“To hell with his daughter,” he cried angrily, thrusting himself up on to one elbow. “A little bitch that falls for a tyke like Erik Bland shouldn’t be able to call Bernt Nordahl her father.”
“Don’t shout,” I said. “Bland might hear you.”
“Do Bland good to know what his son is really like,” he stormed angrily.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
He sat up, swinging his feet off the bunk. “Nothing,” he said, “except the way he’s been brought up and the way his mind works.” His voice was bitter. “Bland’s a fool to think he can make his son fit to take over the business by sending him out for one season. All Bland thinks about is finance. It’s Bernt Nordahl who handles the whaling side. He was the best skytter in Norway. Then after the war he and Bland floated the South Antarctic Company. Nordahl took over management of the factory ship. In some outfits it’s the Master of the factory ship who’s in charge of operations. In our case it’s the Manager. And in the four seasons we’ve been operating, we’ve got more whale than any other outfit. Why? Because I know where the plankton is? Because the skytters have good intuition? No. Because old Bernt Nordahl can smell whale. And the whales went through the factory ship cheaper, faster and with less waste than on any other factory ship. And that’s because the men would do anything Nordahl says—they worshipped him. Or rather the old crowd did—the Tönsberg men.” He gulped down the rest of his drink. “And now he’s dead. Lost overboard. Nobody knows how or why.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what to think. He’d been on ships all his life.” The very words Judie had used. “He was as much at home in these frozen seas as we’d be in London. He couldn’t just vanish like that. By Christ!” he added violently. “I’ll ferret out the truth of what happened if it takes me the rest of the voyage.”
I think it was then that I got the first premonition of trouble ahead. Howe had buried his head in his hands and was rocking gently to and fro. “I’d like to know what was in his mind that night he died,” he murmured.
“What are you thinking of?” I asked. “Suicide?”
“Suicide?” His head jerked up as though I’d hit him. “No,” he said angrily. “No, he’d never have done that.” He shook his head. “You don’t know him, of course. He was a small man, but he had great energy and a sense of humour. His eyes were always twinkling. He was a happy man. The thought of suicide would never enter his head. He enjoyed life.”
“But if Bland were planning to hand control of the company to his son—surely that might be grounds for suicide?” I suggested.
Howe gave a quick laugh—a jackal laugh, half bark. “Bland pinched his girl once,” he said. “Bernt Nordahl didn’t commit suicide then. No, he went and consoled himself with a married woman.” He smiled as though at some secret joke. “No. Whatever happened, he didn’t commit suicide.” His fingers had tightened on his empty tumbler so that I thought he’d crush the glass. Then he leaned forward and picked up the bottle, automatically filling the tumbler to the brim with neat whisky.
“Why is Bland in such a hurry to hand over the business to his son?” I asked.
“Because every man dreams of a son to carry on where he leaves off,” he snarled. And I understood then why he needed to stay drunk.
“But why the hurry?” I asked.
“Why, why, why?”—his voice had risen again. “You’re as full of questions as a damned school kid. I was a schoolmaster once,” he added irrelevantly. “Taught science.” He took another gulp at his drink. “You want to know why Bland is in a hurry? All right, I’ll tell you. He’s in a hurry because he’s going to die. And he knows it. He’s had two strokes already. And as far as I’m concerned the sooner he’s dead the better. He’s a financial crook with about as much sense of—” His voice jerked to a stop. His mouth stayed open, the jaw slack. He was gazing at the cabin door.
I twisted round in my seat. The door was open as it had been all along. And framed in it was Bland’s heavy bulk. He came in and I saw that his face was mottled with the pressure of his anger. “Get to your cabin, Howe,” he said in a terrible, controlled voice. “And stay there. You’re drunk.” Behind him, in the passage I caught a glimpse of Judie’s pale face.
Howe cringed away from him as though he expected to be struck. Then his long neck jerked out. “I’m glad you heard,” he breathed. “I wanted you to hear.” His voice steadied. It was unnaturally quiet as he said, “I wish you were dead. I wish you’d died before you ever left South Africa and came to Norway and met Anna Halvorsen.” His hands clenched and he stared vacantly into space. “I wish I’d never been born,” he whispered.
“Craig. Get him to his cabin.” Bland’s voice shook.
I nodded. “Come on,” I said to Howe.
The man staggered to his feet, swaying slightly. He still had the vacant look, but he turned his head and focused slowly on Bland. His hands clenched again and he thrust out his head like a tortoise, peering into Bland’s eyes. “If you killed him,” he hissed, “God help you.” His face was twisted with venom. Hate blazed in his eyes.
Bland’s big hands caught hold of him. “What do you mean by that?” He looked as though he was on the point of battering Howe’s ugly face to pulp.
Howe seemed to relax slightly. His thick lips drew back from his teeth in a smile. It was as though he suddenly dominated Bland, as though the other were afraid of him and he knew it. “If Uriah, the Hittite, had Jived,” he said softly, “what would have happened the next time?”
“Don’t talk to me in riddles,” Bland snapped.
“Then have it in plain words,” Howe shouted. “You tricked Bernt out of the woman he loved. And now you’ve been trying to trick him out of his interest in the company. For all I know you’ve done worse than that. But don’t worry, Bland. I’ll find out the truth about his death. And if you’re the cause of it—” he stooped his head down so that his eyes were looking straight into Bland’s—“I’ll kill you,” he said.
He turned then, swaying slightly and reached the door, his body inclined as though leaning against a strong wind. Bland found his voice again. “As from to-day, you cease to be in the employ of the company,” he said abruptly.
Howe turned, smiling slily. “I shouldn’t do that, Bland,” he said. “Wouldn’t look good—first Bernt, then me. Too much like making a clean sweep.” He was face to face with Judie now in the doorway. I saw her shrink back. Her eyes were very wide, her face a pale mask. Howe stopped and stared at her a moment. Then he laughed, and still laughing, staggered along the passage to his cabin.
Judie watched him go, her lips a tight-drawn gash of red against the white of her face. She didn’t say anything. Bland turned to me. He gave an apologetic shrug of his shoulders. “I’m sorry you should have been witness to such a melodramatic scene,” he said. “The man’s not right in the head, I’m afraid. I’d never have employed him but for Nordahl. But until this moment I didn’t know he knew certain personal things. It gives his warped mind the sense of a grudge. I’d be glad if you’d keep the matter to yourself.”
“Of course,” I said.
The man looked terribly shaken. His face had a bluish tinge and his heavy cheeks quivered. “Good night,” he muttered.
“Good night,” I replied.
He closed the door behind him. I poured another drink and sat there wondering what the hell I’d got myself into.
III
NEXT DAY THE sun had gone. The sea was grey and flecked with whitecaps. A southerly wind drove ragged wisps of cloud across the sky. In a night’s sailing we seemed to have left summer behind us. The wind was cold and I began to think of the miles of ice-infested seas that lay ahead. The deck heaved as Tauer III lurched over the waves like a drunkard. Things were different this morning. The crew stood about in little groups, talking furtively. There was a sullen, brooding air about the ship.
There were no friendly grins as I inspected the ship that morning. And later in the day an ugly fight broke out between two
of the men. The cox’n wouldn’t let me interfere, so I got McPhee up on to the bridge and asked him what the trouble was.
“Weel.” He fingered his jaw the way he had. “It’s no exactly easy to explain. Ye see, this is a Nordahl boat. The men are all from Tönsberg. And noo that they know Nordahl is dead—”
“How did they find that out?”
“Ye canna have a row like there was between Bland and Howe last night wi’oot it getting aroond the ship. Ye’d be surprised, but the men are fond of Howe, the same way they were fond of Nordahl.”
“But they don’t have to fight about it.”
“Och, that was just their way of blowing off steam. The cox’n was quite right to stop ye from interfeering. Ye see, there’s no love lost between the Tönsberg and Sandefjord men, and it’s a Sandefjord man got hurt.”
“Sandefjord’s one of the whaling towns of Norway, isn’t it?” I asked.
“Aye. The biggest. And Tönsberg’s another whaling toun.”
“But they don’t have to fight, just because there’s rivalry between the two towns.”
“Och, ye don’t understand. It’s this way. Nordahl was a Tönsberg man. When he and Colonel Bland started the company after the war, Nordahl had a free hand wi’ the signing on of the crews. Naturally, he signed on Tönsberg men. But Mrs. Bland—she’s Norwegian ye ken—she comes from Sandefjord. Och, it’s maybe joost gossip, but they say she fancies herself as a wee bittie queen of the place. Whatever the cause of it, Sandefjord men were included in the crews last season. An’ this season the proportion’s aboot fifty-fifty. Weel, it dinna make for smooth-running. There’s a natural resentment amongst the Tönsberg men.”
“So they took it out of this poor devil from Sandefjord?”
“Aye, that’s aboot it. They’re in an angry and soospiscious mood—angry because they weren’t told aboot Nordahl’s death—soospiscious. … Weel, there’s one or two persons they would’na mind shoving overboard.”
“Meaning—who?” I asked.
But he shook his head. “Ah’m no saying anither worrd.”
“Do you mean Bland and his son?” I asked him.
“Ah’m no saying anither worrd,” he repeated. But I saw by the glint in his eye that I’d hit the nail on the head.
“Well, I hope they don’t do anything foolish,” I said. “It’s coming up dirty.”
He cocked his eye at the sky to windward and nodded. “Aye, it’ll be a dirrty nicht, Ah’m thinking. But they’ll sail the ship all reet. Ye dinna ha’ to fash yerself aboot that.”
“And the Sandefjord man?”
“He’ll be all reet noo.” He hesitated, shuffling his feet awkwardly. “Ye’ll no pass on what Ah said jist noo aboot they’re wanting to get rid o’ one or two pairsons?”
“Of course not.”
He suddenly grinned. “It’s the de’il when ye’ve got factions like this an’ they’re cooped oop togither in a God-forsaken place like the Antarctic for moonths on end. It’s no so bad on the catchers and the towing ships. Each ship is either Tönsberg or Sandefjord, wi’ a smattering of Scots in the engine-rooms. The Sandefjord laddie is only on board here because he was held in Capetown for hospital treatment. But I tell ye, it’s no sa gude on the factory ship.”
“You mean they’ve a mixed crew on the Southern Cross?” I asked him.
“Aye. An’ it isna only the crew that’s mixed. It’s the flensers and lemmers and labourers, that’s mixed, too. And they’re a violent bluidy bunch o’ bastards.” He shook his head gloomily and turned to go.
“Perhaps you’d care to have a drink with me later,” I suggested.
His face relaxed into a dour smile. “Aye, Ah would that.” And he slid down the ladder to the deck below, leaving me with a welter of half-digested thoughts in my head.
I paced up and down for a time, my mind saturated with conjecture. Perhaps Bland sensed this. It’s the only explanation I can give for the sudden intimacy of his conversation. I hadn’t seen him all day. He’d kept to his cabin. But about seven o’clock he pulled himself up on to the bridge. He was muffled up in coats and scarves and he looked even broader than usual. His face was blue and puffy, the bloodvessels showing through the skin in a mottled web. “Has the Southern Cross given you her position yet?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “I got a message from Captain Eide this morning.”
“Good.” He peered over the helmsman’s shoulder at the compass and then stared out to windward, screwing his eyes up behind his thick-lensed glasses. “Hear there was a fight,” he said.
“Yes. Sandefjord versus Tönsberg. Tönsberg won,” I added. I don’t know quite why I put it like that. I suppose I wanted him to talk.
He gave me a quick glance and then leaned his heavy bulk against the windbreaker. “Women are the devil,” he muttered. I think he was speaking to himself, but I was to leeward of him and the wind flung the words at me. “You married?” he asked, turning abruptly towards me.
“No,” I said.
He nodded slowly. It was as though he were saying—Tou’re lucky. “A man’s no match for a woman,” he said, looking straight at me. “A man’s mind and interests range. A woman’s narrow. They’ve a queer, distorted love of power—and they’re fonder of their sons than they are of their husbands.” He turned his head away and stared down at the sea where it was beginning to break inboard over our plunging bow.
I didn’t say anything. For a moment I thought the sudden intimacy had been broken. But then he said, “Human relationships are queer. Have you ever thought what a thin veneer our civilisation is? It’s little more than a code of manners, concealing the primitive.”
“Human nature doesn’t change,” I said.
He nodded. “It becomes cribbed by the regulations and hoodoos of society. But I agree, it doesn’t change. Once let slip the leash of organised society …” He didn’t finish the sentence, but stood with his face to the wind as though to cool the inflamed bloodvessels that webbed it.
“What exactly are you trying to tell me?” I asked bluntly.
He looked round at me then, peering up at me through his glasses. “I don’t know,” he said. “But you’re intelligent—and you’re outside it all. A man must have somebody to talk to when things are getting too much for him.” He turned his head back to the sea again, hunching it into the fur collar of his topcoat. He was like a big bull-frog squatting there against the windbreaker. “Howe told you I was dying?” It was a statement rather than a question.
“He said something about you having had a couple of strokes,” I told him.
“Well, I’m dying.” He said it matter-of-factly as though he were informing a group of shareholders that the company had traded at a deficit.
“We’re all doing that,” I said.
He grunted. “Of course. But we’re not usually given a time limit. The best man in Harley Street gives me a year at most.” His hand gripped the canvas of the windbreaker and jerked at it as though he wanted to tear it in little shreds. “A year’s not long,” he said hoarsely. “It’s twelve months—three hundred and sixty-five days. And at any moment I may get another stroke, and that’ll finish me.” He suddenly laughed. It was a bitter, violent sound. “When you’re told that, it changes your approach to life. Things which seemed important before cease to be important. Others loom larger.” His hand relaxed on the windbreaker. “When we reach the Southern Cross,” he said, “get to know my son. I want your opinion of him.” He turned abruptly then and went ponderously down the ladder to the deck below. I watched him go, wishing I’d been able to hold him just a little longer. There were questions I’d like to have asked him.
In the middle of our meal that night, the radio operator brought Bland a message. His heavy brows dragged down as he read it. Then he got to his feet. “A word with you, Craig,” he growled.
I followed him to his cabin. He closed the door and handed me the message. “Read that,” he said.
I took the message to the light. It
read: Eide to Bland. Men demanding enquiry Nordahl’s death. Erik Bland has rejected demand. Please confirm rejection. Mood of Tönsberg men dangerous. Whale very scarce. Position 57.98 S. 34.62 W. Pack ice heavy.
I handed the message back to him. He crumpled it up in his big fist. “The damned fool!” he growled. “It’ll be all over the ship that he’s not happy about Erik’s decision. And Erik’s quite right to reject a demand like that. It’s a matter for the officers to decide.” He paced up and down for a moment, tugging at the lobe of his ear. “What worries me is that they should be demanding an enquiry at all. If the circumstances warranted an enquiry, then Erik should have ordered it right away instead of waiting for the men to demand it. And I don’t like Eide’s use of the word dangerous,” he added. “He wouldn’t use it unless the situation was bad.” He swung round on me. “What’s the earliest we can expect to reach the Southern Cross?”
“Eight days at least,” I answered.
He nodded gloomily. “A lot can happen in eight days. The worst news in that message is that they’re getting few whales. When men are busy they haven’t the energy to brood. But when no whales are coming in—I’ve seen men change from smiles to hatred in the twinkling of an eye when the whales have been lost. And they’ll link it in their minds with Nordahl’s death, damn them. They’re a superstitious lot, and Nordahl had a nose for whale.”
“What are you scared of?” I asked. “You’re not suggesting that the men would mutiny, are you? Presumably a factory ship comes under normal British maritime laws. It takes a lot to drive men to mutiny.”
“Of course I’m not suggesting they’d mutiny. But they can make things damned awkward without going as far as mutiny. There’s three million pounds invested in that outfit. To make money on a capital outlay as big as that in a four month season everything has got to move with clock-like precision.” He began tugging at the lobe of his ear again. “Erik can’t handle a thing like this. He hasn’t the experience.”
The White South Page 6