Free The Privateersman (A Poor Man at the Gate Series Book 1) by Andrew Wareham Page B

his prize money. The cargos of sugar and molasses sold, as
ever; the foodstuffs went to the plantations and the hulls themselves were
bought up by local merchants, they having lost too many of their own boats to
the French in past months.
    It took only three weeks to condemn and dispose of
the prizes, it being one of the rare occasions in which celerity was to the
advantage of the lawyers. None of the few attorneys-at-law on the island
specialised exclusively in the Admiralty Court, there was not enough business
for them to make a living thus, so they all had clients wanting to purchase the
cargo or prizes and whose interests would be best served by speed and who might
not continue to patronise a lawyer who caused delay. They were close to the
hurricane season and the West Indies convoy to England was due to sail very
soon; the merchants wanted their sugars to sell in London this year and the
Law, servant always to the rich and powerful, obliged.
    Tom, as senior survivor, was forced to deal with the
prize agent, an experience which stretched his literacy to its utmost limit and
introduced him to the practices of trade, something which he found to be
fascinating. He had to give the final approval to every sale of prize goods and
accept the price negotiated; it was not easy to calculate what discount should
be given for rapid payment or what was the correct valuation to be given to
foreign weights and qualities of molasses and rum. He had to learn quickly, and
to take advice from the agent, accepting the responsibility for decisions that
he did not fully understand. He enjoyed himself.
    There were a number of problems to face, not least
being that Blaine had left no instructions to apply in case of his death. The
prize agent believed Mr Blaine to have been the sole owner of the Star, but he
did not know this certainly to be the case and, as well, had no directions for
his heirs and assigns.
    “It is unusual, Mr Andrews, for the master of a
privateer to be sole owner, indeed, it is unique in my experience – normally
they have no more than eight of the sixty-fourths - and it will take years to
have enquiries made in England. Do you know if Blaine had family?”
    Tom was certain Blaine had been alone in the world,
such kin as he might have had having dropped off when he was discovered to be
an embarrassment rather than a dashing young frigate captain. He knew that
Blaine had never married, said as much and added some interesting extra
information.
    Tom had been thinking hard over the few days since
their lucky encounter with the French navy and had decided, amongst other
things, that he was too young to die. He had a scar across his ribs now, as
well as that on his face, and wondered just how lucky he might be next time –
he had got away with it twice now, he told himself and that meant either that
he was fireproof or that he was bloody fortunate. He would be eighteen later in
the year and wanted to celebrate his birthday, not be the centrepiece at a
wake; it was time to say farewell to privateering, which left the question of
what to do next. He had a solution, wondered if he could get away with it.
    “I believe, Mr Johnson,” he tentatively offered the
prize agent, “that is, I am pretty much certain from what the captain told me
when he was talking, which he did a lot.” The prize agent knew that Blaine had
been a drunk and that bottle-hounds could never keep their mouths shut, nodded
understandingly; he liked young Andrews, a brave and open-faced lad and very
bright, too young yet to have learned habits of roguery.
    “Go on, Mr Andrews.”
    “Well, sir, from what he said, the captain wasn’t
the owner as such, he was the front man, you might say, on a big share, maybe,
for three gentlemen who didn’t want to be known to be in the business of
letters of marque. The Earl, an admiral and a right reverend gentleman, I was
told. The Earl thought he should not be getting his hands dirty with our trade,
and the admiral