Halfhyde Outward Bound

by Philip McCutchan

  Jesson stood fuming, irresolute. Float grinned again and said, “We’re mates now, you an’ me. Good mates. Both got something to lose. Stick together and we lose nothing, all right?”

  He kept the knife steady.

  There was murder clear in Jesson’s face as Float got up and backed away towards the door of the saloon. Float saw it; he’d expected it and knew the risks. He said, “Just don’t try anything. Just don’t.” Jesson, he reckoned, wouldn’t try anything while the ship was at sea because for one thing he wouldn’t get the chance: Float was watched all the time he was working on deck and when in the sail locker he was safe. Once they got ashore it would be different, but Float believed he could put his money on himself to strike first.

  JESSON HAD a quiet word with Bullock next morning, on the poop, while McRafferty was below. He told the First Mate about Float.

  Bullock’s jaw came forward and his mouth set hard. “That does it,” he said in a grating voice. “I’m going to—”

  “Wait,” Jesson said. “You’ll do nothing. For now, he’s got us. See sense! It’s not for long. Keep it all to yourself—all of it. For one thing: Float’s not alone in this. Someone didn’t lock him up that night after all—”

  “Althwaite! I have his—”

  “You won’t, Bullock. You’ll do nothing.” Jesson’s voice was quiet but his stare into Bullock’s eyes was intense, and his grip on the First Mate’s shoulder was hard. “Nothing, I tell you. Except for just one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “A word to McRafferty that I want to take Float with me when I leave the ship.”

  “McRafferty’ll never agree to that,” Bullock said flatly, “so just cast it out of your reckoning.”

  “It’s got to be done, don’t you understand?”

  Bullock said, “It can’t be, you have my word on that. I know McRafferty well enough…and anyway, he’s never going to put his head in that particular noose! What do they call it—compounding a felony, letting a murderer escape?” He shook his head. “Best forget it. It won’t work.”

  Jesson licked at his lips, his eyes glittering through the mass of hair. “I’m not blind to the difficulties, Bullock. They have to be overcome, that’s all. There are other ways and well you know it.”

  Bullock looked up sharply, not liking the tone. “What are you getting at?”

  “You know very well. Float.” Jesson drew a hand across his throat, lifting the bearded chin and staring down his nose at the First Mate. “Nothing so obvious as a knife, though. An accident.”

  Bullock blew out his cheeks. “You’ll need to be careful.”

  Jesson laughed. “Not me, my good Bullock! You!”

  “Me?” Bullock looked shaken.

  “When do you think I’d have the chance for God’s sake?” Jesson’s eyes still searched the First Mate’s face. “It’s got to be up to you. You’ve got the opportunities.” His voice hardened further. “Don’t forget you’re in this deep, my friend. If anyone turns me in, you go with me.”

  Bullock’s face lost its colour. He said, “All I did was fix your passage.”

  “Yes. For a consideration extra to the passage money—remember? In hot diamonds. And I took the precaution of lodging your receipt in Her Majesty’s mail, addressed to a good friend in Australia. Just bear it in mind.”

  Jesson removed his hand from Bullock’s shoulder and went below to the saloon. Savagely Bullock paced the poop, fists clenching and unclenching. It was clear enough that he had to go along with Jesson; there could be no half measures now. In any case, it would be no more than a cheat upon the hangman, but the law wasn’t going to take that line of argument! Desperately Bullock cast about for another way, a safer way, but couldn’t see one. He would never persuade McRafferty; nor would he be able to get Float off the ship without McRafferty being aware when the time came. It was already going to be difficult enough to persuade McRafferty not to make his first landfall off Sydney Heads. Cantlow-Jesson—had left that to him as well; McRafferty, already worried about his passenger, certainly wasn’t going to like such of the truth as he would need to be told.

  When the moment came, McRafferty didn’t. There was a row, and voices became raised in the apparent privacy of the saloon. The pressure was put on and McRafferty was forced to acquiesce. Working on the poop not far from the saloon skylight, Float was all ears…

  Chapter 12

  IF THAT overheard conversation was not proof enough that the First Mate was in with the passenger, Float, within the next day or so, found further evidence: Bullock was out to get him; not just to haze him, not just to make his life hell, but to do him in. Bullock was biding his time but seeking out every opportunity meanwhile. Working about the deck, Float felt Bullock’s eyes constantly following him. In fair weather he wouldn’t have much chance; but the moment a real blow came, Bullock’s time would come with it. Any man out along the footropes was in danger, and accidents not only could happen but did—all too frequently as this voyage had proved. And then there was the time spent in the sail locker. The First Mate naturally had access to the sail locker and might be crazy enough to do his killing during the night hours. Float didn’t believe he would since a fall from aloft could be much more easily contrived, but the fear stayed with him nevertheless. Without much hope, he began praying for a nice, safe landfall.

  FROM THE Tacoma a watch was being kept for von Merkatz; but the seas astern remained empty of the German flag, much to Halfhyde’s relief. As the days passed it seemed more and more unlikely that von Merkatz would pick them up again; though the German might well have overtaken them had it not been for their engines, since the wind had largely fallen away now.

  There was also no sign of the Aysgarth Falls; as Graves remarked, they could by this time have overhauled the windjammer and she might be to north or south of their course. He said, “One more week and I believe she’ll head up towards the Barrier Reef.”

  Halfhyde nodded without commenting. He had not been entirely persuaded by Graves’ reasoning. McRafferty could put his passenger ashore literally anywhere in Australia, and the choice was in Halfhyde’s view much too wide. He was growing more and more certain that they would never pick up the windjammer and that McRafferty would be left to carry the affair off in ignorance of how far he was committing himself. He said as much to Graves.

  “It’s up to him, after all,” Graves responded as they paced the deck outside the Master’s accommodation. “You’re under no obligation to pull McRafferty’s chestnuts from the fire.”

  “Nor are you to deflect your ship, sir.”

  “No.” Graves grinned. “But, like you, I don’t like to see it happen. We’re both fools, I suppose.”

  “Sentimental ones,” Halfhyde said, “in regard to the windjammers…and the McRaffertys who work their guts out trying to keep them at sea.”

  “The devil’s own task.” Graves paused, looking sideways at Halfhyde. “You said you’d go for steam when you buy your own ship—you’re wise to do so. At the same time, you’ll forego a good deal of pleasure. There’s nothing like sail, never will be.”

  “I agree fully. But the windjammers are becoming less and less competitive every day, and I must be able to make a living.” He added dourly, “I have a wife to support, at any rate when my father-in-law is not doing so. I prefer not to be under such an obligation, the more so when my father-in-law is my senior officer.”

  “Indeed?”

  “A vice-admiral, no less.”

  “And his name?”

  “Sir John Willard,” Halfhyde said.

  Graves lifted his eyebrows. “Willard! It’s a small world to be sure—”

  “You know him?”

  “I don’t say I know him. But I served under him three years ago when doing my time with the fleet. Malta…do I take it you married Miss Mildred Willard?”

  “You may,” Halfhyde said.

  “Ah.” The revelation seemed to end the subject; Graves coughed in some embarrassment,
and the cough seemed to Halfhyde to be the only possible reaction to anyone having married Miss Mildred Willard. Graves returned to more nautical matters; Sydney, he said, if Halfhyde was ready to take the plunge, was a good place in which to find a likely steamer for sale and he, Graves, could provide some introductions.

  “You forget, sir, I’m on articles to Captain McRafferty, and must sail home with him.”

  “Always provided McRafferty and his ship have not been arrested by the authorities in Australia,” Graves said. “If things rebound upon him, he’ll be in serious trouble.”

  “I shall still stand by his ship, sir.” Halfhyde looked up as a call came from the bridge. The Second Officer reported a steamer on the port bow, closing on a reciprocal course.

  Graves went up the ladder, followed by Halfhyde. He said, levelling his telescope on the distant vessel, “We may as well speak her. There’s just a chance she’s passed the Aysgarth Falls.” He added, “That is, of course, if we’ve not overhauled her.”

  THE WINDJAMMER was in fact still a day’s sailing ahead of the Tacoma, and dirty weather had come up the night before—the dirty weather that Float had been fearing. Once again it was a case of all hands. They swarmed aloft to get the canvas off, fighting the great sails to pass the buntlines. From the poop Captain McRafferty watched the helm, ready to pass instant orders as the wind howled and tore and the ship heeled far over to leeward. Seas swept the decks, foaming up against the hatch covers, submerging the windlass, rising over the fife-rails at the foot of the masts, green and cold and dangerous.

  Bullock went aloft, racing his men up the foremast, up the futtock-shrouds and on to the foretopmast crosstrees and beyond. Float, sent to the fore upper tops’l yard, saw him coming, and, holding on with one hand, reached for his knife. The wind buffeted at him, invisible fingers bent on dragging him from the fragile safety of the footrope. Bullock, eyes gleaming in a fitful shaft of moonlight, came inexorably up the mast beneath. As he did so there came the agonizing sound of tearing canvas, then a crash as a yard was ripped free from the mizzenmast and fell in a tangle of rigging. McRafferty shouted from the poop.

  “Mr Bullock, lay aft!”

  Bullock took no notice. He climbed steadily. Float was alone on the yard. Float shook, and began to cry out; his voice was taken by the wind and flung to leeward. He mouthed in apparent silence, staring, unable to move. But he drew the knife and held it out towards Bullock’s advance and began screaming imprecations, as unheard as his shouts for help.

  Bullock had reached the yard now, was putting a boot out to take the footrope. The yard was canted sharply over to leeward and Bullock’s advance was uphill. That gave Float some advantage; he stayed where he was, lips drawn back tightly against his teeth, his fist holding the knife steady. As Bullock advanced a wicked gust took the ship, which was labouring already; she went over further to leeward. More noise from aft indicated more gear going over; then there was a whipping sound from the fore royal mast as it reacted to the heavy list and the weight of the wind. By now the ship was in real difficulties, finding no help from her First Mate.

  Bullock moved out along the yard staring fixedly at his quarry. Float moved backwards towards the yardarm, flailed at by the wind. Bullock came on, grinning now. He was mouthing something, but Float couldn’t hear what it was. Then a hand shot out and took Float’s wrist like a vice, twisted it. The knife fell clear into the sea so many feet below.

  Float gave a despairing shriek. Bullock let go of his wrist and lunged forward. Just as he did so the foretopmast stuns’l halliard parted; the 3½-inch hemp rope fell across the yard and Float shrieked again.

  BY NEXT morning, when the Tacoma raised the steamer ahead on her port bow, the gale had blown itself out, and only a confused swell was left behind. As the steamer closed, Graves took up his megaphone and altered course to bring his ship within hailing distance.

  “Ahoy, there! What ship?”

  The reply was bellowed back. “SS Werribee out of Brisbane for Valparaiso.”

  Graves gave the name of his own ship. “Have you spoken the fully-rigged ship Aysgarth Falls out of Iquique for Sydney?” he called across.

  There was some delay before the answer came back: the Master of the Werribee had not encountered the Aysgarth Falls herself but he had picked up a man cast overboard during a storm, clinging to a broken yard; and whilst in a state bordering on delirium the man had talked of the Aysgarth Falls—though on recovering he had denied all knowledge of such a ship.

  Graves looked at Halfhyde, raising his eyebrows. Halfhyde said, “This has the ring of mystery. It needs investigating more closely, sir.”

  “You think it may be McRafferty’s passenger?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. “We can but ask.”

  Graves lifted his megaphone again. “What is the man’s name?” he called across the water.

  “He refused to give a name, Captain.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Halfhyde said. “I believe we must take this nameless gentleman over ourselves. Since we’re also bound for Sydney, the castaway might as well avail himself of the opportunity to rejoin his ship!”

  FLOAT WAS lucky to be alive, for sharks had been around as the weather moderated. He had kept them off by making as much noise as he could, and the tangle of rigging that had gone over the side with the yard had helped to deflect their attacks. As he sank into delirium sheer luck had come to his rescue: a fight had broken out between a cruising whale and the sharks, and they had left him, and then he had been sighted from the Werribee. Recovering in due course, he had panicked, refusing to answer the questions of the Master, asking repeatedly for passage home as a distressed British seaman. If pressed further, he would eventually give a false name; and he was beginning to feel some emerging sense of security when the ship was spoken by the Tacoma. The resulting sight of Halfhyde, who was pulled across to the Werribee, was a shock. Float did his best to persuade the Werribee’s Master that Halfhyde was up to no good and that he, Float, should remain untransferred. Halfhyde found little difficulty in persuading the Master otherwise. As a man facing a charge of murder aboard a ship at sea, Float was required in Sydney; the Master was indeed only too anxious to get rid of him once Halfhyde had put the facts before him.

  Back aboard the Tacoma, Halfhyde asked questions, and it all came out. Bullock had tried to murder Float, had tried to knock him from the yard, though in fact it had been the parted hemp that had finally done the knocking. Why had Bullock wanted to kill Float? Because, Float said, he knew too much.

  “Tell me,” Halfhyde said.

  Float did, vengefully. “Diamonds,” he said. “Bloody millions of them. That Jesson. The passenger.”

  “I see. And you tried a little blackmail?”

  Float said it wasn’t blackmail, just that he’d said he’d talk if he didn’t get assistance over a clandestine landing.

  “Where does Captain McRafferty intend landing the passenger?” Halfhyde asked.

  A look came into Float’s eyes, and he seemed to check what he had been about to say. After a pause he said, “I dunno. Sydney, I reckon.”

  “No, you don’t, Float. You knew very well Captain McRafferty wouldn’t land the passenger in Sydney—or rather, that the passenger would see to it that it wasn’t Sydney. That was why you took the trouble to get a hold over him.”

  “Well, maybe. But I don’t know where he was to be put ashore.”

  “Think again, Float.”

  “I said, I don’t know.”

  “I think you do, Float. And I also know why you’re not admitting to it. You still have hopes of cheating the hangman, haven’t you? Forlorn hopes as it happens—but still hopes. You should cast them from your mind, Float, and help me to nail the passenger.”

  Float scowled: the last thing he wanted was for Jesson to be apprehended. Jesson knew that it was him, Float, who had killed Goss. Maybe Bullock had been told, but that would be simply hearsay and would remain so for as long as Jesson remained at liberty; and Fl
oat had it in mind that if the worst came to the worst and he was handed over in Sydney, he just might get away with manslaughter on the charge connected with the fire in the fo’c’sle. There had been a fight; tempers had been high—and the knife hadn’t been aimed at the man who had died. Whilst shut up in the sail locker night after night, Float had had plenty of time for thought; many a murder charge had been reduced to one of manslaughter. Whilst in gaol himself, Float had come across more than one such case. It just depended on what sort of story you could concoct, how much of the gift of the gab you had, and how soft the judge was. But no amount of verbiage could ever get him off the hook of Goss—and Jesson had his tacit admission. Even if Float denied having made the admission, they would get there by taking all the known circumstances into account…once Jesson had talked.

  He said, “I don’t bloody know. No one told me. Jesson didn’t know himself up to the time I talked to him. Or if ’e did, ’e didn’t say.”

  Halfhyde grunted, then turned away to stare from the port; the interview was being conducted in a spare cabin, with two hefty seamen outside the door. When Halfhyde had finished with him Float would be locked away below; but not yet. Halfhyde was convinced Float knew Jesson’s landing place; that sudden flicker in the eyes had covered knowledge. It was vital that it should be dug out.

  Halfhyde swung round. He said crisply, “You no doubt learned aboard the Aysgarth Falls that I had served in Her Majesty’s ships as a lieutenant. I still hold that rank, and the Master of this ship is a senior lieutenant of the Royal Naval Reserve. Also, you’ll have seen the White Ensign.”

  Float nodded, eyes alert and cautious.

  “Very well, then. You’ll understand that the Tacoma is now in effect commissioned as a warship. What do you know of the Navy, Float?”