Stormtide

by Bill Knox

  ‘You heard,’ rumbled Clapper Bell. ‘Move.’

  Silent, they stayed where they were and Dave Rother chuckled, saying nothing.

  ‘Then maybe one o’ you feels like doin’ something different,’ declared Bell with a heavy scowl. ‘Who’s the brave lad? Let’s have him, if you’ve anyone with guts enough.’

  Suddenly, Yogi Dunlop shoved forward from the rest. The harpoon gunner’s clothes were still sodden with detergent and his long hair was matted.

  ‘You?’ asked Bell hopefully.

  ‘Me, you big-mouthed ape,’ snarled the gunner.

  Carrick felt an elbow nudge his side.

  ‘I’ll bet five quid on Yogi,’ murmured Rother.

  Smiling slightly, watching the two big men beginning to circle one another in almost ritualistic style, Carrick hesitated, then nodded. ‘You’re covered,’ he agreed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Get your money out.’

  Suddenly the circling ended as Yogi Dunlop lunged forward with his fists swinging. A wild left hook took Clapper Bell to the side of the jaw and the bo’sun staggered, lost his balance on the detergent-greased deck, then slithered backward to thud against the wheelhouse.

  Shaking his head slightly, he recovered quickly, then came forward with the next roll of the deck. The extra momentum took him smashing into the harpoon gunner and this time it was Dunlop who went sprawling, ending up in the scuppers as a wave broke against the shark-catcher’s side, drenching both men and their audience in spray.

  Dunlop hauled himself to his feet, dived for Clapper Bell like an angry bull, and got in one thudding blow at the bo’sun’s middle. Bell hardly blinked, side-stepped clear of the next, and they began circling again to a chorus of encouragement from the sharkman’s crew-mates.

  Then it was Clapper Bell’s turn. Dodging a crotch-aimed kick from his opponent, he pounced quickly, grabbed a full handful of that long, matted hair, yanked in a way that almost tore it out by the roots, then smashed his free fist like a piston under the man’s exposed jaw.

  Eyes suddenly glazing, Dunlop wobbled with his mouth hanging open. Still gripping the man’s hair, Clapper Bell swung him bodily round, rammed him hard against the wheelhouse then pistoned a single forearm smash into Dunlop’s belt-line.

  He let go … and Dunlop slid slowly down the wheelhouse wood until he met the deck.

  ‘Now,’ declared Clapper Bell cheerfully, glancing round. ‘Like Mr Carrick said, we want a hose. Right?’

  The Seapearl’s crew showed no further interest in arguing.

  ‘About that five quid,’ said Dave Rother a little later. He was sprawled back on the bunk in his tiny cabin below and fractionally aft of the wheelhouse, smoking a cigarette. A mug of coffee in one hand, Carrick was leaning against a bulkhead and looking through the only porthole. The Seapearl was tossing and rolling along, heading at a plugging eight knots for Portcoig. ‘Mind waiting a few days, Webb?’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ Outside the porthole the sea was becoming lumpier by the moment. But in contrast the sky had cleared to a brilliant, almost dazzling blue with only a few tendrils of white cloud being streaked along by the gusting westerly wind. ‘Money tight?’

  ‘If you’ve asked around you’ll know it is.’ Rother waved his cigarette expressively. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ve a deal coming up that will take care of things, and a fat cheque due for last month’s shipment of shark-oil. But right now I’m next best thing to flat broke.’

  ‘What kind of deal is it?’

  Rother grinned and shook his head. ‘You’ll hear when it happens. Let’s leave it that way.’ His face clouded slightly. ‘But one thing is certain, I’ll be quitting this part of the world … and to hell with it in the passing.’

  Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Going away altogether?’

  ‘Uh-huh. What’s happened with young Benson puts the lid on things.’ Rother eased up on his elbows, looked ready to add something more, then tensed at a shout from the wheelhouse.

  It came again, an excited bellow. ‘Sharko, boss – a big’un! Port side – do we go for him?’

  Scrambling from the bunk, Rother dived for the porthole. He stared, swore, and pointed for Carrick’s benefit. A great black triangular sai1 was moving slowly through the wavecrests about four hundred yards away. It vanished briefly then reappeared, still travelling almost parallel with the Seapearl.

  ‘Look at that dorsal-fin!’ Eyes glinting eagerly, Rother swung round. ‘Webb, how about one try? Just one – and to hell with Shannon.’

  Carrick hesitated. The great black fin out there had to be at least five feet from its limp tip to the thickening base. The creature beneath had to be a giant of its kind, a giant that could vanish again at any moment.

  ‘One try,’ urged Rother. ‘That’s all.’

  The temptation was too much. Carrick nodded. ‘One try. Better make it good.’

  ‘We will.’ Rother was already at the door. Another moment and he was running along the deck, shouting orders as he went.

  The shabby, paint-blistered shark-boat swung into action with a practised precision, each man of her crew knowing his task. Shoving his way behind the helm, Dave Rother swung the Seapearl’s blunt bow and almost simultaneously began juggling with the engine throttle. Slowing, shuddering as she took a couple of heavy seas broadside on, the boat first dropped back a little, then increased speed on a new, curving course, which meant she was now pursuing that still lazy black fin from astern.

  Crammed beside Rother in the wheelhouse, Carrick saw two figures struggling with the harpoon gun on its crude bow platform. A wave drenched over them, then the spray cleared and he blinked. Yogi Dunlop had a new, unexpected assistant gunner. Beside him on the platform, shielding a box of powder cartridges from the spray, Clapper Bell was enjoying himself.

  ‘Yogi …’ Rother yelled through the wheelhouse doorway and waited till the man half-turned. ‘Double load. And take the brute close. Right?’

  Dunlop grinned and waved. The long harpoon stick, tipped with a foot of barbed, fine-honed steel, was already waiting in the muzzle. Doubling-up on the powder charge would do awesome things to its effectiveness if a man didn’t object to the possibility of blowing the whole gun off its mounting.

  ‘He’s gaining on us,’ murmured Carrick.

  Rother peered ahead at the black dorsal-fin and frowned as he eased the throttle levers forward a fraction.

  ‘Too fast and we’ll scare him, Webb. That should do it.’

  The engine beat increased. Then, above it, came an odd, rough note which made Carrick wince.

  ‘Prop-shaft, Dave …’

  ‘Prop,’ corrected Rother ruefully. ‘I know. We’ve had it before. But we’ll last out. At least …’ He stopped and cursed.

  The big dorsal-fin was slowly submerging again. It slipped beneath the waves, was gone for a full minute while the Seapearl thudded on, then reappeared as lazily but now slightly to starboard. Relaxing, Rother corrected the shark-boat’s helm and the gap gradually closed.

  ‘Look at him now,’ he said tensely. ‘He’s big all right.’

  Gliding along just below the surface, the basking-shark’s elephantine bulk seemed to stretch for ever. Swimming placidly, a great black living mass, it had to be at least fifty feet long, almost barrel-shaped, the head fringed by distended gills and tipped by snout-like jaws. It was the cearbhan of Gaelic fishing legends, the cursed, net-wrecking muldoan, sailfish, sunfish – there were plenty of other names – prehistoric in its size, ponderous, almost ridiculously fearsome by its very existence.

  ‘Keep like that, damn you,’ murmured Rother, nursing the throttles again. Seapearl’s bow drew level with a vast spread of tail, crept further along, closer and still closer through the heaving seas until the boat was almost scraping the creature’s side. At the bow, Yogi Dunlop had the harpoon gun swung round and crouched tensely, waiting.

  Suddenly the great sail-fin quivered and the vast spread of tail began to flex. The basking-shark had at last
sensed their presence, was reacting with the beginnings of a swift, undulating movement.

  Yogi Dunlop waited a fraction of a second longer, timing an approaching wave. It met the boat, sent it heaving, then he yanked the firing cord at the exact moment of the barrel’s maximum depression.

  Several things happened simultaneously. The gun’s flat bang, the slamming underwater impact of the harpoon as it stabbed deep into the shark just ahead of that dorsal-sail, the initial whip of the harpoon line … and then the sea seemed to explode.

  Surging out of the waves, almost twice a man’s height in its size, a great tail lashed in a blind frenzy. The Seapearl’s hull gave an enormous shudder as it took a first then a second slamming blow just for’ard of the wheelhouse, blows which would have demolished many a lighter craft.

  Thrown violently, Carrick grabbed for support as Dave Rother toppled against him and a solid wall of water hit the wheelhouse glass. The boat was still pitching and twisting like a creature gone mad, line snapping out from her bow, a great boiling patch of sea marking where the basking-shark had dived. From the stern came a tortured, erratic whine as their propeller blades briefly hit empty air.

  ‘We’re in him. Fair and sure. Got him and …’ Dave Rother’s shout of triumph died as he watched the line still vanishing overboard at express speed while the shark continued its plunge into the depths. The spliced-on marker barrel tore free of its lashings and disappeared in the same way an instant later.

  ‘Where the hell’s he planning to stop!’ Rother scrambled to reach the helm again, suddenly tightlipped. But as he got there the remaining line gave a convulsive wriggle, stopped running, and the marker barrel shot out of the water some thirty feet ahead, splashed down again, then bobbed idly.

  Swearing, Rother slammed the heavy gear lever to full astern and ignored the protesting machinery noises coming from below. Spinning the wheel, he almost broadsided the boat to avoid running over the slack line, then, as they lost way, rolling wildly, he shook his head disconsolately.

  ‘Gone, damn the thing. The biggest I’ve had the chance at, bar none.’

  At the bow, Yogi Dunlop and Clapper Bell leaned sadly on the harpoon gun. A couple of deckhands were already hauling in the useless line.

  The harpoon was still on its end. The steel barbs and half the head had snapped off clean, the rest was coated in black, evil-smelling slime.

  ‘The bastard,’ said Rother softly. ‘He’s down there laughing at us.’ He glanced at Carrick and grimaced. ‘Not my day, is it?’

  Carrick shook his head with an answering grin then thumbed towards the compass.

  ‘He might surface again,’ said Rother hopefully; ‘Maybe if we hung around for a spell …’

  ‘Maybe, but we’re not,’ said Carrick positively. ‘Portcoig, Dave. You had your chance.’

  He almost added that the great fish down below had earned a chance too. But he doubted if anyone else aboard Seapearl would have seen it that way.

  By mid-afternoon, when they passed Moorach Island to starboard, the sea was still running high and, despite a brilliant blue sky, a strong wind continued to whip at the rigging. Bringing the shark-boat in close, Carrick saw that salvage work on the wrecked Harvest Lass was already under way. She was beached on the ridge of rock as before but figures were moving on her deck and the seine-netter Heather Bee, which was lying at anchor a hundred yards or so out.

  The sight jogged Carrick’s memory. Turning over the helm to Logan, he went along to Dave Rother, who was lounging on deck near the stern.

  ‘Dave, I was to give you a message from Sergeant Fraser. He’d feel happier if you weren’t around Portcoig tomorrow afternoon. Not while John MacBean’s funeral is taking place.’

  ‘I don’t go looking for trouble,’ grunted Rother. ‘You can tell him I’ll keep my crews on Camsha. Or at sea.’

  ‘Fine – as long as you mean your other boats,’ warned Carrick. ‘This one doesn’t sail till Shannon lifts the arrest.’

  Rother gave a cynical shrug and looked out towards the island. ‘Shannon doesn’t worry me. I’m a damned sight more concerned about Peter Benson. Maybe I can get an answer this time – do you think he killed your engine-room man?’

  ‘Let’s say it looks that way. I’d rather wait till we find him.’ Carrick rested his hands on the sharkcatcher’s low rail and considered her skipper’s thin, scowling face. ‘Some people might say that if Benson didn’t then you could be a candidate.’

  ‘They might.’ Rother took the reminder without concern then stuck a cigarette in his mouth and left it unlit. ‘But they shouldn’t say it too often – I’ve a high sensitivity threshold about some things.’ He switched abruptly. ‘Still seeing Sheila Francis tonight?’

  ‘Yes.’ Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Why?’

  ‘Old-fashioned curiosity.’ Rother tongued the cigarette to the far corner of his mouth, adding cryptically, ‘Have fun, laddie. Always have it while you can. Hell knows what’s round the next corner.’

  Marlin’s grey hull was already alongside Portcoig pier when the shark-catcher finally plugged into Camsha Bay. It was close on 4 p.m. and another recent arrival was tied up near the Fishery cruiser’s stern, a small-sized coaster with a green hull, white superstructure and a small black stub of a funnel aft. The Broomfire Distillery boat appeared to have kept to schedule.

  Easing in towards the pier’s T-end, Rother let his fenders nudge the thick wooden piles just long enough for the Fishery cruiser’s trio to scramble over. Then the Seapearl’s engine rumbled, she spat exhaust, and her battered hull swung away, heading across for the island.

  ‘Not a bad character to know, that Yogi,’ mused Clapper Bell, scratching his stomach with one hand. ‘Funny thing he was tellin’ me, though. Just about every man Rother’s got is some kind o’ ex-navy – though a few o’ them finished their time in detention barracks.’

  Beside him, the leading hand grinned. ‘Maybe he hand-picked them, sir.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Carrick dryly. ‘Well, check back aboard – both of you. Tell the Old Man I’ll be along in a minute if he asks.’

  He let them go ahead, then followed slowly, interested in the coaster. The Lady Jane, registered at Glasgow, lay with her hatches open and a radar scanner turning idly above the compact island bridge.

  Loading was already under way. Her twin cargo derricks were manoeuvring a large stainless-steel tank aboard from a heavy truck waiting on the pier beside her. The yawning midships hold space gave a glimpse of stacked whisky casks below.

  ‘No samples available, Chief Officer,’ commented a dry voice above the clatter of the winches. Harry Graham’s tall figure stalked out from the side of the truck and came towards him. ‘If there were, you’d be in a long, long queue.’

  Carrick grinned at the grey-haired distillery manager. ‘Let’s say I live in hope.’

  Graham grunted, keeping an eye on the bulk tank as it lifted again. The winches stopped, the heavy tank swung gently for a moment, then the winch engines renewed their clatter and it began a slow downward progress towards the for’ard hold.

  ‘You came in on the Seapearl.’ It sounded close to an accusation.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘The whole village knows why, of course,’ said Graham, frowning a little. ‘What happens to Rother now?’

  ‘Captain Shannon’s decision,’ shrugged Carrick, then switched away from the subject. ‘We passed Moorach Island on the way in. Your salvage team looked busy.’

  Graham nodded. ‘I had a radio talk with the skipper. They’re fairly hopeful about patching up the Harvest Lass but the rest is like you thought. They’re not so happy about refloating her.’ He shrugged. ‘I should go out myself – but I’m too busy here.’

  ‘You’re not wasting time,’ mused Carrick. The bulk container had reached the coaster’s hold and another truck was already bouncing its way along the pier. ‘Why all the rush?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s funeral.’ Graham watched the new arrival pull up.
It was loaded with whisky cases and the man in the driving cab was Alec MacBean. ‘I’ve rearranged the whole loading schedule to have the job finished by midday tomorrow. They’d stop for John MacBean’s funeral anyway and afterwards,’ – he gave a faint grimace – ‘well, if mourning follows island tradition there won’t be much work done. Most of them will find it hard enough to stand upright.’

  Climbing out of the driving cab, Alec MacBean scowled around then headed towards them, a cigarette cupped in one hand. He gave a curt nod in Carrick’s direction, then ignored him.

  ‘We’re runnin’ behind schedule, Mr Graham,’ he complained.

  Graham pursed his lips apologetically. ‘Back to work, Chief Officer, I’ll see you again.’

  ‘Try and catch the murdering devil Benson first,’ suggested MacBean sourly. His mouth twisted. ‘Not that anybody did anything when my brother got killed. But then he didn’t rate – he wasn’t Fishery Protection.’

  ‘And he died in an accident,’ said Carrick wearily. ‘This is something separate. Anyway, finding Benson is a police job – and even then they’ll need proof. Too many people are forgetting that.’

  Both men looked at him sharply.

  ‘You think there’s any doubt?’ queried Graham.

  ‘Let’s say I don’t like the old approach of “Hang him now, we’ll give him a fair trial tomorrow”,’ retorted Carrick with a degree of irritation. ‘They’ll find Benson. But I want to know more about several things going on here before I start shaping any opinion.’

  Graham shrugged in silence. MacBean looked away, muttering under his breath.

  ‘You don’t have to agree,’ Carrick told them curtly. ‘Just remember I said it.’

  He left them and went on down the pier.

  Marooned aboard Marlin as officer of the watch, Jumbo Wills greeted his return gloomily while making a vain attempt to hide a magnificent black eye.

  ‘The Old Man’s gone ashore, Webb,’ he reported. ‘He left word he probably won’t be back much before midnight.’