The Black Joke (11 page)

“That is enough,” said Jacques, when they had retrieved the last bird. “We will give some to my Uncle Paul when we ask him to take us fishing, and the rest
ma mère
will cook for us to eat in the dory tomorrow. It is not good to kill more than one needs.”

Toward evening they arrived back at Miquelon, tired, hot, and hungry; and, as she had promised, Mrs. Roulett fed them fish and brewis. The wineglasses again stood by their plates, but neither Peter nor Kye touched them.

“It is all right, you know,” Jacques said. “Here everyone drinks the wine with the meals. But it is only half-wine, you understand; the rest is water.”

“I'll take me water straight, thank'ee,” said Kye feelingly.

When the meal was over and the dishes washed, Jacques took the boys to see his Uncle Paul, a gray-bearded man in his sixties who lived alone in a house at the very end of the beach. Paul could speak no English but he shook the Spence boys warmly by the hand, and when Jacques asked him if they could go fishing with him in the morning he nodded his head and replied with a spate of French.

“He says he is glad if we come,” Jacques translated. “It is lonely on the Banks, and his partner is sick. We will meet him on the beach three or fours hours before dawn.”

 

It was pitch-dark when the three boys reached the beach the following morning. There was still no moon, and a light southerly breeze was blowing. Uncle Paul was waiting for them.

Once the boat was floating, all four jumped aboard and pushed it off into deeper water. Then Uncle Paul
lowered the propeller shaft, for the Miquelon dories are built with a hinged shaft so that the propeller can be lifted into a box or “well” in the hull in order to protect it from being damaged when the dory is hauled ashore.

The engine caught as Uncle Paul spun the flywheel, and they were away. By the time the eastern sky had begun to grow light, the breeze had become stronger. By dawn it was blowing fresh, and the dory was so far at sea that the mountains of Miquelon Island could hardly be seen at all. To make matters worse, the fog was coming in from the southeast.

Peter and Kye began to feel a little uneasy. They did not mind being at sea in a schooner, but this open dory was something else again. The only cheerful thing was the presence of half a dozen other dories scattered around the horizon on every side.

Uncle Paul shouted something to Jacques who scrambled to the bow and pushed the anchor overboard.

They had arrived over the offshore banks where the cod congregate.

Now Uncle Paul gave each boy a jigging reel and then he opened a wooden drum and with his hand shoveled out a mess of revolting-looking objects.

“They are clams, for bait,” Jacques explained. “Now we fish, eh? Bait your jiggers and we see what we can catch.”

Slipping a clam on one of the gang hooks, each boy began to lower his jigger. Though they were over a “bank” the water was still nearly twenty fathoms, or
one hundred and twenty feet deep. When they felt the jigger hit bottom, they hauled in about a yard of line and then began jigging the bait up and down.

The fog swept over them, and the rest of the dories vanished. Suddenly Paul began hauling in his line, hand over hand. There was a swirl of water and over the gunwale came a twenty-pound cod. Uncle Paul flicked the line sharply, and the jigger came out of the big fish's mouth.

The boys did not have time to admire his catch. They were “into the fish,” as Newfoundlanders say, and within a few minutes each of them was hauling in a cod.

Uncle Paul grinned and shouted something at them.

“He says you are bring good luck,” Jacques translated. “Big fish today, and plenty fish too–hoy!” He paused as a tug on his line made him hurriedly begin hauling in.

It was not new work for Peter and Kye, for they had often jigged cod before, but never under quite these circumstances. After the first few minutes, it ceased to be fun and became hard work. Each of them was catching a fish every three of four minutes, and the effort involved in hauling in the big cod was back-breaking. The fish-well or fishhold in the middle of the boat was soon carpeted with cod.

From somewhere astern came the thudding of a motor, whereupon Paul took a hitch in his line, then picked up a big conch shell and blew a penetrating blast. The sound of the motor grew stronger and Paul
continued to blow at intervals till suddenly the bow of another dory loomed through the fog not twenty feet away. Its motor stopped and it drifted slowly closer, revealing three more of the Basque fishermen.

“Hello, Paul,” one of the newcomers shouted. “Lots
of fish, eh? What you think about the weather? Looks dirty, maybe?”

Jacques translated this–it had been shouted in French of course–and went on translating the conversation for the benefit of the Spence boys.

“Going to blow up strong, all right,” Uncle Paul replied. “We fish another half-hour only, then we run for shelter.”

They fished the remaining half-hour, by which time all three boys' arms were aching so that they could hardly lift them. Then Jacques hauled up the anchor and they got under way for home.

They had not realized how big the sea had become until they started to run before it. The great gray rollers came up behind them, caught the dory, and lifted her stern until she seemed to point her nose straight to the bottom. But Uncle Paul, at the tiller, did not even notice. The Spence boys hung onto the gunwales for dear life and wished they had
Black Joke
under them.

With wind and sea astern, the run home was much faster than the outward journey. As the wind whined harder, the fog began to shred away and the mountains of Miquelon came into view, growing larger every minute. Hunger was beginning to gnaw at the boys' stomachs and they were delighted when Uncle Paul opened the grub box. He tossed each of then a cold roast duck and a great chunk of bread, then he hauled out a wine bottle and offered it to each in turn. There appeared to be nothing else to drink aboard the dory, but even
though they were extremely thirsty Peter and Kye shook their heads in refusal.

“Guess ye got to be born a Frenchy to drink that stuff,” said Peter.

“Born crazy, more likely,” Kye replied and closed his eyes at the memory of his previous experience.

The lighthouse on the northern tip of Miquelon was in sight now, standing high and white against the rocks. The little boat drove on, pitching wildly as it changed course to round the bend of the island, then they were in the lee of the land, and the sea died away. Half an hour later the dory was nosing in to the gravel beach.

Winching the dory up the beach was hard work too, but there was still more work to be done before the day ended. Eight or nine hundred pounds of cod had to be forked into baskets and carried to the nearby splitting tables. Then each fish had to be gutted, its head removed, and the remainder neatly split. The boys worked as hard as Paul, for it was work they knew well, but it was not until nearly dusk that the last split cod was carried to the brine barrels.

There was no question of staying up late
that
evening. Hardly was supper finished when all three boys went off wearily to bed. It had been a hard day but a good one, and they had been so busy that they had had little time to think of Jonathan and of
Black Joke
.

 

11

Pierre Plots a Rescue

A
LTHOUGH
the boys had been able to put
Black Joke
out of mind for a little while, the fate of the schooner was occupying Pierre Roulett's thoughts almost exclusively.

To tell the truth, Pierre was thoroughly enjoying himself. There was a good deal of buccaneering instinct in him, as there is in most seafaring Basques, and the prospect of organizing a plot to seize a ship did not daunt him in the least.

In the evening he had taken his friend Pascal for a walk up the mountain behind St. Pierre where they could be alone and unobserved. As they sat watching the lights come on in the town below them, they could also see
Black Joke
sitting in the slip.

“Tomorrow morning she is being launched,” Pierre explained. “She will remain in the harbor for a few days to complete her re-fit and to take on a cargo of salt cod for Barbados. That is what her clearance papers will say, at any rate. She will sail with Smith as Captain,
and four or five of his Yankee friends for crew, but she will not go to Barbados. She will go instead to Miquelon where she will unload most of her fish and take on one thousand cases of whiskey. This she will do at night. Smith intends to take her right in to our little wharf and load from there. This will save him much time, for loading from the dories at sea is slow work. It will save time, but it is also dangerous unless the weather is very calm, for there is no shelter at our wharf. Therefore, Smith will not sail until he is sure of calm weather at Miquelon. He will take with him a pilot who can show him the way to the wharf in darkness and, by happy coincidence, that pilot is my second cousin, Gabby Morazi, whom you know. Captain Smith will load his whiskey and depart well before dawn so that he can be out of sight of the islands by daylight. When he departs he will still have Gabby aboard to pilot him clear of the shoals in Miquelon Bay.

“We can make no move while the schooner is at the wharf. The people of Miquelon are our friends and relatives, but they are also businessmen, no? They would not take kindly to the idea if we tried to seize the schooner there, for it would be bad for future business with the rum-runners. Therefore we shall not try.

“But this is what we
shall
do. When Gabby pilots the schooner out of the bay he will bring her to a certain spot, and there the Yankee sailor handling the lead line will suddenly find shoal water and will give the alarm. Gabby will order the engine stopped while he tries to locate himself. And then, my friend, two dories will ap
pear out of the darkness astern and Gabby will hail them. He will tell Smith they are fishermen friends of his bound for the offshore banks; and he will ask the Captain for permission to consult them so that he can get the schooner back in the proper channel. The dories will come alongside, and before the good Captain Smith–who will have no reason to suspect fishermen–has time to draw his breath, or his pistol, there will be eight men standing on the deck of his ship, all carrying shotguns. Even though it will still be far too dark to shoot at a duck it will not be too dark to shoot at a man, as the good Captain and his crew will quickly realize when they note that the shotguns are pointed straight at them. You follow me, yes?”

Pascal chuckled. “You are very clear, Pierre,” he said. “I for one will follow you. Let me see now…One thousand cases of whiskey divided between eight men is–”

“Not a thousand,” Pierre interrupted. “You do not yet know all my plan. There is still the matter of my friend, Captain Spence, and there is the matter of the ownership of the schooner which was stolen from him. We cannot just give him back the ship, for by law it now belongs to Smith. Also what good is Captain Spence's ship to him when he is still in jail, hey? No, no, my friend, it pains me, but there will not be a thousand cases for us to divide. Eight hundred cases will be given back to Monsieur Gauthier and his American friends, but,
not until Monsieur Spence's fine is paid and he is free, and not until he has in his pocket a bill of sale
which once more makes him the owner of the ship
Black Joke.”

Pascal looked somewhat crestfallen for a moment. “Ah, well,” he said philosophically. “Twenty-five cases each is better than a kick in the behind, is it not so? But tell me Pierre, what shall we do with the ship and the whiskey, and with Captain Smith and his desperados, while we are making the bargain with Gauthier?”

“That is easy, my friend. Captain Smith and his so-tough sailors we will put ashore on the
far
side of Miquelon. It should take them ten hours or so to climb the mountains and come down to the village. Our people will then rent them a boat to take them to St. Pierre so that they can deliver our terms to Monsieur Gauthier.

“As for the whiskey, while Smith and his men are mountain climbing we will put it ashore in the sea caves near
Anse du loup…
eight hundred cases in one cave, and two hundred in a very secret cave known only to me. When Captain Spence is free and owns his ship again, I suppose we shall have to tell Gauthier where his eight hundred cases lie.”

“Maybe we will forget where we put them, eh?” his companion asked hopefully.

“It is possible,” replied Pierre solemnly. “There
have
been times in the past when my memory has failed me…but no more of that. There are many things to do. Tomorrow morning you will go in my dory to Miquelon and you will speak privately to our friends and you will prepare them for the work ahead. You will have two dories ready, and the shotguns well cleaned. You will
watch the weather for a likely day and then wait until I arrive–I shall borrow a dory for the trip from a friend here in St. Pierre. I will leave here well in advance of the schooner, so that there will be ample time for us to reach the shoal in Miquelon Bay before Gabby so kindly brings Captain Smith to meet us. You will also warn the men to say nothing even to their wives–wives have leaky tongues–but you will tell
my
wife, whose tongue is not leaky, but is more like a sharp sword and one she will prick me with if I keep a secret away from her. You may also tell Jacques and the Spence boys, for it is their right to know our plans.”

“What about the authorities in St. Pierre, will they not come searching for the schooner?”

“I do not think the authorities will be
asked
to search for us. For one thing, there will be the matter of the schooner's false clearance papers from St. Pierre. For another, there will be the assurance from me that if such a thing is attempted I will send word to Newfoundland that two Newfoundland boys were shot in St. Pierre Roads and that the matter was hushed up with the connivance of the officials of St. Pierre. In addition there will be my promise that none of the whiskey will ever be seen again if a search is started. No, Pascal, I think we will be left alone to settle matters with M. Gauthier and his friends in our own way.”

 

When the boys came down to breakfast the following morning, they found a visitor waiting for them in the big kitchen. It was Pascal, who had arrived from St.
Pierre during the night in Pierre's dory and who had already told Mrs. Roulett the details of Pierre's plan. Now she explained it to the three boys, who sat listening with rapt attention.

“I bet John Phillip, the pirate skipper, never thought up anythin' as smart as that,” said Peter admiringly, when Mrs. Roulett had finished.

“Pierre can think straight enough when he wants to,” said Mrs. Roulett grudgingly. “Trouble is, he usually don't bother. It does sound like a good plan, but if Pierre gets anyone hurt, I'll take the broom to his behind! Now then, ye b'ys, off with ye and find some mischief, but don't let on a word of what ye've heard.”

With the knowledge of Pierre's plan to cheer them up, Peter and Kye had no difficulty filling in the hours. They fished for lobsters again, and one morning they went with Jacques to a stream which flowed down from Miquelon's mountains, and spent half a day catching brook trout. On another occasion they borrowed some of the nondescript dogs that roamed the village and took them hunting rabbits which abounded on the slopes of the island's hills.

Miquelon seemed a veritable paradise to the boys, and the time slipped past quickly even though the weather remained unfavorable to Pierre's plan. For two days there was a brisk onshore breeze which completely precluded the possibility of a schooner landing at the little wharf, and on the third day there was such a heavy fog that no vessel could have found her way into Miquelon Bay. But on the morning of the fourth day the sky was
clear, the sea was almost dead calm, and there were no wind clouds to indicate a blow in the offing. All the village dories put to sea early for the fishing banks and the three boys were on the beach to greet them when the boats began to arrive home in the late afternoon. They helped Uncle Paul haul up his dory, and Jacques inquired anxiously about the forthcoming weather.

“It will stay fine for a day, maybe two days now,” Uncle Paul replied after a reflective look at the sky. “Why do you ask, eh? Maybe you wish to come fishing with me again?”

“Perhaps,” Jacques answered noncommittally. “Come on, Peter and Kye, let us help my uncle with his fish.”

Later, at the supper table, the boys and Mrs. Roulett excitedly discussed the possibilities that this night might be
the
night. Pascal came in for a few minutes to report that he and the six picked men were standing by and that two dories had been prepared for quick launching.

“I am sure it will be tonight,” he told them. “Pierre said Gauthier was very anxious for the schooner to sail before trouble started over the missing boys, and already she has been lying in St. Pierre nearly a week. Pierre is probably on his way here to tell us that she comes, and to take the lead in what we intend to do. I shall go to the beach now and wait for him there.”

It would have been impossible to keep the boys at home, even had she tried to do so, so Mrs. Roulett reluctantly gave them permission to go to the beach too. But she warned them sternly that they were to stay out of “that Pierre's monkey business, and keep clear of the
wharf, ye hear me? If they schooner fellers should happen to recognize ye, it would spoil everything.”

Darkness fell and Miquelon became very tranquil–to outward appearances at least. But at the far end of the beach, half a mile from the wharf and the center of the village, an observant eye might have distinguished the dim red glow of two or three cigarettes. There, lying at their ease in the rough salt grass beside the beach, were seven men and three boys. They were waiting impatiently for the sound of an approaching dory. But though all of them were straining their hearing, they could not detect the sound they sought.

 

Early that same afternoon Pierre Roulett had been at work bailing the water out of a dory he had borrowed, when a little boy came seeking him.

“You are wanted at the Basque Café, Monsieur Roulett,” he had said.

Pierre had dropped the tin dipper and crossed the
Place
in long strides. As he entered the bar, his quick gaze swept the dim-lit place and hesitated for a second on the face of his friend from Gauthier's office. The friend drooped an eyelid and made an almost imperceptible nod of his head toward the harbor. Pierre paid him no further attention. Ordering a Pernod, he drained it at a gulp and then turned and briskly left the bar. The game had started.

Five minutes later the borrowed dory swung away from the dock and went puttering down the channel with Pierre at the tiller.

Figuring four hours at the maximum to reach Miquelon–for this dory was not as fast as his own–Pierre reckoned on arriving between eight and nine o'clock. He guessed that
Black Joke
would not clear from St. Pierre until shortly before dark, and that she would not reach Miquelon dock much before midnight. There would therefore be time enough to arrange to intercept her at the Miquelon Bay shoals–but not much time to spare.