Halfhyde Outward Bound

by Philip McCutchan

  Some while after this he was brought from the cell.

  VICE-ADMIRAL PAULUS von Merkatz had changed little since their last encounter. The arrogance of eyes, face, and bearing was there. Still, the sense of his own importance was as obvious as ever it had been in past years. So was his enmity, his personal hatred of Halfhyde. Now he was cock-a-hoop and ready to commit his Emperor to the promise of almost any sum that might be asked for Halfhyde’s delivery into his hands.

  “So, Lieutenant Halfhyde,” he said, sitting in the police chief’s chair with his Flag Lieutenant in attendance. “You are no longer in your Queen’s service—”

  “I am on the half-pay list, sir. As such I am still a naval officer, and answerable to Her Majesty.”

  Von Merkatz smiled. “Let us not split hairs. You are now Second Mate aboard a sailing ship—and you are in Arica, and your ship is not. I am told that your ship is the Aysgarth Falls, now bound for Sydney. I am sorry to deprive your Captain of one of his officers, but you are coming with me to Germany, and without delay.” He glanced up at his Flag Lieutenant, who gave a tight bow and went to the door where he gave an order. On the heels of it, a German naval guard entered, four men with rifles and fixed bayonets under a petty officer. At another word from the Flag Lieutenant, two of the seamen stepped forward and laid hold of Halfhyde, while the other two fell in behind. Von Merkatz waved a hand towards the door. “Take him away,” he said.

  Smith took a step forward; so did the police chief. “One moment, señor,” the latter said. “I—”

  “Yes. You are concerned for your payment. The sum has been agreed—you have my promise of payment, which will be delivered to you through the good offices of our Embassy in Santiago. I have insufficient gold with me to pay you now—”

  “But on board your flagship, señor—”

  “Which is not here in this room,” von Merkatz said rudely, “but out in the port, and I do not wish to delay. You have seen the weather for yourself, and you know the signs. You must take it or leave it, and whichever you do, be sure I shall take Lieutenant Halfhyde.” He had risen to his feet by this time and was moving for the door, back straight, head high, looking disdainfully down his nose at the Chileans.

  Smith said, “Just a minute. That’s not good enough—”

  “It is good enough because I say it is. If you dispute further, I shall take you as well, even if only to feed later to the sharks in the Pacific.” Von Merkatz looked at the chief of police, who was almost in tears and was distractedly twisting his hands in front of his body. “You, policeman. If there is any attempt to hinder me and my seamen, the town will suffer. I have many guns. On my order, they will open and shatter your stinking little port into small fragments. And now good day to you all, gentlemen.”

  Von Merkatz stalked out, followed by the Flag Lieutenant with Halfhyde in the hands of the escort. As he was marched out, Halfhyde turned and grinned at Smith. Smith was looking murderous, strongly doubting that he would ever see his reward. In spite of his situation, the man’s furious face was pleasing to Halfhyde, something to remember during the days ahead. Smith was not going to find the police chief so friendly henceforward, either, and he might well find himself in bad odour down south in Iquique despite past bribes.

  Outside, the rain had not abated. Not just yet; but, with the same suddenness that it had started, it stopped just as the party was marching behind the Admiral along the jetty where the flagship’s steam picquet-boat was secured. When it stopped, there was an intense, eerie silence; then the wind was felt again, warm, moist, and there was a vivid crackle of lightning that arrowed down towards the flagship at anchor offshore. Her compass platform, her fighting tops, and her guns stood for a moment clearly visible; when the lightning had gone, the darkness was intense. There was a rumble that might have been thunder but was almost certainly not: following upon the close lightning, Halfhyde would have expected a very sharp crack or a full-bodied crash of rolling sound.

  So would von Merkatz. He snapped at his Flag Lieutenant. “Hurry! I think the earthquake is upon us.” He moved ahead at the double, lifting his sword scabbard clear of the ground. The party doubled up behind him and had almost reached the picquet-boat when the jetty began to shake and tremble beneath their feet. The section that contained the bollards to which the picquet-boat was made fast cracked away and lurched downwards, taking the boat sideways so that she took on an alarming list inwards. There were shouts from the midshipman in command, and the seamen ran to cut the mooring ropes. As von Merkatz reached the edge of the cracked section and began shouting furiously, the picquet-boat drifted clear and regained her trim in the water. Smoke came from her brass bell-mouthed funnel, and under helm, she turned away, stern to the jetty, and circled outwards.

  Von Merkatz waved a fist and shouted, almost screamed into the heavy rumbling sound that came apparently from the bowels of the earth. “Come back in at once, you young blackguard, or by God, I’ll have you in irons the moment you and I are aboard my flagship!”

  As von Merkatz watched for the picquet-boat to come in again, there was another heave and the jetty started to break up along its whole length. Halfhyde gave an involuntary shiver: twice in the last twenty years, the port of Iquique had been razed to the ground. The same could happen here in Arica.

  Chapter 8

  WITH THE others, Halfhyde was cast into the water. Like the wind, it felt warm, as though something beneath was heating it as a kettle would be heated. Flinging water from his eyes, he looked around. Von Merkatz was being grappled aboard his picquet-boat, a sorry sight, and the Flag Lieutenant was close behind him. As soon as the two were aboard, the boat stood off from what was left of the jetty. Von Merkatz glared about him, looking, obviously, for Halfhyde, who kept his head low. The German cruisers were in some trouble; two of them, including the flagship, were well down by the head, clearly visible in more lightning that flickered around their decks and tops. Halfhyde guessed that some shift in the sea bottom had nipped the anchors and drawn the cables down. Not far from where he trod water, the merchant ships were now adrift from the jetty, their mooring ropes parted and hanging judas down their sides. There was total confusion everywhere, and a complete absence of any Chileans; no doubt they were busy saving their own lives and property.

  There was no sign of the German naval ratings who had formed the escort; not until two bodies drifted close to Halfhyde and he recognized the petty officer and one of the seamen, both with their chests stove in. There was a curious smell on the wind now, a sulphurous stench that caught at the breath. Halfhyde went down deep as, in another lightning flash, he saw von Merkatz’ eyes looking in his direction. The Admiral shouted an order: he had seen his quarry. Beneath the surface, Halfhyde swam as fast as he could and as far as he could before coming again to the surface; when he broke through he found himself about to bump the side of one of the steamers, a paddler, and thrust away with his legs just in time to save his life: there was a rush of water following upon a sound of engines; dollops of sea descended upon Halfhyde, and he realized that he was uncomfortably close to one of the steamer’s paddle boxes. There was a man on top of the box and Halfhyde raised a shout.

  “Up top, there! Cast a line and bring me aboard. And hurry!”

  THE SHIP was the paddle steamer Tacoma of the Pacific Steam Navigation Company; she was ship-rigged on her three masts, steam being used as an auxiliary to her sails. A tall, thin funnel rose blackly and with an alien look through her rigging. Halfhyde was taken at once to the Captain.

  “Who the devil are you?” the Captain asked. “Were you thrown from one of the other ships, or what?”

  “No,” Halfhyde said, wringing water from his clothing. “I am a lieutenant of Her Majesty’s Navy and was about to be shanghaied aboard the German flagship. I doubt if I can convince you quickly, Captain, but I ask you to take my word for what I’ve said and deny all knowledge of me if the Huns should board you.”

  The Captain laughed. “I doubt if they’ll do
that! They’ll be away to sea as soon as they can make it—like me!”

  “You’re leaving now?”

  “I am. You’ll have to come with me, I’m afraid—all the way to Australia.”

  Halfhyde said, “I find that suitable enough, Captain. When there’s the time, you’ll have my story and my request for your continuing assistance.”

  The Captain gave him a searching look, then said quietly, “We shall see what it is you ask. In the meantime, you’d better go below and get a change of clothing, and a hot drink inside you, well laced. I’ll send down for my steward.” He turned away, but before he could pass any orders, there was a shout from his Chief Officer.

  “Captain, sir…German boat making alongside starboard.”

  The Captain and Halfhyde looked to starboard; the picquet-boat was coming up. Von Merkatz, his uniform awry and filthy with the port scum, was waving a megaphone. They heard his shout, half snatched away by the wind.

  “Tacoma ahoy. I am Vice-Admiral von Merkatz of the Imperial German Navy. You are harbouring a criminal. I demand to come aboard you!”

  The Captain glanced at Halfhyde. “I know nothing about you. Have I your word that the German’s uttering lies?”

  “You have, sir.”

  There was a nod. “You have the ring of sincerity at all events. I’ll back you—I detest Huns in any case. What do you suggest?”

  Halfhyde grinned. “Since you ask, I suggest hoses.”

  “A man after my own heart, I see!” The Captain leaned over the fore guardrail of his bridge. “Mr Mortimer, the fire hoses. Turn them on the German.”

  “Aye, aye, sir!”

  Halfhyde said formally, “A request, sir.”

  “Well?”

  “I have two special attributes: an ability to aim a hose straight, and a particularly strong personal dislike of Admiral von Merkatz.”

  The Captain clapped Halfhyde on the shoulder. “Then go to it!”

  Halfhyde, delaying his change of clothing, for the time being, went fast down the ladder to the main deck and took up one of the hoses as they were connected and turned on. His aim was as good as his word to the Captain: a stream of water took von Merkatz in the chest, bowling him over. Sounds of fury came back, and in the continuing play of the lightning, Halfhyde saw the picquet-boat swing away under full helm and head towards the flagship.

  VON MERKATZ would not be so easily disposed of, and Halfhyde said as much to Captain Graves once the Tacoma was clear of the port and headed on her course for Australia.

  “A tenacious man, and one who detests being bested. In addition to which, I assume he has a roving commission—his squadron will be the German Special Service Squadron, which customarily roves the world upon its Emperor’s business and as often as not upon that of its Admiral—”

  “I’m aware of the fact of the squadron’s mission, Halfhyde,” Graves paused and stuffed tobacco into his pipe. “I happen to be a senior lieutenant of the reserve—”

  “A lieutenant RNR?” Halfhyde knew he had had a stroke of luck: the Royal Naval Reserve, formed in 1862, was composed of officers and men of the merchant service who did an annual training period with the Fleet and had contracted to be called up in time of war to serve the Queen. Graves could be a valuable ally, and Halfhyde expressed such a hope.

  Graves nodded. “I shall help you, never fear.” He added, “You’re not entirely unknown to me as it happens. I was last with the Fleet a year ago, serving aboard the Royal Sovereign, and your name was mentioned. You have something of a reputation, as I gathered.”

  “Largely for being a nuisance to my seniors, which explains my presence on the half-pay list. But that’s in the past, sir. I’m more concerned now to rejoin my Captain in the Aysgarth Falls, and with avoiding Admiral von Merkatz and his confounded guns!”

  Graves cocked an eye at him. “You believe he’ll follow. He hasn’t done so yet—but no doubt there’s time. He’ll be extricating his squadron from the effects of the earthquake, I imagine. Is he likely—surely he isn’t—to use his guns?”

  “He’s very likely to in my opinion.”

  “And cause an international incident?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. “He’s a law unto himself, sir.”

  “And doesn’t stop to think?”

  “Exactly. His passions take charge.”

  “That’s certainly the impression he gave me—outlined by the lightning, acting like a cat that’s inadvertently sat on a gas lamp.”

  “It happens to admirals, sir. Sometimes I suspect they can’t help it. They are fawned upon too much by sycophants hoping one day to occupy their positions.”

  “Possibly. But those guns. I’m not keen to put my ship and crew at the mercy of gunfire. I have my owners to consider, you know!”

  “Yes, indeed,” Halfhyde agreed readily. “But a means must be found to inhibit the use of his guns, and I’ve no doubt a stratagem will present itself when needed.”

  Captain Graves pulled at his pipe and blew a cloud of smoke. “A stratagem, eh?”

  “I’m seldom short of them, sir. They have a habit of coming to me, though if you asked me at this moment to outline a plan, I would have to confess I’ve not a thought in my head.” Halfhyde had other matters on his mind as the Tacoma proceeded south-westerly, making little more than ten knots. He was something like four days behind the Aysgarth Falls already, to say nothing of his having taken his departure more than a hundred miles north of Iquique. But the vessel should not be hard to overtake if he was on the right track. Graves was fairly hopeful that he could pick up McRafferty’s ship; he doubted if the Aysgarth Falls was likely to keep up a ten-knot average speed and, as a sailing ship man himself until recently, and one well versed in the trade between Chile and Australia, he knew the sailing-ship routes like the back of his hand. McRafferty, he said, would pick up the south-east trades fairly quickly and would tack down towards the westerlies in the High South Latitudes and then ultimately the Roaring Forties for Sydney. It would be a slow passage for a sailing ship buffeting into head winds for most of the way, and steam would have the advantage.

  “And this passenger,” he said. “This Sergeant Cantlow.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I don’t like deserters, renegades. And diamond smuggling’s usually a dirty business. I don’t know anything about Cantlow, but most diamond smugglers have committed murder somewhere along the way, and my assumption would be that this one has a rope waiting for him somewhere. McRafferty was a fool to take him aboard—but then I know the financial pressures on the old windjammers. It’s a way of life going before our eyes, Halfhyde, and the ending of a race of men.”

  Soon after this, Halfhyde excused himself from the Captain’s cabin and went out on deck. Although the ship’s masts were crossed with their yards, there was no canvas aloft; Graves was using his engines, and there was a rhythmic thump from below and a belch of dirty black smoke from the funnel, visible as a blacker smudge against the night’s heavy darkness. The wind of the ship’s passage blew this smoke aft along the deck, and down around the men on watch. Halfhyde was used to steam in the Queen’s ships but had never grown to like the choking, gritty result of burning Welsh coal. He moved out onto the port side paddle box, looked down at the churn of water as the great wheel smacked its blades into it. A spray rose around him; he stared aft towards the Chilean coast, now vanished from sight in the darkness and the filthy weather. There was not a sign of a light. Neither was there any sign of a pursuit by the German squadron. The Tacoma was labouring badly, rolling heavily, and every now and again one or other of the paddle-wheels lifted clear to the roll, and the blades raced. Bad for the engine; and Halfhyde wondered Graves didn’t save his engine and his coal while there was plenty of wind and send his canvas aloft instead. Even as he thought this he saw the Captain come out of his cabin and climb the ladder to the bridge and a moment later the Chief Officer was passing the word for the watch below to turn out.

  “All hands…all hands on deck
…make sail!”

  BY NOW the Aysgarth Falls had passed through the fringe of the storm. The wind had gone, leaving light airs behind, changeable breezes that had to be snatched at by expert handling of the braces. Jesson stood by the mizzen shrouds on the port side of the poop, his big head sunk in his chest, looking down at the work along the decks in the aftermath of the bad weather. Bullock was chasing the hands without mercy; the First Mate had the notion that the cargo had shifted in the fore hold and he was down in the tween-deck investigating. When the hold had been checked Bullock came aft to the poop for a word with McRafferty; and reported that the forepeak had flooded.

  “It’s been pumped out now but it can flood again. There’s the question of Float.” During the night the prisoner had been released from the forepeak to back up the short-handed crew and had been kept on deck to work with the hands as the ship was cleared up and the storm damage made good. “What do we do with him?”

  “We can’t put him back in the fore peak, Mr Bullock.”

  “Sail locker, then?”

  “Yes—if he gives any trouble. He’ll have to be watched. But he’s needed on deck so long as he behaves himself.”

  Bullock looked aggrieved. “I said it last night, and I’ll say it again, Captain. We’re no more short-handed than we were immediately after the fire—”

  “We’re short of Mr Halfhyde now. With so many losses earlier, every man’s needed. Float remains handy to work the ship, Mr Bullock, and is to be confined to the sail locker only when not needed. That’s an order.”

  “It’s risky,” Bullock said sourly. “He’ll—”

  “The risk must be accepted, Mister. When we pick up the trades, we’ll be tacking constantly, and every man’ll be needed at the braces.” McRafferty turned away.

  FLOAT HAD been accepted back by the fo’c’sle without too much bad feeling from most of the hands. Old Finney had withdrawn himself, so had Shotgun; although Shotgun had killed in the past without compunction, his victims had not been his own mates. There was, or should be in his view, a camaraderie among the world’s unfortunates. Most of the hands didn’t think that way at all and were concerned only to keep on friendly terms with a dangerous man as they worked about the ship, and were glad enough that he was being made to do his share on deck instead of loafing all day in the sail locker and letting others do it for him. For his part, Float was busily scheming how to cheat the hangman. There might be ways for a man who had his wits about him and kept his eyes and ears open, and Float had a trick or two up his sleeve, and he had something else as well: a knife. Not his own—that had been removed when he was searched earlier. He had found another in the sail locker, one that had been overlooked when he’d been put in there from the forepeak. It was long, sharp as a razor, and Float took good care no one would find it before he had a need of it. Action would have to be taken before the Aysgarth Falls picked up the pilot off Sydney Heads. Float had been thinking for many days past what that action could be. Further killing was not a part of Float’s reckoning. He could scarcely make a clean sweep of every soul aboard, and anything short of that would be useless. There had to be another way, and he would find it; and his thoughts had already begun to revolve around the mysterious passenger, Jesson.