“Why?” Shotgun asked without much interest.
“I dunno.”
“Who’s the passenger?”
“Dunno that either.”
“Don’t know much, do you,” Shotgun said witheringly. “In any case, it’s not our worry. Won’t affect us, we’re just the scum.”
“Speak for yourself,” Float said. He didn’t regard himself as scum at all; he was proud of his gaol record, proud of his conviction for grievous bodily harm in particular. It set him up above the rest, did that, showed he was a hard case. But he also knew that, hard as he was, Shotgun was harder. Shotgun had dropped hints that in America where the gun was the law, he had killed men. Nothing specific, just the casual hint, but Shotgun looked a killer. Float, angered by the remark about scum, wanted to retaliate. His face was as sharp as that of a rat as he peered about him and fixed his attention on Halfhyde, a softer option in Float’s view than Shotgun and a handy butt for his spleen. He said in a flat voice, “Mister bloody Halfhyde’s not scum. Oh, no! Mister Halfhyde’s a gennelman, hoity-toity voice an’ all—ain’t that right, Mister bloody Halfhyde?”
“Yes,” Halfhyde answered coolly. “I’ll not deny what’s true just to keep in your good books, Float.”
“You won’t, eh? What’s a gennelman doing in the fo’c’sle of a windjammer? Remittance man, are you, chucked out by ’is family as a bum?”
Halfhyde shrugged. “My business is not your business, Float, but you may believe what you wish about me.”
“What about answering the question? That’s polite, ain’t it?’ Float looked round: he had stirred up interest, the off-watch seamen were all eyes, staring through the shadows brought by the guttering oil lamp swinging in its gimbals over the table, all staring at Float and Halfhyde. Fights and blood-letting broke the monotony of life at sea. Float said again, “That’s polite. Gennelmen, they’re always polite. Now, if they’re rude, they knows what they gets, don’t they?”
Shotgun was watching, eyes narrowed. He said, “Put a sock in it, Float, Halfhyde’s all right. He’s a good seaman and that’s enough for me. Better seaman by far than you, you stupid bastard.”
Float’s head jerked up sharply. “You call me a bastard?”
“Yes.”
In the fo’c’sle of a windjammer, that particular insult couldn’t be, never was, ignored. Float got to his feet, his knife suddenly in his hand as if by magic. Halfhyde rose as well; his naval instincts were all for stopping fights at sea in the interest of the ship. But Shotgun beat him to it; Shotgun was on Float in an instant, leaping on to the table and diving for his man. Float crashed backwards, his knife-hand crushed flat against his chest as muscular arms went round him. Shotgun began to beat his head into the deck but Float managed to squirm clear, wriggling a wiry body free of the American. He still held the knife; Halfhyde saw the lamp-light glittering from the blade as Float lunged towards Shotgun’s neck. It swept in an arc, stopped suddenly as Halfhyde grabbed the arm and twisted it up behind the body. There was a yelp of pain, then Float, slippery as an eel, broke free as Halfhyde knocked over a slop bucket and almost lost his footing in the greasiness of the resulting mess. As Float lunged towards him, another man intervened. Float’s knife sliced into the throat, and the man fell, gushing blood. As Float withdrew the knife and stood at bay, and lunged again towards Halfhyde, his arm made violent contact with the smoking oil lamp.
The lamp lifted, swung free of its hook and dropped with a crash, spilling oil. Within seconds the fo’c’sle deck was running with flame. A number of the hands dashed out as the place began to fill with smoke and Halfhyde was left to fight the fire with old Finney, the shanty-man, and the American, Shotgun.
Chapter 4
“FIRE BUCKETS!” Halfhyde shouted. “Away you go, Shotgun.” The American ran out on deck and Halfhyde heard the desperate clatter of the water-pump as the red-painted buckets were taken down from the rack and filled. Halfhyde set Finney to the task of helping him drag out the donkey’s breakfasts, the straw palliasses that formed the bedding. As he did so Bullock’s voice was heard, shouting the hands back to fight the fire. The acting Second Mate, O’Connor, organized a chain of men to pass the buckets, and as soon as each one had been emptied on to the flames it was sent back to be refilled. Halfhyde and old Finney, assisted now by two of the apprentices, got the palliasses out just in time: the flames were now licking at the woodwork of the bunks, while in the centre of the messroom the heavy table was on fire and blackening.
Feeling the singe of his clothing, blinded by thick smoke, Halfhyde felt for the buckets as they were passed along. He flung them over the blazing woodwork. He could scarcely breathe; he stumbled over a couple of bodies lying on the deck, Alongside him he heard O’Connor’s voice, cursing as the heat scorched his exposed flesh. As the fire began to come under control, Halfhyde left the buckets and began dragging the suffocating men clear of the fo’c’sle, sweating like a pig as he did so. Bullock was working like ten men, tirelessly. Captain McRafferty had come for’ard from the poop, his face anguished as he saw what was happening to his ship. His home and his living were in jeopardy. His relief was enormous when the First Mate reported that the blaze was dying down.
“Thank God, Mr Bullock, thank God! What was the cause of it?”
“I don’t know,” Bullock said harshly. “But I’ll be finding out.”
“Do that, Mr Bullock, as quickly as you can.” McRafferty wiped
