Young Dick

by John Jarvis

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “Well, that has been a most satisfactory conclusion, Lieutenant Digby; well done.” Sir Thomas eased himself into a club chair and ordered cognac. Richard, needing a clear head, politely declined.

  “The ship impounded, the cargo confiscated and will be sold to cover any fines, the Captain and crew repatriated to the island of Saint Pierre. Pity about the one that got away, but even that has a positive outcome: he will spread the word about your irregulars; is it true you all wore kilts?” Sir Thomas asked.

  “We did, Sir Thomas, they are much more healthy attire for the jungles,” answered Richard.

  “Indeed? Well, now we come to the matter of your gratuity; as I promised we will be generous, we have a land grant available, perhaps a Captaincy if you pursue a military career: what do you say to that, hey?”

  “With all respect, Sir Thomas, my father is a sea captain and I favor a similar career: could it be possible to obtain the “Juliet” instead of a land grant?” Richard proposed.

  “I do not see why not, young man; the cargo of course must go to auction, but I am sure we can arrange a transfer of funds from the land grant to the successful tender of Juliet: consider it done. Now, about the future of your band of ruffians: what do you suggest?” Sir Thomas asked.

  “Commission Sergeant O’Hara, Sir Thomas; he will never go anywhere near a mess to suffer snobbery and can be relied upon for any rogue mission,” suggested Richard.

  “Harrumph, well, we will see, Digby,” Sir Thomas rose and waved away Richard’s attempts to thank him.

  In fact the Army disbanded Richard’s Irregulars, and their skills would be sorely missed in the looming Revolution.

  Richard received a salute from the marine guard on duty at the bottom of Juliet’s gangplank. He had been expected.

  “Everything ready and shipshape for you, Sir; if I may sight your deed of ownership, thank you, Sir, if you could just sign this notification of receivership, thank you, Sir: Juliet is now all yours,” the marine filed the paperwork into his satchel.

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” replied Richard, looking up at his new possession.

  “Sir!” barked the marine and marched off. Richard went aboard and began a detailed inspection.

  Captain Dupries had been allowed to take only his clothes and personal items with him and all the ship’s instruments and chattels remained on board apart from the small arms powder and shot, which had been removed. The single nine pound bow chaser and two six-pounder cannon had been marked for removal but remained. ‘Too late now,’ Richard thought, ‘they are now part of the purchase.’

  Richard lit the lamp in his Captain’s cabin and tallied up. He had enough money from the sale of the head to refit Juliet and bring her up to top condition, and any future sales of the heads would give him a financial cushion. He would miss Squanto, who had returned to whaling ,but felt secure that he could muster up a good crew at a time when the Navy was considering reintroducing the press gangs. What he would trade in, he had no idea.

  With a sense of déjà’ vu, Richard meticulously supervised the refitting of Juliet. The only major reconfiguration he made was to convert the small stern hold into passenger accommodation. It soon became obvious to the merchants, craftsmen and chandlers that Richard knew exactly what he wanted, and fair pricing given the extra expense of some imported items, and they submitted reasonable tenders. Juliet was a working merchant ship and needed far less work than the previously mothballed Subtile, and within six weeks she floated off the dry dock, pristine in her new paint, cleaned copper hull, replaced sails and new rigging. Juliet could never be called a pretty ship, but her solid lines and raked masts drew more than a few admiring glances. All that was missing was work and crew.

  The former was solved by Sir Thomas, who had been following Richard’s progress and awarded him the contract to carry the pelts and furs purchased by his cronies in England to London. This caused animosity among the local ship owners who banded together to deny Richard any suitable crewmembers.

  The exception was Andrew McLeod, who was a distant cousin of Hamish, the supplier of kilts. He had heard of Richard’s exploits and had no love for the local ship owners and their cartel that kept wages as low as possible. His voice carried all the way from the dockside to Richard’s cabin.

  “Permission to come aboard, Sir!”

  “Permission granted,” replied Richard, puffing from the run to the ship’s rail.

  “I hear ye need a crew,” said Andrew after introducing himself and shaking hands.

  “That I do,” replied Richard and invited Andrew to his cabin. When they were seated he asked, “Will you take a dram?”

  “Aye.”

  Richard poured a stiff measure of Dupries’ finest French brandy; it was not scotch but the next best thing and both men savored the distillation.

  “I think I can help you with a good crew but not a full one,” began Andrew.

  “If you can handle the navigation and the short crew can sail us to Saint Pierre, then we have a deal, First Mate,” replied Richard.

  Andrew finished his brandy and stood up. “Leave it with me Captain but why Saint Pierre?”

  Juliet hove to well out from the Island of Saint Pierre and edged in towards the shallow bay as darkness fell. The sister island of Miquelon had disappeared into the dark.

  “Are ye sure you will land alone?” Andrew asked, concerned at Richard’s lone mission. The longboat bobbed on the surface of the water with four crewmembers manning the oars.

  “One man will not be perceived as a threat to a close-knit fishing community, First Officer, and I could only find one set of left-behind French clothing,” Richard answered. Andrew grunted.

  Richard pulled the threadbare jacket around him and the grimy cap down to ward off the cold night air as the longboat threaded its way through the fishing boats towards the quay; he thought his garlic-smelling breath was a nice touch. There was a tower overlooking one end of the bay and fishermen’s huts dotted the shore-line. There was only one sign, Le Quai La Ronciere, fixed to a block wall. Richard had decided against any subterfuge; he would be spotted immediately and would have to rely on the good rapport he had built up when attending their wounded. The gold coins he carried to buy drinks and bribe sailors should help.

  Richard found the only inn minutes after his crew had rowed back to Juliet. He pushed open the heavy door and walked in. All conversation stopped. After half a minute a sailor he recognized rose from his table and walked towards Richard.

  “What business do you have here, Monsieur Capitan, have you come to take us prisoners again?” He held his hands up and his mates laughed. Richard walked past him to the bar and laid some coins on the rough timbered surface.

  “No, Monsieur, I have come to buy you all drinks and hire the best seamen Saint Pierre has to offer.” There was a pause, and then the man smiled.

  “Why don’t you join us?”

  It soon became obvious that the patrons of the inn were divided in two. The ex-crew from the Juliet sat on one side imbibing Richard’s drinks on one side while the remainder sat scowling on the other refusing the offer. Richard decided to complete his business quickly.

  “I need to bring my crew up to strength and I am prepared to pay over the going rates, but you will be working with a colonial crew; you should know that before you decide,” began Richard in his improving French.

  “Where would you be sailing?” The man who invited Richard to sit answered in good English to avoid the strain on everyone.

  “To London to deliver your fine cargo, where you will have the opportunity to sign off and return to France or remain for a return sailing,” answered Richard.

  The men conferred in a dialect Richard could not understand. They all spoke very quickly.

  “We all accept we are Basques and deep water sailors, not fishermen.” He cast a disparaging glance at the other side of the inn. “Now how much over the going rate are you prepared to pay?”

  Richard did a q
uick calculation: he did not need extra hands to fight his ship, so the extra twelve Basques would be enough – just. Twenty percent,” he offered.

  “Twenty–five, and we do the cooking.”

  “Done.” Handshakes all around, another round of drinks, and Richard staggered back to the quay to rendezvous with his longboat that was awaiting his hail offshore. He could see the white splashes from the oars and almost missed the sound of footsteps behind him. Richard was not armed and had left his remaining coin with the Basques, as an advance on their wages, but any would-be robber might not know that. There was a rush of feet and Richard contemplated diving into the sea and swimming for the longboat but thuds and curses caused him to pause. There was the sound of retreating feet and two coming toward him.

  “You may return to Juliet safely, Captain, we will board at first light for the morning tide. My name is Tubal,” said the Basque leader.

  Richard had debated with himself whether to mix the watches with Basque and colonial crewmembers but had decided that would have meant an extra strain on his already-stretched crew. The Basque and colonials would have two watches each and one language; both had worked well together as a unit.

  Tubal and his party arrived as promised at dawn, rowed out by their wives and older children, and after much kissing and tears came aboard and fitted back into their old quarters. The anchor was raised and Juliet sailed south to pick up a favorable westerly to the southern tip of Ireland then around the south coast of England and on to London. Richard took a deep breath of salted air. Master and owner of his own ship at last.