Halfhyde Outward Bound

by Philip McCutchan

  Graves nodded. “I don’t go back on my word, Halfhyde. You’ll have my full support in anything you find necessary.”

  “Thank you, sir. I ask the loan of a revolver, and the availability of a boat’s crew for boarding.”

  “And you shall have hands to board with you.”

  Within the next five minutes the Tacoma had way upon her; with her paddles chunking through the water, she headed for the open Pacific seaward of Disaster Passage, with a boat ready at the davits, swung out for lowering and manned by a crew picked from among the hardest cases aboard.

  “A BLOODY steamer,” Bullock said. He spoke vindictively: the steamer had come out from a point southerly of Breakup Island and looked set to cross the windjammer’s course inwards. The First Mate stared across the dismal grey of the sea as the sails, filled with a fair wind, carried the ship on towards the landing point. He gnawed at his lip, wondering if he should go below and tell Jesson; but decided not to. This wasn’t Jesson’s business and the man would only make difficulties, unnecessary ones. But the paddler was steering a dangerous course; one that was not so far off a collision course, in fact. McRafferty was worried now. “Blasted idiot!” he said. “There’s not a damned sailorman amongst the lot of them, in steam!” He watched the oncoming steamer closely, assessing her course which looked the more threatening as she came nearer. He shook with anger; the steamer had a lunatic in command. He shouted, “Mr Bullock, all hands at once, man the braces…stand by to go about!”

  Bullock, who was studying the steamer in increasing concern, didn’t respond to the Captain’s order. McRafferty repeated it, taking the First Mate by the shoulder and wrenching him round to face him. Bullock said harshly, “Go about, my backside! We hold our course. She’s crossing us clear and she’s altering to starboard! I reckon she’s going to come down our side—didn’t you see—” He broke off in mid-,sentence, pushed McRafferty aside, and slid fast down the poop ladder to run along the waist, shouting for the hands. McRafferty, staring towards the steamer, now close and moving round his stern to come up on the port side, saw men mustered on her starboard paddle box.

  One of them waved a hand and it was then that McRafferty recognized Halfhyde. His first reaction was one of sheer disbelief. After that, he moved fast. As he left the poop, Jesson emerged from the saloon hatch, his revolver in his hand.

  HALFHYDE STARED across at the Aysgarth Falls as the Tacoma came round the stern of the windjammer, edging up to lie amidships for the jump across the gap. He had decided to board in naval fashion; he regretted only that the days of cutlasses were past. The manoeuvre would stand a better chance of success than any attempt to board from a boat, and Graves had agreed. Now Graves was handling his unwieldy ship superbly, watching with close attention as the starboard paddle moved closer to the side of the Aysgarth Falls, ready on the instant to go astern to bring the ship up when she was in position. Halfhyde watched Bullock. The First Mate was red-eyed with fear and fury as he stood waiting with the hands. Halfhyde wondered who would be for Bullock, who would be for McRafferty and himself. He saw McRafferty leave the poop and run for’ard, heard him shout out to Bullock and the hands. Bullock turned, his face vicious, and grappled with the Captain. McRafferty went down, but was soon on his feet again, having rolled his heavy body aside as Bullock lashed out at him with a booted foot. He rushed at Bullock, but the First Mate side-stepped and McRafferty lost his balance and went down again. As the steamer came closer in, Halfhyde, ready to jump across with half-a-dozen seamen, saw Float’s friend Althwaite moving into the attack on McRafferty. It looked like wholesale mutiny now.

  Halfhyde called, “Ready?”

  “All ready, sir.” This was the Tacoma’s bosun, who spat on his hands in anticipation.

  “Jump!” Halfhyde roared.

  There was something like a six-foot gap, with water slapping up as the hulls of the ships surged together. As the men cleared the gap, Graves took the Tacoma clear. Halfhyde was in the fight the moment he landed lightly on the deck. Bullock made a rush for him but hadn’t reckoned on Finney. The old ex-naval seaman knew well enough where his loyalties lay. He moved swiftly, stuck out a foot. Bullock crashed headlong on the deck, face first, his revolver spinning away into the scuppers. He got up, chin streaming blood from a nasty graze, and came back to the attack.

  He checked himself when he saw Halfhyde’s revolver. He stared around, looking for his own gun. Halfhyde said, “Leave it, Bullock. Hands above your head. Any other movement and I’ll fire.”

  “You…bastard!”

  Halfhyde grinned. The fighting was going on all around him, and it was about evens so far. A number of men were down on the deck and unconscious from fists and the swipe of belaying-pins. Halfhyde kept his revolver aimed at Bullock, moving closer to the First Mate, whose face was sheer murder now. He said, “Aft, Bullock. Aft to the poop. Move!” Bullock stayed where he was; Halfhyde’s long jaw came forward, and he fired at the deck at Bullock’s feet, his eyes like ice. Bullock yelped and moved fast. He climbed to the poop with Halfhyde close behind.

  “Now,” Halfhyde said, swinging the First Mate round. “Where’s Sergeant Cantlow, Bullock?”

  “Cantlow? I’ve never—”

  “Cut the lies, Bullock. We both know the identity of your passenger. We also know what he’s involved in—don’t we? I advise you not to make matters worse for yourself. Where is he?”

  Bullock’s expression altered. Halfhyde recognized the purport too late. He was on the turn when from behind him a voice said, “Here.” Halfhyde felt the pressure of metal in his spine. The voice said, “Drop your revolver, friend. On the deck, behind you.”

  Halfhyde looked back to meet Cantlow’s eyes. “A renegade sergeant of dragoons. Is there anything lower a man can do, than desert? Unless, of course, it’s to commit murder. I suggest you think very carefully as to your next step, Sergeant Cantlow.”

  Cantlow spoke over Halfhyde’s shoulder to Bullock. “Who is this man?”

  “Halfhyde. I told you about him.”

  “Yes, you did. Ex-Royal Navy, eh—”

  “Not ex,” Halfhyde said. “I am a lieutenant of Her Majesty’s fleet still, though on the half-pay list. I am still the holder of Her Majesty’s commission. It would be unwise to extend your felonies too far, Sergeant!”

  Cantlow grinned; Halfhyde smelled whisky on his breath. “I think you’re in no position to give orders now, Lieutenant Halfhyde.”

  “You think not?” Halfhyde lifted an arm and pointed across the water towards the Tacoma, now lying off at a safe distance. “You see my ship. Take a good look, Sergeant Cantlow…and then tell me whether or not she wears the White Ensign of a Queen’s ship!”

  There was a pause. Behind Halfhyde, Cantlow swore viciously. He said, “I’ll be damned!”

  “Exactly,” Halfhyde said. “You’d do better to throw down your own revolver, Sergeant, than to interfere with mine.”

  “Like hell. That ship…there’s nothing she can do.” Once again Cantlow paused, then asked, “What orders did you leave with her, before you boarded?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. A bizarre idea was taking shape in his mind as a possibility, an audacious one that stood a fair chance, in his view, of paying off. Meanwhile, it would be as well if Cantlow was left with the possibility of action by Graves. He said, “You must use your imagination as to my orders, Sergeant—”

  “No. You’ll tell me, or it’ll go the worse for you. In the meantime, you’re going below to the saloon.” As Bullock picked up a belaying-pin Cantlow pressed with his gun. “Down the hatch, Lieutenant Halfhyde, and make it fast, or my temper may get the better of me. And hand me your revolver. Butt first.”

  Halfhyde gave a shrug, passed the revolver over and turned for the hatch; for now, the physical odds were against him. Before reaching the hatch, he looked for’ard along the deck. The fo’c’sle hands of the Aysgarth Falls appeared to have won the day. The men from the Tacoma were mostly lying in pools of blood, and Captain Mc
Rafferty was being frog-marched aft towards the door into the saloon alleyway and looking the worse for wear. Matters were not good; and Halfhyde’s request to Graves had been to take the Tacoma clear, to remain in company but not on any account to hazard his ship or the rest of his crew by making any further attempt to put a party aboard. The show was Halfhyde’s, and it seemed now as though he might have been too confident. With no certain support arranged from the Tacoma, the future had to depend on what was, in fact, nothing but a very large bluff.

  When Halfhyde reached the saloon, with Bullock in front of him and Cantlow bringing up the rear, McRafferty was sitting on the settee under guard of Althwaite and another man. Cantlow sent these two packing and ordered Halfhyde to the settee, where he sat alongside McRafferty, who was slumped with his head almost between his knees; the Master’s face was grey and drawn. There was a lump on his head and blood smeared his face. Halfhyde crossed his legs and assumed a relaxed air, a smile playing about his lips. McRafferty lifted his head and said in a dull voice, “My ship. She’ll be standing into danger…with no one on the poop.”

  Cantlow caught Bullock’s eye and nodded. He said, “I’ll be all right on my own, but listen out.” Bullock left the saloon and was heard clumping up the ladder to the poop. Cantlow addressed Halfhyde. “You knew where we were heading—that’s obvious. You knew just where to lie in wait for us, didn’t you?”

  “Certainly.”

  “How? How did you know? And how did you know who I was?”

  Halfhyde shrugged. There was no need to mention Float, who was still aboard the Tacoma and might yet be useful if held in reserve. He gave Cantlow part of the answer. He said, “Sources in Chile.”

  “What sources?”

  Smiling still, Halfhyde said, “Persons whom you thought were friends. In Iquique.” He added, “It doesn’t matter telling you that now, since you’ll never be in a position to take your revenge. You’re going to swing, Cantlow.”

  Cantlow gave a coarse laugh. “Doesn’t look much like it, does it, Lieutenant Halfhyde? It doesn’t look like it at all to my way of thinking.” He stood with his revolver pointed, his finger gently around the trigger, as the ship heeled to the wind and the sound of gear being worked came from the deck. “What makes you so bloody confident? I’d just like to know.”

  “You will know soon,” Halfhyde answered coolly.

  Cantlow seemed baffled, looking as though a worm of worry was beginning to niggle. Halfhyde kept his easy air. Alongside him, McRafferty’s limbs had a nasty shake. He was seeing his whole life in ruins. As for the time being a silence fell on the saloon, McRafferty muttered that his daughter was being held in her cabin.

  Halfhyde said, “Not for much longer, Captain McRafferty.” McRafferty looked up. “How’s that?”

  “Time will tell, sir, as it will tell Sergeant Cantlow.”

  “Cantlow…” McRafferty, Halfhyde had noted, had looked genuinely surprised when the name Cantlow had been mentioned a few moments earlier; and Halfhyde was convinced that McRafferty had never been told the true facts about his passenger. Now McRafferty put his head in his hands, a beaten man. Cantlow began to ask questions again, more insistent questions as to Halfhyde’s sources of information, how he had managed to keep track of the Aysgarth Falls and how much was known in Chile and elsewhere as to himself. Halfhyde maintained his relaxed air, answering nothing except to say, repetitiously, that Cantlow would soon be finding out.

  “You sound too damn confident,” Cantlow said furiously, coming closer with his revolver still pointed. “If you don’t want to get hurt, you’d better tell me what your confidence is based on, Lieutenant Halfhyde. All right?”

  Halfhyde grinned into the lowering, hairy face. “All in good time,” he said. At that moment something seemed to happen on deck. There was a shout from Bullock, a shout of fear and anger, followed by a spate of orders. In the saloon, they heard the thump of blocks and the sound of running feet; and then Bullock was heard coming down the ladder.

  The First Mate burst into the saloon, eyes wide. He said, “There’s a bloody warship lying off Breakup Island! A bloody mano’war, Cantlow!”

  Cantlow’s eyes had narrowed to slits, and behind the beard the cheeks were suddenly pasty. He reached out and hauled Halfhyde to his feet. “Is this why? Is this why you’ve been so damn confident?”

  “Of course,” Halfhyde said. “You’re sailing to certain arrest, Sergeant. If Bullock looks carefully, he’ll see the ensign of the German Empire…the ship is the first-class cruiser Mannheim, flagship of the German Special Service Squadron. Good friends…you’ll not be forgetful that the Kaiser is the grandson of Her Majesty, of course—”

  “You—”

  Halfhyde’s voice rose over the interruption. “The squadron is commanded by my friend Vice-Admiral Paulus von Merkatz, who has placed himself at the disposal of the British Admiralty and of myself in particular—in order to arrest you, Sergeant Cantlow. You are sailing into his hands, and it’s now too late.”

  “It’s never too late—”

  “Ah, but it is this time.” Halfhyde waved a hand towards the saloon ports. “Heavy guns, turreted guns—and upwards of five hundred naval officers and ratings. It will be an uphill task to take issue with them, Sergeant Cantlow. Frankly, I advise surrender.” He caught Bullock’s eye and grinned. “What do you say, Mr Bullock? Do you want to risk everything—or do you not?”

  Bullock licked his lips, his eyes furtive now. He looked appealingly at Cantlow. Cantlow read the signs all too plainly: he was being walked out on. His face suffused and before Halfhyde could stop him he had fired. His aim was good. As Halfhyde took him hard with a blow behind the right ear, Bullock fell to the deck, streaming blood from his stomach.

  HALFHYDE PACED the poop with McRafferty, who was all smiles now and feeling fit to resume the command of his ship. Cantlow was in irons below; Miss McRafferty stood at the starboard rail of the poop, letting the good, clean wind blow away the memories of the last few days. The Tacoma, after an exchange by megaphone with Halfhyde and McRafferty, had swung away on course for Sydney; and the Aysgarth Falls was now on a similar track, with Halfhyde promoted yet again, this time to First Mate.

  “What about the diamonds, Mr Halfhyde?” McRafferty asked.

  “I’ve examined the cases, sir, and they appear to be intact. They can be safely delivered to the proper authority in Sydney.”

  “Yes. But do you suppose the recovery of them will act in my favour, enough to prevent charges against me?”

  “I’d not be surprised,” Halfhyde answered. “Also, I shall stand by you myself and confirm my own belief that you had no knowledge of Cantlow’s identity or of what was in his baggage.”

  “Very good of you.” McRafferty mopped at his face, looking much relieved.

  Halfhyde shrugged. “I’ve no wish to see a shipowner suffer unjustly—I’m still hopeful of becoming an owner myself, and I’ve already seen some of the difficulties involved! Further, Bullock and Cantlow were villains both, and I see no justice whatever in allowing their villainy to stick to you.”

  McRafferty nodded. “I’m very grateful, Mr Halfhyde. My ship…as you know, it’s my home.” He blew his nose hard; he seemed embarrassed and to cover this he lifted his telescope towards the German flagship still lying off Breakup Island and now beginning to recede astern as the windjammer made all speed for Sydney Heads. “Your friend, Mr Halfhyde.”

  “Friend?” Halfhyde asked absently.

  “The Admiral—von Merkatz I think you said—”

  “Ah, yes. What about him, sir?”

  “You wish to make no farewell message, perhaps by semaphore, before we’re too far south of him? A message of thanks? It seems—”

  Halfhyde said gravely, “I doubt if he would really appreciate it, sir.”

  “But surely—”

  “No, sir, I shall refrain from rubbing in the salt on this occasion.”

  “Salt? Why, damn it, Mr Halfhyde, I fail to understand y
ou! The German’s been of immense help, and you don’t even thank him—and then you talk of salt!”

  Halfhyde tapped McRafferty’s telescope, which he had now lowered. He said, “Look again, sir, and carefully. I think your seamanship sense would have told you earlier, had you not been somewhat distrait. I believe Bullock—fortunately—was also distrait at the moment of sighting her.” He coughed and said again, “Another look, Captain.”

  Still puzzled, McRafferty lifted his glass and steadied it against the mizzen shrouds. He stared for some while towards the flagship. “There’s a good deal of activity around her,” he said. He looked a while longer then said in amazement, “Why, the poor fellow’s hard aground, Mr Halfhyde, hard aground on the rocks!”

  Halfhyde smiled. “Indeed he is. He impacted sharply in the very moment of coming out from the lee of Breakup Island.” His smile became broader as he reflected upon the wrath that would visit von Merkatz if ever he found out about his unwitting assistance to his old enemy. “The very best place for him, sir,” he added to McRafferty.

  “But that cannot be—we must go back to assist—”

  “No, sir.” Halfhyde was adamant. “We must not go about. For certain good reasons, it’s a far better thing to let grounded Huns lie.”