The French Prize by James L. Nelson Page B

his share of rancid beef purchased, as this no doubt had been, at a greatly reduced price, or taken off the chandler’s hands in exchange for some other consideration. For his men, Jack would have none of it.
    In the end he won that fight, but it meant Oxnard had little appetite for the next request. “And, pray, sir, don’t forget that I will need that r ô le d’ é quipage ,” Jack reminded him.
    The r ô le d’ é quipage . It was an innocuous document by any standard—a list of the ship’s crew—but thanks to a decree by the Directoire it had become very crucial indeed. Since 1778, when France had first joined the Americans in their fight against the British, the French had required American ships to show a passport, no more, to prove their nationality. But now the Directoire , furious at the new American treaty with England, was requiring a r ô le d’ é quipage as well. Any ship boarded by a French privateer that could not produce one was considered a fair prize. It was retaliation and a chance for plunder, no more, but when one ship was armed with heavy cannon and the other was not, all the treaties in the world counted for little.
    This was not a situation in which Jack wished to find himself, his own newly installed great guns notwithstanding. But for all the importance that the r ô le d’ é quipage carried, Oxnard gave Jack’s request a wave of the hand and a “Yes, yes, of course,” by way of dismissal.
    And that in turn put Jack in a foul mood, which he nursed and stoked on the way back to the Abigail ’s berth. He paused on the wharf and ran his eyes over the ship tied there. The bulwarks were done now, the paint fresh; black from the rail down to the gunnel, which was a brilliant red, then the chief of the hull oiled down to the lower wale, which was black like the bulwarks. The gunports were neatly cut, three per side, and the great guns came poking out like some hibernating beasts testing the air for spring.
    It was all excellently well done, shipshape and Bristol fashion, and normally Jack would have looked on it with the same appreciation with which he might run his eye over the fine lines of a young woman in a silk dress. But the presence of the guns, thrust upon him, still grated and made his mood fouler still.
    With those irritants already gnawing at him, Jack Biddlecomb was not in an ideal temper for the surprise of finding, on entering his cabin, a young gentleman sitting at his table, scratching away with a pen at some correspondence, a small stack of papers to one side, a glass of wine at hand, a cigar smoldering in a saucer that belonged to a tea set his mother had sent aboard.
    â€œWhat, ho?” Jack asked, too surprised to come up with more.
    The young man looked up. A smooth, close-shaven face, good skin, very pale. Hair the color of wet sand. He looked to be about Jack’s age, perhaps a year or two older. The shirt and stock visible around the periphery of his silk jacket were white beyond anything Jack could hope to achieve with his own shirts. Indeed, they made the fresh paint of the great cabin seem yellowed in contrast.
    â€œOh, yes,” the young man said, showing none of the surprise that Jack was exhibiting. “My chest and bags are on the deck above. Pray, fetch them down here directly.” He lifted the cigar, put it between his lips, and readdressed himself to his writing.
    â€œAnd you would be…?” Jack queried.
    The young man looked up again, and now there was the slightest crease of irritation on his brow. “William Wentworth, Esquire. Of the Boston Wentworths.”
    â€œThe Boston Wentworths? Indeed?” Jack had no notion of who the Boston Wentworths were.
    â€œIndeed, yes. You’ll find the name on my chest. Which, you may recall, I requested that you bring down directly.”
    Jack took a step into the cabin. Wentworth leaned back in his chair, regarding him