The Maggie

by James Dillon White

  The Skipper shook his head. ‘I’ve no’ got eyes of a hawk, laddie.’

  ‘But, sir, I looked. I saw him plainly. It was Mr Pusey.’

  ‘Mr Pusey!’ They laughed unconvincingly. ‘And what would he be doing in an airplane?’

  ‘Trying to stop us, maybe.’

  The Skipper shuffled uneasily. He cleared his throat. ‘If that was Pusey, it’d be Mr Marshall, the boss, with him.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  ‘It was Mr Marshall, yon master at Greenock said, would be wanting us to put in for unloading.’

  ‘Aye, that’s right.’

  They stood thoughtfully, side by side, while the Maggie chugged forward on her own erratic course. There was the possibility here of danger, all their plans could be defeated, but the Skipper was not the man to meet trouble halfway. He slapped McGregor heartily on the back. ‘Och, what’s there to worry about? He’d no be able to stop us even if it was Marshall, even if he wanted to.’

  The boy said reasonably, ‘They flew south. Would they no’ be making for Campbeltown?’

  ‘Campbeltown?’

  ‘They could get a car there.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘To catch up wi’ us before we get through the Crinan Canal.’

  Once again there was silence as his seniors thought their way out of an unpleasant probability. The mate flicked absent-mindedly at a seagull that was watching them from the rail. A yacht went about suddenly to escape their bows. ‘Where the hell are ye steering?’

  McGregor said, ‘They’d never make it. By road it’s forty miles.’

  ‘Nearer fifty,’ the mate said.

  ‘By road they’ll be travelling faster than us,’ the boy said.

  ‘Even if they walk it,’ the Skipper said, looking at the engineman. Then, before their previous argument could develop, he added cheerfully, ‘Ach, I’m thinking that couldna have been Mr Marshall. But if it was he’ll have seen how far we’ve come already. He’ll know he’s got nothing to worry about. Anyway, once we’re into the canal we’ll be safe enough.’

  The boy shook his head as he picked up his pail and scrubbing brush. ‘Still, if he’s troubled to hire a plane . . .’

  The Skipper ruffled his hair. ‘Ach, ye worry too much. The Maggie’s not a ship that responds well to pessimism.’

  As they steamed slowly up Loch Fyne towards Ardrishaig it seemed that the Skipper’s confidence would be justified. The Maggie was a steady as a liner on the still water. The sun was really hot despite the breeze, and there were no further signs of pursuit, real or imagined. Towards midafternoon they entered the Crinan Canal and now with the surface as smooth as an arterial road their passage was even more pleasant.

  From a landsman’s point of view, from one of the crofter’s cottages that lay half hidden among the heather and the gorse, the Maggie presented a strange, almost fantastic, sight. With her big funnel, her derricks, her unusual outline, she moved across the scene of moorland, meadows, a copse of pine trees, the distant mountains, and it might be only the weird music of the mate’s concertina, or the steady beat of the engine, that would tell an onlooker a ship was crossing the landscape.

  On deck the industrious boy was now washing some clothes in a bucket. The mate was still stretched on the deck. Suddenly the afternoon quiet was broken by the clear, metallic cackling of a pheasant. The boy held up a hand, but the mate, too, had heard. They looked towards the woods, exchanged meaning glances, and then turned appealingly towards the Skipper.

  The Skipper was looking over their heads, to a copse where a fine-looking pheasant strutted through the undergrowth. The Skipper jabbed thoughtfully at his pipe. He said, ‘Aye, ship’s stores are getting a bit low. But I wouldn’t want to see ye taking other people’s property.’ He slowly turned his back on them. ‘No. If you take other people’s property, I wouldn’t want to see it.’

  A happy grin of anticipation brightened the boy’s face. As he turned he saw that the mate was already at the derrick. They lowered the boom and, as the Skipper slowed down and steered as close to the canal bank as the depth of water would allow, they leaned over and swung out across the bank. McGregor, who had been too near his engines to hear the pheasant, saw at once what was happening and threw his shotgun down to the mate. As the Maggie moved slowly along the canal the mate and the boy ducked into the copse.

  Turning a guileless face from the impending crime the Skipper sang happily in his wheelhouse. ‘I’m ower young to marry . . .’ McGregor, governing the engine to its lowest speed, anticipated the taste and smell of pheasant. Two happy men without a care in the world.

  The Maggie was now sailing calmly towards a point where the canal narrowed at a small swing-bridge. A little, grey-haired woman was turning the handle. ‘I’m ower young to marry . . .’

  Just then McGregor saw the car which had stopped beside the bridge. The front doors opened – from one side the driver, from the other – Pusey!

  McGregor turned in dismay towards the Skipper. ‘Holy smoke!’he said. ‘They’ve caught us.’

  Chapter Nine

  As he saw the car waiting at the swing-bridge and the reception committee, headed by Pusey, the Skipper ducked involuntarily into his wheelhouse. Then he came up slowly, realising that there was no escape, and decided to brazen it out. His tough old face assumed an expression of affable innocence. He glanced sideways to the deck, but there was no support from that quarter. McGregor had gone to ground in his engine-room.

  The Skipper steered slowly towards his fate. As the Maggie bellied through the calm sunlit water he was able to take in the whole pleasant scene; no guns or barbed wire or handcuffs to show that a criminal had been cornered – not even a policeman. Behind the car and the grey-haired old lady a cottage dozed in the afternoon sun. Roses draped themselves languidly along the low garden wall, sweet williams showed their bright mosaic, pink and red valerians glowed from the bank. Against the cottage door an ancient porch wilted beneath a cascade of honeysuckle.

  From this idyllic scene one of the waiting group – Pusey – walked into the hard sunlight on the swing-bridge. He looked down silently, with lips pursed, as the Maggie drifted up to him and stopped. The door of the wheelhouse opened, and the Skipper, with an ingratiating smile, called out, ‘My, now, and look who’s here! Mr Pusey! How are ye, sir?’

  Pusey glanced back to the shadows. ‘You see what kind of man he is!’ The car door opened and Marshall clambered deliberately into the road. Seeing him, the Skipper thought once again of flight, but with the swing-bridge closed and the canal at this point not more than thirty feet wide he was, without a doubt, cornered. With a nervous glance towards Marshall, who was waiting with the driver and Miss Peters beside the car, he came on to the deck and clambered up to Pusey on the bridge.

  He asked amiably, ‘And what brings ye all the way to Crinan?’ Although he was talking to Pusey he hardly expected an answer and in fact his attention at the time was concentrated over Pusey’s shoulder to the group by the car. He saw Marshall watching him steadily, his eyes apparently half-closed from deep emotion. He saw Marshall take a few steps forward.

  With a nervous smile the Skipper said to Pusey, ‘We thought you’d returned to London, sir. We never expected to see you here. We had a bit of difficulty in Glasgow, sir; ye may have read about it in the papers. Aye, but your cargo’s safe and sound. Not a scratch on it anywhere.’

  At last he could bear the suspense no longer. He stepped past Pusey and walked across the bridge with outstretched hand. He smiled imbecilically. ‘I don’t think I’ve met this gentleman. Is it . . . er . . . is it by any chance himself? Mr Marshall?’

  Marshall stepped like a presiding judge on to the swing-bridge. He looked at the Skipper solemnly. Then, surprisingly, he took the proffered hand. ‘That’s right, Captain. And it’s my cargo you’ve got aboard this . . . this . . .’ He walked the length of the bridge, ignoring Pusey and McGregor, who seemed flabbergasted at his tolerance. He pointed to the
Maggie. ‘. . . this incredible-looking tub.’

  Following him along the bridge the Skipper nodded good-naturedly. ‘The Maggie? Oh, the Maggie’s a fine old Puffer. A coat of paint and ye’d never recognise her.’ He added with a confidence that even surprised himself, ‘She’s a sound ship and greatly respected in the trade.’

  Although Marshall’s expression did not relax one muscle at this preposterous statement, he had to look away quickly before his eyes showed that he could appreciate the humour of the situation. He asked, ‘Are you serious? Were you really going to take this thing to sea?’

  ‘We’ll be in Kiltarra not later than . . .’ the Skipper began, but Marshall shook his head.

  ‘You may be, but not with the cargo you’re carrying now.’

  ‘I don’t think I understand ye, Mr Marshall.’

  The Overseas Manager of World International Airways swung round on him suddenly. ‘Now look here, I’ll say nothing about your misrepresentation of fact when you showed Mr Pusey the wrong boat . . .’

  The Skipper took only a second to decide his line of defence, but in that second he gathered an impression of the whole court, the judge – Marshall; prosecuting counsel – Pusey, looking pettishly offended, and Miss Peters, ready in the background with notebook and facts; court usher – the driver of the hired car. And for the defence? – McGregor watching non-committally from the engine-room hatch. ‘I told the auld goat not to put into Gleska!’

  The Skipper repeated innocently, ‘Wrong boat, Mr Marshall?’ He turned brazenly towards Pusey, who was a few paces away. ‘Ye mean there was some misunderstanding.’

  For a few moments it seemed that the incredible might happen. Pusey was obviously on the brink of bad language.

  But his employer saved him from this indignity. Marshall said, ‘All right, MacTaggart. I’ll give you ‘‘E’’ for effort. I don’t even want my fifty pounds back: it probably cost you something to get this far. But now you’re going to turn this tub around and take it back to Ardrishaig, and there you’re going to unload it so that my stuff can be put aboard a sound boat. And, furthermore, I’m putting Mr Pusey aboard to see that you do.’ His jaw jutted belligerently. ‘Right?’

  The Skipper said, aghast, ‘But, Mr Marshall, I assure ye, we’re more capable of doing the job for ye! It’s entirely unnecessary for ye to go to the additional expense of . . .’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t speak of the expense,’ Marshall said. ‘If you knew how much you’ve cost me already . . .’ He turned to Pusey, who was nodding with sour approval in the background. ‘And look here, Pusey – if for any reason, any reason whatever, he fails to have you in Ardrishaig by five o’clock, call the police. Right?’

  Pusey looked vindictively at the Skipper. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Marshall said, ‘Spend the night in Ardrishaig if necessary, but see the stuff safely loaded on the other boat. I’ll expect you back in London sometime tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  With the situation under control at last Marshall had another incredulous look at the Maggie. Then with a glance towards the Skipper he went, shaking his head, towards Miss Peters and the waiting car.

  Chapter Ten

  With an unbearable air of superiority Pusey watched the Skipper in his hour of defeat. Standing dismally against the bridge he was looking at the hired car jolting down the canal road as though even now by some miracle Mr Marshall might relent and allow the Maggie to proceed. But there was no respite. The car disappeared round a belt of trees and for a few moments a cloud of dust hung in the still air. The old lady, realising that they did not want her to open the bridge, went slowly back to her cottage. Pusey remained as victor of the field.

  He said, ‘Are we ready to proceed?’

  The Skipper turned and came towards him reluctantly. He stood on the bridge and looked with disgust down the canal glistening in the sunlight. But he made no move towards the Maggie.

  Pusey asked petulantly, ‘I said: Are we ready to proceed?’

  The Skipper answered gruffly, ‘We canna go yet.’

  ‘And why not?’

  ‘We’re waiting for the mate and the boy.’

  ‘And,’ Pusey asked, in a superior voice, ‘where are the mate and the boy?’

  The Skipper did not reply, but Pusey, who now wouldn’t trust him an inch, saw him exchange glances with the engineman. It seemed that they were looking anxiously towards the woods which flanked the canal road.

  ‘Where are the mate and the boy?’

  As if in reply two shots sounded from the woods. Although muffled by the trees they were obviously not far away, and the Skipper, as though careless now of the consequences, nodded towards a wooded hill astern.

  Pusey turned, but could see no movement in the peaceful countryside: the silent road, a copse of trees, the rising hill, and, in the distance, a line of purple mountains. He asked, ‘Where are they? What are they doing?’ The Skipper turned away and in a moment another shot sounded, nearer than before. Suddenly comprehending, Pusey said, ‘They’re poaching!’

  His indignation seemed to amuse the Skipper and the engineman. The Skipper was grinning as he climbed on to the Maggie. ‘That’s an ugly word, Mr Pusey. Out here we have more delicacy. We call it ‘‘The Sport’’.’

  ‘I don’t see anything amusing in breaking the law,’ Pusey said, in his Sunday-school voice.

  They watched in silence for the mate and the boy to appear, but there was still no movement. They heard a distant shout and then a faint crackle that might have been someone walking through the dry undergrowth. A rabbit hopped out on to the road and began nibbling at the grass verge. A pheasant rose in alarm and flew across the canal with clacking wings.

  It seemed to Pusey that it was beneath his dignity as master of the situation to wait any longer and he said firmly, ‘Very well, as they are not coming I’ll go and look for them myself.’ He turned towards the engineman, ‘But I insist that you come with me.’

  McGregor looked at the Skipper with surprise, then, catching his shrug, stepped off the boat and followed the determined Pusey down the road. When he came to the copse he looked back, but the Skipper, who was puffing slowly at his pipe, clearly did not know what to do next.

  Although he was hardly dressed for a country walk Pusey jumped without hesitation into the trees and began to plod slowly uphill. It was rough going, as he soon found, and the fact that McGregor, who was following some way behind, seemed to regard him with the tolerant amusement one affords to an eccentric or a lunatic only spurred on his determination. He stumbled in the bracken, caught his smart city trousers in the brambles, but still, angry and perspiring, managed to keep going.

  The hill they were climbing was rough moorland, dotted here and there with clumps of trees. As Pusey came from one of these copses on to the open heath he turned to wait for McGregor and to regain his breath. Below, like a band of gold, was the canal with the Maggie still moored by the bridge. He turned towards McGregor, who was still coming leisurely up the hill.

  ‘Where can they be? They can’t have gone very far.’

  ‘Would it no’ be better, Mr Pusey, to wait for them at the boat?’

  Pusey would dearly have liked to agree, but he could not risk being outsmarted again. He pointed to the woods ahead. ‘I’ll look over here. You take that side.’

  He waited until the engineman had climbed in the direction indicated, then he too climbed with weary knees against the slope. He stumbled tiredly through the woods and, finding no sign of the mate or the boy, paused where the trees were thinning on the other side. Resting with one hand against the rough bark of a pine tree he looked out over the sunlit moorland beyond, and then, suddenly, two figures moved into his vision. At first he assumed that they must be the crew of the Maggie. Then, as he saw them more distinctly, he realised that they must be connected with the estate.

  Although they were some way away he could see them clearly – an elderly, angry-looking man with a shotgun, and a smaller but equ
ally fierce man with a stick. The laird and factor? The laird’s angry voice came down the hillside. ‘They’re here somewhere. They’ll not get away this time. Go and fetch the constable.’

  ‘Aye, sir!’ The factor trudged sturdily down the hill.

  It occurred to Pusey immediately that however innocent he might be it would be impolitic to show himself to the laird at that moment, so he stood discreetly hidden in the darkness beneath the trees. He knew that he had no cause for fear, but he watched thankfully as the laird, with shotgun at the ready, prowled round the further clump of trees.

  Then, unexpectedly, he heard someone crashing through the undergrowth of the copse he was in. At first he thought it must be the factor. The laird had heard him too and was coming wrathfully down the hill. Pusey looked nervously as the drama moved unexpectedly in his direction. The footsteps had stopped, but then a voice, McGregor’s voice, called hoarsely, ‘Hamish! Hamish!’

  Hearing the unmistakable sound the laird came charging downhill. Outside the copse he halted, plainly undecided where to go, but he bellowed confidently, ‘I know you’re in there! Come out!’ McGregor did not obey. Nor did Pusey. He realised that once again he was a victim of a ridiculous mischance. But if he stayed quite still . . .

  The laird was coming towards Pusey when from the further copse uphill a figure came running quickly across the open gap. He was a seaman, obviously, despite the gun in his hand and the dead pheasant. The mate! Pusey watched with agonised apprehension, terrified that the mate would not reach the cover of the trees before the laird turned. Pusey recognised him now as the man who had stood impassively on Glasgow dock as the Skipper and the engineman had tricked him into this ridiculous adventure. He was impassive still, despite the exertion of leaping downhill over the heather and gorse, laden with a heavy shotgun and a pheasant. His feet made little noise on the springy turf, and it was only when he had reached the cover of the trees that the laird heard him crashing through the undergrowth.