Robbie Taggart

by Michael Phillips

  “He’s no friend of yours, Digger. He’d slit your throat in a minute if there was a sovereign in it.”

  “I won’t double-cross him!”

  “Then you’ll leave me no choice but to turn you both out in Calcutta, and you’ll go down as insubordinate besides. You’ll never get work on another ship.”

  “You won’t be around to do anything in Calcutta!” growled Digger, finally losing patience and lunging toward Robbie in unmasked hatred.

  Robbie jumped backward, but not before Digger’s massive hand had closed around his wrist. Robbie struggled to free himself, but the bo’sun laughed a cruel laugh, then bashed his left fist into Robbie’s midsection, releasing his wrist with his right as he did.

  Robbie staggered back, slamming into the rail, gasping for breath.

  The bo’sun came toward him again, like a shark at the first taste of blood. Digger swung, this time for Robbie’s head, but Robbie eluded the blow. Angered, Digger came on, swung again, this time grazing Robbie’s forehead. In size the fight was a mismatch—like a dog against a raging bear. But Robbie was quicker on his feet than the bo’sun, rendered even more flatfooted by his unleashed fury, dulling his perceptions.

  He reached out, trying to lay hold of Robbie to hoist him over the rail. Robbie hit at Digger’s outstretched hand, catching the bo’sun’s fleshy forearm with the knuckles of his closed fist. The pain was more an annoyance than a serious deterrent to Digger, but it stopped him for a second, enabling Robbie to regain his footing and take a breath of fresh air.

  The next instant, however, Digger was on the attack again. His great arm jabbed out from his body and dealt Robbie a punishing blow along the left side of his head. Immediately blood began to trickle from Robbie’s ear. A left followed to the chest, and once again Digger tried to seize Robbie with both hands to lift him up and over the side.

  Just as Digger approached, Robbie, with his back to the railing, quickly lifted both legs. Hanging on to the rail with both arms locked around it, he pulled his knees to his chest, then sent his feet into the bo’sun’s approaching midsection in full extension. The bo’sun, taken by surprise, was thrown backward, reeled for balance, and fell on his back.

  Sobered and incensed, he struggled to regain his feet.

  “Last chance, Digger!” shouted Robbie. “Send him away in Calcutta!”

  “Go to the devil, Taggart!” replied the bo’sun feverishly, again with his legs under him. He lurched forward, swinging wildly, while Robbie parried the blows as best he could. Another shot landed against Robbie’s forehead, sending him reeling backward. As Digger lunged again, Robbie stepped aside and, grabbing him as he passed, threw the bo’sun against a barrel standing near the bulkhead.

  Robbie quickly retreated to firmer ground and awaited the next attack. The bo’sun got to his feet, but his reflexes were beginning to slow. Robbie had succeeded in buying enough time to make a fair fight out of it. This time when Digger approached, therefore, Robbie was prepared.

  With a rapid left, Robbie diverted Digger’s initial attempt, following it with a solid right directly on Digger’s jaw. The bo’sun shook his head in disbelief, only to feel an equally painful jolt follow almost immediately on his left cheek just below his eye.

  He struggled to raise his arms to protect himself from the sudden onslaught by the first mate he had apparently misjudged. But they had grown heavy, and he could not get them up before still another devastating fist hit squarely between his nose and mouth.

  By now his eyes were full of sweat and tears of pain. If he could only see the first scoundrel, he’d finish him off with a single blow, and make shark bait out of him!

  From Digger’s blind side Robbie mustered all the strength of his powerful right arm. His fist found its mark in the pit of Digger’s massive stomach. The blow sent Digger staggering backward, gasping for air. His vision went black as he fell with a resounding thud to the deck senseless.

  An immediate cheer went up from Overlie, followed by shouts from several of the others who had gathered around.

  Robbie heard nothing, however. He walked over to where the unconscious bo’sun lay and knelt down beside him to watch for the first signs of wakefulness. After a minute or two, the stunned bo’sun began to stir. Still Robbie waited.

  At last Digger opened his eyes and glanced around, his mind in a fog. As he caught Robbie’s eyes at length, he stared in dazed unbelief.

  “Calcutta, Digger!” Robbie said in a deliberate, slow precise tone. “I meant what I said. I don’t want to see the man again. As for you, I’ll leave your fate up to the skipper.”

  He rose without another word, disappeared down the hatch, and again sought the Vicar’s cabin.

  Drew still lay as he had left him.

  He paused a moment, then murmured to himself, “And what am I going to do with you now?”

  20

  Calcutta

  The remainder of the passage to Calcutta transpired without serious incident. Word of Robbie’s victory over the bo’sun spread quietly throughout the crew, and as a result none dared further challenge. Digger kept to himself, did his job, and if he nursed thoughts of revenge he did not show it. Turk sulked about, showing venom in his eyes, but apparently afraid to make any moves without Digger at his side. Whether he was told by his friend of the first mate’s order with respect to his future employment aboard the Sea Tiger remained unknown to Robbie. He said nothing further about it himself, awaiting their arrival in port. When he told Pike of the confrontation with Digger, the skipper insisted he be kept aboard.

  “I can’t be havin’ ye gettin’ rid of half my crew,” he said. “Bad apples or not, we need every strong man we have.”

  “Turk’s never been worth that much anyway,” countered Robbie.

  “Ye’re right there, I suppose, laddie. You can get rid of him if ye’ve still a mind to. But the bo’sun stays. I’ll watch him.”

  “No need, Ben,” said Robbie. “I can handle myself.”

  “You be careful. He’s a dangerous man.”

  Robbie left Pike’s quarters more pensive than ever. Something still didn’t feel right about the whole thing. Pike and his boatswain must have something going on that he didn’t know about. He’d almost forgotten that first conversation he’d overheard between them in Pike’s cabin. With Pike’s insistence on retaining Digger on board, suddenly it all came back to him.

  In light of the recent conversation in the chart house and Pike’s unexplained assault, more and more Robbie was coming to feel trapped in a maze of unknowns. Three men of the crew had already attacked him, and who could tell when one of them might be successful? Pike’s erratic treatment of him, alternately like a son and an adversary, frightened Robbie.

  Fear was not an emotion Robbie was well acquainted with, and its unknown quality only added to the enigma of this voyage. To be afraid of a visible assailant was one thing—a foe who stood before you face to face. That was a fear to be handled; courage could overcome it. But to fear the shadows of the night, not knowing what danger awaited its opportunity, that was a fear Robbie Taggart had never before known.

  He thought he had known himself before—known his strengths, his limitations. Indeed, his fortitude and intuition as a man had always stood him in good stead. He had always been able to land on his feet, whatever life happened to throw at him. But now he found himself faced with uncertainties that his strength as a man was ill-prepared to deal with. His anxieties over Digger and Turk were only part of it. Pike remained a mystery. And he had never felt so incapable of dealing with an individual as he had with the Vicar.

  Notwithstanding his newly aroused sensitivities and anxieties—perhaps because of them—Robbie worked hard. The Vicar sobered up, heard what had transpired on his behalf from other lips than Robbie’s, and as a result seemed more deferential than ever to his first mate. But he and Robbie spoke little.

  In three weeks the Sea Tiger was in Calcutta. When they docked and the men began to disembark for shore le
ave, Robbie caught Digger’s eye and held it in a firm, though not angry stare. Two hours later Robbie saw Turk, carrying a canvas bag over his shoulder, walk toward the gangway and start down it. Halfway toward the dock, he stopped, seeming to feel Robbie’s eyes on him. He turned, and with a menacing look of fury in his eyes, shook his fist defiantly in the air and shouted, “I shall not forget you, Taggart! I will have my revenge!”

  Robbie did not see him again.

  Calcutta had not changed in the years since Robbie had last seen it. The streets were just as filthy, teeming with every conceivable example of the lower levels of humankind. Alongside Pike the next day, Robbie shouldered his way through the mass of humanity, trying not to look too closely at all he saw. In his carelessness he nearly stumbled over a legless beggar perched against a wall holding a tin cup. The man’s lips spread into a lopsided toothless grin, and Robbie dropped a coin into the cup before hurrying on, repulsed. The poor wretch couldn’t help his condition, but Robbie nonetheless felt the unsettledness of one who has taken his own wholeness for granted.

  Ahead two men were screaming at one another, haggling over the price of a dirty crust of bread. Others joined the fray, for apparently the seller had been guilty of price-gouging in the past and this was their opportunity to get even. Shouts passed to blows, and Robbie and Pike had to gingerly skirt the edge of the street to circumvent the melee. They had nearly succeeded when a small, dark-skinned Hindu grabbed at Robbie’s arm.

  “English!” he shouted over the din.

  Robbie stopped. “What do you want?”

  “Big English,” said the little man, “you help. Very bad merchant. Steal every day from starving people.”

  Before Robbie could respond, Pike turned and thrust his crutch into the man’s belly, sending him flying into the angry crowd.

  “Leave us be!” shouted Pike, limping quickly away.

  Robbie paused just long enough to see that the man had not been trampled by the brawlers, then followed Pike.

  “You could have hurt him,” rebuked Robbie when he caught up with his skipper.

  “Ah, laddie, ye’re too soft! Ye got to show these people who’s boss, an’ what we British are made of. They’re all thieves an’ liars! I’d check my pockets if I were you.”

  Instinctively Robbie’s hand shot to his trouser pockets, but finding all his valuables still on his person, he admonished himself for his mistrust of the pathetic little man they had just left. He had never been one to judge a man by some artificial standard of race. Nor was he given to flaunting the might of the British Crown, even if she were the most powerful nation on earth. He met the people he encountered on their own terms, and thus was usually able to make friends with any man. Pike’s bigotry disgusted him, no matter that it seemed the prevalent attitude by which most people deported themselves toward their neighbors.

  As they walked through the narrow, crowded, smelly, muddy streets, Robbie threw Pike a sidelong glance.

  The man is strange, Robbie thought to himself. Yes, and fearsome too. Everything taken together disturbed him—an odd look here, an unguarded word there, a hollow grin, a brief explosion followed by contrition. The man was unpredictable at best. And at worst . . . ? Robbie didn’t know what he was. There was something inside Pike . . . something hidden—something gnawing away at his mind. There could be no other explanation for such erratic swings of mood and such outbursts of violent behavior. He was hardly the man to captain a merchant ship!

  It had not been until the attack, followed by the peculiar conversation in the chart room, that Robbie’s eyes had begun to open to the true sort of man Pike was. He had been wary, even a little distant since then. But Robbie had to admit also, he had been distant toward Drew and everyone, not just toward Pike. Yet despite his suspicions, he still could not resolve all this with the decent treatment he had received from the man, though even Pike’s congeniality toward Robbie was not without its edge. It had all been so clear during those brief moments in the chart house when his eyes had belied his smooth words.

  He was beginning to wish he had come ashore in the morning with Drew instead of waiting for Pike. Perhaps he could prevent the Vicar from becoming inebriated, though if his new resolve of alcoholic repentance—pledged to Robbie on the gangway as he left that morning—was to mean anything, it would have to come as a result of his own strength, no one else’s. But even Drew, he thought, would provide more companionship than Pike’s cronies he was to meet about the chests of drugs to be loaded onto the Tiger that evening. Robbie should never have come, despite Pike’s insistence. He didn’t believe in what Pike was doing—it wasn’t right, even if it was legal. How many more of these mysterious “cargoes” might Pike be planning to pick up? This is not why I left the Navy, thought Robbie. Friend of the family or not—and what did he really know of Pike’s supposed friendship with his father? Pike’s company was growing tedious, and hazardous as well.

  But in the middle of his reflections, Robbie saw that Pike was turning into a narrow doorway, and he continued after him. They strode down a dark corridor a short distance until Pike came to another door, which he shoved open. They were immediately assailed by the noisy clamor, smoke, and sickening reek of one of Calcutta’s lesser known public houses. It was not the sort of place most visitors from London were very likely to see.

  Elbowing their way through the press of bodies, they came to a table where several of the Sea Tiger’s crew were reposing in various stages of drunkenness. There were no empty chairs about, and it seemed almost a small miracle that the men had procured the ones they had. However, by the battered look of a couple of them, they had probably not come by them peaceably.

  “Hey, Newly, Jenkins,” said Pike, “go fetch us some ale.”

  “Ye don’t need two of us for that,” argued Newly, unwilling to risk the loss of his seat.

  “Says who?” countered Pike, and his ever-ready crutch speared at the recalcitrant Newly.

  The sailor dodged the thrust in time, but lost his seat in the process. Without hesitation or compunction, the skipper settled his worn frame where Newly’s had been.

  “Here,” said Jenkins, standing and shoving his chair toward Robbie.

  “I don’t feel like sitting,” muttered Robbie.

  “Sit down, you lubber!” shouted Pike. “An’ get that ale!” he added to Jenkins. “Ye’d think this were a church meetin’ or somethin’!”

  Robbie sat down heavily in the vacated chair. All at once he did not like the idea of being Pike’s so-called protégé, following him about, doing his bidding. Why had he been so eager to sail with him in the first place? The question brought to mind his boring, oppressive life in the Navy. At least Pike was no Commander Barclay!

  “Hey, ye lubbers!” bellowed Pike, to no one in particular, “don’t drink yerselves balmy. We still got business later. I need ye able to stand on yer feet!”

  Robbie drank his ale slowly, little enjoying it, though the cold was refreshing after the searing heat of the city streets. Robbie looked about. Notwithstanding the turbaned Hindus and other exotically garbed patrons, as well as the loud mix of languages, this place looked little different from any pub to be found on London’s docks. Dark-skinned Indians were not a rarity in an international port like London, nor were fair-skinned British soldiers in their familiar brown khaki attire altogether unusual in this city of the central British Province.

  Robbie leaned back in his chair, but he could not relax. The heat of the place was even more stifling than it had been out on the dusty streets, despite the large, slow-turning circular fan overhead barely stirring the stale air. But heat had never bothered Robbie in the past, and he knew that was not the problem now. A disquiet had stolen upon him in recent days, and it was now weighing especially heavily on his mind. Though he did not recognize it as such, it was the disquiet that comes from a growing dissatisfaction with oneself. Things were slightly out of step within the heart of Robbie Taggart. He felt its effect, but did not know its Sourc
e. He searched for fulfillment but was able to find none. When fulfillment finally came to his troubled soul, it would come from an unacknowledged and unfathomable Power.

  To Robbie’s mind it seemed a good part of the problem stemmed from Pike. But there was more to it than that. He could handle Pike. He had handled Digger and Turk. He was man enough to face any opponent. But this was something else, something he couldn’t pinpoint. Was it the same unrest that had plagued him during his final year in the Navy? The day he stepped on board the Sea Tiger he had believed all that was behind him.

  How could Robbie have perceived, in his present state, that the seeds of unrest are always planted by the divine hand? Had Robbie been able to confide his confusion to Jamie, she might have illuminated to him that it is the Lord who stirs men’s souls. But in his gloom Robbie was not now thinking of Jamie, nor of the mysterious God she always spoke of to him. He was instead thinking of himself, and there is no quicker or surer way to deaden the divine influence than that.

  Life to Robbie Taggart had always been a lark. He had spent his years purposefully—indeed, artfully—avoiding any path that might bring friction or confrontation or serious self-analysis. He did not want to think, least of all about the meaning of life, of selfhood, of what purposes there were to being. The larger questions of life were for the philosophers, for the Jamie MacLeods and the Elliot Drews of the world. But not for Robbie Taggart. Life was to be lived—not morosely analyzed!

  Then what had happened to such a lighthearted philosophy? Where was the Robbie Taggart of old?

  In a tunnel, it seemed. A dark, dank, stifling passageway, as uncomfortable as that Calcutta pub, and without beacon lights to reveal direction ahead or illuminate the walls to each side. His brain had grown dark, and in every direction he turned his thoughts, there was only darkness.

  All tunnels end, but for those stuck in their midst, however bright the light at its end, all remains blackness. Light was on its way to Robbie Taggart from the Father of Lights, who was sending His answer to His son, even before prayer for it had gone heavenward. When that light came, it would bring joy and freedom such as Robbie could not presently imagine, in comparison with which his former free-wheeling self would seem but a pale shadow.