Page 24 of Unlikely Heroes
She stood at the window, looking down at St. Brendan’s, thinking of the students and teachers. Soon enough, Grace St. Anthony née Croker would arrive by coach to begin her day teaching lower grade mathematics, and whatever odd assortment of subjects her agile brain agreed to. Lately, Meridee’s heart went out to her dear friend as she paused at the top step each morning and gave herself a little shake, before squaring her shoulders and entering.
Nothing was worse in Meridee’s mind than a good man gone. St. Brendan’s had already lost students to the war, first among them Jan Yarmouth, whose death had devastated her husband. She knew Able could have easily died in the takeover of the prisoner of war hulk last year. She yearned for him to stay safe at school and let others do the adventuring and fighting, but she had no voice in the decisions of men and war.
She also could not overlook Able’s occasional restlessness that took him to the edge of the seawall to stand there and watch the harbor, as if wishing to join the increasing number of warships sailing to war. She had confided to him her inadequacy to do for him what such a man of blinding intelligence probably craved. He had turned serious and assured her she was precisely what a man like him required. “You make my world bearable by being here and building a home of order for us both,” he told her once, and she believed him. So far, the sea was a reasonable mistress in her demands.
“This is the life I chose,” Meridee said softly as she heard steps behind her and turned to see her two favorite men eyeing her. She kissed them both. “Ben, are you starving?”
“Gut foundered,” he assured her.
She rolled her eyes at his cant, but what could a mother do, when her son listened to Gunwharf Rats? And like his father, never seemed to forget anything? “Put on your clothes, wash your face, and don’t wake up Smitty. He’s tired,” she said. A small pat to his rump sent him back upstairs.
He paused halfway up. “Nick isn’t back, too?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Soon, I am certain. Scat now.”
Able received a more extensive cuddle in the sitting room then plopped down with her in his favorite chair, hairy legs and all, nightshirt thigh-high.
“You are a disgrace to the service,” she said, after he rubbed her cheek with his whiskers.
“You didn’t mention that an hour and eighteen minutes ago,” he said.
“You were upstairs in my bed. Stop now. Anyone could wander in.”
He smiled and did as she said, then grew serious. “No word from Nick?”
“None. Not even a message from the harbormaster or the signaling crew,” she said. “We should have had an address for Master Ferrier by now, shouldn’t we?”
“I would have hoped so.” He leaned back and pulled her closer. “Mrs. Six, you are a bountiful bundle.”
“Do be serious.”
“Never more so.” He tugged at the sash on her robe. “We’ll give Nick another day before we start to worry. There is plenty to do, meantime. Mrs. Six, you’re not wearing anything under this robe!”
“Able, what will I do with you?”
“You’re the one who married a sailor, and we do have a reputation to maintain.” He tried to retie the sash, but the intricacy eluded him. She tied it neatly. “Beyond Smitty, plan on four more lads for dinner tonight. You’ll be feeding theJolly Roger’s crew.” He touched his head to hers and lowered his voice. “We sale in five days toward France. No frowns, please. We’re delivering a message to Admiral Calder, cruising off Rochefort.”
She couldn’t frown. He looked so delighted. “Is it now where I forget you just told me an Admiralty secret?”
“Aye, miss. No comment to anyone. That’s to be theMercury’s assignment: delivering messages, subject to the requirements of the service and the exigencies of war.”
She rested her head against his chest, and his arms went tight around her.
She did have news for him, forgotten in the general tumult of his return. “I forgot to tell you. We are to assemble at theJolly Roger’sslip for a re-christening at four bells in the forenoon watch.” She prodded his chest. “I never can remember…”
He stood up, taking her with him. “Ten of the clock, my love.” He sniffed the air. “And do I smell profiteroles?”
“You do. Mrs. Perry loves your weather-worn carcass.”
“She still terrifies me. We’ll eat and go to St. Brendan for early class. Would you and Ben like to walk with us to the Gunwharf later?”
“And Mrs. Perry. This is her war, too.”
“Our war,” he said softly. “We all pay the price.”
At four bells in the forenoon watch, Lady St. Anthony, dressed in black but with a defiant yellow and red bow at her throat, took hold of a champagne bottle on a rope. She declared in a firm voice, “Dear oldJolly Roger, I re-christen youMercury, in the service of His Majesty King George. May you swiftly sail in courage and faith and never hesitate to lay yourself alongside the enemy. Bless your able crew.”
Grace swung the bottle on the rope and it shattered against theMercury. She stood in silence a moment, her head bowed, as they all did, thinking of Sir B. Meridee raised her head to watch Grace’s shoulders begin to shake as she covered her face.
