Marshall asked sharply, ‘Well, can’t you fix it?’
‘It’s no use trying. I hav’na the tools.’
Marshall pushed past him and began to clamber down into the engine-room. There was no cause to doubt McGregor’s word. The rod was indeed eccentric. It had a distinct bend.
The engineman, thrusting his head into the hatch, called, ‘Ach, she’s finished. It’s no use. We haven’t anything we need. No tools, no . . .’
Marshall was already examining the eccentric rod with professional eyes. He felt it, estimating the strength they would need to get it straight. He turned over the miserable collection of tools.
‘This’ll do.’ He held up a turning bar. ‘Now run and get some wedges.’
The engineman began, ‘What do you want wedges . . . ?’
‘Get some wedges, you nitwit! Don’t just stand there.’
Up on deck the Skipper was in control of himself again. He was standing at the wheel, but there was nothing he could do except to stare at the roaring, seething, relentlessly-approaching line of rocks. Then, with destruction only a hundred yards away, he began to relax. He even gave a little optimistic smile. Mr Marshall was an engineer. Maybe he’d fix it!
Marshall was indeed fixing it. He had fitted the wedges so that he could get a full leverage on the eccentric rod with the turning bar. In a state of semi-hysteria the engineman was holding the wedges which Marshall was using as a fulcrum. The engineman was complaining, ‘Ach, I told him. He wouldna do anything I ask. The boiler hasna been cleaned in nearly a year. She’s showing salt everywhere, look at it! All the boiler valves are leaking . . .’
Straining at the bar, Marshall ordered, ‘Hold those wedges!’
‘He never gives me any waste or paraffin. The slice and the rake are almost burned away. And look at the fire-bars! I’ve got coal dripping into the ashpit! I’ve got no soap and soda, not even a decent chisel! And ye ought to hear what Hamish says: all the mooring ropes are falling to pieces, even the ratlings are gone. And the bogey-funnel smokes, ye can’t even eat decent. The spanners don’t fit, we never get any paint. It’s as much as he’ll do to . . .’ He broke off in astonishment as the rod began to give. Marshall was bearing down on it with all his strength. It was coming straight!
The engineman said, ‘She’ll break! She’ll come to pieces! Ye’ll never do it! Ye’ll put the whole engine apart!’
Before he had finished speaking the rod was straight. Breathing heavily, Marshall threw down the turning bar and stood up. ‘Now then, which is the main gear lever? Where . . .’
He was flung violently forward as the whole engine-room tilted and shuddered. There was a tremendous grating noise from the bows and the deafening roar of surf. The Maggie was on the rocks.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
As Marshall scrambled on to the deck it seemed for a moment that the others had already abandoned ship. Then out of the scuppers rose the mate, followed by the wee boy. They looked at each other, aghast. The boy turned and, slipping on the steeply tilted deck, clambered up to the wheelhouse.
As he pulled open the door they saw the dazed face of the Skipper, who was sprawling in an ungainly position, below the level of the windows.
‘Are ye all right, Captain, sir?’
Marshall joined the mate, who was leaning over the bulwarks. On the landward side the sea was comparatively calm.
‘Is she badly damaged?’
‘Ach, no sir – not yet. It’s when the tide comes in.’
The Skipper came slowly back to join them. For the first time Marshall saw him as an old man. The spirit had gone, and he looked tired and haggard as he stood gripping the rail and watching the triumphant seas breaking over the Maggie. From the slope of the deck it was apparent that she was down by the stern, with her bows clear of the water. She was leaning sideways so that to cross from the bulwarks to the hatchway was like walking up a steep hill.
The Skipper said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, that this should have happened at the last.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘At least ye’ll be able to get ashore. I’ll have the dinghy lowered.’ His grey beard settled on his chest and his brows jutted in despair. ‘Your cargo’ll be safe enough, sir. When ye get ashore ye’ll be able to get to Kiltarra within half an hour. Ye can make arrangements for another boat to come alongside us and trans-ship. Ye’ve got twelve hours and there’s plenty of craft about.’
The crew were already lowering the dinghy. The derrick reaching out from the side gave an impression of stability like the pole of a tightrope walker, but the Maggie was still shuddering at each wave.
Marshall did not move towards the dinghy. He asked, ‘But what happens when the next tide comes in?’
The Skipper shook his head and smiled, as though apologising for the Maggie’s frailty. ‘Ach, she’ll no’ be able to take that sort of punishment. It’ll break her back.’ He put his hand to his eyes and said with a touching air of pride, ‘Well, we got ye within five miles of Kiltarra, sir. It wasna too bad for an old Puffer.’
Marshall looked past him – to the crew who were waiting by the dinghy. He said, ‘And what if you jettison the cargo?’
‘Sir?’ The Skipper was startled.
‘What if you throw it over?’
‘But ye canna do that, sir. Ye canna . . .’
Marshall said impatiently, ‘Just answer the question.’
The Skipper stroked his beard. ‘Well, she’s near on high tide. If the wind held outside, the tide might no’ go away. We might have a chance.’ He looked straight at Marshall and frowned. ‘But ye canna be serious, man. It cost ye a lot more than what the boat is worth.’
Marshall squared his shoulders. ‘All right. Throw it over!’
He turned to face the engineman, the mate and the wee boy, who were looking at him in wonder. He said, ‘Don’t worry. It was bound to happen. It was all that was left that could happen.’
The Skipper argued querulously, ‘But, Mr Marshall, it cost ye over . . .’
‘Don’t tell me how much it cost,’ Marshall said. ‘Just throw the damn stuff over!’
They stared at him for a minute, as though considering his sanity, and then leapt to obey his command. The boy swung down into the hold, the engineman ran to the winch.
The first big crate, labelled Calvin B. Marshall, jerked and rose from its frame as the derrick hook pulled on its cords. It swung clear of the deck and was lowered to rest on the bulwark just in front of Marshall.
The American stared at it grimly. So many hopes, so much planning, to be thrown overboard to satisfy a whim! But if he felt any doubts at that point they were settled by the sight of the boy clambering up from the hold. The boy looked at him with eyes which showed gratitude and admiration, and then, seeing the huge expensive crate, turned to plant himself squarely in front of the Skipper.
Noticing the Skipper’s obvious embarrassment Marshall wondered what would happen next – what could happen? The Skipper shuffled, as though anxious to sidestep his responsibility, but then, unable to shake off the boy’s compelling stare, he came sheepishly forward to the rail. He cleared his throat loudly.
‘There’s just one thing I forgot to tell ye, sir.’
Marshall waited with a blank mind.
‘What with one thing and another, sir, I’m afraid we never got to the business of insuring the cargo.’
Marshall did not look at the Skipper. He was watching the crate poised on the bulwark. Was it worth it? Could anything justify such an expensive gesture? The Maggie groaned and shifted slightly as she settled more heavily on the rocks. The Skipper gave a deep sigh as though he had heard the death rattle of an old and dear friend. Marshall turned slowly and took one pace forward so that he was directly in front of the Skipper. He said, ‘MacTaggart, I want you to understand one thing, and I’m serious. . .. If you laugh at me for this, I swear I’ll kill you with my bare hands.’
He turned savagely to the mate. ‘Throw it over!’
In a fury of imp
atience he heard the winch lowering the derrick. The mate began to unfasten the hook. ‘Here!’ Marshall couldn’t bear the suspense. He struggled with the hook until it was clear of the rope, and then heaved desperately until the crate toppled over-board into the sea. They all looked down as the seething waters splashed and then closed over it as it sank to the ocean bed.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
(1)
The arrival of the Maggie at Glenbrashan caused something of a sensation. As Pusey came running down the hill from the hotel he passed several groups of villagers, all making for the pier. Pusey was nervous and spectacularly upset. He couldn’t understand what had happened, but, whatever it was, he felt that he would be blamed. Trotting at his shoulder was the reporter, still wiping the traces of an interrupted breakfast from his mouth. Pusey was complaining to himself, ‘I don’t understand. I don’t understand.’
As he came down to the harbour he saw that the Maggie was already tied up at the pier. He trotted out, like a worried hen, and stared down into the empty hold.
‘The cargo! Mr Marshall!’
He stumbled towards the wheelhouse, passing close to three members of the crew. He shouted across to the Skipper, ‘What’s happened? Where’s Mr Marshall?’
The Skipper jerked his thumb towards the three men he had just passed. Pusey stared unbelievingly at the man he had not recognised – dressed in blue seaman’s clothes, unshaven, and with wild hair.
‘Mr Marshall!’
Marshall asked, ‘Is my wife here?’
‘She’s up at the hotel, sir.’
Marshall stared up at a large house on a promontory overlooking the harbour. He had arrived at last. Several villagers were watching him from the end of the pier, and a man was coming forward with a curious air of respect. It was the reporter, Fraser.
‘Mr Marshall . . .’ The reporter stopped, noticing the empty hold. He turned questioningly. ‘They sent me to try to find a pay-off to the story, sir, but this is really something. What happened?’
Marshall shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me. I couldn’t tell you.’
The Skipper, the engineman and the mate were grouped, somewhat ceremoniously, across the pier, with the boy sitting apart, on a bollard. The Skipper, plainly nervous, raucously cleared his throat.
‘Well?’
The Skipper began, ‘Mr Marshall, there was just one small problem, if you could give us your opinion on it.’ He hesitated and wetted his lips. ‘Apart from expressing our appreciation . . . for what ye . . . uh . . .’
Marshall waved his hand, anxious to get away. ‘That’s all right, MacTaggart. Forget it.’
The Skipper continued, ‘Well, we was wondering, sir, as there was some misunderstanding about whether we should have carried the cargo in the first place, and as – due to various circumstances – we took somewhat longer than we planned in getting to Kiltarra, and as unfortunately we didn’t insure the cargo, and – especially as the cargo is all lying at the bottom of the sea . . .’
‘Well?’
Slowly, reluctantly, the Skipper took out his wallet. ‘We was wondering, sir, if perhaps ye might feel er, er . . . it would be right to – er, to offer to give ye your – er – money back . . .’
Marshall said firmly and affably, ‘MacTaggart, in the seven days I’ve known you that’s the first thing you’ve said that made any sense.’
The Skipper, who had the cheque half out of his wallet, seemed absolutely stunned. He swallowed deeply and put the cheque into Marshall’s outstretched hand. There were real tears in his eyes as he watched it go.
Then, unexpectedly, the boy spoke up: ‘Ach, if ye’re no’ going to pay us for doing the job, so we can get our plates put right, why didn’t ye just let her sink on the rocks? Ye might as well.’
They were silent as they considered the wee boy’s analysis of the basic logic of the situation. Marshall turned to him, wanting to explain but finding no words. He waved his hand helplessly, turned as if for help to the grinning reporter, and then, utterly defeated, handed the cheque back to the Skipper.
The next minute he was overwhelmed with good wishes. The Skipper said with emotion, ‘It’s been a great pleasure to have been associated with ye, sir. We’ll never forget ye.’
The mate took his hand. ‘I hope we’ll meet ye again, sir.’
Above it all the engineman said, ‘Aye, and if ye’re ever wanting another job done . . .’
Marshall looked at him closely, but he seemed quite sincere. He nodded and started to walk away.
‘Goodbye, Mr Marshall.’ Their warm farewells followed him down the pier.
‘And gude luck to ye.’ The boy’s cheerful, faintly derisive call was like a blow on the back. Marshall stopped and turned. Without altering his bland expression the boy met Marshall’s hard and speculative stare. For a few moments they looked at each other in silence. Then, somewhere behind the eyes, the boy smiled, and, with only the faintest movement of his lips, Marshall returned the smile. He turned reluctantly and, with one last look at the Maggie, started up the steep hill to the hotel.
(2)
The landlord of Dirty Dan’s was drying a glass tankard on his apron as he looked out over the docks. It was a typical grey day in Glasgow, with a lowering sky almost touching, it seemed, the high tops of the cranes, the masts of the liners, the tall warehouses. On the placid water all kinds of boats were floating – at anchor, in the repair basin, chugging across the river, coming thankfully in from the sea. The smoke from a dozen funnels hung in the heavy atmosphere, the seagulls whirled, a drizzle of rain was falling.
The landlord came idly to the window as another, smaller, vessel came in from the sea. A Puffer. He turned, grinning, to his only customer, Skipper Anderson of the CSS.
‘There’s an old Puffer coming in.’
‘Aye?’ Anderson’s voice was non-committal. He was halfway through the latest murder case.
‘It wouldn’t be the Maggie, I’m thinking,’ the landlord added wistfully. ‘I always hoped she’d come back.’
‘What for?’
The landlord shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe to hear the whole story – as MacTaggart tells it.’
Captain Anderson put down his newspaper and chuckled. ‘Aye, it was a good story – MacTaggart at his best. It’s a wonder he didn’t end up in jail.’
‘He will yet.’
Anderson laughed tolerantly. ‘Ah, well, MacTaggart’s a real character. Ye’ll not find many like him these days.’
The landlord nodded as he arranged the tankards in neat rows at the back of the bar. It was early yet. In another hour the dockyard hooter would go, and he wouldn’t be able to fill them quickly enough. By the time he had done this and mopped the polished counter the Puffer was directly below, hardly a stone’s throw from his bar. He watched her with mild interest. The window of the wheel-house was misted over and he couldn’t see the captain or the crew. But the name was clear enough, painted in large and rather sloppy lettering along the side. The landlord picked up a pair of binoculars he always kept beneath the bar. He asked in a puzzled voice, ‘Have you ever heard of a Puffer called . . .’ he pronounced each word slowly – ‘the CALVIN B. MARSHALL?’
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