The Black Joke (10 page)

Jacques had taken no part in the conversation so far. It was difficult for
anyone
else to talk when Pierre was talking, but now he answered the direct question.

“Maybe she needs the hot temper with you, my father,” he said, grinning.

“
Nom de nom!
” shouted Pierre. “What for you say that? I theenk I beat your head in with one of theese dead rats the boys have kill!”

He made a lunge for his son, but Jacques skipped neatly out of the way and, in the mock chase which followed, all three boys were soon overcome with laughter, for Pierre was a natural comedian, and his wild lunges and rugby tackles after his son were always wide of the mark. Finally he grew winded, and trotted back to the camp site.

“Ah well, I settle hees hash some other time. Now
then, you
garçons
listen close to me. I take you to Miquelon, that's where all the people my frens. They don' like the people in St. Pierre, they don' like most of the Yankee rum-runners, an' they don' like Monsieur Gauthier. They hide you good, an' look after you good. Jacques, he stay with you in Miquelon for to speak the French for you and keep you out of the trouble. Me, I come back to St. Pierre and see what I can see. Okay?”

“Thank 'ee, sorr,” said Peter, “but Kye and me, we can't just sit still and let me father stay in jail, nor let them rum-runners steal our ship away neither.”

Pierre struck his forehead with his fist and rolled his eyes.

“What you theenk? You theenk I let Johnny stay in jail, an' let the robbairs sail away with
Black Joke?
But first we have to make the plan, you understan'? And while we do that, you stay still in Miquelon.”

So it was arranged. For the rest of the afternoon Peter and Kye listened wide-eyed to Pierre's stories of fishing, of shipwreck, of smuggling, and of the rum-runners. He had an inexhaustible fund of yarns, and the lads were hardly aware of the passage of time. But suddenly it was growing dusk. Pierre jumped to his feet and, spouting orders like an admiral, soon had them at work packing the camp and toting the gear back down the cliffs to where
Frontenac
lay moored. Shortly after dark she was loaded and they cast off.

The boys had never before been in one of the French sea-going dories and they were fascinated by her. Her hull was similar in shape to the small dories used in
Newfoundland, but she was almost three times as big. She was powered by a seven-horse motor amidships, and when it was run wide open she could do nine knots.

“Beeg motor for fish boat, eh?” Pierre asked. “Well, we don' fish
all
the time, you understan'? Sometime we got business across in Newfoundland for take the grub to the poor peoples and bring back some other stuff. Times like that we maybe have to go pretty fast, when the
Terre Neuve
coastguard cutter he come sniffin' after us.”

Even at nine knots the trip to Pierre's home took more than three hours, for the isolated little fishing village of Miquelon lay at the extreme northern tip of the large island of Miquelon, which was itself the northernmost of the three French islands. Only about four hundred people lived in the village, and they were almost all of Basque descent. The Basques came originally from the border areas of France and Spain and they are amongst the world's most independent and stubborn people. For a long time the Basque fishermen on Miquelon had regularly supplied passing ships with contraband but, when the great new smuggling trade with the United States sprang up, the St. Pierre merchants tried to organize the whole of it through their own hands. The Basques resisted fiercely and their big dories continued to go to sea to meet passing boats and to supply them. They also supplied a number of the professional rum-runners as well, since Miquelon was so isolated that it was almost impossible for a spy to go there without being detected, and shipments out of
Miquelon could not be traced by the United States government agents in St. Pierre.

The two boys learned all this, and much more, about Miquelon during the journey. By the time Pierre turned the bow of the boat toward the dark and unseen shore, they were full of curiosity to see the place. But their curiosity had to wait until morning, for the village was asleep when they arrived, and they saw little of it as they followed Jacques and Pierre along the single narrow street to stop at last at the Roulett house.

Mrs. Roulett got out of bed to let them in and as soon as she realized that they were also Newfoundlanders she almost smothered them with attention. It turned out that she had come from an outport not far from Ship Hole, and she was so full of questions that the boys could hardly manage to answer them all. It was some time before even Pierre could get in a few words, and tell the story of the Spences and of
Black Joke
. When she heard what had happened, Mrs. Roulett displayed her famous temper.

“Why them maggoty dogfish!” she shouted. “Let me lay my hands to
Mister
Barnes, or Gauthier, or that Yankee captain, and I'll make salt fish out of them or know the reason why! Ye got to do something about this, Pierre. Ye
better
do something, or I'll claw
your
ears into the bargain!”

“Hey there,
ma petite!
” cried Pierre, trying to stem the flow. “Slow down that engine or you burn out the bearing! Don' you worry. We feex those fellows before we finish or my name not Pierre Roulett. Right now
you bettair make the bed for these
pauvre garçons
before they go soun' asleep at the kitchen table.”

In an instant Mrs. Roulett's temper cooled.

“Ye poor lads,” she crooned. “What must ye think of me, keeping ye awake while I talk my head off. Come now, ye'll have the bed that was for Jacques and it's long past time ye was in it.”

Twenty minutes later, having been tucked in–which they hated–Kye and Peter were alone in a big bed under the eaves of the two-story wooden house.

“Ye still awake, Peter?” Kye whispered.

“Yep.”

“Quit worryin' then. Jonathan will be all right. I got a hunch this Pierre can do just about as much as he says he can–and that's a lot.”

“I hopes so, Kye. One way or t'other, we got to git me father free.”

 

10

The Men of Miquelon

I
N THE MORNING
the boys explored Miquelon under the guidance of Jacques. The village consisted of a long line of weather-beaten wooden houses set a little way back from a deeply curved gravel beach where the thirty or forty local dories were hauled up when not in use. There was no harbor, only the open roadside of Miquelon Bay where large vessels could not anchor safely for long. Although fishing was the main occupation, Jacques explained that the local people had also formed a sort of smugglers' co-operative. Working as a group, they would order a cargo of liquor from Europe which would be brought to Miquelon by some old tramp freighter. Recently a shipload of whiskey had arrived off Miquelon, on consignment to American owners. The Basques had agreed to handle this cargo, taking it ashore for storage, and then loading it on the American rum-runners as it was required. They were not aware of the fact that this was part of the new plan
of which
Black Joke
and several other re-fitted and reengined schooners were to be the vital elements.

The two boys were the subject of much interest as Jacques took them about. Before long they had a following of a score of small children and as many dogs.

“Not many strangers come to Miquelon,” Jacques explained, “so everyone is curious about you. But you don't need to worry. If you are a friend of the Rouletts, you are a friend to everyone here and nobody would think to give you up to those people at St. Pierre.”

He led the way down to the great curved beach and Peter and Kye had a good look at the dory fleet. The big boats looked a little bit like Italian gondolas, for each one had a small square “house” amidships, and both ends of the dories were curved up steeply into an abrupt sheer.

“They are the best seaboats in the world,” said Jacques with pardonable pride. “With these dories we fish thirty miles to seaward of the islands. Maybe you like to make a fishing trip in one of them?”

“Sometime I'd like to,” Peter replied. “Only not now I guess. Not till we git me father out of jail.”

“You must have patience, Peter,” said Jacques. “It will not be tomorrow he is free. But he
will
be free. If my
père
says so, it will be so. Now it is better for you, I think, if you don't worry about it.”

“That's what
I
been tellin' him,” Kye interjected.

“Come, then. We go see my Uncle Paul. He is the great fisherman. I will ask him to take us to the Banks tomorrow.”

Meanwhile Pierre had been talking with the other leading men of the settlement. It was agreed that the Spence boys should stay in Miquelon and that no one outside the settlement would be told of their presence there. Pierre himself was to go back immediately to St. Pierre with a load of fresh fish. The fish were to ensure that his trip did not arouse any suspicion, and when he had worked out some plan to help Jonathan Spence he would send a message to the village and the local people would help in any way they could.

Pierre's boat was soon loaded with cod that had been brought in that morning by other fishermen, and after a quick good-by to the boys and to his own family he set off for St. Pierre, accompanied by a friend named Pascal.

On arriving at St. Pierre, well before noon, Pierre delivered his fish and went on into town. It did not take him long to find out that Jonathan was much better and would probably be discharged in a few days, but would then have to stand trial for attempting to steal the schooner. Pierre at once sent him another note:

 

Boys is safe my home Miquelon. Everybody here still think they dead and is better they think so. Tell them you don't remember about what happen because the knock on the head make you forget everything. Leave all to me. I send message your wife telling all well and not worry okay? Better you eat this paper–P.

 

His next stop was the shipyard, where he found it
impossible to gain entry. Two dockyard workers were lounging about the entrance gates, and when he tried to pass them he was stopped.

“Pardon, Pierre,” one of them explained. “It seems there has been some stealing from the yard, and the boss says no one comes in now without permission from him.”

Pierre made no attempt to get permission. He guessed at once that the guards were really there to prevent spies from discovering what was being done to
Black Joke
. In any event he did not need to go in. At twelve o'clock he was loitering near the gate when his cousin, the carpenter, came out on his way home for lunch. The two walked side by side up the narrow streets.

“They move quickly,” his cousin told him. “Last night they bring the new engine aboard with much secrecy. Only the Yankee sailors are allowed on board now, and nobody is supposed to know what's really going on. Everybody working in the yard got twenty dollars to keep his mouth shut except to say the schooner is being repaired after the damage in the collisions.”

“Good, good,” said Pierre. “They try to fool the American agents, eh? But they don't fool us. Now you must watch close. I want to know when they are ready to launch the ship. Leave a message for me at the Basque Café.”

The Basque Café was Pierre's next stop. He had some lunch and then idled away a few hours chatting
with other Miquelon fishermen, for this was their favorite spot when in St. Pierre. At four o'clock Pierre's friend, who worked for Gauthier, pushed through the door, saw Pierre and nodded briefly, then went to the bar for a drink of Pernod. After a few minutes he casually sat down at Pierre's small table.

“Gauthier is worried,” he said quietly. “He and Barnes are afraid about the business of the two boys being shot or drowned. The shooting was an accident–one of Smith's men lost his head. But they think if the matter comes to the attention of the British authorities in Newfoundland, they will demand an investigation and the Governor here will not be able to refuse. Much might come to light which they wish to keep hidden. So far it does not seem that Monsieur Spence remembers what happens. But he may recall it at any time and if he can get a message to Newfoundland, there may be trouble. Gauthier wants to get the schooner out of here as soon as possible. She will sail with a cargo of salt cod supposed to be bound for Barbados, but instead she will go to Miquelon and dump most of her cod and take on whiskey. After that she will sail for the United States. That is the plan, I think, but it is difficult for me to be sure. I do not hear all that goes on, you understand.”

“You hear enough, my friend,” Pierre said warmly. “Now let us have another Pernod and talk about the weather. It is not wise even here to speak too much of secret things.”

Despite their worries about Jonathan and
Black Joke
, Kye and Peter were having a good time in Miquelon. After showing them through the village, Jacques took them off in a small dory to try for some lobsters. They rowed for half a mile along the beach until they reached an outcrop of rocks. Here the water was calm and extremely clear. Jacques produced a wooden box about a foot square and three feet long, open at one end and closed at the other with a pane of thick glass.

“Hold the glass part under the surface, Kye,” he instructed, “and look down through it. Then you will see everything on the sea floor. Watch out for the lobster. He will be backed into the holes in the rocks with just his feelers poking out.”

Kye did as he was told and found he could see every detail of the bottom. Crabs moved slowly over the few open places between the rocks, and small schools of young cod wavered back and forth. But no lobster did he see.

“How about a peek?” Peter asked impatiently. “Bet you I can spot a lobster even if you can't.”

Reluctantly Kye handed over the water glass. Jacques sculled the dory slowly over the rocky area. Suddenly Peter gave a shout. “There's one!” he cried. “Saw his big old claw for a minute till he hauled it in.”

Now Jacques picked up a fifteen-foot pole which had been lying in the bottom of the dory. Attached to one end was a cluster of big hooks. Leaning out over the side of the boat he lowered the pole very slowly while
Peter held the glass so Jacques could see through it.

“You are right, Peter. A big fellow too, but wise I think. Kye, please, will you take some handfuls of cod flesh out of the can in the bow? Let it sink in the water where the lobster is.”

Kye did as he was told and the bits of cod spiraled down through the clear water to litter the bottom near the lobster's lair.

“He can smell underwater you see,” Jacques explained. “When he smell the good food, he will come out perhaps.”

All three heads were crowded over the water glass, watching expectantly. Twelve feet below them they could see the feelers of the lobster waving in the current as he “smelled” the water. Then very cautiously he began to move, walking on his underbody legs, with his great claws stretched menacingly out before him. Jacques held the hooked end of the pole about three feet above the lobster, being careful to keep it as still as possible. As the lobster reached the first shred of codfish, Jacques gently lowered the tip of the pole until it filled the entrance of the lobster's lair. The crustacean seemed to sense that something was wrong. He gave one powerful flick of his tail and shot backwards. Jacques gave a sharp jerk on the pole.

“Ha, ha, my friend. Got you!” he cried. Rapidly hauling up the pole, he flicked the end of it in over the boat. The lobster had been only lightly hooked and he fell free, rattling onto the floorboards at Peter's bare
feet and instantly spreading his claws for defense or attack.

Peter hopped nimbly out of the way.

“It's a monster!” he cried. “Never see 'em that big t'home, does we, Kye?”

“That is because you fish differently for them in
Terre Neuve
,” Jacques explained. “There you use the lobster pots; but the big lobsters, they will not go in the pots. You must catch them this way.”

Leaving the big fellow to scuttle about the floorboards the boys sculled slowly on. By noon they had caught three more lobsters. They were content as they rowed home and presented their catch to Mrs. Roulett.

Lunch was something of a surprise. Neither Peter nor Kye had ever eaten French cooking before, but Mrs. Roulett had become an expert at it since marrying Pierre and moving to Miquelon. The boys picked away rather tentatively at the main course which seemed to be a roll of some kind of white meat stuffed with an indescribable substance. Peter finally plucked up courage to ask what it was.

“Stuffed squid, me b'ys, stuffed squid!” said Mrs. Roulett, beaming proudly.

Kye went white, his eyes took on a glassy look, and he hurriedly covered his mouth with his hand as if expecting the worst to happen.

Mrs. Roulett burst into a gale of laughter.

“Never fret, Kye. Don't think of
what
it is, just think of how good it
tastes!
And take a mouthful of wine, if your stomach's feelin' queer.”

Peter and Kye had noticed glasses of red wine standing by their plates, but had assumed the presence of the wine was a mistake. The idea of drinking wine with meals had never occurred to them. But Kye was desperate. He snatched up his glass and took a great swallow and instantly forgot about the squid, for the wine was dry and bitter and made him gag. He was up and away from the table like a shot, and when he came back some time later, pale-faced and weak, he was only able to grin feebly as he apologized.

“Never mind, Kye,” said Mrs. Roulett. “Tonight I'll give ye a good Newfoundland feed of fish and brewis. I guess you'll have to get on to Frenchy cookin' slowlike.”

“I'll starve first,” muttered Kye under his breath to Peter.

In the afternoon Jacques took them duck hunting on a huge salt-water lagoon which lay to the south of the village. They had only one gun between them, a double-barreled 12-gauge hammer-lock which belonged to Pierre. Each boy took his turn hiding in the salt grass near the edge of the lagoon while the other two made a wide circle inland and, having reached the lagoon again, walked back on either side of it toward the hidden gunner. Flocks of teal got up from the brackish water and went whistling down the pond. Between them they killed five teal.