“We can’t put him back in the fore peak, Mr Bullock.”
“Sail locker, then?”
“Yes—if he gives any trouble. He’ll have to be watched. But he’s needed on deck so long as he behaves himself.”
Bullock looked aggrieved. “I said it last night, and I’ll say it again, Captain. We’re no more short-handed than we were immediately after the fire—”
“We’re short of Mr Halfhyde now. With so many losses earlier, every man’s needed. Float remains handy to work the ship, Mr Bullock, and is to be confined to the sail locker only when not needed. That’s an order.”
“It’s risky,” Bullock said sourly. “He’ll—”
“The risk must be accepted, Mister. When we pick up the trades, we’ll be tacking constantly, and every man’ll be needed at the braces.” McRafferty turned away.
FLOAT HAD been accepted back by the fo’c’sle without too much bad feeling from most of the hands. Old Finney had withdrawn himself, so had Shotgun; although Shotgun had killed in the past without compunction, his victims had not been his own mates. There was, or should be in his view, a camaraderie among the world’s unfortunates. Most of the hands didn’t think that way at all and were concerned only to keep on friendly terms with a dangerous man as they worked about the ship, and were glad enough that he was being made to do his share on deck instead of loafing all day in the sail locker and letting others do it for him. For his part, Float was busily scheming how to cheat the hangman. There might be ways for a man who had his wits about him and kept his eyes and ears open, and Float had a trick or two up his sleeve, and he had something else as well: a knife. Not his own—that had been removed when he was searched earlier. He had found another in the sail locker, one that had been overlooked when he’d been put in there from the forepeak. It was long, sharp as a razor, and Float took good care no one would find it before he had a need of it. Action would have to be taken before the Aysgarth Falls picked up the pilot off Sydney Heads. Float had been thinking for many days past what that action could be. Further killing was not a part of Float’s reckoning. He could scarcely make a clean sweep of every soul aboard, and anything short of that would be useless. There had to be another way, and he would find it; and his thoughts had already begun to revolve around the mysterious passenger, Jesson.
In the meantime he worked with a will and obeyed orders, steering as clear of Mr Bullock as was possible.
Chapter 9
STILL SOME way behind the Aysgarth Falls, the Tacoma was making good some record days’ runs under full sail. Captain Graves had found a favourable wind that carried him nicely down into the south-east trades, a better wind than luck had given McRafferty. Three days after leaving Arica, skysails were observed ahead—a square-rigger still hull down on the horizon to the west. Graves sent down for Halfhyde and indicated the ship.
“It could be the Aysgarth Falls, perhaps,” he said.
Halfhyde took the offered telescope. “We must hope so, sir.”
The hope did not last long; it soon became apparent that the ship was on an opposite course: they were closing fast. As the other vessel came down upon them, Graves had the helm brought up to close her as near as the wind would permit. The ship was identified as the full-rigged Pass of Killiecrankie out of Melbourne for Callao. Graves took up a megaphone as they came close abeam and called across, asking if the Master had by change met the Aysgarth Falls.
“Aye,” the shout came back. “We spoke her two days ago. I have her position in the log if you want it, Captain.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Graves shouted.
There was a wave of acknowledgement followed by a pause. Then the position was called across and the ships drew apart again, With Halfhyde, Graves went to his chart-room, took up a pencil and a parallel ruler and transferred the given position to the chart, marking it with a neat cross.
“It gives us something to go on,” he said. “We’re overtaking her, that’s certain at least.”
“And a good chance of finding her?”
Graves shrugged. “I’ll try to work out McRafferty’s likely track from there, but it’ll be by guess and by God, Halfhyde, I can’t forecast the winds he’ll be getting.”
“Surely if he’s into the trades—”
“There’s a degree of steadiness, yes. Oh, there’s hope, but I’ll not go further than that just yet.” They went back to the bridge. Halfhyde was in a near fever of impatience by this time, but his frustration had to be contained. Graves was doing his best, and the Tacoma was being efficiently driven: Mortimer, the Chief Officer, knew his job and the hands were a willing bunch, working for a first-class company and anxious to keep their berths. Halfhyde had no doubt that they could overhaul the Aysgarth Falls but knew that to do so on the right track was a proposition full of chance. That same morning all chance began to look bleak indeed. A man stationed as lookout in the foretopmast crosstrees reported smudges of smoke coming up from astern.
“Plural,” Graves said. He glanced at Halfhyde. “Merchant ships don’t travel in company. I don’t like the sound of it. I believe it could be your German adversary.”
Halfhyde nodded. “Clearly von Merkatz’ll have the legs of us, sir. It remains to be seen by how much—I fancy not a lot. His cruisers are old and slow by modern standards.”
Graves said, “Perhaps. But if it’s him, it’ll not be long before he has us within range of his
