A Ship's Tale (16 page)

“No,” the captain replied, “I never learned Morse code, there's no reason to use it on the river.”

After a while we sighted the dim coast of Essex, then made out the Southend light as we neared the mouth of the Thames. Passing through the estuary, we strained for a view of our own masts by the Kentish shore, but saw only haze. At last we docked at Gravesend, hastily disembarking as soon as the tug was secured. Boris stayed to have a word with the captain.

We watched as the government officials directed the securing of the ship's wheel atop their car, being careful to have it well padded with a blanket. Mustn't scratch! “Aye,” growled Bowman bitterly, “a quaint little knick-knack for some landlubber's wall. Lord knows where it'll finish up.” He turned away.

“Give me five minutes alone with that twit and I'd make him talk,” Harris muttered darkly. We all relished the mental images evoked by his words.

It was after two, and well past lunch. None of us had thought to pack any food, but no one felt hungry. We were too worried. Uppermost in every man's thoughts was the matter of our sails. We decided that a trip to Whitechapel was warranted. The canvas had been there for two days already, so perhaps we might come away with a few completed pieces. What if they
should
come for her tomorrow? We were certainly not beaten yet, but there was a perceptible flagging of confidence, and we knew we must do
something
. We all needed to see for ourselves. I hoped that this errand wouldn't simply turn out to be time thrown away.

Harris and Bowman climbed back into the cab of the lorry, while Edward and I resumed our places in the rear. The motor was already running when Boris hastily joined us. We sat silently, enduring the long rumbling ride, each absorbed in his own thoughts. When we arrived at the tailor's workshop, Boris and I hopped out. We trooped up to the door, which was opened by a decidedly hollow-eyed Brian without waiting for Harris's unnerving knock. Behind him we could see his son David, dwarfed by vast canopies of canvas. Scattered pieces hung about the ceiling and rafters, some furled and tied with bends and pulls, looking as though they were ready to go. Everywhere the long cutting-tables were swallowed up under great expanses of stacked sails in progress. It was an encouraging sight.

“Brian, you are fantastic,” Harris said. “This looks miraculous, but how are you getting on?”

Brian shrugged, rolling his eyes upwards. “My friend, my friend we are doing the very best we can. I have never in all my life broken so many needles, and my hands and fingers are no longer on speaking terms with me.”

“And?” prompted Harris.

Brian turned to his son David with a gesture, and father and son walked around, reviewing their work. Boris followed watching keenly, then wandered on alone and poked amongst the canvas heaps. After looking over the list of specifications and comparing notes, Brian came back to Harris. “I'm sorry I must disappoint you, but we must have at least two days more to complete all you asked. I assure you we have been working around the clock.”

Harris put his hand on the tailor's shoulder. “I know you're doing your best. Anything that's ready we'll take along with us now, and a thousand thanks to you, Brian. We may need a miracle to see this through, so please carry on as fast as you can.”

“The day for removing the ship is so soon then?” asked Brian. “The sail-makers have been very helpful, and stay long hours to make sure everything is done right. Do you know when the day is?”

Harris grimaced. “That's just the trouble, we don't
know
. Now that they've taken the other ship, there's precious little we can do to prevent them coming at any time.”

“Harris, you are always full with ideas. Is there no way to delay this?” asked Brian.

“There must be,” Harris muttered, “there surely must be.”

Leaving Boris inside, we returned to the lorry to find Bowman pacing impatiently. He had decided not to come in case the lack of progress was too depressing. We were glad of it, for much of the canvas on display sported gaudy circus colours and had been included against his express wishes. He marched up to Harris. “Well?” he asked.

“Two more days for the whole suit of sails, Uncle Billy.” The loading doors creaked open. Boris and David along with several helpers went to and fro. Rolls of completed sails made their appearance on the platform. Fortunately none of them were showing colour, so Bowman oversaw their transference into the lorry with apparent satisfaction. Brian waved encouragingly as he pulled the doors shut again.

“Any sail is better than no sail,” Bowman grunted, “but far better is more time. How are we to make sure of it?”

I turned over implausible schemes in my mind, while Harris leaned against the platform lost in thought. Boris was still in the back of the lorry fussing over the proper arranging of the precious bundles. After a while Bowman spoke up, suggesting we board the tug at night and pour saltwater into the carburettors and engine to muck it up. Harris dismissed this idea out of hand because if just one tug were out of commission, it would be too obvious that someone was engaged in deliberate sabotage.

“Well then, what's it to be?” cried Bowman. “I'll nae give o'er! I don't care if I have to strip every clothesline in London. I'll fly everything, including my nightshirt, but I'll see that ship sail to Scotland!”

“No one is asking you to quit. No one is asking anyone to quit,” Harris said.

Boris tapped his shoulder, “I have speaking with tug captain.”

Bowman looked at him suspiciously. “Oh aye?”

“I ask him, is he taking other ship tomorrow?” replied Boris.

“Of course! Why didn't I think of that?” groaned Harris, clapping his hand to his brow.

“Ye were busy wi' yer temper, ye great oaf,” snorted Bowman. “And what did he say?”

Boris replied, “He is saying he has no towing of ship tomorrow. For this towing today he was arrange in advance one week almost. I ask can he find out if other boat perhaps is taking the
Bonnie
. He say no.”

“By God, this is just what we need,” said Harris.

“We can ask what he hears when we pass Gravesend,” Boris added.

Bowman doubled his gnarled fist under the Russian's nose. “Ye sly bolshie bastard, why did ye nae mention it afore?”

“What? When?” Boris said, throwing up his hands. “Noise too much for talking in back of lorry. Noise too much when you all yelling! Is not sly, only logical to ask.”

Harris shook his head, chagrined. “I was too bloody clever for myself, always thinking to get word from higher up.”

“Then up the mast you look,” said Boris impatiently. “I am
always
higher up!” There was no point arguing this logic with Boris; he was surely right about that.

“Aye, well right now the word from higher up is lunchtime and well-nigh tea-time into the bargain,” Bowman said. “We'll be wanting to take the road again once we've got something inside us.”

None of us cared to argue with that. Our breakfasts had been long ago and our appetites had returned with a vengeance. A short while after, we were rolling along on our way back from London stopping at the Leather Bottle Pub in Gravesend, and were now full of pints, fish, chips, and curiosity over what the tug captain might have to tell us.

At the Gravesend docks we were disappointed to find that our tug had gone out again. The captain left word with a messenger that it would be his own tug coming for the ship. There was heavy weather predicted, and nothing was apt to happen till Saturday at the earliest. We all became a bit giddy at that. Harris gave the surprised messenger two bob and energetically shook his hand. The poor lad went off looking from the shillings in the one hand to the limp ruin of the other hand.

“Let's stow these sails and get around some pints,” laughed Harris. Feeling light-hearted, we piled back into the lorry and took our way towards the old barque we were once more feeling confident of saving. There was plenty left to do, and plenty that could go wrong. As long as the storm didn't pass us by, we'd be fine.

It was seven o'clock as we came to a halt by the remaining ships. The space left by the departed vessel gaped eerily, and revealed a different view of the sunken coal-carrier. At low tide much of her hull stood out of the water. I followed Boris as he walked out on the sand spit for a closer look. One could still see the sleek lines of the once-proud tall ship in the battered rusted ruin before us.

Boris shook his head in regret at the sight. “Terrible” was his only remark. He wheeled around and headed towards the lorry. “We bring sails now.”

We finished wrestling the bulky canvas bundles from the lorry onto the
Bonnie Clyde
's deck when Larry and Todd from the orphanage came down to enquire about our day. Harris recounted the story of the scuttling and the sails and how we were still determining our day of departure.

“Everything depends on the weather,” said Harris. “Have you kept a good watch on it as we agreed?”

“Aye,” said Todd. “We're at the wireless every day.”

“Todd's a dab hand at the short wave,” said Larry. “We can't tell half the languages we get, but we listen to every word on the weather that's broadcast.”

“What's that about weather on the wireless?” Bowman asked.

“Well sir, according to the bulletins, we should expect a bit of a storm tonight. In fact it might well be pissing down rain for days,” said Larry.

“Here here, who taught ye words like that?” Bowman frowned.

“No sir, Cap'n,” said Larry innocently, “it was Mr. Harris.”

Bowman shot him a nasty look, as Harris pointedly looked up at the sky.

Larry hastily resumed his report, “There are storm warnings out for the Channel and the North Sea. It's very unlikely we will see ships going in or out of the Thames for a few days. No one expects a break in the weather till Saturday or Sunday.”

Harris rubbed his hands. “And we're only standing by for that break. We could go Saturday.”

“Saturday, if the weather's agreeable?” Larry cried. He and young Todd exchanged excited glances.

“Will you be ready?” Harris smiled.

“Will we?” Larry cried out, “We're ready now!”

Harris chuckled at their enthusiasm. This was everything they'd dreamed of: going on a great sea adventure, escaping O'Connell's stifling repression, and maybe finding real homes. It was certainly easy to see why they were so excited.

I knew this delay was a godsend, but then again it could be very awkward. We must be attentive to the timing of our disappearance. After all we'd literally be emptying the orphanage, and some of us had jobs.

“We must be on our keenest watch with the forecast lads, for we don't want to be caught by heavy weather once we're under way,” warned Bowman. “'Twould be a sore trial for such an old vessel.” He squinted up at the bare yardarms. “I'm much afraid that we'll not be using all of those yards, the skysails in particular. Boris has been over them all, and advised me that some don't look over-sturdy to him. If one of the masts should snap high up, there'd be the lot coming down and through the deck. It could ruin our lifeboats, and then where would we be?”

“What lifeboats?” I asked in surprise. We'd cleared away all the old rotted ones that sat in a heap on the sand next to the ship with two others waiting to join them still on deck that we couldn't move when we took the rubbish from the hold. Were there new ones I hadn't seen?

Bowman glared at Harris sourly, “Oh we could have got a number of proper boats. Harris decided that he wasn't going to be fetching any more goods out of the shipyard, so he brought us those damned things.” He pointed at a canvas-shrouded heap.

I had a look underneath and found there were three large cork ellipses, as big as rafts and with netting all over them. They were easier to launch than standard lifeboats, and would hold just as many people. I'd seen them on quite a few ships during the War, but luckily I'd never had occasion to use them myself.

“It's the best idea imaginable,” Harris pointed out. “Lash them down in a stack on top of the hold, then they'll be at hand if they're needed.”

They looked satisfactory to me. I had to agree that further raids on the scrap-yard would be ill advised with the Navy sniffing about. Larry and Todd looked over the rafts with glistening eyes. I think they were beginning to entertain hopes of a chance to try them out. They were at that reckless age when young men are convinced of their own imperviousness to death and disaster, and apparently the years of German bombardments had neither persuaded them otherwise nor dulled their taste for danger.

“Well,” Larry said, “we'd best get back before we're missed. We'll keep a good weather eye, and everyone's standing by for your word. You'll have no delay from Starke's Raiders!”

“Saturday Saturday, could be Saturday,” they chanted, and off they went into the dusk with jubilant laughter.

I was anxious to get back to the Inn, but Boris wanted to see the sails safely into the hold before the rain started. Bowman and Edward were engaged in one of their heated discussions. Harris said he'd drive us all up shortly, but I politely declined and set off on foot, which had me in at the pub door before the others.

Katherine looked round from across the room and our eyes met. I had news, but couldn't discuss it in company. I sat down and sipped at the pint she brought me. A few minutes later I heard the rumble of a heavy vehicle on the road and glanced out into the dark. It appeared that another lorry was en route to the ship. More deliveries perhaps. When it came time for Katherine's dinner break, we repaired to the kitchen where we'd have a bit more privacy. I told her of the brief, glorious, and heartbreaking final voyage of the
Auld Lass
. We arranged to meet and continue the conversation after closing. I wondered if she was ready to give me her final answer. It couldn't possibly be no.