The Maggie

by James Dillon White

  Marshall turned curiously but without much alarm to the pier. It must be the cattle! He walked out, picking his way carefully across the rotten timbers, until he was standing only a few yards from the end of the pier. Now then! The noise was repeated, more loudly than before, and it was now behind him, between the pier and the wharf.

  He looked suspiciously round but could find nothing to account for the noise. Outside the pub the boy was standing up and the three senior members of the crew had come to the open window with beer glasses in their hands. Marshall began to panic.

  The groaning was almost continuous now although it seemed to increase and lessen in intensity with the ebb and flow of each wave. The pier! He could feel the whole framework shuddering. The warning sounds were now deep and nerve-shattering. The timbers beneath his feet were bending and groaning. Rise and fall; screech, shudder. Utterly bewildered, he tried desperately to remain calm. He couldn’t understand what was happening.

  Then, abruptly, one of the cross-planks of the pier tore loose from its beam and sprang into the air. Marshall turned in panic.

  ‘Hey!’

  He called desperately to the Maggie’s crew, and at that moment realised what had happened.

  ‘Hey!’

  The stern of the Puffer was lifting one of the big cross-timbers from the top of the vertical piles. Marshall, on the jetty beyond, felt the whole structure heaving beneath his feet. Two more boards sprang loose. Shouting wildly he raced towards the stone wharf and the pub.

  ‘Hey! Hey!’

  As he dashed across the road the Skipper, the engineman and the mate turned quickly back to the bar. He rushed through the open doorway, shouting, ‘Hey! Move that boat! It’s breaking up the pier!’

  The Skipper turned with one elbow on the bar. He seemed astonished. ‘What?’

  Marshall could not wait for any subtle acting. He seized the Skipper by the arm and propelled him towards the door. ‘Hurry up, will you? It’s stuck under the timbers!’

  ‘Stuck under the timbers!’

  Marshall dashed back towards the wharf, followed at an ambling trot by the Skipper, the engineman, the mate and the wee boy.

  The pier was now screaming like a hundred souls in torment. The woodwork was moving with the undulations of a gentle earthquake. Marshall stared down at the stern of the Maggie, which was supporting the full weight of the beam and had lifted it several inches into the air. He gesticulated at the Skipper and shouted above the screeching timbers, ‘Move it! Get it out of there!’

  The Skipper asked cautiously, ‘Don’t ye think, sir, t’would be better, all things considered, if you’ll pardon . . .’

  ‘Don’t stand there, you old fool!’

  With a shrug the Skipper climbed aboard the Maggie. He went into the wheelhouse and beckoned to McGregor.

  Like a demented man Marshall rushed out on to the pier. He leant over to inspect the damage. ‘Hurry up, will you? Get it out of here!’

  The Skipper gave, ‘Full steam ahead.’

  For a moment nothing moved. The waters churned madly, the Maggie strained, the pier resisted with even more ominous sounds of rending timbers.

  Then, slowly, the Maggie began to move forward. As it pushed inch by inch into the deeper water it carried the massive pier timber sideways, out from its seating, away from the vertical piles. The lateral planks splayed upwards like the keys of a broken piano. Marshall watched, aghast, and scampered out to the end of the pier.

  He stood among the passive cattle and saw the hideous destruction: tearing planks, swaying timbers. He shouted above the din, ‘Go back! Go back!’ He saw the Skipper cup his ear and bend enquiringly towards the engineman.

  ‘Go back! Go back!’

  The Skipper shrugged and with the engineman’s help pushed over the big lever to put the Puffer into reverse.

  Having won the mighty tug-of-war, the Maggie now pushed gamely in reverse. For a moment she could make no sternway. Her propeller thrashed the water, the pier resisted. Then slowly she began to move. Pushing the timbers which had become dislodged, she suddenly created worse damage by forcing some lateral bars to dislodge the beam on the far side. The beam collapsed suddenly, and the Puffer charged backwards into the pier. The whole structure crumbled under the onslaught.

  Marshall was caught unawares by the sudden collapse. He leaped to safety at the very end of the pier and then, turning in panic, screamed hoarsely, ‘No! No! The other way!’

  The Skipper and McGregor looked at each other and then at Marshall. Theirs not to reason why! They put the Puffer into forward gear again.

  As the Maggie pulled out, a worthy victor, she took with her most of the broken timbers of the pier. The large beam and an assortment of planks lay across her stern. As she pulled clear of the débris the rest of the jetty collapsed, sinking gracefully into the sea and leaving a clear gap of water between Marshall and the wharf.

  ‘Holy smoke!’ Standing, dazed and distraught, on his little island of wood, with the shaggy cattle looking mournfully at the damage, Marshall seemed too upset to move. He stared with a sort of horrified disbelief at the gap of water, the few floating timbers, the Maggie pulling discreetly out of earshot. But he was too stunned to shout, too bewildered for anger.

  A ship’s hooter sounded behind him. The CSS boat was coming at half-speed towards what remained of the pier. He heard the captain shout to one of his seamen, ‘Ach, will ye look at that! MacTaggart’s surpassed himself wi’ this.’

  The cargo vessel was alongside. A seaman leapt on to the pier, causing a minor stir among the cattle. A gangplank was lowered. Someone – the captain – was coming ashore. All of these movements registered in Marshall’s brain without causing him to turn. He was staring at the old Puffer, which, seeing that there was to be no immediate bloodshed, was sidling back to the wharf.

  The CSS captain came respectfully, commiseratingly, to Marshall’s shoulder.

  ‘Are you Mr Marshall, sir?’

  Still staring at the Puffer, Marshall answered slowly, ‘Well, I’m no longer absolutely sure.’

  The captain said apologetically, ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do for you, sir. We can’t get your cargo out here and we draw too much to put in by the wharf.’

  ‘I know.’

  The captain moved awkwardly away. ‘You realise . . . There’s nothing can get to it but a Puffer.’ He touched his cap. ‘Well . . . good day to you, sir.’

  Marshall slumped dispiritedly on a bollard while the cattle were driven on to the boat. He heard the gangplank being drawn up, the engine-room bell ringing. Without turning his head he knew that the boat which was to have been his salvation was pulling out into deep water, and that he was alone in his dejection. He sat with his chin resting in the palm of one hand. His thoughts turned introspectively to his own part in the sad affair. Could he have foreseen all that had happened? Would he have been tricked like this ten, twenty years ago? He wondered gloomily whether he was growing old. But common sense told him that you didn’t meet a lunatic genius every day of the week: once in a lifetime – if you were unlucky! The thing now was to cut his losses.

  Something bumped against the other side of the pierhead. He rose calmly enough and looked down at the wee boy, who was waiting with shipped oars in the dinghy. The small boat rose and fell, rose and fell, against the timber like a cat rubbing ingratiatingly against a trouser leg. The boy looked up without speaking, but obviously inviting the American to descend. Marshall rubbed his hands across his face, as though he could wipe out the angry thoughts. Then as he looked down expressively the boy reached up to him and smiled.

  He climbed, a beaten man, on to the wharf and slouched despondently across the road. In the pub the Skipper and crew of the Maggie eyed him uneasily. They leant against the bar with newly filled pint pots and watched him slump on one of the benches.

  The Skipper said understandingly, ‘Aye, it’s a bad business, sir, a bad business. I’m right sorry for ye, Mr Marshall.’ He waited cautiously an
d then waved his hand towards the array of bottles. ‘Can I get ye a wee drap . . . ?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  For a few uneasy minutes they drank in silence. The American still seemed like a man in a dream. The Skipper cleared his throat. ‘Of course, it’s not what ye wanted, Mr Marshall, but there’s no need for ye to worry unduly. Maybe the CSS boat couldn’t help ye, but there’s always the auld Maggie. We’ll be glad to help ye out.’

  ‘I know.’

  The Skipper seemed to be content to leave the matter there until McGregor nudged him back to the attack. He rubbed his hand over his beard. ‘Of course, ye understand, Mr Marshall, I have every sympathy for ye in your predicament. But it wouldna be in our best interests to take the job unless it was for the whole journey to Kiltarra . . .’ He hesitated as Marshall slowly raised his head ‘. . . and without meaning any offence, of course, it would simplify matters if you could see your way to letting us have the rest of our fee in advance.’

  Marshall stared at him for a full minute without speaking. Then, without a word, he took out his cheque-book and fountain pen.

  The Skipper turned with relief to the landlord. ‘Ah weel, John, ye’d better set them up again.’

  Chapter Twenty

  It seemed to Marshall that the village, which only an hour ago had seemed almost devoid of life, was now bustling with activity. MacTaggart and his crew were working with an efficiency he would not have thought possible. The donkey-engine whirled, the derrick swung. Hooks grappled, the ropes tautened. With an unbelievable swiftness the pile of cargo on the wharf diminished until there were only two crates, a length of timber.

  As the last crate was lifted Marshall saw a small gathering of villagers on the wharf. They were dressed for travelling and their luggage lay in a neat pile approximately where his own cargo had lain. He saw two suitcases, several boxes and some small crates containing ducks, a pair of geese, three young pigs and a turkey. Probably waiting for the bus, he thought, forgetting that the road he had walked along so painfully last evening was too rocky, too boggy, too pot-holed for any bus.

  He forgot about them as he turned to the telephone. With a fresh stack of shillings he tried once again to contact his own efficient world. By the time he had been connected with Glasgow and then with London he was even more dejected than before. He hung up the receiver and walked heavily to the door.

  The group of villagers had gone with their baggage, and as he walked across the wharf the mate and the wee boy started to cast off. He climbed aboard the Maggie and walked to his lonely position in the stern. As the Puffer began to slide away from the wharf the mate and the boy leapt on board. The Skipper signalled ‘Full speed’ and they moved smoothly out into the open sea.

  It was a grand day. The sun was high in the heavens now. The cottages of Loch Mora, the broken pier, the white road leading over the hill, dwindled and merged into the rising greenness of the mountain. The engines thumped steadily, a cohort of seagulls glided effortlessly over their wake.

  It was not long before the Skipper noticed that Marshall was not appreciating the beauty of the day. He called back, ‘Anything wrong, Mr Marshall?’

  Marshall said, ‘You’ll probably be amused to hear that Pusey is now out of jail.’

  The Skipper nodded. ‘Ach, aye. That’s good news, sir. I was very disturbed by that unfortunate . . .’

  Marshall walked past him to the hatch of the captain’s cabin. He paused at the top of the ladder and said bleakly, ‘And you’ll probably be equally amused when I tell you that my wife’s found out about what I’m doing, which is the one thing I didn’t want to happen.’ He went down the hatch, leaving the Skipper and the engineman mystified and rather concerned.

  Down in the cabin Marshall tried to work. He had some papers spread across the table, a schedule of accounts. But he couldn’t concentrate. He was like a gambler who had lost so heavily that caution seemed an unnecessary frustration. Time, time, time: he couldn’t – wouldn’t – calculate how much of it he had lost. Away on this nightmare adventure; Pusey in prison, Lydia restlessly probing; he wondered what sort of world he would return to if ever he succeeded in reaching Kiltarra.

  He rose and walked restlessly to the broken mirror. The stubbled, worried, unconfident face that confronted him was not the face of Calvin B. Marshall. Would he ever look the same again? He stuck out his jaw. At least he could try.

  As he climbed out of the hatch on to the deck he saw the Skipper watching him nervously from the wheelhouse. Marshall said, ‘I need a shave. Do you think you could lend me . . .’ He stopped and turned in amazement as a pig squealed loudly. He couldn’t believe it.

  On the deck near the bows lay the baggage he had seen on the wharf: the suitcases, the boxes, the crates of ducks and geese and pigs, a young turkey. He walked slowly across. His amazement was suddenly increased by the appearance of a child from behind the mast.

  ‘What the . . . !’ He looked up at the Skipper and then stopped in further surprise.

  Beside the wheelhouse, opposite the hatch, the villagers he had seen on the wharf were sitting and chatting with the crew. There were three men, two women, a young girl and the child. They were looking at him with interest and curiosity.

  As Marshall turned speechlessly towards the wheelhouse the Skipper handed over the wheel to the mate and walked down to the deck.

  ‘They were wanting a lift, sir. I thought ye would not mind if we dropped them off on the way.’ He turned and beckoned to the strangers, who came forward smiling affably. The first man held out his hand. The Skipper said, ‘Mr Marshall, Mr Macdougall.’

  Still bewildered, Marshall greeted, ‘How do you do, Mr Macdougall?’ He looked up at the sun. ‘South! Why are we sailing south?’

  The Skipper explained, ‘We have to take on some coal at Bellabegwinnie’; and then, quickly, ‘Mr Marshall, Mr Roger Macdougall.’

  Marshall shook hands again. ‘How are you?’ He still could orientate himself. ‘But isn’t that out of our way?’

  ‘Just a bit, sir, but it’ll . . .’ The Skipper beckoned one of the ladies. ‘Mrs Macdougall, Mr Marshall, the owner of our cargo. It will save us time in the end, sir.’ He presented the girl. ‘Miss Macdougall, this is Mr Marshall.’

  Refusing to panic, Marshall managed to force a smile. ‘How do you do?’

  Bellabegwinnie seemed even smaller, even more remote, than Loch Mora. Lining the harbour were a few houses, a tiny pub; not even a chapel. But despite its smallness there seemed to be quite a number of Bellabegwinnians moving about the pier and the front. The small harbour was crowded with other craft, another Puffer, a trawler, and several ring-net fishing boats. Standing in the bows Marshall noted their presence, and no more: he was past surprises. There comes a time in every period of suffering when the spirit turns from the thought of more pain. The mind goes stoically blank. Nothing matters any more: nothing. Marshall had reached this point.

  As the Maggie edged carefully between the litter of craft he didn’t try to reason what it was all about. Fingering his clean-shaven jowls, the patch of plaster on his chin, he waited for what fate would bring.

  It brought a friendly, humorous crowd of Bellabegwinnians, who waved, shouted, helped to secure the ropes. They seemed genuinely glad to see MacTaggart and his crew.

  Marshall climbed up on to the pier. He said, ‘I have an important call to make and I want to buy a change of clothes. Have we time for that?’

  The Skipper waved generously. ‘Oh, I think we might manage that, sir.’

  Marshall nodded, looked round at the gathering of boats, the unexpected crowd; but catching the Skipper’s bland expression he turned towards the cottages. He wasn’t going to reason things out. He wasn’t going to worry.

  There was more to the village than he had supposed. Round a shoulder of the hill there was a cluster of houses, a chapel, another pub. He even found a general stores. He looked at the goods in the window: fishing tackle, lead weights, paternosters, breakfast cereals, a sid
e of bacon; children’s bonnets, a lady’s dress, Wellingtons; brooms, shovels, a dustbin; a birdcage, flypaper, scouring powder. The door-bell pinged as he walked diffidently in.

  ‘Gude day, sir.’

  ‘Oh . . . good day. I wonder . . .’ He looked round in embarrassment and caught the interested gaze of two old women, a girl and a small boy who were waiting to be served.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wonder . . .’ He felt the colour mounting on his neck. ‘What I really want is some clothes.’

  ‘Clothes, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’ He asked. ‘You do sell clothes?’

  ‘Oh, aye. What sort of clothes would ye be wanting?’

  ‘Well . . .’ He gestured vaguely, like an unconfident actor before a critical audience. ‘Some trousers, some . . .’ He explained, ‘I want something a bit more suitable for sailing.’

  The lady behind the counter looked at his good city suit, now sadly stained and creased, his crumpled shirt and collar. She agreed, ‘Ye certainly want a change. Would ye care to go through to the parlour?’ She opened the inner door and shouted, ‘Jamie, here’s a gentleman wants some trews!’

  Later – much later, it seemed – he stepped self-consciously out into the village street. A heavy turtle-neck sweater, dungarees, and seamen’s boots. He was dreading the moment when the Maggie’s crew would see him first. He stopped a boy who was wobbling precariously past on a ramshackle bicycle.

  ‘Can you direct me to the post office?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can you direct me to the post office?’

  The boy stared at him as though he were mad. He pointed at the general stores. ‘Yon’s the post office.’

  Gathering the scattered threads of confidence he went back to the door. Ping! The shoppers, who had obviously been discussing him with relish, stared in fresh surprise. He went in, forgetting the step, and stumbled until his arms embraced a stout lady with a shopping bag.