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“French birds are at least eleven-and-a-half times as bothersome as American ones.” – P.D.
We remained docked in Brest’s bosom for weeks. Instead of the usual gruel and stale bread, Reg brought Zippy and me bits of fine cheese and wine that he picked up in town. Since the days were growing warmer and longer, Reg also pilfered a few scraps of canvas that my mini mule and I used to rig up a sort of canopy over the crow’s nest, so we didn’t pass out as often from sun exposure. We were so high up, we couldn’t have been far from the sun itself.
Finally—and I write this with an exasperated sigh long enough to trigger an overwhelming cold chill—the day arrived when the Alliance and its crew, a bit smaller since the treacherous mutineers were kicked off the boat, set sail again. Reg clambered up the rigging and whispered in my ear, “We’re going to join the fleet of the great Admiral John Paul Jones.”
“Not Juan Paul Bones?” I’d heard of Juan Paul Bones.
“No, John Paul Jones!” Reg yelled in my ear.
“Is that good?” Being known by several names is the mark of a skilled captain, but I still didn’t know what to think about this Jones guy.
Reg dropped his voice and continued, “It couldn’t be better! Admiral Jones is one of the finest naval commanders of our time. Captain Pierre doesn’t think he’s so great, but the news has brought a smile to Moldy Mose’s face for the first time in weeks.” If I haven’t mentioned him before, Moldy Mose was the Alliance’s resident curmudgeon and black-market liaison.
Our voyage took us to a port not too far from Brest—a place called Lorient. I’d often heard stories back in Rinky-Dink of the Lorient, but when I questioned Reg about the town and its inhabitants, there was much less silk and incense about than I’d been led to believe. In the harbor, the Alliance was anchored next to another fine specimen of a ship. Reg told me it was Jonesie’s ship—that’s the abbreviation I made for John Paul Jones, so I wouldn’t forget it. The sparkling frigate was named Bonhomme Richard. For those reading this who’ve never received proper instruction in the French language, here’s the English pronunciation of the ship’s name: “Bon-Homey Richard.”
Through my cloudy vision, I could just make out someone in the crow’s nest next door in Jonesie’s ship. I waved, took a deep breath, and cried, “Ahoy there! What’s your name?” After a few moments, I heard a splash, but the sailor never answered my question. They must’ve been called away on some important naval business—probably to help fish out whoever fell overboard.
We didn’t tarry long in Lorient. Before fatal boredom set in, we sailed for the British Isles—those islands around the large one where the King lives, and it rains all the time. One night, a vicious storm whipped the ocean into a frenzy around the ships in our convoy. Wave after wave crashed against the Alliance, rocking and shaking the ship. Zippy and I made peace with God that night. We feared it was the end. The crew had been unable to lash down the sails before the powerful winds had ripped wide tears in the canvas sheets. At the height of the storm, the Alliance couldn’t steer clear of the Bonhomme Richard, and we struck her.
The force of the collision shook the mast so violently that it split, and Zippy’s lead was cut free. My paternal instincts kicked in. Everything around me seemed to slow down as my senses heightened. The crow’s nest began to slide down the mast, and it leaned dangerously to one side. I threw Zippy into my satchel, buckling it for her safety. Climbing down the rigging was the most obvious way to safety, but I feared that the mast was near collapse. Lacking a better option, I took what little running start I could and jumped, grabbing onto a shred of sail within reach. The momentum of my jump swung me out over the sea and back again to the mast. I pushed against the mast with all the strength I had left in my atrophied legs—sitting for months in a confined space you’re not allowed to leave does a number on your lower body, let me tell you.
The sail continued to tear, lowering Zippy and me closer to the waves as we swung out over the ocean. I glanced below to find a safe place for us to land on the deck, but we were still far too high above the Alliance to attempt letting go of the sail. Once more, the sail returned me to the mast, and I prepared to kick off again. Before I knew what had happened, I was propelling through the air at high speed. Gusts of wind filled the shred of sail I held in my hands, pushing me far further than I’d swung during my previous attempts. At that point, the Bonhomme Richard and Alliance hadn’t yet been pulled apart by the force of the waves. The sail carried me far enough that I saw the dark deck of the Bonhomme Richard below me. I had little time to make a decision, so I let go of the sail and plummeted to the deck of the ship. A sailor broke my fall. It took me a moment to come to my senses, but when I did, I dusted off my soaked clothes which were getting soggier with each successive thunderclap and ran to the nearest hatch to hide below deck. In my haste, I forgot to thank that man for catching Zippy and me as we fell to the deck. Once we were safe in a dry corner of the hold, I let Zippy out of the satchel. She jumped into my open arms, and we embraced.
Boy, did my calves hurt the next day. Zippy and I took the liberty of sleeping in. It had been the first night in months I hadn’t had to sleep curled up. I’m lucky my vertebrae didn’t stick like that. A few of the crew woke us up by pouring a bucket of salt water on us. “Look what we’ve got here,” a giant sailor growled.
“Stowaways,” an even taller man squeaked next to him. The two sailors were practically identical, down to their clothes, so I’ll refer to them hereafter as “tall” and “taller.” With a shove, the tall one knocked the taller sailor over.
“Shaddup! Go inform the Admiral we’ve got stowaways while I make sure they don’t escape.” The taller sailor hobbled out of the hold. He returned with a man wearing a starched officer’s uniform. The man, John Paul Jones, stood before me, glowering at me with those twitchy eyes of his.
“Why have you stowed away on this ship?” When Jonesie talked, he had an odd habit of moving his head about wildly, as though he were a bird or wished to be one. If his cap hadn’t been fitted with a chinstrap, it would’ve been thrown from his head repeatedly.
“I wanted a piece of the action, sir.” I decided this stowaway business was just the charade I needed to avoid being forced to return to the Alliance and that tiny crow’s nest. “I’ll work as hard as any man who shares a similar or lesser height, build, or work ethic to my own.”
Jonesie squinted down at me for a few moments before bending at the waist. He winced and straightened, massaging his back with one of his hands. “If I find the idiot who fell on me last night, they’ll be shoved down a cannon and get what’s coming to them.” Zippy and I gulped. “You,” Jonesie jabbed a finger into my chest. “Swab the decks.”
“Yes, sir! I’ll swab them until my fingers bleed, and then I’ll circle back and clean that up as well.”
Jonesie turned to leave before glancing back. “What’s that?” He pointed at Zippy.
“Oh, this old thing? It’s just a stuffed animal I’ve had since my youth. I take her everywhere—sort of a good luck charm.”
“Don’t let it interfere with your work.” Jonesie returned to his post elsewhere in the ship.
“Ha! A stuffed animal—did you hear that?” The taller man jeered at the tall one.
They walked over to Zippy and poked and prodded her several times. Thankfully, Zippy had embraced the uncomfortable circumstances I’d placed her in. The sailors’ cursory examination was enough to satisfy them. The taller one was clearly impressed with the workmanship and asked, “Where can I get one of those for my niece?” I gave him BJ Franklin’s address in Philly.
After placing Zippy back into my satchel where she could remain out of sight, I followed the two sailors back to the deck. Fuzzy cloudbanks—remnants of the previous night’s storm—still clung to the horizon. The first mate whose name I can’t recall handed me a mop and said, “Mop.” My months spent sweeping and dancing through the cobbled streets of Philly prepared me well for the task. I’d wait until an especially large breaker sloshed some water up onto the deck, and then I’d skip, twirl, and slide across the deck with the mop. I was a popular form of entertainment for the crew. Some of them even threw food at me which I scooped up and shared with Zippy as an afternoon snack. The crew thought it was pretty weird that I took time to pretend to share my food with a stuffed animal. When they weren’t looking, I’d nudge Zippy, and she’d eat a few scraps out of my hand. Then, she’d fall lifeless again—a little too believably. She had me going a few times.
On that first afternoon, I overheard a handful of sailors talking in hushed tones, so I snuck over to where they were standing and pretended to inspect my fingernails as I stood back-to-back with one of their group. I heard one of them say, “The damage is too bad to keep going. We’ve got to head back to port.” And head back we did. We remained in France for several weeks while the damage to the Bonhomme Richard and Alliance was repaired.
At one point, my escape was almost discovered by Murphy, the Alliance’s first mate. I was swabbing the decks while humming an up-tempo classical number when I heard someone call out, “Hey, isn’t that our missing crow’s nest boy over there on the Bonhomme?” I hit the deck so hard I broke the handle of my favorite mop.
Another voice responded, “Who are you talking about?”
“He was there a second ago.... Oh well, it’s no use looking for Pritchard any longer. Assign Reg to the crow’s nest.” It’s too bad that Reg had to serve in my place. Those seemingly endless weeks spent immobile really take their toll on your legs. I still don’t know whether Reg had any legs, so it’s possible he coped well enough.
