clever things that could be done with a ship, especially by Manxmen from Peel City. I told her of cousin Rob, who’d been in the English navy and married an Englishwoman, and now caught eels and such near Maldon town—that was hardly a spit from London itself—where he lived in an old house sat on an empty stretch of shore, handy as could be, so he’d even joked about what might be done there when he last paid us a visit. I told her how much a fellow might expect to catch from one voyage of this particular kind, and how it was only doing those Englishmen a favour besides, and so was moral as could be in its way. Not that it did any good. All I got back was black looks and Scripture talk.
‘‘You’ll have us all walking the houses begging for ha’pennies, mark my words,’’ she’d say, ‘‘or in gaol.’’
‘‘Don’t you worry,’’ I told her, ‘‘it’ll be as easy as kicking pebbles on the beach. You just wait. Three months from now you’ll have a fine new carriage to take you off to church on Sunday.’’
Of course things never do turn out quite as you expect. It took more than three months just to get the ship ready. First there was bringing her round to Peel, where all was more discreet. Then there was finding all that certain extra timber I needed, that had to be from a boat freshly broken up, and one just a little smaller than the Sincerity herself. Next there was getting the timber fitted, and repairs done besides. There was finding the crew, who had to be just right every one of them, meaning they had to be Manxmen from Peel City, as no others could be trusted. Finally, when ship and men were all set, there was the showing cargo, which was salted herring, Manx as could be. All of this cost a good few pennies, and though I had had paid a sweet price for the Sincerity herself, I was running short by the end and even had to borrow more from Dan Gawne the Castletown brewer. By late May, though, all was finished complete.
What a send-off that we had. Why, it seemed as if half Peel was there, standing on the quays and the herring boats, all staring, and perhaps waving a hat if they had one. Then again we were quite a sight. The Sincerity looked fine as Christmas with her new canvas, her fresh ropes and paintwork, and even her figurehead was gleaming as if new, peering away at the horizon through her dark curls, with just a hint of a winking. I’d bought myself a fresh set of clothes and a cap to match, and as I stood on the deck I felt fine and brave as could be. The only thing to spoil it all, in fact, was when I saw the Bishop of Man pushing his way through the throng towards us.
‘‘Captain Kewley, is it?’’ he asked. ‘‘I understand you’re sailing south.’’
The Bishop of Man, I should tell, was an Englishman named Chalmers, being a huffy old scriss always peering down his nose at the world. There were some persons said he’d got himself all in sulks because he’d not been given a fine airy cathedral in Winchester or Canterbury to lord it over, but had been shut away on a small country full of Methodists mumbling some language he couldn’t understand. Not that I’m saying it was true, but there were persons said so. Now he was all sweetness, of course, seeing as he was questing after a favour.
‘‘I have to go to Port St. Mary, you see. The roads being so very poor I wondered if I might make a little passage aboard your vessel.’’
I can’t say I much wanted him aboard, even just for the hour or the two it would take us to reach Port St. Mary, but it’s hardly easy saying no to bishops. Besides, if there was one man in Peel City who wouldn’t be in the know as to what particular kind of ship that the Sincerity happened to be, it was him, so there’d be no great harm. Or so it seemed at the time. Up he climbed onto the deck, in his purple and his silly-looking straw hat to keep the sun off his fine Englishman’s head.
Soon after that it was time to be away. As the wise man says, keep a good wind waiting