The Coming of the Whirlpool (14 page)

Every afternoon, while unloading the daily catch in Stone Port, he studied the Ship Kings fleet. The loading of the tribute went on apace, and a constant stream of labourers toting barrels or bales would be trooping up the many gangways, as above them cranes groaned to stack on board the great highland timbers, destined for the Ship Kings' far-off shipyards. Amid so much activity, Dow reckoned, it would surely be possible for him to find a way, unnoticed, onto a ship.

But he could also see that the high deck of every vessel was cordoned off from the lower decks, and guarded by watchful soldiers – Ship Kings marines, no less. A troop of them had arrived with the warships, and they looked far more formidable than the New Islander guards who manned the gate of the Stone Port fortress. Dow would have to find a way to get past them, before—

Then he would catch himself. What was he thinking? Was this just another daydream, or was he really prepared to sneak aboard one of the Ship Kings craft to snatch a glimpse of the forbidden device?

No, he would have to admit. No, he wasn't . . .

Then one evening he and Nathaniel returned to Stone Port late from their fishing, and by the time they had tied up at the wharf it was full night. Looking the fleet over, Dow was intrigued to note that by such an hour the labourers had all gone and the cranes were silent. The great ships rode in quiet repose, deserted even by their crews for the pleasures of the town's inns.

They were still guarded, of course. Marines stood at every gangway, forbidding admittance to strangers. But – Dow observed with a thrill – the soldiers were
only
on the gangways. There didn't seem to be any particular watch kept on the decks of the ships themselves. So if someone was to, say, swim to the side of a ship, the side facing away from the docks, and climb up there, hidden from view, then there was a chance that such an intruder might be able to gain access to the high deck – and to its secrets – without being observed.

But was he
really
considering this?

Again, the answer, reluctant, was no . . .

It gnawed at him though. Every day, Nathaniel's behaviour became colder and crueller, and every night the longing and frustration built in Dow as he felt his prison walls closing in more tightly. In time the very sight of the great ships became too mocking for him to bear, for soon they would be free to leave again, and roam the world, while he would be forced to stay.

There was, in addition, one other source to his discontent – an event fast approaching, but of which no one else in Stromner was aware; an event that normally he would've welcomed, but which now had been robbed of any meaning. It arrived nonetheless, two weeks after the appearance of the fleet. And that evening in the crowded bar, having already downed several mugs of beer without gaining any relief from his turmoil, Dow decided that beer itself would no longer serve.

‘I want a whisky,' he said to Boiler, over the counter.

The innkeeper studied him in surprise. ‘Whisky is it? And since when were you of an age to be drinking whisky?'

‘I turned sixteen today.'

It was the bitter truth. Today was his birthday. If Dow had been at home, his parents would have held a feast in his honour, and his brother and sisters would have brought him gifts. Later he would have been feted in the Barrel House as a full-grown man at last, and been given his first proper measure of whisky to drink. But here in Stromner no one knew or cared what day it was, he would receive no gifts, and if he wanted his first whisky, he would have to buy it himself.

Boiler's eyes widened at the news, but he said nothing, only poured the whisky and then gravely slid the glass across. Dow took it up and swigged the golden liquid in one gulp, feeling it burn in his throat, and the burning, somehow, was exactly what he needed. He pushed the glass back.

Without comment, Boiler refilled it.

A chorus of laughter rose suddenly from one corner of the bar. Dow looked around sharply, but there was no sign that the laughter was meant for him; in fact, no one in the room was paying him the least attention. He turned back to his drink. There had been a time when he'd hated that the bar was always empty, and had longed for people to fill it, but now he found himself wishing that everyone would go away again – and take all their talk of the Ship Kings with them.

‘It's too crowded in here,' he muttered to Boiler.

The innkeeper glanced about contentedly. ‘Aye, folk are always happy to come out when the Ship Kings are in. There's all the news to be had, for one. And there's plenty of work on offer over in Stone Port, so everyone has money to spend. Why, even the price of fish has near about doubled – as you'd know.'

Dow did know. He had more money in his pocket than ever before. But that only increased his disgust. What was the use of money when it couldn't buy him what he wanted – a way out of Stromner?

He drank the second whisky down, grimaced at the taste, and said, ‘People should
hate
the Ship Kings.'

Boiler's look was reproving. ‘Who says they don't? But folk have to live, and there's precious few other ways to make money around here.'

‘We wouldn't be so poor if we still had our own ships.'

‘Aye. But that war has already been fought, and we lost. What would you have us do now? Attack the Ship Kings with fishing boats?'

‘There's more of us than them. Here on New Island, anyway.'

‘More men maybe, but no cannons and few muskets, and when it comes to flesh and blood versus steel and powder, there's only one end.'

But a stubbornness had seeped into Dow – along with the whisky, perhaps. ‘We could sneak men aboard one of their warships and take it over. They're barely guarded at night; I've seen it. We could take over all three of them. Then we'd have muskets and cannons of our own.'

Boiler shook his head wearily. ‘All that would do is bring the rest of the Ship Kings fleet down on our heads. There'd be thirty warships here instead of three. You're talking like a fool, lad.' Dow had pushed the empty glass back, and it was only with some reluctance that Boiler filled it again. ‘Heed me now. That sort of talk is dangerous. If the sight of the Ship Kings angers you so much, then steer clear of Stone Port for the duration, that's what I say. Most likely, they'll be finished loading and gone in another week anyway.'

And with that the innkeeper moved off to serve other drinkers.

Dow was oblivious, for Boiler's final words had struck him dumb. A week? The Ship Kings would be leaving in a week? That was so soon.
Too
soon. It meant they'd be gone before he had the chance to—

The chance to do what?

To steal aboard one of the ships, that was what . . .

Dow lifted his third whisky and threw it down his thoat. And in that moment he was decided. No more wishful thinking – he was going to do it. He
had
to do it. Otherwise he may as well give it all up and go back to the highlands right now, for the fishing life was no better than the timber life; indeed it was worse. He was sixteen years old. He was a man. It was time to unlock the doors that would lead him to the
sea
life, and there was only one way to do that.

He must dare the wrath of the Ship Kings.

Only . . . not tonight. Soon, yes, but not
tonight
, that would be madness. He must ready himself first.

Dow studied his empty glass, heart thumping. Suddenly the bar seemed too stuffy, he could not sit there a moment longer. He glanced about. No one was watching him. Boiler had left a whisky bottle sitting on the counter, three quarters full. Dow cast down a handful of coins, slipped the bottle under his arm, and shouldered his way through the crowd to the door.

Outside, the fresh air hit him like cold water, and his heart raced faster still. He strode down through the village, not knowing where he was going, only that it couldn't be his bedroom, for he would never sleep in this state. The night itself seemed to echo his mood; restless somehow, with a fitful south wind blowing, bringing a suggestive tang of salt from the sea. Overhead a waxing moon hurried between shreds of black cloud.

Finally, Dow found himself at the end of the pier, looking north over the darkened Claw. He crouched down there and for a feverish hour, as he stared into the night and sipped from the whisky bottle, he plotted his clandestine attack. Excitement grew in him. It could be done. He was sure of it. In three nights, or four, he would strike. He would take a boat and slip across the channel to Stone Port, very late, hidden by darkness and invisible on the waters to any watching eye.

Except—

In sudden doubt, he gazed again into the heart of the Claw. The bay was a black gulf before him, but then the moon, which had been obscured, rode clear of the clouds, and the blackness of the water dissolved into an expanse of silvery grey, against which any boat would've stood out in crisp silhouette.

The moon! Dow stared up at it in dismay, a bright orb that would only grow brighter yet; in three or four nights it would be full. He could never hope to creep into Stone Port under a full moon. And yet nor could he wait until the moon waned, for by then the Ship Kings would be gone.

It meant disaster. Unless—

He studied the sky again, in last hope, and saw that behind the long forerunners of ragged cloud now passing away into the north, a great sombre tide of heavier overcast was rising from the south, blotting out the stars as it came. Even as he watched, the moon was swallowed once more. Soon the entire night would be black, and with it the waters of the channel.

Dow swigged from the bottle. Why delay? Why wait, and let doubt and fear eat at his resolve? Tonight was likely as good as he would ever get.
Yes
. It must be done now, this very night – this very moment!

He was up and moving even before he knew he had made the decision, but having moved, there was no going back. A boat! He hurried off the pier and ran to the beach. He ignored the
Maelstrom –
it was too clumsy for such a task – and went instead to where Stromner's collection of skiffs were drawn up. These small un-masted craft were used by the villagers to run errands about the coastal shallows. Choosing one, Dow slid it easily down the shingle. No one saw him, no one raised a cry. The night was grown late – most of Stromner would be abed by now. He slipped out the oars, and with a push he was launched.

Out from the beach he rowed, around the inner headland and on into the channel, where the waves slapped higher. Already he was breathing hard, but his shoulders and arms felt strong. Turning as he sat, he looked over the bow and across the black waters to West Head, and took a bearing from the bonfire that burned high upon the tower there. A current was pushing him south, he saw – the outgoing tide – but tonight he feared not even his old enemy, the Rip. He set his course on a northward angle, and leant again to the oars.

Water sucked and gurgled hungrily about the skiff. Overhead, the great sheet of cloud sailed slowly on, consuming the last of the stars, and the night became impenetrable. Dow rowed on through the blackness. From time to time he paused to swig from the whisky bottle, yet he did not feel drunk; he felt increasingly clear headed, full of energy, and certain that he was doing the right thing. When finally he glanced forward again, the sea wall of Stone Port was near, a shadow rearing up. Through the gate the harbour waters glinted darkly.

Easing his stroke, Dow rowed in. Would he be challenged by some watchful guard? No challenge came. The harbour was empty of any traffic, and all Stone Port – its houses and wharves, even the great mass of the fleet – seemed shut down for the night. Lights burned dimly here and there in the rigging of the ships and upon the lampposts along the wharves, but nobody was visible anywhere, and all was silent.

Dow hesitated, drifting, not trusting the silence, or the emptiness. And suddenly a shout rose – but not a shout of discovery, rather it was a forlorn cry that sounded from some back street, deep within the town. It was only the town crier, calling the time. And in answer a bell clanged, muted and flat, from somewhere unseen on one of the ships, marking time in turn on behalf of the fleet. Dow counted the tones. Twelve. Then silence settled once more. It was midnight.

Late – and yet not late enough, Dow knew. He must be patient a while longer, no matter the jangling of his nerves. He rowed along the inner side of the sea wall, keeping to the shadows. He came to a rocky outcropping, and there, in a sheltered scoop of water, he halted to study the town.

Sure enough, he saw that the docks were not as deserted as they first appeared. A last few sailors were still staggering home from their nights at the inns, singing and shouting in lonely duets. More importantly, marines remained on guard at the gangways of all the ships, concealed from Dow's view except for when they moved up or down the wharf to stretch their legs. No, it was too soon to act. He would wait an hour, or perhaps two, before making his attempt; in the chill, middle hours of the night, when human alertness was at its lowest.

He crouched in the skiff, watching. His gaze was drawn mostly to the
Chloe
, which was in any case the closest ship to him. Lights still glowed in the windows of its stern cabins. Fleeting shapes appeared through the glass panels, but Dow was too far away to make them out. One figure that lingered at a window a moment might have been female, but it was impossible to be certain.

Dow drank from the bottle, puzzled that he should be thinking of the girl, now of all times. He had glimpsed her but the once, knew nothing whatever about her. And yet there was no denying it, some small part of this whole lunatic venture involved the passing hope that he might glimpse her again . . .

Time crept by. At length the crier's sad call was repeated, and the muted bell – Dow still couldn't tell to which ship it belonged – clanged once to mark the first hour of the morning. On the
Chloe,
most of the cabin lights were out now. Dow took another mouthful of whisky and shook his head.