“And your reason for not liking it?”
Captain McRafferty moved even closer, and his next words were said almost into Halfhyde’s ear. He believed his forthcoming passenger to be a man on the run, whether from the law or not he was unable to say. He admitted his suspicions to be based upon nothing more substantial than his instinct but made reference to a long seafaring experience and a nose for trouble. He said, “I would like to feel that I have aboard someone who has held—still holds— the Queen’s commission. At a time of difficulty…I shall say no more for now, but possibly you will understand.” His tone changed, and he moved away, becoming formal. He went on, “The Aysgarth Falls leaves for Sydney on the tide tomorrow with a cargo of cased machinery and machine parts. After rounding the Horn, we steer north for Iquique to take on a part cargo of nitrates, also for Sydney. You will report to the shipping office to be signed on articles in my presence by the Board of Trade’s shipping master at two bells tomorrow forenoon.”
As he left the ship, Halfhyde pondered McRafferty’s words about his passenger and the help that might be required. Halfhyde was not sure that he entirely understood what McRafferty might be after, but one thing appeared certain. McRafferty did not trust his First Mate.
Chapter 2
ONCE AGAIN wearing his tall hat, Captain McRafferty attended next morning at the shipping office to sign Halfhyde on articles, along with two other fo’c’sle hands neither of whom was sober. Making his way afterwards to the Aysgarth Falls with these two men, who had the aspect of men recently out of gaol, Halfhyde reflected on his wife, smug and snobbish in Portsmouth. During the afternoon she would doubtless be off on a round of visiting with Lady Willard, leaving cards on such socially possible persons as had recently moved to the naval town. Halfhyde’s lips twisted in a smile as he recalled something Vice-Admiral Sir John Willard had said a few years ago in Malta, when Halfhyde had been bidden from his ship to the Admiral’s residence for dinner. Sir John had commented upon his Flag Lieutenant’s report of a probing visit to the wardroom of a torpedo-boat destroyer newly arrived on the Mediterranean station. Socially quite impossible, had been the Flag Lieutenant’s edict, not a gentleman among them.
Sir John would spin into his grave if he could see his son-in-law now.
Halfhyde elicited that his new shipmates were named Float and Althwaite. Float had indeed come recently from gaol and was inclined to boast of it. “Grievous bodily ’arm,” he said with relish, unasked. “Best watch it, matey. Me, I don’t like being crossed, all right?”
“All right indeed,” Halfhyde answered coolly, stepping across the filth and scum of the docks, avoiding bales of cargo, the wicked cargo hooks of the stevedores, and ships’ mooring lines.
“I’m inclined to be the same myself, as a matter of fact, so don’t cross me either—matey.”
Float gaped at him. Men didn’t usually speak to him like that, having once been warned. He looked a shade unsure of himself; and the other man nudged him and said, “Sounds like a gennelman, Float.”
“’E’d best watch that and all,” Float said. Float was a thin man, but tough-looking. He reached into his clothing and showed the tip of a knife, making sure Halfhyde saw it. He said nothing, but the gesture was clear enough. The three men walked on, carrying their gear in canvas bags; Halfhyde had kitted himself out on leaving his lodging that morning, before reporting to the shipping office. His gear was simple: a couple of thick woollen jerseys, heavy duty trousers of coarse cloth, sea-boots, oilskin coat, sou’wester plus thick underwear, clasp-knife and lanyard together with personal necessities and toiletries: he had always shaved at sea and intended to continue doing so whatever the state of other chins; neither Float nor Althwaite appeared to have shaved for many days. The morning was foul with a penetrating drizzle, but Halfhyde walked jauntily and with a springy step. All new experiences were welcome to him, and he looked forward with a sense of adventure. He and the others were met at the gangway of the Aysgarth Falls by a hefty man of about forty years of age sporting a drooping ginger moustache and a peaked cap. This man stood with his hands on thick hips, looking the three arrivals up and down.
“Names?” he demanded.
They gave them. The man said. “I’m Mister Bullock, First Mate. You’ll be getting to know that bloody fast. All right?”
“Yessir,” said Float and Althwaite together. They sounded sycophantic in Halfhyde’s ears and no doubt in Bullock’s, but he would be used to that. He told them to get for’ard and report for work on deck in ten minutes’ time; Halfhyde was told to wait behind a moment.
Bullock said, “The Captain’s spoken to me about you. Done time in the Queen’s ships, he said.”
“That’s right, Mr Bullock.”
“Sir to the fo’c’scle scum.”
“Perhaps. But not to me—that is, not in the role of fo’c’sle scum.”
Bullock stared, fists clenching at his sides. “Say that again.”
Halfhyde did so. Bullock’s fists moved fast, but Halfhyde moved faster. He stepped neatly aside, and the First Mate’s right fist crunched full into a heavy block on the mainmast shrouds. He swore, blasphemously, and made a dive for Halfhyde, who seized his wrists and held them fast.
Halfhyde said, “I am not to be hazed by bullies, Mr Bullock, and I am not fo’c’sle scum, though some may be. That having been said, I know enough of the ways of the sea to understand that one’s superior officers are normally addressed as sir. Now that we know where we stand, the sir you shall have.”
Halfhyde had an idea he was saved only by the appearance
