The Black Joke

by Farley Mowat

  Jonathan had now mastered his rage and had become dangerously calm.

  “There’s no two ways about it,” he said. “They’ve made up their minds to find me in the wrong. The whole shebang’s been all one piece of trickery, aye, even the collision itself. And I was the blind bat what never saw the light till now. Some feller ought to wallop me over me thick head with a saw log. Come aboard with us, Paddy. There’s only one thing left for a man to do, and I be thinkin’ I may need a hand.”

  The two walked off at a fast pace toward the dock while Kye and Peter trotted along behind.

  “What’ll yer dad do, do ye think?” Kye whispered breathlessly.

  “Dunno,” said Peter. “But whatever it is, I hopes nobody gits foolish enough to stand in the way of him when he does it!”

  When they were all in Black Joke’s forepeak (with the scuttle tightly closed to ensure that the gendarme, in case he understood English, could hear nothing), Jonathan began to talk.

  “It’s clear enough,” he began. “Barnes give me that charter to git me over here, plannin’ all along to make me lose the ship. He fixed that collision, and I don’t doubt he’s got it fixed to buy the ship back from the Frenchies for a song. Ever since he fust come to Ship Hole he took a black stand again we schooner men haulin’ our salt fish to St. John’s and buyin’ our grub there ’stead of from him. What with the hard times, he’s already got his hands on four of the Ship Hole vessels, and he must have made his mind up to git all five, and finish me into the bargain.

  “Well, me sons, he ain’t goin’ to do it. I’m not fool enough to think I got a chance of fightin’ him legal-like in St. Peter’s. So that leaves just one thing to do. We’re goin’ home, without a by-yer-leave, and the devil take them all and their Frenchy justice.

  “Paddy, you’ve been the finest kind of friend, and I don’t want to draw you into this here mess wuss than you are right now. If I git away with what I’m plannin’, the Frenchies ain’t goin’ to like any man what helped me. But I wish ye’d do one thing for me, if ye will. Can ye git a few of your lads out about midnight, play-actin’ like they was blind drunk, and have ’em start a row in behind the Customs House? Most of they French Johnnydarms knocks off work at suppertime, and there won’t be none of them about to quiet down the ruckus. With a little luck, the feller on guard aboard of us will figure he has to do somethin’ about the fuss ye makes…and all we needs is a quarter-hour free of him, and we’re away.”

  Mathews nodded his head.

  “Me name ain’t Paddy for nought,” he said happily. “We’ll start a row as’ll draw a policeman right clean out of his uniform. Leave it to us, Skipper.”

  “Don’t ye overdo it now, Paddy. We don’t want to scare yon poor Johnnydarm to death, ye know. Just draw him offen the vessel for a bit. And meantime, mum’s the word.”

  After Mathews had left, Jonathan and the boys began working out the details of their plan.

  As soon as dusk began to fall, Kye and Peter were to wander along the docks to the shipyard where a number of rowing skiffs were moored. Casually they were to borrow one and row it about the harbor as if they were just out for a little fun. But as soon as it was full dark, they were to row very quietly to Black Joke’s bow and hide the skiff in the shadow of the vessel, mooring her to the schooner’s forward bitts.

  At midnight, when Paddy Mathews and his men had drawn off the gendarme, Jonathan and Kye were to jump into the skiff while Peter cast off Black Joke’s mooring lines. Then the two in the skiff would tow the schooner away from the wharf and into the tide race which would be running out of the harbor at that hour. Tide and skiff together could be expected to move Black Joke to the mouth of the inner harbor in short order. Once clear of the harbor piers, Jonathan and Kye would come back aboard and the engine would be started. It was probable that no one ashore would notice the sound of the engine but, if they did, they would think it was only a motor dory bound out early for the fishing grounds. In any event, by the time an alarm was given and a crew could be found to man a vessel in pursuit, Black Joke ought to be safe outside the three-mile territorial waters of St. Pierre.

  “We’ve luck with us at the start,” Jonathan explained. “There’ll be no moon tonight. We has the tide to help us, and from the look of the weather, no wind to hinder us when we tows her past the piers. Suppertime now. Eat good and hearty, b’ys, and tomorrow we’ll be sailing into Fortune Bay.”

  7

  A Flight at Night

  JONATHAN’S admonition to eat hearty was wasted on the boys. The prospect of stealing their own ship away from the French authorities left them with no appetite at all. When Jonathan went aft to check the engine in preparation for their attempt, Peter and Kye burst into a gabble of talk.

  “We maybe ought to try and git that Johnnydarm drunk, Kye,” Peter suggested. “Real pirates used to do that kind of thing.”

  “Might git him too drunk, then we’d never git he to go ashore at all,” replied Kye cautiously.

  Jonathan, just descending the companion ladder, caught the last part of the conversation.

  “Aisy, b’ys,” he said. “Ye’re crowdin’ on too much sail. But come to think of it, I’ve heard wuss ideas. Maybe I’ll slip across to one of they bars and git a bottle of wine. Enough to muzzy the Johnny’s head a bit. I wants you youngers to quiet down. Ye’re hoppin’ about like a pair of waterfleas. Anybody who see’d ye’d guess there was some’at up. Git yerselves in hand, lads. This here’s no pirate game we’re at. It’s serious work–man’s work, ye understand?”

  Somewhat abashed, the two boys nodded their heads and when Jonathan left they went back to work, cleaning the hold and decks and trying to control their excitement and pretend to be engaged only in dull ship’s labor.

  Jonathan was back in an hour carrying a wrapped bottle in one hand and a long gray envelope in the other.

  The boys met him as he came over the gunwale.

  “It’s the way I had it figured,” he told them. “This here’s the verdict from that Frenchy court. Took it to the agent to read for me. Says I was teetotal in the wrong, and no excuses. Says I ought to lose me master’s ticket, and the Frenchies is sending a copy off to the harbormaster in St. John’s. That way I guess Barnes figures to git me in deep water with the authorities at home, so they’ll never believe me yarn that the ship was robbed away from me. Well, we’ll see to all that in good time, so we will. Right now we don’t want to give the Frenchies, nor Barnes, nor his Yankee friends, no cause to git suspicious of we. They’ve set the date for the law case agin us for Wednesday. With the inquiry gone agin me, they be pretty certain they’ll win their court case. But I don’t aim to let ’em know that I knows it too. You lads keep busy about the ship, like you expect everything to turn out all right. I’m goin’ to swaller me pride and go and beg Barnes to help me some, pretendin’ I figure to fight and win the case.”

  It was an interminable afternoon for Peter and Kye. The verdict of the investigation was now known to everyone in St. Pierre and there were scores of idlers who came along to see the ship and speculate on her fate. The Chief of Gendarmes also came aboard. He seemed very casual, but he asked the two boys several pointed questions about the work they were doing. Apparently satisfied that all was in order, he left again after a word with the gendarme guard.

  “I think he’s fooled,” Peter whispered to Kye. “If anyone suspected what we was up to, the police would be sure to put more guards aboard.”

  Peter was half right…but half wrong. Since the Chief of Gendarmes personally suspected nothing, the idea of mounting additional guards had not crossed his mind. But he was not as well informed as some of the other residents. On an island as small as St. Pierre it is difficult to keep anything secret for long. After Paddy Mathews returned to his vessel on the slipway at the shipyards, he had taken his mate and two seamen into his confidence so that together they could effectively plan their part in the affair. All three were honest fellows, but a little incautious. During
the afternoon they visited one of the waterfront bars in order to prepare themselves for the night’s work ahead. After several drinks one of them, assuming perhaps that the Frenchmen in the bar knew no English, made a joking remark about the surprise Captain Smith would be in for next morning, “when the party was all over.” It was only a small slip, but the sharp-eared bartender caught it, and a few minutes later a note was being delivered to Monsieur Gauthier.

  Gauthier and Barnes took the warning seriously.

  “Spence might just be fool enough to make a break for it,” Barnes mused. “And ’twould be the finest kind of luck for us if he did make the try–providin’ he never got away with it. That would put him into the wrong, right up to his stiff neck.”

  Dusk began to fall about seven o’clock. Jonathan, who had returned aboard in time for supper, looked at the gold repeater watch which had been passed down in the family for many generations–perhaps from the first Jonathan Spence.

  “All right, me sons. Time to git a move on. Go aisy as ye can. Don’t make no fuss. Act like ye was just two local lads borrowin’ a boat for an evenin’ row. When it’s full dark and ye comes alongside the schooner, rap once on the hull and I’ll go on deck and keep yon Johnnydarm busy whilst ye moors to the bow. Off ye goes, now. I figures ye’ll do fine.”

  Doing their best to appear aimless, Peter and Kye ambled down the dock. The few people they passed did not even give them a glance. Reaching the dockyard, the boys looked nervously about and, seeing no one watching, quickly vaulted the board fence. The yard was deserted at that hour except for Paddy Mathews’s crew aboard their ship, hauled out on the slip. Hurrying to the water’s edge they pulled in the mooring line of one of the skiffs and then, to their horror, discovered that the oars were not aboard.

  “What’ll we do?” muttered Kye in an agony of frustration. “Can’t row with our hands, and we dassn’t go back to Black Joke for oars.”

  Peter thought rapidly.

  “Stay where ye’re to,” he whispered. “I’ll slip over to Mr. Mathews’s boat. I’ll tell him what we’re up to, and borrow a pair of oars.” With that Peter vanished, running swiftly.

  He was back in a surprisingly short length of time with the oars tucked under his arms. Kye had already freed the boat, and, as Peter jumped aboard, Kye slipped the oars between the tholepins and began to row.

  They did not hurry now, but half drifted out into the harbor. They could see Black Joke at the government wharf, looking very peaceful. The street along the shore seemed deserted except for one or two Basque fishermen. Keeping well off shore they rowed the skiff slowly toward Black Joke.

  Once they saw the guard on deck stand up, stretch himself and cast a casual glance along the docks before settling himself more comfortably against the main hatch cover. He did not glance out toward the harbor at all.

  The darkness was deepening rapidly by now and cautiously Kye turned the skiff toward the schooner. A few moments later she had bumped gently alongside the forepeak and Peter rapped on the hull with the handle of his oar.

  The two boys heard Jonathan clumping up the companion stairs and thumping across the deck. Then they heard his rough voice as he began talking to the uncomprehending gendarme.

  “Pretty dry work for ye, Monsoor,” he was saying. “Ye like a little drink? Drink, ye know–glub-glub-glub…?”

  In the skiff the boys could imagine him holding the bottle up to his lips, pretending to drink. There was a short burst of French from the guard, but by this time the boys were concentrating on their job. Swarming up the bobchains, Peter soon had the skiff’s painter made fast to the schooner’s bitts while Kye was making the other end of the line fast to the stern of the skiff. In a moment all was secure. Both boys slipped quietly over onto the dock and then, whistling and with their hands in their pockets, they sauntered along to re-board the schooner amidships. The guard and Jonathan were still standing together. Jonathan nodded his head briefly at the boys and said, “Bedtime, young ’uns, off ye go.”

  The guard, with the cork already out of the bottle, half-raised it to the lads in salute, then took a long pull.

  A few minutes later Jonathan followed Peter and Kye into the forepeak. “Well done, me b’ys,” he said. “It’s gittin’ on for eight bells. All we can do now is wait till we hears from Paddy’s lads.”

  “I spoke to Mr. Mathews at the shipyard, Father,” Peter said. “Had to, ’cause there wasn’t no oars in the skiff. He give me a pair and said to tell ye he’d be startin’ his party behind the Customs House a little short o’ midnight.”

  “Fair enough, lad. Now then, settle yerselves and make out to have a rest. Likely we’ll need all the wakefulness we can git afore we’re through this night.”

  It was a miserable business, trying to rest with ears straining for every sound from the nearby streets. The boys could hear bursts of song from the bars along the Place. Once they heard the gendarme walk aft, and they thought they noted a stumbling sound to his footsteps. They hoped so, at any rate. The minutes slipped painfully by. Jonathan was actually sleeping, snoring slightly, for he had long ago learned to sleep when he could. But at 11:30 he sat bolt upright in his bunk, wide awake again.

  “Gittin’ on fer time now,” he said. “I’ll slip open the companion hatch–I greased it with pork fat after supper–and have a look around.”

  “Everythin’ dead quiet,” he reported a few moments later. “Near as I can tell the Johnnydarm’s poundin’ his ear. Street lamps burnin’ bright, and not a soul to be seen.”

  He had hardly spoken when there was a hoarse shout from somewhere on the docks. It was followed at once by a chorus of rowdy voices singing a famous Newfoundland song called “The Ryans and the Pittmans.”

  At the first sound, the boys had leapt out of their bunks and crowded around Jonathan at the foot of the ladder.

  “That’ll be they. Stand ready now, me sons,” Jonathan said tensely.

  The singing seemed to be coming closer. Then gradually it died down and was replaced by the sound of three or four men’s voices beginning to sound quarrelsome. The sound of argument got louder and sharper and was punctuated suddenly by a yell and some sharp cursing. The three in the forepeak could make out some of the words.

  “…Avast, ye sculpin…no need to kill a man to make it sound good…,” someone was shouting.

  By now the argument ashore had turned into what sounded like a full-scale fight, and there was enough noise to waken the town–but still there was no sign of life from the gendarme.

  “The seacow must’ve gone dead asleep,” muttered Jonathan angrily. “Well, there’s nothin’ for it. I’ll have to roust him out meself. Come up quick now when I gives the signal,” and with that he was gone up the ladder.

  The gendarme was indeed sound asleep and snoring happily, the empty wine bottle at his side. Jonathan seized him by the arm and shook him savagely.

  “Wake up, ye lead-swinger,” he cried. “They’s a ruddy war on at the Customs House. War! Fight! Bang–bang! Git over there and break it up!”

  Waking suddenly, the poor gendarme was completely at a loss. He did not understand a word Jonathan was yelling at him, but he did recognize the sound of authority in the voice. Staggering sleepily to his feet, he found himself half pushed, half led to the gunwale of the ship, where he became aware of the sounds of mayhem and riot from the back of the Customs shed. He had not yet begun to think clearly, and still half-dazed he started at a run toward the sound, quite forgetting his primary mission of guard upon the schooner.

  “Now!” Jonathan whispered sharply down the companionway. Instantly Peter and Kye swarmed up on deck. Leaping to the dock Peter began throwing off the mooring lines while the other two jumped into the skiff, where Jonathan had already flung the spare pair of oars from Black Joke’s own dory stored on deck. The man and the boy were soon pulling for all they were worth, while Peter, having cast off the last line, dashed aft and took the wheel.

  For two or three terrible minutes,
nothing seemed to happen. The two in the skiff were pulling their hearts out, but the schooner seemed anchored to the bottom of the harbor. Peter had put the wheel hard over and was anxiously watching the mooring bollards on the dock, expecting to see them start slipping past him. From the Customs shed the sound of battle still shattered the quietness of the sleeping town. Now that the fake riot had served its purpose, Jonathan and the boys wished desperately that Mathews and his men would quiet down before they woke the whole of St. Pierre to a realization of what was going on aboard Black Joke.

  But almost imperceptibly Black Joke was moving. Inch by inch, her head began to swing out from the quay. Peter felt a slight pressure on the wheel, and the dock began to move slowly away from him. The sweat was coursing down Jonathan’s back by then, and Kye was groaning with the effort of hauling on the heavy oars. Neither dared slack off. Gradually Black Joke began to gather way until she was slipping silently through the black waters of the harbor. Five minutes–ten minutes–and she had reached and entered the tidal stream that was now flowing out the harbor entrance at a good three knots. On deck, Peter could see the street lights receding, and he began to breathe deeply again. But suddenly he caught his breath in horror.

  Although Black Joke was being swept out to sea at about three knots, she was not really under control–for the two in the skiff, though they were doing their utmost, could not put steerageway on her. Now Peter saw that the schooner was being swept almost broadside into the narrow channel between the two concrete piers which constituted the harbor entrance. Though he could not see the piers themselves, but only the pierhead lights placed to guide ships at night, he realized that Black Joke must inevitably strike one of the piers unless she could be straightened around. Frantically he spun the wheel hard over; but the schooner did not answer. She was still driving broadside toward the invisible but solid concrete wall.

  There was no one Peter could look to for help. There was no time to try to get Jonathan out of the skiff. Black Joke could strike within two or three minutes unless something was done at once. Half-sobbing with the tension, Peter made his decision. Leaving the wheel he ran headlong for the engine-room companion and plunged down it. The engine had been primed and readied by Jonathan, and now the boy prayed he would have the strength to swing the big wheel hard enough so that the cylinder would fire on the first try. He knew there would be no time for a second try. Crouching, he grasped the handle and, putting every ounce of energy he possessed into the effort, he straightened up. The big wheel moved slowly, there was a smothered cough from the engine, then silence. Desperately Peter completed the turn. Whoomp-whoomp-whoomp, went the engine and began to run. Instantly Peter throttled it back to half-speed and leapt for the deck and the steering wheel. He felt the ship begin to gather way and slowly straighten out so as to head down the channel. The pier was now so close he could see the ragged line of rocks below the concrete wall. Black Joke was clearing it–just barely clearing. Not more than ten feet separated her from a collision which would have stove in her side and finished her.