first if he should have said so much, but knew he could not leave the Rats out of this stark account. Of all people, they knew the bleakness and loss of hope found within the walls of England and Scotland’s workhouses. He knew their fears and their anger, because he shared them. To dismiss the Rats without telling his story would have been the worst sort of leadership.
“I am fervently hoping that when we return to Portsmouth, the navy will not need us immediately,” he said, into great silence when he finished. “If Mr. Ferrier continues to be willing to stuff heads with knowledge, I will try to find out how my mother ended up in Scotland. As you were, men. There are five vacant berths below. Take them, Rats.”
No one moved. Was this mutiny? “Um, that’s an order,” he said gently, loving them. He looked at Smitty, who had evolved into the natural leader. “Mr. Smith?”
Smitty nodded to the other Rats. “We think you should go below again and stay with your father. We’re fine here on deck, aren’t we, men?”
This called for compromise. Even if they sometimes forgot, Able knew what the Rats were like when they were tired. They were mere lads, after all, lads with hearts of oak, but young ones, all the same. “Let us do this, and I won’t have an argument. You five take your berths. I will make a pallet and sleep on the deck beside my father. That way if he wakes up and forgets where he is, I can hold his hand. Will that satisfy you?”
It did. The boys trooped below. Able turned to his older crew, who had been watching that last exchange with barely disguised mirth. “I am sorry to condemn you to watch and watch about this night, but it appears that the Gunwharf Rats have spoken.”
“Go below, Able,” Ogilvie said. “Jean and I will stay awake by telling outrageous lies about how brave we are.” He laughed. “What a story you have for Trinity House brothers when we next meet.”
“The story had no ending yet,” Able reminded them. “Maybe it never will.”
The morning brought the Pickle alongside with unwelcome news. Able and Captain Ogilvie crossed over to the Pickle, where Captain Lapenotiere handed Able a tarry bag. “I must get to Portsmouth, and this must go to Plymouth immediately. I’m glad to see you, Captain Six.”
And I am sheltering an enemy aboard the Mercury, Able thought, knowing that no amount of rouge and powder could cover up that pig. He accepted the bag, deeply disappointed but well aware of his duty.
He hadn’t reckoned on Angus Ogilvie who, as it turned out, had a far better idea. Ogilvie took Captain Lapenotiere aside for a few whispered words. The Pickle’s skipper listened,