THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

THE CURSE OF RICHARD PARKER.

By Bob French

          The two young boys sat frozen to their chairs, mesmerised by the old pirate who sat opposite them in his crinkled old oil-skin coat.  His rugged sunburnt face made darker by the shaggy white beard that partially hid a large scar that ran down the side of his face.  Everything about him smelt of the sea, but what frightened the boys the most were his eyes; they were a deep bluey-green; the colour of the sea. 

          The windows of the old tavern rattled as the wind howled past the coast of East Tilbury and rushed on down the estuary towards the City of London.  The old alehouse ‘The Ship’, was a frequent drinking hole for those who made their living from the sea, and during the summer months, the place was always packed with fisherman, customs men, and of course pirates.  What drew them to this desolate place on the coast was the ale and the huge fireplace that when lit, created strange shapes on the walls and fired sparks out onto the stone cobbled floor with a sharp crack.

          An old grandfather clocked chimed somewhere in the shadows of the alehouse as the old pirate looked down at the two boys.  He never smiled or joked.  To him, life was a serious matter, not to be fooled with. Then he began; his voice was gruff and harsh.

          “I recalls,” the old pirate leant forward as though about to whisper the location of a hidden treasure.  “That it were a cold and windy night as we pulled out into the estuary.  It were right choppy and the harder we pulled on them oars the more the sea fought us.” He suddenly leant back, gripped his leather tankard and drained it then slammed it down on the table, making the two young boys jump. After he had dragged his sleeve across his mouth he leant forward again and in a hushed raspy voice started talking.

          “The Master’s Mate was an ‘ard man, but fair mind you.  His name was Richard Parker and ‘e didn’t like landlubbers; that’s the name we gives to those poor fella’s that were nabbed by the Press Gang.  Un each time we got a new batch a’board, he’d treat ‘em ‘ard, so they understood what wus expected of ‘em.”

          “Now on this ship was an officer, by the name of Jethro Wilkinson, who didn’t like Parker on account of him coming from a common background un ‘im bein’ an officer thought he acted ‘bove his station.  So one night he goes and tells the cap’m that Parker has stolen a watch belongin’ to one of the gentlemen landlubbers. The cap’m ‘as his birth searched and finds the stolen watch.  Parker should ‘ave been flogged, but the Cap’m respected ‘im so he court martials him instead, then discharged ‘im from the Navy.  Broke ‘is heart it did.” 

          The old pirate looked up and smiled at the young girl as she leant across the table and placed another tankard of ale down in front of him.  When she left, his face turned serious again as he stared at the young boys.

          “Now Parker knew who had set him up and just as he was leaving the ship he approaches Lieutenant Wilkinson and stared him right in the face and says:”

          ‘I curse you and your family, un those who come after you, un I condemn all those of your kin that takes to the sea to everlasting shame.’

          As the old pirate looked up, an ice-cold gust of wind suddenly rushed around the alehouse as someone came in from the cold.  The two young boys jumped at the unwelcome intrusion and quickly held hands for courage.

          ”Of course Richard Parker was a professional sailor and it weren’t long before he joined up again. But things had changed since he was a sailor; the wages were now very poor and the food not much better, so Richard Parker starts a protest and after a month he’s got several ships crews protesting.  Now the Admirals weren’t havin’ nothing to do with him and after about three weeks they catches him, and on the 30^th of June 1797, they hangs him from the yardarm just out there in the estuary.”  The old pirate took another swig from his tankard. 

“The story goes that Lieutenant Wilkinson died on the way to India, on the very same day, of scurvy.”  No one spoke for a minute, then the old pirate cleared his throat and looked sternly at the boys.

          “Like all sailors, they burries Parker at sea, right where that wreck is.”  The old pirate turns and points out of the window towards the estuary.  The two young boys rush to the window and stare at the two masts that protrude from the churning sea.  As the boys concentrate on the grey waters swirling around the sunken masts they hear the old pirate start to talk again and quickly return to their seats.  As they sit, he quickly glances around behind him, then leans forward.

          “Some say that them shadows that dances on these walls are those of Richard Parker’s ghost.” The two boys quickly look at the strange moving shadows and move a little closer to each other.

          “In 1944, during the last war, a cargo ship, the SS Richard Montgomery, was carrying thousands and thousands of tonnes of explosives.  Un on the afternoon of the 30^th June it anchored out there in the estuary.  The Officer of the watch, so they says, was a Lieutenant Jonathan Wilkinson and, for some strange reason, the ship dragged its anchor and drifted right onto the Great Nore Sand Bank and sticks fast.  No one could understand why it had happened, but Lieutenant Wilkinson was court martialled and sent back to America in disgrace.” 

          “Now the people who were in charge had a big problem on their hands.”  The old pirate nodded in the direction of the sea.  “They ‘ad a sunken ship rottin’ away with thousands of tonnes of high explosives on board. After several months of talking it were decided to unload her; so a plan was made to unload her; but the sea was ‘avin’ none of it.  Some say it were the curse, but half way through the operation she splits in two, so they ‘ave to leave the rest of the high explosives on board.”

          “To this day the curse of Richard Parker still hangs over us all, particular the Wilkinson family.”  The old pirate lifts his tankard and takes another long swig of his ale, then belches, much to the amusement of the two young boys.

          “It don’t end there.  A few years back a Mr Malcolm Wilkinson, a big shot in American airport construction started to invest millions and millions of dollars in the new Thames Airport Project.  Everything was going swell, according to his press release, until someone told him about the sunken ammunition ship, the SS Richard Montgomery.  After lots of tests, the experts finally told ‘im that if the Montgomery were moved in any way she’ll blow and the damage to the coastline and several hundred miles inland would be catastrophic.”  The old pirate’s eyes twinkled as he laughed to himself.       “According to the papers, Old man Wilkinson lost the lot and scurried back to America penniless.”

          Just then an unwelcome gust of ice-cold wind scurried around the room, sending the shadows dancing across the wall again.  The two boys jumped at the figures that dances on the wall, then stood up and rushed towards the young woman who had just come in.

          “Mum, Granddad has been telling us the story about the ghost of Richard Parker and the old ship in the estuary that is going to blow up.”  She smiled and leant across and kissed her father on the forehead.

          “Thanks for looking after the boys Dad, I hope you haven’t been filling their heads with nonsense?”

 

Copyright Bob French