Finney looked round. “Why’s that, Mr ’Alf’yde, sir?”
Finney was the only man aboard to address Halfhyde respectfully, and Halfhyde knew why. A conversation whilst coming up the coast had revealed that Finney had once been captain’s cox-swain aboard a man-of-war. After serving nearly twenty years in the Queen’s ships he’d disgraced himself by returning aboard drunk in Malta and had been disrated down to able seaman; that had been more than he could take and when his time was up he’d come ashore gladly; but had found no niche for a seaman away from the sea, so had returned to the only trade he knew, this time in the windjammers. Halfhyde answered his question. “You went to sea because you damn well wanted to, Finney. You’re a born seaman. Every hair a marline-spike, and—”
“Every drop o’ blood a drop o’ good Stockholm tar. Aye, sir, that’s about right. But it’s not much bleedin’ good, sir, if the urges of the blood can’t be satisfied now an’ again.”
Halfhyde lifted an eyebrow. “At your age, Finney?”
Finney spat once again over the side. “Age ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” he said in an aggrieved tone. Grinning, Halfhyde turned away and went back to the poop. Voices, raised in argument, came up from the saloon below. The law was being laid down by someone, probably, Halfhyde thought, the port authorities; and McRafferty was countering it. Soon after this, the shoreside visitors left. The Chileans went over the side into their waiting boat accompanied by the agent, Mackinnon, and Bullock. McRafferty saw the party away, then called to Halfhyde.
“Mr Halfhyde, Float remains aboard. I was able to stress that the murder took place upon the high seas, not inside Chilean territorial waters. He will be handed over in Sydney.”
McRafferty went below, seeming pleased to have won his point; but Halfhyde sensed trouble ahead. A man facing hanging for murder was a nasty kind of cargo, one that brought a disagreeable spirit to the ship, a kind of portent of disaster.
Ten minutes later McRafferty’s voice came up through the skylight. “Mr Halfhyde, a word with you in the saloon.”
Chapter 5
IN HIS years in the naval service, Halfhyde had seen few harbours as bleak as that of Iquique and what it must look like in foul weather was best left to the imagination. Even today it was uninviting, a nasty little port on the fringe of the Atacama Desert, with the Western Cordillera of the Andes mountains rearing distantly behind. Among other things, the town was liable to devastation by earthquake. Yet Iquique was an important place on the seafarer’s map and the anchorage was crowded with shipping, both sail and steam, though sail predominated. Halfhyde had looked from the poop at the ensigns of many nations besides Britain: there were German ships, Scandinavians, American, French, Portuguese and Spanish.
He found no enthusiasm for setting foot ashore; but the shore was where he was being sent. McRafferty said, “You told me in Liverpool that you had been to Chile before, and that you have some Spanish.”
“A little Spanish, yes. I’ve never been to Iquique. Only in Valparaiso and Puerto Montt. And once only.”
“No matter, you have some acquaintance with the country, Mr Halfhyde.” McRafferty pulled at his side whiskers. “I have a mission for you, one that is not to be mentioned outside this saloon—that is, so far as the ship’s crew is concerned.”
Halfhyde lifted an eyebrow. “Mr Bullock, sir?”
“Precisely.”
“Mr Bullock is already ashore. Iquique’s a small enough place by the look of it. Suppose I meet him?”
McRafferty answered impatiently, “Iquique is not as small as all that. Bullock has gone with my agent to the offices of the Nitrate Combination to make arrangements in regard to my cargo. If you should happen to meet him in the port area, you shall say simply that I have allowed you shore leave so that you may see a port that is new to you.”
“And the real reason for my run ashore, sir? Is it to do with your passenger?”
McRafferty nodded. “I wish to learn more about him, Mr Halfhyde. The only possible source of information is, I believe, a certain good friend I have in Iquique. Even he may know nothing of this man, but it’s worth a try.”
“As you say, sir. And his name?”
“The name of my friend is Aguirre Trucco. The name of my passenger…this I do not yet know.”
“Then how—”
“Señor Trucco is a knowledgeable person, Mr Halfhyde, one who keeps an ear to the ground and an eye lifting for trouble. If, for instance, there is any person in Iquique awaiting a ship so that he can escape the law, extradition perhaps, then It’s a pound to a penny Trucco will know of him. If Trucco knows nothing of any such person, then I would feel safer in bringing a passenger aboard. Do you understand?”
Halfhyde said, “I understand, sir. But if your friend does know of such a person, how will you be sure that it is your passenger? Even if you knew the name, he could be using a pseudonym—and very probably is, if he’s up against the law.”
“I realize that. But at least I shall be warned that there may he trouble.”
“You’ll still take him aboard?”
McRafferty looked away and answered obliquely. “I shall discuss the matter further with Mr Bullock.”
CROSSING THE anchorage in one of the importunate bumboats whose crew had been persuaded by a little silver to act as ferry, Halfhyde reflected that discussion with the First Mate would be likely to result in Bullock putting two and two together and guessing that there was collusion between the acting Second Mate and the Master, at any rate if Bullock should get wind, as surely he would, of Halfhyde’s visit to the shore. But that was for the future; currently Halfhyde’s thoughts had flown somewhat acidly homewards to Portsmouth: mail had awaited the Aysgarth Falls, brought ahead of her by a steamship out of
