by John Harris
Willie glared at him. ‘I’ve told you,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t call me “sonny”. Just be ready. Have you got steam up?’
Hankinson gave him the pitying look of a sailor for a shore-sider trying to understand ships. ‘Son,’ he said. ‘We coulda been ready for days. With steam up. But that woulda meant burning coal, and that woulda meant using our bloody cargo because the bunkers aren’t so bloody full as they was. January’s gone and it’s gettin’ colder. You’ve been here now a week yourself and nothin’s happened. I’m still waitin’. Just you give me a date and a time and I’ll be ready.’
Willie glared about him. The Russians had moved their heavy armoured cruisers, light cruisers, destroyers and torpedo boats into three lines, anchored fore and aft at the entrance to the harbour as if they were being used as a boom, the heavy ships on the inside line, the cruisers on the outside lines, with the torpedo boats near the Tiger Peninsula, which formed one side of the harbour. Nothing could get in, but also nothing could get out.
He stared at the ships angrily. They were ram-bowed and painted white and yellow, big and ungainly and somehow with a look of inefficiency about them. He loathed them for it. Once he had seen the Russian admiral, a stout bearded man with the round bland face of a child, wearing epaulettes, sashes and medals. How ready were they, he wondered, and how ready the Japanese?
The Russians were convinced the Japanese were weak and unwilling to fight and that their threats were nothing but bluff. But Willie had heard that the Japanese consul at Chefoo had chartered the British steamer Foo Chow to pick up all Japanese citizens from Port Arthur and Dalny. That seemed to be significant, but the point was that the Japanese fleet was still at Sasebo and so far had shown no signs of moving.
Then he remembered what Shaiba had told him, and his heart suddenly thumped. He’d forgotten all about Shaiba in the difficulties he had been having trying to get the Lady Roberts moving. ‘What’s the date?’ he asked Hankinson.
‘Second o’ February. Why?’
‘Never mind why.’ Willie stared again with hatred at the lines of Russian warships. ‘How long will it take you to get steam up?’
‘Three – four hours. Why?’
‘What about your crew?’
‘Ashore. You can’t keep ’em aboard. I expect they’re after the booze and women like all sailors.’
‘Get ’em aboard.’
‘Are we leaving?’
‘We are if I’ve anything to do with it.’ Willie stared again at the Russian ships. He had no idea what Shaiba had been trying to convey to him, but Sasebo was only a day or two’s steaming away and he suspected that the Japanese were up to something, and if anybody came up over the horizon and started firing at the Russians, any overs, any ranging shots that weren’t exactly on the mark, could well land on the Lady Roberts. ‘We’re shifting our berth.’
‘Why?’
‘God’s green footstool! Don’t you know any other bloody word?’
‘Well, I want to know,’ Hankinson argued stubbornly. ‘Shiftin’ me berth for no reason at all costs money and it makes me look a fool.’
‘If anybody tells you you’re a fool–’ Willie was tempted to be the first ‘–just refer ’em to me. We’re shifting the ship to the west of the harbour. As far as we can get.’
Hankinson’s mouth framed the word ‘Why?’ but he changed his mind and stalked away.
That afternoon, Willie went back on board the Lady Roberts. The crew were lounging about the foredeck, near the entrance to the forecastle, shabby, grubby-looking and hung over. They eyed Willie sourly as he climbed to Hankinson’s cabin through the depressing brown-painted alleyways. There seemed to be not an atom of cheer about the ship and he decided that as soon as he’d sold the cargo he’d invest in a different one, with a young captain, and sell the Lady Roberts, together with Hankinson and all his crew.
Hankinson was playing draughts with the engineer as usual. As Willie entered, he turned round indifferently.
‘You got steam up?’ Willie asked.
‘Aye,’ the engineer said grudgingly. ‘As instructed. Burning coal. Wasting coal. We’ve had to start shifting some of the cargo, we’re so short.’
‘We may have to move in a hurry. There’s trouble coming.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘Japanese trouble.’
‘You’re talking through your hat, sonny.’
‘No, I’m not.’ By this time Willie was more convinced than ever that Shaiba had known something and had been warning him to he prepared. He swung round to Hankinson. ‘Have you fixed the new berth?’
‘Yes. There’s a tug standing by.’
‘Get him alongside.’
‘It’ll cost you money.’
‘I’ll worry about that. What about your crew?’
‘All aboard except three.’
‘Why not those three?’
‘Because they’re all bigger than me. I don’t argue with ’em.’
‘Where will they be?’
‘Bucket of Blood. It’s a bar. They call it that because there’s always fights. Brothel’s upstairs.’
‘I’ll get ’em.’
‘They’ll eat you.’
‘I’ll worry about that, too. Get your ship moving.’
Climbing ashore again, the big Russian revolver stuffed into his belt and held in place by his tightly buttoned jacket, Willie set out for the Bucket of Blood.
It was a seedy bar with a Russian name in Cyrillic lettering, full of smoke, women and sailors. Most of the men were Russians, but there were a few Frenchmen, Chinese and Scandinavians from ships in the harbour.
Giving the names of the men he wanted to the woman who met him, she told him they were all together upstairs, drinking. As he moved to the stairs, he was stopped by a sleazy girl. Others plucked at his sleeve, but, his face grim, he marched through them without seeing them. The three men from the Lady Roberts were sitting with three women round a table on which there was a large bottle of vodka. They looked up without interest as Willie appeared.
‘On your feet,’ he said. ‘We’re going back to the ship. I’ve got a cab outside. We can all get in.’
One of the men rose. He seemed enormous and appeared to tower over Willie. ‘Listen, son,’ he said. ‘That ship ain’t moving. She’s grown roots.’
The others laughed, and Willie swallowed nervously.
‘She’s changing her berth now,’ he said. ‘She’s leaving tonight, tomorrow or the day after.’
‘Run off, sonny. You’re interrupting the drinkin’.’
‘We’re going back to the ship. All of us.’
‘Bugger off. Before I land you one.’
Unbuttoning his jacket Willie introduced the revolver and cocked it. The click was loud in the stillness. ‘Get going,’ he said.
The sailor stared at the weapon. ‘It’s not loaded,’ he jeered. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’
As he reached out to take the weapon, Willie pulled the trigger. The roar seemed to fill the room and as the vodka bottle exploded into splinters of glass, there were shouts from below and screams from the women in the bar. In the drifting wisp of smoke the three men climbed to their feet.
‘Lead the way,’ Willie said.
As they moved down the stairs and through the bar, there were catcalls at the men and screamed curses at Willie. He gestured with the revolver and everyone became silent. Outside, the three men climbed into the carriage Willie had waiting.
The big sailor glared. ‘You made me look a sodden fool,’ he growled ‘I’ll get you for this.’
‘Shut up, Archie,’ one of the other two said. ‘The kid says he’s goin’ to get us outa here. Let’s give him a chance. I’m sick of this bloody place and we’re not bein’ paid. You payin’ us, kid?’
‘I’ll guarantee your wages if you get the Lady Roberts to Shanghai.’
‘The Russians won’t let us out.’
‘Leave me to worry about that. It might take a day or two, but we�
�ve got to be ready.’
The three men quietened down and Hankinson stared with surprise as they appeared alongside the ship where she lay in her new berth. Willie followed the men aboard and climbed to the bridge to stare towards the sea. The Lady Roberts was now laying beyond the end of the line of Russian ships.
‘It’ll do,’ he said.
Four
‘If I’m to run a shipping line,’ Willie said. ‘I’ll need to know something about it, won’t I?’
Hankinson stared at him, distrustful of but at the same time impressed by this tall dark-haired young man who seemed to know exactly what he was doing. ‘I reckon so,’ he said.
‘So how do I go about it? Can I get a mate’s certificate?’
Hankinson looked at him pityingly. ‘To get a certificate of any kind you got to do four years at sea.’
‘Right,’ Willie said. ‘Then sign me on now. I’ve done some time already and it’ll all count. What about the studying? Where do I get the books?’
Hankinson found himself being swept along. ‘I got some,’ he admitted. ‘And there’s some in the mate’s cabin he won’t want no more.’ He took them down and held them out. ‘Here you are. Knots and Splices, Norie’s Navigation, The Africa Pilot, Mother Shipton’s Dream Book and How to Tell Fortunes.’ He grinned. ‘They won’t help you a lot.’ He stared at Willie, puzzled. ‘What’s so bloody exciting about ships?’ he said. ‘The tide goes out, the tide comes in, you see an old hat floating past and know it’s changed. I’ve never found ships all that hair-raising.’
‘Never?’
‘Well–’ Hankinson hesitated – ‘I suppose there was a time once.’
By this time, Willie was growing desperate for ready cash. The trip north, with the bribe to the junkmaster and the guide from Chanchow, the hire of ponies, the hire of the tug that had hauled the Lady Roberts across the harbour, had drained him of it and there was still some time to go. Then he realised he could earn enough to keep himself in food and drink by playing the piano in the bar he frequented, and began to feel he might hang on until the 8th, when, surely to God, something would happen.
February 6th came and went. Then the 7th and nothing happened. The Russians were in a ferment of excitement and anger over the possibility of attack, but it didn’t seem to stir them from their sloth.
Every day Willie rose aboard ship, shaved, dressed and ate a drab crew’s breakfast of burgoo, wondering if he’d guessed wrong. Perhaps Shaiba had known nothing and had just been showing off. On the other hand, Port Arthur was full of Chinese coolies, servants and labourers – some of them probably disguised Japanese – and the Japanese probably new everything that was going on.
During the day he went into the town, which was situated at the end of a large bay enclosed by two headlands coming together to form a long, narrow entrance. The Russian ships were still in three lines outside the harbour, with the destroyers and auxiliary vessels inside. Some of the bigger ships seemed to be engaged in coaling, but a lot of men were on shore leave, so that the cafés were full and there were crowds at a visiting circus which had pitched its tents on a stretch of open land near the centre of the town. Realising he was getting nowhere, he returned to the Lady Roberts, determined to do something about her, because he felt that if trouble started it would be as well to have her easily identifiable.
‘I want the ship’s carpenter to build two big signboards,’ he said. ‘One for either side of the bridge. I want ’em painted and slung over the side so they can easily be seen. Then I want the ship’s engineer to arrange for clusters of lights to be hung over ’em – electric lights–’
‘It can’t be done!’ the engineer growled.
‘It can. Do it. I want ’em slung so they illuminate the boards. I want ’em to be seen. I also want boards slung over with the ship’s name on ’em.’
‘What about the other boards?’ Hankinson asked. ‘What colour do we paint ’em? Red and green for port and starboard?’
‘I want ’em painting with the Union Jack,’ Willie said. ‘And quick. It doesn’t have to be a perfect job. Just the right amount of red, white and blue in the right places.’
‘Red we got. For the port light reflector. White we got. We mix it with black to make grey. Blue we ain’t got. What would we want blue for aboard a tub like this? We don’t have ladies’ boodwars.’
‘Fix it how you like,’ Willie said. ‘I’ll get the blue ashore. When I come back I want a start made. Put everybody on it. It’s important.’
When he returned, the carpenter and four men were hammering together a huge square of wood from planks and drilling holes in it for the ropes which would hold it over the side. The engineer was fixing cables for the lights.
‘Blue,’ Willie said, dropping the two cans of paint at Hankinson’s feet. ‘Bit light for the Union Jack, but it’ll do. Add a bit of black. If there’s any left, you can paint your cabin with it. It needs it.’
When February 8th came, Willie rose again, shaved, dressed and ate his breakfast, tense with nervous excitement. Nothing had happened. He had been half-expecting some sort of panic declaration of war, but nothing had happened.
The painting had been finished and the two huge boards were propped against the centre castle drying, with two more boards bearing the ship’s name.
‘Have ’em slung in place,’ he said. ‘Where they can be seen.’
‘They’re not dry yet,’ Hankinson pointed out.
‘A smudge or two won’t matter. Get ’em up.’
Hankinson stared at Willie curiously, but he didn’t argue. As Willie turned away the big sailor called Archie, who had threatened him at the Bucket of Blood, stopped him.
‘We leavin’, kid?’ he asked.
‘I hope so.’
‘When.’
‘It depends.’
During the day, still nothing happened and Willie began to grow nervous. If nothing happened at all, he’d look a fine old fool. Then he decided that if anything was going to happen it would happen at night.
Towards the end of the afternoon, a message arrived from the harbourmaster’s office that the ship was to return to its former berth.
‘Ignore it,’ Willie said.
Hankinson was indignant. ‘Sonny,’ he said. ‘In Russia, you don’t ignore anything or they stick you in jug.’
‘They won’t stick us in jug,’ Willie said, though he was far from certain that he was right. ‘We’re British citizens. And don’t call me “sonny”.’
Two hours later another message arrived. ‘LieutenantCommander Count Zychov requests that the ship moves at once,’ the officer who brought it said.
The old hatred bubbled up again immediately. Certain that Zychov was being deliberately obstructive, Willie shook his head. ‘Tell him we can’t,’ he said. ‘We haven’t got steam up.’
Hankinson looked round sharply. ‘But–’
‘We’ll get steam up during the night,’ Willie went on quickly, ignoring him. ‘And move first thing in the morning. It’s almost dark now and moving in the dark we run the risk of collision.’
The messenger, who was an army man, was uncertain how ships operated and he let it go. Willie watched him head down the gangway. He knew he was gambling heavily. It was the 8th now and he was expecting something to happen. If it didn’t, he’d probably end in jug after all – if the crew hadn’t beaten him up first.
He ate a dreary evening meal in the bar as dusk was falling, then, hiring a cab, had himself driven out of the town. There was a considerable amount of activity around naval headquarters and he learned that the Japanese had put troops ashore at Chemulpo, and, after a skirmish between Cossacks and Japanese, two Russian warships and a merchant ship had been scuttled by their crews. The Russian officer who gave him the news was indignant and excited because war hadn’t been declared, but the excitement didn’t seem to have affected the rest of the fleet and Willie watched a boatload of officers and women heading for a party on the flagship and, as he passed the docks,
he saw that a fourmasted barque had moved into the berth the Lady Roberts had occupied and was in the process of unloading sacks of flour. The Russians appeared to be stocking up.
Getting the cab driver to take him to the shore, he stood alone, staring out to sea, his worries driving in on him. The wind was icy as he stared across the harbour towards the Tiger Peninsula, the neck of land which formed the western arm of the harbour. Behind him he could see the lights of the town twinkling against the black loom of the hills. His head down in the collar of his coat, feeling the wind penetrating his clothes with ease, he wondered what Abigail was doing. He had hoped to send her a telegraphed message from Port Arthur, but the Russians were allowing no messages to leave the place so he could only hope she wasn’t too worried.
The moon had not yet risen and from the town he could hear faint snatches of music on the breeze. The Russian warships stood out plainly, every porthole brilliantly lit, the glow of the lights from the town picking out the colours of the ships’ paint. Behind him he knew the fortress guns were unmanned and even still in their winter coating of protective grease, because he had walked near them and chatted to a solitary bored sentry. The most powerful on Electric Hill had even had their recoil cylinders drained, and the gun crews were finding what amusement they could in the cafés and bars of the bleak little town. The only defences were a few light guns aboard the ships and he’d heard that even the torpedo nets had not been rigged.
As it grew dark he watched two destroyers, their lights glowing, leave their anchorage among the rest of their class, and move to sea past the three lines of heavy ships. Everybody knew what they were up to because you could hear it in every café and restaurant in Port Arthur. The Russian officers were always quick to boast what was happening, and he knew the destroyer commanders’ orders were to search the sea in an area twenty miles outside the harbour before returning to report.
The big cruiser, Pallada, acting as duty ship for the night, was laying her searchlights on the horizon and he was still standing there as the moon began to rise, staring at the calm, silvery sea. Behind him on the muddy road that led into the town, the cab driver shivered inside the cab as he waited.