Page 55 of Unlikely Heroes
Captain Ogilvie was already at the helm when Smitty helped him aboard. Everyone on deck braced for the turn as theMercuryput wings to her heels and left the beach to thefusiliers.
“Where is he?” Able asked, as he gathered up his uniform.
“Below,” Angus said. “Go on. Everyone else can stay up here.”
“I…no.”
“Go below,” Angus said, with something close to tenderness. “Would you like me to come, too?”
Feeling six years old and surprisingly bewildered, Able nodded.
“I have the wheel,” Jean Hubert said. He couldn’t resist. “Angus stinks so bad that you’ll send him topside soon enough.”
A lantern swung gently, now that theMercuryhad righted herself on a course toward England. The Count of Quintanar lay in a bottom berth, his eyes closed. He opened his eyes but said nothing, only observing his son with what looked like an expression of unfathomable relief, mingled with greater sadness or regret. Able couldn’t tell.
Ogilvie tossed him a towel. He dug around for dry smallclothes, then put on his trousers and black turtleneck sweater that Meridee had knitted for him. He wanted her beside him precisely now.
Jean was right: Angus Ogilvie smelled as bad as a ship’s bilge after a one-year cruise. “Captain Ogilvie,” Able said as he buttoned his trousers. “As captain of theMercury, I currently outrank you. Find something else to wear.”
Angus saluted and dug in his duffel. Able hesitated only a moment then tapped his father’s legs. “Move a little,” he said in Spanish. “I am not certain I want to sit with you, but I need your story.”
His father shifted and Able sat beside him. “Captain Villavalencia of theFirmedistracted me so you could escape at Cape Finisterre, or we would have had this conversation sooner, Conde. What you said…”
“Forgive me?”
“Yes! You knew I existed,” Able said, and felt the anger return. “If you knew, why did you not rescue me from the living hell of a workhouse?”
His father began to cry. He held out his hand, petitioning for something. Acceptance? Absolution? Able looked at his hand, fine-veined like his own hand, with long fingers. He waited, wondering when his cranial guests would weigh in with opinions. Nothing. He knew what Meridee would have him do, so he took a deep breath and clasped his father’s hand.
He wiped his father’s face with the sheet. “What were you doing in Dumfries with a common whore?”
The Count stared at him and shook his head. “Your mother was no common whore and I was never in Dumfries,” he said firmly. “Never.”
Able stared in surprise. When the count winced, Able realized he had been squeezing the man’s hand too hard. He loosened his grasp but did not release him. He sniffed and turned around to see Angus Ogilvie dousing himself with lemon cologne, strong and Spanish. The captain shrugged. “It’s the best I can do right now. Do speak in English, if you would. He refused to tell us much until he could speak to you first.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem at all,” Able said. “Count, how many languages do you speak?” he asked in Spanish. His voice rose; he couldn’t help himself. “How’s your Greek? Your Latin? French? I needed a few days to learn German, but I learned. What about you?”
The count’s mystified expression changed to calm acceptance. He raised Able’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “My dear boy,” he said in halting English. “You have it wrong. I speak Spanish.” He shrugged. “And my English? It will improve. On the other hand, your mother…”
“Mymother?”
“Sí, tu madre, mijo. Your mother, my son,” he corrected, with a nod to Captain Ogilvie, whose mouth hung open. “She would hear a language and know it. Forget anything?Nunca.”
“My mother,” Able said, his voice scarcely above a whisper. “My mother! All I knew was that her name was Mary.”
“Su nombr…Her name was Mary Carmichael and she wasla persona más inteligente del mundo… I meet? No. meeted?” the count said, speaking slowly, trying out unused English, shaking his head over his errors. “Her father was…was…I do not know how to say.” He spoke in rapid Spanish.
“He was the harbormaster at Portsmouth?” Able said, for Ogilvie’s benefit. He looked at Angus. “Carmichael?” he asked.
Angus shrugged. “Before my time.” He pulled up a stool, thought, then tried. “Conde, in what year?” Ogilvie asked in Spanish.
Able winced. The man’s Spanish accent was as poor as his French one.
“Mil setecientos setenta y cinco,” the count said promptly, then sighed in frustration.
“Seventeen seventy-five,” Able said, groaning inside, like his father, at the cumbersome conversation.Like his father. The thought warmed him, even as his complex mind reeled with betrayal and neglect. There seemed to be some part of him that yearned for this man who was obviously his father. Able turned to Angus, hoping he would understand, but not really caring. “Sir, I am going to speak to my…my father in Spanish. I will tell you what he says later, because you know I can repeat it word for word. Excuse us, please.”
He hoped the prickly captain wouldn’t take it amiss, but he had to know everything at once. To his relief but not entirely his surprise, Ogilvie nodded. “I will go topside. Tell me later.” He touched Able’s shoulder, which also warmed his heart. Was this turning into an evening he would remember forever? Hell, he remembered everything forever.
