Free Jack Frake by Edward Cline Page A

inside his shirt. “The ale’s on the house, sir.” Hiram Trott called for him and again he rushed away.
    Two hours later, the Sea Siren had grown even more crowded. Hiram Trott had sent for the tailor and his wife, who had a lute and could sing songs, and promised them a half-guinea if they could keep the place packed until midnight. Neither he nor his staff could stop to listen to the pair, who sang love songs, sea songs, bawdy songs and ballads. The patrons often joined in, and two tables were moved aside for those who wished to dance. The crowd was in a good mood. The officers and gentlemen drank toasts to their ladies. The soldiers cried “God save the King!” with every new round of drinks, alternating between that, “God sit on the shoulders of the great Duke of Cumberland!” and other toasts of a more suggestive nature. Hiram Trott unconsciously wrung his hands, pleased with the windfall business and hoping that no trouble would erupt.
    Jack Frake was at the fireplace, shoveling exploded embers back intothe roaring fire, when it happened. The front doors opened, and a navy lieutenant and a press-gang stood on the threshold.
    All noise, singing and conversation ended, and everyone turned to glare at the newcomers. They knew that the lieutenant and his men were not here to eat or drink. Trott laid his cudgel and knife aside, for if he were tempted to use them, he could just as easily be impressed or jailed as anyone collared by the gang. Tradesmen were not immune to the appetite of His Majesty’s navy.
    The lieutenant, a slim young man of twenty-two, returned the hostile glare with an imperious gaze. In addition to his sword, he carried a mahogany cane. In back of him were seven men in bluejackets. Each of them carried a short, crude cudgel. The lieutenant’s was not the only press-gang in town. Through the open door the patrons could hear the cries and running footfalls of others at work on Jetty Street and in its alleys, sounds which the hubbub had drowned out.
    Jack Frake, shovel in hand, wandered over and stood near Mr. Blair.
    The lieutenant smiled, then snorted. “Is this any way to greet His Majesty’s navy?”
    A voice in back of Jack Frake answered, “As long as it practices slavery! Your rhyme, sir!”
    The crowd shifted uneasily in its various seats, and a few chuckles were heard.
    “Who said that?” demanded the officer.
    No one volunteered a reply.
    “Very well,” said the lieutenant. “You all look legitimate — and unsuitable for service on one of His Majesty’s finest. Or most of you do. My apologies to the ladies,” he added with a brief but correct tip of his hat. “We won’t be long.” His head turned and surveyed the crowd, his glance pausing on two or three merchant sailors who cringed in their seats, and coming finally to rest on Mr. Blair. With a gesture of his cane, the lieutenant led his gang inside and approached the corner table. He smiled with wicked pleasure at the man. With a downward stroke of his cane, he tapped the book out of Blair’s hands, and with an upward stroke knocked the clay pipe out of his mouth. The pipe fell to the floor and shattered.
    “Now here’s a capable-looking fellow. Hands don’t need roughening, they’ve seen rope-work. And he seems hearty enough. Keen eyes, too, eyes that could put a round through a French gun-port every time, eh, Bosun? Gunnery will be pleased.” The lieutenant paused. “Seize him.”
    Jack Frake stepped forward. “He can’t talk, sir.”
    The lieutenant glanced down at the boy. “What was that, whelp?”
    “He can’t talk. His tongue’s dead.”
    The bosun at the officer’s side laughed. “He don’t have to say a thing, son! He just got to take orders and look sharp!”
    Another seaman said, “He won’t get no crow’s nest duty, that’s for sure!”
    “Seize him,” repeated the lieutenant with impatience.
    The bosun stepped over and grabbed Blair’s shoulder. Jack Frake swung the shovel and struck his