Page 14 of Unlikely Heroes
“He knew how important St. Brendan’s was. He always knew,” Grace said softly.
Sir Charles cleared his throat and continued through other bequests, then came to one which brought a smile to his face. To Meridee’s surprise, he looked at her. “You are Mrs. Able Six?” he asked.
“Yes, Sir Charles,” she said, then glanced at Able, who shrugged his shoulders, as mystified as she was.
“Very well, then!” Sir Charles gave her a deferential nod. “’To Meridee Bonfort Six, wife of Sailing Master Durable Six, should her husband predecease her in his service in the Royal Navy and/or St. Brendan the Navigator School, one thousand pounds per annum, as long as she shall live.’”
Meridee gasped. She looked across the room to her husband, who had bowed his head. When she saw his shoulders shake, she longed to leap to her feet and hold him.
Sir Charles held up his hand. “A little more, so humor me.” Another throat clearing. “’The house at 11 Saints Way has already been purchased by me and will be assigned to Mrs. Six now, with the addition of a few signatures. She need never fear eviction, provided she does not mind living in this devil-may-care port.’”
Meridee struggled between laughter and tears, and tears won. Without a word, Smitty took a handkerchief from an inside pocket and pressed it in her hand.
It wasn’t enough. She knew she wanted her husband right then; fortunately, he knew it, too. With no apology he left the table and was at her side in remarkable time. She clung to him, and he to her. After a moment, they turned their attention to Headmaster Croker.
“Sir, accept our apologies for this interruption,” Able said. “By his unparalleled bequest to my wife, Sir B has allayed my only fear. God bless the man.”
He returned to his seat and Meridee sat again, certain that everyone in the room could hear the pounding of her heart. She whispered to Grace, “Friend, did you know this?”
Grace nodded, and blew her a kiss.
After several more mundane bequests, all of which indicated to Meridee that Sir B was far wealthier than she ever could have imagined, Sir Charles finally reached the final page of the will. He looked and then looked again, showing it to the solicitor seated behind him. They conferred. Meridee heard, “I don’t recall this. Do you?” and “But Sir Charles, it has been initialed, has it not?” “Someone’s initials. Can you make them out?” “No, Sir Charles. It’s Greek to me.”
Sir Charles Park read the final entry to himself, shaking his head. He looked at Master Croker apologetically. “I daresay our firm has been working too many long hours.” He tapped the page. “This little entry I disremember, but all things considered, it is a wise one, I have no doubt.” He looked at his audience.
“It is this: “I will my yacht theJolly Rogerto St. Brendan’s, with the proviso that it be assigned to the Royal Navy for the length of our current national emergency. She is a sweet vessel and can easily handle ship-to-shore messages from the blockade off France and Spain to Admiralty and the Navy Board.” He smiled at the words. “’Trust me, she is fast.’”
He looked at Smitty this time, and then Able. “This part concerns you two.” Smitty leaned forward. Gone was his usual veiled expression, replaced by an unmatched intensity. “’What better way to train lads for the fleet than to serve such a duty? Able Six will command, if he is recalled to the fleet, and Smitty will serve as sailing master.’”
Everyone in the room seemed to exhale at the same time. Sir Charles held up a warning hand and looked closer. “Let me continue. ‘Be persuasive, you Gunwharf Rats, in convincing the starched shirts at Admiralty that I have not lost my wits entirely. I suggest you take it up with Billy Pitt.’” Amid quiet laughter, Sir Charles set down the will and his expression grew serious. “He finished this way, Master Six: ‘Would that I could sail with you both. Your friend, Sir B.’”
There was nothing more to say, beyond the usual legalese that no one remembers except scribes and sticklers. “In coming weeks, we will handle all the finalizing of property and assigning of monetary bequeaths. In due time, you will hear from my firm,” Sir Charles said.
There was one more matter, one that Sir Charles remembered when he folded the documents into his briefcase and a letter floated down.
He picked up the letter and handed it to Smitty. “Bless me if I hadn’t forgotten precisely why else you were supposed to be here, my lad. This is my reminder. If you have any questions, let me know.” He put a hand on Smitty’s shoulder. “He wanted to tell you in person, but possibly for the first time in his life, words failed Sir B. Good day, all.” He and the solicitor left the room.
Meridee watched Smitty’s face, noting uncertainty for nearly the first time since she had known him. A quiet lad, but one of capable, sometimes fierce, mien that complimented his impressive build, he was seldom jostled or bothered. She sat beside him again. He looked up at her and she wondered if he did not want her close by.
“Would you rather I did not intrude upon this moment?” she asked quietly.
“Stay here, mam, if you please,” he said. “I’ve never received a letter. How do I open it?” He handed it to her.
Yes, who would ever write to Smitty, a workhouse boy?she thought with sympathy. Meridee took out a hairpin from the chignon at the nape of her neck and slid it along the crease. She smiled to see Sir B’s handwriting, remembering little notes from him when he was too ill to leave his house, but still eager to encourage and tease a bit. “He wrote this when he was feeling good, I think,” she told Smitty.
“He didn’t know me, mam,” Smitty said.
I believe he knew you better than you think, she told herself. “Perhaps he did,” she said. “Read it and find out.”
She looked away while he read, unwilling to intrude. She heard him gasp, then lean against her, something he never did, unlike her other St. Brendan boys. She saw devastation on his face, and put her arm around him.
He held out the letter to her. “You read it, mam,” he told her.
She read it to herself, amazed, understanding Smitty’s resemblance to Sir B.
She handed it back to Smitty, who started reading out loud, as if to make it real. “’My brother was a worthless vagabond and spendthrift,’” Smitty read. She heard all the amazement, and then a cold sort of anger, the kind that festered. “’On his deathbed three years ago, he admitted to me that he had fathered a child. He had taken you, his son, Edward St. Anthony, to a workhouse at the age of six, when your mother died.’”
“Do you remember this?” Meridee asked, hoping for a little amnesia. She didn’t want to imagine a boy, his mother dead, taken to the workhouse by his father and left there alone. She glanced at Able and saw all the horror on his face.
