“Captain Charles Johnson, at your service, and this is Jim. Would you take a bit of tinned milk in that? Sugar?” The captain was full of appreciation for our emergency berth. He was going into Boston right away to find the parts he needed to make our repairs. Yes, Merry Adventure had just crossed the Gulf of Maine, and before that, the Atlantic. This drew respect, leading into a discussion of the lieutenant’s navy career; he had been commissioned from the ranks, “come up through the hawser hole,” as he put it. He was from Bristol, Connecticut, which led to a discussion of the place and a clear communion. When the lieutenant left, the coffee pot was empty, Merry had permission to stay where she was, and the shore patrol would keep an eye on her. We were invited to use the washrooms and facilities in the old stone barracks building used by Constitution’s crew, and I got to use the office telephone for my call to home.
Meg answered, very relieved I was in Boston. Mother was in Halifax with Aunt Karen, who had taken a turn for the worse, and was in the hospital there. The work on the inn was going to stop unless the money that everybody was expecting from us came through by wire in the next four days. Everything depended on us. Meg sounded grim. Unsettled, I walked across the cobblestones of the old part of the Navy Yard, where the public was admitted to “Old Ironsides,” a floating museum. There was another old frigate, with no masts, Constellation; both gave life to the pictures I’d seen of such ships, and meaning to the stories about them.
“Over here, m’boy,” a sailor beckoned, grinning at me. He wore an old-fashioned hat and was at the gangway to Constitution, where he was engaging the day’s first trickle of tourists. My immediate impression of him was as a carnival hustler I had once seen, but he got me to come over and join the tour that he was about to conduct. He did a talk that I could tell he had done before, herding everybody from place to place on the ship, past endless rows of huge cannons, surrounded by a cathedral of woodwork under low overheads.
“Name’s Mathew,” he introduced himself to me in a friendly way, taking me under his wing during his tour. Afterward, he let me climb down into an area low in the ship where tourists weren’t allowed. “That’s all original ship down there, pal, all old woodwork. Still got cannonballs in her from a long time ago. Can you feel any ghosts?” I didn’t, although it was very sombre, and Jenny would have. Mathew was very interested in Merry, and I invited him to come down to have a look at her.
This he did when his watch was over. I was glad for his company, being stuck for hours on Merry with the whole astonishing landscape of Boston in front of me. I was surrounded by its pulse, feeling entirely left out. I showed my new friend around Merry, and felt proud to be the guide. He had a lot of questions that I didn’t mind answering, and a few that I did, regarding our business. He got it out of me that we had some antiques for sale. “Well, this is the best place to sell them. What have you got?” he asked, just as I saw the unmistakable figure of the captain, with walking stick, returning at last.
“Hullo, who might you be?” he asked Mathew. “Right, well, thanks for your visit, and now Jim and I have some work to do.” Watching him go, I accused the captain of dismissing my friend very abruptly. He gave me a hard eye. “Nobody comes aboard Merry unless I’m here to invite ’em. Chat ’em up as long as you want to, so long as they stay dockside. How was your morning?”
I reported Meg’s news from home, stressing the urgency about our mission. As the family spokesman, I wanted a report. He nodded, demanded a sandwich, and briefed me while I prepared our lunch. He had selected four antique dealers—one each for our four crates of pewter—whom he had talked to over the telephone. He planned to visit them in quick succession, “so we get the best price, which we won’t if word gets around town as to how much antique pewter we’re unloading all at once into the market. It’s an in-and-out operation. We’ll start tomorrow, Wednesday.”
“Why not this afternoon?” I fretted, thinking of our deadline, and the clock ticking toward the weekend.
“This afternoon’s for examining the terrain. Very important to do that before any engagement.”
“Engagement?”
“Just so. When you’ve squared away the galley, we’ll make a start.” Our examination of the terrain took the form of a brisk walk across the Charlestown Bridge and into the city, where we followed a map the captain had bought to Charles Street. Three out of four of our prospective buyers had their stores on this street. We visited most of them, looking at price tags on old pewter, which was interesting enough at first, but less so after a couple of hours of it. He didn’t enter any of the shops on his select list, although he spent a very long time peering through their windows. Finally, I noticed that he was watching the people within, and said so.
“Just putting a face to the chaps I’ve been chatting with by telephone. Look at the big florid chap with the red bow tie and braces. Look at him fawning over the lady with the cute little dog, even though he’s got a ‘No Pets’ sign on the door. The old girl’s prattling away, isn’t going to buy anything, but he’s frosting his other customers for her. I reckon she’s a Cabot, or a Coolidge, or Crowninshield, or one of the other Boston bunch whose parties Mr. Bow-Tie likes to go to, when he can get invited. I think Mr. Bow-Tie chooses his company very carefully.”
“You mean he’s a big snob?”
“That looks like the terrain. We’ll see him tomorrow morning, when we’re a bit better prepared, and have the weather gauge on him. Then we’ll look in on Mr. Pipe, who was the scholarly gent we saw reading and smoking the huge pipe, and Madame Lipstick, the lady who had all the potted plants about.”
The last shop on our scouting agenda was several blocks distant, taking us on a course that skirted a large park with traffic whizzing around it. “That’s Boston Common,” he told me as we waited to cross a busy street, “where it is against the law to graze your cow . . . or was when I was last here. Not that I ever had a cow. There’s a green light.” The fourth of our prospective antique dealers was entirely riveted to a little television set with a loud baseball game, paying no attention at all to his customers. After viewing him, the captain was ready for a sit-down and a pint of beer, which he put away so quickly, I barely had time to finish my soft drink before he was rising from the table, and we were off on our next errand.
“Now we’re going to have to spend a dollar or two, getting properly togged out for Mr. Bow-Tie, who’s going to pay us a handsome sum for our showiest pieces, right?” This notion cost more dollars than I’d ever seen spent on clothes. For me, they included a pair of sporty white deck shoes, with white socks that came nearly up to my knees, white Bermuda shorts that came nearly down to them, and a fine white shirt that had collars with buttons.
“Well, that’s different,” I said, looking at myself in a huge mirror that also showed angles of me that I’d never seen. I questioned the sense of spending money on frivolous things. “I look like I’m off a tennis court.”
“Or a big fancy yacht. Picture a world-class yacht, one that makes Cock Tails look like a dinghy. Steward’s mates everywhere. Dozens of crew.”
“I’m crew?”
“You are Master James, and it’s you and your family that the crew’s there to serve.” While I was digesting this, the captain tried on khaki slacks until he found some he liked, with deck shoes and a new shirt similar to mine. With our costumes in a shopping bag—which I carried—we trekked back to Charlestown, showed the visitors’ passes we’d been issued at the Navy Yard’s guard house, and returned to Merry, where I settled with a tired sigh.
“Supper time, Mr. Cook,” said the captain, instantly calling me back to duty. “And look smart about it, because we’ve got a lot of work to do before we can turn in.”
This included dragging out all four crates with pewter ware and totally rearranging their contents, with pieces set out on every surface of Merry’s little cabin, as he re-tallied prices, making a lot of revisions based on our scouting. The night was late by the time each piece was rewrapped in its
felt, then repacked in its new carefully chosen box, with revised inventories drawn up.
“Well,” I sighed, “this is a lot more work than the pirates had to go through.”
“Not quite. Fact of the matter is, we spent most of our lives squabbling over loot disposal. You take a sloop with rum, sugar, and logwood, and then that’s what you’ve got to sell, swap, trade for, take where it’ll go for the best price, and knowing who you’re dealing with. The biggest day-to-day entertainment was haggling after the divvy, and the divvy itself was the most interesting thing of all, for everybody on the ship. Maybe you get some pearls, but you’re short on small cash, so you wrap ’em nicely, maybe put ’em in a sweet little pouch, make a bit of a presentation to the chap who’s got more pieces of eight than he knows what to do with. It was the highest art of all, and the most successful of the brotherhood were those who had a nose for it.”
I couldn’t help a yawn. “Am I supposed to play some kind of role tomorrow?”
“You are. Rehearsal right after breakfast.”
“How d’you do, sir,” I said for the umpteenth time. It was to be my one line, delivered in a very cultured English accent. My director had also coached me in “yes, sir,” “no, sir,” and “I can’t (cahnt) say, sir,” my only options if spoken to, except “good-bye, sir,” at the end.
“You’ve got it. You should try to enjoy the drive. How often do you get a chance to roll through Boston in a limousine?” The captain had hired the fancy car the day before, and its uniformed driver, William, who drove up to the dock at midmorning. William hoisted up Mr. Bow-Tie’s box of pewter, putting it in the trunk for us, so we ran no risk of smudging our new clothes. We rolled out of the Navy Yard past Mathew, on duty, gawking at the sight of us, and then through the streets of Boston like movie stars. I said I’d be able to enjoy it more if I wasn’t worried about being stilted and wooden in my role.
“Stilted and wooden will serve very nicely,” he approved. Then we were there, parking in front of Mr. Bow-Tie’s fancy shop, and everything happening very quickly—the captain out, door opened by William as Mr. Bow-Tie came to see who was getting out of a limousine.
“Johnson. Talked to you on the phone. Pewter. William!” He summoned the driver. “Bring the box. Master James, please?” he summoned me. I went to his side, and he introduced me only as Master James.
“How d’you do, sir,” I said, saying my line, shooting out my hand to shake his.
“James . . . ?” Mr. Bow-Tie fixed on me with a quizzical look.
“Yes, sir,” I said. He wasn’t finished with me, but the captain cut him off, speaking in a lowered voice, with no trace of dialect, just the purest upper-class English I’d ever heard spoken.
“I’m given to understand from some mutual friends that you, sir, are not only the chap to bring these,” he gestured with his stick toward the box of pewter that William was bringing in, “but that you are a person to be trusted with discretion.” Mr. Bow-Tie made an automatic nod. “Quite. Well, we’re off our yacht, y’see, and we’re here, but we’re not here. It’s a quiet visit, with a little shore chore or two to give our young master a bit of a browse without any . . .” he hesitated.
“Public attention?” Mr. Bow-Tie filled in.
“Just so. Good chap.”
“Which yacht club?” Mr. Bow-Tie asked, sizing us up, and lowering his own voice. “And if I may ask, what yacht?” The captain became brusque.
“We’re guests of your government. The Navy Yard has the private accommodations we need for the short time we’re here. Our ship, we call her Merry for short, hails from England. Here by way of the Caribbean. And I think that’s all that’s pertinent in our transaction, which is your buying this lot that we’re clearing off the ship. Housecleaning. What do you think?” He unwrapped the top piece, which was the elaborate coffeepot, the collection’s prize.
“Oh!” said Mr. Bow-Tie, looking at it with surprise. “Very nice indeed,” then, “Who did you say sent you to me?”
“I didn’t. Let me make it plain,” the captain’s tone hardened. “Names are not in play. I repeat, we are not here, not for photographers or anybody else except some local friends who have recommended you. I’m given to understand that is something you will understand.” He lifted his eyebrows. Mr. Bow-Tie hastened to assure him that he did indeed entirely understand. “Quite. Well, we’ll have a bit of a look down the street, while you have a look at the pewter, and,” he pulled out a couple of folded pages, opened them and handed them to Mr. Bow-Tie, “here’s the inventory—ewers, plates, tankards, all itemised, with notes on signatures, cartouches, stampings, and whatnot, by our curator chap. According to him, whatever evaluation he’s come up with is designed to fetch the ship a fair price, leaving you a fair profit, at current values.”
He called William from the curb. “Stand by. Expect us back in a quarter-hour.” As we strolled away, Mr. Bow-Tie was opening pewter under the watchful eye of William, a large man from South Boston. His one stage-instruction was to say absolutely nothing, standing just inside the shop door. If questioned, he was only to shake his head. He seemed made for his role.
“Let’s pop in on Madame Lipstick,” the captain suggested when we came to her shop, and he opened its door with a great clangour of little bells. We had nicknamed her for her crimson lips, the first thing about her. They made the rest of her look very soft. The sight of us brought her to her feet, all smiles. There was more or less the same introduction, but here he took what seemed an almost personal interest in the lady, smiling to her, full of compliments on her displays of crystal and glassware, her peach silk wallpaper, her well-groomed, long-haired cat. We were there hardly more than ten minutes, but it was long enough for the captain to make a very favourable impression, plus an afternoon appointment for the following day, with our wares.
William was just where we’d left him, standing mutely with folded arms as Mr. Bow-Tie unwrapped the last of the pieces from his box, looking hurried.
“Well, what do you think?” the captain asked him.
“Very nice indeed,” Mr. Bow-Tie nodded cautiously. “I’ve barely had a chance to look at it, of course, and the price your curator has come up with seems . . .”
“You’re talking to the wrong person about that. We’re just the deliverers. Look, old boy, we’re going to have to toddle off. If you don’t want to buy the objects, we’ll have ’em sent over to Bertie and tell him he recommended the wrong antique dealer.”
“Bertie?”
“I expect he’ll find somebody else who wants it, if you disappoint.” Mr. Bow-Tie squirmed, with wrinkled brow.
“I . . . I . . . Bertie?”
The captain did not give him any time to sort through his mind, turning at once to William with an irritated flick of his stick toward the array of pieces. “William, would you help this gentleman get this lot rewrapped and packed?
“No!” Mr. Bow-Tie stopped him, showing some alarm. “Of course I’ll buy it. Indeed. But, uh . . .”
“Good show!” the captain quashed whatever struggle was left in him. “I believe you’ve got my signed receipt, for a cash sale.”
“Cash?”
“Quite. Don’t have time to bumble about with cheques, old boy. This way it goes right into petty cash, no fuss. Trivial sum, really. Surely that’s not a bother?”
No bother at all. The entire performance came off like a charm. We got our full price, and William got a sizeable tip, plus his general enjoyment of an unusual morning for him, as he put it, dropping us back at the Navy Yard.
“Let’s have some solomongundy, and sandwiches,” the captain charged me. “But first, take off those whites and get yourself into something more galley-friendly.” Our afternoon mission called for no costume. By ordinary taxicab we went to Mr. Baseball’s store with our least valuable crate, timing ourselves to arrive less than an hour before the beginning of the day’s baseball game. Introductions were brief. The captain was all business, helping lay out a lot of plates,
mugs, and flagons, which drew the dealer’s attention. Piece by piece he looked at it, referencing the captain’s inventory list, showing some interest until he was handed the price, which had been marked double what we wanted for it. Mr. Baseball made a face and a dismissive gesture.
“Not interested,” he pronounced, turning away. The captain patiently pointed out virtues of the collection, without success. Only when game-time came, and Mr. Baseball reached to turn on his little television, did there come a breakthrough.
“Very well, have the lot at half price then,” the captain said, throwing up his hands in surrender. This was a stunning enough reduction to recapture the dealer’s interest, and for the deal to be concluded in time to let him catch the beginning of the game, cash paid.
“Batter up!” came the announcer’s voice as we left with our second envelope of money for the day.
This quick triumph left us with the rest of the afternoon, and enough time to visit a few of Boston’s historic buildings. We saw the Old State House, where British troops shot Bostonians in what the Americans called the Boston Massacre, for revolutionary purposes. There was also the house that had belonged to Paul Revere, who had warned many Americans that the British were coming. “We Brits had nobody at all to warn us the Americans were coming,” he commented.
Our last stop of the day was a bookstore, where we both browsed in our own directions among stacks and shelves of used books, books by the thousands, all tended by a lady who looked like a thinner version of Miss Titherington. “Pirates are right over here.” She led me to a small section in a narrow aisle where I found more books on the subject than I could ever have imagined, including a reprint of A History of the Most Notorious Pirates by Captain Charles Johnson, and another with exactly the same title and text, authored by Daniel Defoe. I took both of them over to where the captain was looking at a book of girly photographs.
The Brotherhood of Pirates Page 24
