officers and men were concerned, but that was hardly the old man’s fault: there were some men that even a fleet commodore has to accept and Dexter was one of them. A personable enough youngster of twenty-one, with fair hair, slightly prominent blue eyes, an excruciatingly genuine public-school accent, and limited intelligence, Dexter was the son — and, unfortunately, heir of Lord Dexter, Chairman and Managing Director of the Blue Mail. Lord Dexter, who had inherited about ten millions at the age of fifteen and, understandably enough, had never looked back, had the quaint idea that his own son should start from the bottom up and had sent him to sea as a cadet some five years previously. Dexter took a poor view of this arrangement: every man in the ship, from Bullen downwards, took a poor view both of the arrangement and Dexter, but there was nothing we could do about it.
“How do you do, sir?” I accepted Carreras’ outstretched hand and took a good look at him. The steady dark eyes, the courteous smile couldn’t obscure the fact that there were many more lines about his eyes and mouth at two feet than at fifty; but it also couldn’t obscure the compensatory fact that the air of authority and command was now redoubled in force, and I put out of my mind any idea that this air originated in phoneyness; it was the genuine article, and that was that.
“Mr. Carter? My pleasure.” The hand was firm, the bow more than a perfunctory nod, the cultured English the product of some stateside Ivy League college. “I have some interest in the cargo being loaded, and if you would permit…” “But certainly, Senor Carreras.” Carter, that rough-hewn Anglo-Saxon diamond, not to be outdone in Latin courtesy. I waved towards the hatch. “If you would be so kind as to keep to the starboard — the right hand of the hatch.”
“‘Starboard’ will do, Mr. Carter.” He smiled. “I have commanded vessels of my own. It was not a life that ever appealed to me.” He stood there for a moment, watching Macdonald tightening the sling, while I turned to Dexter, who had made no move to go. Dexter was seldom in a hurry to do anything; he had a remarkably thick skin.
“What are you on now, Fourth?” I enquired.
“Assisting Mr.” That meant he was unemployed. Cummings, the purser, was an extraordinarily competent officer who never required help. He had only one fault, brought on by years of dealing with passengers — he was far too polite. Especially with Dexter. I said, “Those charts we picked up in Kingston. You might get on with the corrections, will you?” Which meant that he would probably land us on a reef off the great Bahamas in a couple of days’ time.
“But Mr. Cummings is expecting…”
“The charts, Dexter.” He looked at me for a long moment, his face slowly darkening, then spun on his heel and left. I let him go three paces, then said, not loudly, “Dexter.” he stopped, then turned slowly. “The charts, Dexter,” I repeated.
He stood there for may be five seconds, eyes locked on mine, then broke his gaze. “Aye, aye, sir.” the accent on the “sir” was faint but unmistakable. He turned again and walked away, and now the flush was round to the back of his neck, his back ramrod stiff. Little I cared; by the time he sat in the Chairman’s seat I’d have long since quit. I watched him go, then turned to see Carreras looking at me with a slow, still speculation in the steady eyes. He was putting chief officer Carter in the balance and weighing him, but whatever figures he came up with he kept to himself, for he turned away without any haste and made his way to the starboard side of number four hold.
As he turned, I noticed for the First time the very thin ribbon of black silk stitched across the left lapel of his grey tropical suit. It didn’t seem to go any too well with the white rose he wore in his buttonhole, but maybe the two of them together were recognised as a sign of mourning in those parts. And it seemed very likely, for he stood there perfectly straight, almost at attention, his hands loosely by his sides, as the three crated coffins were hoisted inboard. When the third crate came swinging in over the rail he removed his hat casually, as if to get the benefit of the light breeze that had just sprung up from the north, the direction of the open sea, and then, looking round him almost furtively, lifted his right hand under the cover of the hat held in his left hand and made a quick abbreviated sign of the cross. Even in that heat I could feel the cold cat’s-paw of a shiver brush lightly across my shoulders. I don’t know why; not even by the furthest stretch of imagination could I visualise that prosaic hatchway giving on number four hold as an open grave. One of my grandmothers was Scots; maybe I was psychic or had the second sight or whatever it was they called it up in the highlands, or maybe I had just lunched too well. Whatever might have upset me, it didn’t seem to have upset Senor Carreras. He replaced his hat as the last of the crates touched lightly on the floor of the hold, stared down at it for a few seconds, then turned and made his way forward, lifting his hat again and giving me a clear, untroubled smile as he came by. For want of anything better to do, I smiled back at him.
Five minutes later the ancient truck, the two Packards, the jeep, and the last of the stevedores were gone and Macdonald was busy supervising the placing of the battens on number four hold.
By five o’clock, a whole hour before deadline and exactly on the top of the tide, the S.S. Campari was steaming slowly over the bar to the north of the harbour, then northwest into the setting sun, carrying with it its cargo of crates and machinery and dead men, its fuming captain, disgruntled crew, and thoroughly outraged passengers. At five o’clock on that brilliant June evening it was not what one might have called a happy ship.
Chapter 2
By eight o’clock that night cargo, crates, and coffins were, presumably, just as they had been at five o’clock; but among the living cargo the change for the better, from deep discontent to something closely approaching light-hearted satisfaction, was marked and profound.
There were reasons for this, of course. In Captain Bullen’s case — he twice called me “Johnny-me-boy” as he sent me down for dinner — it was because he was clear of what he was pleased to regard as the pestiferous port of Carracio, because he was at sea again, because he was on his bridge again, and because he had thought up an excellent reason for sending me below while he remained on the bridge, thus avoiding the social torture of having to dine with the passengers.
In the crew’s case it was because the captain had seen fit, partly out of a sense of justice and partly to repay the head office for the indignities they had heaped on him, to award them all many more hours’ overtime than they were actually entitled to for their off-duty labours in the past three days. And in the case of the officers and passengers it was simply because there are certain well-defined fundamental laws of human nature and one of them was that it was impossible to be miserable for long aboard the S.S. Campari.
As a vessel with no regular ports of call, with only very limited passenger accommodation and capacious cargo holds that were seldom far from full, the S.S. Campari could properly be classed as a tramp ship and indeed was so classed in the Blue Mail’s brochures. But — as the brochures pointed out with a properly delicate restraint in keeping with the presumably refined sensibilities of the extraordinarily well-heeled clientele it was addressing — the S.S. Campari was no ordinary tramp ship. Indeed, it was no ordinary ship in any sense at all. It was, as the brochure said simply, without any pretentiousness and in exactly those words, “A medium-sized cargo vessel offering the most luxurious accommodation and finest cuisine of any ship in the world to-day.”
It was the Chairman of the Blue Mail, Lord Dexter, who had obviously kept all his brains to himself and refrained from passing any on to his son, our current Fourth Officer, who had thought it up. It was, as all his competitors who were now exerting themselves strenuously to get into the act admitted, a stroke of pure genius. Lord Dexter concurred. It had started off simply enough in the early fifties with an earlier Blue Mail vessel, the S.S. Brandywine. (For some strange whimsy, explicable only on a psychoanalyst’s couch, Lord Dexter, himself a rabid teetotaller, had elected to name his various ships after divers wines and other spirituous liquors.)
The Brandywine had been one of two Blue Mail vessels engaged on a regular run between New York and various British possessions in the West Indies, and Lord Dexter, eying the luxury cruise liners which plied regularly between New York and the Caribbean and seeing no good reason why he shouldn’t elbow his way into this lucrative dollar-earning market, had some extra cabins fitted on the Brandywine and advertised them in a few very select American newspapers and magazines, making it quite plain that he was interested only in top people. Among the attractions offered had been a complete absence of bands, dances, concerts, fancy-dress balls,
