Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “And so, my friends,” he was saying as Robbie approached, “I tell you once more that the time has come for you to listen to the Lord of Hosts. For He would tell you that the season of your transgressions must draw to a close. The hour is nigh when He will visit His wrath on a perverse and faithless generation, even yourselves, who, though your raiment not be fine as the Scriptures say of the godless, yet nevertheless the Lord looks not on the outward appearance of a man, but upon the heart. And what will He see when He looks upon your heart, my friends? What will He see when his eyes—”

  “An’ wot will ’e see in yer own ’eart, Vicar!” shouted one of the men.

  “Ah, He will see a heart soiled as filthy rags,” replied the Vicar, unperturbed by the interruption. “My own heart is stained and unclean. I admit it. But that must not keep you from inclining your ear to the voice of the Most High. His hand is knocking at the door of your heart. Do not clothe your hearts in the soft raiment of the Pharisees of old, but rather open your eyes to behold that your righteousness is as filthy rags in the sight of a pure and holy God to whom all sin is an abomination.”

  “All sin, Vicar?” asked another of the men, with a knowing wink at his fellows, who chuckled at his wit.

  “That’s right, my friend. The Lord of Hosts visits His righteous wrath on the iniquities of the just and the unjust, even as the rain falls from heaven on a merchant clipper and a pirate ship with no respect of persons. The great God, even the Lord of Hosts, speaks to the generations of men, calling them to repentance. The moment is at hand to decide whether you will be one of the brood of vipers, or one of the chosen, the Elect, foreordained since before the dawn of time to share in the blessings and righteousness of the Lord of Hosts. Now is the appointed hour. The valley of decision lies before us. Multitudes are gathered. With which of the mighty armies will you side, as they wage war in the heavenlies? For the battle is not against flesh and blood, but against principalities and powers of darkness. The battle is nigh thee and—”

  “Hey, Vicar! What’n blazes is a preencepality?”

  “Yeah, Vicar, I hain’t ne’er heard o’ none o’ that brood o’ vipers. What’re ye ravin’ about, anyway?”

  “These are no ravings of the man you once beheld in your midst, a man timid of step and slow of tongue. This is the voice of the Lord speaking through his oracle, as Jonah of old sailed the waters of the Mediterranean, first resisting the voice of God to him, but then proclaiming the truth boldly. So I come to you on these waters, as one who first resisted but now sees the light and calls you likewise to repent of your folly and turn—”

  “Aw, Vicar! You ain’t seen no light ’cep’ the golden glow o’ yer bottle o’ whiskey since we left England!”

  “I tell you, my brothers, I have—”

  “Come on down off o’ there, Vicar,” said Digger finally, “afore ye fall an’ get yerself all banged up.”

  “No, wait, my friends,” called Drew, as a few of the men began to wander back toward the chores they had left.

  “Gone plumb looney!” muttered Digger to no one in particular.

  “Drunken fool,” said Jenkins, who, though he was on Robbie’s watch, had risen before the first mate and had come up topside to see what was going on.

  Others were even less kind in their appraisal of the Vicar’s sudden foray into the unknown waters of repentance, and took his attempt at soul-saving as the final sign that he had lost his mind.

  “Throw him over the side!” said Turk, still harboring a considerable grudge over the matter of the mis-tied knot. “If the maniac is so anxious to meet his maker, I say we oblige him!”

  “Wait, my brothers. I speak only the truth!” called Drew, in a last-ditch effort to save his congregation.

  “Hear him . . . hear him!” wailed Lackey. “Hear him, ye brood of vipers! The doom of the Lord is coming, even as Jonah foretold, we will be shipwrecked and swallowed by great beasts of the deep! The next storm will be our last, ye brood of vipers . . . hear him! . . . hear him . . . ye ill-begotten brood of snakes!”

  “Come down, Elliot,” said Robbie at length, stepping forward.

  “I tell you, my brothers,” called Drew after his retreating flock, “ . . . wait! Robbie Taggart . . . tell them—tell them I’m a changed man!”

  “Come down, Elliot,” said Robbie. “Then we’ll talk.”

  Drew looked around, as if bewildered, then slowly abandoned his perch and climbed down to the deck beside Robbie.

  The Vicar followed Robbie along the deck in silence, staring down so as to avoid any stray glances from the men, some of whom regarded him with pity, others who were still chuckling among themselves over the ill-fated impromptu sermon. He trailed the mate, almost as if being led away to some disciplinary doom, his head hanging low rather than erect in the triumph of his victory over self.

  Robbie led him down the hatch and back to his cabin where he pointed to his bunk.

  “Lie down for a while, Drew,” he said. “Cool off a bit. Let your head clear.”

  “It is clear, Robbie! I saw everything so clearly—what a miserable fool I’ve been! I thought . . . I thought I could somehow . . . you know, make it better. Make up for the past, you know.”

  “But you won’t make up for the past by spouting off a bunch of stock religious phrases.”

  “The words of the Lord,” corrected Drew.

  “For all I know, you’re right,” consoled Robbie. “Maybe they are the words of the Lord. But none of the men understood a word you were saying, Vicar. What good do the words do if no one can understand you?”

  “But they taught us to speak the word, and let the Lord reveal understanding to the heart of the hearer. They told us not to worry whether people understand.”

  “But how can the Lord give understanding to your listeners if you’re talking what to them sounds like nonsense? Even I didn’t understand a fourth of what you were talking about.”

  “So I’ve failed again!”

  “Maybe you should look upon it as a time of learning,” said Robbie. “Might there be some other way to make up for the past, as you say?”

  “What other way?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the Vicar. Is standing up in a pulpit the only way to validate whether your faith means anything?”

  “What faith?” shot back the Vicar, the old cynicism creeping back into his voice. “I never had any faith to begin with! That’s always been the problem, trying to talk about something I had nothing of inside!”

  “I’ll cover for you on watch an hour or two,” Robbie said. “Maybe you’ll feel better then.”

  Slowly Robbie turned and left him alone.

  ———

  Three hours later the Vicar had still made no further appearance on the top deck. Deciding it might be time to check on him, Robbie again sought his small cabin. The door was closed, and his knock was not greeted by any sound from within.

  He tried the door. It was not locked. Robbie pushed into the room, his nostrils immediately assaulted by the pungent smell of alcohol. The Vicar half lay on his bed, snoring soundly in a drunken stupor.

  Robbie sighed deeply, pondering what to do.

  He stood a moment—annoyed, frustrated, yet perplexed. Had the time finally come for some stringent disciplinary action toward the Vicar? He had, after all, broken a command by falling so dismally off the wagon. He was absent from his watch. Robbie had every right to punish him severely. Or was this another time to exercise patience? The man was obviously caught in the midst of a painful personal crisis. He might come out of it on his own if just given the time. But if pushed, the poor man’s distraught emotional and spiritual state could cause him to collapse altogether.

  He did not have long to reflect upon his decision, however, for almost immediately from behind him he heard the sound of rapidly approaching footsteps. The voice that accompanied it was ranting angrily.

  Robbie spun around to find Ahmed Turk racing toward him, wildly shouting half-intelligible accus
ations and threats.

  “You get . . . my way, Taggart . . . no more this time! . . . my turn now . . . I kill blag’ard!”

  Robbie stepped forward and held up his hand to stop him.

  “Hold on now, Turk,” he said. “Whatever this is all about, we can—”

  “You no more protect thievin’ liar, Taggart!” he yelled, swinging a wild fist in Robbie’s direction.

  Robbie grabbed his arm and arrested it in mid-flight with his powerful grip. Turk’s eyes filled with hatred as he wrestled away, freed himself, then retreated a step. “I’ll kill him, Taggart!” he repeated. “And you, too, if you try to stop me!”

  “Just tell me what it’s about, Turk,” said Robbie again.

  “That lyin’ phony of a preacher’s been in my gear again, stealin’ this time! Now, you gonna move out of my way?”

  “You’re going nowhere, Turk, until I get to the bottom of this!”

  “He’s broke in, I tell you!” yelled Turk savagely. “And I’ll prove it. You just stand outta me way!” Again he rushed toward Robbie, but still again Robbie prevented him from passing.

  “What’s missing, Turk?”

  “Nothin’ you need know about, you pandering Navy man!”

  “I won’t do a thing about this unless I know all the facts,” said Robbie, trying hard to keep his calm.

  Suddenly Turk retreated several steps, then pulled his gun out from somewhere among his layers of strange clothing. At the same moment more footsteps could be heard tramping along the corridor. It was Jack Digger.

  The moment he saw his Arab compatriot with his long pistol pointed at Robbie, he stopped.

  “I told you not to try to stop me, Taggart!” said Turk, his voice now calculating and sinister. “But you wouldn’t listen! You had to try to play the part of loyal mate, defending your scum of a crew.”

  “Now hold on, Turk,” said Digger behind him. “Put away the pistol, an’ we can—”

  “Back off, Jack! This is my fight now. This sap’s never been my first mate! And he’s tried to protect that thievin’ preacher once too often. Well, I’m gonna give him somethin’ to bleed about now!”

  “What are ye talkin’ about, Turk?” said Digger, inching closer by degrees. Turk’s eyes were riveted on Robbie some ten feet away, but out of the corner of one he perceived the bo’sun’s design.

  He turned quickly toward Digger. “You stay where you are, Jack! I told you this is my fight—”

  But as he turned, Robbie seized the fraction of a second his eyes left him to lunge toward the adjoining corridor, and behind a partition out of line from Turk’s weapon.

  Seeing a flash of movement, Turk spun back toward Robbie and fired, discharging both barrels. A resounding crack reverberated and echoed throughout the ship as the bullets ricocheted off the cabin walls. Robbie dodged the gunfire, smacking his head against the bulkhead in the process.

  Digger grabbed Turk, screaming and flailing wildly, and wrested the gun from his hand, throwing it to the floor while holding the Arab fast.

  “He stole my Vodka, Jack,” wailed Turk.

  “Killin’ the first mate’s no way to get even, man!” shouted Digger. “Now you go back to yer cabin! An’ don’t ye leave it till I come fer ye!”

  Slowly he released Turk, who sulked back down the corridor the way he had come. Then the bo’sun approached Robbie.

  “I’m sorry, mate,” he said. “The bloke must ’ave lost his ’ead for a minute.”

  “For a minute! The lunatic’s stark raving mad!” Robbie retorted angrily; he didn’t notice, nor did he care, that Digger seemed to making a conciliatory gesture. He didn’t like being shot at and he was sick of being the brunt of everyone’s hostilities. He pushed past Digger in the direction Turk had gone. But Digger laid a hand on Robbie’s arm.

  “Ye better leave him be, Taggart,” said Digger. “I can ’andle him.”

  “You’ve hardly handled him yet, Digger. He’s deranged!”

  “He were jist protectin’ his possessions.”

  “By committing murder?” rejoined Robbie. “Did you know about his having that gun?”

  “What’s it to ye, Taggart!” replied the bo’sun, losing what little patience he may have had. “What I know’s me own business! Ye ask too many questions! I was in charge here afore ye came along. An’ we ’ad our own way of runnin’ things. So don’t ye go tryin’ to change them! Ye hear me?”

  “I hear you, Digger,” said Robbie. “But if you let Turk get away with keeping a concealed weapon aboard this ship, then you’re as much to blame for what happened as that demented Arab!”

  “But the Vicar’s thievin’ is jist fine, is that it, Taggart?”

  “It doesn’t even compare with what Turk tried to do, and I’m not going to let him get away with it.”

  “What do ye mean by that?”

  “Wild men who fire guns don’t belong on this ship,” replied Robbie tersely. “It’s not up to you anymore, Digger. I’m the mate and we’re going to do things my way now!”

  “We’ll see, Taggart! We’ll see!”

  The huge boatswain turned and stormed back down the corridor after his friend.

  Instead of immediately following the bo’sun, Robbie made his way back to Drew’s cabin where the Vicar still lay as he had left him, sprawled across the bunk unconscious. Robbie looked about, spotted the three quarters empty bottle, cork securely in place, held tightly against the Vicar’s chest with his fingers still wrapped firmly around it, like a favorite childhood toy he had taken to bed with him. He didn’t want to admit that Digger might be right or that his anger toward the bo’sun was misplaced. Well, petty theft was a far cry from attempted murder. It was as if Digger and Turk had been baiting him, asking him for a confrontation.

  “Oh, Drew, what have you started?” Robbie murmured to himself.

  He reached down, took the bottle, and with a look of determination spreading across his face, he exited into the corridor. Spotting the pistol still lying where it had fallen, he stooped to pick it up and made his way up the aft hatch to the top deck.

  The crisp, breezy air stung Robbie’s hot cheeks. He breathed deeply of the cool air, walked from the hatch over to the starboard rail, and without a moment’s hesitation flung the bottle of clear liquid over the side and into the deep blue of the Indian Ocean. A second more and the pistol followed it.

  That done, Robbie turned again, descended the hatch, and made his way in a firm resolve to Turk’s cabin. As he suspected, he found Digger there as well.

  Robbie burst in without knock or courtesy.

  “I’m here to search the room!” he announced without introduction.

  “And what right do you have to—”

  “The right of my position, Turk!” shouted back Robbie. “The right of your attempted murder this morning!”

  “I warned you, Taggart,” said the bo’sun, standing now and approaching Robbie. Sensing that a greater battle was at hand than his puny frame would be able to keep clear of, Turk said no more and slunk into the farthest corner.

  “You warned me, all right, Digger,” replied Robbie, “and I told you that I was the first mate now!”

  Without stopping, Robbie walked straight toward Turk’s chest, unlocked now, with the securing rope untied and lying in a heap beside it. Before either the Arab or the boatswain had a chance to object, Robbie had thrown it open and taken another full bottle of Vodka into his hand.

  “Jack,” wailed Turk, “it’s me last bottle. Stop him, Jack!”

  “Don’t, Digger,” said Robbie, thrusting the bottle, which he held by its slender neck toward the bo’sun’s protruding belly. “You try to take this bottle from me and I’ll bash it over your head!”

  “What do you intend to do with it, Taggart?” said Digger, warily keeping his distance, but his eyes clearly indicating his readiness to pounce at the first slackening of Robbie’s defense.

  “It’s going the way of its mate and the way of the pistol—over the side to
Davy Jones!”

  Robbie ran from the room, Turk wailing in suppressed agony over the loss of his liquor. Digger sprang after him. Robbie reached the top deck about ten seconds ahead of the puffing boatswain. Digger emerged through the hatch just in time to see the bottle hurled in a wide arc into the sea.

  “Ye shouldn’t ’ave done it, Taggart,” he said with intimidation in his deep voice. “Ye ’ad no right! Just like ye had no right to interfere between me an’ the girl.”

  “I had every right, Digger! And you know it.”

  “So ye think. But this was my ship afore ye came along, an’ now I’m thinkin’ maybe ye’d like to be joinin’ those bottles yerself!”

  He strode forward, his eyes full of suppressed wrath.

  Jenkins observed the proceedings from farther down the deck, and when he heard the shouts from the forecastle, Overlie hastened toward the trouble. But neither man dared interfere. They knew the mate and bo’sun had to settle their differences according to the law of the sea, where the strongest must be in command, for the good of the ship.

  Robbie stepped back.

  “I’ve got no argument with you, Digger,” he said. “Don’t be a fool for the sake of the Arab. He’s not worth it.”

  “It’s between you an’ me now, Taggart,” replied Digger, still approaching like an enraged bear. “It’s time this was settled once an’ for all!”

  “There’s no need for it, Digger.”

  “Ye yellow-livered coward!” laughed Digger, still approaching.

  “I’ll give you one more chance to keep your record clean, Digger. Don’t be a fool and do something you’ll regret!”

  “I’ll never regret throwin’ ye to the sharks!” laughed Digger.

  “This is your last chance, Digger. When we get to Calcutta, you get rid of Turk. Send him back to England on another ship. Do anything you see fit with him. Just get him off the Tiger. You brought him on. You get rid of him. He’s a danger to the rest of the crew. Do that and I’ll keep this act of insubordination off your record.”

  “Ha!” spat Digger. “You weak-kneed Navy boy! You expect me to turn out a friend?”