The French Prize Read Free

he was Continental Congressman John Adams, and George Washington back when there was still a real possibility the man might be hanged by the British for treason. Captain Biddlecomb, who the year before, in the election of 1796, had garnered the new title of Representative Biddlecomb, congressman from the state of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations.
    No, he would not be living up to his father’s reputation anytime soon.
    He had resolved, rather, to become a sober and responsible adult because he was no longer a boy and no longer a foremast hand, he was now the master of a vessel, a full-rigged blue-water merchantman of 220 tons burthen. That resolution had lasted just as long as it took for word of his new command to spread along the waterfront, for his numerous friends among the Philadelphia carrying trade to descend on the Abigail and insist that they celebrate his new status with a flowing bowl.
    Which led him to where he was that morning, sitting on the edge of the master’s berth in the Abigail ’s great cabin, head pounding, body aching, regarding a big man in reddish-brown stockings whom he did not know.
    The big man looked around the cabin, as if trying to see what Jack was seeing. “Not much in the way of furniture, is there?” he observed.
    â€œCaptain Asquith took his belongings. I have not had a moment to outfit it,” Jack explained, and then, the absurdity of the situation dawning on him, said, “By the way, who in all hell are you?”
    â€œA friend. Friend of a friend, really. He asked me to keep a weather eye on you.”
    â€˜Weather eye,’ Biddlecomb thought. Sailor . But he did not need the jargon to tell him that. This fellow had the inimitable look that marked the true deepwater man.
    â€œMy father?” Jack said. “My father sent you?” Even as he said it he knew it was a bad guess. His father was not the sort to think of sending a man to drag Jack out of a tavern brawl.
    The man in the stockings shook his head.
    â€œUncle Ezra,” Jack said with certainty, and at that the man nodded. Ezra Rumstick, his father’s closest friend, former chief mate, former first officer, former captain of several of the ships in the Stanton and Biddlecomb fleet. Not really Jack’s uncle in a family sense, but in terms of their relationship, every bit the part. Rumstick was, strictly speaking, Jack’s godfather, but Rumstick’s religious leanings were like that of most mariners, that is, he did not lean too far toward the religious side of things, at least not until the wind reached a steady fifty knots or better with sens cresting at twenty feet, and the godfather designation was generally used only when one or the other of them found it convenient.
    Rumstick had come up the hard way, a berth in a forecastle and two fists to defend his place, and he was most certainly the sort to make sure Jack would be pulled out of any trouble.
    The man in the reddish-brown stockings leaned back in his chair, causing it to creak in an alarming way. “I weren’t there when the fight begun, so I don’t know what started it,” he said. “You and your mates made a goodly show, I can tell you, and you was outnumbered.”
    â€œA tread on me coat and all hands in?” Jack said.
    â€œVery like,” the man said. “And Captain Rumstick, he says to remind you you was to dine with your parents today and he would take it as a personal favor if you was to not look like an absolute pile of shit when you arrived.”
    Jack nodded. “Very well, I’ll take that under advisement.”
    â€œGood,” the man said and stood. “You’re alive and not in jail and you’ve been reminded, so I reckon I’ve done my duty. Good day, Captain.” He gave a tip of his hat and was gone, leaving Jack alone with his thoughts, his pounding head, and his empty cabin.

 
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    A ship’s mast may be called a mast, but it is,