Pirates - Starboard Side!: A Simon Fonthill Short Story (Simon Fonthill Series)

by John Wilcox

  “PIRATES – STARBOARD SIDE!”

  A Simon Fonthill Short Story

  JOHN WILCOX

  For Simon Tompsett, who planted the idea

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  “Pirates – Starboard Side!”

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By John Wilcox

  Copyright

  The words ‘rust bucket’ sprang to mind as Simon Fonthill stood at the deep-water berth and regarded the ship to which he had just committed himself, his wife Alice and Jenkins, his ex-batman and old comrade, for the next few weeks. The SS Bellingham looked what she was: a tough, stumpy maid-of-all-work cargo steamer, the type that regularly ploughed the ocean highways, binding the British Empire together in this year of 1901.

  She lay alongside now in the northern Chinese port of Tientsin nuzzling her salt-stained starboard side against the stonework, as the swell moved her gently in and then out again when the fenders eased her off. The ship’s gangway had years ago lost its shore-side wheels and its edges squeaked as they rubbed against the cobbles. The ship fretted against the berthing ropes as though she was anxious to go to sea again. And perhaps she was, for she was not a thing of beauty in port, where she looked old and out of place. The sea was her element; the ocean, where strength and stamina, not elegance, were required to carry her assorted cargoes from port to faraway port.

  Today, her holds were laden with China tea, packed into square wooden boxes, and, studying her now – taking in her bluff bow, her single, strictly vertical funnel, her short masts and derricks – Fonthill felt reassured. Her looks didn’t matter. Bellingham would surely get them safely, if not comfortably, to South Africa.

  Alice agreed as, the next day, two rickshaws deposited them at the bottom of the gangway. ‘Not exactly a smart Cunarder,’ she murmured as Jenkins supervised the baggage loading. ‘But she looks as though she can do the job.’

  ‘Just as well,’ said Simon. ‘There’s nothing else sailing from here that will get us to South Africa before the war against the Boer ends. And we’re not exactly paying ocean-liner fares.’

  A sniff announced the return of Jenkins. ‘It don’t look as though it’s big enough to go round the bay at Rhyl,’ he reflected, his Welshness betraying his anxiety. His accent grew more pronounced when this bravest of men – a formidable fighter with fists, knife or rifle – faced water or heights. ‘I think I’d rather walk, if it’s all right with you, bach sir. I’d probably get there first, anyway. Will it float?’

  ‘Well it’s not sinking now, is it? Don’t be such a ninny. Come on. Let’s find our cabins.’

  The word dignified the small cubbyholes that were to be their quarters: a two-bunk, one-washbasin arrangement for Simon and his wife in a deckhouse just abaft the bridge, and a broom cupboard next door for Jenkins.

  The Bellingham had just been coaled and Alice ran a disapproving finger along the washbasin to inspect the traces of coal dust. ‘Better than Peking, anyway,’ she sighed. She had been holed up for six weeks in the legation in the Chinese capital during the Boxer Rebellion, which had just been crushed by an international force that had been led to the city by Fonthill and Jenkins. The lifting of the siege had earned Simon worldwide renown and had led to him being urged by General Kitchener, the chief of staff to the commanding officer in South Africa, to sail for the Cape to join him in the war against the Boers.

  Simon sat on the top bunk, his feet dangling, as Alice attempted to put away her clothes. He fished out Kitchener’s cable and read it aloud again:

  WE NEVER MET IN SUDAN BUT WARMEST CONGRATS ON YOUR WORK IN CHINA STOP WAR WITH BOERS HERE FAR FROM OVER STOP DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP FOR URGENT TASK STOP CAN YOU SHIP CAPE TOWN SOONEST STOP LETTER FOLLOWS STOP

  Impelled by the general’s note of urgency, Fonthill had cabled his agreement and the trio had left before Kitchener’s letter had arrived, failing to get a liner sailing immediately for South Africa but taking passage instead in the Bellingham, whose captain had not only promised a prompt departure but also a direct, non-stop voyage to Durban in Natal.

  ‘What the hell can Kitchener mean by “urgent task”?’ mused Simon. ‘As far as I can see from the papers here, the Boer War is as good as over, in spite of what K says.’

  ‘Yes, well, we all three know the Boers from the war there twenty years ago.’ Alice spoke with difficulty, holding down a blouse between her chin and bosom as she attempted to smooth it. ‘I can’t see those horsemen giving up just because we’ve captured Johannesburg and Pretoria, their main cities. They’ll continue the war from the veldt. You’ll be needed to fight ’em at their own game. Old Kitchener knows you’re not a regular soldier. He’ll be wanting to fight like with like.’

  ‘Hmm. Well, one thing’s for sure. I don’t want to rejoin the bloody army. And neither will Jenkins.’

  With the tide on the flood, they heard the wire ropes being slipped and the ship’s engines begin a slow beat. Bellingham had no need of a tug and the ship gently moved away from her berth under her own steam. That evening the three passengers leant against the ship’s rail and watched the sun set over the Chinese mainland, silhouetting the Chinese junks flitting about the Gulf of Chihli as though they were black cut-outs from a lantern display.

  The trio themselves presented an interesting contrast. Alice and Simon were exact contemporaries at forty-five years of age and striking, each in their own way. Fonthill, at five foot nine inches tall, was some four inches taller than his wife. He was trim-waisted after campaigning on the Chinese plain but broad-shouldered. His fair hair was only tinged with grey at the temples and his eyes were a gentle brown, contrasting with his firm jaw. His nose had been broken by a Pathan musket years before and it was now hooked, giving his face a predatory air, perhaps that of a huntsman. Alice was also fair-haired and her face was browned by the sun, quite unlike that of Indian memsahibs who always sheltered their complexions under wide-brimmed hats. Her eyes were a steady grey and only a firmness of jaw prevented her from being beautiful. She, too, had put on no extra ounces from middle age, not least because of the meagre rations that had sustained all of the defenders of Peking.

  Jenkins, however, presented a complete contrast to his employers. His Christian name was a secret, now only known to himself and to Fonthill. He was called 352 by his intimates, referring to the last three digits of his army number by which he was always known in his battalion, that most Welsh of regiments, the 24th of Foot, which contained so many Jenkinses and in which both he and Fonthill had served. His distinguishing features were marked: black hair that stood up in a stubble like the bristles of a broom; a great, equally dark moustache that swept across his face; and a figure that displayed immense strength. Four years older than Simon and roughly the same height as Alice, he was almost as broad as tall. A man born to be a fighter, he and his old mentor had served as army scouts for nearly two decades, through a sequence of irregular engagements in Queen Victoria’s ‘Little Wars’ throughout the Empire – often in company with Alice, who had quickly made her name on London’s Morning Post as one of the few women serving as war correspondents.

  As the sun slipped behind a low, mauve-coloured cloud, the three turned to each other. ‘Let’s go inside and see what sort of fodder this old tub serves,’ said Simon. ‘I wonder whether we shall be at the captain’s table.’

  They were not, for there was nothing to be seen of the captain. Instead, they were seated at a long galley-like table in the small officers�
� mess, where they were joined by the ship’s three other officers: the first mate, George Durham, a weather-beaten man from Tyneside with a pepper-and-salt beard; the chief engineer, Alex Macintosh, inevitably a Scot, with the pallid complexion of a below-decks man and a sombre expression; and Freddy Dixon, fresh-faced and young, the second officer.

  It was Durham who explained the captain’s absence. ‘The skipper prefers to eat in his cabin, y’see,’ he grunted.

  Dixon grinned. ‘We don’t see much of him, as a matter of fact.’

  Immediately Durham turned and scowled at him and the young man lapsed into silence, as, indeed, did the rest of the table. Fonthill immediately sensed that there was tension in that little cabin, only relieved as an elderly Chinaman bustled in with a large tureen of rice, studded with some kind of meatball. He set the tureen down on the table and ladled portions out to them all. Unprepossessing in appearance, the food was, in fact, delicious and they all set to with chopsticks.

  ‘I’m a bit surprised that a ship like this has only got four officers,’ commented Simon, looking around the table. No one responded until Dixon, having first looked at his colleagues, then plunged in.

  ‘Oh, we’re supposed to have more, you see,’ he explained. ‘But this old line always runs short of white men. It saves money, y’see. We should have two apprentices – young chaps, learning the ropes as I did – in the cabin you and Mrs Fonthill occupy, and a third officer where Mr Jenkins sleeps. But we always seem to sail short-handed on the China run.’

  The three passengers looked for confirmation or otherwise from the other, older men, but none came. ‘What about the crew?’ asked Fonthill. ‘It would be dangerous not to be up to complement, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh aye. They’re mainly Chinese and Laskars and we’re probably under strength there, too. But it’s not too bad, you know. It’s not as though we’re a sailing ship. We’re in typhoon waters, but if Mr Macintosh here keeps his engines going we can keep the old tub afloat.’

  At this, another frown from Durham silenced the young man and the meal continued in an awkward silence.

  Eventually, Jenkins put down his chopsticks, having deposited half of his rice in his lap, and cleared his throat. ‘Would it be possible, look you,’ he asked, ‘to ’ave a decent knife and fork to eat with, because, see, I’m not too ’andy with these things.’

  Durham looked up, rapped with the handle of his knife on the tabletop and grunted a command in what sounded like Chinese to the cook who entered. Immediately, a knife, fork and spoon were handed to Jenkins.

  The Welshman nodded his thanks, gave a wide, wrap-around grin to the Chinaman and added, ‘An’ is this a dry ship, then, Cookie?’ He turned to Durham. ‘Would a drop o’ somethin’ cheerin’ be out of order? I can pay for it, o’ course. A Chinese beer would do.’

  Without replying, the first officer nodded to the cook and a bottle of light-coloured liquid, bearing a coloured label carrying Chinese characters, appeared. Jenkins seized it and took a huge, capacious swallow. He banged the three-quarters-empty bottle down on the table, wiped his moustache and favoured everyone with his grin. ‘Ah, that’s better,’ he said. Then he turned a more anxious face to Fonthill. ‘Not out of order, am I, bach sir?’ he asked.

  ‘No. Of course not. Do we have any wine, Mr Durham? I presume it can be added to our bill?’

  ‘Aye, we can do that.’ Again he nodded to the Chinaman, who reappeared bearing two bottles, one presumably of white wine, judging by its colour, and the other of red. Without presenting them to Simon, he immediately produced a corkscrew and opened them both. ‘Glasses, you slant-eyed idiot,’ shouted the first mate and three beer glasses were brought in and quietly put down on the table.

  ‘Er … thank you,’ said Simon. He offered the bottles. ‘Won’t you join us?’

  Durham and the Scotsman shook their heads, unsmilingly. Dixon paused and then followed suit. ‘Thank you but no,’ he said. ‘I’m on watch and must be on deck in a moment.’

  Later, as Simon and Alice undressed, they smiled at each other. ‘Sociable lot,’ observed Alice. ‘Just the right sort of company for a long sea voyage. I presume there aren’t any more passengers?’

  ‘No, darling. Just us. I ascertained that when I gave the captain his seventy-five pounds for the trip. Strangely cheap, I thought. I wonder why?’

  ‘Well, we shall probably never find out because he’s obviously a ghost captain and this is a phantom ship.’

  Simon grinned and looked down from his upper berth. ‘I don’t suppose …’ he enquired gently.

  ‘No thank you, darling. Not tonight. I have a feeling that this old tub might just start to roll and I would rather get my sea legs or sea stomach before granting you your conjugal rights. So for God’s sake go to sleep and let me dream of Norfolk.’

  ‘Oh very well. Sleep tight, my love. The captain didn’t really look like a ghost skipper when I gave him his money. But there was something rather strange about him, something that I couldn’t quite make out. Probably nothing. The atmosphere here is getting to me. Blow out that lantern, will you? Good night.’

  The captain did not appear the next day, either, although Simon glimpsed a shadowy figure talking to Durham on the bridge. It became of no concern to the three passengers, however, because the sun shone from a vast, steely-blue cupola, its heat tempered by the most gentle of sea breezes, so that they were all happy to recover from the rigours of the Boxer campaign by lying in the shade of the deckhouse and reading or, in Jenkins’s case, snoring loudly.

  On the third day, the Welshman caught Fonthill’s arm. ‘Ere, bach sir, a bit of funny news.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Old Cookie, you know, the Chinee who serves us.’

  ‘Yes. What about him?’

  ‘Well, ’e’s obviously Chinee, see, because ’e looks it. But – and you’ll never believe this …’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘’E’s actually Welsh. Born in Tiger Bay, Cardiff. Chinee seaman father. Welsh mother.’

  ‘Good lord.’

  ‘Yes. Speaks with a Welsh accent. I could ’ardly understand ’im.’

  Fonthill stifled a smile. ‘Well, well. I suppose you’ve got to know him by advising him on the wine storage and how to keep the beer cool?’

  ‘Sort of.’ One of Jenkins’s less obvious accomplishments was a wide knowledge of wine and champagne, acquired as officer’s mess steward in the First Battalion of the 24th, before he was stripped of his two stripes for hitting a sergeant and sent to the newly opened ‘glasshouse’ detention centre at Aldershot. ‘But there’s somethin’ else, look you. Our captain. What’s ’is name? Laxer?’

  ‘Yes. What about him?’

  ‘’E ’its the bottle regularly. ’E’s bin drunk since we left port.’

  ‘Ah, I’m not surprised. That explains it. I wondered about him.’

  ‘Yes, well. There’s something else …’ Jenkins let the words hang. He was obviously enjoying building the tension.

  ‘Yes, well, get on with it.’

  ‘I’m tryin’ to. Listen. ’E’s obviously up to no good, look you. Old Taffy, who’s got relatives in Teaw … Teewhatsit …’

  ‘Tientsin.’

  ‘That’s what I said. Old Taffy says that ’is cousins know that the skipper is well known in Titsheenie for bein’ a big gambler at the tables there – an’ for bein’ a regular at the opium dens as well, between sailin’s, see. What’s more, ’e owes money to the Chinee toffs who run the place an’ ’e’s in trouble with the big gangs there … What d’yer call ’em? Gongs?’

  ‘Tongs. Tongs.’

  ‘That’s what I just said. The Chinee bosses ’ave been seen ’avin’ big arguments with old Laxer in port just last week. It seems that they’ve got the drunken old sot over a barrel, or something …’

  His voice tailed away. Fonthill frowned. ‘What sort of barrel? Have they done some sort of deal with him?’

  Jenkins shrugged his shoulders. ‘Old Taf
f doesn’t know. Oh, there’s one last thing.’

  ‘Good God, 352. I hope you’re not making this up. You haven’t been into the barrel that Laxer’s supposed to be over, have you?’

  ‘Not a drop, bach sir. No. Listen. We’re not going directly to Dublin, or whatever you said …’

  ‘Durban.’

  ‘Yes. No. We’re goin’ to put into Singapore, according to Taffy.’

  ‘Right. Well done. I’d better have a word with our captain, I think.’

  But that proved to be impossible. Simon accosted Durham, but the first mate shook his head firmly. ‘Skipper’s under the weather a bit,’ he said. ‘Lying in his bunk and can’t see anybody just yet. Give him a day or two. Now, you must excuse me. I have work to do.’

  Dixon, however, proved to be rather more amenable. ‘Singapore?’ he repeated with a frown. ‘Of course we’re bound for Singapore as first port of call. A ship this size can’t steam directly to Durban without taking coal on board.’

  ‘But I was assured by Laxer that we would make the passage to Durban without stopping.’

  Dixon’s frown deepened. ‘Well, there must have been some misunderstanding. There is no way we could make that passage without recoaling.’

  ‘Look here, Freddy. Does the captain have a drink problem?’

  The second officer screwed up his face and looked over Fonthill’s shoulder across the placid sea to the dark line of the horizon. He was clearly uncomfortable. ‘Well, yes, I suppose you could call it that. But listen. I sailed with Laxer five years ago when I was a cadet. He was a very fine skipper then. This is the first time I have sailed with him since then and seen him … like this. But he remains a fine seaman, I assure you. It’s true that we are short-handed but we can manage till we get to Singapore.’

  ‘Even in a typhoon?’

  The frown returned. ‘The glass is not dropping. There was no forecast of one when we left. You should have nothing to worry about. As I said, we don’t have sails to handle. Now, please excuse me, I must get below.’