Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “Let him cool off a bit,” said the Vicar.

  “I don’t believe all that happened,” said Robbie, his tone reflecting the daze still showing in his eyes.

  “What did you say to incite him to such violence?”

  “Nothing . . . nothing at all! That’s what’s so puzzling. It sprang up out of nowhere.”

  Robbie shook his head again, and rubbed his hands over his face. He winced as his fingers scraped over the spot where the bottle had struck, growing more tender by the moment and swelling slightly.

  “Is it bad?”

  “No, I’m fine,” replied Robbie. “I just need some fresh air.”

  “You’ll not find any topside,” said the Vicar.

  With the words Robbie remembered what had provoked the incident in the first place. Notwithstanding, he turned and climbed the ladder, leaving Drew alone in the corridor.

  The heavy, stifling air met him as he emerged onto the deck. By now even a hurricane would be a relief. Whatever had been eating at Pike had obviously been stirred by the calm. Perhaps it would all be forgotten once the ship and crew got to work again.

  Robbie walked to the ship’s rail and looked out on the placid sea. So smooth and so tranquil was the water, it seemed incredible that it could cause so much tension. Yet here they were in the middle of the Atlantic, the nearest land days off, and they could not move. They were totally at the mercy of nature. Small wonder that Pike reacted as he did—it was not part of his nature to sit helplessly by. Even with his handicap—and perhaps because of it—he was a proud and independent man. Robbie had never once seen Pike seek assistance from another. Possibly that had been the cause of the flare-up; he had taken Robbie’s concern as an indication of weakness. I should have said nothing, thought Robbie.

  He turned his eyes toward the dull sky. There were no clouds, not even the hint of a breeze. But something was out there. He could sense it coming, and he didn’t know whether he should fear it or welcome it.

  ———

  Against his own advice, the Vicar returned to the skipper’s quarters, bearing a dinner tray and a pot of one of Johnnie’s special brews. The alcoholic tremor in his hand was markedly pronounced as he raised it to knock on the captain’s door; Elliot Drew knew he shook as much from fear as from drink. He had no idea why he had embarked on this mission of mercy. Some sick carryover from his past life, no doubt. Well, someone had to get the skipper back on his feet, and it looked like Robbie could only do so at the peril of his own life.

  “I said get out—and stay out!” came Pike’s response, more feeble now, completely spent of its previous passion.

  As if he didn’t hear, Drew opened the door and entered. Pike had regained his chair, but now his head and upper body were sprawled over the small round table he occasionally used for dining. He lifted his head at the sound of the Vicar’s footsteps, and peered at him through half-closed eyes.

  “I said—”

  But Drew interrupted quickly. “Johnnie sent down some food. You may as well eat it—you know how furious he gets when his crockery is sent back full.”

  “Why should I care a blasted farthing about that Chinaman?”

  Drew set the tray on one corner of the table and began pouring the brew into a cup. As its aroma wafted up to him he wondered, as he always did, just what it was made of. For he had never seen the like of it for clearing the effect of alcohol. Its flavor—herbs and roots, no doubt, but who could ask a man like Johnnie?—was at once soothing and wretched, and despite the fact that it was positively nonalcoholic, Drew always found it quite pleasant. He hoped Pike was of the same opinion as he pushed the cup toward him.

  “What’re you about here?” Pike asked, as if noticing Drew for the first time.

  “Only on Johnnie’s errands.”

  Pike snorted disdainfully, then grabbed at the cup, spilling half before the brew reached his lips. He drained the remainder, then grimaced sourly, and held the cup out for more.

  “Why’d I do it, Vicar?” Pike asked miserably, after taking another long swallow from the cup.

  “I don’t know,” answered Drew. “Neither does Robbie.”

  “Why should he . . . ?” The skipper squinted as if he were trying to remember something. “Why should he?” Pike repeated. “He were just a baby . . .”

  He shook his head and took another drink. “I could’ve killed the boy.”

  “I doubt you would have.”

  “What do you know?” There was a return of the sharpness to Pike’s voice that seemed to indicate more suspicion than questioning.

  “It would be a wicked man indeed who would intentionally try to harm one so kindhearted as Robbie Taggart,” replied Drew.

  “Wicked . . .” mused Pike. “Wicked . . .”

  Then in a voice that was almost his normal tone, he asked, “You’re a religious man, Vicar. So tell me, don’t the Bible say ‘an eye for an eye, an arm for an arm, a leg for a leg,’ that sort of thing?”

  This sudden new line of thought caught Drew so off guard that when he had fully absorbed it, he had to smile, not so much at the question itself, but that it should be addressed to him.

  “Religion aside,” replied Drew lightly, “I doubt that Robbie knows the meaning of the word revenge.”

  “He wouldn’t!” shot back Pike oddly; he sounded disappointed, and Drew could not help wondering if they had the same thing in mind.

  “At least you’ve nothing to fear from him,” said the Vicar. “But it wouldn’t hurt for you to apologize to him. Confession is good for the soul, you know.”

  “I ain’t got no soul, and I don’t want one!”

  “You would, no doubt, be much better off were that the case,” mused the Vicar. “But I would venture to say that your flicker of remorse might indicate otherwise, whatever you say. Thus, if you fancy a good night’s sleep, you’d do well to make it up to Robbie. He’s not a friend you’d want to lose lightly.”

  “How well I know it, Vicar. How well I know it,” moaned Pike. “Get out now,” he added unceremoniously with no word of thanks. “I gotta rest.”

  When Drew had made his exit, Pike rested his elbows on the table and dropped his chin into his hands as if he were indeed going to sleep. But he could neither rest nor sleep. He merely sat there grinding his teeth together, rocking back and forth.

  “Oh yes,” he mumbled to himself, “you’re a good man, Robbie Taggart.”

  He then picked up the empty brandy glass and eyed it regretfully, hungrily, his fist tightening around it.

  “So—so good!” he said through gritted teeth. “So good!”

  Suddenly the glass smashed within his grasp. But even then he did not move, his bloodied fist still clenched about the lethal shards of broken glass.

  17

  The Squall

  That night Robbie paced the forecastle throughout his watch. His, however, were not the wild, irrational ravings of a caged animal. He was instead pensive, perhaps confused, and his steps were slow, as if with every stride forward he was searching out some new territory.

  He had spoken to Pike after dinner.

  Pike had approached him, and had seemed a different man than the one who had nearly attacked Robbie earlier. Whether the change was due to Johnnie’s brew, the lunch, or some repentant twist to his heart—who could tell? He had given Robbie a friendly slap on the back, accompanied by what was a passable attempt at a laugh.

  “Lor’! if the wind don’t blaw soon,” he had said, “we’re all gonna go crazy, eh, Robbie?”

  “It’ll blow,” replied Robbie. “Then we’ll all be wishing for this calm again.”

  Pike tried to laugh again. Robbie forced himself to join him, but he keenly felt the hollowness in the skipper’s merriment, and could not so easily forget the bitter hate in his eyes before.

  “So,” said the skipper after a pause, “you still think a storm is brewing?”

  “Pure intuition.”

  “You’ve got a good feel about the sea, Ro
bbie, an’ I don’t doubt that you’re right.” He slapped Robbie’s shoulder again, and then Robbie first noticed the bandage wrapped around his right hand.

  “What happened there?” asked Robbie, indicating the bandage.

  Pike looked at his hand, puzzled for a moment, then replied in a faraway tone, “Oh, nothin’ . . . nothin’ at all.” Then, seeming to snap quickly back to the present, added, “I ain’t been myself lately. But you know I don’t mean half of what I say.”

  “Sure,” said Robbie, “I know. It’s this rotten weather.”

  But now, alone, gazing on the dark still sea, reflecting on the day’s events, Robbie was not so sure after all. Did Pike only mean half of what he said? He didn’t know what to think. How could he respond to a man like Pike?

  The seeming hatred in his eyes would perhaps not have hounded Robbie so incessantly if he only knew what he had done to deserve it. Yet was he guilty himself of not being straightforward, of not asking Pike right out why the man looked at him so? Or was all this now unnecessary in light of Pike’s most recent act of reestablishing their camaraderie?

  In his frustration Robbie kicked the capstan as he passed it, reminding him of his talk with the Vicar that evening when he had felt very much like he did now. He wanted to sympathize with Pike. Yet why did Pike—or the Vicar, or anyone—deserve his sympathy? He had been the one to bodily attack him. What sympathy could go out to an act like that!

  Though he could not have realized it, Robbie’s anger and frustration, in truth, stemmed from being caught in such complex human situations. He liked things simple—black and white, spelled out with no room for misunderstandings. But both the Vicar and Pike seemed, by their very natures, bent on drawing him into that dreaded relational predicament where you just didn’t quite know where you stood. Robbie could bear anything but that. He didn’t like uncertainties.

  So occupied were his thoughts that he barely felt the faint breath of air when it came, but when it did, it came as a relief. He could understand the shifts and movements of the sky and sea, and though he knew he could not control them, he felt at least some measure of power knowing he did understand. It was altogether unlike the helplessness he felt in the company of the complex characters into whose lives he had been thrown.

  What a welcome sound were the first tentative flaps of the sails as the wind gently kissed them! Heads began poking through the hatch, even those not on watch. The air was filled with a sense of expectation, though perhaps foreboding at the same time. The sky was black, yet toward the horizon off the starboard bow there was a deeper blackness—felt if not actually seen. And the blackness was drawing closer.

  Everyone knew the stagnant calm had come to a sudden end when a bright streak of lightning ripped through the dull sky, illuminating the oncoming blackness. The following crack of thunder shook the yards. The man jumped to their stations in preparation. Within twenty minutes the clipper was well underway, her sails filled again with the wind, bearing her before the approaching storm. But she could not outrun it. A quarter of an hour more and great drops began to pelt them. And still the wind rose.

  The movement of the Tiger was glorious! They rode on the crest of the increasing wind for an hour. In the midst of the falling rain, Robbie stood on the forecastle, watching the sails swelled with life, letting the delicious wind and water beat against his face. This is the life of the sailor! he thought. It was for moments like this that he had left the Navy!

  Still the winds increased their velocity, gradually shifting to the port quarter, and seeming—though the storm was coming from behind them—to push the Tiger into the very heart of the heavenly turmoil. The swell rose, and soon twenty footers were crashing against the Tiger’s hull; the storm above and the storm below tossed the tiny craft about as though it were a mere toy. It was time to adjust the yards and haul in the royals and topgallant sails. Robbie required all of his and most of Digger’s watch. Over the lashing wind he shouted his orders, rallying every man, save the helmsman, to the mainmast. However, a quick assessment of his manpower showed that someone was missing.

  “Where’s the Vicar?” he yelled, reminded of his previous frustration with the man.

  “Went below an hour or two ago,” replied Jenkins.

  “What! I gave him no permission to do so!” yelled Robbie. “Go get him! I need every hand!”

  They fell to their tasks immediately, and he barely took notice of Drew’s arrival a few minutes later. It was just as well, for he shuffled on deck with a decided stagger, and the odor of whiskey followed him closely.

  The first necessity was to adjust the yard to point into the storm so the wind pressure would be spilled from the sail. This done, they had to haul at the braces. It was backbreaking work, and dangerous, for the deck was slick with the falling rain and the sea breaking over the rails. But there was no rest even when this was done, for they still had to man the sheets and the crew and bunt lines for hauling in the sail. First came the mainmast, where Robbie took one sheet and put Jenkins, his best man, on the other, dividing the remainder of the watch between the other lines.

  “Let go!” shouted Robbie.

  He and Jenkins released the sheets in perfect timing, while the rest of the men began hauling on the other lines. All the men save one pulled with all their might with even tension. But the one line developed slack and began to tangle.

  “We’re losin’ the sail!” yelled Jenkins.

  Robbie looked up and saw it immediately; it would be blown to shreds if action wasn’t taken immediately.

  “Haul, man!” Robbie called out. The slack line was Drew’s.

  “My hand slipped,” said the Vicar lamely, and even in the rising storm Robbie could hear the drunken slur of his words.

  Another order, one that would not have been so kindly spoken, was about to come from Robbie’s lips when a cry diverted his attention back to Jenkins just in time for him to see the sheet snap from his grip. Robbie shot a glance upward and saw that the sail had taken control. There was no time to think of that now, for the force of the sudden release of the sheet had flung Jenkins against the starboard rail. He would likely have been lost to the angry sea had the ship not hit a trough at that precise moment, lurching suddenly to port, and sending Jenkins sprawling across the slippery deck.

  “Grab that bloody line!” Robbie yelled at the Vicar. There was no pity for the man in his voice now, only wrath. He had almost caused a good man to go overboard.

  Later, despite the gusty wind, Robbie climbed aloft with half the men of the watch to secure the sails. But even the heady exhilaration of hanging eighty feet above the raging sea did not cool his fury against Drew for his incompetent behavior.

  When a lull finally came in the work, Robbie found him at the rail facing the wild storm. His face was pale; he appeared sick, and he had obviously been retching over the side.

  “You’ve been drinking!” Robbie shouted.

  Drew made no response. Robbie grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently. “Tell me, you dirty coward!”

  Still there was no response from the Vicar. Robbie gave him a final shove, spun around, and stalked to the forehatch. He scrambled down the ladder, and when he reached Drew’s quarters he kicked open the door. He went straight to Drew’s cot and tore apart the bedding. Having no luck there, he attacked the Vicar’s gear, flinging clothes, books, and miscellaneous mementos across the tiny cabin. He did not hear Drew approach, and only became aware of his presence when he gasped as Robbie found what he had been seeking. Holding up two bottles of Scotch whiskey, one of which was half empty, he turned to glare at the culprit.

  “How could you!” As he spoke, Robbie’s voice was now barely above a whisper. Even in his fury on the deck, somehow he had hoped his assessment was wrong, that somehow that depth of character he felt lay somewhere in the Vicar might have triumphed. Therefore, even as he spoke, Robbie’s anger was laced with disappointment.

  “You—you can’t expect me to face each day cold, stone so
ber,” the Vicar replied lamely.

  “You have a job to do!”

  “I do my job.”

  “Not when you’re full of drink! You almost killed a man!”

  Drew covered his face with his trembling hands. He would have wept, but he had used up all his tears many years ago.

  “I suppose you think feeling sorry somehow makes up for it! Well, it’s not enough!”

  With the force of his righteous anger, Robbie flung one of the bottles against the bulkhead.

  “No!” screamed the Vicar in a pathetic wail, but he was too late. The glass shattered and its amber poison dripped down the wall.

  “You deserve to look every day in the eye and be forced to see what kind of cowardly wretch you are!” said Robbie, hurling the second bottle after the same fate as its mate.

  Drew stumbled to the wall and piteously touched the dripping liquid with his fingers. “What have you done?” he whimpered, bringing his wet fingers to his lips. “What have you done . . . ?” His mournful tone sounded like an injured child.

  “I’m trying to make a man of you.”

  “I told you not to try to reform me,” replied Drew, his old voice gradually returning.

  “It’s gone beyond that, Drew,” Robbie replied, his anger abating. “Your drink has endangered both ship and crew.”

  “It wasn’t the drink,” countered Drew. “I’ve worked far drunker. My hand just slipped. It could have happened to anyone.”

  “It could have. But it didn’t! It happened to you. You can’t deny that you were drinking. Just like you couldn’t deny Turk’s accusations the other day.”

  “If you thought I did it, why did you defend me?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Robbie, shaking his head. “I wasn’t sure about you—till now. I hoped you had more self-respect than that. But now I see I was wrong. You were looking for whiskey, weren’t you? So, you are a drunkard and a thief. Could you sink any lower? Oh yes, you still have murder.”

  Robbie paused, then with a questioning furrow in his brow, added, “Or have you done murder too?”