Smuggler's Moon (4 page)

“I am quite overwhelmed. But tell me, who will take my cases?”

The Lord Chief Justice fluttered his fingers, as if to say that this was a matter of negligible importance. ”Oh, Saunders Welch, I suppose. I shall speak to him myself about it. He’ll not dare to show reluctance.”

Thus was it settled. The two talked on a few minutes more and between them arranged the details of our departure. I, for one, looked forward to the journey. With Sir John I had visited Portsmouth, Bath, and Oxford, each so different from the other two. Quite naturally I wondered, too, in what way Deal would differ, little knowing the brutal and bloody history that I would write from the events we endured there.

Lord Mansfield bade a swift farewell, declaring that he must write that letter to Sir Simon Grenville if he were to be given a proper day’s notice. He rang for the butler, who appeared instantly (he must have been eavesdropping at the door) and showed us out to the street.

Once away, Sir John turned in my direction and asked, ”Is there a hackney about? Can you find one for us?”

This surprised me. While there had been reason enough to take a coach to Bloomsbury Square—at least it was so in Sir John’s estimation—there seemed little need now to hurry back to Bow Street. Why did we not walk? It was not Sir John’s custom to be so free with his cash.

I was thus doubly surprised when, after bringing a hackney to him from Hart Street, he called up to the driver the address of a dock in Wapping. I had not the slightest notion of where he might be taking us—nor did I discover until after we had arrived, so tight-lipped was he. During the entire journey he spoke not a word but fell into that state in which it was impossible to discern whether he thought deeply or slept. The black silk band that hid his eyes concealed all from me. Nevertheless, when at last we came to a full halt upon the wooden timbers of the dock, he responded quickly enough, moving so swiftly for the coach door that I had bare time enough to get it open before he launched his leap to the dock.

It was not until I, too, had alighted and heard a most familiar voice that I called to mind what Sir John had told me days before: his friend (and mine) Black Jack Bilbo had bought a ship. He was ever so pleased with it, I was assured. Yet because he had bought it from the Royal Navy as a ship decommissioned and brought out of service, there were certain alterations to be tended to. It was a sloop and no great man-of-war, but there were cannon on board, thirteen in all, and these would have to be melted down. And since it had had twenty years hard service, there were ordinary repairs to be made upon it. And that, reader, is why the
Indian Princess
, as Mr. Bilbo had re-christened her, was in dry-dock there in Wapping.

Now, one question should perhaps be settled before we go further: Why would the owner and operator of London’s most popular gaming club wish to own such a ship? That you might well wonder, reader, and the answer lies in Mr. Bilbo’s dark past. For years there had been rumors that he
had been a pirate in the Caribbean and the waters off the North American colonies before coming to London to launch his gambling enterprise. In fact, it was claimed he had used the proceeds of his free-booting to build and bank his club. Because of these rumors, Sir John often remarked that Mr. Bilbo was a dangerous man for him to know. ”I should not like the fellow,” said he, ”but I do, and there’s an end to it.” And since they were friends, as indeed they were, Sir John had learned from him the kernel of truth at the center of those rumors burgeoning about his past. The truth was, Mr. Bilbo had been not a pirate but rather a privateer, ”too fine a distinction for the London rumormongers.” Quite legally (that is, with a letter of marque), he had plundered French shipping during the Seven Years’ War, taken merchant ships and their cargoes, and sold them, thus amassing his fortune. Those who were in a position to know had told Sir John that there was not a finer captain in a fight than Black Jack Bilbo and that all that he had taken, he had taken fair. The ship he commanded then was a sloop, like unto the one now in dry-dock here in Wapping. With it, under-manned and under-gunned, he took on French vessels of more than twice the tonnage. And so to repeat the question, what did he want with such a ship? It should be obvious: he wanted, in some sense, to recapture his youth; to relive those days of danger—without the danger—or so I now suppose.

In any case, when from the deck swarming with workmen Mr. Bilbo espied us standing at the edge of the dock as the hackney pulled away, he gave a mighty wave and shouted out, ”Ahoy, you two! Come aboard. Your presence is most welcome!”

“Is she in or out of water?” Sir John responded.

“Out for caulking. But she’s steady, and the gangplank’s well set.”

“Come along, Jeremy,” said he to me. ”Take me there and lead me across.”

And thus we went. Though the gangplank seemed a bit narrow to me, Sir John seemed not to mind in the least; he went behind me with both hands upon my shoulders. In fact, he urged me to pick up the pace when we were but halfway across, yet in the absence of ropes or banisters, I refused—let him think what he would of me!—for it seemed a mighty chasm below.

“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 arranged 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.