A Ravel of Waters

by Geoffery Jenkins

  'Collecting supplies for the picnic. Beer, barbecue mutton, and so on.'

  'I'm going ashore myself in a few minutes,' I replied. 'I want a small boat - I'll give the men at the jetty orders myself.'

  'There's only one supermarket in the town,' Grohman said. 'The loss of that amount of trade will cause ill-feeling if you suddenly cancel it.'

  'You're very considerate about other people's feelings, Mr Grohman.'

  He rode the rebuke. 'This is a small place. You don't understand the situation.'

  'It is not by my choice that Jetwind is holed up here,' I retorted. 'Remember that. This ship's place is on the high seas, not stagnating in this god-forsaken little port. A crew's a crew, and for me they work like a crew. Or else. Remember that, too. Further, you'll take the deck-now,' I told Grohman. I had done a quick mental calculation of watch-times so that Tideman would be on duty with me for the break-out. 'Get my boat alongside. I'll be back in an hour.

  'Any questions?' I added rhetorically.

  There weren't any, of course, after that, but Paul, who had stood outside the blast area, intercepted me as I left the wheel-house with Tideman. 'Any objection if I go on casing the air waves with young Arno, Peter?'

  I wanted to say, I'd give anything for a weather intercept. Instead I replied, 'Okay, Paul. I want a word with you when I come aboard again.'

  Tideman and I set off down the deck. As we passed No. 4 mast, 'Thursday', where the engine room was situated, Tideman said in a casual tone, quite different to his attitude on the bridge; 'Do you also want the diesels to go on sea or harbour duty?'

  Did he suspect that 1 had something in mind for the night?

  'Full sea watch’ I replied.

  At the stern, men were securing the two boats I had recalled. They fell silent as we approached but there didn't seem to be any anger or resentment directed at me.

  The small outboard was bobbing under the counter. I was just about to swing myself down a rope, when a tall, elderly man dressed in a fancy dude yachting outfit erupted from the companion-way. I knew at once it had to be Sir James Hathaway whose presence on board I had completely forgotten.

  'You the new skipper?' he barked. 'Damn well hope you can do better; than that dago who got us into this godforsaken hole! Wait until Axel gets to know about this. Confined to the ship. Disgraceful! British territory, too. What the devil goes on here? Not even allowed to communicate with the outside world. And what, may I ask, do you propose to do about it, young man? Never thought much of sailing ships. Always trouble of one kind or another...'

  He'd have gone on ranting had I not matched decibels with him.

  'Sir James,' I shouted, 'Sir James, just a minute please. Just a minute. Yes, I'm the new skipper. I've just arrived here. My name is Peter Rainier and I'm just off to discuss matters with Mr Dawson, the chief magistrate. I have instruction from Mr Thomsen, who appointed me not two days ago, to get this ship out of this hole, as you call it, and I intend to do it. Now, I have an appointment to keep, and if you'll forgive me, I must go.'

  And without paying further attention to him, I slid down into the waiting outboard, kick-started the motor, and accelerated across the calm waters to the main jetty.

  I tied up as a party of men, laughing and joking, came down the hill with their arms full of parcels. I stopped one of them with cartons of beer under each arm. He looked as big as the cathedral spire in the background. I guessed he was one of Tideman's sailor-paratroopers.

  ‘I’m the new skipper’ I told the men. 'I'm sorry, lads, but the party's off. All that stuff will have to go back. I'll sign any receipts for the supermarket's benefit. Then get yourselves back aboard.'

  The big man hugged the cartons. He asked with the same eagerness as Tideman and Kay had questioned me, 'We're sailing, are we, sir?'

  'Today?' demanded another.

  I knew a good crew when I saw one. These were the sort of men who wouldn't baulk at putting the gaskets on a sail in the wild icy bedlam of a Southern Ocean gale at midnight.

  I evaded a direct reply. 'I'm hurrying to an appointment uptown. I'll let you know.'

  'No picnic either?' asked another. He looked more like a machineman than a seaman.

  'You can go by yourself if you like,' I jollied him. 'But I won't guarantee I'll stop the ship and pick you up at Cape Pembroke as we pass by.'

  That raised a laugh. I left the men arguing a little ruefully about lugging the stores back up the hill.

  As I turned from the jetty past a row of so-English, red brick, bow-windowed houses with green, red and light blue roofs to walk the half mile or so to the magistrate's office, the machineman's voice reached me faintly. 'That new skipper's a bit of a bastard but I think I could go along with him.'

  It was more than I could say of Mr Ronald Dawson.

  The chief magistrate's office, situated at the western end of the harbour between the Secretariat and the Town Hall, overlooked what was known as the Government jetty. His office was dominated by a framed print of Keith Griffin's fine painting of the S.S. Great Britain on, her maiden voyage. There was also a contrasting blow-up photograph of the famous vessel lying derelict in Sparrow Cove - just beyond The Narrows - before her historic salvage and restoration in 1970. An old ship's mercury barometer, nearly a metre long, all glass and brass, completed the nautical air of the office. The rest of the atmosphere was provided by Dawson's supercilious attitude.

  His one concession to my being a fellow human being was his perfunctory handshake. Boxers in the ring do it more kindly when they are about to batter one another.

  His eyes ranged over my workaday sailor's rig. 'My information is that you are to replace Mr Grohman as captain of Jetwind'

  My information is that Grohman was never appointed to command the ship.'

  'So?'

  'I had it from the owner himself.'

  Dawson had a way of drawing in the left-hand corner of his sandy moustache with his lower canine tooth after he had spoken, as if sharpening his next words.

  I said, without mincing words, 'Grohman wasn't able to handle the situation after Captain Mortensen's death. He blew the record attempt - and his own chances.'

  The canine tooth gnawed. 'That is only a matter of opinion.'

  I shrugged. 'I didn't come here to discuss the merits or impropriety of my first officer's actions.'

  'They enter very much into it, Captain Rainier. You may bluster and denigrate him, but you fail to recognize the peculiar and particular circumstances prevailing in this part of the world. There are some who consider him to have acted quite correctly.'

  'If you're going to throw the Argentina-Falklands political situation at me, you're wasting your time. It has nothing to do with Jetwind’

  'On the contrary, Jetwind has everything to do with it. That is why I have summoned you here this afternoon. Mr Grohman has a full understanding of the delicacy of the situation. It appears you don't.'

  'Is that why he turned and scudded for port a thousand miles from any country's territorial waters?'

  'You make your opinion of Mr Grohman very clear, Captain.'

  'Because I fail to understand how a long-standing and nebulous territorial dispute can be used to justify what I regard as poor judgement and lack of command ability, to put it mildly’

  He said pointedly, 'Captain Rainier, the entire legal jurisdiction of the Falklands Dependencies is under my sole control. That being so, I would rule that Mr Grohman acted correctly since he had a murder on his hands.'

  'Murder?'

  I cannot, of course, anticipate the outcome of the inquest on Captain Mortensen, but there is prima facie evidence of unnatural death.'

  'Of course it was unnatural. I believe he was suffocated by being caught in the roller-furling mechanism of the sails.'

  'We shall of course hear expert evidence on that,' he replied judicially. 'The true cause of death might have escaped an ordinary medical man, but in this case I was fortunate in that Sir William Hall-Denton was my guest.'<
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  He eyed me to note what effect the name-dropping had on me. My silence expressed my knowledge of Sir William Hall-Denton.

  'Sir William is a leading London pathologist,' he explained. 'A good friend and a passionate philatelic expert. You know, of course, of the Falklands' place in the realm of philately.'

  I didn't. I was more interested in Captain Mortensen's death.

  'Sir William interested himself in the case when the body was brought in. He established that death, in fact, was caused prior to the apparent suffocation in the sail roller. There was a small bruise at the base of the neck which pointed to the fact that he was probably dead by the time he was enveloped by the sail. He had most likely been struck by a blunt instrument.'

  I said, marking time while I digested this news, 'Where is Captain Mortensen's body now?'

  Mr Dawson indicated a building beyond the Secretariat. 'There. In the hospital mortuary.'

  'So Grohman must either have known or suspected.'

  Dawson lifted one shoulder. It is not for me as presiding officer of the inquest to prejudge any witness.'

  Dawson's news had thrown me. A question ripped through my mind - had I misjudged Grohman as a treacherous bastard when he had, in fact, had justification with a murder on his hands? Who had murdered Mortensen, and why? Then I got a grip on my racing thoughts. I reminded myself that Grohman had been far from any authority on the high seas. He, as captain, was the sole judge of the situation. There had been no reason to sacrifice the record. If he had suspected foul play, he could have proceeded, body and all, to the Cape.

  'Well?' Mr Dawson's word gambit was that of a grandmaster who is sure of his kill.

  I said, more confidently than I felt, 'At sea, the ship's master has complete authority. If it took a top-flight London specialist to pinpoint the cause of death, Grohman himself could not have realized it.'

  'He might have had reason to suspect.'

  'Suspect someone? In that case the captain has the right of arrest. Did he detain or question anyone? Has he aired his suspicions to you?'

  The grand-master saw his game slipping away.

  He said stiffly, 'He would have been exceeding his duties to voice a mere opinion.'

  I felt I had regained firmer ground. 'Grohman is an Argentinian, who was temporarily captain of a ship registered in Falmouth ...'

  'The Falklands was the nearest British port,' interrupted Dawson.

  'You're talking legalistically,' I retaliated. 'The situation isn't as simple as that.'

  Superficially it might have been simple,, had I not seen and heard the violent reaction on the mainland over Jetwind or encountered the obstructionism of the Argentinian officials. Nor could I forget Grohman's air of triumph when I had provoked him into telling me that the Almirante Storni was on her way to detain Jetwind. You don't send a warship to hold a ship for a case of suspected murder.

  Dawson tried to short-circuit the interview. 'I am glad. Captain Rainier, that you agree the matter is not simple and that you have come round to my way of thinking.'

  'On the contrary, I have not,' I answered. 'Grohman knew well enough that by bringing the ship here he would raise a political hornets' nest. In fact, that may well have been his purpose.'

  Mr Dawson was clearly taken aback by this suggestion. 'You must not forget that Argentina claims territorial waters of two hundred sea-miles offshore and has filed claims with the United Nations to these islands and all others for a considerable sector of the Cape Horn area...'

  'I've heard the claims,' I interrupted. 'They're absurd.'

  'Argentina regards the Falklands as Argentinian territory,' he continued. 'You have to accept that fact when you live in this part of the world. Therefore, Grohman brought the ship to what he regards as an Argentinian port.'

  'Where, then, does your legal jurisdiction as a British official come in? It means nothing, from Grohman's point of view.'

  I had Dawson nailed, and he knew it. He slid out from under my attack. 'The position of the Falklands is an explosive issue, and Mr Grohman is an Argentinian. I am happy to be able to tell you that tomorrow we are expecting an Argentinian warship for a courtesy visit. She is the Almirante Storni and Captain Julian Irizar and I will have consultations over Captain Mortensen's death.'

  'What the devil has it to do with the Argentinian Navy?'

  He displayed long-suffering patience. 'I have been attempting to convey to you that we have here a knife-edge situation which requires consultation and good neighbourliness in order to continue our modus vivendi.'

  I suppressed my intended retort. If I played my fish right I could find out the Almirante Storni's time of arrival.

  I said casually, 'We spotted the warship from our plane on the way over. When is she due in?'

  'We have made special provision for her to tie up tomorrow morning early,' he answered. 'She should reach the outer harbour of Port William about ten tonight. She'll anchor there and come in later when it's light enough. The Narrows are tricky in darkness and there is no official pilot in Stanley.'

  ‘I’d like to be up to see her come in,' I said, hoping 1 was keeping the inference out of my voice. 'What time will she come through?'

  'The Narrows have an odd characteristic,' he said more readily, apparently glad to ditch the subject of Argentina-Falklands relations. 'The sky is generally clearest over the entrance at about two in the morning, even when weather is working up. Port Stanley is far enough south to be able to see landmarks quite clearly at that time. When daylight comes, the cloud cover usually closes in. My guess is that the destroyer will negotiate The Narrows in the early hours. Captain Irizar knows the port well he's been here before.' He eyed me speculatively. 'I hope - in the interests of good neighbourliness - that you will show Captain Irizar round your ship. Jetwind is quite a talking point.'

  'I shall be delighted to show Captain Irizar my ship at close quarters,' I replied.

  How close, only dawn and The Narrows would show.

  What Dawson had now revealed about the Almirante Storni's intended movements had sewn up all but the final link of my plan. The weather and the wind. I wanted to sick up at the rest of Dawson's pontifical papering-over of the legalistic and diplomatic niceties. What was the true reason behind Grohman's decision to bring Jetwind to the Falklands? Beneath all his shadow-boxing there was, I was convinced, some powerful secret motive. I also meant to find that out - once I had put a safe distance between Jetwind and the Argentinian warship. I also had no illusions about the furore that would follow Jetwind's break-out.

  Perhaps Dawson took my silence for second thoughts; he decided to exhibit a flabby iron fist.

  'You realize, don't you, Captain, that Jetwind is required to stay in port until after this business of the inquest has been cleared up?'

  'Required? By whom?'

  'The law.'

  'You've just said the place is so small it doesn't even have a harbour pilot.'

  'I would have thought you would be perceptive enough to see through the presence of the Almirante Storni, Captain.'

  'You mean, you would tolerate the services of a foreign warship to detain Jetwind?'

  'I spoke of good neighbourliness,' he replied blandly. I wondered whether the left-hand wisp of his moustache would survive if our conversation went on for much longer. 'In this remote part of the world, there might be services required - and rendered - in the interest of that good neighbourliness when there was no suitable ... ah, instrument, ready to one's own hand.'

  'I get the message,' I said bluntly.

  Dawson rose to terminate the interview on what he obviously considered a winning note.

  'Then I hope Stanley will have Jetwind's company for a while longer and you will forget about such things as record-breaking in the greater interests of the region.' He forced a hand as limp as a wet sail upon me in token of his triumph. 'I shall pass on your invitation to Captain Irizar tomorrow.'

  I thought of the night ahead. 'Maybe I'll even see him myself.'
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  I hurried through Dawson's door into the clean air, cleaner than I had left it an hour before.

  It was keen - the first knife-edge gust from the Drake Passage.

  Chapter 12

  By two bells in the middle watch - nine o'clock that night -the wind was blowing fresh from the east across the anchorage. Jetwind lay with her head to it. She tugged at her anchor cable as if eager to get going. I was in the crow's nest at the summit of No. 2 mast, directly overhead of the bridge, the mast I had visited with Kay. From my vantage-point, fifty-two metres above the deck, I could see the occasional surge from a white horse. The wind was building up; there was a lot more punch still to come. There couldn't be enough, for my business with the Almirante Storni.

  I moved round to probe beyond The Narrows into the waters of Port William's outer anchorage. Where was the Almirante Storni? Any moment the warship should become visible. A cloud, fringed yellow along its edge by a track of reflected shore light, whipped at zero feet across the quartet of low hills separating us from the outer anchorage. These hills terminated at Navy Point, The Narrows' Western head-land. The cloud moved so fast that in no more than a couple of seconds it seemed to have blanketed the 300-metre passage, blacked out the navigation light on the opposite side at Engineer Point, and obscured a trio of further low hills on the eastern side of the entrance gap. Then the cloud blacked out the crow's nest itself. The wipers were ineffectual against the thick vapour.

  I cursed the cloud. A visual sighting was the only way for me to spot the destroyer and give me the edge, since my eyrie was a few metres higher than the highest of the intervening hills. The warship's radar might indeed pick up the tops of Jetwind's masts but that would not be significant in a port with other ships about.

  I put out the overhead light to extinguish any reflection from the crow's nest windows and peered into the darkness. If the destroyer came to anchor, she would -presumably - display normal anchor lights. Was the destroyer already in Port William? Was Captain Irizar playing possum with a blacked-out ship? I dismissed the idea. Captain Irizar had no reason to suspect anything on Jetwind's part. I was staking everything on the Almirante Storni navigating The Narrows in the small hours, based on Dawson's opinion that that would be the best time because of the local cloud peculiarity. If, on the other hand, Captain Irizar decided to anchor further out at sea, my break-out would abort because from that angle of approach he would spot Jetwind, and I was basing my entire plan on remaining invisible.