The World House (28 page)

  "These people didn't share your manners."

  "Well, what can I say? His Majesty's navy has a scurrilous reputation but it has yet to descend to cannibalism."

  "And which Majesty might that be?"

  "Edward, though I confess I have been released of my fealty to him for some years."

  "Where is my friend?"

  "The girl? She is in her own cabin – we run with few hands and have spare beds aplenty. We will go and see her. Once reassured, you and I can share our stories. I've left you some clothes. I trust they will be suitable. There is also some soap and water should you wish to scrub away the fever. I'll wait outside." He walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Alan got out of bed, stretched – his aching muscles now much improved, though by the water or his period in bed he would never know – and rifled through the clothes the captain had left. A denim shirt, some black combat trousers and a sturdylooking pair of army boots. Functional, hard-wearing stuff. He couldn't help but hold the underwear up to the light to check it was clean. A small table held a bowl, jug of water and bar of soap. He filled the bowl and worked up a lather in his hands, scrubbing at his skin as if the memory of the last few days could be removed by anything as simple as washing. He made a mess of rinsing himself, splashing the table and the floorboards as he tried to remove the suds from his armpits and groin. He was used to the modern convenience of a shower cubicle and the bowl was empty by the time he had finished, its contents spread liberally around the room. He dried himself on a rough towel, his skin stinging from his indelicate attentions. Once dressed he sat down on the bed to pull on his socks and boots; both fit fine. All done, he stepped out into the corridor.

  "Better?" the captain asked.

  "Much. The boots fit perfectly."

  "I held them up to your feet while you were sleeping."

  Alan nodded. "Sophie?"

  The captain smiled and gestured towards the cabin door at the end of the short corridor. "I believe she's still sleeping so you may wish to be quiet."

  Alan opened the door gently and peered around it into the room – still suspicious and half expecting someone to leap on him with a carving knife or basting brush at any moment.

  "Here." The captain offered him a lantern.

  "Thank you."

  Alan entered the room, holding the lantern out in front of him and tiptoeing over to the bed. Sophie was, as promised, fast asleep. Wanting assurance that she was all right, Alan settled on the edge of her mattress, placed the lantern on her bedside table and brushed the hair away from her face. She mumbled something and rolled over. He held his hand to her forehead: no sign of fever. If she had been as delirious as he had been – and he had to assume she had – then it had passed in both of them. He was tempted to wake her, to thoroughly reassure himself that she was all right, but it seemed cruel. She was content for now and contentment had come in short supply thus far. Let her have as much of it as she could.

  He went back out into the corridor. The captain was smiling at him. "Thank goodness that's over, now we can get on with being friendly! The name's Hawkins. It's a pleasure to have you on board. May I invite you to take a stroll on deck?"

  "Alan Arthur, and you certainly may."

  They walked along the corridor to where a wooden staircase led them up to the deck. Alan squinted as he stepped out into the light.

  "Too long below deck," Hawkins said. "Not a problem from which I suffer. As I said, we are short-crewed. There were more but sadly…"

  "Sadly?" Alan's suspicion returning.

  "It's no life," Hawkins admitted, "working all hours with little hope of seeing a friendly shore. They gave themselves to the water. You have seen the opiate effects of the ocean here: it lulls you to its breast and smothers you until you are lost." He noticed the quizzical look on Alan's face, "Oh yes, friend, had we left you or the girl in the water for much longer I fear we would never have been able to fish you out. The body breaks down, dispersing into the water like sugar in a cup of tea. The waves we ride on, even now, are thick with the essence of those it's stolen. You will see the result come nightfall. But let us save the darkness till later."

  Alan looked out over the waves, remembering how he had felt when borne upon their weight. "It was beautiful," he said.

  "Aye," Hawkins nodded, "death sometimes is. Come, let me introduce you to the rest of the crew." He led Alan across the gently swaying deck towards the front of the ship where a boy of no more than thirteen was swinging from the rigging as if the ship were a school playground. "This gentle idiot is Ryan, our cabin boy."

  "Avast ye!" the boy cried, gurning wildly, "hoist ye mizzuns and up the forebrace!"

  "He has no idea what he's talking about," Hawkins explained with a smile, "but he thinks it sounds good."

  "Damn your eyes, cap'n!" Ryan replied, giggling. He tucked his legs through the rigging and hung upside down, extending his hand to Arthur to shake.

  "Well met, me hearty!" said Alan with a smile, shaking the boy's hand.

  "See!" said Ryan in a Cockney accent, "'E's a landlubber and even 'e knows 'ow to give it a bit of the old skull and crossbones!"

  "And I dare say – no offence, Alan – that he knows as much about sailing as you do."

  "No offence taken," Alan replied, "You're quite right, I've never so much as set foot on a sailing ship before."

  Hawkins ruffled Ryan's hair and led Alan to the fore of the ship where a tiny man was sitting on a kit box fixing the holes in a large net. He was resting his feet on the base of a harpoon gun. When the man turned around Alan was startled to see he was wearing two eyepatches. "This is Jonah," Hawkins explained, "blind as a bat but with a nose for the sea like no other. Excuse the patches, he thinks it's funny."

  "Who said that?" Jonah cried before cackling at his own joke and showing Alan the solitary tooth he possessed in his upper gum.

  "Alan Arthur," said Alan, sticking out his hand to shake before suddenly realising how stupid a gesture it was. Jonah surprised him by crooking his head slightly to one side and then grabbing hold of the extended hand with his own and giving it a forceful pump.

  "Well met," Jonah said. "You still stink of the ocean, Alan. You're lucky to be in one piece."

  "So I hear."

  "Well, let's hope your luck rubs off, eh? We'll take all we can get on this vessel."

  Hawkins began to work his way around to starboard, Alan following.

  "If you look up there," Hawkins said, pointing to the crow's nest atop the foremast, "you'll see Barnabas. He's a miserable bastard, always convinced that each new day will be our last, so I keep him out of everyone's way as much as possible. Any sights of interest, Barnabas?" he shouted.

  "Nay, Captain," came the reply, "but I dare say there'll be something horrible along any minute. Who's that? The bloke we fished out of the water?"

  "It is!" Alan shouted back. "Good to meet you."

  "You won't be saying that for long," Barnabas replied. "I give you a day before you're begging us to throw you back in."

  "See what I mean?" Hawkins said quietly, "absolute bloody misery. I'll throw him overboard one of these days." He cut across the deck towards the cockpit where a the ship's wheel was being manhandled by a woman almost as broad as she was tall. Her hair was so curly and proud from her head that she looked as if she was permanently facing into a storm.

  "And, finally," said Hawkins, "this is Maggie, the Queen of the Wheel, my Commander and, for that matter, wife."

  "In which relationship I think you'll find I outrank him," she said, giving Arthur a wink.

  "I am led to believe this is usually the case," Alan replied. "Alan Arthur. Good to meet you."

"And you. I hope Hawkins is looking after you?"

  "He is." He looked at the captain. "Even your wife calls you by your last name?"

  "You haven't heard my first name."

  His wife laughed. "Do you want to tell him or shall I?"

  Hawkins shrugged. "You'll likely get more pleasure out of it, dear."

  Maggie leaned over to Arthur. "His full name is Admiral Benbow Hawkins. That's not the rank, you understand, he never made it past captain. That's 'Admiral Benbow' as in–"

  "The pub from
Treasure Island
."

  Maggie howled with laughter. "You've got it!"

  "My father was a fan of the novel," Hawkins explained.

  "Could have been worse," Alan said with a grin. "Could have been 'Moby Dick'."

  "That's just what I calls him when we're being romantic," joked Maggie with a lascivious wink.

  Hawkins sighed. "As you might imagine, the long evenings fly by. Might I suggest – as long as my beloved has everything under control – we head below deck? I have no doubt you'll have a lot of questions and I'm only too happy to answer them if I can."

  "Please do," Maggie said to Alan, "he only gets under my feet when he's up here."

  "Mutinous creature," said Hawkins, giving her a peck on the cheek.

 

• • •

 

Below deck, Hawkins led Alan into the captain's quarters. They were larger than the bare cabin he had woken up in but not as lavish as he might have imagined.

  "I know," Hawkins said, offering Alan a chair at the central table. "Not exactly plush, is it? We make do."

  "I'm still at a loss as to how the ship's even here."

  "It came with us. Look, the story is long, let me pour us a drink and tell it from the beginning. I have some brandy – I put a couple of bottles to one side when we first arrived here, intending to crack them open if a suitable occasion came along. This is as close as I've got so let's throw caution to the wind."

  "I was about to say it's a little early," Alan said, "but if your clock's right then I overslept more than I realised."

  Hawkins glanced at the clock, which gave the time as just past six. "We have less time before nightfall than I might have liked but I shall tell my story briefly. You were asleep for four days, so don't be surprised if you're somewhat disorientated."

  "Four days?"

  "The water's effects cling to a man, Alan. You really were remarkably lucky we chanced along when we did."

  "Chanced along… no, OK, too many questions. I'll take that drink and let's hear your story."

  Hawkins nodded and pulled a bottle and two glasses from the sideboard. He placed the glasses on the table and poured them both a measure. "Right," he said, raising his glass towards Alan, "your health." He took a sip and leaned back in his chair, organising his thoughts.

  "As you will have guessed from my name, my parents always hoped I would have a future on the ocean. I joined the Navy when I was a lad and did moderately well, sailed the world, rose through the ranks as far as captain and then found myself under Jellicoe at the Battle of Jutland."

  "The First World War?"

  "I know of no other. I won't bore you with interminable war stories, have no fear. I have no urge to discuss the battle; it put me off service for good. The blast of the heavy guns, the dead bobbing in the water like driftwood, great fleets of them… When the
Queen Mary
went up, the fire and smoke… I simply lost my taste for it." Hawkins gave Alan a nervous glance. "A coward's response, I know."

  "Hardly. Nobody should have a taste for war."

  "I served out the conflict but when the Kaiser fled so did I, taking decommission and a civilian life. This boat was my retirement. I couldn't altogether abandon the ocean. I hired a crew and sailed as a private charter, ferrying those who could afford my services, asking few questions – the hallmark of the trade – and maintaining a peaceful existence. Then, in 1921, I accepted a commission from a man claiming to be an archaeologist. He was an elderly countryman of yours who wished to transport certain 'archaeological items' from India to the States. He was a shady character. Nonetheless, I needed the fee he was offering and so accepted the job.

  "We took the cargo on board – a single packing crate, no more than six foot square – and set sail. Our employer chose to spend his time between the hold and his cabin, examining the various artifacts. I can't say we cared for his company so he wasn't missed. As we skirted past Malaysia towards the South Pacific we encountered bad weather: a string of storms that threatened to sink us, each more vicious than the last. The gentleman was altogether disparaging about my abilities – as if it were within my power to control the weather – and one night grew so abusive that I must confess we almost came to blows. Were it not for his extreme age – he was eighty if he was a day and built as thin as if his bones were matches – I suspect I might have lost control and given him a beating. I am not by nature a violent man but Mr Ashe – that was his name, or at least the one he gave when signing my services, Gregory Ashe – challenged my limits. In the end I returned half of his money and declared my intention to put him aground at Indonesia. He could make further arrangements from there. Me and my crew would have no further dealings with him. After an initially violent response he seemed to accept I was immovable and retired to his cabin. I should have known that would not be the end of the matter. Maggie always accuses me of being too soft and I confess she is invariably right.

  "That night, Ashe crept into my cabin with a handgun to further bolster his argument. He threatened to shoot Maggie were I not to accede to his demands." Hawkins took a large mouthful of his drink then topped up his glass. "I am reaching an uncomfortable point in my story, Alan, but I hope that you might understand: when a man's wife is threatened he acts in a manner that is wholly without restraint."