“Sure it was salted,” said the third, a stout American with a lot of gold fillings. “But Vynberg’s only the front, poor devil. There’s others behind him.”
“Who?”
“I’ve heard three names mentioned. Vynberg’s and two guys I never heard of before—Bland and Fisher. They were unloading for all they were worth twenty-four hours before the thing broke.”
“Excuse me.” I was bored, standing there by myself—or perhaps it was the association of the name Bland. “Everybody I meet talks about the effect of the ‘Words’ crash on the financial situation out here. Just exactly what is ‘Words’?” The three pairs of eyes fastened on me and were instantly hostile. “I only arrived out here from England this morning,” I explained quickly.
“You mean to say you don’t know what ‘Words’ is?” the American asked me.
“I know nothing about finance,” I said.
I sensed their instant relief. “Well, I’ll be damned!” said the American. “It’s a real pleasure to meet somebody who hasn’t got his fingers burned. ‘Words’ is the market name for Wyks Odendaal Rust Development Securities. The abbreviation has turned out remarkably apt. The ten shilling shares have risen from nineteen shillings to just over five pounds in the last four months on development reports showing high values at comparatively low depths. Now the whole game’s bust wide open. The managing director’s been arrested. They’ve stopped dealings in the shares on the stock exchange. I don’t reckon you could give ’em away right now. And they’re too thick to be used for bumph,” he added crudely. “I’ve had some myself.”
“Who’s this man Bland?” I asked almost without thinking. “You mentioned—”
“Young fellow, I mentioned nobody of the name of Bland. And if I had it’s a common enough name. And I don’t like people listening to what I’m saying.” His fishlike eyes were staring at me coldly. I glanced at the others. The hostility was back in their eyes, too.
I turned away and picked up my drink. When I had finished it I slipped quietly out and strolled down through the velvet-soft shadows to the lights of Capetown. It was beautiful. The air smelt of blossom and the cool of evening after hot sun.
Down where the lights began I got a taxi back to the hotel. As I went towards the desk to get my key, a girl got up from a corner of the entrance hall and came towards me. It was Judie. I scarcely recognised her. She had on an off-the-shoulder evening gown and she was wearing little high-heeled silver slippers. She looked much taller and more graceful. A fur cape was flung round her shoulders. “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. Her face was very pale in the gold frame of her hair.
“For me?” I said. “Why?”
“Have you made up your mind yet? Will you take command of Tauer III?” Her eyes pleaded as they stared at me.
“Yes,” I said.
“Thank God!” she breathed. “If you hadn’t it would have meant waiting for them to fly a man out from England. I couldn’t have waited that long.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, realising what a wait of even a few hours had meant to her.
She took me straight up to Bland’s room. He nodded when he heard my decision. “Everything’s fixed,” he said. “I guessed what your decision would be.” He picked up the phone, ordered a taxi to stand by and arranged for our luggage to be brought down. “Yes, Mr. Bonomi and Mr. Weiner will be leaving, too. Also Mr. Craig, Room 404.” He turned to me as he replaced the receiver. “Get yourself packed up, Craig,” he said. “We’re leaving to-night.”
Tauer III lay in the inner basin of the harbour. Picked out in the dock lights as she chafed the concrete, she didn’t look much like a corvette. She was dressed in black and grey paint, the bows had been built up for smashing through the ice and all the armament that gives the jagged look to a warship’s profile had been cleared out of her. Her line was quite smooth now, though still basically the corvette line with the low afterdeck. She looked what she was, a narrow-built, very fast, very powerful tug. Two seamen came down the gangway for our bags. They were big, bearded men. They said, “God dag,” as they passed us.
The deck hands were all Norwegian. But by the grace of God the chief engineer was a Scot. There was a knock at the door of my cabin and there he was. “Me name’s McPhee,” he said. He was a little man with thin, sandy hair. He held out an oily hand.
“I’m Craig. I’m taking over from Sudmann.”
His face lighted up and he seized hold of my hand. “God-Christ, mon,” he cried. “Anither Scot. There’s no another Scot walking his ane bridge in the whole fleet. Ye’re the one and only. The rest of ’em is all Norwegians.”
“The appointment’s temporary,” I said. But I couldn’t help smiling at his excitement. “I hope you’ve got some Scotch on board to celebrate with?”
“Och, aye, Ah’ve got a wee drap tucked away.” He peered up at me quickly. “Tell me, mon, do ye know anything aboot these tin cans? I hope to Christ ye do, for she’s an ex-corvette and a mean cow in a big sea when she’s got some ice on her.”
“You needn’t worry, McPhee,” I said. “I was brought up in corvettes.”
“Och now, that’s a relief, sur. Me, Ah was on the big ships.”
“Then we’ll have plenty to talk about,” I said. “Now, what about fuel and water?”
“Tanks all full.”
“Steam up?”
“Aye, we’ve been standing-by, ready to sail, since this morning.”
“Fine,” I said. “As soon as we get the okay from Colonel Bland, we’ll be moving out. Any of the Norwegian hands speak English?”
“Most of them speak a word or two.”
“Then send the brightest linguist up to the bridge, will you?”
“Aye, aye, sur.”
As he turned to go, I stopped him. “McPhee. When was this ship last cleaned down. She smells dirty.”
He grinned. “Och, that’s whale,” he said. “Ye’ll no worry aboot it once you get alongside o’ the factory ship.”
“It’s not very pleasant,” I said.
“Wait till ye’ve got four rotten carcases alongside. Ye’ll remember what ye’re smelling noo as the pure odour of carbolic.”
When he’d gone I went up on to the bridge. It had been rebuilt together with the accommodation. I looked aft along the slim length of the ship. The paint was beginning to show rust marks and she was dirty. Over everything hung the indefinable, sickly smell of whale—like a mixture of oil and death on a light breeze. But warps were neatly coiled and everything was greased and cared for. It might not be Navy fashion, but it was workmanlike.
One of the crew tapped me on the arm. “The hr. direktör,” he said. Bland was coming up the gangway. I watched him lumber for’ard along the deck and then he was heaving himself up on to the bridge. “Find your way about all right?” he enquired.
“Yes, thanks,” I answered.
“Come into the chartroom then and I’ll give you the position of the Southern Cross.” He found the chart he wanted. “She’s about there,” he said, stabbing his finger at a point roughly three hundred miles west sou’west of the Sandwich Group. I marked the spot with a pencil. “She’s working her way south. Eide says there’s a good deal of ice about and the weather’s thickening. We’ll get their exact position to-morrow.” He turned and pushed through the door on to the bridge. “Met the Chief yet?” he asked. “He’s a Scot.”
“Yes, I’ve just been talking to him.”
“Engines all right?”
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded. “Our agents here have fixed everything. I’ve got all the necessary papers with me. You can get going as soon as you’re ready. Do you need a tug?”
“I’ve never had to be towed out of port yet,” I said.
His big hand gripped my arm. “You and I are going to get on fine,” he said, and levered his bulk down the ladder to the deck below.
I stood for a moment, looking out across the litter of cranes to the star-filled warmth of the night over Table Bay. The p
alms of my hands were sweating. I was nervous. A strange ship and a strange crew. And out there, way, way south, pack ice and a fleet of ships whose operations I didn’t understand.
Footsteps sounded on the ladder to the bridge. I turned. It was one of the crew. “Kaptein Craig?” He pronounced it Krieg. “McPhee speaks me to come here.”
“Good,” I said. “I want somebody to translate my orders for me.”
“Ja.” He nodded his big, bearded head. His eyes glinted below the greasy peak of his cap. “I speak Engelsk good. I am two years on American ships. I speak okay.”
“All right,” I said. “You stand by me and repeat my orders in Norwegian. What’s your name?”
“Peer,” he said. “Peer Solheim.”
I told him to get hold of the coxs’n and arrange for a man to take over the wheel. The coxs’n was short and broad. He rolled for’ard like a small, purposeful barrel. “Okay, Kaptein,” he called up to me, and I saw that he had placed men at the warps and at the fenders. The gangway had already been brought on board. “Let go for’ard,” I ordered. Solheim repeated the order. The heavy warp was hauled inboard. My mouth felt dry. It was a long time since I’d done this. “Slow ahead!” The engine-room telegraph rang before Solheim had repeated the order. The helmsman understood. “Let go aft!” I watched the warp come in, heard their report of all clear in Norwegian as the gap between ship and quay widened. I ordered starboard helm and watched the bow come round. The stern didn’t even graze the concrete of the wharf. The men with the fenders stood there watching the concrete slide by, and then they glanced up towards the bridge. I felt suddenly at home. “Steady as she goes,” I ordered as the bow swung to the mouth of the basin. “Half ahead!” The engine pulsed steadily. The bridge plates vibrated gently under my feet. The concrete arms of the basin mouth slid towards us out of the warm night. We passed through into Table Bay.
A voice at my elbow said, “It’s good to see the Navy at work.”
I turned to find Judie standing behind me, muffled in her fur coat. She smiled. I thought of all the times I’d manœuvred my old corvette in and out of harbours. I’d have traded a year’s pay then for the compliment and the smile and the presence of a pretty girl on the bridge. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bland’s bulky figure turn abruptly on the deck aft of the bridge and make for his cabin. “We were both a little scared you might have trouble getting out of the basin,” Judie said.
I grinned at her. “You thought I might run into something?” I accused her.
“Well, we’d only your word for it that you could handle a corvette.” She smiled. “But now I am requested to inform you that the company has the greatest confidence in your ability to sail the ship.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Is this Bland speaking or you?”
She laughed then. “I’m only a daughter of the company, so to speak. It’s the chairman who has confidence in you. In a flash of inspiration he thought the message would be more appreciated if delivered by me.”
I glanced quickly down into her eyes. “What about you?” I asked.
“A wise girl reserves judgment,” she said with a little laugh. And then suddenly, as though she knew the thought that was in my mind, she turned and left the bridge with a quick, “Good night.”
I stood for a moment, gazing at the stars, identifying the blaming constellation of the Southern Gross. Table Mountain was a dark shadow crouched above the lights of the city, a shadow that blocked out the night sky. I was suddenly conscious of the helmsman. “Okay, Kaptein?” he asked, nodding towards the binnacle. He was steering S.50 W.
“Okay,” I said and clapped him on the shoulder. When I laid off the course I found the man was correct to within 3 degrees.
All next day we steamed sou’west at a steady thirteen knots through blazing summer sun and a blue, windless sea. I wasn’t a whaler and I couldn’t adapt myself to their free and easy ways. I ran the ship the only way I knew, the way I’d learned in the Navy. I took the coxs’n with me in the morning on an inspection of the ship and was surprised to find that the decks had been hosed down, mess tables scrubbed, the galley shining and the men practically springing to attention, all grins, whenever I spoke to them. When I reached the engine-room I said to McPhee, “It’s almost like being back in the Navy.”
He grinned and wiped a greasy hand across his freshly-shaven jaw. “Dinna fool yourself, sur,” he said. “This is a whale towing ship, not a corvette. But they’ll play your game for a day or two. The word got round you were a Navy officer and not a whaler. A lot of ’em were in the Navy during the war. They were tickled to death when they heard there was to be an inspection.”
I felt the blood mounting to my face. “There’ll be no more inspections then,” I said curtly.
“Och, dinna spoil their fun, sur. It’ll be the talk of the fleet when we reach the Southern Cross—how they had a British Navy officer for the trip and stood to attention and were inspected.” He winked. “Dinna spoil their bit o’ fun,” he repeated. And then anxiously: “Ye’re no offended because Ah’ve put ye wise to it’s all being a wee bit of a game?”
“Of course not,” I said.
Looking over the list of the crew later in the day I found a name that didn’t seem to fit in—Doctor Walter Howe. I was on the bridge at the time and I got McPhee on the blower. “Who’s this Doctor Howe and why haven’t I seen him?” I asked. “Presumably he messes with the officers?”
“Aye, but it’s no verra often we see him for breakfast,” McPhee’s voice replied up the pipe. “He’s the biggest soak in the whole whaling fleet. And that’s saying something. He also kens more aboot what makes a whale tick than anyone else. He’s a scientist. He’s worked for the South Antarctic Company since the war. He’s a wee bit o’ a nuisance at times, but he’s no a bad sort when ye get to know him.”
I got to know the doctor that night. I had had coffee and sandwiches up on the bridge and when the coxs’n relieved me, I went down to my cabin, put on a pair of slippers and relaxed with the assistance of a bottle of Scotch from Sudmann’s locker. Then the door opened and Doctor Howe came in.
He didn’t knock. He just came straight in. “My name’s Howe.” He stood, swaying slightly in the doorway, looking at me uncertainly out of rather bulging, bloodshot eyes as though he expected me to deny that that was his name. He was a tall lath of a man with a pronounced stoop and an oddly shaped head that was all forehead and no chin. He had a prominent Adam’s apple which jerked up and down convulsively as though he were continually trying to swallow something. His eyes dropped to the whisky bottle. “Do you mind pouring me a drink?” He moved forward into the cabin and I saw that the sole of his left shoe was built up. He wasn’t lame, but that slight shortness of one leg gave him an awkward, rather crab-like way of walking and he swung his right arm out wide as though to balance himself.
He sat down on my bunk and fingered his frayed and dirty collar as though it were too tight for him. I poured him a drink and passed it to him. He absorbed it as the desert absorbs rain. “A-ah, that’s better,” he said and lit a cigarette. Then he saw I was looking at him and his thick rubbery lips twisted into a quick impish smile. “I’m ugly, aren’t I” he said. And then as I turned quickly to my drink: “Oh, you needn’t be embarrassed. It amuses me—when I’m drunk.” He paused and then added, “And mostly I’m drunk.”
He leaned forward, suddenly tense. “Ugly duckling. That’s what my sisters used to call me. God damn their eyes! That’s a hell of a way to start a kid brother out in life. Fortunately my mother was sorry for me, and she had money of her own. I started drinking at the age of puberty.” He gave a harsh laugh and put his feet up on the bunk, lying back and closing his eyes. His clothes were dirty and looked as though he slept in them.
“What’s your job with the company?” I asked.
“My job?” He opened his eyes, screwing them up as he stared at the ceiling. “My job is to tell ’em where the whales go in the summer time. I’m biologist, ocean-ogr
aphist, meteorologist, all rolled into one. It’s the same as fortune-telling. Only I use plankton instead of a crystal and I’m called a scientist. Any of the old skytters manage just as well by intuition. Only don’t gell Bland that. I’ve held this job ever since the war and it suits me.”
To stop him sneering at himself I said, “I don’t know anything about whaling, as you’ve probably gathered. What’s plankton, and who are the skytters?”
He laughed. It was a gobbling sound that jerked at his Adam’s apple. The ungainly head slewed round and grinned at me like a gargoyle. “Plankton is sea food. The stuff the fin whales feed on. Oh God—now we’re off.” He sat up and knocked back the rest of his drink, pushing the empty glass towards me in an unmistakable manner. I filled it up. “There’s two main types of cetacean,” he said, assuming a mock school-masterly voice. “Those with teeth and those with finners. Whale, like the spermacetti, have teeth and live on large squids from the ocean bed. The fin whale has a mouthful of finners and lives on plankton, which is like a very tiny shrimp. He gulps twenty ton or so of water into his mouth and then forces it out through the fins, which act as a sieve. The water goes out, the plankton remains. It needs an awful lot of plankton to keep an eighty-ton whale alive,” he added. “Mostly we catch fin whales. So if you know where their food is—well, that’s what I try to do, forecast by water temperature, currents, weather and so on where the plankton is.”
“And skytters?’ I asked as he paused.
“Skytter is the Danish origin of the English word shooter, and it’s pronounced the same way. The skytters are the catcher skippers. It’s always the skipper who operates the harpoon gun. Sometimes we call them gunners.”
He lay back as though exhausted by this brief dissemination of information. The silence must have lasted over a minute whilst I racked my brain for something in common that we could talk about. “Queer about Nordahl,” he said suddenly. I only just caught what he said. He seemed to be talking to himself. “He was a wonderful man.”
I could hear Judie’s voice saying exactly the same. “That’s what his daughter thinks.” I said.
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