The Black Joke (3 page)

It had been no casual visit he had paid to the
Black Joke
that day. His visit had been prompted by the contents of a letter which had arrived the previous night from St. Pierre, one of the three small islands still owned by France (and the last of her once-mighty possessions in North America) which lie less than twenty miles off the south coast of Newfoundland.

St. Pierre, a treeless, rocky island usually shrouded in fog, was a free port, which is to say that foreign goods could be imported and exported without payment of customs duties. As a result, it had been the center of a smuggling business for two centuries.

The smuggling had always been a local affair until prohibition was enforced in the United States in the 1920's. Then St. Pierre became the headquarters for an immense contraband liquor trade. Hundreds of thousands of cases of whiskey, brandy, and other spirits were landed there by big ships from Europe, for transhipment to rum-running vessels bound for the New England coast.

The resultant prosperity brought a building boom to St. Pierre, and most of the lumber required to satisfy it was supplied from the forests of Bay Despair, a multi-armed fiord which runs deep into the south coast of Newfoundland some thirty miles distant from Ship Hole. Control of this lumber trade fell into the hands of half a dozen south coast merchants, of whom Simon
Barnes was one. This trade brought him into close contact with several prominent businessmen on St. Pierre, and the letter which led him to pay his disastrous visit to
Black Joke
was from one of these businessmen.

This letter had come wrapped in an oilskin packet carried in the inner pocket of a St. Pierre fisherman's blouse. Two nights earlier this fisherman had landed his big sea-going motor dory on a deserted beach three miles from Ship Hole. There he had gone ashore and, with the aid of a carefully shaded flashlight, had located a pile of lobster traps stored in a cleft in the rocks. He had no difficulty picking out one particular pot which was marked with a splash of red paint across one end. Thrusting his hand into this pot, he found a thin copper box under the anchor stone, and in this box he placed the letter. Then he climbed aboard his dory which he and a companion rowed until they were well off shore. Only then did they start their engine. When dawn broke, it found them innocently anchored over a cod bank several miles off the coast, busily jigging for fish.

That same morning a man named Millar from Ship Hole was rowing his own small dory out of the harbor mouth. Millar too was a fisherman, though he never caught much fish–a fact which did not prevent him from getting unlimited credit at Barnes's store. As Millar came opposite the uninhabited cove, he was quick to see that the topmost lobster pot of the pile was now crossways to the rest. Casually he beached his dory and, after a good look about him to make sure he was un
observed, he ambled up to the pile of pots. An hour later he was sidling through the door of Simon Barnes's private office to lay a small package on the merchant's desk.

This unofficial postal service between Ship Hole and St. Pierre was not only quicker than the official one, it was also much more private, which, considering the kind of correspondence it carried, was no doubt just as well.

The letter described the current situation regarding the rum-running trade from St. Pierre to the United States. For a long time the rum-runners had used mother ships sailing from St. Pierre to points outside American territorial waters (which extend three miles seaward from the shore). Here the mother ships would rendezvous with fast motorboats which would then load up with contraband and slip it ashore at unguarded places on the New England coast. As long as the mother ships remained outside United States waters, the authorities could not touch them. As for the motorboats, they were so fast the revenue vessels could not catch them at all. It had been an excellent system in its time, but now–so the writer of the letter explained–things had changed.

The United States government had begun to wage all-out war on the rum-runners. A number of high-speed navy torpedo boats had been pressed into service. In addition, agents had been planted in St. Pierre, equipped with short-wave transmitters with which they could
notify the American authorities of the departure of suspicious vessels laden with liquor.

The result of these measures was to disrupt the trade. Several of the fast motorboats had already been captured. The departure of a mother ship from St. Pierre was now quickly known to the authorities, and these ships were so closely shadowed that they had no chance of approaching the United States coast in secrecy.

The situation was becoming desperate for the rum-runners. Their warehouses at St. Pierre bulged with tens of thousands of cases of contraband whiskey, representing a value of millions of dollars–if it could be delivered in the United States. New smuggling methods were needed, and so new methods had been invented. The smugglers had now concluded that where speed and power would no longer serve them, cunning would have to be substituted.

Now for generations big fleets of sailing schooners had put out each year from many New England and Nova Scotian ports to fish for cod on the Grand Banks. The sight of these comparatively slow sailing ships beating heavily homeward with their holds full of fish was a familiar one all along the Atlantic coast. These fishing schooners had never been used for large-scale smuggling attempts and no one ever suspected that they might be so used. The rum-runners had therefore decided that certain chosen schooners, mostly small two-masters, were now to be purchased and refitted for a new “trade.” False bottoms were to be rigged in their
fishholds, and they were to be given powerful diesel engines. By day, or in clear weather when there were patrol boats or aircraft about, these innocent-looking vessels would mosey along under sail alone. But at night, or when they had thick weather to conceal them, they would proceed under the full power of their new engines.

When they sailed from St. Pierre, they would apparently be laden with salt cod, or even fresh fish–but this cargo would only be a thin cover, and under it the main holds would be filled with whiskey. To all intents and purposes the schooners would look like legitimate fishing vessels bound either for New England ports with fresh-caught cod, or for Caribbean waters with salt cod. In point of fact they would proceed to secret coves and harbors on the American coast and there deliver their illegal liquor cargoes.

The rum-runners naturally wished to buy the fastest schooners available for their new venture, and it was inevitable that they would have heard about
Black Joke
. So it was that the St. Pierre representative of one of the American smuggling syndicates undertook to arrange for her purchase, and wrote his good friend Simon Barnes about it. His letter concluded with these words:

 

…and so, my dear Barnes, we can make an offer of very high price for this schooner. I myself think perhaps ten thousand dollars. If this makes an interest to you I am delighted to hear, but I will tell you we must have quick possession. The vessel should be delivered into St. Pierre before the first of June.

There was no question about Barnes's being interested in the proposal! Ten thousand dollars was an immense fortune in those times and in that place. The fact that he did not own
Black Joke
, and therefore could not sell her, was unimportant. He was now determined to own her.

Having read the letter for the third time, Barnes went to his office window, as if to assure himself that
Black Joke
was still moored behind the islets. Since there was no employment for her that he knew about, he had not expected to see the Spences at work fitting her out. The sight of the activity aboard her was unsettling. He decided he had to know what was afoot, and it was this which prompted him to visit her in his motorboat.

At that time he had some thought of attempting to buy
Black Joke
from Jonathan Spence, even though he knew in his heart that Jonathan almost certainly would not sell her. But after the encounter with the bilge pump he gave up any ideas he might have had of trying to acquire her by fair means.

Bathed, and changed into clean clothes, he sat at his desk once more, slowly writing a reply to his friend in St. Pierre.

 

3

The Dark Clouds Lighten

T
HE WEATHER
remained fine throughout the following week, and work aboard
Black Joke
went forward rapidly. The upperworks soon glistened with fresh paint. The deck was tight again. The running rigging had been rove off and the vessel had begun to look eager and seagoing once more.

But now that the job was done, Jonathan again lapsed into a mood of dark depression. He was ready to work. The ship was ready. And there was no work for either of them. If nothing turned up in the next week or two, he knew he would be forced to go to Simon Barnes and ask for credit at the store; for his wife, Sylvia, had almost exhausted the supply of staple foods which Jonathan had brought in from St. John's the previous autumn. There was still lots of fish, both fresh and salt, but nobody can survive on fish alone, least of all the seven children who now lived in Jonathan's house. These included his own two girls and two boys, of whom Peter
was the oldest, together with the three orphaned children of his brother Kent, led by Kye.

It was a quiet Saturday afternoon. Kye and Peter with some of the younger boys went up the harbor in a dory to try their luck fishing for sea trout. Sylvia, helped by her two young daughters, was finishing the dishwashing. Jonathan was sitting on the front steps, his eyes on
Black Joke
while he once again went carefully over all the possibilities for the employment of himself and his ship. He could think of nothing new. The only hope, and it was so faint as to be hardly worth considering, was that one or another of the St. John's fish dealers might have changed his mind about chartering
Black Joke
for a trip to Jamaica. Jonathan had laboriously written to these dealers again, begging them for work. An answer might be arriving on the weekly coast boat which was due that evening; and on this answer Jonathan pinned his final hopes.

Just before dusk the silent harbor came suddenly awake as a sonorous steam whistle sounded from beyond the entrance. The sound echoed and re-echoed from the surrounding cliffs. Doors burst open throughout the settlement as people began to pour out into the warm spring air. The children came first, racing wildly down the steep paths toward Barnes's wharf where the steamer would berth. Their elders followed more sedately, but by the time the little S. S.
Fortune
had poked her old-fashioned prow into the harbor proper, almost the entire population of Ship Hole was waiting for her on the dock. “Steamer time” was the great event of the week.

The mail was unloaded first and carried to the Simon Barnes store, for Simon was, amongst his many other roles, the postmaster.

Jonathan Spence was already waiting by the post office wicket.

“Letter for ye, Skipper,” said Simon's clerk. “Come from St. John's, I do believe.” He passed it across the counter.

Barnes, who had been standing nearby, quietly shifted his position so that he could watch as Jonathan moved away from the crowd, tore open the letter and studied its contents. Having had no formal education, Jonathan could not read easily, but he had no difficulty gathering the import of this reply to his pleading letter to the St. John's merchants. As he thrust the envelope into his pocket and turned toward the door, his face mirrored the bitter disappointment he felt.

“A moment, Skipper Spence,” Barnes called after the departing Jonathan. “Can ye spare a moment, Skipper?”

Jonathan hesitated; he was in no mood to talk to anyone, but there was still politeness to consider. Reluctantly he turned about.

Barnes was too astute to refer directly to the letter, whose contents he had already guessed. Assuming his most amiable and friendly attitude he invited Jonathan into his private office.

When Jonathan emerged half an hour later he walked with the spring of a young man. His face was alight with eagerness and he almost ran up the long slope to his own home where Sylvia and the elder children were sitting
by lamplight. The children were doing their lessons under Sylvia's direction, for there was no school in Ship Hole.

Throwing open the door and striding into the big kitchen, Jonathan caught Peter and Kye such a whack on their shoulders that they very nearly collapsed over their spellers.

“Enough o' that bookwork,” he cried. “They's man's work to be done, me sons! Three days hence
Black Joke
goes to sea, and I'll be needin' willin' hands.”

Pandemonium broke loose and it was some time before things quieted down enough for Jonathan to explain.

“'Tis this way, ye see,” he began. “Ye know Barnes has collared the timber trade 'twixt Bay Despair and St. Peter's Isle. Well now, it seems he's got a rush order for timber for the Frenchies, and his own schooners won't be fit to sail for a couple of weeks or more. He's stuck, ye see. Stuck good. Anyhow, he's chartered
Black Joke
to make the trip.
And
somethin' more. The old dogfish agreed to give us three more charter trips if I'd help him out of a hole by taking on this one. He balked over that, but I told him straight I'd not shift a line until he gave his word,
and
wrote it out on paper too! And here it is.”

He thrust a slip of paper under the lamplight and the family crowded around to spell out the words of the agreement written in the merchant's angular handwriting. Unable to contain himself, Peter grabbed the paper and began dancing around the big kitchen table.

“Ye're takin' Kye and me, Father,” he cried. “Ye
said
ye were. I heard ye good!”

“Hush now,” his father answered. “Ye'll have the whole settlement out to see what the row's about.” He turned to his wife and, almost apologetically, continued:

“I know ye'll not like it, Sylvia. But ye see, I've no money for to hire a crew, and if I take a couple of men on shares, there'll be precious little left for ourselves at the end of the voyage. It's an aisy voyage. Inside-waters, the most of it, and a bare thirty mile of open crossin' to St. Peter's. I'll watch the weather sharp, and never sail unless it's fine. The b'ys are nigh onto bein' men, ye know. The three of us can work the ship. We
has
to do it–they's no other way.”

Kye and Peter were closely watching Sylvia's face. The chance to make a voyage with Jonathan, not as deck boys or passengers, but as real crew, was almost too good to be believed. They hung anxiously over the table waiting for Sylvia's reply.

She smiled.

“There's no place to argue,” she said gently. “The work must be done, and when there's not men enough, then b'ys must give a hand. Take a care, Jonathan; though I know ye will.”

The Spence family was a long time going to bed that night. In celebration of their luck Sylvia made a huge lunch for them all, with pots of tea, and brown, crisp blueberry tarts. There was no longer any need to skimp.

Simon Barnes was also enjoying a celebration, though a much quieter one. Until nearly midnight he sat in his
office, a bottle of contraband rum at his elbow, contemplating with increasing pleasure the ease with which he had persuaded Jonathan Spence to stick his neck into a noose.

A few minutes before midnight there was a gentle knock on his door. Barnes turned down the flame of the oil lamp before he opened to the visitor. It was Millar. Barnes gave him a letter-packet.

“Out with you now,” he said. “The Frenchy'll be in to pick this up at the lobster pots soon as the moon is down. If you miss him, I'll have yer eyes for it!”

 

Black Joke
duly sailed the following Tuesday morning. Her departure was a gala event. Every boy and most of the men in the settlement were on the beach to watch her go. The boys stared enviously at Peter and Kye as they nipped about the decks in answer to Jonathan's orders.

There was no breeze in the harbor so they departed under power. Kye had been given charge of the engine and on his first try he managed to spin the huge flywheel by himself and get the bullgine started. As it belched blue smoke from its exhaust, Jonathan gave his orders in a ringing voice.

“Let go aft–run her up to half speed, Kye!”

Kye, who had been standing with his head out the engine-room companionway waiting for the order, ducked below and shoved the throttle forward. The old engine thumped and jumped on its bed. The propeller churned, and slowly
Black Joke
drew away from the
wharf and pointed her shapely bow toward the harbor entrance. On the steps of the Spence house Sylvia lifted a big conch horn to her lips and blew a blast of farewell that was answered by Peter, pumping the handle of the ship's foghorn.

The departure would have been perfect; except for one thing.
Black Joke
was carrying a passenger, and one of whom her crew did not approve. On Monday night Simon Barnes had sent a message to Jonathan announcing that he intended to accompany them on the voyage to supervise the loading and delivery of the cargo. It was a most distasteful prospect, but there was nothing Jonathan could do about it since his ship was under charter to the merchant.

Unfortunately for Barnes, he was no sailor. Even before the ship had cleared the quiet waters of the harbor and had begun to lift to the eternal swell of the open Atlantic, he disappeared from view to stretch himself out on one of the bunks in the forepeak.

“Fat ole landlubber!” Peter muttered to Kye as the two boys ran forward at Jonathan's command to begin hauling up the headsails. “Hope we git a hurricane. Might make him sick enough to die.”

“Be no loss, I guess,” Kye replied.

“Sway her up, b'ys,” Jonathan barked from the wheel.

Slipping the halyard coil from the pinrack at the base of the mast, the two lads began hoisting the jib. It rattled and banged in the grip of a fresh southwesterly breeze that was beginning to blow, but they soon had it swayed-up and made fast, and the sheet hauled in so
that the sail began to draw. The jumbo followed, then Kye went aft to take the wheel while Jonathan, helped by Peter, hauled up the big mainsail and the smaller foresail.

It was tough work for so small a crew, but all three were used to hard work and, though they were slower than a proper crew would have been, they managed the job in shipshape fashion. A few minutes after clearing the harbor entrance the engine was stopped and
Black Joke
was soon lying easily over on the starboard tack with all sails filled and drawing. The quartering breeze sent her boiling along at a good eight knots with a white bone at her teeth while to the north the great red coastal cliffs began to slide past.

It was a four-hour passage to the mouth of Bay Despair, but on such a bright spring day as this the boys could have wished it was forty hours. They stood alternate half-hour tricks at the wheel, for it was imperative that they should practice their helmsmanship. Steering a big schooner under all sail is not the easiest thing in the world. It is always necessary to keep a weather eye on the wind and the sails, watching for a shift, while at the same time trying to keep the vessel on a steady course.

Peter had been at the wheel about ten minutes when Jonathan came aft. He stood silent a moment, looking back at the ship's wake.

“'Tis a funny thing, Peter,” he said after a time. “There be no snakes at all in Newfoundland unless it happen there's one steerin' this here ship.”