Halfhyde Outward Bound

by Philip McCutchan

  In the meantime he worked with a will and obeyed orders, steering as clear of Mr Bullock as was possible.

  Chapter 9

  STILL SOME way behind the Aysgarth Falls, the Tacoma was making good some record days’ runs under full sail. Captain Graves had found a favourable wind that carried him nicely down into the south-east trades, a better wind than luck had given McRafferty. Three days after leaving Arica, skysails were observed ahead—a square-rigger still hull down on the horizon to the west. Graves sent down for Halfhyde and indicated the ship.

  “It could be the Aysgarth Falls, perhaps,” he said.

  Halfhyde took the offered telescope. “We must hope so, sir.”

  The hope did not last long; it soon became apparent that the ship was on an opposite course: they were closing fast. As the other vessel came down upon them, Graves had the helm brought up to close her as near as the wind would permit. The ship was identified as the full-rigged Pass of Killiecrankie out of Melbourne for Callao. Graves took up a megaphone as they came close abeam and called across, asking if the Master had by change met the Aysgarth Falls.

  “Aye,” the shout came back. “We spoke her two days ago. I have her position in the log if you want it, Captain.”

  “I’d appreciate it,” Graves shouted.

  There was a wave of acknowledgement followed by a pause. Then the position was called across and the ships drew apart again, With Halfhyde, Graves went to his chart-room, took up a pencil and a parallel ruler and transferred the given position to the chart, marking it with a neat cross.

  “It gives us something to go on,” he said. “We’re overtaking her, that’s certain at least.”

  “And a good chance of finding her?”

  Graves shrugged. “I’ll try to work out McRafferty’s likely track from there, but it’ll be by guess and by God, Halfhyde, I can’t forecast the winds he’ll be getting.”

  “Surely if he’s into the trades—”

  “There’s a degree of steadiness, yes. Oh, there’s hope, but I’ll not go further than that just yet.” They went back to the bridge. Halfhyde was in a near fever of impatience by this time, but his frustration had to be contained. Graves was doing his best, and the Tacoma was being efficiently driven: Mortimer, the Chief Officer, knew his job and the hands were a willing bunch, working for a first-class company and anxious to keep their berths. Halfhyde had no doubt that they could overhaul the Aysgarth Falls but knew that to do so on the right track was a proposition full of chance. That same morning all chance began to look bleak indeed. A man stationed as lookout in the foretopmast crosstrees reported smudges of smoke coming up from astern.

  “Plural,” Graves said. He glanced at Halfhyde. “Merchant ships don’t travel in company. I don’t like the sound of it. I believe it could be your German adversary.”

  Halfhyde nodded. “Clearly von Merkatz’ll have the legs of us, sir. It remains to be seen by how much—I fancy not a lot. His cruisers are old and slow by modern standards.”

  Graves said, “Perhaps. But if it’s him, it’ll not be long before he has us within range of his guns, and—”

  “He’ll not open fire without a parley of sorts. We’re in no immediate danger in my opinion. I understand your concern for your ship and crew, of course. Our best defence is to make all the speed we can, and keep ahead, so as to frustrate von Merkatz’s desires for speech. I’ll go aloft and see for myself, and in the meantime I, suggest you use your engines. They may give us an extra knot or two that could make the difference.”

  Graves agreed and sent down for his engineer. Halfhyde made his way to the foretopmast crosstrees, where he levelled his telescope astern. After a while he was able to identify the fighting-tops of warships: von Merkatz’ squadron without a doubt.

  He returned to the bridge and reported. Graves asked, “Suppose he makes a signal ordering us to heave to?”

  Halfhyde gave a tight grin. “Can you read flags or the Morse code on a lamp?”

  “Morse, no. Flags used in the International Code—yes, of course.”

  “Then emulate the great Lord Nelson, sir, as I shall do, and turn a blind eye. In any case, the reading of a signal lamp was something I never managed to master aboard the Queen’s ships.” Halfhyde paused, pulling thoughtfully at his long jaw, a hight of excitement in his eyes at the thought of another sea-clash with Vice-Admiral Paulus von Merkatz. “It’s possible, if ignored for long enough after he has overtaken us, he’ll put a shot across our bows, and that will be difficult not to see or hear.”

  “Exactly!”

  “But we’ll not despair,” Halfhyde said cheerfully. “I spoke of a stratagem, did I not, sir?”

  Graves said sardonically, “You did. Has it, by any chance, arrived?”

  “Indeed it has, just at this very moment, precisely when needed! Have you a Blue Ensign aboard?”

  Graves shook his head. “I’m RNR myself, as you know, but have not the required percentage of reservists in my crew to be entitled—”

  “Yes, I see. Then we shall go one further, sir, with your permission. I’d be grateful if you’d have your sailmaker construct a White Ensign by cannibalizing such other flags as he’ll need for the job.”

  Although looking surprised, Graves passed the order without comment or question: Halfhyde’s manner had changed. It was as though he were in command himself, and Graves felt a title out of his depth in the possible confrontation of a German cruiser squadron from the bridge of a peaceful merchantman. Once again Halfhyde levelled his telescope astern. The smoke was now beginning to be visible from bridge level, and that was evidence that the ships were closing, however slowly. He turned to the Master. “How long before we have steam, sir?” he asked.

  Graves shrugged. “As soon as my engineer can make it. He tells me his furnaces can’t be hurried. The shortcomings of steam…but I know he’ll be doing his best.” Graves’ tone was sardonic; he was no more a lover of the black gang than was any other master mariner. But miracles were being achieved below; soon thick smoke began to emerge from the funnel, wreathing up through the rigging and the sails, and all along the decks the seamen began ostentatiously to cough their lungs up. No one liked the engines.

  SERGEANT CANTLOW alias Jesson appreciated his sundowner, and more than that; the going down of the sun in the west to bring splendid colours to the sky and the Pacific, to glint red and gold through the network of rigging and bring fire to the yards, was Jesson’s signal to begin the evening’s drinking. He took it slow to start with, savouring the fine taste of McRafferty’s Dunville’s. McRafferty, leaving the watch to the First Mate, was in his cabin engaged upon some paperwork and the writing up of the fair log from the deck log. Fiona was sitting at the saloon table doing some petit point needlework.

  Jesson said, “What’s that you’re making, then, Miss McRafferty?”

  She looked up, flushing a little. “A sampler, Mr Jesson.”

  “For your young man?”

  “No,” she said. “For my father.”

  “The only man in your life?”

  Her blush deepened but she didn’t answer. Jesson said loudly, “I said, the only man in your life. Is that right?”

  “Yes,” she said defensively.

  “A trifle dull.”

  “I do not find it so.”

  “Hah!” Jesson reached for the bottle and poured another whisky, splashing in just a touch of water. He sat with the glass cupped in his hands, brooding at the girl. She was an attractive filly if rather too virginal for his taste, which ran more to barmaids of a forthcoming nature and well endowed as to the breasts and buttocks. Jesson sprawled back on the leather settee and reflected upon women he had known and bedded in his time at home and overseas. A sergeant of dragoons, which he must take much care not to appear to have been, was a sought-after person around the military camps and barracks spread throughout the world in the Queen’s name. A swashbuckling person was any sergeant of dragoons, and as Sergeant Cantlow he had outshone them all when wea
ring his uniform of the Sixth Dragoon Guards. With his black-plumed brass helmet, he had been a fine figure of a man, a fine fellow, and still was. The sap still rose in him; the whisky tended to make it rise more. He had found women easily in South Africa, he had found them in Chile too, but Chile was many days behind him now while Australia was yet a very long time ahead. The man Bullock had warned him, it was true, and he had seen for himself that Captain McRafferty was not to be trifled with and kept a very close eye on the filly. Caution was needed but a time would come. He could bide that time a little longer; meanwhile there was pleasure in anticipation and in imagination. Seeing himself back once again as Sergeant Cantlow of the Sixth Dragoon Guards, Jesson saw other things as well: creamy breasts bared of the massive constriction affected by young women, eager limbs, parted thighs…Fiona McRafferty would need awakening but, Sergeant Cantlow was the man for that.

  He poured another whisky, then sat staring openly at the girl at the table. She grew uneasy, and after a while gathered up her sewing and her skirts and fled for her cabin. The passenger watched with a grin as she went. Give her a little longer to get accustomed to having him around, and she would soften, no longer run like a gazelle from his masculinity. All women were the same, looked scared, pretended they didn’t want it, played hard to get—women of her sort, that was. There were plenty who didn’t, plenty easier, but they weren’t here.

  Best forget Sergeant Cantlow: to grow into a new identity. You had to forget the old one, or you’d be sure to give yourself away one day. Jesson drank, sighed, stretched out on the settee, listening to the creak of woodwork around him and the banging and rattling of the blocks from up above as the Aysgarth Falls drove on through the Pacific.

  On the poop, Bullock walked aft to look down at the wake and read the patent log that gave the speed and the day’s distance run. While he read this off, with his back turned, Float, finishing a job of work on the ratlines of the mizzen shrouds before being locked back into the sail locker, glanced down the open saloon skylight and saw the recumbent figure on the settee. Talk originating from Goss, the saloon steward, had told Float that the passenger liked his whisky and never left the saloon of an evening before the bottle was empty. At this moment it was no more than half empty, and already Jesson had a comatose look.

  THE GERMAN cruisers had been positively recognized shortly after noon as the fighting-tops had advanced over the horizon, growing very slowly larger until the compass platforms and then the decks and guns were seen. Over them flaunted the German Naval ensigns, together with the flag of Vice-Admiral von Merkatz at the flagship’s main truck.

  “A brave sight,” Halfhyde said sardonically. “All to apprehend one half-pay lieutenant!”

  Captain Graves spoke on the voice-pipe to the engine-room. The engineer responded nobly enough, and the paddles whirled furiously; but they could not give quite enough speed to keep the Tacoma ahead, and Halfhyde knew that the German squadron must be upon them by the time the sun went down and long before that would be in a position to open fire upon a helpless target if von Merkatz was insane enough to attack the British flag. The White Ensign had not yet been run up; Halfhyde preferred to keep it in reserve and trust that the sudden hoisting would deflect von Merkatz, though in fact there was no knowing how far his temper would lead him.

  As the afternoon wore on, the cruisers closed the gap. Von Merkatz began signalling. Graves was the first to spot the flashing lamp.

  “You’ve not seen it,” Halfhyde said, “and neither have I.” He turned his back and paced the bridge with Graves. Conversation languished; Halfhyde’s thoughts were grim enough, not conducive to talk. Germany and its gaols loomed. Von Merkatz was a powerful man, known to have the ear of his Emperor, who was a man after his own heart, proud, boastful, convinced of German superiority in all things. Aboard his flagship von Merkatz too was thinking of his Emperor; part British, His Imperial Majesty Kaiser Wilhelm II was always disdainful of his distaff side—of his grandmother Queen Victoria, his childhood’s nagger when his family had visited Balmoral and had been forced to pay heed to the autocratic old woman and listen to the appalling heathen noise from the bagpipes of her Scottish guard. The mere thought of his grandmother always sent His Imperial Majesty into a temper. England and the English he detested, and it was frequently his pleasure to imitate and poke fun at his Uncle Edward, Prince of Wales, portly and often drunk, an easy-going fool who was said to hobnob with tradespeople such as Thomas Lipton aboard his yacht. Lipton and Dewar, tea and whisky, so common…von Merkatz paced his admiral’s bridge, grinding his teeth. What an appalling country, where no one, not even the heir to the throne, knew his place any more. So different from Germany, as the wretched Halfhyde was going to find out the moment the Special Service Squadron reached the great base at Kiel. Von Merkatz was not unexpectant of a personal welcome by his Kaiser upon his return from foreign waters. Kaiser Wilhelm would be most pleased with his catch; His Imperial Majesty was well aware of what Lieutenant Halfhyde had done in the past—how could he not be?—and had indeed been frigid towards von Merkatz for having allowed it to happen, though von Merkatz had managed to talk his way out of that.

  Now the tables were about to be turned.

  Von Merkatz looked through his telescope, then spoke to his Flag Captain. “The dolt evidently has no intention of answering my signals. Well, we shall see! Man and arm your guns, Flag Captain, and make a signal to the rest of my squadron indicating what I am doing.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Flag Captain hesitated, then asked, “Are they to man and arm as well, sir?”

  Von Merkatz stared crushingly. “Against a puny merchantman, half sail, half steam, like one of these new-fangled motor carriages married to a windmill? Poof!”

  He turned away and strode the holystoned planking of the admiral’s bridge, his neat beard quivering with anticipation.

  RUMOURS CONCERNING the passenger had flown like bees about the Aysgarth Falls. Largely, these had started as a result of old Finney’s report of his apparent wealth: all that heavy gear, the clothing, the assured manner. Float, who was well enough acquainted with the manoeuvrings and intrigues of the criminal fraternity, had come to the conclusion that Jesson was up to no good. The rumours had been diverse: Jesson, who was automatically assumed to be travelling under an alias, was a duke bound on some secret mission for the Queen and for the requirements of diplomacy had to travel incognito. He was one of the Prince of Wales’ valets, going to Australia ahead of His Royal Highness to see to the procuration of women for the royal dalliance whilst away from his mother’s court. He was a millionaire escaping from a tiresome wife and about to elope, on reaching Australia, with a younger woman. There was also those who, like Float, said Jesson was on the run after some crime that had paid off very well indeed.

  For his own purposes, Float was going to find out more. Tonight was as good an opportunity as any; more so, since the man detailed by Bullock to put him in the sail locker was Althwaite, the seaman who had joined the ship with him and Halfhyde back in Liverpool. Althwaite was an unscrupulous man and not squeamish. As they approached the sail locker, Float had a word with Althwaite.

  “That Jesson.”

  “Yer?”

  “Rich, we all know that. I want to take a look in ’is cabin. ’E’s three parts drunk, in the saloon. There’ll be pickings, what you can share in. Likely, you an’ I, we’ll be rich too.”

  Althwaite scratched his head, his lower jaw hanging forward. “What you asking?”

  Float winked. “Bit o’ carelessness. You don’t secure the hatch proper. No one’ll know—promise, cross me ’eart. They won’t know ’cos, give me an hour from now, you’ll come back and do the job proper like. By then I’ll be back inside. All right?”

  Althwaite’s jaw sagged lower. “What about bloody Goss?”

  “Leave Goss to me,” Float said. “You on?”

  “Well…yer.” Althwaite hesitated; something seemed to have penetrated. “Look, what you want with pickings,
eh? You’re for the ’igh jump. You won’t want no pickings, mate.”

  Float said, “Leave that to me an’ all. Now—just don’t bloody lock me in.”

  He went inside and pulled the hatch shut. Althwaite fiddled about outside, then Float heard footsteps going aft along the waist. He went to the hatch and pushed carefully; it opened. Float thought, so far, so good. He was under no illusions that Althwaite wouldn’t try to nab all the pickings for himself, lock, stock and barrel, but he could deal with that too. He waited a little in the sail locker’s darkness then brought the knife from its hiding place and opened up the hatch and slid out on deck like a shadow in the night, keeping close to the break of the poop, where the sail locker was situated and where he knew he was invisible from the poop itself.