Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “Aye it is, mate! In the flesh, I is. In the flesh!”

  “Well, come over to a table, you old Scot’s blowhard, and let me buy you a drink!”

  They ordered two tall pints; then Robbie led the way through the crowded pub to a vacant table, while Pike hobbled after him with his one wooden leg and a crutch tucked under one arm. They were joined by Kerr, who had found Robbie’s company that evening quite to his own advantage, though his presence went largely unnoticed.

  “You haven’t changed a hair, Ben!” said Robbie when they had settled themselves and clinked glasses in their first toast. “What’s it been, five years?”

  “More like eight!” replied Pike, who did indeed look exactly the same as he did when Robbie had last laid eyes on him eight years earlier, though whether the statement would be considered a compliment or not might be open to question. Pike’s face was as marred and creased as a sunken vessel’s timbers, though he had only passed his fiftieth year in the time since they had met.

  “Though I can hardly say the same for you!” Pike fingered the linen of Robbie’s dress shirt, then cast his small gray eyes down at the fancy naval trousers. A curious light passed over his face, but Robbie did not notice, and just as quickly it passed.

  “He’s a right good officer in the Queen’s Navy,” offered Kerr in a tone that might have been taken for pride.

  “If I hadn’t seen it wi’ me own twa eyes . . .” said Pike. “Ne’er took ye for the type, Robbie.”

  “It’s not a bad life,” said Robbie, almost apologetically; the words struck a strangely dissonant chord with his recent thoughts.

  “I tried to look ye up after ye left the Macao,” continued Pike. His left eye began to twitch imperceptibly as he went on. “I asked all o’er Aberdeen. O’ course, bein’ in an’ oot o’ port mysel’ I couldna look ye up proper.”

  “Why all the trouble to find me?”

  “What wouldna a man do for the son o’ an auld—a frien’—who—”

  Pike stopped suddenly. Then as if to cover having said more than he intended, he quickly resumed. “What wouldna a man do for a true shipmate? I thought ye had disappeared on me. Wouldna hae ne’er thought to look for ye in the Navy! An’ an officer for a’ that besides!”

  “That’s right faithful of you, Ben,” said Robbie, noticeably taken aback by the old man’s efforts to locate him.

  “I should hae known that it would be futile to try to track down a rover like yersel’. But I might hae been more successful had I stopped to think that maybe ye’d stopped yer rovin’!”

  “What makes you say that?” asked Robbie.

  “Weel, anyone knows—”

  Again Pike stopped short, this time punctuating his unfinished sentence with a wide grin, revealing two rows of yellowed and rotting teeth. “Aw, laddie,” he went on, “I dinna want to be startin’ oor reunion off wi’ me castin’ dispursions on yer chosen callin’. So I’ll say no more aboot it. Besides, I’d lay me a five-bob that ye’re still the same ol’ Robbie under yer fancy uniform, anyways. ’Tis not so soon I’d be forgettin’ that green lad that came aboard the Macao in ’69.”

  “Nor will I,” said Robbie with a great laugh. “Hardly seems possible that ten years has passed. I was only seventeen, and didn’t know port from starboard.”

  “I’m surprised yer father ne’er taught ye.”

  “He never talked much of the sea.”

  “When I knew Hank,” said Pike, his eye twitching again, “nothin’ would hae kept him frae a good sea story. Somethin’ must hae happened to change his notions o’ the seafarin’ life.” As he spoke the same curious light passed through his eyes, which one might take at once for a longing after a past friendship, or an unexplained gleam of cunning.

  “Didn’t take too well to it, I suppose,” said Robbie; “though he never tried to stop me from following his footsteps.”

  “An’ ’tis a good thing too, for if he had ye would hae missed altogether the gran’ days on the sea, makin’ that run for the East an’ back, tryin’ to be first to arrive wi’ the new crop o’ tea.” Pike took a long slow swallow of ale, then closed his eyes. Whether his thoughts were on the pleasing taste of the doubtful brew, visions of the glorious past, or a more immediate personal mission, it would be hard to tell.

  “I saw the last of them,” said Robbie softly, almost reverently.

  “Ye should hae been there in ’66!” sighed Pike. “Now that was a race! I was aboard the Taeping. We left Foochow bar with Ariel and Serica on the same tide. Didna sight one another again till the approaches to the Channel! Osborn was the Master o’ the Taeping an’ he drove us like animals. We caught a gale oot o’ St. Helena durin’ the watch. Osborn was below, sleepin’ like a bairn—a sound sleeper him, that’s one thing I can say o’ him. Weel, the blag’ard had padlocked the sails! We all stood there lookin’ in each other’s faces, but every man o’ us was more afraid to wake the captain an’ admit that he had more nerve than us what was all afeared o’ crackin’ up. That gale drove us twenty knots an hour!”

  “Impossible!” chimed in Kerr, incredulous.

  “’Tis mighty fast,” agreed Robbie, along with several others who had cocked their ears in Pike’s direction, not wanting to miss a good yarn, even if it might be nine-tenth’s fabrication.

  “Twenty knots!” exclaimed Pike, slamming his fist on the table as if to seal with his fist the truth of his declaration. “Twenty knots an’ up’ards. For three days it drove us. I swear ol’ Osborn had ice in his veins—ne’er winked an eye!”

  “And see what his foolhardiness got him!” offered one of the new listeners. “The way I hear it, he cracked up two years back.”

  “He wasn’t in the Taeping, though,” continued Pike, anxious to get on with his story. “Only the Taeping could hae made a run like that. When we reached the Channel, we knew we had outstripped everyone. Then I was lookin’ off the starboard bow, an’ I couldna believe me own eyes—there was Ariel! She couldna been more’n a few miles off.”

  “You couldn’t stop the Ariel!” said one of the seamen with fervor.

  “Bah! She wasna the craft o’ the Taeping!” replied Pike.

  “I was on her in ’66,” insisted the seaman. “We rode that gale too, and when I saw the Taeping up ahead, I said to myself, ’Jack, this one’s going to go down in history!’”

  “The Taeping won her, though!” emphasized Pike, unimpressed with the discovery of a fellow sailor who had shared the great moment fourteen years earlier, concerned only with pressing his point.

  “After a run o’ ninety-nine days,” said the one called Jack, warming up to his side of the tale, and drawing his share of interest from the crowd, “she only grazed ahead o’ us by ten minutes! All three ships came in on the same tide. Serica was only an hour behind!”

  “I gotta tell ye,” admitted Pike at last, “Ariel gave us a run for oor hard-earned pay.”

  “She was a grand one,” said Jack. “I were proud t’ be on her crew. When she went down in ’72, I wept—an’ I got no shame to say it, knowin’ I’m among salty dogs I can count as friends. Loveliest lady I ever knew!”

  “Sailors!” said one of the barmaids in a tone of mock disgust. “You’re a blubbering lot—ain’t fit for real women!”

  “An’ wot makes ye think ye know so much aboot sailors, Lucy?” asked Jack with a playful tone in his sodden voice.

  “Why, I was married to one—that is afore he made a widow o’ me. And at my tender age!”

  Those within hearing all laughed merrily, for Lucy was well into her latter thirties, and every hard year had etched itself indelibly into her face.

  Unperturbed, she turned to the other maid, who was considerably younger, and with a smirk and a snort at the seamen, said, “Don’t never marry a sailor, Barbara. They’ll bring ye grief every time.”

  “I’ll never bring you grief, Lucy,” said a young seaman with a wink.

  “Ha!” Lucy bawled, whisking up her tray in animated scorn of
the fellow’s words. She paused alongside Robbie, glancing deep into his face with a touch of sorrow, and added, “But sometimes ’tis such a waste of a good man.”

  Robbie merely laughed, took up her hand and bid her to dance once more. What other response could there be to her insightful words than to laugh them off? Every man present knew that he was wasting his days away on a life that could never give him back even a tiny fraction of the love he put into it. But not a one among them could change his lot, nor would he if he were given the chance.

  “Come on, Ben! Give one of the girls a dance with a crusty old salt!” enjoined Robbie to his companion.

  Pike merely shook his head.

  “Aw, Pike! For old time’s sake!”

  “Didn’t you hear me, you young blag’ard! I said no!” yelled Pike sharply, casting a sinister glare toward Robbie and pounding his crutch on the floor next to him.

  For an instant Robbie hardly recognized the look on his friend’s face, not even noticing the change in Pike’s feigned accent. If he had, he would no doubt have graciously attributed it to too much drink.

  But the hostile glance disappeared as quickly as it had come. A smile quickly replaced it on Pike’s face, followed by a laugh. “Ah! dinna ye be mindin’ me, lad!” he exclaimed, patting Robbie on the back. “Ye go an’ hae yersel’ a good time o’ it, an’ leave me t’ my ain’ thochts.”

  An hour later Robbie returned to the table where Benjamin Pike had remained the entire time, neither singing nor dancing nor even smiling. Pike had never been much inclined to join into the shipboard music, Robbie recalled, even though the haunting melodies and nostalgic lyrics of home played such a vital part of making the lonely life at sea endurable for most sailors. He had never been the jovial sort in the least, always keeping his own counsel, the sort of man who always seemed to have a hidden history that none would ever know but which gnawed away at his innermost thoughts. Oh, Pike could be known to enjoy a good laugh on occasion, but his deep-throated gravelly chortle was never merry.

  Yet Robbie would be the last to fault Pike, for the caustic old man of the sea had indeed taken the young novice under his coarse wing and taught him a great deal about sailing the high seas. Despite the fact that they had been friendly enough and Pike had often gone as far as calling Robbie “the son he would never have,” Robbie had never been able to warm to the man. Perhaps that was why he had been so remiss in attempting to seek him out after their last parting. But the accident on the ship had kept Robbie off his feet for nearly a month. And when he could finally get around, Pike had already shipped out. In the eight years that followed he had to admit that he had given the strange old man hardly more than a passing thought now and then. It was a sad impasse, considering all the efforts the poor man had apparently made on his behalf. Well, he’d show the fellow a good welcome now, if nothing else.

  “So, Pike,” said Robbie, “it’s plain to see what I’ve been up to, whether you favor the Navy life or not. But what about yourself?”

  “The usual—tramping around, mostly to China and Australia,” replied Pike, the Scots fading again from his tongue with the effect of the alcohol on his brain. “Even did a stint on a steamer; they’re getting all the valuable cargoes these days, what with the canal. But I don’t care if I gots to haul coal and chickens—’tis a sail for me any day!”

  Pike paused, took a breath, then hitched up his small, wiry frame and added in what was meant to be a knowing tone, “But like yersel’, my fortunes hae been changin’.”

  “How’s that?” To all appearances the man sitting opposite Robbie did not look like one whose life had brought him good fortune at all. His coarse blue breeches and loose-fitting beige shirt, that might have at one time been white, showed liberal splotches of dirt and grease, were worn and even torn in spots, and in general gave the impression of a street derelict. His rimless red cloth hat, the same Robbie had grown accustomed to seeing him wear years earlier, sat atop greasy, thinning, gray-brown hair that hung, uncombed almost to his brown-edged collar. He could easily not have had a bath since the last time he partook of a dip in the deep blue sea, though in his present surroundings the odors hanging in the air of the Rum Runner sufficiently disguised any olfactory confirmation to his bathing habits. The overall effect of his look was to cause Robbie an inevitable curiosity concerning his statement.

  Benjamin Pike leaned back in his chair and rubbed the stubble of his unkempt beard as if he were modestly reluctant to answer Robbie’s question. When he finally spoke it was slowly, and with noticeable understatement, though he clearly expected his words to carry impact. “Well, laddie,” he said, “I’ve got me own ship—an’ that’s the solemn trowth!”

  “That’s terrific news, Ben!” replied Robbie, not a little stunned, and also not quite sure he could believe the words. Benjamin Pike looked more like a washed-out drunk than a ship’s captain. Although if it was true, he was genuinely glad for his friend.

  “I know what you’re thinking, lad,” said Pike, closely watching Robbie’s expression to verify his words. “What’s an old blighter like me doing running a ship?”

  That was exactly what he was thinking, Robbie thought to himself. But he said nothing further, waiting for Pike to continue. Certainly the man knew the sea as well as any Queen’s admiral alive, and could steer a ship with skill to match anyone’s. But just as he had himself never struck Pike as the Naval officer type, Pike would never have struck him as a ship’s captain. He just didn’t fit the part. But a lot could happen to a man in eight years, as Robbie well knew. Perhaps the years had been better to Pike than his appearance would have indicated.

  “Well, I’ll tell ye,” Pike resumed after a drink of ale, “I gots respectable o’er the years, I have. Buckled down, as t’were. Decided I was goin’ places, an’ so why not go right to the top, eh?”

  Here he made a deep chortling sound, which, out of any other throat would have been a menacing noise indeed, but Robbie had long since learned to take it as his form of laughter. He slapped Robbie on the shoulder. “Right to the top, do ye hear me, lad!” he repeated.

  “I’m truly glad for you, Pike,” said Robbie, masking his uncertainty with genuine enthusiasm.

  “Ye were always nice to auld Benjy, lad. An’ that’s why I ne’er forgot ye.”

  “Tell me about your ship.”

  “Ah, a real bonny vessel she is, man! Sea Tiger’s her name, an’ she’s the sleekest clipper ye ever hope t’ lay eyes on! She recorded makin’ 354 miles in one day last season! An’ you should see her main yard—78 feet across. Why, ’tis a dream, lad. A dream the likes o’ you an’ me dream of all our lives! An’ that’s jist what it is for an old salt like me to be her master. ’Tis only too bad ye can’t hitch up wi’ me—jist like in the auld days!”

  “Ah, Ben, don’t tempt me,” said Robbie thoughtfully. “But I have too many other responsibilities now.”

  “Ye’ll never find a ship like her in yer Royal Navy! She makes the Macao look like a lugger. An’ there’s good money t’ be had, if ye know what t’ haul.”

  “And you don’t think you’re a wee bit prejudiced in her favor?” laughed Robbie.

  “I’ll vouch fer ’is word!” put in Kerr, who had till now remained silently engrossed in his drink.

  Pike shot him a dark glance, but Robbie had already begun to speak again.

  “I didn’t realize the two of you were acquainted,” he said.

  “You know how it is,” said Pike, grinning largely again—too largely, it seemed—“ ’tis a regular brotherhood on the sea. Everyone knows everyone else. Why, who’d have thought that old Jack there”—with the words he gestured toward the other side of the room—“would have been on the Ariel in ’66? We shipped together—when was it, four, five years ago, wasn’t it, Kerr?”

  “Aye. Just afore I made the mistake o’ joining up wi’ the Jack Tars.”

  “Ye know, Robbie, lad,” said Pike quickly, adroitly steering the subject back in another direction. “
I jist keep comin’ back to what I said before—my ship just ain’t gonna be complete wi’oot ye, man! There’s riches t’ be had!”

  “I’m afraid it’ll have to be. I’ve put in several years to get where I am. A lieutenant’s commission doesn’t come to a man like me but once in a lifetime, and I’d be a fool to give it up now.”

  “An’ jist what would ye be givin’ up, Robbie, I ask ye?”

  “I told you—I’m a lieutenant, that’s what!” Robbie replied fiercely, his old frustration momentarily surfacing.

  “So, now ye’re a big man, is that it?” Pike goaded. “Ye give the orders now, eh? No one can push ye aroun’ no more, that it? Ye’re master o’ yer own fate!”

  “Well, it’s hardly quite like that,” admitted Robbie. He shifted his weight in the chair, squirming with just how well Pike’s words had pinpointed his annoyance with his situation.

  “I can see it in yer eyes, lad!” exclaimed Pike. “Why the moment I laid me auld eyes on ye, I said t’ mysel’, Robbie ain’t a happy man these days! He ain’t free no more—an’ he ain’t but half a man so long as he ain’t his boss! Ain’t I right? Ye’re not feelin’ like ye’re all a man’s supposed t’ be, havin’ t’ bend at the knee t’ do their biddin’?”

  “The Navy’s not a bad life,” replied Robbie. But the lack of enthusiasm in his voice revealed the lie in his heart.

  “Hoots, man! Who ye tryin’ t’ fool? ’Tis me, yer auld frien’! I ken ye better ’n that! Why, when’s the last time ye saw some water?”

  “The Thames is right out my window.”

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Kerr drunkenly. “He gots ye there!”

  “Shut up, you fool!” growled Pike. “I’m serious. An’ ye ought to see that, Robbie. The Thames? Bah! Ye call that water! I’m just trying to look out for ye like I always did. I can see through all the sham o’ the bright uniform. Ye’re dying inside, lad. You’re not cut out for polishing brass and taking orders from some fat captain who hasn’t set foot in a dinghy since Trafalgar! That’s no life fer the likes o’ you, Robbie. Ye was always yer own man! An’ I’m offerin’ ye a chance t’ be yer own man again. Ye jist gie me yer aye an’ I’ll make ye the first mate o’ my own Sea Tiger!”