Complete New Tales of Para Handy (64 page)

The communities centred around Holy Loch and its immediate environs, were — at the zenith of communication by water on the Clyde — the very heart of commuter-land both in terms of travel to work (in Glasgow), and travel to shop (either in Greenock or closer at hand in Dunoon.) As a result, within a space of just a few miles on the Cowal shore of the Firth, there were steamer piers at Blairmore, Strone, Kilmun, Ardnadam, Hunter's Quay and Kirn. All had regular communications with the principal Cowal pier at Dunoon, and with the railheads of Gourock, Greenock and Craigendorran, as well as the Broomielaw or Bridge Wharf in the heart of Glasgow itself.

The
Dandie Dinmont
, launched from the Partick yard of Messrs A and J Inglis of Pointhouse in 1895, was the regular Holy Loch steamer for most of her working life. Named, like all steamers in the North British Company's fleet, after a character from one of Sir Walter Scott's novels, she was 195' overall with handsome saloons fore and aft. Her contemporaries in the North British fleet included the remarkable
Lucy Ashton
, a product of the
real
‘Upper Clyde', built by Seath's of Rutherglen in 1888. Only MacBrayne's
Iona
— broken up in 1936 after no less than 72 years in service — could be regarded as a more potent link to the Victorian era. ‘Lucy' survived two World Wars and was only withdrawn from service in 1949, still within the living memory and, above all, the practical experience of countless Clyde enthusiasts.

54

The Gunpowder Plot

M
any residents of the West Highlands are angry at the way in which successive governments have used the area as a convenient dumping ground for industrial activity of a risky nature — such as the manufacture of explosives: or for testing the efficiency and effectiveness of a wide variety of experimental maritime or martial hardware — from submarines to land mines.

Many
more
residents would be equally angry if they were aware of such activity in the first instance, but it is in the nature of government to admit little and divulge less, and as a result obfuscation of the truth is nowadays an art form in political and military circles.

Thus one of the better-kept secrets of the Ardlamont peninsula is the presence, in the tiny clachan of Millhouse on the narrow winding road from Tighnabruaich to the Otter Ferry, of a not insubstantial manufactory of black gunpowder — established two generations ago in 1839. It is indeed from this very enterprise that the little village derives its name, though the majority of visitors passing through it (and there are, sadly, very few of these despite the general growth of tourism on the fringes of the Firth of Clyde) are unaware of its presence. They assume that the group of buildings enclosed within a high dry-stone wall and just visible from the road, through a barred iron gate bearing a nameboard reading simply ‘Mill', are intended for the more acceptable and less controversial activity of grinding corn or barley.

Even Para Handy himself, regular habitue of the Kyleside piers though he is, never ventured inland of Kames and thus remained in total ignorance of the existence of that Gunpowder Mill until the bizarre chain of events, which are here related for the first time, were set in motion by a peremptory summons to the offices of the owner of the
Vital Spark.

The Captain made his way along the Broomielaw in the direction of those rarely-visited premises with considerable trepidation, mentally reviewing the events of recent weeks with the aim of identifying in advance the (hopefully minor) peccadillo for which he was about to be called to book.

He need not have worried. The owner himself greeted him in the lobby and, throwing a comradely arm over Para Handy's shoulder, ushered him into his inner sanctum, sat him down, and offered a cigar from the humidor atop his leather-inlaid desk.

“We have been commissioned to undertake a rather unusual and challenging contract, Peter,” said the owner: “and it was at once clear to me that only the
Vital Spark
could be trusted to fulfil it satisfactorily.”

Para Handy positively glowed with pride.

“There is a vessel wrecked on the Burnt Islands to the west of Colintraive,” the owner continued. “Just a small schooner, but her cargo must be recovered urgently. The salvage team have reported to her owners that the only type of ship able to come near her is a puffer, which can get alongside and then ground on the shoals when the tide goes out.”

He spread out a sea-chart — one of the very few that Para Handy had ever seen — on the desk between them.

“A larger steamship would have far too much draft to come into this channel even at high tide, and of course no sailing vessel with any sort of keel would be able to ground on the ebb tides without heeling over to such a degree that she wouldn't be able to work her derrick.

“It's either a steam-lighter, or nothing.”

“Well you need have no fear at aal on that score,” said Para Handy confidently, “for the
Vital Spark
iss more than capable of doing the chob.”

“Good!” The owner smiled expansively. “I was sure that would be your reaction, Peter: and I am sure too that there could well be a modest bonus for her Captain once the job is complete.”

There was a pause as the implications of that last, and unrehearsed, statement sank in to both parties.

“So what iss her cairgo, then?” asked Para Handy — more out of a desire to fill that embarrassing silence than from any real concern about the matter.

“Butter,” said the owner after a moment. “Salted butter: from Islay, in barrels for export.”

At which juncture the owner shuffled his feet noisily under the polished mahogany desk, and twisted uncomfortably in his swivel chair before ringing the bell at his right hand and, when his clerk put his head round the frosted-glass door from the outer room with an enquiring glance, instructing that worthy to fetch the bottle of whisky from the safe and pour two generous drams.

“Are we no' puttin' in to Colintraive for the night?” queried Dougie with some surprise as the smartest boat in the coasting trade hiccuped past that attractive settlement at eight o'clock the following evening.

It was a pleasantly mild late September gloaming and the lights of the little Kyleside village twinkled invitingly in the gathering dusk, those of the Inns on the low ridge above the pier particularly conspicuous and especially promising of a warm welcome and good company.

“Owner's orders,” said Para Handy. “He iss frightened that there could be something stole from the wreck — from her accoutrements or her cairgo. Remember what Hurricane Jeck got up to in the Kyles wi' yon steam yat the
Eagle
that her owner abandoned at Tighnabruaich! He strupped her of efferything that wassna nailed doon — and maist o' the things that wass as weel! So the owner wants us to moor chust off of Burnt Island ass a deterchent to ony o' the light-fingered chentry, and then to go alongside her and ground on the ebb at furst light tomorrow to transfer the cairgo.”

Once they had dropped anchor 50 yards from the sorry-looking remains of the two-masted schooner
Caroline Anne
, her foremast broken off at deck level and lying athwartships with rigging and sails trailing overboard in a tangle of sodden rope and canvas, Para Handy — to the crew's disgust — produced a piece of paper from his trousers pocket and recited a watch roster for the hours of darkness.

Sunny Jim, on the dawn shift, was astonished to see — as the light grew brighter — that there were crowds assembled on the water's edge to either hand. Those on the Bute shore had had an arduous walk over rough country to reach their viewpoint, for this northern tip of the island was barren and normally without any human presence. Today however a goodly number of men, women and children were to be seen on the rocky beach, many of them (just like their counterparts on the opposite shore) studying the
Vital Spark
closely through binoculars or telescopes.

When the puffer was successfully beached alongside the stranded schooner the unloading process began, as a cargo consisting of small wooden barrels was transferred from the hold of one ship to the hold of the other in netting slings. From the shore came great whooping cries of “Oooooh!” each time the laden sling was swung between the vessels, and a hearty cheer once its load had been safely lowered into the main-hatch of the
Vital Spark
.

“Ah cannae think whit's so interestin' aboot a cairgo o' butter firkins,” protested Macphail for the umpteenth time, as another whoop marked the progression of a fully-laden net from schooner to puffer: “and it's no' as if they havnae seen plenty o' shups stranded on the Burnt Islands afore noo. There must be precious little doin' in Rothesay or along the Kyles if this is seen as entertainment for a family day oot!”

“They iss a funny kind o' firkin, forbye,” said Dougie, “for I have neffer before seen Islay butter packed in barrels wi' a bleck Jolly Roger flag pentit' on the lids — usually it iss the picture of a coo.”

“Naw,” said Macphail with a snort, “that disnae surprise me at all, that's their trade-mark. Maist o' the fairmers in Islay are naethin' but a crew o' pirates: they'd rook ye blind sooner than look ye in the e'e. If ye'd mind whit we wis payin' for tatties in Port Askaig last month then ye'd hiv tae wonder that they dinna mak' ony visitin' seaman walk the plank aff the toon pier-heid as a deevershun for the lieges on a Setturday nicht.

“Onyway, if it's flags ye're on aboot, did you ever see wan as trauchled as thon auld rag hingin' on the
Caroline Ann
?”

And he pointed aloft to the schooner's mast-head, where a plain red burgee, tattered at the edges and stained by a continuing exposure to the weather of many years, flapped idly in a light southerly breeze.

At which moment, the last load having been swung aboard the
Vital Spark
, Sunny Jim (acting on instructions given earlier by his Captain) launched the puffer's punt and rowed off towards Colintraive and its well-stocked Inn with a pocketful of change and two large tin canisters.

At the same time Para Handy himself, overhearing his Engineer's caustic remark about the schooner's burgee, glanced up at it in curiosity — and saw something which made him draw his breath in sharply, and scurry off into the wheelhouse.

“No, no, put your money away, there is no charge at all,” said the landlord of the Colintraive Inn as he filled the second of the
Vital Spark
's canisters and Sunny Jim, who had been rummaging clumsily in his pocket for the money, looked up in astonishment.

“Just tell Para Handy that he has given us more entertainment this morning than we've had for many a month,” continued the landlord: “and besides, I had a wee bet that you
would
unload the cargo safely — so I have won a few shullings for myself, as the maist o' the folk thought that Peter would blow the shup to smithereens.”

Jim croaked wordlessly as the landlord concluded: