“Thirty-two damned days aboard a ship!”
“It must be put up with, Mr Jesson.”
There was a snort from Jesson, and he turned away abruptly and went below. McRafferty gave him a moment, then moved towards the saloon skylight and stood listening. Jesson’s voice was loud; he was speaking to the girl, but to McRafferty’s satisfaction appeared to be getting no encouragement and, after a while, he stopped talking, and McRafferty heard him shouting for the steward. Whisky had been part of the contract, and Jesson seemed addicted.
ON THE road north, there were stops at wayside hostelries, sleazy places where rough meals and a shakedown bed were provided. Halfhyde slept in a small room along with his two armed companions, who took turns to remain awake throughout each night. Early starts were made, and as each dawn came up, they were already on the road. There was no chance of escape; the men were much too wary. Halfhyde didn’t doubt for a moment that the guns would be used if they thought it necessary, and in the privacy of the bedrooms, and in the carriage itself, his hands had been tied behind his back. Although the circumstances were different, there were similarities with Halfhyde’s journey north by carriage with the Chilean General Codecino, from Puerto Montt to Valparaiso. Travelling beneath the distant shadow of the mountains, the scenery appeared much the same. But their surroundings grew bleaker as they drew nearer to their destination. Arica, according to Smith, was a lesser port even than Iquique, a mere village by comparison with Valparaiso, a place where guano, salt, copper, and sulphur were exported, and cargoes were landed for transit to Bolivia.
“Not,” Halfhyde observed, “a likely spot to find Admiral von Merkatz and a heavy squadron, I should have thought.”
Smith was in agreement. “Nevertheless, he’s there and is expected to remain for some while before sailing south for the Horn and the passage back to Kiel. He’s said to have gone in for provisions and bunkers, after a long haul across from Chinese waters.”
As at last the carriage jolted its way into Arica, Halfhyde saw the great, grey ships of the German squadron, with the flag of Vice-Admiral von Merkatz flying at the masthead of a first-class cruiser which he recognized as the Mannheim. A boat was coming inshore—a steam picquet-boat, smartly manned. As he came between the hovels of the little township, Halfhyde lost sight of the picquet-boat but soon afterwards the carriage came into the port area, and the boat could be seen alongside a small jetty. An officer of captain’s rank, probably the Flag Captain, was walking away from it with a lieutenant and the boat’s crew was evidently awaiting their return. The carriage moved on and once again the Germans were lost to sight. Before his view of the dock area had gone, Halfhyde had been able to see the other shipping lying off the port. There were three steamships and some half-dozen square-riggers. The square-riggers were Finns and Norwegians; of the steamers, two wore the Red Ensign, a fact worth noting. Halfhyde was unable to make out the flag of the third. Some minutes after this the carriage stopped at one of the hovels and Smith got down, leaving Halfhyde in the care of the other armed man and the driver, who remained watchfully upon his box.
Smith banged at the door of the hovel. The door was opened by a man who looked like a South American Indian; Smith, who seemed to be known to this man, went inside. A few minutes later Halfhyde was brought out of the carriage and hustled into the building with a gun pressing against his spine. Just as he went in, there was a sudden shift in the weather: the afternoon, which had been fine, darkened with extraordinary rapidity as a large cloud swept across the sun. At the same time, a wind came up, a curiously hot wind from the west.
THE SAME wind, blowing in across the Pacific, had passed to the north of the track taken by the Aysgarth Falls; but Bullock, on watch as the glass began to drop alarmingly, had observed the disturbance in the northern sky and had called the Master.
McRafferty turned out at once and climbed to the poop. “What do you make of it, Mr Bullock?”
“The nearest I can get’s a typhoon, sir. You can see the perimeter of it clearly.”
McRafferty examined the sky. “It’s no typhoon, Mister. We’re much too far westwards for that.”
“Typhoons can go off track.”
“Maybe, but never so far as this. You know as well as I do, they originate in south-east Asia and head north for the Philippines and the Japanese islands. We’re not in the area where it would be called a hurricane, either.”
“It’s a cyclonic storm of some sort,” Bullock said in a surly tone.
McRafferty nodded. “I’ll settle for that, Mister! God alone can say what’s the cause of it here. In any case, I believe we shall stand clear of it—it’s moving eastwards, I fancy.”
Bullock wiped a hand across his face. There was a touch of rain and a big cloud, almost black and very threatening, was extending towards them although the main route was, as McRafferty had said, easterly. “Best get the canvas off her,” Bullock said.
“Yes, I agree. Rouse out all hands, Mr Bullock. Another hand to assist Finney at the wheel. Bring her down to lower tops’ls.” McRafferty stared towards the north, through fast-worsening visibility: the rain was sheeting down now and a moment later the heavy rumble of thunder came, apparently from right overhead as vivid streaks of lightning struck down to play around the masts and yards. McRafferty noticed an odd warmth in the wind; like the breath
