There turned out to be plenty to write down. O’Reilley might not be able to read and write, but he had an excellent memory for facts and figures, including what stores had been taken on when and in what quantity. Caleb listened, fascinated, jotting down everything the cook told him, until he had several pages covered with rough drafts. Writing it all up was going to be a lot of work for a spoonful of honey on his bread, but he didn’t think he was going to mind. O’Reilley was about two parts old rascal and one part favourite uncle, and taken all in all Caleb knew he could have done a lot worse for himself.
While he was bent over the ledger, pen in hand, he heard Lieutenant French’s cheery tones, although it was hard to hear what he was saying. The voice came nearer, and then he heard the little officer’s footsteps at the galley door. “Ah, Wynton. A lettered man, I see.”
“Yes,” said Caleb, and moved by some inner devil, added, “A surprising number of Americans are.” He regretted the words before he had quite finished speaking them. Insolence wasn’t going to solve anything, and it wasn’t as if Lieutenant French was making his life a misery.
“Indeed? I’m indebted to you, Wynton. But that’s not what I need to know at the moment. Can you speak, read and write any other languages?”
Caleb almost sighed with relief. “I had some tutoring in Latin and Greek as a boy, sir. I can maybe remember some of both of them, if it’s useful.” French made a mark on his slate as though he hadn’t heard Caleb’s back talk, and grinned affably.
“I don’t know what the Captain’s about, but I don’t think he needs a classics scholar at the moment. However, I’ll be sure to inform you if he does. Carry on, Wynton.”
When French had gone on his way, O’Reilley let out an exasperated sigh; but Caleb put his hand in the air. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have sassed the Lieutenant.”
“Aye, and ye can lay to that, boyo!” O’Reilley exclaimed. “Try that on Merriot, for a start, and he’ll see your hide peeled – and he won’t even be angry when he does it. He’s as fair-minded an officer as ever sailed, but that cuts two ways: he’ll punish you for what you did wrong, not one stroke heavier because you annoyed him, nor one lighter because you didn’t. And there’s plenty of officers in the fleet who’ll do you worse. We’ve not a bad lot in the Hector – not now, at any rate – but you’d not have to serve on many ships before you’d find one who’d give you two dozen for looking at him wrong, never mind giving him lip.”
The old man was quite upset, that was plain. Caleb nodded understanding. “All right, I’ll mind my mouth another time. But you said ‘not now, at any rate’. Why?”
“Ye can guess, Caleb,” said O’Reilley. “Ye can guess. A bad captain’s a curse on a ship, mebbe a worse curse than what that dago ship had. At least we’ve now got one who’s only green as grass, and that’ll mend, if we live long enough.”
“Well,” said Pearson, “what have we got?”
The four lieutenants and the Master were crowded into his cabin again, each looking at him expectantly. In a few minutes he’d know whether they thought he was all kinds of a fool, or whether his wild idea had some substance to it. He indicated Merriot. “Lead on.”
“There’s Jan Flens, sir, a Dutchman. ‘Yaw, yaw, can write fine,’ he says. We have two other Dutchmen, but they can’t read or write.”
“Fiuza can’t either,” McVicar added, “and he’s the only Portuguese-speaker on board.”
“Two Frenchmen, both lettered,” Tyldesley added; “Jean Renoir and Pierre LeBlanc.”
Pearson’s eyes widened. “Frenchmen?”
“Yes, sir. Renoir’s family got out of the country a few years back. Seemingly they’d been denounced as counter-revolutionaries. I hear there was a good deal of that going on, chiefly when the accuser wanted to default on a debt or seize a house and lands, and once the accusation was advanced, it wasn’t well to take your chances with a revolutionary court. The LeBlancs were the Renoirs’ footmen. They’re old Norman stock, and didn’t take gladly to Bonaparte’s kind telling them their masters were wicked aristos who ought to be guillotined.”
“Amazing! And they’re both loyal hands?”
“Extremely, sir,” Tyldesley confirmed. “Renoir’s the younger; he’s the master’s son, LeBlanc signed up to keep an eye on him, and they’re both as keen as you or I to see the back of Bonaparte. Maybe more.”
“All right,” Pearson said, “but I don’t think a Frenchman’s what I need for this job. Anyone else?”
“Johansen, sir,” said French. “Swedish. Looks like a lout, but writes like a clerk, at least in Swedish; his spoken English is bad enough, never mind writing it.”
“I’ll have a word with Johansen. He might be just what I’m after. The other thing I need is a small ship, big enough to cross the ocean but not too big that we can’t crew it as well has the Hector. Something like the El Cordobes would have been just the job. Do you think the Spanish might oblige us?”