A Ravel of Waters

Tideman and I set off down the deck. As we passed No. 4 mast, 'Thursday', where the engine room was situated, Tideman said in a casual tone, quite different to his attitude on the bridge; 'Do you also want the diesels to go on sea or harbour duty?'

Did he suspect that 1 had something in mind for the night? 'Full sea watch’ I replied.

At the stern, men were securing the two boats I had recalled. They fell silent as we approached but there didn't seem to be any anger or resentment directed at me.

The small outboard was bobbing under the counter. I was just about to swing myself down a rope, when a tall, elderly man dressed in a fancy dude yachting outfit erupted from the companion-way. I knew at once it had to be Sir James Hathaway whose presence on board I had completely forgotten.

'You the new skipper?' he barked. 'Damn well hope you can do better; than that dago who got us into this godforsaken hole! Wait until Axel gets to know about this. Confined to the ship. Disgraceful! British territory, too. What the devil goes on here? Not even allowed to communicate with the outside world. And what, may I ask, do you propose to do about it, young man? Never thought much of sailing ships. Always trouble of one kind or another…'

He'd have gone on ranting had I not matched decibels with him.

'Sir James,' I shouted, 'Sir James, just a minute please. Just a minute. Yes, I'm the new skipper. I've just arrived here. My name is Peter Rainier and I'm just off to discuss matters with Mr Dawson, the chief magistrate. I have instruction from Mr Thomsen, who appointed me not two days ago, to get this ship out of this hole, as you call it, and I intend to do it. Now, I have an appointment to keep, and if you'll forgive me, I must go.'

And without paying further attention to him, I slid down into the waiting outboard, kick-started the motor, and accelerated across the calm waters to the main jetty.

I tied up as a party of men, laughing and joking, came down the hill with their arms full of parcels. I stopped one of them with cartons of beer under each arm. He looked as big as the cathedral spire in the background. I guessed he was one of Tideman's sailor-paratroopers.

‘I’m the new skipper’ I told the men. 'I'm sorry, lads, but the party's off. All that stuff will have to go back. I'll sign any receipts for the supermarket's benefit. Then get yourselves back aboard.'

The big man hugged the cartons. He asked with the same eagerness as Tideman and Kay had questioned me, 'We're sailing, are we, sir?' 'Today?' demanded another.

I knew a good crew when I saw one. These were the sort of men who wouldn't baulk at putting the gaskets on a sail in the wild icy bedlam of a Southern Ocean gale at midnight.

I evaded a direct reply. 'I'm hurrying to an appointment uptown. I'll let you know.'

'No picnic either?' asked another. He looked more like a machineman than a seaman.

'You can go by yourself if you like,' I jollied him. 'But I won't guarantee I'll stop the ship and pick you up at Cape Pembroke as we pass by.'

That raised a laugh. I left the men arguing a little ruefully about lugging the stores back up the hill.

As I turned from the jetty past a row of so-English, red brick, bow-windowed houses with green, red and light blue roofs to walk the half mile or so to the magistrate's office, the machineman's voice reached me faintly. 'That new skipper's a bit of a bastard but I think I could go along with him.' It was more than I could say of Mr Ronald Dawson.

The chief magistrate's office, situated at the western end of the harbour between the Secretariat and the Town Hall, overlooked what was known as the Government jetty. His office was dominated by a framed print of Keith Griffin's fine painting of the S.S. Great Britain on, her maiden voyage. There was also a contrasting blow-up photograph of the famous vessel lying derelict in Sparrow Cove – just beyond The Narrows – before her historic salvage and restoration in 1970. An old ship's mercury barometer, nearly a metre long, all glass and brass, completed the nautical air of the office. The rest of the atmosphere was provided by Dawson's supercilious attitude.

His one concession to my being a fellow human being was his perfunctory handshake. Boxers in the ring do it more kindly when they are about to batter one another.

His eyes ranged over my workaday sailor's rig. 'My information is that you are to replace Mr Grohman as captain of Jetwind'

ЈMy information is that Grohman was never appointed to command the ship.' 'So?' 'I had it from the owner himself.'

Dawson had a way of drawing in the left-hand corner of his sandy moustache with his lower canine tooth after he had spoken, as if sharpening his next words.

I said, without mincing words, 'Grohman wasn't able to handle the situation after Captain Mortensen's death. He blew the record attempt – and his own chances.'

The canine tooth gnawed. 'That is only a matter of opinion.'