Halfhyde Outward Bound

the London River, and that mail, coming aboard with the agent, had contained a letter from Sir John Willard addressed to My dear Halfhyde and ending Your father-in-law, John Willard. In between, coldness could be detected. The admiral wrote that Mildred had been fretting and, upset by Halfhyde’s sudden departure across the world, was disinclined to put pen to paper herself. She believed there was a lack of love and consideration, a view apparently shared by the admiral, and also by Lady Willard who had been, very clearly, the instigator of the letter. There was an implied threat that if his absence continued beyond the normal limits of a voyage out and home, then it might be expedient for the Admiralty to be informed. If that were done, then Halfhyde would find himself out on his ear, since he had proceeded overseas without permission from their Lordships.

Halfhyde had sworn roundly and then crushed the letter in his fist. The admiral had gone on to write that Mildred proposed spending the next few weeks with cousins near Newmarket. By the letter’s date, she would most probably be there now. Halfhyde wished her joy in her surroundings.

The bumboat entered the port, and Halfhyde scrambled ashore onto the jetty, where a number of ships were loading or discharging cargo, and the air was blue with the shouts of the foremen stevedores as the crates and sacks were trundled up and down the gangways. Picking his way over the usual seaport litter, a scene not unlike that of Liverpool, Halfhyde left the dock area and walked on into the town. At this time of the day, the seamen from the ships were little in evidence; there was work to be done aboard, and the only manifestations of liberty were a number of drunks lying in the gutters or in dirty side alleys off the main thoroughfares. To Halfhyde’s eye the town was similar to Valparaiso but on a smaller scale; every other doorway seemed to lead to a brothel or drinking den, and the place appeared filled with pimps, greasy men who sidled up to Halfhyde and tried to interest him in their wares.

He pushed them aside, to be followed by imprecations as he stalked on. He had not far to go; Aguirre Trucco ran a ship chandlery close to the docks. Captain McRafferty had given him precise directions; he had no difficulty in finding the premises whilst keeping a weather eye open for any sign of Bullock, of which there was none.

Halfhyde entered; the place was not busy. The hour was as yet early for the bosuns and stewards, carpenters and sail-makers to come ashore to conduct their business. Halfhyde recognized the proprietor from McRafferty’s description: a small, bright-eyed man behind a counter, wearing a large apron that threatened to obliterate him altogether.

Trucco beamed and kneaded his hands. “Buena vista, señor,” he said.

“Good morning, Señor Trucco—”

“Engleesh?”

Halfhyde nodded and approached the counter. “English, yes. I come from a friend of yours.”

“Yes?”

“Captain McRafferty of the Aysgarth Falls.”

“Ah, so! Yes.” Trucco smiled in a friendly fashion. “An old friend, yes, whom I have served for many years. You come for provisions, yes?”

“No,” Halfhyde said. “This isn’t a business call of that nature, and I’d be obliged, and so would Captain McRafferty, if you’d not mention my call. I’m Captain McRafferty’s Second Mate, and his business is private. So—”

“Si, si. Private. Then you must come into my house. One moment, please, señor.” Trucco went through a door at the end of his counter and called. A smiling, buxom woman appeared: Señora Trucco, who would take over the store. Trucco beckoned Halfhyde to follow him, and turned back through the door. Halfhyde was led to an office, barely furnished with a desk and some shelves and a couple of chairs.

Bidden to sit, he lost no time in stating what he had come for. Trucco listened closely, nodding at intervals. Then he said, “I understand the anxieties. I also know—though this perhaps I should not say—that Señor Bullock has fingers in many pies, not all of them good ones. You will not repeat this.”

“I will not. But may I ask how you know this, Señor Trucco?”

Trucco shrugged. “He has been sailing for many years to the Chilean coast—many times to Iquique, long before he joined Captain McRafferty. There has been talk that has reached me from time to time.”

“I see. And the passenger for the Aysgarth Falls? Do you know who he is?”

There was another shrug. “Possibly. Possibly not.”

“Which means?”

“There are always many persons seeking passages out of Iquique. Some for good reasons, some for bad. It is very easy to board a ship illegally…the port authorities are lax and only too susceptible to bribes, as perhaps you know.”

Halfhyde didn’t comment on that; he was disinclined to speak of his lack of merchant ship experience, to go into his antecedents and the many explanations that would have to follow. He said, “I’ll put my question differently. Have you any precise knowledge of any person who might embark aboard the Aysgarth Falls?”

Trucco shook his head. “I am sorry. I have not. Only in a general way…I have heard that there are persons in the town who are seeking passages without too many questions…but as I have told you, señor, that is not unusual in Iquique or indeed in Valparaiso, or Callao, or—”

“Yes, quite. These persons—do they seek passages to England, or to Australia?”

Trucco shrugged. “To many places, those included.”

“I see. You can say no more than that?”

The Chilean didn’t answer at once. He sat for a moment in thought, his face creased up like a monkey’s, then he got to his feet, went to the door, and opened it enough to take a quick look up and down the passage. Closing it, he went to the window, which he had shut on entry in spite of the increasing heat of the day, and looked out carefully. Then he sat again, drawing his chair close to Halfhyde. “One must