“Nor are you to deflect your ship, sir.”
“No.” Graves grinned. “But, like you, I don’t like to see it happen. We’re both fools, I suppose.”
“Sentimental ones,” Halfhyde said, “in regard to the windjammers…and the McRaffertys who work their guts out trying to keep them at sea.”
“The devil’s own task.” Graves paused, looking sideways at Halfhyde. “You said you’d go for steam when you buy your own ship—you’re wise to do so. At the same time, you’ll forego a good deal of pleasure. There’s nothing like sail, never will be.”
“I agree fully. But the windjammers are becoming less and less competitive every day, and I must be able to make a living.” He added dourly, “I have a wife to support, at any rate when my father-in-law is not doing so. I prefer not to be under such an obligation, the more so when my father-in-law is my senior officer.”
“Indeed?”
“A vice-admiral, no less.”
“And his name?”
“Sir John Willard,” Halfhyde said.
Graves lifted his eyebrows. “Willard! It’s a small world to be sure—”
“You know him?”
“I don’t say I know him. But I served under him three years ago when doing my time with the fleet. Malta…do I take it you married Miss Mildred Willard?”
“You may,” Halfhyde said.
“Ah.” The revelation seemed to end the subject; Graves coughed in some embarrassment, and the cough seemed to Halfhyde to be the only possible reaction to anyone having married Miss Mildred Willard. Graves returned to more nautical matters; Sydney, he said, if Halfhyde was ready to take the plunge, was a good place in which to find a likely steamer for sale and he, Graves, could provide some introductions.
“You forget, sir, I’m on articles to Captain McRafferty, and must sail home with him.”
“Always provided McRafferty and his ship have not been arrested by the authorities in Australia,” Graves said. “If things rebound upon him, he’ll be in serious trouble.”
“I shall still stand by his ship, sir.” Halfhyde looked up as a call came from the bridge. The Second Officer reported a steamer on the port bow, closing on a reciprocal course.
Graves went up the ladder, followed by Halfhyde. He said, levelling his telescope on the distant vessel, “We may as well speak her. There’s just a chance she’s passed the Aysgarth Falls.” He added, “That is, of course, if we’ve not overhauled her.”
THE WINDJAMMER was in fact still a day’s sailing ahead of the Tacoma, and dirty weather had come up the night before—the dirty weather that Float had been fearing. Once again it was a case of all hands. They swarmed aloft to get the canvas off, fighting the great sails to pass the buntlines. From the poop Captain McRafferty watched the helm, ready to pass instant orders as the wind howled and tore and the ship heeled far over to leeward. Seas swept the decks, foaming up against the hatch covers, submerging the windlass, rising over the fife-rails at the foot of the masts, green and cold and dangerous.
Bullock went aloft, racing his men up the foremast, up the futtock-shrouds and on to the foretopmast crosstrees and beyond. Float, sent to the fore upper tops’l yard, saw him coming, and, holding on with one hand, reached for his knife. The wind buffeted at him, invisible fingers bent on dragging him from the fragile safety of the footrope. Bullock, eyes gleaming in a fitful shaft of moonlight, came inexorably up the mast beneath. As he did so there came the agonizing sound of tearing canvas, then a crash as a yard was ripped free from the mizzenmast and fell in a tangle of rigging. McRafferty shouted from the poop.
“Mr Bullock, lay aft!”
Bullock took no notice. He climbed steadily. Float was alone on the yard. Float shook, and began to cry out; his voice was taken by the wind and flung to leeward. He mouthed in apparent silence, staring, unable to move. But he drew the knife and held it out towards Bullock’s advance and began screaming imprecations, as unheard as his shouts for help.
Bullock had reached the yard now, was putting a boot out to take the footrope. The yard was canted sharply over to leeward and Bullock’s advance was uphill. That gave Float some advantage; he stayed where he was, lips drawn back tightly against his teeth, his fist holding the knife steady. As Bullock advanced a wicked gust took the ship, which was labouring already; she went over further to leeward. More noise from aft indicated more gear going over; then there was a whipping sound from the fore royal mast as it reacted to the heavy list and the weight of the wind. By now the ship was in real difficulties, finding no help from her First Mate.
Bullock moved out along the yard staring fixedly at his quarry. Float moved backwards towards the yardarm, flailed at by the wind. Bullock came on, grinning now. He was mouthing something, but Float couldn’t hear what it was. Then a hand shot out and took Float’s wrist like a vice, twisted it. The knife fell clear into the sea so many feet below.
Float gave a despairing shriek. Bullock let go of his wrist and lunged forward. Just as he did so the foretopmast stuns’l halliard parted; the 3½-inch hemp rope fell across the yard and Float shrieked again.
BY NEXT morning, when the Tacoma raised the steamer ahead on her port bow, the gale had blown itself out, and only a confused swell was left behind. As the steamer closed, Graves took up his megaphone and altered course to bring his ship within hailing distance.
“Ahoy, there! What ship?”
The reply was bellowed back. “SS Werribee out of Brisbane for Valparaiso.”
Graves gave the name of his own ship. “Have you spoken the fully-rigged ship Aysgarth Falls out of Iquique for Sydney?” he called across.
There was some delay before the answer came back: the Master of the Werribee had not encountered the Aysgarth Falls herself but he had picked up a man
