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

by John Wilcox

  The dinners with the officers continued to be tense affairs, with little conversation exchanged, and Laxer remained in his cabin, occasionally making forays to the bridge, where he could be glimpsed from the deck sometimes, out on the bridge wings, standing behind the canvas dodgers and scanning the horizon to starboard – always to starboard – through binoculars. On the fourth night, Simon confided to Alice all that Jenkins had told him.

  She listened, her brow wrinkled. ‘Roughly where are we, darling?’ she asked eventually.

  ‘Well, I don’t know precisely. Somewhere in the China Sea, I suppose.’

  ‘Hmm. Did you notice this morning that we seemed to have changed course?’

  ‘What? No. I didn’t. How do you know?’

  ‘Simple. The wake behind us began to curve. We have changed course – I would say to the south-west or even due west. I’m surprised you didn’t notice. Now, I wonder why that has happened? You do know of the reputation that the China Sea has, don’t you?’

  ‘Typhoons?’

  ‘Yes, of course. But also something else. Pirates.’

  ‘Good lord! But I don’t see how that fits into …’

  ‘Neither do I. But the coast to the south-west is supposed to house nests of them. Our navy has been trying to put them down for years without success. I read a story about them the other day. Did you bring your Webley revolver with you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s in the trunk.’

  ‘Well, just in case, my love, I think you should get it out, together with your box of ammunition. I don’t like the sound of any of this.’

  Nor did Fonthill and the next day, which dawned like the others with a burning sun slipping over the horizon and climbing into the bluest of skies, he determined to beard the captain. As before, he was not to be seen, so Simon climbed the companionway up to the bridge and pulled open the door.

  Laxer and Durham were in earnest conversation in the far corner, well away from the barefooted Chinese helmsman. They turned as Fonthill entered. ‘Passengers are not allowed on the bridge,’ said Laxer, courteously enough as he advanced. ‘You’d oblige me, sir, if you would go back on deck. You could be interfering with the handling of the vessel.’

  The man was thickset and wearing a thick woollen jersey and shorts, a strange combination given the heat of the morning. His once white, braided cap was stained and he had a five-day growth of black beard. His eyes, too, were black, set deeply in bony hollows and his voice was slightly slurred.

  ‘I am sorry to intrude, Captain,’ responded Simon, ‘but I have been trying to have a word with you since we sailed.’

  ‘Yes. Well – I’ve been busy. We can talk later.’

  ‘No. Now, if you please. We sailed with you on the understanding that the voyage would be non-stop to Durban. Now I understand that we are calling into Singapore.’

  ‘Yes. Well, we have to coal.’

  ‘But this will delay our arrival at Durban. That could be important to me.’

  Laxer lifted a weary hand. Fonthill noticed that there were dark pouches under his eyes. His breath smelt of whisky, although, apart from the slight slurring of his speech, there was no other sign of intoxication. The overall impression he gave was of tiredness – the weariness of a man who was sick of his work, sick of the world and sick of himself. ‘It’s of no consequence,’ he said. ‘A day here, a day there; what does it matter? Given fair weather, we can make up the time.’

  Fonthill felt a momentary shaft of sympathy for the man flash through him. ‘Are you ill, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Ill?’ Laxer gave a quick glance towards Durham, who throughout the exchange had been staring towards the forward horizon, then he turned back and smiled crookedly, revealing blackened, irregular teeth. ‘Ill? No sir. I am not ill. And now perhaps …’

  ‘One more point, Captain – I could not help but notice that you have changed course. I trust this will not delay the voyage further?’

  Laxer sighed. ‘I do not welcome interference from a passenger in my navigation, sir. This voyage will demand many changes of course. These are not exactly open waters. But if you must know, I am calling at a small island off the mainland of China where I have arranged to pick up a bosun for the ship and two more deckhands. We left Tientsin short-handed. Now, I insist …’

  Fonthill felt suddenly and awkwardly out of place. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Captain. I apologise for interfering.’

  Down on deck, he joined Alice and Jenkins in the stern and relayed the conversation. ‘He drinks, all right,’ he concluded, ‘but he seems perfectly in control of himself and, although I feel he lied to me originally about the voyage to get our money, his responses were quite rational. I can’t see that your fears about pirates are well founded, Alice. He surely wouldn’t want deliberately to take us into danger, would he?’

  His wife shrugged. ‘Highly improbable, of course. But I still feel we should be on our guard. There’s something fishy about it all, it seems to me. But I can’t see what.’

  ‘Quite. Well I can only suggest that you, 352, keep digging with your Chinese-Welsh friend. Find out as much as he can tell you about the captain. But don’t set off any alarm bells.’

  ‘Very good, bach sir.’

  The next morning a small island came into view, some five or six miles off the Chinese mainland, which loomed behind it like a dark smudge on the horizon. The Bellingham wheezed in a half circle within an inlet opposite what appeared to be a small fishing village, before the vessel slowed to a crawl and then the cable rattled out and the ship carried to her anchor. Immediately, a sampan set off from the shore, crewed by two men and carrying what appeared to be three passengers. The rickety accommodation ladder was lowered over the ship’s side and the three men clambered on board.

  Fonthill, Alice and Jenkins regarded them keenly. They were, of course, Chinese, barefooted and dressed unremarkably in the loose, pyjama-style clothing of the crew. Each man had a bandana loosely tied around his forehead and carried a bundle of clothing, through which was thrust a thin, long object, roughly bound in cloth.

  The three exchanged glances. They had seen enough during the last two months in China to recognise the curved, two-handed sword of the Chinese rebels. A deadly weapon when wielded by a man who knew how to use it.

  ‘Now why would a Chinee seaman want to ’ave one of them things, I wonder?’ pondered Jenkins. ‘’E ain’t goin’ to be usin’ it to ’elp old Taffy peel potatoes, now, is ’e?’

  ‘I reckon this does put a different complexion on things,’ said Simon. ‘Alice, do you still have your little French revolver?’

  ‘It’s been under my pillow the last two nights.’

  ‘Good girl. What have you got, 352?’

  ‘Only me knife, bach sir. But I’d back it to beat any o’ them toothpicks, any day.’

  Fonthill nodded. He had seen the Welshman, unarmed, defeat an assegai-carrying Zulu warrior and, with his bare hands, break the neck of a Boxer wielding just such a sword. Jenkins with a knife was a match for most assailants – and yet … They were all getting old. He grimaced. ‘Perhaps we are needlessly seeing assassins behind every tree. If this is pirate country, it could be necessary for the crew to be armed. But we must remain on our guard. I will have a quiet word with Dixon and see what he thinks.’

  As they watched, they saw the older of the three new arrivals, who was distinguished by the red colour of his headband – reminiscent of the specific mark of the Boxers – being welcomed by Durham and being taken up the companionway to the bridge, presumably to meet the captain.

  ‘Look at that,’ said Alice. ‘Would an English first mate shake the hand of a newly arrived Chinese bosun? Seems a bit strange to me. And do you think he’s a Boxer, Simon?’

  Her husband shook his head. ‘No. Too old. All of the Boxers we’ve seen were just very young men, caught up naively in the whole anti-foreigner movement in the north. And the rebellion is over now, anyway. This chap must be in his mid thirties, though I must say he has an air of
command. Look at the way he pointed, very peremptorily, to his two fellows to go below.’

  ‘Well,’ muttered Jenkins. ‘’E is the bison, or whatever they’re called. P’raps ’e’s been called in to sharpen the crew up a bit.’

  ‘Could be. But I’m still going to have a word with Dixon.’

  The young second officer, however, was not very helpful. He confessed that Durham had told him that new hands were needed and that Laxer had muttered something in Tientsin about picking up an experienced bosun from one of the fishing communities along the coast, and he presumed that this is what had happened. He was, he said, waiting to have this confirmed and he was glad that they had taken on extra hands, who would make all the difference to the running of the ship. Fonthill, however, sensed that Dixon was hiding a growing sense of frustration at being excluded from the management of the voyage. His loyalty to senior officers, however, was deeply rooted and he would say nothing more, except that the swords – if that’s what they were – were probably ceremonial family artefacts.

  The next two days revealed that the bosun – they found that his name was Chung Li – certainly possessed an air of authority. He was to be seen issuing orders to the deckhands and occasionally launching fierce kicks if his orders were not carried out quickly. He was a short man, thickset and unusually muscular for a Chinese, but he moved around the deck lightly on his bare feet. His face was broad, his eyes black and he wore a long, Mandarin-type moustache that drooped down either side of his mouth. He completely ignored the three passengers, paying no heed to the cheery ‘good morning’s that Alice offered.

  ‘Well,’ observed Simon. ‘He doesn’t speak English, that’s clear.’

  ‘No,’ replied Alice. ‘It’s more than that. He doesn’t believe we are worthy of recognition. The bloody man exudes hatred. We don’t exist as far as he is concerned.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s a typical Oriental, that’s all.’

  ‘Well,’ Jenkins chipped in, ‘I’ll tell you one thing about ’im. ’E’s a fighter for certain. See that scar down ’is face? That’s from a knife or sword I’d say. An’ ’e’s got another one down ’is arm. I’m not sure I’d want to tangle with ’im, unless I ’ad to, see.’

  Fonthill regarded his old friend keenly. Jenkins feared no one but he respected fellow warriors. His opinion in these matters was to be valued. Perhaps it was not insignificant that he had taken to wearing his long knife in a leather sheath hung from his belt behind his back.

  It was clear that Chung Li was close to Laxer and Durham. They were to be seen conferring in the wheelhouse and occasionally huddled together on the bridge wings scanning the horizon to the north-west, where a line of land, presumably the Chinese mainland, was still to be seen.

  This prompted Fonthill to question Dixon on the matter. ‘This chap seems to be remarkably thick with the skipper and the first mate, don’t you think?’ he asked.

  The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he said, pulling a face. ‘The feller seems to have taken over my job.’ Then he smiled at Simon. ‘To be honest, I don’t care that much. I am sweating on studying for my first mate’s ticket – I leave for home to take the examination when we reach Durban – so I am getting plenty of time for swotting. And I need it!’

  One other question began to prey on Simon’s mind. He knew enough about merchant shipping to know that, particularly on old vessels like the Bellingham, the crew were put constantly to work fighting the depredations of the salt water: chipping away at rust, applying red lead and retouching with paint. Yet none of these chores were being carried out on this ship, although it was clear that they were needed. It was as if she was being left to run down; as if she was considered to be expendable.

  More worrying news, however, arrived from the Chinese cook, via Jenkins. Apart from his culinary duties, the man also undertook the tasks of captain’s steward, responsible for clearing the skipper’s cabin, making his bed, tidying his desk and so on. A gold sovereign, supplied by Simon, had persuaded him to look for evidence of Laxer’s involvement with the Tientsin Tong or anything else that might throw light on the captain’s non-maritime activities.

  ‘Well,’ reported Jenkins, ‘’e’s found a letter from a trader in Hong Kong offerin’ a fair old number of Chinese yuan for the cargo of tea that this old tub is carryin’. An’ the price is to be paid into Laxer’s private bank account in Tietswhatsit – not to the ship’s owners in London.’

  ‘Can we see the letter?’ asked Fonthill.

  ‘No. Old Taffy feels ’e can’t pinch it, o’ course, without raisin’ suspicion. But ’e’s read it all right, ’cos ’e can read an’ write. ’E’s Welsh, yer see.’ The last was added with pride.

  ‘Was there anything else?’

  ‘Oh yes. There was an address in China – Taffy says it was a little place on the south coast o’ China, where the tea was to be delivered to. A place, says Taffy, that’s got a bad reputation. Pirates ’n that.’

  Alice let out a gasp of recognition. She turned to her husband. ‘Simon. Don’t you see? It all fits.’

  Fonthill slowly nodded. ‘Yes. I think I do. Laxer is up to his eyes in gambling debts and owes money to the Tong leaders. They are threatening him and the only way for him to avoid having his head severed from his shoulders is to stage some sort of shipwreck and sell the cargo to pay off the debt. No wonder he’s been drinking! But how will he organise this …?’

  ‘It’s simple!’ Alice’s face was aglow. ‘I wondered why he has been hugging the China coast. He is way off course for Singapore. Chung Li must be in on this – one of the pirates. They will run the ship to an agreed meeting point and let the pirates board, taking the ship and its cargo.’

  ‘And what do they do with us?’

  The three exchanged anxious glances and then Jenkins made a cutting motion across his throat.

  Simon nodded. ‘They can’t afford to take prisoners.’

  ‘Do you think Durham, Macintosh and Dixon are in on this?’ asked Alice.

  ‘Durham, I would think yes,’ said Fonthill. ‘He’s been closeted with Laxer closely since the voyage started. But I doubt if the chief engineer is involved and certainly not Dixon. Those last two seem straightforward and honest enough to me.’

  Alice frowned. ‘But why take us with them on the voyage in the first place? We are just an added complication, I would have thought.’

  ‘Agreed. But I could understand that taking us would give added authenticity to the ship’s sailing – steamer skippers and shipowners like to take passengers when they can pick them up. It adds a few pennies to the profits and makes it all look like a conventional voyage. Given his penurious state, I doubt if Laxer could resist taking our seventy-five pounds anyway. After all, he won’t need to hand it over and it explains now why he didn’t haggle.’

  The three sat silently, the slow beat of the engines and the gurgle of the water along the ship’s side accompanying their reverie. Eventually, Alice spoke: ‘So, what are we going to do about it, then?’

  ‘We must wait until they make their move,’ said Simon slowly. ‘Then we shall fight. But we shall need Dixon to be with us and the chief and his engines to get us away. Please God they are honourable men. I will talk to Dixon tonight.’

  The young man listened with wide eyes as Fonthill expounded his story. Then he slowly nodded. ‘It does, indeed, fit,’ he said. ‘Chung and his two companions have hardly done any work at all since they boarded and the skipper has told me not to bother about rust chipping. He keeps saying “it’s not worth it”. Laxer is not the man he was. He doesn’t seem to care about anything – and Durham is a sour and embittered fellow. He begrudges the owners for not giving him a command.’

  He shook his head. ‘There’s something about these China Seas that ruins a chap and both Laxer and Durham have been out here for years.’

  ‘What about Macintosh?’

  ‘He’s a Scotsman. Solid as a rock.’

  ‘Good. So
… when do you think the pirates will try to board, or will Chung Li and his two try to take over on their own?’

  ‘No.’ Dixon frowned. ‘They will be worried about me and you three. I think the old man will run the vessel as close as possible to the mainland at some agreed point where Li’s henchmen will board us. It will probably be at dawn when Durham has the watch.’

  ‘Do you have a weapon?’

  ‘No. But I know where the key is kept for the cupboard where we have two rather aged Martini-Henry rifles and a box of ammunition. I doubt if they’ve been used for years but they’re better than nothing.’

  ‘Good. Pocket the key now to save time. But we can’t move until they do. We must be absolutely certain, otherwise we shall be accused of mutiny or God knows what. Can you sound out Macintosh?’

  ‘Yes. He will be with us, I know. He’s never had much time for Laxer or Durham.’

  ‘Right. Jenkins and I will take it in turns to keep the dawn watch, and please will you let us know when there is an obvious change in course to take us towards the mainland?’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  And so the SS Bellingham steamed on through the next couple of days, cutting her way leisurely through a sea as flat as a blue billiard table and under a sun that beat down without respite, so adding to the tension of the passengers on board. It was a stress that ratcheted up when Dixon reported to Fonthill that the key to the weapons’ cupboard was missing, although it remained locked.

  ‘Hmm.’ Simon pondered for a moment. ‘It looks as though the boarding is near and Laxer is taking precautions. Does the ship have hydrants and hoses fitted on the upper deck?’

  ‘Yes, for washing down after coaling. But I wouldn’t exactly say that they operate at high pressure.’

  ‘Never mind. Show me where they are and how to operate them, can you – without attracting attention?’

  ‘Aye. It’s not difficult.’

  It was a little before dawn the next morning when a discreet knock on their cabin door woke Simon and Alice. In the half light, fully dressed, stood Dixon and Jenkins. They slipped inside. The ship’s engines had slowed perceptibly.