But what? Yet again, it came back to the same depressing truth. He was qualified for nothing. Dallas daydreamed through the next few hours, considering his options. Deep in thought, he didn’t hear footsteps hurrying down the passage and stop outside his door.
It burst open and Jensen rushed in. ‘The peelers, monsieur. Quick! They are searching the ship.’
Dallas scrambled from his bunk and followed the sailor. They descended an aft companionway into what could only be the crew’s quarters. Small, airless and slung with hammocks, the smell of unwashed bodies and damp was almost overpowering.
Jensen thrust some non-too-clean clothes at him. ‘Put these slops on. Be quick. And take your boots off, they are too fine for a sailor.’
Dallas did as he was told, handing Jensen his discarded apparel which was quickly stuffed into a duffel bag.
‘Wear this. Here, let me do it.’ Jensen tied a bandana around his head, then messed his hair around it. ‘That will have to suffice. Come.’
They set off again, Dallas following. He could hear voices coming towards them – one belonged to Captain Ross, who sounded irritated.
‘This way, monsieur.’ Beyond the crew’s accommodation lay another companionway that brought them up into a sail storage area. ‘Over here.’ Jensen released the drawstring on a canvas bag and drew out a sail. ‘Sit on the deck. Take this end. We’re looking for tears. Check the reef point stitching and keep your head down. Pay attention to the clew, it rips first. Keep the sail over your feet, they’re too white for a man who works on deck. Try to hide your hands as well. Look smart, here they come.’
Dallas bent his head over the sail, heart hammering, head spinning, not knowing what was a reef point and clew or how he was supposed to look as if he were checking them without using his hands. He risked a glance at Jensen. The man had both arms under the sail and was examining a short piece of line fastened through it on one of the corners. Dallas copied him.
‘This is an outrage.’ The indignant voice of Captain Ross. ‘I tell you, sir, any who sail in my ship do so with port authority knowledge. If you delay us much longer we shall miss the tide. Time is money, my good man.’
Dallas heard footsteps climbing the companionway.
Captain Ross saw immediately what Jensen was trying to do. ‘Is that jib seaworthy yet? Hurry it up, men, we sail in half an hour and the bobstay still needs tightening. Report to the officer of the watch when you’re finished here. Jensen, have you seen to the mizzen crossjack?’
‘All in order, captain.’
‘Good man.’ Captain Ross turned to the police sergeant. ‘Are you satisfied?’
‘Three of the cabins are clearly occupied and yet no-one was in them.’
The captain allowed impatience to creep into his voice. ‘It is not my job, sir, to account for a passenger’s whereabouts. Find them if you will. I have work to do.’
His obvious annoyance swayed the policeman’s resolve and he backed down. ‘That won’t be necessary, captain. A look at the passenger list if you please. Then you are free to depart.’
Both men left the sail room and Jensen expelled air. ‘Stay here, monsieur. I’ll come for you when the coast is clear.’
Left alone, Dallas leaned back against a sail bag and closed his eyes. He hadn’t dared glance up at the policeman but the man seemed to have little interest in the crew. Dallas remembered Victor’s advice when he wanted to clean up before arriving at Cousin Adrian’s. Victor had been right. Jensen too had known instinctively how best to escape detection. The police were searching for a gentleman. Right under their nose but disguised as a common Jack Tar, he became virtually invisible. It was worth remembering. Dallas recalled the generous tip he’d given. It hadn’t been a waste of money after all.
Jensen only returned once they had cleared the river mouth. Dallas tried to thank him. ‘There be toffs and toffs,’ the man declared seriously. ‘Wouldn’t give the time of day to most. Drown ’em at birth, I say.’ He spat on the deck. ‘But once in a while, you meet one who is just like us common folk. Human like, know what I mean, sir? No airs and pardon-me-bloody-la-de-da. You be one of them, monsieur, and no mistake.’
Dallas managed not to smile. In his own rough way, Jensen had paid him the biggest compliment of his life and he felt absurdly pleased because of it. The sailor had simply stated a fact as he saw it and would probably not appreciate, or even understand, any kind of reaction.
Returning to his cabin, Dallas was in buoyed spirits. They were under way.
FOUR
Captain Ross sent for Dallas several hours after the Newcastle Lady had berthed. Up on deck, Dallas could see that Calais was in the grip of even more miserable weather than England. The prospect of warmer climes suddenly seemed very appealing.
The captain glanced up from a sloppily coiled mooring line, a look of displeasure on his face. He was preoccupied and abrupt. ‘I have spoken with Captain Aujoulat. The Marie Clare sails tonight. For passage to South Africa he asks forty English guineas. Can you pay?’
It seemed a lot but Dallas had no option. ‘For that much I expect a decent cabin.’
Ross laughed mirthlessly. ‘Monsieur, I advise you to accept what is offered. Aujoulat suffers no airs and graces. He will treat you fairly but as an equal. Take it or leave it.’
Dallas had the impression that Captain Ross had done all he was prepared to do. ‘Thank you, captain. I accept.’
‘Good. You are free to board at your leisure.’
The man obviously couldn’t wait to get rid of him. Dallas realised that if Cousin Adrian hadn’t been part owner of the shipping line, he would have seen little or no help from Captain Ross. ‘Then I’ll take my leave of you, sir.’ He gave a formal bow.
The captain responded stiffly and turned away.
Jensen brought Dallas’s valise on deck. ‘I’ll carry this, sir.’ He nodded to two others who lifted the heavy sea chest. ‘The captain requires that we see you safely aboard the Marie Clare.’
Although a welcome offer, Dallas wondered if Captain Ross was simply making sure his unexpected passenger remained a responsibility no longer than absolutely necessary.
Jensen led, pushing through the crowds and yelling, ‘Make way, make way.’ Dallas wished he would stop. People were eyeing him with curiosity. He tensed as two gendarmes appeared but the policemen obligingly stepped aside allowing Dallas to pass. Once again, he was struck by the English sailor’s audacious cunning. A fugitive would hardly draw such attention to himself.
‘You’re a lucky devil and no mistake,’ Jensen commented when they reached the steamship. ‘I hear tell she’s a beauty.’
They said goodbye on the wharf. Dallas thanking the man again.
Jensen shrugged it off. ‘You’re running from the law. The peelers never caused me nothing but grief. It’s me moral duty, monsieur.’ He stuck out a grimy hand and Dallas shook it. ‘Would you take a piece of good advice, sir?’
‘Indeed, I’d appreciate it.’
‘Trust no-one.’ With a cheery wave, Jensen was gone.
Dallas felt quite alone as he stood in line before a table where passengers’ names were being entered in a large leather-bound ledger. His turn came quickly.
‘You are the gentleman off the Newcastle Lady, I take it? Name?’
‘Granger,’ Dallas said self-consciously.
‘Thank you, Mr Granger. Please present yourself to the purser of B Deck. He will have someone show you to your cabin.’
Dallas ascended the gangplank, awed by the steamship’s sheer size. A smartly dressed officer greeted him at the top. ‘First Officer Hardcastle at your service. Welcome aboard, sir. We trust you will have a pleasant trip with us. Should you have any complaints about our service, or any special requirements, do not hesitate to inform the deck steward. I’ll see to your baggage, sir.’
Dallas registered that the officer appeared to be English, not French. There was no reason for him not to be, but a Frenchman would be less likely to have heard
of the scandal.
He was pleasantly surprised by his accommodation. It had two portholes and the door opened straight out onto A Deck. Comfortably furnished, an arch led from a small sitting room to the bedchamber. A plan of the ship on the back of the door showed him where to find the dining room, games room, library and bar. Other printed information on a small bureau told him that the journey from Calais to Cape Town, should no heavy weather be encountered, would take five weeks. On their passage south the ship stopped for several days at the ports of Bilbao, Oporto, Casablanca, Las Palmas and Freetown, before steaming on to Cape Town. Passengers intending to disembark in Durban had to allow another four days, including one stopover at Port Elizabeth.
Additional information explained how the valet and laundry service worked, gave mealtimes, library and bar hours, and outlined a rudimentary entertainment schedule. Apart from a dinner dance in the games room every Friday and multi-denominational church services held in the library three times on Sundays, passengers had to amuse themselves. The library contained a collection of short plays for those with amateur dramatic leanings. Those wishing to play cards should see the purser who, for some inexplicable reason, kept playing cards under lock and key.
Sporting activities – shuffleboard, quoits and deck tennis – could be played outside or in the games room, where all associated equipment was to be found. Gentlemen wishing to spar for recreational purposes should see the purser. The ship’s doctor had his surgery on B Deck where there was also a small infirmary.
Queen Victoria’s influence stretched even to a French steamship. The vessel’s saltwater pool would be open to ladies on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Gentlemen could swim on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. It was closed on the Sabbath. A gilt-edged card informed Dallas that he was invited to join the captain’s table every Tuesday and Saturday. On other days he would take meals on table three.
Alcohol, according to company rules and regulations, was not allowed in passengers’ cabins and, while the bar would be closed whenever the ship was in port, alcohol could be purchased in the dining room. Passengers were free to utilise A and B Decks but anywhere else was off limits unless accompanied by a ship’s officer. Fraternisation with crew members was strictly forbidden. Dressing for dinner appeared to be obligatory but tea gowns for women and less formal men’s attire remained acceptable for breakfast and luncheon. Sailing times would be strictly adhered to and any passenger failing to return to the ship would be left behind, irrespective of country, with no responsibility for any subsequent calamity accepted by either the captain or the steamship company.
The ship would sail from Calais at ten that night. It was now three in the afternoon. Unpacked, Dallas decided to explore. Promenading A Deck, he found fellow passengers doing the same. After several turns nodding and smiling politely, continued formality seemed a waste of time and groups of people gathered to introduce themselves. Very soon, Dallas had met everyone.
Captain Ross thought the Marie Clare had berths for about twenty passengers. Dallas counted sixteen on deck, including himself. They were a mixed crowd.
Reverend David Stone and his wife, Margaret, were bound for Freetown to save black souls from white-learned evil ways. They came from Bath. In their early thirties – as far as Dallas could guess – the missionary had an open, sandy look about him, his hair, eyebrows and lashes a kind of dusty white colour and eyes a peculiarly pale hazel. Margaret was a small, nervous woman with sensibly short dark curly hair. David Stone said little but Margaret seemed full of meaningless social chitchat which communicated even less.
A German couple, Herr and Frau Knappert from Munchen, were on their way to Oporto and the start of a new life. Herr Knappert was a man in his fifties, his wife a good twenty years younger. There seemed to be sadness in both of them, and a kind of barely controlled tension simmered between them.
The thin and sickly-looking Monsieur Arnaud from Paris was going to Las Palmas to, as he quickly informed everyone, recover his health. From what, he did not say and no-one was impolite enough to ask.
The rest were going to South Africa.
Lord and Lady Diamond from Chester were accompanied by their two daughters, the ladies Grace and Sylvia. Her husband, Lady Diamond monotonously told each newcomer, was to take up an administrative position in Cape Town. Dallas knew him by reputation – an astute and highly respected politician, well connected at court and known to put Britain’s interests before those of the peerage. Extra care would be needed to hide his true identity from this man. Lord Diamond would surely know of the rape charge and may become suspicious of a man travelling alone with no tangible reason for doing so. The daughters were aged fourteen and twelve, impeccably behaved and the apple of their father’s eye.
There were two soldiers. Lieutenant Dirk Elliot of the Grenadier Guards, a short, balding gentleman in his forties, was joining his regiment in Natal, and Ensign Nesbit Pool of the 17th Lancers, a young man of no more than eighteen, was to disembark at Cape Town but seemed uncertain as to where he would be posted after that. The soldiers had little in common but, because of their military connections and possibly because they were travelling alone, quickly formed an acquaintanceship and were soon discussing playing poker as a way of passing the time on board.
A large Dutch gentleman and his equally ample wife – ‘I am Hanson Wentzell and my goot lady is Magda. We are from Cape Town,’ he pronounced it Kapstad, ‘where there is little need to stand on useless ceremony.’
‘Oh, Mr Wentzell,’ Margaret Stone was clearly dismayed at the big man’s gruff lack of formality, ‘it is so important to keep up standards, especially in front of the natives.’
‘Madam,’ Hanson Wentzell said heavily. ‘After six months of where you are going I guarantee your precious standards will be of no account. Believe me, the Kaffirs will soon see to that.’
‘Kaffirs?’ Clearly Reverend Stone’s wife had never heard the term.
‘Natives, as you called them, madam. Every last one a heathen.’
Margaret Stone looked shocked.
‘Come, Hanson,’ his wife admonished. ‘Do not frighten the poor woman with your rough words.’ Magda Wentzell delivered Margaret a grimace that passed for a smile. ‘Don’t listen to him, my dear. It is true that the Boers are less formal but the British do at least try to keep up their traditions.’
Her clumsy attempt, meant to comfort the reverend’s wife, had an opposite effect. Margaret took on the look of a frightened rabbit. ‘Oh dear,’ was all she could manage.
‘And what do you do in the Cape?’ Lady Diamond sought to change the subject.
‘We’re farmers,’ the Dutch woman told her.
‘Oh, how interesting,’ was all Lady Diamond could think of to say.
‘Interesting, is it?’ Hanson Wentzell gave a bark of derision. ‘Ja, I suppose, if you don’t mind living a day’s ride from another white face, lions eating your cattle, thieving Bushmen stealing them and disease killing off whatever’s left. I tell you what’s interesting, lady, it’s you plurry British thinking you can tame Africa. Nobody does that. It will beat you every time. The sooner you learn that and go home, the sooner we Boers can get on with the job we started.’
An embarrassed silence followed, broken by a slow handclap. ‘Well said, Wentzell. Still your old charming self, I see.’
The speaker was English. A tall, weather-beaten man of at least sixty. His smile did not match the cool disapproval held in his eyes.
‘Burton!’ Wentzell, obviously surprised, turned to face the newcomer.
The man gave an exaggerated bow and introduced himself. ‘Logan Burton at your service, ladies and gentlemen. Pay no attention to my ill-mannered Boer friend. The man is outnumbered – a situation most of his kind try to avoid. Take it from me, Africa is very different from anything you’ve ever known. Attempt to bend her and, as Wentzell says, it will break you. On the other hand, it is not only the Boers who live in harmony with the dark continent. Learn to do that and you will be
rewarded many times over.’
‘What would you know, Burton? An adventurer who’s never done a hard day’s work in his life?’
Logan Burton raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘That’s really what sticks in your gullet, isn’t it, Wentzell?’
‘Oh stop this.’ Magda Wentzell moved her considerable bulk forward so that she stood between her husband and Logan Burton. ‘You two are like squabbling children.’
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ murmured a voice beside Dallas. He turned to see who had spoken and found himself looking at one of the most exquisitely beautiful women he’d ever seen. She looked straight at him. ‘Why do men carry on so?’
Dallas smiled. ‘Not all of us, madam.’
She held out a hand. ‘Jette Petersen.’
Dallas took it and bowed low, brushing his lips across the soft and faintly perfumed skin. ‘Charmed.’ Straightening, he added, ‘Dallas Granger at your service.’ He released her fingers reluctantly. It was unusual for a woman to go without gloves and the sensation was most pleasant. ‘What takes you to Africa?’
Jette Petersen was Danish, travelling to Durban where she would live with a recently widowed aunt. Not long bereaved herself, the arrangement suited both of them. As she spoke, Dallas warmed to the sight and sound of her. Well-dressed and similarly spoken – her French and English both flawless – she was probably in her early thirties with lustrous blue-black hair, flashing dark eyes, alabaster skin and pearly white teeth. Her voice floated low and musical. He couldn’t help but admire her manner. She spoke as an equal, showing no hint of shyness or feminine flirtation. Nor was she trying to make a point. Dallas had the impression that Jette Petersen would despise any man who attempted to treat her as an object of beauty alone. She regarded herself as being on the same social and intellectual level as men and it was obvious that she expected to be treated as such. The few Danes he’d met in the past demonstrated an indifference for protocol which tended to make them ostracised in English society. Here, with his circumstances so changed, and in the company of such a diverse group, Dallas found it easy to adopt a more informal outlook.
Shadows in the Grass Page 9