Stormtide (9 page)

‘Let them know we’re here, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Then muster a boarding party. We’re going to need it.’

White wake foaming astern,
Marlin
raced on while her siren boomed a warning. The reaction on the two boats was identical: a momentary pause while the figures on deck turned to stare, then renewed activity. As the distance closed Carrick could see a steady rain of missiles going in both directions, from chunks of wood to tin cans. The harpoon gun on the sharkcatcher stayed trained as before, with Yogi Dunlop’s bulky shape crouching for shelter behind its mounting.

‘Boats approaching to port, sir,’ reported one of the lookouts.

Shannon checked and grunted. Rother’s two sister shark-catchers were plugging in the direction of the mêlée, still about a mile distant but coming on as fast as they could. He looked at the scene ahead then suddenly chuckled into his beard.

‘Get those hose-booms out again, mister,’ he ordered. ‘Keep them at a forty-five-degree lift. Helmsman, fancy playing thread the needle?’

The helmsman blinked then grinned his understanding and nursed the wheel round a fraction.

‘Maintain speed, sir?’ queried Carrick in a deadpan voice, reaching for the intercom phone.

‘Maintain speed,’ confirmed Shannon. ‘Stand by detergent sprays. Tell them to jump to it, mister.’

The hose-booms were angled out and ready when the distance was down to less than a cable’s length.
Marlin
’s siren boomed again, but the battle ahead showed no sign of slacking.

‘In we go then,’ said Shannon softly, sliding down from his chair and balancing beside the helmsman. ‘Watch our paintwork, laddie. Mr Carrick, sprays ready?’

‘Standing by,’ confirmed Carrick, the intercom at his lips.

With little more than two hundred yards to go the fishermen ahead suddenly seemed to realize what was happening. The hail of missiles between the two boats died and faces stared open-mouthed at the Fishery cruiser’s apparent head-on rush.

‘Ease to starboard … back … that’s it,’ encouraged Shannon, eyes glued ahead. ‘Now damp them down, mister!’

‘Sprays on,’ ordered Carrick.

Detergent jetting from her angled booms,
Marlin
cut through between the two fishing boats with the gap on either side so narrow it seemed a man could have
jumped across. As the detergent swept its path the fishermen scattered for cover, throwing up their hands to protect themselves, slipping and falling, shouting curses while
Marlin
rocketed through. Then her churning wake hit the smaller craft like a hammer-blow, throwing them around like corks in a bathtub and leaving their shattered crews clinging to any support they could find.

‘Reduce speed to half ahead,’ ordered Shannon happily. He slapped the helmsman on the back as the telegraph rang. ‘Nicely done, laddie. Bring her round.’

Engine revolutions falling,
Marlin
began a wide circle in answer to her helm. Both boats were wallowing in the continuing swell, all signs of fight gone from the figures still staggering on their detergentsoaked decks.

‘Secure hose-booms, sir?’ asked Carrick, feeling fairly shattered himself. One slip of judgement on Shannon’s part and the result could have been disaster.

‘Secure booms,’ confirmed Shannon, grinning. ‘Mister, I want both skippers brought aboard as soon as we’re alongside.’ The grin faded. ‘Then we’ll sort this little lot out, believe me.’

Five minutes and a few loud-hailer exchanges later the two feuding boats were tied up one on either side of
Marlin
, fenders rubbing against the Fishery cruiser’s sides as they rolled with the swell. Beefy and red-faced, the skipper of the Mallaig drifter was first to climb aboard. He reached the fo’c’sle deck and stood belligerently, still drenched from head to foot in detergent spray. Then, as Dave Rother clambered over the starboard side and crossed the deck, the Mallaig man gave a deep-throated growl and seemed ready to start things all over again.

‘Cool it,’ said Carrick wearily, planting himself firmly between the two antagonists. ‘You’re in enough trouble and the Old Man’s on his way.’

Rother shrugged, unimpressed. But the drifter skipper subsided a little, muttering to himself. Glancing past them, Carrick wryly noted the support both men had waiting on the sidelines. Rother’s two sister shark-boats were hovering about two cable lengths astern. Over on the port side other company was arriving in the shape of a cluster of assorted seine-netters and line-boats, keeping their distance but hungry to know what was going on.

‘Base radioed me one of your men is dead,’ said Rother suddenly. He grimaced. ‘Hell, you don’t really think it could have been young Benson, do you?’

‘We’ll maybe know when we find him,’ said Carrick grimly, then eased back a fraction as Captain Shannon stumped along the deck towards them.

‘You,’ said Shannon curtly, pointing to the Mallaig man and ignoring Rother. ‘Who are you and what started this piece of idiocy?’

‘Name of Craig, skipper of the drifter
Moonchild
,’ snarled the Mallaig man. ‘Captain, let’s see Fishery Protection earn its keep. This bloody maniac tried to ram us.’

‘Ask him why,’ suggested Rother coldly.

Shannon glanced at him briefly, then swung back to Skipper Craig. ‘Well?’

Craig licked his lips a fraction and looked uncomfortable. ‘Ach, one of his damned shark-markers got tangled in our nets. We were cutting it loose that’s all.’

‘Was it?’ demanded Shannon.

‘There happened to be thirty feet of dead shark on the end of the thing,’ answered Rother dryly, tucking his thumbs in the waistband of his slacks.

‘It has still fouled our nets, damn you,’ rasped the Mallaig man, his face getting redder. ‘Should I lose a whole set o’ gear over one o’ your sharks?’

‘Anything more to it, Dave?’ asked Carrick neutrally.

‘A lot.’ Rother nodded and stood silent for a moment while the rope fenders creaked on either side. ‘Look, you know how we work. We nail a shark, hitch a flag-buoy marker on our end of the harpoon line, leave it, and start hunting again. Either we collect on the way back and tow in a string of the brutes or we radio another of the boats to do the job.’ He gave a bitter glance at the drifter skipper. ‘Except lately all we’ve come back to is a drifting buoy and a cut line … and this time we caught someone at it.’

‘An’ I’ve told you why,’ bellowed Skipper Craig indignantly. ‘Don’t blame me for the rest, Rother. If folk aroun’ the islands wish your guts would rot out that’s not my doing.’ Turning, he spread his hands appealingly to Shannon. ‘Captain, the man’s a bloody lunatic. Before he tried to ram us he fired on us wi’ that damned gun. Suppose he’d hit us?’

‘All right,’ rasped Shannon impatiently. ‘Rother, your turn. Did that happen?’

‘Two practice harpoon sticks and Yogi aimed wide.’ Rother grinned slightly. ‘If he’d wanted, he could have planted the real thing right up this idiot’s fat …’

‘That’s enough.’ Shannon glanced away and cleared his throat quickly.

‘What happened to your nets, Skipper?’ asked Carrick, stifling a grin.

‘We cut them an’ ran.’ Skipper Craig shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘They’re back there somewhere.’

‘Britain’s maritime glory,’ murmured Rother with a heavy sarcasm.

Shannon grunted and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Rother, I’m putting your boat under arrest. You’ll return to Portcoig.’ He saw the Mallaig skipper begin to grin and sniffed. ‘No need for you to look so happy. The same applies to you. Mr Carrick …’

‘Sir?’

‘Take a couple of men and take charge on Rother’s boat. I’ll put Pettigrew on the drifter.’

‘What about my gear?’ protested the drifterman.

‘You can pick it up on the way.’ Shannon considered the collection of boats around them. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Carrick. I’ll break up the spectators. You’ll find us back at Portcoig.’

Their unwelcome Fishery Protection passengers aboard, the lines holding the fishing boats were slipped. As they drew clear
Marlin
’s diesels quickened and she started off, curving towards the nearest of the hovering flotilla.

‘That’s it, Dave,’ said Carrick wryly, grabbing a stanchion aboard the
Seapearl
as the Fishery cruiser’s wash sent them lurching deeper in the swell. ‘You heard the man. We go back.’

Balancing beside him, Rother gave a short chuckle which held an amused malice. ‘Then get on with it,’ he invited caustically. ‘Earn your keep – Shannon hasn’t done me any favours.’

Shrugging, Carrick took stock. The half-dozen men of the shark-catcher’s crew were clustered in a scowling group near the wheelhouse. He’d brought Clapper Bell and a rating named Logan, a quietly dependable hand who’d once been a fisherman.

‘Take the helm,’ he told Logan. As the man edged past into the wheelhouse Carrick turned to the muttering group. ‘Break it up. Some of you get a hose working. I want that detergent shifted before it settles.’

They didn’t react for a moment. Then one cleared his throat and spat carefully over the side.

‘You heard,’ rumbled Clapper Bell. ‘Move.’

Silent, they stayed where they were and Dave Rother chuckled, saying nothing.

‘Then maybe one o’ you feels like doin’ something different,’ declared Bell with a heavy scowl. ‘Who’s the brave lad? Let’s have him, if you’ve anyone with guts enough.’

Suddenly, Yogi Dunlop shoved forward from the rest. The harpoon gunner’s clothes were still sodden with detergent and his long hair was matted.

‘You?’ asked Bell hopefully.

‘Me, you big-mouthed ape,’ snarled the gunner.

Carrick felt an elbow nudge his side.

‘I’ll bet five quid on Yogi,’ murmured Rother.

Smiling slightly, watching the two big men beginning to circle one another in almost ritualistic style, Carrick hesitated, then nodded. ‘You’re covered,’ he agreed out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Get your money out.’

Suddenly the circling ended as Yogi Dunlop lunged forward with his fists swinging. A wild left hook took Clapper Bell to the side of the jaw and the bo’sun staggered, lost his balance on the detergent-greased deck, then slithered backward to thud against the wheelhouse.

Shaking his head slightly, he recovered quickly, then came forward with the next roll of the deck. The extra momentum took him smashing into the harpoon gunner and this time it was Dunlop who went sprawling, ending up in the scuppers as a wave broke against the shark-catcher’s side, drenching both men and their audience in spray.

Dunlop hauled himself to his feet, dived for Clapper Bell like an angry bull, and got in one thudding blow at the bo’sun’s middle. Bell hardly blinked, side-stepped clear of the next, and they began circling again to a chorus of encouragement from the sharkman’s crew-mates.

Then it was Clapper Bell’s turn. Dodging a crotch-aimed kick from his opponent, he pounced quickly, grabbed a full handful of that long, matted hair, yanked in a way that almost tore it out by the roots, then smashed his free fist like a piston under the man’s exposed jaw.

Eyes suddenly glazing, Dunlop wobbled with his mouth hanging open. Still gripping the man’s hair, Clapper Bell swung him bodily round, rammed him
hard against the wheelhouse then pistoned a single forearm smash into Dunlop’s belt-line.

He let go … and Dunlop slid slowly down the wheelhouse wood until he met the deck.

‘Now,’ declared Clapper Bell cheerfully, glancing round. ‘Like Mr Carrick said, we want a hose. Right?’

The
Seapearl
’s crew showed no further interest in arguing.

‘About that five quid,’ said Dave Rother a little later. He was sprawled back on the bunk in his tiny cabin below and fractionally aft of the wheelhouse, smoking a cigarette. A mug of coffee in one hand, Carrick was leaning against a bulkhead and looking through the only porthole. The
Seapearl
was tossing and rolling along, heading at a plugging eight knots for Portcoig. ‘Mind waiting a few days, Webb?’

‘No, it’s all right.’ Outside the porthole the sea was becoming lumpier by the moment. But in contrast the sky had cleared to a brilliant, almost dazzling blue with only a few tendrils of white cloud being streaked along by the gusting westerly wind. ‘Money tight?’

‘If you’ve asked around you’ll know it is.’ Rother waved his cigarette expressively. ‘Nothing to worry about. I’ve a deal coming up that will take care of things, and a fat cheque due for last month’s shipment of shark-oil. But right now I’m next best thing to flat broke.’

‘What kind of deal is it?’

Rother grinned and shook his head. ‘You’ll hear when it happens. Let’s leave it that way.’ His face clouded slightly. ‘But one thing is certain, I’ll be quitting this part of the world … and to hell with it in the passing.’

Carrick raised an eyebrow. ‘Going away altogether?’

‘Uh-huh. What’s happened with young Benson puts the lid on things.’ Rother eased up on his elbows, looked ready to add something more, then tensed at a shout from the wheelhouse.

It came again, an excited bellow. ‘Sharko, boss – a big’un! Port side – do we go for him?’

Scrambling from the bunk, Rother dived for the porthole. He stared, swore, and pointed for Carrick’s benefit. A great black triangular sai1 was moving slowly through the wavecrests about four hundred yards away. It vanished briefly then reappeared, still travelling almost parallel with the
Seapearl
.

‘Look at that dorsal-fin!’ Eyes glinting eagerly, Rother swung round. ‘Webb, how about one try? Just one – and to hell with Shannon.’

Carrick hesitated. The great black fin out there had to be at least five feet from its limp tip to the thickening base. The creature beneath had to be a giant of its kind, a giant that could vanish again at any moment.

‘One try,’ urged Rother. ‘That’s all.’

The temptation was too much. Carrick nodded. ‘One try. Better make it good.’

‘We will.’ Rother was already at the door. Another moment and he was running along the deck, shouting orders as he went.

The shabby, paint-blistered shark-boat swung into action with a practised precision, each man of her crew knowing his task. Shoving his way behind the helm, Dave Rother swung the
Seapearl
’s blunt bow and almost simultaneously began juggling with the engine throttle. Slowing, shuddering as she took a couple of heavy seas broadside on, the boat first dropped back a little, then increased speed on a new, curving course, which meant she was now pursuing that still lazy black fin from astern.

Crammed beside Rother in the wheelhouse, Carrick saw two figures struggling with the harpoon gun on its crude bow platform. A wave drenched over them, then the spray cleared and he blinked. Yogi Dunlop had a new, unexpected assistant gunner. Beside him on the platform, shielding a box of powder cartridges from the spray, Clapper Bell was enjoying himself.

‘Yogi …’ Rother yelled through the wheelhouse doorway and waited till the man half-turned. ‘Double load. And take the brute close. Right?’

Dunlop grinned and waved. The long harpoon stick, tipped with a foot of barbed, fine-honed steel, was already waiting in the muzzle. Doubling-up on the powder charge would do awesome things to its effectiveness if a man didn’t object to the possibility of blowing the whole gun off its mounting.

‘He’s gaining on us,’ murmured Carrick.

Rother peered ahead at the black dorsal-fin and frowned as he eased the throttle levers forward a fraction.

‘Too fast and we’ll scare him, Webb. That should do it.’

The engine beat increased. Then, above it, came an odd, rough note which made Carrick wince.

‘Prop-shaft, Dave …’

‘Prop,’ corrected Rother ruefully. ‘I know. We’ve had it before. But we’ll last out. At least …’ He stopped and cursed.

The big dorsal-fin was slowly submerging again. It slipped beneath the waves, was gone for a full minute while the
Seapearl
thudded on, then reappeared as lazily but now slightly to starboard. Relaxing, Rother corrected the shark-boat’s helm and the gap gradually closed.

‘Look at him now,’ he said tensely. ‘He’s big all right.’

Gliding along just below the surface, the basking-shark’s elephantine bulk seemed to stretch for ever. Swimming placidly, a great black living mass, it had to be at least fifty feet long, almost barrel-shaped, the head fringed by distended gills and tipped by snout-like jaws. It was the
cearbhan
of Gaelic fishing legends, the cursed, net-wrecking muldoan, sailfish, sunfish – there were plenty of other names – prehistoric in its size, ponderous, almost ridiculously fearsome by its very existence.

‘Keep like that, damn you,’ murmured Rother, nursing the throttles again.
Seapearl
’s bow drew level with a vast spread of tail, crept further along, closer and still closer through the heaving seas until the boat was almost scraping the creature’s side. At the bow, Yogi Dunlop had the harpoon gun swung round and crouched tensely, waiting.

Suddenly the great sail-fin quivered and the vast spread of tail began to flex. The basking-shark had at last sensed their presence, was reacting with the beginnings of a swift, undulating movement.

Yogi Dunlop waited a fraction of a second longer, timing an approaching wave. It met the boat, sent it heaving, then he yanked the firing cord at the exact moment of the barrel’s maximum depression.

Several things happened simultaneously. The gun’s flat bang, the slamming underwater impact of the harpoon as it stabbed deep into the shark just ahead of that dorsal-sail, the initial whip of the harpoon line … and then the sea seemed to explode.