by I K Dirac
He woke several hours later and after a shower he felt surprisingly refreshed, almost cheerful, until he opened his door and remembered exactly where he was. A few seconds later, McTavish appeared.
“Ye’re to cam with me, laddie. I’ve been told tae try and mak ye useful, although I dinna think that’s possible.”
McTavish took him back to the Bridge. As they entered Jim saw on a large screen a portly, balding and mustachioed figure, beads of sweat running down his forehead into his eyes. He appeared to be trying desperately to negotiate with de la Beche, who was quite clearly unsympathetic.
"Well, that's our final and only offer. Take it or leave it – or we’ll take it and leave you.”
“Captain de la Beche I must stress again that we had no idea that these stolen works were on this ship until you boarded. I give you my word as its captain that the Amaryllis is simply a passenger vessel. The vast majority of those on this ship are innocent. I appeal to you to let them go free.”
De la Beche was sitting in his Captain’s chair. He was dressed entirely in black silk. The blouson pinched in at the waist, the full skirt sweeping almost to the floor, and under it, sharp-pointed, crocodile-skin boots. Jim watched fascinated by the play of light on the enamelled fingernails as de la Beche drummed his fingers on the console. He threw his hands up in exasperation.
“I’m making myself hoarse, darling. I haven’t the faintest interest in guilt or innocence. They’re all the same to me. The nearest criminal court is several hundred parsecs away and, unless you have a few million to grease palms, I wouldn’t bother. Those rascals will send you down for a minimum of fifty years’ hard labour, without a second thought. It’s how they make their living, you see – and a very good living it is, so I’m informed. Now, as I have already told you, we have a contract valid in all jurisdictions of the Galaxy. If we recover the stolen goods, then we can do what we like with any little bit of booty that comes our way.”
The sweat poured ever more copiously down the face of the Amaryllis’s captain.
“Let me get this straight, Captain. You are proposing to sell all the male passengers and crew on this ship into slavery and …”
“Oh, slavery is putting it a bit strong. Shall we just call it compulsory labour? The Dendrillions are decent sorts, really. They won’t beat you too much. And in a few years they’ll set you free and you can go where you like. Think of it as a bit of a working holiday. A word of advice, though – don’t try to make them laugh. It won’t do you the least bit of good. No sense of humour whatsoever, the Dendrillions.”
The captain blinked. Jim was not sure whether it was tears or simply a reaction to sweat dripping into his eyes.
“And the females?”
De la Beche shrugged.
“The contract has the usual disposal ad lib clause.”
“A what clause?”
“In this case, it’s the tupping rights, darling, I'm afraid the Dendrillions insist on full tupping rights.”
“So you are proposing to hand the females over to the Dendrillions and allow them to vent their lusts upon them.”
“Put rather more elegantly than perhaps it deserves, but you get the picture. It shouldn’t be for too long. The Dendrillions will get tired of them after a few weeks and then set them to work with the rest of you. They might be a little sore, but otherwise none the worse for wear.”
The Amaryllis captain slumped back, seemingly beaten.
“No words could express my utter disgust. May the judgement of the great god Ramdesh, who rules us all, be upon you and your dastardly crew.”
De la Beche smiled again.
“I’ll look forward to that, darling, and do give Ramdesh my good wishes when you next see Him.”
3
Jim watched, fascinated by all the activities on the Bridge. There was a good deal of badinage between the crew members and a large number of terse phrases exchanged. Mostly the crew ignored him in a genially dismissive fashion, but he did begin to work out what functions some of them performed. Blind Pete Magill was the helmsman. He wore a red bandana and an eyepatch, but wasn't blind; the epithet was just the opinion of the rest of the crew of his helming abilities. The head of communications, a corpulent individual who called himself Gobby ap Rhys, was much given to sweating and grunting and issuing staccato commands which Jim could not understand. As he looked at a screen, Jim saw him give a start.
“What wind, Number Two?”
A figure in a peaked cap, who Jim had learned was called Sigmund, responded.
“Bayamo, nor' nor'east, declination 260, Comms.”
“Raise main and topgallant.”
“Raised, Comms.”
There was silence for a few seconds and then Gobby spoke again.
“Clear, Number Two?”
“Clear, Comms.”
After several hours, he heard a series of clangs; a cheer rose from the crew. A door opened and de la Beche appeared from his cabin, silhouetted by its lights. To Jim he seemed like an apparition. He was wearing a cutaway lime-green jacket over a strapless dark grey gown, embellished with sequins that sparkled and flickered in the light. Scarlet, pointed-toe shoes peeked from under the hem of the gown. Jim noticed that his make-up was newly applied – the cheeks subtly rouged, the darkness round the chin all but invisible and only the faintest of cracks beneath the eyes. He held up a hand.
“Time for refreshments I see, darlings. Whose turn is it to serve grog today?”
Jim saw McTavish appear in the middle of the Bridge.
“Ye have a cabin boy now, Captain. He can fetch drink for yon bunch of sots and tozies.”
Loud jeers rose from the crew, most accompanied with advice to McTavish as to where in the ether he could stick himself and his remarks.
“Excellent suggestion, McTavish,” said de la Beche. “Good to see you are your usual jolly self today. Just the job for a cabin boy. Now, Jim, you heard the bells ring just then. Count them. Eight bells on the Dog watch is your signal to fetch the grog. Gobby will show you where.”
Gobby motioned Jim to approach.
“Go through that portal, down the gallery and you'll see a door on the right. Here's the key. Open it and you'll find a barrel. That's the grog barrel. Wheel it here and if you look lively we might give you a tot.”
Jim went down the gallery wondering what exactly the Dog watch was. He found the door and opened it. Inside was a large barrel on a trolley. It was heavy and difficult to manoeuvre. As he struggled into the Bridge there were more cheers and he was surrounded by crew members, glasses in hand, that quickly became filled with a dark brown liquid from the barrel.
“The Grog Ration – a fine old naval tradition,” said de la Beche. “It goes back eons. I believe it is only we who preserve it, but some traditions are worth preserving.”
Seated beside him was a figure Jim had not seen before, a ruddy-faced man with greying hair, round spectacles and a moustache that drooped across his upper lip. He wore a white tunic.
“Ah, Jim, allow me to introduce my oldest colleague, Cuthbert Culpepper, the ship's doctor. Sawbones, this is Jim, our cabin boy. I'm sure you will find him something useful to do.” The Doctor gave a wave and a smile. “Now Jim, the Doctor is partial to whisky. For myself, however excellent grog may be, I do prefer something a little different at this time of day.” He clapped his hands and a figure in a white jacket appeared, bearing a tray with two glasses on it. “This is our barman, Cedric, who has served in some of the finest hotels and hostelries in the Galaxy. He is a true connoisseur of whisky and artist of the hippocrene, who can transform any cocktail from the merely excellent to the truly sublime. This,” he added holding up his glass, “is a Vieux Carré, the prince of aperitifs, a majestic mixture of whisky, cognac, Vermouth and Benedictine, with Angostura and Peychaud’s bitters to add that dash of astringency. It primes the taste buds for what is to come.”
Gobby handed Jim a small glass of grog. “Get that inside you, Jim, if you want to become a
real sailor.” He raised his glass: “To good times.” The rest of the crew joined in. Jim listened as the conversation turned to past exploits, of the “prizes” they had taken, of their exploits when they went “ashore” to spend their shares, of the best houses of ill repute and where the most complaisant females were to be found. Gobby raised his glass again. “Now shipmates, let's have a song.” Jim watched as the crew joined the chorus in tones from high tenor to basso profundo.
Then at last our captain comes on board
Our sails are bent, we're manned and stored
The Peter's hoisted at the fore
Goodbye to the girls we'll see no more
For we know we're homeward bound
Hurrah, we're homeward bound
And when we're hauled into Sirian docks
Them bloomers all come 'round in flocks
Them pretty girls, we hear 'em say
"Here comes Jack with his twelve-month pay"
Next we go to the Dog and Bell
Where there's good vittle there to sell
When in comes the landlord with a smile
"Drink up me boys, it's worth your while"
When poor Jack's money is gone and spent
Nor more to be had, no more to be lent
Then in comes the landlord with a frown
Saying "Rise up Jack, let John sit down"
And so poor Jack must understand
There's ships in port that's needing hands
So stows his gear like he did before
And says farewell to the Sirian shore
For he knows he's outward bound
Hurrah, he's outward bound
“Now, time for something a little more solid,” said de la Beche as the singing died down. “To the Galley.”
Jim followed the crew as they made their way. They entered a large room. At the top end of the room was a long table, overlaid with an embroidered cloth on which were three candelabras, each holding lighted candles. Other smaller tables with chequered cloths were dotted around, on each a lit candle. Along one side of the room, behind a long servery, cooks in white overalls could be seen scurrying and shouting to each other. Two figures, one in whites, the other dressed formally in dark jacket and pinstriped trousers, came to meet them.
“Gentlemen,” said de la Beche, “allow me to introduce the newest member of the crew to you. This is Jim, the cabin boy.”
The two nodded.
“And Jim,” continued de la Beche, indicating the figure in whites, “this our chef, Monsieur Hercule de Poulignac. He is a member of all the best gastronomic societies and has served in some of the Galaxy's finest restaurants. And this is our sommelier, Count Rudolf von und zu Hofmeister-Draxe-Sloburg-Botha, who is a Master of Wine in no less than seven Galactic jurisdictions. Now gentlemen, what do you have for us?”
The chef bowed slightly.
“Mon Capitaine, we 'ave Consommé de Volaille followed by Cassolettes de Homard avec mayonnaise, then Perdreaux á l’Aspic and to finish Gelées de Champagne garnis de fruits, with, of course, the cheeseboard.”
De la Beche beamed
“My mouth is watering already, Chef. What wines do you suggest, Rudolf?”
Rudolf bowed gravely and replied in a slightly guttural accent.
“With the first two courses, Captain, I suggest something light, crisp and fresh. A glass of Bouilly for the consommé and an Aldeberan Blanc for the homard. For the perdreaux, I suggest a medium red, the Balerol, perfect with game. For the gelées I think a sweet Sauterne, would be most suitable. For the cheese I have reserved a magnificent port, the Mackerron '08, considered by many to be the finest vintage of the century. Some bottles came into our hands very recently.”
“Excellent choices as always, Rudolf. Let us start. Now Jim. Since you are new, you may join us on the Captain's table.”
They went to the long table. Jim sat between Gobby and Doctor Culpepper. The food was indeed delicious, better than anything he had ever tasted. He had never drunk wine before, but after a couple of glasses he could imagine getting used to it. Did they always eat this well? Gobby said they did.
“How do you manage to get the food?” asked Jim.
Gobby laughed.
“Some we buy when we're ashore, others we take. The Captain always likes to take a prize with good grub on it. There was some very nice wine on the last one, so I'm told. Cheffy and Rudy won't have anything but the best.”
Jim was curious to know why the Chef and Rudolf were on board the Bountiful, rather than serving at the best restaurants, if they were so well qualified.
Gobby gave another laugh.
“There's something you need to understand about people in their line of work, Jim – it's the temptations. They're always trying to do a bit on the side, make a bit by selling stuff, if you get my meaning, They always get caught and then they get sacked. Cheffy and Rudy are on the run from some of the biggest restaurants in the Galaxy. We're kind-hearted on this ship, as you see. We overlook little things like that. Their loss is our gain.”
After the dishes were cleared, the cheeseboard appeared and a decanter with a wide base and long neck containing a dark red liquid was placed on the table, to cheers from those sitting around. Jim was finishing the sweet wine that came with the pudding and feeling more than a little light-headed, when he noticed the decanter sitting in front of him. He eyed it warily, wondering whether he should take some of it. He heard de la Beche's voice.
“I see you know the Bishop of Norwich, Jim.”
Jim had no knowledge of either bishops or Norwiches. He looked back blankly.
“Pass the port to your left, Jim,” whispered Doctor Culpepper. “Keep it moving. That's how it's done.”
When the port had completed its round, the second mate, Sigmund, banged on the table and raised a glass.
“I would like to propose a toast: the Queen.”
All except de la Beche raised their glass and echoed in unison, “The Queen.”
Then de la Beche rapped the table.
“Thank you, darlings. My compliments to Chef and Rudolf. A splendid repast, as ever. Now I would like to propose a toast: HMS Bountiful and all who sail in her.”
They all raised their glasses again and the toast to HMS Bountiful rang out, accompanied by cheers.
As they were finishing, Jim looked around at the other tables. On most, the discussion seemed animated but in the far corner he saw several tables had been drawn together and those sitting there appeared to be eating different food in silence. He asked Gobby who they were.
“The Engine Room lot. They keep themselves to themselves. They don't like Cheffy's food, nor wine neither. He gets a skivvy to make them stuff like bangers and mash and spotted dick and they only drink pints of beer.”
“Spotted dick?” asked Jim.
“Search me. Some sort of dessert, I think.”
Jim watched, a little intrigued, as they finished their meal, rose from the table together and left, still saying nothing.
4
Jim was woken by a noise that he gradually realized was McTavish.
“Are ye so blootered that ye cannae git up?”
His head felt like it was being attacked by a jackhammer. He sat upright and a wave of nausea swept over him. He made it to the bowl just in time.
McTavish didn't do sympathy.
“Ye'd better mak yerself lively. Ye have jobs tae do.”
Jim washed and dressed himself slowly, trying to control the impulse to vomit again. He decided to forgo breakfast. When he thought he might be able to walk without falling down, he nodded to McTavish.
He followed McTavish as he swept though doors and corridors until finally they entered a large room. Jim saw that it contained a number of machines and a long white table, on which was a bottle accompanied by a glass, both containing an amber liquid, and behind which he recognized the ruddy-faced man with greying hair he had met the previous night, Doctor Culpepper.
McTavish uttered a number of
guttural syllables, none of which Jim quite caught, before disappearing.
The man eyed Jim up and down and then held out his hand.
“Allow me to introduce myself young man. Cuthbert Culpepper, surgeon to the Bountiful, HMS of that ilk. To whom do I have the pleasure?”
Puzzled, Jim thought for a moment about what he should say.
“Well I do have another name, but I’m told I’m to be called Jim on this ship. That was how I was introduced to you last night.”
The Doctor looked at Jim blankly for a moment and then tapped the side of his head with a finger.
“Ah yes, Jim, Jim. It all comes back to me now. Silly of me to forget. Very good night, last night, wasn't it? And you’re to be my loblolly boy.”
Jim expressed bemusement.
“I’m not sure. I was told by the Captain that I was to be a cabin boy.”
The surgeon waved his hand airily.
“Cabin boy, loblolly boy. All the same thing really. You’re to make yourself useful, give me a hand when things get hectic. Not that that has happened much recently. We haven’t seen a decent scrap for ages – you know the sort where there are plenty of limbs and other bits missing, blood and gore all over the place. That’s the sort of thing to get the surgical juices going. How I miss it. Everyone’s such cowards these days. We show up and it’s white flags all over the place. Where’s the fun in that?”
Jim was unsure how to reply. Culpepper held up the glass.
“Now my boy, I suggest we have a toast to your new appointment.” He looked at the glass. “On second thoughts you may be a bit young for this stuff, very fine whisky though it is. I hope you won’t mind if I just down this one myself – and I’ll have another on your behalf of course.”