Scarborough Fair - Chris Scott Wilson [16]
“Wait here for me,” he said to the coachman who was winding the traces about the brake lever. Receiving a nod, he turned back to lift the brass knocker and hammer his presence.
Almost immediately the door opened to admit him.
CHAPTER 3
James Moylan was an ugly man. Squat, with the shoulders of a weightlifter above his barrel chest, he had the ruddy face of the Irishman he was, and the red nose of a man dedicated to the finer virtues of liquor. In his native Ireland he had been weaned on poteen distilled by the bog side, but with the accumulation of wealth he had educated his palate until only the best brandy would soothe his taste buds. His office was at the end of a ledger-lined corridor not unlike a gangway between decks. When the door was opened Moylan was revealed in a cloud of tobacco smoke that hung in layers inside the cramped room, continuously stoked by the furnace of his pipe. He sat back and squinted beyond the desk lamp when the clerk knocked and ushered in the visitor. As Paul Jones came into the circle of light the Irishman frowned, struggling to his feet, hand outstretched.
“By the Almighty God, Captain, I’m not believing you could get here so fast.”
Jones took the offered paw then gratefully heeded Moylan’s gesture to take a seat. “You expected me?”
“Of course. When I wrote you, I knew you’d come. She’ll be suiting you fine.”
Jones frowned. “You wrote to me?”
Moylan reached for a bottle along with two glasses. He filled them both and handed one to his guest. “I only sent it the day before yesterday to Paris. If you came without receiving it, your arrival must be an omen.”
“A good one, I hope. Did I hear you mention a ship?”
Moylan smiled as he sank back in his seat. He drained his glass then stood it on the desk where many glasses had left a pattern of rings. “Yes, a ship, and she’s for sale.”
Jones leaned forward, both the news and the brandy warming his stomach. “Tell me.”
Moylan shuffled papers in search of a taper to relight his pipe. “The Duc de Duras. Nine hundred tons and owned by a M’sieur Berard. She’s not new by any means, you’ll be understanding. Twelve years old, built in 1766 for the East India run.”
“Is she here now?”
“That she is. This is her home port. I’ll not be knowing if you’re aware this town was only a little fishing port until it became a base of the French East India Company in 1670. The town’s name L’Orient, now just the one word, Lorient, came from that business. The company collapsed eight years ago and now the town is a naval station, arsenal, batteries, and all.”
“Tell me more about the ship.”
Moylan puffed his pipe back into life, silent until reassuring clouds of aromatic smoke began to gather about his head. “As I’m saying, she is here and currently being refitted. Her owner has a notion to convert her into a privateer, no doubt in retaliation for the depredations of the English vessels that sail under that name, which of course is only being an excuse for piracy. To that end M’sieur Berard has managed to acquire six eighteen-pounder cannon from the French navy here. But I’m thinking his dream is a fanciful one. Rumor has it a lot of money changed hands over the cannon. I’m of the opinion Berard will not be able to complete his project. As it is, work has already stopped. The cannon are aboard but the gun ports have not been cut.” He paused to puff at his pipe. “Berard’s merchantmen have been attacked by the English on several occasions, and I’m thinking there’s no more money.