The Quick Boat Men, page 3
The sacrifice took Edward’s breath away.
‘Sam said you were going to sign on a ship. Will you be all right?’
‘Why not?’
‘All those rough men. Father worked with the Missions to Seamen for a time and he’s always telling the most dreadful stories about them.’ She glanced about her. The sun had lost its brilliance and the white glare had changed to a bronze glow. ‘I think I ought to be going. Teddy. But I wanted to say goodbye.’
‘I’m only going for a week.’
‘All the same–’ Blushing furiously, she leaned over the handlebars of her cycle and kissed him.
‘What’s that for?’
‘Just in case,’ she said.
‘Just in case what?’
‘Just in case it’s more than a week.’
He walked round the village, lonely and at a loss to know what to do with himself. It was still daylight when Sam appeared. He had the look of a cat that had been at the cream.
‘I thought you were going out with Alice,’ Edward said.
‘She had to go home,’ said Sam. ‘We were going to the church social but her Grandma had a turn and she was only allowed a couple of hours.’
‘Where did you go?’
‘Down Acre Lane.’
‘There’s nothing down Acre Lane.’
Sam grinned. ‘There’s fields,’ he said. ‘Some of ’em with tall corn.’
‘You never–?’
Sam grinned from ear to ear. ‘Mind your own bloody business.’ Changing the subject, he said, ‘Where are you spending the night?’
‘Don’t know.’
‘Where did you sleep last night?’
‘Brown’s barn. There was plenty of straw. It was warm enough.’
As they talked, the door of the Three Eels opened and Maurice emerged, in white flannels, boater and blazer.
‘We’ve got company,’ Sam said.
‘Oy!’ Maurice looked as though he had had a bellyful of beer. ‘Brat!’ With him was Barnaby Scholes-Dever from the Manor House, Colonel Scholes-Dever’s son, a good-looking blond young man carrying a cane. He had recently been sent down from Cambridge.
‘You talking to me?’ Edward’s voice was shaking and he fought to hold it steady.
Maurice advanced on him, smoking a cigar, his face damp with sweat.
‘One in the guts ought to sort him out,’ Sam murmured. ‘I’ll be off.’
‘Why?’ At the very least, Edward had been expecting moral support.
‘I still work for the boat-yard,’ Sam said hurriedly.
‘You little bastard,’ Maurice said. He seemed to tower over Edward. ‘You nearly drowned me.’
Edward swallowed. ‘Pity I didn’t,’ he said.
‘You’re asking for a hiding. I’ve given you hidings before. You’re due for another.’
‘Sort him out, Maurice, old boy,’ Scholes-Dever said. ‘And make it quick. It’s time we were off. The girls’ll be waiting.’
Maurice suddenly lashed out. It wasn’t a hard blow but it sent a whole core of vengeful fury surging up inside Edward. As his cousin paused to remove his blazer, Edward’s right fist struck him on the side of the head and sent him reeling.
While Maurice was still stumbling about with his arms trapped in the sleeves of his blazer, Edward rushed him head-first, fists swinging. Maurice was knocked flat on his back.
‘You rotten little cheat,’ he snarled.
As Maurice struggled to his feet, one arm still in the sleeve of his blazer, Edward rushed at him again. Maurice tried an uppercut. The buttons on the cuff of the free sleeve struck Edward across the eyes, almost blinding him, but the material took away the force of the blow. He sent Maurice hopping with a kick on the shins and, before he could recover, swung hard with left and right. Maurice was on his back again, startled, dazed and wondering what had hit him.
Edward was about to step back, when he remembered what Sam had said about not letting up. Diving on top of his cousin, he grabbed a handful of carefully-oiled hair, yanked up Maurice’s head and slammed it back on the pavement. Maurice’s eyes rolled.
As Edward climbed to his feet, Scholes-Dever lunged at him with his cane.
Swinging round, Edward snatched away the stick and, swiping out with it, heard Scholes-Dever yelp with pain. Breaking the cane across his knee and tossing it aside, he managed to punch Maurice again as he struggled to his knees.
‘All right! All right!’ It was the voice of the landlord of the Three Eels. ‘Stop this bloody lark! I’m not having fighting on my premises. Bugger off, the lot of you! I’ve sent the pot-boy for the police.’
Maurice staggered upright, his face suddenly green, as the landlord interposed himself between them. Remembering bouts he’d seen at fairs where old pugilists, well versed in the tricks of the trade, had taken on all comers for a sovereign, Edward recalled how they had used the referee as a shield. Now, as the landlord struggled to separate them, Edward dodged under his outspread arms and landed a right hook to Maurice’s stomach.
Maurice went down again, sat up, lifting himself on one elbow, and vomited the beer he had drunk into the gutter and down the front of his blazer.
‘You bastard,’ he panted. ‘You didn’t give me a chance.’
‘I’ll never give you a chance again, Maurice,’ he said. ‘Remember that.’ He turned to find himself facing Scholes-Dever who backed off.
‘And you keep out of my way, too,’ he said, ‘or I’ll do the same to you.’
‘Never you mind doing anything to anybody,’ the landlord yelled. ‘Just you wait until PC Spicer arrives. He’ll sort you out. Fighting on my forecourt. Committing a public nuisance. Drunk and disorderly.’
God, Edward thought, there was going to be hell to pay when Uncle Egg found out. He could see Constable Spicer, portly and sporting a large moustache, puffing round the corner on his bicycle from the police house.
‘Time I was off,’ he said to the landlord. ‘Thanks for the warning.’
Rubbing his ear where Maurice had hit him, Edward walked away with as much dignity as he could manage.
‘Oy! You there!’
The sound of Constable Spicer’s voice set his feet moving faster. Once round the corner into Acre Lane, he started running.
‘Hold it, kid.’ Sam Nankidno caught Edward’s arm and pulled him behind the hedge.
‘Well done,’ he said. ‘But, make no mistake, you’ve made a nasty enemy there.’
Edward suddenly felt rather shaky after the elation of his victory.
‘What are you going to do now?’ Sam asked.
‘Walk to Portsmouth, I think.’
‘You’ll need a good meal and a bed first. Come on home with me. My Ma’ll see you right. I’ll tell Gussie in the morning what you intend.’
‘You’d better not tell her about tonight.’
‘No need. She saw the lot.’
‘What?’
‘She’d just reached the corner when the fun started.’
‘Oh, Christ!’
Sam shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t worry, if I was you. I heard her say, “Go on, Teddy. Hit him.”’
Three
Sam’s weekly boat turned out to be a tatty old barge that looked as though she was normally used to carry rubbish. The skipper wore a bowler hat and the rest of the crew seemed to consist solely of a boy and a dog. Edward had a feeling he could do better.
It had started to rain and the lights reflected from the wet pavements, but Edward could smell the sea, the real sea, not the river where the boat-yard lay, and he experienced a violent surge of emotion, as the bonds that held him to home dropped away. He gazed at the tall cigarette-shaped funnels and, beyond them, the masts and spars of sailing vessels.
‘You thinkin’ o’ goin’ to sea, son?’
The voice seemed to come from under his left arm and he swung round to find himself facing a small man in a cap with a face like a ferret.
For two days he had been debating with himself. Was he doing the right thing? Ought he to go home and throw himself on Egg’s mercy? Ought he even just go back to school and let them sort it out?
‘Yes,’ he said decisively. ‘I am.’
‘In that case,’ the little man said, ‘you’ll need a ship, won’t you?’
‘Do you know of one?’
‘Not half. Dolly Colgate. Tramp. Due for Cape Town and the East. Mixed cargo. Birmingham tools. Manchester cloth. Scrap iron.’
As the little man moved closer under the light of the gas lamp, Edward noticed that his teeth fitted badly and jiggled in his mouth as he spoke so that he still seemed to be talking after the sound had stopped.
‘Do they need a hand?’ he asked.
‘Looking for a deck boy and an ordinary seaman. You’d do for the deck boy.’
‘Who’re you? The mate?’
‘Not bloody likely. Name’s Jimmy Oxshott. I just give a ’and now and again to ’elp ’em make up numbers. What some people call a tout.’
‘Oh.’
‘Don’t let that worry you. You don’t ’ave to pay. The Dolly Colgate sorts that out. Now then, what about your gear?’
‘I haven’t got much.’
‘In that case, you’ll need some. You’ll also need a few tips on what to do. Everybody needs a few tips first time out.’
‘How do you know it’s the first time?’ he asked.
Oxshott sniggered. ‘Sticks out like the warts on a warthog, son,’ he said. ‘So just watch yourself. Don’t let ’em bully you. They’re bastards for that. And avoid fights. If you get into one, remember the old maxim. Twice blest is he who knows his cause is just, thrice blest is he who gets ’is blow in fust.’ It was much the same advice as Sam Nankidno had offered. ‘And keep away from women.’ He sniffed. ‘Tell the feller on the dock gate I sent you. It’ll be all right.’
The little ferret vanished as abruptly as he’d appeared. For a while Edward debated what to do, then he headed for the dock gate. A whiskery man in a little cabin looked up. He was drinking tea from a mug with a vast black crack down its side that looked as if it were a breeding ground for germs.
‘I’ve been told to report to the Dolly Colgate,’ Edward said.
‘God ’elp you. Who sent you?’
‘Chap called Oxshott.’
‘That old bugger. All right. If he’s sent you, you can go. She’s down here to starboard. You’ll see her. There’s a sign up on the bridge.’
The docks were silent except for a steam winch in the distance clattering as stores were hoisted on board. The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle that raised damp haloes round the gas lamps.
Edward found the Dolly Colgate without trouble, a towering black hull and a tall funnel like a Woodbine, linked to the quay by ropes and a solitary gangway. An old man was sitting on a large upturned crate at the end of the gangway reading Peg’s Paper by the light of a hurricane lamp.
‘This the Dolly Colgate?’ Edward asked.
The man didn’t bother to look up. ‘That’s what it says up there.’
‘I’ve been told to report aboard.’
‘Who’re you?’
‘Edward Dante Bourdillon. I’m the deck boy.’
‘First time?’
It seemed there was no point in denying it. ‘Yes,’ Edward said.
‘Christ help you. Up the gangway, then forrard. As far as you can go without falling off the end. You’ll see two alleyways. Take the one on your right. T’other’s the black gang’s. They’d murder you. You’ll see two cabins. Don’t go in them. One’s the bosun’s. The one beside it’s the carpenter’s and he’s a swine. The little cabin next door’s for the deck boy and the ordinary seamen. Right at the end’s the forecastle. Don’t go in there. They don’t like people pinchin’ their bunks and they’re a right load of buggers. Other side of the alleyway’s the messdeck and the daymen’s cabin. Don’t go in there, either. They’re old hands and they don’t like new boys.’
Edward slowly climbed the gangway. Clearly, there were more hazards to going to sea than he’d imagined. He picked his way among coils of heavy rope hawsers, winches, ring bolts and hatch covers. Finding the forecastle, he stared about him.
It looked like a prison. Painted a uniform grey, it consisted of a group of bunks made of iron piping and iron slats on which were sacking mattresses. These, he discovered later, were filled with straw and known as donkeys’ breakfasts. With each was a pillow of the same material. The minute cabin next door contained three bunks and three lockers.
Tossing his few possessions on to one of the bunks, he sat down on a wooden bench which was the only other furniture, and contemplated his future. If the surroundings were anything to go by, it looked pretty bleak. He was tempted to bolt. But he couldn’t face the old man at the end of the gangway. ‘Don’t fancy it? Bit too rough for you? No Mummy to tuck you up at night.’ He could imagine the comments already.
There was a sudden commotion on the quayside. It sounded as if someone were being murdered. Gradually the shouting died down to what sounded like pleas for help and Edward decided someone had been attacked and rolled for his money. His conscience told him he ought to help, or at least investigate, and he climbed back on deck.
‘Stupid old sod,’ the watchman said, to no one in particular.
‘Who?’
‘Him.’
The old man jerked a thumb and by the pale glow from a cluster of lights above the deck, Edward saw a sprawling figure, swathed in a twisted overcoat, lying face down in a puddle on the cobbled surface of the quayside.
‘Is he dead?’ he asked.
‘Nah,’ the watchman said. ‘Drunk.’
They knelt down beside the prostrate man and turned him over. The stink of booze was enough to rock Edward back on his heels.
‘Pooh!’ the watchman said. ‘Ripe as an old kipper.’
‘Swimming,’ the drunken man mumbled. ‘Swimming for me life.’
They helped him to a sitting position, which wasn’t easy. His arms and legs seemed boneless.
‘Touch o’ sciatica,’ he said. ‘Gets me knees.’
‘Sciatica be buggered,’ the watchman commented. ‘You’re pissed. It’s the donkeyman,’ he explained to Edward. ‘He always gets hisself paralytic.’
The donkeyman choked suddenly and fished in his mouth to hook out a set of false teeth which he stuffed into his pocket. ‘That’s better.’ he said. ‘I can hear what you’re sayin’ now.’
He was screwing up his eyes to peer at Edward but he could obviously see no more than a blurred image. As they lifted him to his feet, somehow their legs became entangled and they all fell down.
‘Excuse me crossing your bows,’ the donkeyman apologised solemnly above the bitter curses of the watchman as they sorted themselves out. ‘Steam always gives way to sail. Me balance’s gone. Sunk without trace.’
The watchman tried to drag him upright by his coat sleeves.
‘Leave it out,’ the donkeyman said peremptorily. ‘I can manage.’ Squinting at the watchman, he muttered, ‘Bugger me, if it isn’t ’Arry Armitage.’
The watchman spat.
‘There’ll be plenty more like him tonight,’ the watchman said, as they lowered the donkeyman on to his bunk.
Edward was just making up his mind to try and get some sleep himself when another row started. This time it was the bosun and the carpenter. They were both Swedes and it was hard to tell whether they were helping each other or having a fight.
About ten drunks later, Edward climbed into his bunk. Straw, that protruded through the sacking pillow, pricked his cheek. But Edward didn’t care. He was exhausted. As he pulled the coarse blanket over him, he heard a roistering voice somewhere on deck.
‘There was Brown, upside-down,
Moppin’ up the whisky off the floor–’
The song was interrupted by a crash, and then silence. But suddenly the song started again.
‘“Booze, booze,” the fireman cried
As they came knockin’ at the door–’
There was a thump and a curse.
‘Oh, the wheel flew off the hearse
An’ the coffin fell out in the road–’
The singer now was outside the door.
‘An’ the wider got outa the carriage
An’ she said “Goddam the–”’
The song came to a full stop as the door smashed open. Framed in the entrance was an enormous man.
‘’Tis a quare ole song, that one bhoyo,’ he shouted.
His face was worn by the wind and the weather and his eyes were glazed in a luminous opal stare. His hair was black and stood stiffly upright as though he’d had an electric shock.
‘Francis Xavier McWilliams,’ he announced. ‘They also call me Xavier William McFrancis and William Francis McXavier. Sure, it don’t matter. I have the dhrink taken.’ Like a falling oak, he slowly toppled to the floor. Edward left him where he lay, and was not even bothered by the snores.
The following morning, dressed in dungarees and nervous as a lion tamer going solo for the first time, Edward breakfasted off burgoo – a rather tasteless porridge – eggs, fried to the consistency of stones, and bread.
Three bright-eyed youngsters, who clearly had been sober the night before, produced the meal in huge dixies.
‘Tuck in,’ one of them said. ‘There’s plenty. The rest of ’em won’t be out for a while yet.’
They were all able seamen and very young – one was only sixteen. Knowing it required four years at sea to become an able seaman, the startled Edward realised the boy must have first gone to sea at the age of twelve. What, then, had he to worry about?
‘Enjoy it while you can,’ the youngest said. ‘It won’t be this good tomorrow. It’ll be fried liver out of tins with all the pipes in and it’ll taste like boot soles cooked in paraffin. I know the cook. I’ve sailed with him before. This is just to kid everybody she’s not a starvation ship.’
When the call came to go on deck to cast off moorings, in his anxiety Edward was ahead by a long way. The next to appear were the three youngsters. The mate produced the ship’s articles for Edward to sign on, whilst the rest turned up, grey-faced, in ones or twos. As they hefted the heavy mooring ropes, they moved like zombies.
