Smuggler's Moon sjf-8

by Bruce Alexander

  “Welcome aboard, both of you,” boomed Mr. Bilbo. He grabbed my right hand with his left, and with his own right hand he pummeled Sir John’s shoulder and back. It occurred to me that I had never seen him before as truly happy as he seemed at that moment. ”Glad I am to have you.” He hesitated, but then came out with it: ”But I was expecting you a bit toward the end of the week.”

  “Well, John Bilbo,” said Sir John, ” ‘Twas either come now or miss the chance altogether, I fear. The Lord Chief Justice has another errand for us.”

  “Where to this time?”

  “Oh, not far-east Kent. Deal.”

  “No, not far at all. But you’re here now, and that’s the important thing, so let me show you about the Indian Princess. I can describe to you what’s being done to her, though with your nose you can probably tell what’s going on right now.”

  “Well, I smell pitch and varnish, right enough.”

  Indeed there was a strong odor of both, as indeed there should have been, for there were workmen about applying both where needed-the pitch between the deck timbers and the ship’s varnish upon all wooden surfaces, save the deck timbers upon which it had already been laid down in multiple coats.

  “When was she built, Mr. Bilbo?”

  “In 1750, sir. A lot like her was built and launched to combat the smuggling trade.” He gave a cynical little chuckle. ”Whole lot of good they did, howsomever.”

  “You mean, of course, that they did no good at all.”

  ”Well, perhaps a little but only a little.”

  “Exactly my belief. I take it she’s seaworthy.”

  “Oh, and then some. Indeed she’s in good shape, considering she’s never before been brought in for an overhaul.”

  “Then why are they selling her off in such a way?”

  “Why, they’re still trying to pay for the war with the French. They’ll be selling off the whole navy, ship by ship, before you know.”

  “And all the while, the smuggling trade prospers.”

  “Aye,” said Mr. Bilbo, ”but I’ve naught to complain. I’ll have a ship beneath my feet again, and I’ve wanted that since first I came to London.”

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt of it. I felt the same for years.”

  Though they spoke of it seldom, this love of the sea and ships was what held these two men, in most ways so different, so close together. It may not have been widely known, but Sir John Fielding lost his sight as a midshipman at the siege of Cartagena during the War of the Austrian Succession. He had, up to that dreadful event, expected to make the Navy his life, and while afterward that proved impossible, he never gave up his love for the sea. In Black Jack Bilbo he found one who, like himself, felt in exile so long as his feet touched solid ground.

  “Why not take my arm, Sir John, and I’ll walk you about the deck and call out to you the points of interest.”

  He did as Mr. Bilbo suggested, and the two started off together; I trailed close behind.

  “What points of interest had you in mind?”

  “Well, not all that pitch you smell is going on the hull. Decks in these sloops can be pretty leaky, so they can. A bad rain or a rough sea can damn near drown the men sleeping below. I care more for my men than the Royal Navy ever did, so I’ve tightened up the leaks between the timbers with pitch and plugged the holes with wood.”

  “Hmm … well … yes. But tell me, Mr. Bilbo, how is she rigged?”

  ”Ketch-rigged, she is-main mast and mizzen-which is a considerable improvement over my first down there in the Caribbean, a Barbados sloop. Single-masted, she was. I got one like the Princess here as soon as ever the fortunes of war permitted.”

  Thus they toured the ship. At some point, perhaps as I lagged behind and viewed them from a distance, it occurred to me that they made quite a strange pair, so unlike were they. The bearded Black Jack Bilbo, near as wide as he was tall, rolled about on thick, powerful legs, walking a seaman’s walk even there on a steady deck. Sir John, much the taller of the two, walked with the ease and steady gait of a city man; but for the silk band that covered his eyes, he might not have appeared to be blind at all.

  Mr. Bilbo did most of the talking. His comments and description of the improvements and repairs upon the ship were well mixed with tales and reminiscences of the sort that only seamen seem to tell to others like themselves. Sir John responded in kind. Though I understood little of it, it pleased me greatly to hear them talk so.

  My only disappointment in our visit was that my friend Jimmie Bunkins was not also on hand. We two had been chums since my first days in London. Mr. Bilbo had taken him in hand in much the same way that Sir John had shaped my own life, overseeing his reform and education as a proper father ought to do. Yet there was still in Bunkins something wild. Though he no longer stole as he had during his days as ”a proper village hustler” in and about Covent Garden, he was quick and sharp with his tongue and accepted no nonsense from any quarter. Whatever he had to say made great good sense. In short, he was my best friend.

  I wondered that Bunkins was not there with Mr. Bilbo on the deck of the Indian Princess. He had talked of it to me as much and as excitedly as Mr. Bilbo had discussed it with Sir John-nay, more so, I believe. But as I wondered, Jimmie Bunkins made his appearance, and rather a dramatic one it was. He came along seated upon the wagon box of Mr. Bilbo’s coach-and-four. And ‘twas he who drove the team of matched blacks. The regular driver and the coachman sat at either side of him, shouting encouragement as he brought the team and coach to approximately the same place our hackney had stopped and halted them there. It was all done so swiftly and with such dispatch that I, for one, was quite dazzled by Bunkins’s accomplishment. Mr. Bilbo, on the other hand, was less than pleased.

  “Next time you come, you’ll be drivin’ them off the dock and into the Thames,” he shouted out to him.

  “Aw, Captain,” the driver called back, ”he’s comin’ along fine, he is. Got good hands.”

  “He took us clear through town,” the coachman added.

  For his part, Bunkins simply chuckled modestly. He had done well, and he knew it. But then did he catch sight of me, and he gave a great wave.

  “Jeremy, chum,” he called, ”an’t I quite the driver?”

  “You are, and that’s naught but the truth!”

  “Don’t encourage him, lad,” said Mr. Bilbo to me. ”His opinion of himself and his abilities is far too high already.”

  The appearance of the coach-and-four signaled to Black Jack Bilbo that his day at the dry-dock had ended and that his day at the gaming club would soon begin. (I had heard it said once that Mr. Bilbo slept less than was natural for a man, and I believe this was so.) He assumed rightly that we would travel back from Wapping with him to Number 4 Bow Street. He gathered up the pieces of clothing he had shed against the heat of the day and talked with the foreman about the work remaining to be done. As he did, Bunkins climbed down from his perch high above the horses and jog-trotted across the gangplank to me.

  “Hey, chum,” said he, ”an’t this the rummest, grandest thing that ever you saw? A sloop! And the cove says it’s just like the one he plagued the French with.”

  (If one or two words I have quoted above are not immediately comprehensible, reader, it is because Bunkins spoke still the patois of the streets surrounding Covent Garden, known as ”flash talk.” A quick, second glance should suffice to reveal their meaning.)

  I quite agreed with him, noting only that the cannon seemed to be missing.

  “Aye, so they are,” said he. ”And I think it sad, don’t you? There’s nothing like cannon to dress a sloop proper.”

  We laughed at that, and then did we begin the sort of banter with which we customarily passed our time together. Not worth repeating, perhaps, but one curious fact, communicated in a whisper, did emerge from our jocular exchanges: Bunkins confided that Mr. Bilbo was told by the Navy office that as a condition of the sale he must remove the thirteen cannon and have them melted down. Though he arr
anged proof that he had done so through an obliging metal merchant, he had, in fact, secretly stored them against an uncertain future. ”You never know, Jimmie boy, what fate has in store,” he had said to Bunkins.

  “You must never tell no one of this, Jeremy,” said Bunkins to me, ”not even your own cove. Otherwise, I’ll never trust you with another secret.”

  It was not long until we four were settled in the coach and bouncing along in the proper direction. Sir John and Black Jack Bilbo sat close and talked in low tones. For our part, Bunkins and I sat silent, straining forward to listen to them. What we heard was a report and discussion on the earlier meeting with Lord Mansfield which I had, of course, attended with Sir John. Nevertheless, Sir John’s summary and Mr. Bilbo’s comments were both of interest to me: the former because he managed to present all the facts in the most neutral and least prejudicial manner possible-one would gather from what Sir John said that he simply had as yet no opinion in the matter; and the latter for the very opposite reason-Mr. Bilbo did immediately choose a villain.

  “You’ll want to watch out for this man Eccles,” said he to Sir John.

  “And why do you advise me so?”

  “Because, if you ask me, it’s the customs service that’s corrupt, always has been, always will be so.”

  “Oh? And what is it prompts you to say that?”

  “Personal experience,” declared Mr. Bilbo. ”It didn’t matter which port I’d bring in a ship and cargo, first person to meet me at the dock was always the customs man. He’d have his hand out, expecting me to pay duty on the cargo, just like I was the regular shipper. And when I’d refuse, they’d seize the cargo of the ship in tow, saying they’d hold on to it until the prize was bought and the buyer had paid the duty. Now, some of these cargoes was perishables-fruit and such like-and what the customs man really wanted was to get it in the customs warehouse so he could sell it out the back door. They was always selling out the back door. ‘Twouldn’t matter where: Kingston, Charleston, Savannah-wherever-even Boston.”

  “Good God,” said Sir John, ”what an indictment! All customs men everywhere. Is that what you mean?”

  “Oh, I suppose not. Just watch out for that Eccles-that’s all I have to say.”

  They talked on, but by now we were well into the city. The Tower of London loomed just ahead, and the street noise had mounted to a pitch comparable to what we knew in Covent Garden. Horses whinnied and clopped, hawkers yelled out in praise of their wares, workmen hammered and shouted. It was quite impossible to hear more, and so Bunk-ins and I sat back during the rest of the journey and relaxed, so far as it is possible for boys of that age to do so.

  In his farewell at Number 4 Bow Street, Black Jack Bilbo did lament that Sir John would not be along when he took the Indian Princess out on her test voyage. ”I was countin’ on havin’ you aboard,” said he.

  “Not more than I,” said Sir John.

  “But may I give you a bit of advice, sir?”

  “Of course you may, Mr. Bilbo.”

  “With all due respect to Jeremy here, who has proved his worth again and again, I do believe you would be well served to take with you one of your Bow Street constables, if you get my meaning.”

  “No, not quite. To what end?”

  “As protection. They take their smuggling seriously down there in Deal. I believe you may need a bodyguard.”

  “You do? Truly? Hmmm. Well, I shall give the matter serious consideration.”

  Mr. Bilbo did not belabor the point but wished us both Godspeed and a safe return. Bunkins waved and called out his goodbye as the coach and its impressive team of four pulled away.

  “If I may say so, Sir John, I believe that Mr. Bilbo is right,” said I, rather boldly. ”I believe one of the Bow Street Runners should accompany us, and I believe I know which it should be.”

  He chuckled at my certainty. ”You do, do you? And just who is it you have in mind?”

  “Constable Perkins, and no other,” said I, ”for he is as able as any man among your force, and he knows the territory to which we travel. He grew up on a farm in Kent, and I do believe he mentioned to me once that the nearest town of any size was Deal.”

  I had given him pause. Right there in the walkway before the Bow Street Court he took a stand, ruminating for near a minute as the passersby passed him by.

  At last said he, ”I daresay, Jeremy, you are indeed right! I shall need a constable in Deal, and Constable Perkins is the constable I shall need. I leave it to you to inform him when he reports for duty this evening.”

  Alas, the dinner prepared by Clarissa was no great success. Even in describing it as ”no great success,” I praise it beyond its due. And for its failure, I fear I was partly to blame. I now know enough of cookery to realize that the instructions given me by Mr. Tolliver to be passed on to Clarissa were quite essential, and I have been thoroughly disabused of the notion I once had that members of the female sex come quite naturally to a knowledge of the kitchen arts. No, they have to be taught, just as I have had to be taught the law. And the particular lesson she was intended to get in the proper use of meat in the preparation of stew was not taught her because I was in such a great rush to be off with Sir John to visit the Lord Chief Justice.

  After all, Mr. Tolliver’s advice was simple enough: ”Just have her cut the fat off the meat, all but half an inch or so. That should be more than plenty. Simmer that in the stew-pot for the last half of the afternoon with potatoes and carrots and an onion, and you’ll have a good stew for yourself.”

  That was what he said to me, and that was what I should have said to her-but did not. As a result, Clarissa did her best, but with no previous experience, that best simply was not good enough. She tossed in the meat as it had come to her from Mr. Tolliver, thick with fat with gobbets of flesh scattered through. And, knowing no better, she cooked it in the stewpot with the vegetables for the whole of the afternoon. The result was a viscous gray mess, bubbling greasy bubbles in our plates even after she had ladled the concoction out to us. It did not taste so bad as it looked. Yet what were we to do with these large pieces of light-colored, inert stuff which looked more or less like meat yet squirted pure grease when we bit down upon them? And the vegetables, dear God, the vegetables-they had cooked down so that they had lost their distinct identity: no longer were they potatoes, carrots, and onion, but rather mere lumps in the slime.

  “Quite tasty,” said Sir John. ”I do believe, however, that I should have a happier time of it with a spoon. Will you fetch me one, Jeremy?”

  I did as he requested and watched him empty his plate with great relish. He asked for more. It was provided him. He attacked it with the same enthusiasm. Inspired by his example, I dug in once more, trying to eat without looking at what I ate. That worked well enough for half a plate or so, but then a fit of belching overtook me, and I was forced to end my dinner there.

  For her part, Clarissa took a bite, or possibly two, then began pushing her food about upon her plate, as if looking for uncontaminated bits. Finding none, she looked across the table at me quite miserably, shook her head, and quietly laid down her knife and fork. Through it all. Sir John continued to eat until he, too, began to belch with such alarming frequency that he was forced to end his meal rather abruptly.

  As I did the washing up afterward, I confessed to our dejected cook that I had failed to tell her of Mr. Tolliver’s instructions and must therefore shoulder some of the blame she claimed for herself.

  “Ah no,” said she, ”I should certainly have known better. How many times have I sat here in the kitchen with Annie, watching her trim the fat from the stew meat? You’d think I might have picked up a thing or two just being round her.”

  “Ah, but Annie was one of a kind.”

  “Indeed she was. Why couldn’t I have realized that while she was here and learned something from her?”

  “But, well, you should be happy at least that you’re going down to Deal with us. They say that the sea air is quite ben
eficial. Think of it as a holiday.”

  “Oh, I will. I do. But when we return, I shall have another test in the kitchen, then another, and another.”

  ”Well, if it is any consolation to you, your stew was no worse and probably better than most Mrs. Gredge cooked up.”

  “Gredge? She was the old woman Annie replaced, wasn’t she?”

  “She was,” said I, ”and not a moment too soon.”

  Sir John had asked me to visit him in his study when I had finished washing up that he might dictate to me a letter to Lady Fielding explaining why it was he must leave London for Deal for a week, give or take a bit, and further, why he must take Clarissa with him. He promised that she would be well taken care of, and would, in fact, be staying at the home of a local squire, Sir Simon Grenville. In closing, he voiced his concern for Lady Fielding’s mother. Yet he declared that he was certain her mother would pull through her illness, as he had predicted, and that she, Kate, would soon be back in London. ”Until the happy day when we are reunited, I shall be but half a man, wandering about this lonely city, thinking only of you.” And then did he stipulate that the letter be signed, ”Your loving husband.” Unused to putting his name as ”Jack” upon correspondence, he asked my help in forming the letters. We practiced together two or three times, then did we sign him informally at the bottom of the text. I addressed the letter as he dictated and prepared it for mailing. But my mind being yet troubled by the matter of Henry Curtin, I remained on in that little room and attempted to think just how I might begin.

  “Was there something more?” he asked.

  “Yes, there is a matter I should like to discuss,” said I. ”Or perhaps better put, a matter I should like to confess.”

  “Well then, let me hear it.”

  I told him the whole tale. I told of how I had given the shilling to the coachman and asked that he see that Lady Fielding was well taken care of-all as Sir John had told me to do. But then, I went on to tell him how and how much I had enlarged upon his instructions. Insofar as I was able, I quoted myself exactly, though it proved embarrassing. I even told him how, when I feared perhaps I had overstepped myself, I told Mr. Curtin not to presume upon Sir John’s generosity; and thinking I had told him all, I ended it there. But then I did add that Clarissa had said I had done wrong, and as I thought about it through the day, I saw that she was right.