A Ship's Tale (15 page)

He said. “Oh, Robert says he can cook.”

I gasped, “Robert is a tip-top seaman, and can manage anything to do with sailing, but for God's sake keep him out of the galley!”

“That bad, is he?” Harris shrugged. “Ah well. It seemed better to use him than to have Uncle Billy running amok down there. You couldn't have him in the galley and on deck as well. Lord knows he'd want to do both. I'm afraid the old boy is…” He was interrupted by an “Ahem!” behind him, and looked about to see Bowman, his narrowed eyes gleaming. Harris sank back in embarrassment, giving a feeble laugh, and threw up his hands.

“Now, Uncle Billy, let's face facts, your place is here on deck or in the navigating room where you're properly in charge. A captain's place is not in the galley.”

“Oh aye, is that so?” said Bowman. “That's yet to be determined as to who does what.” He helped himself to bread and cheese, then moved back off into the twilight, calling out to Edward below as he went, “Light's failing, Ned! Look lively!”

Edward brought up some lamps, which I viewed with dismay. So it was to be night work as well? I sighed. I was longing for a proper bath. I must have smelt rather as the hold of the other ship did. And a little sleep wouldn't do me any harm either. Rubbing my weary eyes, I helped Edward fill some of the lamps with paraffin. By their light Harris and I began to knock the false bottom out of the main hatchway. Beneath was Boris's prized bo'sun's locker. Boris abruptly emerged on the main deck screaming at us in English and Russian, one hardly more intelligible than the other. We understood not one word. Evidently he hadn't known about the tarpaulin, and had visions of a horrible avalanche descending upon him and his gear. A glance into the main hatchway satisfied him that everything was in order. Without further comment, he climbed up into the rigging and set about his work without further comment.

I gazed up after him. “There's an amazing chap,” I said to Harris. “By the way, have you any idea what
mudak
means?”

“Not the least,” said Harris. “He says it from time to time. It must be some choice bit of Russian profanity. He's welcome to be offensive in any language he likes so long as he honours us with his presence. He'll certainly be kept busy for some time to come. And speaking of being busy, how early can you be ready for me to fetch you tomorrow?”

I groaned. This had been another long day. “I can't really say now. I still have work at the Inn all week, but I've arranged half-days.”

“'Twould serve better if you took one full day off tomorrow. Do see what you can manage. When this hulk alongside tows out, we'll be on the tug.” He shook his head mournfully. “It's a damn shame to see another one go. The old girl is in such a sorry state, the only thing keeping her together is the rats holding hands. Boris is bending all that old canvas from the forward hold onto her yards, and we'll unfurl just before she's breached and cut loose. She'll sail till she's too deep and then go down with all sheets set for the next world.”

“That's rather touching,” I said.

“Touching?” Boris said. He came into the lamplight shaking his head, carrying a block and tackle. “Touching? No touching. No one touch anything.”

“I wasn't going to touch anything, Boris,” I assured him, “I was just making a comment.”

Boris scowled. “Ah?”

“Conversation,” said Harris, “he was making
conversation
.” Boris's face brightened in comprehension. “Ah good!” And he went off.

Harris sighed. “Sometimes I don't understand that chap one bit.”

“Sometimes he may not want you to,” I put in.

“Oh, he knows. He just likes to be contrary,” he snorted. “Well, be off with you. You'll arrange for tomorrow off, right?”

I didn't much relish making new arrangements with Mrs. Beastly, but I told him I'd do my best, and bade him good night. As I set foot on the bank, he called after me, “As early as you can! I'll be driving the lorry.” I waved him off limply and trudged up towards the Inn, dreaming of a hot bath and a warm bed directly after.

When at last I stumbled in the door, the hot water, always inadequate, was long gone. What came out of the nozzle was cold enough to freeze a penguin's pecker. Real brass-monkey stuff. It was discouraging, but I was choking on the smell of myself. I gritted my chattering teeth and had a cold scrub. Afterwards, shivering so violently that I expected to hear my bones rattle, I conceived a sudden heartfelt yearning for the warm fireside of the pub. But I'd forgot to bring down any clean clothes from my attic, and of course I could scarcely present myself there wrapped in a towel. My appallingly soiled garments, with their rank exhalations, now reposed in the laundry basket, and I was not about to touch them again. Then I remembered that the pub was closed by now, so I'd have no witnesses if I should venture in to avail my chilly self of any remaining embers in the fireplace.

Emerging cautiously from the bathroom into the corridor between the pub and kitchen, I tiptoed up to the pub door and listened. All was quiet within, so I gently pushed it open and slipped through. I blinked in the comparative darkness, but the gloom was happily relieved by the welcoming ruddy glow of still-burning coals, a beacon that soon led me to a blissfully warm nest in one of the armchairs. After a few minutes there, I shivered no more, and a delicious drowsiness crept over me. I thought mistily of nipping over to the bar and drawing myself a pint, but it seemed too much effort somehow, and it was so nice to be curled up by this lovely fire. I floated away on rosy clouds.

I awoke with a start, aware that something was not as it should be. Why was I so cold? Where were the bedcovers? I sat up in shock to find that I wasn't in bed at all, but before a dead fire in the pub, naked in a towel. Thank God it was still dark! Clutching my towel around me, I groped my way to the door. I peeped through. Damn! There was a light in the bathroom, and its half-open door faced the stairs. I then realised that both the door and the light were just as
I
had left them. I picked up my boots and fled upstairs.

I was soon snug in bed, nearly asleep, when I became vaguely aware of some one climbing the ladder. Martin kept some of his stock up here and needed to fetch it occasionally, but one wouldn't expect to find him doing so in the early hours. I heard a thud and a faint “Ouch!” I decided to ignore it, and sank once more into the arms of Morpheus.

An instant later, someone took hold of my shoulder. I turned to see who could be so heartless as to be keeping me from my slumbers. Much to my surprise and delight, that dark figure bending over me was Katherine.

“Some staircase,” she said, holding her forehead.

“Oh, it's caught you, has it?” I mumbled solicitously, trying to hold onto consciousness, and half fancying that it was all a dream. “Are you hurt? Can I do anything? And whatever are you doing here at this hour?”

She sat next me on the bed. “My head's all right, on the outside at least. I suppose this sounds dreadfully bold, but I really wanted to spend more time with you, even if it's while you're asleep. I suppose I just need to be held.”

Here was any man's dream come true, but I found myself unable to reply to this very attractive proposal. After waiting a moment for my response, she took the lead and stretched out next me on top of the covers. I gently put my arm over her and she clasped it, pressing against me. Her hair tumbled about my face, smelling of lavender. We lay thus for a space, until she began to shiver.

“Do you think there's room for two under those covers?” she whispered.

Did I? After all, she just wanted to be held, right? But a man's only human! I felt caught between the fact and fantasy. I'd often dreamed of her lying by my side. I'd fallen hard for this girl, and the temptation to give into fantasy was overwhelming. In my upbringing, I'd been taught to think of girls as either good or bad; the good ones one married, the bad ones one paid. These ideas where a bit old-fashioned. The War had changed the attitude to courtship for so many of us. After all, we'd been living from day to day not knowing what the future would bring, or whether two people in love could ever find each other again once parted.

“I'm not wearing anything, you know,” I pointed out dutifully.

“Oh hush,” she scolded, “we're only bundling,” and she removed herself from the bed with a bounce. I hesitated briefly, then threw back the covers and she crept in beside me still clothed. She nestled her head on my shoulder. It seemed an absolutely perfect fit, and we lay cosily wrapped in one another's arms as we drifted off to sleep together.

Chapter 11

THE SCUTTLING OF AN OLD SURVIVOR

I awoke at the first hint of daylight. Katherine had slipped away without waking me. I lay there drowsily drinking in the memory of her warm sleeping body. Feeling as though I was parting with some vital organ, I sternly forced my protesting body out of bed. I dressed quickly, intending to get in a little work on the rockery before Harris showed. With a last longing glance at the place so recently occupied by that sweet form, I made my way quietly downstairs. After breakfast, I started setting the rocks, keeping an ear cocked for a lorry passing down on the road.

When at last I heard the rumble of a large vehicle, I turned and hurried to the front of the Inn. I was surprised to see a lorry backing right up to the storeroom doors—not Harris's, but the local victualler's. The driver got out and stood looking about expectantly. A moment later Martin came along yawning from the direction of his cottage, looking very disgruntled at such an excessively early delivery of supplies. He cheered up somewhat when he saw me.

“Flynn, just the man I need,” he cried. “With the three of us, we'll have this lot unloaded in no time.” I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better of it. Kegs and crates and sacks made their way from lorry to pub at a fair rate, as I pushed the others into working at my pace. I was anxious to have this job out of the way and be off before Mrs. Beastly caught sight of me.

We had laid a plank over the pub steps as a ramp, and up this we rolled the kegs of beer and ale. One keg suddenly blew out its bung halfway up the ramp, spraying Martin from head to toe with dark bitter ale. I laughed as he sputtered and floundered about, finally letting it roll down and take its own way towards the front drive, still gushing a fountain of beer as it went. He gave me a sour look, but then chuckled at the absurdity of it, drying himself with his apron. We hurried to finish binging in the goods, leaving the rogue beer keg where it lay.

Freed at last, I'd just begun walking towards the road when I heard the dreaded voice.

“Mr. Flynn! Oh, Mr. Flynn.” I halted reluctantly and looked round. “You can fetch that keg later,” the landlady cried. “Come to the pond and look at this.” She pointed to the ground. “Look what he's done! Oh, the poor bird!” There on a bed of its own scattered feathers lay a freshly killed mallard duck. Preening himself on a rock nearby sat Purdy, looking very complacent. Our eyes met, and he prudently vanished. What a splendid rapport we'd established. I looked back at the duck. It was plain to see what took place.

She wrung her hands. “Oh, it's all from this wretched pond. How could any good come of something that began with an enemy bomb? Vicious geese attacking little Purdy! It's such a shame this bird dead, but it probably provoked him. These wild birds have a savage nature. Why, I remember when…”

“So what do you need me to do?” I asked in a patient voice.

“Ah!” She pointed to the rockery. “You'll have to fetch those stones back down, as we'll need all we can find.” I listened as she outlined her plan for a nice wall about the pond. “We need to keep out whatever doesn't fly, and to keep in what does.” It sounded daft to me, but I didn't want to argue with her. I wasn't planning to linger in these parts long enough to be involved in the building of her Great Wall, so I nodded an affected agreement with whatever she proposed. “Right, then,” she said at last, “now, if you'd see to this duck?” I gingerly picked up the limp bird by its feet.

“I'll dispose of it right away.”

“
Dispose
of it?” she cried. “I should say not! Let a nice young duck go to waste? And in October! Ducks are at their best in November, you know, and October is very near November. Ducks are at their best this time of year.”

“Cook a bird that's been killed by a cat?” I couldn't hide my distaste.

“A duck's a duck my lad. Just take it to the kitchen. Katherine knows what to do with it.”

“Yes, Mrs. Beasley,” I said, and hurried away. I went into the kitchen, where Katherine was busily attending to some steaming pots. I presented Purdy's trophy.

She looked at it with vexed dismay. “What a pity! I just saw that bloody cat stalking it not ten minutes ago. One would think that a full-grown duck would be safe from a cat. Not that it hasn't happened before, mind you. Oh, I should have done something. It's such a shame.”

“I quite agree,” I sighed, “but here's the duck and Mrs. B. intends it for the pot.”

“Oh, she does, does she? And I know who's expected to do the plucking and drawing. Well, give it here and I'll hang it up. Duck should be aged a day or so or it's not tender.”

“She'll really eat that, then?”

Katherine drew herself up huffily. “A duck's a duck,” she said, exactly as Mrs. B. had said it.

“What!” I laughed.

She made a rueful face. “I told you it wasn't the first time. The dirty part of it always goes to me.”

“Perhaps I could help you with it tomorrow,” I ventured.

“Oh, would you? That would be lovely,” she smiled.

I could have looked at that smile all day, but duty called. I imagined Harris fuming as he waited for me.

“Now,” I said awkwardly, “I really must go.” I rushed out of the door and got to the road, just as Harris's old lorry was passing. He slowed, nodding at me. I ran up and clambered into the back with Edward as we headed upriver towards the Royal Terrace Pier and the tugboats at Gravesend.

Upon arrival, we found the crews from several different boats standing huddled about a scrap-wood fire in a steel drum nursing mugs of hot tea. One of the tug captains came over to talk with Harris.

“I still don't understand why so many of you are going along,” he said. I wasn't exactly surprised by his curiosity, and tactfully chose not to participate in the ensuing conversation. Harris explained that we needed to see the operation as preparation for the next one.

There was Bowman, Harris, Edward, and myself. Representing the other side were two specimens of what Bowman called tap-dancing bureaucratic nitwit twits. I hadn't seen this pair before. Their bowlers, umbrellas, and suits were speckless. Each wore an identical Burberry, for one can't go to sea without a stylish raincoat. They made no effort to speak with Harris, only to avoid him, which was probably the wisest approach. Another chap came dressed more sensibly in warm clothes and with a camera. Presumably, this was the press.

We crowded onto the tugboat, and with a great stink of diesel engines began our slow cruise downstream to where the ships lay. The two different factions—government officials and ourselves—did our best to ignore one another and the efforts of the tug captain to try and make small talk as we went. It was a chill grey morning, its dullness all too apparent for our dismal purpose. At last the masts of the condemned vessels hove into distant view, looking helpless and desolate in the grey light.

The photographer started taking photos. He kept to himself as the tug laboriously manoeuvred into position off the bows of the three derelicts. The captain began grumbling over the inconvenience of avoiding the sunken barque on the outside in order to pull out the
Auld Lass
.

Boris was on board her waiting to take on the towlines with the heavy steel hawsers attached, to make them properly secure. His responsibility was to stay aboard and man the helm, steering the old ship behind the tug. He wore an uncharacteristically grim expression, looking for all the world, like a man unwillingly assisting at an execution. I think we all felt a bit that way.

I turned to Harris. “By the way, I've never asked you the real name of that ship,” I said.

“That's the sad part,” he said soberly, “I just don't know. The letters were so eaten away by time and salt that there was nothing left to read. Nor were there any legible papers on board to give one any clue. A damned shame, it is. But
Auld Lass
has served well enough so far, so it should do for her funeral, don't you think?” He rubbed his hands together. “Well, at least this scuttling gives us the opportunity to refine our plan of action for when they take the
Bonnie
off. It's easier to bear this one going down when one thinks how her end will help another escape. We'll be ready when they come. Have no fear.” I wondered if he felt as confident as he sounded.

While Boris didn't much care for his part in the operation, he knew he must comply because it was part of the plan for the
Bonnie
. He was especially disheartened at the insistence that the ship's wheel be dismounted and taken off before she was finally sunk. The officials could see no reason why such a decorative artifact should go to the bottom.

As the tug took up the slack in the lines, Boris cast off the doomed ship from her last mooring. Slowly her nose swung round to meet the open sea as she began her final voyage. Every line, every inch of standing rigging and mast seemed to be groaning in protest as she was drawn out into the waterway.

It was a long journey, well over four hours, before we reached the spot where they intended to scuttle the old vessel. During that time everyone aboard the tug was very solemn. Even Harris had little to say. The photographer discreetly readied his camera for a candid shot of our glum faces, but thought better of it after Harris shot him one meaningful glance. Once we'd reached our destination, Boris made ready to unfurl the pathetic remnants of sails he'd bent on the day before. The canvas was not in good shape, most of it mouldy and without much strength. He had made it possible to set it all from the deck below by an ingenious system of lines without going aloft.

There were eight sufficiently intact sails, and Boris soon had them all flying, tied down to the deck at the pin rail. The wind pulled at them and the
Auld Lass
began to stir as though awakening from a long slumber. Boris watched the straining canvas for a few minutes, then headed back to the helm and grimly removed the weathered ship's wheel. Treasure-hunters and scrap dealers had already made off with her compass and everything else of value before Bowman could put a stop to it. Boris said he found it appalling that the old ship should be looted of this final remnant of her glory days.

Boris threw a rope ladder over the side as the tugboat drew alongside, then lowered the ship's wheel to the deck of the tug below. He switched off the pumps that had helped keep her afloat and transferred these and the generator to the tug as well. He then vanished below to set the detonator on the explosive charge that would breach the hull. Finally, just before climbing down her port side, he cast off the towline and jumped onto the tug. He turned away at seeing one of the government men running his hands possessively over the old wheel, remarking on its picturesqueness. He joined us as we watched the last voyage of the
Auld Lass
.

Now freed from the towline, the old barque began to move away. The tug captain seemed alarmed momentarily, unaccustomed to the sight of a dying ship moving off silently under her own power. She started to turn, began to heel over, then caught the wind and righted herself. Steadily gathering momentum, she ploughed off bravely through the waves, seemingly set for a far-off port. But then came the dull report as the explosives burst, opening her bilges. We watched her sail on, riding ever lower for approximately fifteen minutes. At last her mainmast snapped, bringing the crumbling yardarms down, and smashing through the decaying deck and gunnels. She drifted to a near-halt, and then toppled over slowly onto her port beam much like some great beast collapsing onto its side, brought down by a well-aimed shot. The camera clicked.

Bowman and Harris removed their caps, as did I. The tug's captain, seeing this, likewise bared his head. Harris reached over and smacked one of the officials on the back of the head, knocking off his bowler. The fellow wheeled indignantly, but noticing the rest of us with hat in hand, felt compelled to follow suit, while the other official prudently did likewise.

As we watched, the water around the
Auld Lass
appeared to boil as her hull filled. She settled deeper into the water, finally slipping beneath the waves with her rudder going down as she vanished forever from the sight of men into the dark waters of the North Sea. The camera clicked again. Boris spoke briefly with the photographer and pocketed his card.

We replaced our caps and went below for some hot tea, as the tug turned back towards Gravesend. We were all feeling rather moved by what we had seen and took our tea in silence. I suppose that most people find the sinking of a ship a thought-provoking and emotional sight. I'd seen a few vessels go down during the War, but surely no seaman ever becomes accustomed to the sight.

Now the
Auld Lass
was gone. It remained for us to wonder when they'd be coming for
our
ship. We were very close to readiness, and it seemed as though we'd need at least another two or three days to have the
Bonnie
Clyde
seaworthy.

The government official, who'd been unhatted by Harris, casually remarked, “Ah well, one down and one to go.”

Harris affected unconcern. “Yes, of course. How soon was that, again?”

The fellow waved a hand airily. “Soon-ish.” He obviously relished keeping us in suspense, and was not likely to volunteer any real information. Well, we'd not give him the satisfaction of seeing us scramble after his vague hints. As one man we moved away and pointedly ignored him. Soon-ish? What the devil did he mean by that? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps
tomorrow
! We sat silent, agonising over this possibility, and I daresay presenting a very downhearted appearance.

The tug captain assumed we were sorry about the ship we had just scuttled and tried to lift our spirits with friendly chatter, but his efforts were wasted.

Harris remarked to the captain, “I see you've a nice wireless, but no key. Don't you have to use one any more?”