“Speak for yourself,” Float said. He didn’t regard himself as scum at all; he was proud of his gaol record, proud of his conviction for grievous bodily harm in particular. It set him up above the rest, did that, showed he was a hard case. But he also knew that, hard as he was, Shotgun was harder. Shotgun had dropped hints that in America where the gun was the law, he had killed men. Nothing specific, just the casual hint, but Shotgun looked a killer. Float, angered by the remark about scum, wanted to retaliate. His face was as sharp as that of a rat as he peered about him and fixed his attention on Halfhyde, a softer option in Float’s view than Shotgun and a handy butt for his spleen. He said in a flat voice, “Mister bloody Halfhyde’s not scum. Oh, no! Mister Halfhyde’s a gennelman, hoity-toity voice an’ all—ain’t that right, Mister bloody Halfhyde?”
“Yes,” Halfhyde answered coolly. “I’ll not deny what’s true just to keep in your good books, Float.”
“You won’t, eh? What’s a gennelman doing in the fo’c’sle of a windjammer? Remittance man, are you, chucked out by ’is family as a bum?”
Halfhyde shrugged. “My business is not your business, Float, but you may believe what you wish about me.”
“What about answering the question? That’s polite, ain’t it?’ Float looked round: he had stirred up interest, the off-watch seamen were all eyes, staring through the shadows brought by the guttering oil lamp swinging in its gimbals over the table, all staring at Float and Halfhyde. Fights and blood-letting broke the monotony of life at sea. Float said again, “That’s polite. Gennelmen, they’re always polite. Now, if they’re rude, they knows what they gets, don’t they?”
Shotgun was watching, eyes narrowed. He said, “Put a sock in it, Float, Halfhyde’s all right. He’s a good seaman and that’s enough for me. Better seaman by far than you, you stupid bastard.”
Float’s head jerked up sharply. “You call me a bastard?”
“Yes.”
In the fo’c’sle of a windjammer, that particular insult couldn’t be, never was, ignored. Float got to his feet, his knife suddenly in his hand as if by magic. Halfhyde rose as well; his naval instincts were all for stopping fights at sea in the interest of the ship. But Shotgun beat him to it; Shotgun was on Float in an instant, leaping on to the table and diving for his man. Float crashed backwards, his knife-hand crushed flat against his chest as muscular arms went round him. Shotgun began to beat his head into the deck but Float managed to squirm clear, wriggling a wiry body free of the American. He still held the knife; Halfhyde saw the lamp-light glittering from the blade as Float lunged towards Shotgun’s neck. It swept in an arc, stopped suddenly as Halfhyde grabbed the arm and twisted it up behind the body. There was a yelp of pain, then Float, slippery as an eel, broke free as Halfhyde knocked over a slop bucket and almost lost his footing in the greasiness of the resulting mess. As Float lunged towards him, another man intervened. Float’s knife sliced into the throat, and the man fell, gushing blood. As Float withdrew the knife and stood at bay, and lunged again towards Halfhyde, his arm made violent contact with the smoking oil lamp.
The lamp lifted, swung free of its hook and dropped with a crash, spilling oil. Within seconds the fo’c’sle deck was running with flame. A number of the hands dashed out as the place began to fill with smoke and Halfhyde was left to fight the fire with old Finney, the shanty-man, and the American, Shotgun.
Chapter 4
“FIRE BUCKETS!” Halfhyde shouted. “Away you go, Shotgun.” The American ran out on deck and Halfhyde heard the desperate clatter of the water-pump as the red-painted buckets were taken down from the rack and filled. Halfhyde set Finney to the task of helping him drag out the donkey’s breakfasts, the straw palliasses that formed the bedding. As he did so Bullock’s voice was heard, shouting the hands back to fight the fire. The acting Second Mate, O’Connor, organized a chain of men to pass the buckets, and as soon as each one had been emptied on to the flames it was sent back to be refilled. Halfhyde and old Finney, assisted now by two of the apprentices, got the palliasses out just in time: the flames were now licking at the woodwork of the bunks, while in the centre of the messroom the heavy table was on fire and blackening.
Feeling the singe of his clothing, blinded by thick smoke, Halfhyde felt for the buckets as they were passed along. He flung them over the blazing woodwork. He could scarcely breathe; he stumbled over a couple of bodies lying on the deck, Alongside him he heard O’Connor’s voice, cursing as the heat scorched his exposed flesh. As the fire began to come under control, Halfhyde left the buckets and began dragging the suffocating men clear of the fo’c’sle, sweating like a pig as he did so. Bullock was working like ten men, tirelessly. Captain McRafferty had come for’ard from the poop, his face anguished as he saw what was happening to his ship. His home and his living were in jeopardy. His relief was enormous when the First Mate reported that the blaze was dying down.
“Thank God, Mr Bullock, thank God! What was the cause of it?”
“I don’t know,” Bullock said harshly. “But I’ll be finding out.”
“Do that, Mr Bullock, as quickly as you can.” McRafferty wiped sweat from his face; his hands shook as he did so. “Fire at sea…the worst thing that can happen to any master.” He looked aloft: he’d been lucky. Fire could spread fast, and once it got a grip on the mass of ropes, on the sails, and ran along the wooden decks and into the cargo holds, a ship would burn to the waterline before the sea doused the flames.
FLOAT WAS bowled out quickly enough: Shotgun lost no time in reporting the facts to the First Mate, and Float was hauled aft to the poop, none too gently, by Bullock himself. In the meantime a number of the fo’c’sle hands plus O’Connor and the carpenter had been overcome by the smoke and when Halfhyde had dragged them clear he saw that both O’Connor and the carpenter, together with one of the seamen, were dead, in addition to the murdered man. Float was now charged officially and the facts were noted by McRafferty in the log.
“You are scum,” he said to Float. “You put in jeopardy the lives of every soul aboard my ship, and you have killed one man and have been responsible for the deaths of three others. You will be landed into police custody the moment we berth in Sydney, or perhaps in Iquique.” McRafferty turned to the First Mate, “Mr Bullock, you’ll have the man handcuffed and placed in leg-irons and accommodated in the fore peak.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Bullock answered. He laid hold of Float’s shoulders and propelled him in a bum’s rush to the poop ladder, Lifting him, he flung him bodily down to the waist. Float lay in a heap on the deck, moaning. Bullock slid down behind him and kicked him brutally to his feet, then once again sent him spinning along the deck to fetch up against the bulwarks by the foot of the mainmast.
That day there were more sea committals, and afterwards Halfhyde was sent for to go to the saloon. McRafferty was seated alone at the long table; Bullock was on watch on the poop above. McRafferty said. “I’m told you rendered good service to my ship this morning, Halfhyde.”
Halfhyde shrugged. “My duty, sir. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“True. But you saved the ship and many lives.”
“Did Mr Bullock report that, sir?”
McRafferty gave him a shrewd look. “No. The fo’c’sle hands did. Also, I saw for myself.” He paused, running a roughened hand over his chin. “You don’t like Mr Bullock, I fancy.”
“Nor him me, sir.”
“I warned you he was a bully. But he’s a good seaman and a hard worker.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“Good.” McRafferty gave a bleak smile. “You may wonder why I should be discussing my First Mate with a fo’c’sle hand?”
Halfhyde said shortly, “The thought crossed my mind, sir.”
“Then I answer this: I wish you to make an effort to get along with him, for you will be working together as officers. I’m making you acting Second Mate, Mr Halfhyde, until I can find a replacement, which will not be before we reach the Australian coast—anything
available in Iquique would be ullage.”
“Why not promote your senior apprentice, sir?”
McRafferty said, “You may as well have asked why I didn’t do so rather than promote the bosun in the first place. The fact is my senior apprentice is very far from experienced—which you are not, at least in regard to the sea itself and the handling of a ship.”
“And my lack of a certificate as Second Mate?”
McRafferty shrugged. “Needs must when the devil drives, Mr Halfhyde, and I have no one else that I would trust. It is, in any case, a formality—you have only to apply to the Board of Trade for a certificate of service and it will be granted, as you’re aware. That is one reason why I have chosen you.”
“And the other reasons, sir—apart from the unavailability of anyone better?”
McRafferty stared him in the eyes and said enigmatically, “So that you will be closer to me when I wish to make use of your services. Kindly transfer your gear from the fo’c’sle to the Second Mate’s cabin, and take over the watch on deck from Mr Bullock at eight bells.”
THERE WERE black looks from the fo’c’sle hands when Halfhyde went for’ard to gather his small amount of gear together; they did not take kindly to one of their number being set above them, and a man so recently joined at that. In their view, he had been promoted to the afterguard simply because he was a “gennel-man” and spoke with a lah-de-dah voice that before long would grate like a saw on the Old Man. When Mr Halfhyde was despatched back to the fo’c’sle he could watch out.
Halfhyde went aft feeling that every man aboard, with the sole exception of the Captain and the old seaman Finney, was against him; and he knew that he would need to watch his every move. There was enmity on the poop as well when he went up to take over from the First Mate, who had been livid at his appointment. Bullock had needed to be given the facts about Halfhyde by the Captain; it was unprecedented for a mere fo’c’sle hand to be so suddenly elevated to the afterguard and Bullock’s tone was sneering, following the line already taken in the fo’c’sle.
He stared Halfhyde up and down. “Quite the gentleman. It seems it takes that rather than seamanship to get a Second Mate’s berth these days.”
“I’m no mean seaman, Mr Bullock, as you must have learned by now.”
“Not slow to praise yourself either, it appears.”
Halfhyde said, “I know my worth and have no intention of demeaning it.”
“Just put a foot wrong,” Bullock said, “and I’ll do the demeaning, don’t you worry! The Queen’s ships may be all right for those that like them, but there’s more to seamanship than spit and polish and kiss my arse. Crawlers aren’t welcome aboard any merchantman, Mister Halfhyde, as you’d do well to bear in mind.”
Halfhyde grinned. It was an icy grin. He said, “Let us take your opinion of me as read, Mr Bullock. I’d be obliged if you’d now hand over the watch—in a seamanlike manner.”
For a moment it seemed as though the First Mate was about to strike him down, and Halfhyde clenched his fists in readiness for a fight. He would give as good as he got; Bullock knew this—he’d not forgotten the damaged hand he’d collected when Halfhyde had first reported aboard in Liverpool. Scowling, the First Mate handed over the watch and then, after a long look aloft at the set of the canvas, went down the ladder to the saloon. Halfhyde could hear his harsh voice coming up through the skylight as he greeted Miss McRafferty. Halfhyde turned away and began pacing the poop, hands behind his back, aware of the surly manner of the man at the wheel. That man would have overheard all that had been said, and it would go back to the fo’c’sle the moment he was relieved that the First Mate had no more time for the Second than the crew had. Nevertheless, it was pleasant enough to be once again in charge of a watch, to feel that all depended on himself, his eye and his quick judgement. Pacing, Halfhyde’s mind went back to his days in the Queen’s service—his active days: he was not forgetful of the fact that he was still on the half-pay list as a lieutenant and that one day he might be recalled to serve again on full pay afloat in a man-of-war, though the chances of another command might now be much less. Their Lordships of the Admiralty tended to have long memories, and if they had not, then they would quickly be reminded by senior officers of the fleet that Lieutenant Halfhyde had in his past cocked a snook or two at higher authorities.
THE AYSGARTH FALLS backed her tops’ls to lie off the port of Iquique shortly after dawn on a brilliant, clear morning. McRafferty was on the poop with Bullock and Halfhyde as the flag signal for a pilot was hoisted. McRafferty was looking thoughtful and anxious; Bullock’s face had a half smile on it and once again there was the strong impression that to some extent McRafferty was in pawn to his First Mate. One of McRafferty’s problems was, it appeared, the disposal of the man Float. McRafferty was disinclined to hand over any British subject, murderer or not, to what he called dagoes, a word that brought back to Halfhyde many memories of Captain Watkiss, Royal Navy, who had referred to all foreigners of whatever complexion as dagoes—even the Chinese had been dagoes to the strutting pomposity of Captain Watkiss. Bullock’s view was that McRafferty should be guided by the advice of his agent in Iquique, a Scot by the name of Mackinnon, who would come off with the pilot and the representatives of the Chilean port authorities.
“The dagoes’ll demand my log, Mr Bullock. Then it’ll be out of Mackinnon’s hands.”
Bullock shrugged. “We should wait and see, sir. We must take what comes on that point. Float’s scum. We have other concerns that must not be forgotten.”
“Yes, yes, you’re right.” Captain McRafferty walked to the fore rail of the poop, gesturing the other two to follow him out of earshot of the helmsman. Then he addressed Halfhyde, sounding formal. “I am taking a passenger on to Sydney, Mr Halfhyde.” He didn’t want Bullock to know he had already spoken of this to Halfhyde. “This is not being arranged through my agent. No mention of a passenger is to be made in Mr Mackinnon’s hearing, do you understand?”
Halfhyde nodded. “Yes, sir. You may depend upon my discretion.”
“And your obedience,” Bullock said before McRafferty could speak again. “Do you understand that as well, eh?”
Halfhyde glanced at McRafferty; the Captain seemed ill-at-ease and muttered that Bullock need not concern himself about Halfhyde’s obedience. Bullock disagreed. He said roughly, “That’s all very well, Captain. He must be warned, now he’s been told—”
“He had to know, Mr Bullock, he had to know.”
“Well, that’s as maybe and you could be right, I’ll agree. But he’ll have to toe the line when we make Sydney. If he doesn’t, he’ll have me to reckon with. I just wanted him to know that for sure. I’m not an easy man. Got that, Mister Halfhyde?”
Halfhyde answered coolly. “I shall, of course, obey any order from the Captain, Mr Bullock.”
“And from me.” There was steel in Bullock’s voice and as his hand moved inside his pea-jacket Halfhyde saw the muzzle of a small revolver staring him in the face.
THE PILOT and a number of officials came off with a smoke-belching steam tug and the Aysgarth Falls, with her sails furled, was taken inwards to the anchorage, where under Bullock’s directions an anchor was let go in a cloud of reddish dust from the windlass. Mackinnon, the agent, a small sandy man with a freckled face, chatted with McRafferty on the poop and when the ship had got her cable the two men went below to the saloon accompanied by Bullock to deal with the port officials. Halfhyde was left to see to the clearing up of the decks and the overhauling of the running gear; and to deal with the bumboats that came off from the shore and clustered around the accommodation-ladder and below the bulwarks, offering wares of all kinds from fruit and articles of clothing to the services of women who for a price would be made available to the crew the moment they were permitted shore leave.
“Bloody likely,” old Finney called down. “There won’t be no shore leave, not if I knows the Old Man. ’Arf of us’d desert, or so ’e thinks, then ’e’d ’ave to
’ang around till ’e could get a new crew shanghaied aboard.” Finney spat into the water. “Why I ever went to sea, Gawd knows.”
Halfhyde happened to be alongside him. “You know very well why, Finney,” he said.
Finney looked round. “Why’s that, Mr ’Alf’yde, sir?”
Finney was the only man aboard to address Halfhyde respectfully, and Halfhyde knew why. A conversation whilst coming up the coast had revealed that Finney had once been captain’s cox-swain aboard a man-of-war. After serving nearly twenty years in the Queen’s ships he’d disgraced himself by returning aboard drunk in Malta and had been disrated down to able seaman; that had been more than he could take and when his time was up he’d come ashore gladly; but had found no niche for a seaman away from the sea, so had returned to the only trade he knew, this time in the windjammers. Halfhyde answered his question. “You went to sea because you damn well wanted to, Finney. You’re a born seaman. Every hair a marline-spike, and—”
“Every drop o’ blood a drop o’ good Stockholm tar. Aye, sir, that’s about right. But it’s not much bleedin’ good, sir, if the urges of the blood can’t be satisfied now an’ again.”
Halfhyde lifted an eyebrow. “At your age, Finney?”
Finney spat once again over the side. “Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” he said in an aggrieved tone. Grinning, Halfhyde turned away and went back to the poop. Voices, raised in argument, came up from the saloon below. The law was being laid down by someone, probably, Halfhyde thought, the port authorities; and McRafferty was countering it. Soon after this, the shoreside visitors left. The Chileans went over the side into their waiting boat accompanied by the agent, Mackinnon, and Bullock. McRafferty saw the party away, then called to Halfhyde.
“Mr Halfhyde, Float remains aboard. I was able to stress that the murder took place upon the high seas, not inside Chilean territorial waters. He will be handed over in Sydney.”
Halfhyde Outward Bound Page 5