The Sea Beasts Read online

“I thought that seamen were used to discomfort,” she said coldly.

  “This seaman is not,” I told her. “I was when I was serving in British tramp steamers — but that was rather more years ago than I care to remember. Besides, I was thinking about what you will have to put up with in a little ship of that type.”

  “Like hell you were,” she said.

  Again Frank tried to pour oil upon the troubled waters.

  He said, “The ship’s berthed in Darling Harbour. Number 14, I think. What about going down there now to have a look at her?”

  “I suppose we might as well,” said the girl.

  Frank got one of his underlings to organise a taxi and we left the office. Outside, away from the air conditioning, it was warm and humid, with heavy thunderclouds banking up to the north and east. And Darling Harbour, I knew, would be even more warm and humid. We should be visiting Sue Darling in the worst possible conditions. I hoped that she would convey such a bad impression that my companion for the trip would put her foot down, would demand that we be flown to Apia or Suva or wherever.

  Sue Darling was smart. Sue Darling was clean. (Of course, there wasn’t much of her to look after.) She was old, but in good repair. The white paint of her sides gleamed, as did the buff of her stumpy mast and single swinging derrick. From the little wheelhouse came the glitter of well polished brasswork.

  “Rats,” said the girl scornfully. “Cockroaches. Bugs.”

  “A coat of paint,” I said, “covers a multitude of sins.”

  “The voice of experience?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m pleased,” she said, “that your status here will be only that of a fare paying passenger.”

  An officer, neatly enough attired in khaki shirt, shorts and stockings was regarding us from over the bulwarks.

  “Is the Old Man aboard?” called Frank.

  “The Captain,” replied the officer, with faint yet definite emphasis on the title, “is ashore.” I couldn’t quite place his accent, but it went with the dark skin, the slight slant of the eyes. “I am the Chief Officer. May I help you?”

  “This lady and gentleman will be your passengers,” Frank told him. “They would like to see their accommodation.”

  “Certainly. Will you come on board?”

  We boarded the ship, using the short gangplank, although it would have been almost as easy to clamber over the low bulwarks. The Mate received us courteously. His name, he told us, was Petherick, James Petherick. I was prepared to wager that some of his ancestors, on the female side, had been named more exotically. Not that it mattered.

  I was pleased with the pride with which he showed us around his little ship. As I have said, there wasn’t much of her, but what there was was well looked after. The cabins, opening off the small saloon, were dog boxes, but they were clean dog boxes. The galley, in which a smiling Chinaman officiated, was spotless. Whatever it was that was cooking on the stove smelled good. The bridge, to one used to pedestrian exercise whilst on watch, was far too small, but deck planking, brightwork and brasswork would have been a credit to any passenger liner.

  “Rats,” said the girl disdainfully. “Cockroaches. Bugs.”

  “But I assure you, Miss Brent …”

  “There is no need to, Mr. Petherick,” she told him with a sweet smile. “I was addressing Mr. Hallows.”

  “There are exceptions to prove every rule, Miss Brent,” I said.

  “So you say,” she conceded.

  “Of course,” said the Mate, “you must realise that after a stay in port no ship looks her best …”

  “I know,” I said.

  “Mr. Hallows is our expert on maritime matters,” said Sally Brent.

  Petherick looked at us doubtfully, obviously coming to the conclusion that this was some sort of family quarrel, and that outsiders would be well advised to adopt a policy of strict neutrality.

  He looked at his wristwatch, said, “Pardon me. The watersiders are about to knock off for the day and I must see that the hatch is properly covered. There will be rain, I think.”

  He hurried off the bridge.

  I went to look down from this vantage point to the foredeck. As Petherick had told us, work was about to finish for the day. The heavy, wooden, fore-and-aft beam was being swung into place. The Mate was talking with the foreman stevedore at the after end of the hatch.

  Then, from the hatch alongside the engine room skylight, emerged a short, broad, bald-headed man. He was wearing only a pair of filthy shorts, and his body, with its coating of shaggy hair, was smeared thickly with dirty oil and grease. He shouted, “So there you are, you chichi bastard. Don’t forget to mucking well tell me when they’ve finished for the mucking day, so as I can mucking well shut down!”

  “Yesterday, Mr. Green,” said the Mate, his sing-song accent intensified, “you shut down before I told you. The hatch was not covered. I had to turn to the crew …”

  “Do the lazy bastards a bit of muckin’ good,” shouted the engineer. “Just muckin’ tell me, that’s all!”

  He vanished below again.

  “Ah,” said Miss Brent. “A real seaman at last. Only one adjective, and he uses it frequently.”

  “I hope you enjoy having that animal as your shipmate,” I said.

  “He’s a worker,” she said. “Not a bridge ornament.”

  “I think that we’ve seen all that there is to see,” said Frank. He almost pushed us down from the bridge, down the short gangplank. Then, when he and the girl returned to the office, I made my way to the dreary bed-sittingroom in which I was living, got washed and changed preparatory to going out for a few drinks and a meal and then, when the evening downpour started, decided to stay inside. Having dined on a handful of biscuits, a hunk of cheese and a tumbler of sherry I decided to turn in.

  There was nothing else to do.

  Chapter 3

  Boredom, I think, is at least as potent a driving force as love of adventure. When you are a kid it’s love of adventure that makes you decide to go to sea. When you’ve seen most of the world you discover that there’s not much adventure left in seafaring in this day and age. A major war brings back the element of adventure — and you realise that the trouble with adventure is that it brings with it the risk of being killed, probably messily. Then, with the war over, you almost miss the fun and games (almost, I said) and feel quite naked proceeding on your lawful occasions without any lethal ironmongery around the decks. That wears off, and comfort becomes all important. A good ship is a ship in which the Mate lives in a suite and not a cabin, or one top heavy — with all the electronic navigational gear in the wheelhouse and chartroom. When you’re at sea you have your comforts, or your interests. When you’re ashore for a long spell, with no home to go to and no wife to come home to, life is boring.

  Had I not been bored I should never have embarked upon the quest for the little green men from the flying saucers. I knew what had happened to the little ships. They were so rotten, so unseaworthy, that no shipper would entrust to them any cargo of any value so that, in consequence, no latter day pirate would consider them worth the plundering. As for the Russian submarine angle — a modern underwater craft with radar, sonar and the odd helicopter or two for additional look-out would never let herself be discovered doing what she shouldn’t by anybody. That left the flying saucers and the little green men. And I just don’t believe in either.

  Even so, it would be a change of scenery at somebody else’s expense. An island cruise, with everything thrown in. Everything. Even a glamorous … brunette? Well, there was a touch of auburn … Even a glamorous popsy. Even a snooty bitch who obviously regarded me as something brought in by the cat in an off moment. But what did it matter? There would be other girls (perhaps) in Apia, or Suva, or wherever our quest took us. They wouldn’t be Jane (they couldn’t be Jane) but it was high time that I got Jane out of my system.

  The few days remaining in Sydney I clued up, as far as possible, my private affairs. T
he bulk of my gear I repacked and delivered it to the Company’s dock office for safekeeping. I had a few drinks with various friends, but turned down a few dinner invitations. When you are used to running in double harness you just don’t like accepting hospitality by yourself. I saw a few films, read a few books (good and otherwise), got in a little surfing and sun baking. And there were, of course, a few conferences at Frank’s office, during which Sally Brent and I made it quite plain that we did not like each other.

  Sailing day came round at last.

  I paid my landlady what I owed her and then took a taxi to the waterfront. Sue Darling was as clean and smart as when I had seen her last. The Chinese crew was stretching the tarpaulins over the single hatch. From the masthead fluttered the Blue Peter.

  Mr. Petherick, who was supervising operations on the foredeck, saw the cab draw up alongside the gangplank. He sent a seaman down for my baggage, was there to receive me when I walked on board. He said, “Good to have you aboard, Mr. Hallows.”

  “Thank you. Is Miss Brent down yet?”

  “Yes. She is in her cabin. Mr. Clancy is with her.”

  “Good. I know the way.”

  I went down to the little saloon, found the girl’s cabin. The door was open. She was sitting on the bunk, Frank was sitting on a folding stool. There was a whisky bottle on top of the chest of drawers, and glasses, and a bowl of ice cubes.

  “What are you having, Pete?” demanded Clancy.

  “Scotch on the rocks.”

  “That’s all there is — unless you want whisky straight.”

  “On the rocks will do.”

  “It’ll bloody well have to do.”

  He threw ice and splashed whisky into a glass, handed it to me.

  “Here’s to crime,” I said.

  “Piracy?” he asked.

  “I don’t think so. Barratry, possibly.”

  “And what’s that?” asked the girl.

  “Now you see why we’re employing a technical expert,” he told her.

  “I could look it up,” she said stiffly. “I shouldn’t have to go past the first volume of the encyclopedia, even.”

  “What’s wrong with a good dictionary?” I asked. “That’s got only one volume.”

  Somebody passed the open door — a fat man, swaying in his walk. Petherick was trotting along in his wake. He was saying, “Everybody is aboard, sir. The gear has been tested. The papers are aboard …”

  “Are the bloody passengers here, Mister?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Any visitors with them?”

  “Just Mr. Clancy, sir.”

  “Then get him off the bloody ship. We sail as soon as I’m changed.”

  “More charming seafaring types,” said Miss Brent, with a lift of her eyebrows.

  Petherick came to the door. He said, “Excuse me, please. Mr. Clancy, Captain West’s compliments and would you mind stepping ashore …”

  “I would mind,” said Clancy. He had his arm around Miss Brent. “You step ashore, Pete, and I’ll make the voyage with Sally …” He turned to her. “I shall miss you, darling. Think of it — I’ve sent the office sunshine away …”

  “I believe you, Frank — but somebody has to stay to keep the job running.”

  There was a bellow from the Captain’s room. “Mr. Petherick, aren’t those bloody visitors off the ship yet?”

  “There is only one, sir, and he is going.”

  “Then throw him down the bloody gangway!”

  West appeared in the doorway. His fat face was brick-red against the white of his hair and the starched white of his uniform shirt. “Clancy, you old bastard,” he shouted, “give me a drink and I’ll let you stay for another ten minutes!”

  “Here’s your drink, Bill. And have you met your passengers? Miss Brent and Mr. Hallows.”

  “I’ve met them now. Here’s to ye.”

  “I’d better be getting ashore now,” said Clancy, at least fifteen minutes later.

  “Frank can go ashore with the pilot,” the girl said.

  Both men looked at her.

  “This,” I said, “is an intercolonial vessel. Captain West will have his pilotage exemption for the port of Sydney. Is that not correct, sir?”

  “It is,” agreed the shipmaster, after a pause.

  “Mr. Hallows is our technical expert,” explained the girl. “I don’t know what we should do without him.”

  “Expert? On what?” asked West.

  “Little green men from flying saucers,” I said. “Or pirates. Or Russian submarines.”

  The Captain grunted. “You’d better get ashore now, Clancy. And I’ll take this tub to sea while I’m still sober. When people start talking about little green men and flying saucers the party has gone on long enough. Or too long.”

  “See you, Pete,” said Clancy, shaking hands.

  “See you, Frank.”

  “Be good, Sally.”

  “Aren’t I always?”

  He embraced her warmly, stumbled out into the saloon. We followed him out on deck, watched him down the gangway. At an order from Petherick the Chinese crew pulled the gangplank inboard. Mooring lines, I saw, were singled up fore and aft and the linesmen were ready to let go.

  At an order from the bridge the Second Mate, on the poop, let go his last line. We heard the tinkle of the engine room telegraph, heard and felt the thud of the diesels as they went astern. Sue Darling backed out of her berth, the linesmen carrying down the headline in case it was necessary to give her a check. It was not. “Let go forward!” West shouted.

  Petherick gestured to the linesmen and then to his Carpenter at the windlass. Clear of the berth, the little ship swung under stern power, then shaped for Miller’s Point. West, I had to admit, was a good ship handler. I said as much.

  “Why don’t you tell him, then?” suggested Miss Brent. “It will make his day. Praise from our technical expert will be praise indeed.”

  The Cook approached us. “Lady and gentleman,” he announced. “Afternoon tea. In the saloon.”

  “Coming in, Miss Brent?”

  “No. I find the harbour more interesting. But I suppose you have been in and out thousands of times.”

  “Quite a few times. Shall I bring you something on deck? A cup of tea? Some biscuits?”

  “No thank you. But you go in. Don’t miss a meal — it’s all part of what your passage money pays for.”

  So I went in, and sipped tea and nibbled cakes in the company of the Second Mate, a stolid young man with nothing to say for himself, and one of the junior engineers (the only junior engineer, I discovered later) a young man with far too much to say for himself, all of it concerning his drinking bouts in King’s Cross.

  I left them and went to my room and got unpacked. It felt wrong to be a passenger with nothing at all to do, and even putting my gear into the drawers made me feel a little less idle. Then I stretched out on my bunk with a paperbacked thriller — and was awakened by somebody shaking me.

  It was Captain West.

  “Do you want a gin before dinner, or not?” he demanded.

  I said that I did, went into the little bathroom and splashed cold water on my face, tidied myself up and then made my way to the Captain’s cabin.

  • • •

  The Captain’s cabin was at the fore end of the saloon house and, considering the size of the ship, was quite large. In addition to the bunk there were a settee and two armchairs. Sally Brent was on the settee, her legs curled under her. West was in one of the armchairs. On his desk was a bottle of gin, a shaker of Angostura Bitters, a bowl of ice, glasses. “Help yourself, Hallows,” he said.

  I helped myself, then sat in the vacant chair.

  “Captain West managed to take his ship out without the help of the technical expert,” Miss Brent told me.

  “Quit riding the man, Sally,” said West.

  “Why should I? He was wished on to me. I’m quite capable of handling the assignment myself.”

  “What is th
e assignment? Or am I asking you to divulge trade secrets? Frank Clancy wouldn’t tell me.”

  “There’s no secret about it,” she said. “In fact, you may be able to give me a lead.”

  “You may be able to give us a lead,” I corrected her.

  “All right. Us, if you want it that way,” she said, glaring at me. “After all, you’re the technical expert. I’d almost forgotten.”

  “A lead on what?” asked West.

  “Well, for some reason — don’t ask me why — the paper’s getting all hot and bothered about the long run of disappearances. All the little ships on the island trade that have just vanished, without a trace. Our learned friend here, of course, can explain them all away. They were just unseaworthy, according to him, with non-functioning radio and likewise life saving gear …”

  “He’s probably right,” said West.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “There are some dreadful relics drifting around the islands,” went on West. “Rotten. Held together with old string and chewing gum.” He turned to me. “Do you know the islands, Hallows?”

  “I was Mate on the banana trade for a while,” I said. “Auckland, Lautoka, Suva, Apia, Nuku a’lofa, back to Auckland …”

  “Were you? Then you’ll have seen some of the little ships.”

  “I have. This one’s a floating palace compared to most of them.”

  “She should be. I’ve a good crew. I’ve a good Mate and a good Engineer …”

  “Is that the baldheaded gentleman with only one adjective?” asked the girl.

  “Only one adjective?” West laughed. “Yes, that describes Curley Green. He’s a rough diamond — too rough even for the Union Company’s Kiwi ships. They fired him three times, and the third time told him that it was permanent. But he’s a first class engineer.”

  “He doesn’t seem to like the Mate,” I said.

  “It’s mutual. Poor Jimmy tries to conduct himself like a gentleman. And there’s nothing further from Curley’s intentions.”

  Through the partly opened door drifted the voice of the same Mr. Green. “Is the mucking bathroom clear? If it ain’t, that mucking bitch’ll just have ter get out.”

  “One of nature’s gentlemen,” said Miss Brent.