The French Prize (10 page)

“Tobias Harwood,” Jack said, extending his hand, “from Philadelphia.”

The sailors, who were fully empathetic with the suffering of their brother mariner, ordered up breakfast for Tobias, and he in turn helped them load the boatswain's stores they had been sent ashore to purchase, first into the rented cart and, after a bone-jarring ride to the stone steps by the quay, into the ship's boat floating there. They rowed Jack out to the
Hancock
and introduced him to the mate. By that time Jack had entirely forgotten the name he had made up, but happily the older of the foremast jacks, whose name was Israel Ferguson, had not, and when he presented Tobias Harwood to the first officer, Jack took special care to commit it to memory.

At that point Jack would have signed aboard any bucket short of a slaver or a pirate, but as luck would have it the
Hancock
was a well-run ship, with as happy a forecastle as any Jack had known. He signed on the books as Tobias Harwood, able-bodied, and made the passage to Kingston and then on to Tobago, from whence they caught the westerlies to Lisbon and then back on a more southerly route to the West Indies. Jack did his share of the work, more than his share, and his good humor, his willingness, his hard-earned skill, and natural ability made him popular with his shipmates.

He was no cock of the forecastle, did not act the strutting, self-appointed master of that domain. He may have had an intemperate streak as wide as Narragansett Bay, which showed itself to ill effect whenever he had a run ashore, but he also had a native humility that prevented him from lording it over others and made him popular among his fellows, popular at first in the manner of a well-liked younger brother and then, as he became more of an integral part of the machine that was the ship's company, popular as a valued and reliable foremast hand.

Tobias n
é
Jack had been eight months aboard
Hancock
when Bolingbroke came aboard. The merchantman was anchored in the wide stretch of blue-green sea between Nassau and Hog Island that passed for the chief harbor of New Providence Island, and waiting only for their water to get under way, when a bumboat hove alongside and the new hand came up the pilot ladder, sea chest balanced with practiced ease on his shoulder. Bolingbroke.

Jack was up aloft patching broken service on the main topmast shrouds when he saw the man, and his heart sank. It had been two years since their paths had crossed, and Jack had thought himself rid of the son of a bitch, but here he was. He cursed his luck, but he knew that the world of the deepwater sailors was not so large. Such an unwelcome reunion as this was far from unlikely.

Their last parting had not been amicable, not amicable at all, and now the chance for revenge was served up to Bolingbroke like a two-penny ordinary. Once Bolingbroke had had his laugh at the Tobias Harwood charade, and revealed that Jack had signed on under a false name, Jack figured he would be quickly signed off again and left on the beach, most likely with his pay forfeited. Ship's masters did not care for subterfuge of any sort.

It was not until near suppertime, with the sun dropping toward the western horizon, that Jack at last climbed down from aloft to face the inevitable. The foremast hands, finished with their day's work, were gathered in the forecastle, sitting sprawled on their sea-chest seats, stretched out in bunks, or at the table that ran down the center of the space. Bolingbroke was there, at the table, already making himself quite at home when Jack climbed through the hatch and down the ladder to the cramped, smoky, wedge-shaped cabin in the
Hancock
's bows.

“Tobias,” said Israel Ferguson. “New hand, here for the starboard watch. Jonah Bolingbroke. Jonah, this here's Tobias Harwood.”

Bolingbroke turned with a look that suggested not the least interest in meeting another human being, but when his eyes lit on Jack's face, and a veritable Saint Elmo's fire of recognition and comprehension flashed over his features, a smile appeared and he extended a hand. Jack reckoned then that the cat was out of the bag, but Bolingbroke, he would soon realize, was far too skilled in the ways of torment to let so precious an opportunity go at the first blush.

“Harwood, is it?” he said, the smile now in full bloom. “Tobias? Your servant, sir.”

“Bolingbroke,” Jack managed to mutter as he shook the proffered hand.

“Say, Tobias,” Bolingbroke continued, unable to wait for the fun to begin. “Which berth is yours, then?”

“Lower one, starboard side, forward there,” Jack mumbled and the smile on Bolingbroke's face just grew wider.

“Here's the thing, Tobias,” Bolingbroke went on. “The only berth left for me is the uppermost, aft there, and it won't answer, what with the draft from the hatch above and the people going in and out and whatnot. Not to mention the awkwardness of having to climb into an upper bunk. I would reckon it a friendly gesture to a new shipmate was you to let me have your berth, and you take the one aft.”

Jack's berth was in fact a prime piece of forecastle real estate, one he had coveted since coming aboard. With each berth that came vacant as one hand or another left the ship, Jack had methodically improved his sleeping situation, until at last he had landed in that one, as far from the drafts and the noise as one could get in the forecastle. And so it was to the muted surprise of his shipmates that he agreed to Bolingbroke's request without so much as a word of protest.

If
Hancock
had been bound for some port in the United States, an easy run before the trade winds and the prevailing southwesterlies, with a convenient lift from the Gulf Stream, Jack might have been able to endure the brief tyranny of Jonah Bolingbroke. But instead,
Hancock
would be setting sail in the other direction, off to the Azores and then to Lisbon again before returning to Philadelphia, five months at least even if they were blessed with quick passages. Jack was all at sea as to what to do, whether to jump ship in Nassau or endure the torment Bolingbroke would dole out.

He was still pondering the dilemma by the time they had brought their water aboard, won their anchor, and stood out of Nassau harbor, and so the decision was made for him.

Bolingbroke, of course, did not relent, and he had a genius for pushing Jack right to the edge and no further. They were fortunately on different watches, Bolingbroke in the starboard watch and Jack of the larbowlines, so with their four-hours-on, four-off watch keeping at sea they were not so often in one another's company. But they were thrust together often enough that Bolingbroke could have his fun. Thus, on a particularly cold, wet, blowing night somewhere just past thirty-two degrees west longitude Jack found himself standing watch and watch, taking the place of Jonah Bolingbroke, who remained snug in his prime berth. Or Jack might find himself having to surrender to Bolingbroke his share of a plum duff, or patch a rent in his trousers, or put an edge on his knife.

To the rest of the “Hardcocks” it was a mystery why young Tobias, perfectly able to care for himself, would tolerate such treatment. But in the ways of sailormen they minded their own business and contented themselves to look on with curiosity. Israel Ferguson alone made discreet inquiry into Jack's behavior, and that went only as far as asking Jack if he and Bolingbroke had known one another before, to which Jack gave a vague and unhelpful answer.

The
Hancock
was at anchor in the harbor of Funchal, on the island of Madeira, when Bolingbroke finally managed to push Jack beyond the edge. It was not a stop they had planned, but on leaving Lisbon the second mate, a Boston buck named Timothy Noddle, had come down with a fever, and the old man decided to put in to Madeira so the man might get proper care.

That was what he said, in any event, though Jack was morally certain that he just wanted Noddle off the ship before the fever could spread. Jack liked Noddle quite a bit, reckoned him a friend, and so stepped up to be part of the boat crew that pulled him ashore and found the quarantine hospital at which to deposit him. There was nothing more he could do, and when he bid Noddle good-bye, he was not pleased about it. They would not wait on him, of course, but set sail on the next tide, and Noddle would have the devil of a time getting back to the United States.

And so Jack was in a particularly ill humor when he returned to the
Hancock
, climbed the pilot ladder, and helped sway the boat back aboard. He climbed sullenly through the hatch and down the ladder to the forecastle, nearly blind in the dim light after the brilliance of the island sun. He could see the shapes of men in the gloom, the hands stood down to an anchor watch. It would be dinner soon, and the men of both watches were crowding below, enjoying a few free minutes out of the officers' sight.

“Say, Tobias, there you are,” Bolingbroke's voice came from somewhere forward. “I've a thought to take a run ashore if the old man gives us leave, but I'll need my shoes shined up and I would be eternally grateful was you to do that.”

Jack looked in the direction of the voice. His eyes were adjusting to the half-light and he could see Bolingbroke sitting at the forward end of the table, leaning with elbows back and grinning that grin of his, and Jack realized then he was more sick of this torment than he was afraid of being put on shore. Let the old man set him on the beach, he and Noddle would make their way home together.

“Very well,” Jack said. “I'll clean them up. Give them here.”

Bolingbroke snatched the shoes from the bench beside him and tossed them to Jack. “Shine 'em up good, boy, the way the ladies like 'em.”

“Special shine for you, Bolingbroke,” he said. He put the shoes on the deck. Bolingbroke was looking away, confident that Jack would do his bidding. Jack unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers. His eyes were now adjusted enough that he could direct a steady stream of urine into Bolingbroke's shoes.

Even as Jack felt relief come over him, relief on many levels, he sensed a tension ripple through the forecastle, like the cold downdraft that presages a squall. He looked up just as Bolingbroke sensed it as well. Bolingbroke jerked his head in Jack's direction, and Jack had the great satisfaction of seeing Bolingbroke's shocked expression, his horrified expression at Jack's defiance. But the look was gone as quickly as it had come, and Bolingbroke was the picture of composure as he slowly rose from the bench and stepped aft. Jack quickly rebuttoned and rebuckled.

Jonah Bolingbroke was a big son of a bitch, with four inches and fifty pounds on Jack, but Jack no longer cared about that any more than he cared about being set ashore, or much of anything at that point.

What's more, it had been two years since they last met, two years during which Jack had been hauling lines, sweating lines, fisting canvas, wrestling with recalcitrant ships' wheels, coiling cables, leaning into capstan bars, or heaving at the handspikes of windlasses, two years of shoreside brawls, many a jolly good rough-and-tumble'o. He was not the boy he had been and he was not intimidated and he did not hesitate at all to step forward, cock his arm, and drive his fist into Bolingbroke's jaw so fast that Bolingbroke did not even have time to replace his cocksure look with one of surprise.

Jonah stumbled back, his hands to his face, and Jack tried to ignore the pain that exploded in his knuckles. A knot of their shipmates caught Bolingbroke before he hit the deck and set him on his feet. His hands came down and balled into fists. There was blood in the wake of Jack's punch, a split lip it looked like. “You son of a whore, Biddlecomb, I'll do you for that!” Bolingbroke said, more of a growl than an articulate sentence, and with that he bounded across the deck, straight at Jack.

His right hand swung around in an arc, making for the side of Jack's head. Jack lifted his arm to block the punch and realized his mistake even as he saw Jonah's powerful left come up from below and connect with his stomach, blowing the wind out of him and doubling him up. But Jack knew by instinct that the knee was coming next, so he twisted to the side and when Bolingbroke made his move, his knee found only air. That threw his balance off and Jack straightened enough that he could give Bolingbroke a left to the stomach and a right to the side of the head that sent him sprawling back but did no worse, since Jack, understanding that his fist would explode in pain with the blow, had pulled the punch.

Bolingbroke was more mad than hurt, and he was very, very mad. His hand went around behind him and when it returned it was clutching his sheath knife, the blade glowing dull and menacing in the gloom. Jack reached around and pulled his knife as well, and then strong arms grabbed him and held him immobile and he saw others grab Bolingbroke. “None of that, none of that,” Ferguson said, and the knives were wrenched from the combatants' hands and they were shoved toward one another again, encouraged by their mates to beat each other half to death, but not to finish the job with blades.

Jonah swung, an ugly roundhouse, and Jack leaned back, felt the air of the blow on his face like the concussion of a cannon blast. He stepped in and landed a quick jab with the right, another with the left. Bolingbroke stumbled back again and then there was a loud knock on the hatch combing overhead and the voice of the first mate called down, “Holloa, the fo'c'sle!”

With that hail Biddlecomb and Bolingbroke dropped their fists and melted back among the men milling about, and the rest took on attitudes of nonchalance that were ludicrously insincere. The mate's shoes, stockings, breeches, and then the rest appeared as he came down the ladder. He stopped when his head was below the level of the deck, turned and looked around. He was no fool, and he had been to sea long enough to know that something was acting here, but in accordance with the hierarchy of the merchant trade he would let the forecastle sort out the forecastle's problems, as long as it did not interfere with the efficient and, more to the point, profitable running of the ship.