Read Online The French Prize by James L. Nelson - Free Book Online Page A

it ever did occur to him, he would not care.
    â€œWe must get us down to the Abigail , Jack,” Oxnard said as they walked. “You sail for Barbados by week’s end, you have a considerable amount of work yet to do. Also, I have a surprise for you. Flour is coming aboard today as well, though that don’t answer for a surprise. No, this is much better, as you’ll see!” The merchant kept up his running monologue the full length of the empty lot, then opened the door of the carriage for Jack. As Jack settled into the soft leather seat he glanced back the way he had come. The others were heading off in their various directions; Stiles back toward the waterfront, setting a course no doubt for the offices of Oxnard and Company, Limited, Merchants, housed on Chestnut Street. Bolingbroke and the unpleasant fellow were ambling off toward the Southwark docks, and the one in homespun was walking west. Oxnard was still talking.
    â€œThe flour, when you get to Barbados, Jack, the flour will be at a premium. I hear from a ship just returned…” But by then Jack had again stopped listening, and was simply making grunting sounds of comprehension and nodding his head as if it was some sort of mechanical device designed to move at regular intervals.
    What on earth just happened here? Jack wondered. This whole issue of Bolingbroke challenging him to an affair of honor, of all things, was odd enough, but Oxnard’s arrival made the whole situation positively otherworldly.
    Oxnard’s carriage had the finest suspension that could be had in North America, but even that was not proof against Philadelphia’s rutted and cobbled streets, and the jouncing and shuddering prevented Jack from concentrating on much of anything until they drew to a stop on the wharf to which Abigail was tied. The sun was not two hours up, but the waterfront was already a bustle, carts and drays rolling past, mates shouting orders, the squeal of tackles as cargo came aboard, carpenters pounding, hacking, sawing, seamen scrambling aloft to cast off sails and let them dry to a bowline.
    Jack stepped from the carriage and replaced his hat. His eyes turned first to his ship, as they always did, and he could not fail to notice the considerable activity on deck, activity that had sprung up in his absence and through no orders of his own.
    Abigail , like many moderately sized merchant vessels, never had any bulwarks, just a waist-high, stanchion-mounted rail running the perimeter of the deck and terminating just forward of the foremast. But this, apparently, would no longer be the case. A stack of yellow lumber lay on the wharf, giving off its pleasing smell of fresh-cut wood. A swarm of carpenters were at work on the deck, and already the first planks of the new, solid bulwark were being fitted in place.
    Oliver Tucker stood in the waist, directing a gang of men fussing over the fall of a heavy yard tackle. Jack’s eye followed the run of the line from waist to yardarm and then down to the dock until he came to its end, a squat, overbuilt cart, in the back of which rested the long, black barrel of a cannon. And thus the need for the bulwarks, Jack thought, with the unhappy dawning of comprehension.
    â€œCome here, Jack, come here!” Oxnard said with enthusiasm, once again guiding Jack along with an arm over the shoulders. They crossed the rough boards of the wharf and stopped on either side of the cart. A gang of men from the Abigail was positioning the lower end of the winding tackle, a massive six-part tackle slung under the maintop that would bear the bulk of the cannon’s weight in hoisting it aboard.
    â€œWell, Jack, what do you think?” Oxnard asked, slapping the black iron.
    â€œOf what, sir?”
    â€œThe cannon, Jack, the cannon! What do you think?”
    â€œIt’s a great beastly thing, to be sure.”
    â€œâ€˜Beastly’! That’s good!” Oxnard barked. “It a regular animal!