Jesson sat down, on a chair near the bunk. He kept the revolver in his hand. He waited. Up top on the poop, by the fore rail, Bullock was talking to McRafferty in a quiet but threatening voice. McRafferty, finding difficulty in believing his ears, nevertheless held himself in check. Bullock was convincing. And what Bullock said had struck at the very roots of his being. Everything he possessed was under threat. Bullock said that if he uttered a word out of place to the crew, or if the crew got wind of the facts and acted in a way Jesson didn’t like, or if McRafferty didn’t take the Aysgarth Falls up towards the Barrier Reef…if he didn’t act naturally as a shipmaster in full command…then his daughter would suffer. So would his ship, his home. It would be the easiest thing in the world to pile her up along the Reef, with Jesson already away in one of the ship’s boats, and let her smash to matchwood in the seas that would pour across the coral in the first bit of bad weather to hit the Queensland coast. It had, Bullock said, to be a case of best foot foremost, all the rest of the way.
“You’re scum, like Jesson, Bullock.”
“I have to think of myself, Captain.”
“What do you get out of it?” McRafferty asked bitterly. “Beyond a bullet in the back the moment you’re ashore with Jesson?”
“I shan’t go with him,” Bullock said.
“Because you know the risks. What about me? Do I land Jesson and then sail on for Sydney as though nothing had happened? Do I let you get away with it, or do I turn you in the moment we make the berth at Sydney? Do you see no risk in that…or do you intend to kill me once your filthy business with Jesson is finished?”
Bullock didn’t answer directly. He said, “Just do as you’re told. Do that, and no one’s going to get hurt. You won’t make matters better for yourself by doing anything that Jesson doesn’t like. One more thing: when you go below, keep clear of your daughter’s cabin. And I want the key of your safe—I’ll come down with you.”
“You mean you want my revolver.”
“Yes,” Bullock answered. With McRafferty he walked aft for the saloon hatch. McRafferty seethed but knew when he was beaten; his daughter couldn’t be put at any further risk. Nor could his ship. There was nothing at all that he could do. After handing his revolver to Bullock, he went back to the poop, doing his best to appear normal in the view of the helmsman and the fo’c’sle hands working about the deck. He paced, long training and his seaman’s instinct ensuring that he kept a sharp eye on the set of the sails and the proper handling of the wheel. As he paced, he tried to make some assessment of the fo’c’sle crowd, tried to see which way they would go if they got the word that the Master was no longer in control of the ship. If he could have trusted them, he might well have mustered help. A rush below could possibly catch Jesson out in time for Fiona to be saved from harm; on the other hand, the ladder and the alleyway were narrow and the men wouldn’t be able to advance on a broad front, no hope of surrounding Jesson. In any case, old Finney apart, the trusted men were gone: the bosun, the carpenter, the steward, Halfhyde. As for the rest, they were a ragbag, some of whom had sailed with him before, some of whom had not. Of those who had not he knew little beyond their seamanship abilities or lack of them as revealed on passage from the Mersey. But McRafferty knew seamen, as such, well enough: apart from a few solid hands whose honesty and integrity shone from their faces, the men who sailed before the mast would take any chance to do down an owner so long as it looked profitable to themselves; and were always basically against authority in the shape of the afterguard. When it came to the point they might turn to Jesson—certainly would if the man shared his spoils with them.
But Jesson wouldn’t want to do that. Wouldn’t want them to know too much of his business.
McRafferty’s only hope, as he saw it, lay in that.
Broodingly, he paced on. In due course Bullock came up to take over the watch, and McRafferty went below to the saloon. Meaning to break his own rule of abstinence at sea, he took a key from his pocket and approached the locked cupboard containing the Dunville’s whisky. He found the lock broken and the whisky gone: Jesson had been there before him.
McRafferty’s fears for his daughter mounted. He remained wakeful in the saloon, dreading to hear a cry from the girl’s cabin. He heard nothing and found the total lack of sound as unnerving as a cry would have been. After half an hour he could stand his inactivity no longer. He got to his feet and went through the door of the saloon, into the alleyway, moving softly towards Fiona’s cabin. Still no sound. McRafferty reached out for the door handle and very slowly turned it. He pushed. The door didn’t move. Of course, Jesson had locked himself in, that was to be expected. But locks could be broken by the impact of a heavy shoulder. McRafferty hesitated; one blow might not do it, and before he could smash the door open his daughter might suffer.
Looking defeated, he turned away. Then he heard the door come open behind him, and he turned back. He stared into the muzzle of Jesson’s
