To Sapporo, the provincial capital of Hokkaido, it was 600
miles, and the 11.30 plane landed him there just before one o’clock. He took a cab to the railway station and bought a ticket to Otaru. The port was only forty minutes away and he arrived there, his last planned destination in Japan, exactly on schedule, 2.55. An arrow pointed to the toilets, and he locked himself into one and changed his clothes.
Out of the executive case came the jeans, shirt and rope-soled shoes kept back for this occasion; and also a folded canvas grip. Into the grip went his wig, and then every trace of the identity of James B. Peterson. He added the executive case itself, zipped up the grip, and went out to the left luggage office. There he deposited the grip, took a receipt, and in the station mailbox posted it off back to Tokyo in the prepared envelope he had brought with him. Somebody would be picking up the grip within forty-eight hours.
Now it was almost 3.30.
He had half an hour to wait.
He had a cup of coffee in the station tearoom and kept an eye on the left luggage office. The two men there had been on duty since 8 a.m. and were due for relief. At four the new shift would come on until midnight when the office closed; they would have no knowledge of a man who had just deposited a grip. All this had been scouted out for him.
At four the new shift arrived, and five minutes later a Korean seaman presented a grubby receipt from his wallet. The attendant looked sourly at him, shuffled among the racks and cursed as he hefted the heavy kit over the counter.
Porter shouldered the kitbag, lifted the bulging strap-bound case, and went out to the cab rank. In twenty minutes he was pulling up at the rooming house.
It was a shabby, run-down place, close by the docks. The proprietor was drowsing on a stool outside. He didn’t bother getting up for the Korean seaman but confirmed that he was booked in and told him where to pick up his key in the lobby. Room 11, first floor.
Porter took his gear up and let himself into the decrepit room. Not a sound in the building. No one else seemed to be in it and he wondered if the phone worked. He had seen one, on the wall, in the passage below. He went down to find out.
‘Phone? Help yourself,’ the proprietor said. ‘It takes tokens.’
There was a push-button light in the dark passage. He read the number on his piece of paper, shoved a token in, and dialled the port office. The light went out twice before he had the right department, and he had to put another token in the phone. But they had his particulars and the man at the other end was irritable. They had been given them that same morning, he said. Why inquire again? There was nothing new. No long-haul ship in. Maybe one would come, in a day or two. They had his number. He got them to repeat it, and found they had it wrong. He gave them the right one, and smiled grimly. Yoshi had told him just to wait. Keep to the plan and wait, he said. Well, it was on just such details – as with the derrick – that the best plan could come adrift. Check everything. He hung up and went back to his room. Now he could wait. Tomorrow; after 3 p.m.
A good sleep and a calm morning watch had cleared the captain’s mind, and he now knew what to do. The load to be picked up at Otaru was a broken cargo of canned tuna – 126 tons of it, salvage from a container ship, gone overboard and declared unfit for the Japanese market. The Russian Trade Mission had snapped up this bargain, for delivery in Murmansk. The crates had been reassembled on several hundred pallets, and were due to go in number one and number two holds.
This cargo, as a further reading of his orders confirmed, was ‘at captain’s discretion’. It was a late booking, and the Russians had squeezed a cheap rate. He decided he would exercise his discretion. A pity, but the fiddling job involved much crane work and would take hours; certainly three. Three hours gained. That left only an hour to dispose of. Not so bad. He would think of something.
He took what he needed from the medical chest, and went aft to inspect Ushiba. He unlocked the door of the heads, switched on the light, and relocked behind him. The man’s sweating face was going to and fro on the stretcher and his eyes fluttered dazedly in the light. He was quite secure, however; firmly pinioned; couldn’t hurt himself. It was hot in the tiny compartment and he was naked. The bosun had hosed him down a couple of times but the place still smelt very bad.
The captain held a handkerchief over his nose. ‘Ushiba, how do you feel, man?’ he asked nasally above the rumble of the engines.
Ushiba’s mouth opened and closed but only gurgling came out of it. He had been doing this for some hours. His lips had a white crust; probably from the rice water. It had stopped him vomiting, anyway. His colour was the same.
‘Ushiba, I’m going to give you another injection,’ the captain told him. ‘It’s very good for you.’
He tore open a new needle package and a vitamin ampoule. Ushiba jerked a little as the plunger went home. The book had recommended buttocks but the captain was not anxious to pick about Ushiba’s underparts: he chose a thigh.
‘There we are.’ A little blood, not much. He stuck a dressing on it. ‘Keep your spirits up! Bosun will be seeing to you soon.’
Bosun was at that minute seeing to Ushiba’s mattress, over the stern rail. Nobody was working there. He had scrubbed out the bunk with antiseptic, and now peeled off his rubber gloves and sent them after the mattress, into the Sea of Japan.
Before turning in, which he did very late again, the captain discussed final plans with the mate.
Otaru was not a busy port and would not need much advance warning. They would need some warning, of course. For one thing, he wanted a fast turnaround, and for another they had to be told that he was not picking up the tuna. Since the cargo had been specially assembled, and was waiting for him, this could cause irritation in Otaru, and quite possibly requests for confirmation, from the freight forwarders or the ship’s owners. This would not be a good idea.
A much better idea was to leave it to the last moment, a moment when Otaru would not be in a position to ask silly questions but would still have time to make the arrangements he wanted. The arrangements were only to dump his wool and take on oil. Two ship movements involved, it was true – for the refuelling dock was not a cargo dock – but quite possible to do it within a turnaround of two hours. And also possible, since he was expected anyway, for them to arrange it at three hours’ notice. This would mean radioing them at seven in the morning.
The mate agreed with the reasoning and the captain asked for a shake at 6.30, and at last got to his bunk. Two a.m. again.
But the anxious moments ahead robbed him of sleep, and his temper was not good when he spoke to the seven o’clock idiot at Otaru.
‘No loading. Just unloading,’ he barked. ‘And oiling. I want to discharge, oil, and leave by 1200 hours. Have you got that?’
‘Captain, you can’t discharge and oil at the same time.’
‘I know that! I’ll discharge first. I’ll discharge and then oil. And there’s one thing more. Are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want another deck hand.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to get another deck hand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand all that? I want to discharge, oil, and board another deck hand. Are you there?’
‘Captain, I can’t get you a deck hand at seven in the morning.’
‘I don’t want one at seven in the morning. I want one when I get there!’ the captain howled. ‘You’ve got my ETA. Have you got my ETA? Hello – Otaru? My ETA is 1000. Please confirm my ETA. Otaru, can you hear me?’
This taped conversation, greatly enjoyed by the next shift, was subsequently ordered to be kept under lock and key; but that was for a Board of Inquiry and some time later.
Meanwhile the Suzaku Maru ploughed on, and at 0830 rounded the point and entered Ishikari Bay. Just a little later, peering through his glasses, the captain discerned the cranes of Otaru, and decided it was time to go below and have a look at Ushiba again. He invited the bosun to step below wit
h him.
Ushiba, to the captain’s eye, looked much the same. His head was going to and fro and he was gurgling. The bosun thought he was worse. He said he was no longer keeping down the rice water, and he hadn’t slept. He had not been hosed much in the past few hours, but there was not much to hose. His strength was going, and without the rice water he probably needed more vitamins.
The captain made no comment, but he took a different view. It seemed to him (and he had it confirmed by the mate at the subsequent inquiry) that despite failing strength Ushiba was still too vocal. Better than a vitamin injection would be a sedative one. A sound sleep would do Ushiba more good than vitamins, particularly while being landed and stowed in an ambulance.
‘It was my honest opinion,’ he said. And he acted on it as they entered harbour. But he was back up on the bridge as they tied up, which was at 1000 hours precisely.
A hammering on the door woke Porter at half past ten in the morning. The proprietor had insisted on his sharing a bottle of cheap shochu the night before and his head was thick.
‘Phone for you – the port office,’ the man called hoarsely. He was cursing.
Porter scrambled down the stairs in his underpants. The phone was swinging in the passage.
‘Sung Won Choo?’
‘Yes.’
‘A ship needs a deck hand – long haul, through the Arctic, you interested?’
‘I might be. When is she in?’
‘She’s in. Half an hour ago.’
On time then. Bang on time. ‘What ship?’ he said.
‘Suzaku Maru, a tramp.’
‘A tramp. Well, I’ll think about it.’
‘There’s no time. If you want her, go right there – I’ll let them know. She’s sailing in ninety minutes.’
Sailing in ninety minutes? He couldn’t understand any of this but he went rapidly back upstairs. Give them less than an hour, was the plan. He’d barely have an hour. He took a shower, yelled for the proprietor to call a taxi, dressed, paid up and departed with his breakfast in his hand.
For an extra 250 yen the driver took him on to the dock, inquired for the berth and drove him right to it. The berth was vacant, and much confusion was going on in the wake of the ship’s apparently rapid departure. In the confusion it took time to discover where she was now. She was now evidently at an oiling wharf. But for another 250 yen, the driver said, he would take him there, too.
The oiling wharf was also in a state of confusion. Hoses throbbed as fuel was pumped into the Suzaku Maru. Everywhere hands were busy clearing up tufts of wool scattered from bales broken open in the hurried discharge. In the wheelhouse the captain anxiously watched. Almost 11.30 and no new hand had shown up yet. On the dockside he could see the ambulance, its doors open. He could just make out the ambulance men themselves, on the deck. Ushiba was on a stretcher there, in a patch of shade. He had been inserted into a pair of pyjamas and was now quite peaceful, eyes closed, a clean sheet tucked up under his chin. The ambulance men seemed unsatisfied about something. The captain drummed his fingers and looked at his watch.
On the deck the ambulance men were talking to the bosun.
‘He’s a funny colour for food poisoning,’ one of them said.
‘Isn’t he? It’s his liver. Masked by the booze, you see,’ the bosun explained. ‘Came back aboard pissed out of his mind and in the morning he was like this – shellfish.’
‘They don’t usually go to sleep, though.’
‘No, you’re right. He couldn’t. Throwing himself about. Captain thought the best thing was, give him a sedative.’
‘Well, that wasn’t the best thing. Hard to say what’s up with him now. Still, they’ll find out in hospital.’
‘Sure,’ the bosun said, and watched them lift the stretcher. He was still watching, from the rail, when the taxi drew up below. A Korean got out. Pigtail. Sloppy kitbag and case. Always trouble, Koreans. Late, lazy, lippy. This one was going to need gingering up.
‘Hoy! You!’ he yelled, as the man had the nerve to stop and look at the patient, actually start chatting with the ambulance men. ‘Get up here!’
The man came up the gangplank.
‘You the new hand? Sung?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re late. Dump your kit here and go up and see the mate, on the bridge. Look lively, now.’
The new hand went up to the bridge and saw the mate, who rapidly checked him out. Papers in order; had served with the line; knew the ships. He took him to the captain.
The captain had watched these proceedings with relief. He briefly catechised the new hand and got him to make his signature. A series of thumps had signalled the disconnection of the hoses. He signed for the oil, told the mate to cast off, heard the bawled orders to let go fore and aft, and took the ship out himself.
As the wharf slid away he reflected that in the confusion the ambulance men had not asked for Ushiba’s belongings; not even his papers. Without his papers it was not possible to say where he had been. Well, it wouldn’t interest them at the hospital where the man had been. They’d have their own procedures for finding out was wrong with him.
In due course.
His stuff could be sent back from Murmansk; perhaps Sweden; even Rotterdam. The owners would have to be informed, of course. He would radio them after putting on a bit of seaway. Quite a bit of seaway. He decided to put it on fast.
‘1315 hours. Cleared Ishikari Bay,’ reported the log. ‘Speed 12 knots. Heading 135°.’ North. Later he would have to go north-east. Much later still, with the Bering Strait behind him and Cape Dezhnev to be rounded, another correction would be needed. North by north-west.
19
Five days and 1300 miles out of Otaru, the bosun decided it was time to ginger up the new hand.
No definite signs of laziness had come out of him yet, and he hadn’t been caught late for watchkeeping. But he was lippy. He seemed to turn things over in his mind before carrying out an order. He had commented on the new mattress in his bunk; had asked questions about Ushiba. And he showed too much interest in the ship’s movements. All out of order for a new deckhand, and a Korean deckhand at that.
The bosun went briskly forward, rattled down the steps, and looked briefly into the fore ends.
‘Sung! Topside now. Look alive!’
He said it once only, and was waiting, in the lee of a container, out of the wind, as the man came up on deck, his eyes still puffy from sleep.
‘Now then, Sung. Ever greased a Takanawa?’
‘Not when I’m off watch,’ Sung said.
The bosun’s lip tightened. ‘You’re on again at night,’ he said, ‘when it’s dark. I want to see you do it now. Well be frosting up soon.’
So they would. Sakhalin and the Kuriles were well behind them. The Kamchatka peninsula had been passing for some hours on the port side.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ Sung suggested, ‘I will be on again. Then it will be light.’
‘And maybe iced up. Get your gear.’
The man gave his momentary stare, then shrugged and went below. But he was soon back, with his woollen hat and donkey jacket; also gauntlets, grease gun and chipper from the locker.
He went through the drill properly enough; first switching on the eleven-ton derrick’s electric motor. And standing back smartly as the dangerous thing kicked and the big arms shuddered round.
‘All right. Now manual,’ the bosun said.
‘Manual needs two men.’
‘Here I am,’ the bosun said, and winked. They could all work by the book. ‘Set her up for greasing.’
He watched as the man unhoused the equipment, and located and fitted it: brake lever and distance piece, reduction gear and turning assembly; all properly fitted. He gave him little help. Whatever the book said, the job could easily be done by one man in calm seas. Two men were needed only with pitching and slippery decks – one to revolve the cogs in turn and clamp home the bar brake, the other to get in with the grease gun. That was when the
accidents occurred to arms and legs; and invariably to the grease man.
No grease was needed yet, and both of them knew it. No seas had been shipped and the dockyard grease was still thick. But the man did the job without comment; then took down the equipment, rehoused it, and stood and looked at him, pigtail flapping in the wind. ‘Any more?’ he said.
The bosun’s big hands itched at the Korean’s mulish stare.
‘Not now. When we get into some weather will be time. You can get below now.’
The man turned and went without a word, and the bosun’s hands itched again. With surly crewmen he was used to ruling with his fists. Break them quickly: it was always best and saved time in the end. With this one he knew the time would have to come soon.
Porter, returning to the fore ends, knew it too. He saw the other men watching him from their card game.
‘Bosun been riding you?’
‘Tried to get me greasing a derrick.’
‘Why, the bastard – they don’t need greasing yet.’
‘I know. Just got me at it.’
‘Watch yourself with bosun. Show him respect. That’s all he wants.’
‘Sure.’ He turned back into his bunk. There were no problems with the crew. He had soon established a reputation as a moody fellow, best left alone. Because of the two other Koreans aboard he had also established a prepared speech impediment. And because of his size nobody had mocked him for it. But his accent had passed with the Koreans anyway, and he was on reasonable terms with them all. He had dropped in bits of his background; had shown his photos, had looked at theirs. No; no problems with the crew.
But the bosun was something else.
The man didn’t like him. Obeying orders wouldn’t help. He would pile on the orders, give him every lousy job on the ship, until resentment showed, some spark of rebellion. Then bosun would use his fists, beat him into submission. And get him greasing the derrick. He remembered what Ichiko had told him about the derrick. Greasing the derrick was the most dangerous job. The bar-brake was hard to handle, couldn’t be left for a second; and on icy decks, the operator slithering, it could slip – with the grease man in among the cogs. Someone else would have to grease, some more experienced hand. He wouldn’t. So bosun’s first job would be to make him. Well, it had to be faced sooner or later, and sooner was better than later.
Kolymsky Heights Page 12