F. F. Nicholls

THE LOG OF THE SARDIS

Nicholls, F. F. (Frederick Francis), 1926-

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Publisher: New York, Norton, 1963

Chapter I

The seaman striking four bells in the first watch — ten o'clock at night — was red-nosed and shivering with the cold of that north-easterly gale in spite of his thick watch-coat. He thrust his red, split hands into its pockets: "Yon's the lights o' Methil, sir. No doubt it'll be a few months before I'm having a wet ashore there again."

Apprentice Jim Robbins, to whom he spoke, did not know what to reply, and merely said, "Ay, ay" — trying to force his eighteen-year-old voice down to its lowest pitch of gruffness.

"Ay, sir, and is it not a daft time to be leaving Leith — eight o'clock at night? Couldn't the Old Man get rid of all those toffs from the Company an' catch the forenoon tide? Or wait till tomorrow? I mean, I know it's this packet's first trip, and all that…"

Just a minute, Jim thought, that's cheek. Have to stop him. "Very good, Sinclair; carry on for'ard."

"Och, I'm goin', sir, don't fash yersel'."

Apprentices don't get much respect then, thought Jim. Good job that brute the First Mate wasn't listening. Half-closing his eyes, and lining the rigging up against the twinkling lights of the little port, he could see that Sardis was just beginning to roll, as the north shore of the Firth of Forth gradually fell away, and the waves thrown up by the brisk wind gradually got larger. That was the best part of sea-going — the ship trembling again with the life given by engines and live water; everyone aboard again, and the whole sea ahead, after weeks lying lifeless and deserted in the dock, watching greasy cabbage-stalks swilling in the oil-tinted waters alongside.

"Hey — Captain Cook! 'Ow many times I got to call you?" Jim had been too engrossed to notice, until he heard the hated sound of that grating Lancashire voice, that White, the First Mate, had come across the deck to where the helmsman stood. That was the end of any pleasantness for a while. White never laughed, never understood, never helped you. "Get the log up here. It's in my cabin. Watch what you're doing with it."

"Ay, ay, sir!" Jim was away fast. He had learnt that any subordinate of White's who didn't leap to it was asking for a quick, brutal knock-down. But he was young, and by the time he had clattered down the brass companion-way sailor-fashion — facing outwards — he felt a sailor again. Making history, in a way; for the new year 1870 was only two days old, and here they were sailing for the far corners of the world in the Sardis, the Company's new screw steamer, all of steel, all 3,000 tons of her. And all the emigrants below — they were making history too, cutting out a new life for themselves in Australia.

The patent log was easy enough to find. It was a new navigational gadget, and there it was on his desk, still neatly stowed in the maker's box; for it was jealously guarded by the Mate, who would never leave it in the chart-room. Jim hadn't really had a good chance to look at it before, and turned it over in his hands. It was something like a streamlined fish, shaped in brass; except that instead of a mouth there was a ring-bolt, and at the tail end there were four fins twisted like the blades of a screw. He picked up the beautiful snowy coil of plaited rope which was fastened to the ring-bolt in its nose; he knew all about its use, of course: the other end of the rope, on which there was a brass wheel, was fastened to a little clock on the stern-rail, and when the "fish" was pitched into the water its screw tail would make it turn; and it would turn and turn, a strange thin fine rising from the wake to turn a little brass wheel to tick up the miles on the clock to the world's end or for the rest of time. With this ingenious gadget, navigation lost a lot of its old magic and guesswork, for it simply told you in neat little figures how many miles it had travelled. And it was Mr White's pride and joy.

Still, even that sarcastic brute couldn't see through a teak deck, which was why Jim Robbins, being full of high spirits to be under way at last, started to twirl the brass fish on the end of its rope, swinging it briskly round in time to his cheerful whistling. He was nearly at the bottom of the companion-way to the deck when the ship dived hard, forward and to port, into the first really big trough. Jim's hands were full, he charged heavily against the bulkhead with his right shoulder, and the brass log rang loudly against a projecting pipe.

The sick taste of fear was in his mouth before he looked at it, for he knew exactly what he would see. Yes, one of the fins that made it turn had hit the pipe, and was now bent back, away from the proper angle. It would need a skilled smith before it would work properly again. And White was just above his head, not eight feet away!

A gust of bitter air blew down the hatchway, and he saw the flat, broad face of the Mate looking down: "Come on, come on, you useless ullage, you. Been gone ten minutes. Well, what's the matter with you, stood there like a dummy?"

This was the moment to tell him if at all. There was a spare one aboard. But those fists! That bitter tongue! He was in trouble already about a lost mooring-rope. Why tell the swine? Let him find out for himself, if he could. Jim could easily keep his hand where it was now, covering up the bent fin.

"Nothing, sir. Lost my balance for a minute when she rolled." There, it was out. No going back now. It was pitch dark on deck if he kept out of the small circle of the binnacle light. Once the log was over the side. .

"Lost your balance! Not fit to drive an old horse up the cut." Sullen, confused and afraid, Jim stood hesitantly before him, his right hand closed over the damaged log, his left holding the coil of rope. "An' we're supposed t' make a sailor out of you. Look, gormless, can you see that flashing light down there? No, not there, right ahead!" His great ham-hand had closed round Jim's upper arm, crushing the muscle agonizingly, as it swung him round. He couldn't keep back the wince. "What's the matter now, mother's darling? Now then — that light's the light on Bass Rock; that'll soon be close abeam to starboard. So now then. Nelson" — the great paw spun the boy round again to face his tormentor, and Jim could see, over the Mate's shoulder, the strangely-lit face of the helmsman set in a grin — "Why do I want the log overside now?"

"Well, sir, so that the log will — I mean the rope will—"

"God 'elp us when you're captain, that's all I say. Come on now, spit it out!"

"So that the log will be settled down and registering properly by the time the light is abeam."

"Ay, but why?"

"Well, sir, then it can be set to nought, and the dead-reckoning of the ship's run starts from there." As Jim repeated the parrot-phrases his present plight suddenly leapt at him. "Registering properly" — would it do that now — would it register at all?

"All right, get it in then, gormless. Can't you see we're not far off now?" The Mate turned away muttering bitterly; he felt that such interviews were his stern duty, and never realized how much cruel pleasure they gave him, nor that Jim Robbins was paying for all the blows and taunts suffered thirty years ago by a Fleetwood trawler's deck-boy. That was how he'd had to learn the trade of the sea — with the boot and the rope's end. These young apprentices out of the nautical college — what did they know about the sea? And this Robbins, with his smooth dark hair and his pink and white cheeks and his southern accent — well, he was typical. He'd show him what the sea was like. He couldn't resist a final humiliation, and turned to the helmsman: "Watch that steering now, Jordan, or I'll get Mr Robbins to show you how it's done."

Rather to his disappointment, the sneer had little effect on Mr Robbins, who was far too concerned about what would happen when the log was streamed. He made the free end of the rope fast to the clock on the taffrail; then, holding the "fish" itself in one hand, he paid out the rope in a long bight or loop which streamed behind in the yeasty wake. "Now, Heaven help me!" he whispered, as he let go the log. Everything seemed normal about the way the log was "running"; the thin line disappeared into the wake at about the right place. He watched, in a misery of fear, the little four-spoked brass wheel; any moment now it should start to turn briskly, for the quick throbbing of the engines told him that they were doing at least ten knots. The long seconds dragged, and though he dared not look round, Jim could feel the Mate's cold eyes boring into him; it wasn't turning; the rope was fully tight, but it wasn't turning. Give it a count of three. If it wasn't going by then, tell him. One. . two. . it moved. Wait a second longer. Yes, it went right round, it was turning steadily, it would be all right. Of course, now he thought about it, the log would have to put a good many turns in the rope itself before there was enough force to turn the wheel. And now that everything was over, and the odd little wheel, apparently suspended in space (for the rope could hardly be seen) spun steadily, Jim suddenly felt the bitter cold seeping through his thick blue serge, chilling the sweat of his fear. "Log running correctly, sir," he called to the Mate's broad back (so he had not been watching, after all!)

"Very good. You've got morning watch with Mr Brodie, haven't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Away and get yer head down, then. Can't have Nelson dropping off when 'e's in command, can we, Jordan?" The short, contemptuous grunts of amusement were the last human sounds that Jim heard as he made his way forward to the cold draughty deck-house, in which he had his tiny cabin or "caboosh". Soon the mad, rising whistle of the wind in the myriads of ropes overhead blotted out everything else, even thoughts. Sardis was cracking on into the gale, which screamed out of the dark at her from the port bow. She was travelling fast, and every time she met solid water with the shoulder of her bow she threw a quick, light flurry of spray across the deck. Out of the darkness above him came another sound like a savage percussion accompaniment to the wind's scream — the incessant snapping of taut ropes against the masts up which they were led. For, like most vessels of the day, Sardis did not rely entirely on her engines, but had the masts, yards and sails of a barque as well; the shrewd, bald old men of the Caledonian Orient Line saw no point in wasting any favourable winds that the good Lord might send, with steam coal the terrible price that it was and Australia an awful way off. In fact, the departure of Sardis from Leith, so puzzling to Able Seaman Sinclair, had been decided on by her Captain, James Cameron, as soon as he saw the low clouds scudding from the north-east, and thought how she would spin away down the North Sea and down Channel with that weight of wind behind her. Jim remembered his words to the handsome young wife of their chairman: "Ay, we'll mebbe steam as far as St Abb's, Mrs McTaggart, ma'am, but I'll wager we'll be away down past the Lizard before I use another pound of Company steam. She'll be a flier under sail, I'm thinking."

Jim remembered these fragments of the conversation from that day's splendid and awe-inspiring luncheon for directors and officers, as he lay in his bunk waiting for sleep, and heard the shrill wail of the Bosun's pipe summoning the watch-on-deck from the nooks of warmth and shelter they had found. "Lay aloft! Set upper and lower tops'ls, top-mast stays'ls and spanker! Hands to starboard braces!" Through the grateful feelings of growing warmth and drowsiness, as he slipped away from the real world, Jim was faintly aware of thudding feet outside, of grumbling oaths, of squealing blocks. And — how much later he couldn't say — a deep thundering of heavy canvas, which was suddenly stilled. It had, of course, been a long and exciting day, and he must have slept soundly, for outside the thin metal skin of his caboosh was an orderly tumult. Half a dozen men, heaving the huge yards round to face the wind, timed their quick hauls perfectly to the Bosun's curious chant: "Right, then, lads! One-two-six HEAVY! One-two-six HEAVY! 'Two-six HEAVY!"

The sudden sharp plunging, dipping and rolling ceased as one sail after another caught the wind with a snap and held it. The throb of the engines tailed off into stillness; everything above and below decks took a steady cant over to starboard. Before long the slope eased and the white foam tore past even faster, as the Mate slanted her round the corner of North Berwick, away from the driving wind; a small figure now on the lonely poop, he paced from the weather rail to the binnacle. Now he muttered sharp syllables to the helmsman: "Meet her, now, meet her, damn you." Now he squinted up into the taut forest of pine, hemp and canvas. Ten centuries were in the words and the look; he could feel, as if with his own nerves, what his ship was feeling — from the rudder biting the bitter water to the seams of the canvas tugged remorselessly by the gale. And behind him, part of his brain almost, the brass wheel turned, the neat clock ticked up the miles; but not all the miles. One in thirty or thirty-five perhaps, it forgot; from the crippled fin the lie went spinning up the taut cord, into the ship, where men could stoop, peering in the dark, to read it, and, seamen though they were, believe it.

Chapter II

For over four hours there was something like peace in the tiny cabin; the shriek of the wind and the thunder of the sea sounded distantly, the unlit lamp took up its alternate slants noiselessly and a fine silver watch given to Jim by an aunt measured away the minutes of his warm rest. But at a quarter to four the harsh world burst in upon him: heavy sea-boots sounded on the deck outside, there was a rough thump on the door, which was at the same time flung open, and the noise, the wind and the oil-skinned seaman took possession of the cabin. Jim was jarred painfully out of his sleep and found himself looking blearily into the steam and grease of a cup of ship's cocoa.

"Quarter to four, Mr Robbins, and blowing straight from hell, sir." The seaman was about to go off watch, while the young "brass-bounder" was just going on, so the former grinned cheerfully. Jim felt the small beginnings of fear stirring in his stomach. In the gloom he could faintly see thawing snow dripping from every ridge of the man's stiff oilskins.

"Snow too?"

"Snow, sir? It's that thick we cannae see the foc's'le. Mr McDougall's stuck on that lee rail there like a poor old snowman. But I'm thinking he's a good man for keeping warm inside, sir, if ye get my meaning."

More insolence! He'd no business to make remarks about the Third Mate; Jim wasn't quite sure what he meant, but anyway it wouldn't do.

"Leave the cocoa on that chest," he said.

"Ay, ay, sir. Will I light the lamp for you?"

"Of course not." That was another trick to catch him out: no officer dressed by lamplight for a night watch, or he would be ten minutes getting his vision back when he went on deck. Time was getting on; he must hurry if he was going to drink the cocoa. Throwing off the blankets, he swung his feet to the deck — and sprawled heavily headlong on his face, jarring the chest and knocking hot fatty cocoa over his scattered belongings. What had been a fairly level floor when he turned in was at that moment a steep downhill slope. With a creak from the very bones, it seemed, of the ship, the slope changed back, and apprentice, cocoa-mug and a small swill of water went skidding back against the bunk.

"Och, dear, dear," said the delighted seaman. "She's got a wee bit roll on her. Now will I get you another cup of cocoa, sir?"

Jim fought down, as well as he could, his shame and rage; the calm words, "No, carry on," came from a scarlet face, but luckily it was too dark for the man to see that.

Left alone, Jim dragged out of his chest his heaviest fear nought trousers and watch-coat. Staggering, hopping and bouncing heavily round the stuffy cabin, he struggled with awkward haste with stiff new cloth and tightly-sewn buttons. Sweating with effort and hurry, he topped all this with crackling new oilskins which stood stiffly out from his trunk until bound in with spun-yarn. Then he was ready for the dark and the snow and the wind. Those first faint stirrings of nervousness had changed to quick jumps and leaps happening inside a strangely weak and empty belly, and there was a queer sour taste in his mouth.

It was the continuous roar of the seas which struck him first as he fought his way outside — it was louder than the whine of the wind and more numbing than the cold. Sardis was now pointing her stern into the wind and tearing headlong before it; as he made his way aft, he saw how parallel lines of white foam were slowly overtaking the ship. Every few seconds a new foam-streaked crest towered over the taffrail, and seemed about to thunder down on it; every time, at the last minute, the stern rose to meet it, and the thin rope and the little brass wheel seemed for a spUt second to grow from the foam, until the sea went slopping and slithering along the ship's length, at first leaving the stern stuck high over the trough of the wave. Then, as the wave thundered clear of the bow, another was already rearing astern.

Jim gripped the rail and watched for a minute, enjoying his fear and the crazy motion. Then he heard a step on the companion-way, and knew that his hero and idol, the Second Mate, Mr Brodie, was on his way to the deck. He thought, as he lurched across the open deck — it's the only good thing that's happened so far — the Second taking me on watch. The Skipper can't be bothered with me, the Mate's too busy and despises me — and the Third — what can you make of him? "Keeping warm inside" — what did that mean, for instance?

The Second Mate, muffled like himself against the storm, emerged from the companion-way and Jim greeted him eagerly with a salute.

"Well, Robbins, pretty fair start, eh? Fifty miles in the last watch, I know." He couldn't have said anything to make Jim admire him more. This filthy screaming northerly that had by now laid all the emigrants out, half-dead from cold, fear and sickness — he was glad of it! Like any deep-sea man he was glad of any wind which would sweep them through all the narrow seas into the open ocean. "Get some cocoa, laddie? Nothing like it to warm you on a cold night."

"Yes, sir. Jolly good." Well, you couldn't tell him about a ridiculous upset like that! Now the two were approaching the hunched back of the Third Mate, and a cold twinge of alarm went through Jim: they were almost upon him, and yet he hadn't moved. Was he deaf, or. . no, he couldn't surely be asleep? Asleep? An officer on watch? He turned nervously to look at Brodie's face, but it revealed nothing. Then a strange thing happened: Brodie, the seasoned seaman, stumbled clumsily, shouldering against the Third Mate, who started suddenly at the blow.

"Good Lord, I'm sorry, Mr MacDougall — stupid of me!"

"Och, it's you, Mr Brodie. I couldn't hear you for this damned banshee howling." The old man had turned now, blinking and grinning cheerfully. That odd twinge went through Jim again; something was wrong — nobody could be so deaf, or grin like that in this weather. There was a sickly, sweet smell in the air that seemed to come from him; and then there was the seaman's odd remark about "keeping the cold out". The truth hit Jim like a hammer: MacDougall was drunk on watch, and had been asleep or dozing! Brodie's stumble had been his gentlemanly way of pretending not to know, of saving the old man's face.

The two men chatted briefly and technically, to give the new watch-keeper on deck time to accustom himself to the dark and the motion.

"How's she running, mister?"

"Och, pretty good. Forty-six miles in my watch, under tops'ls. That's good going for a steam-kettle, I'm thinking."

"Should have thought she'd have done more. Any sign of it clearing to windward?"

"Black as the pit o' hell, mister. Thick snow and not a star to be seen. We'll be about off Blyth, though, by the log. Old Man says call him if it clears, or blows any harder. Course south-east by south. Have you got the weight now, mister! I'll be away to my dear old bunk."

"Ay, ay, got the weight. Course south-east by south. Keep an eye open here, Robbins, while I have a look at the chart." Brodie clattered down to the chart-room, and the red, wrinkled, cheerful face of the old man came near to Jim's, bringing the warm sweet reek of the whisky more strongly to his nose: "That's a smart feller, laddie. You couldn't have a better to teach you this game. Ah well, I'll be away now. Weather eye open, laddie, weather eye open." And the small hunched figure was shambling slowly away.

Jim stared without seeing into the whirling flakes ahead, his mind numb with shock. What about all he had read and heard about the seaman's code of duty, his almost sacred regard for his ship and his passengers? How safe had all those poor vomiting wretches below been, hurled down the narrow North Sea at the mercy of a drunkard? What if they'd met an oncoming steamer? How could he be so vile, and how could Jim look him in the face again? Above all, how could Brodie — the devoted seaman Brodie — bear to eat and talk with him?

"Robbins!" The shout sounded close in his ear. "What the devil's the matter with you, boy — day-dreaming? Had to call you three times. Get my glass from the cabin — clean forgot it."

"Ay, ay, sir." Jim sprang into motion at the sight of the pale stern face looming out of the dark. When he returned with the telescope the Second spoke more kindly, though uneasily: "I expect I can guess what you're thinking. Well, you're an officer, no use pretending to you when all the hands know. Whisky — Demon Whisky at the helm. Pretty bad, I expect you think?"

Jim tried to find words in his burning anger. "God, sir, he was asleep — I'll swear the miserable swine was asleep. Those poor devils asleep below the water-line — they trust us, sir, they trust us with their lives. And that crazy drunk was too far gone to keep his head up."

"Ay, ay, well cool off now. The fellow on the wheel'll hear you. And I shouldn't let you go on like that about a superior."

"Does the Captain know, sir? He can't — he couldn't let him take the deck if he did?"

"Who knows what the Captain knows? He's no fool, that's certain."

The apprentice ground his teeth viciously: "In irons, that's where I'd put him — in irons. Let the cook stand his watch."

"You're young; it's hard for you, I know, but you'll find there's queer fish in our profession, queer fish with queer histories. You've got to live and let live a bit, you know; we're not a flight of angels."

"Queer histories, sir?" Jim was calmer after his outburst, and now felt mainly a commonplace curiosity about MacDougall. "Is it because of something that's happened that he drinks?"

"Ay, so they say, Jim, so they say. When you know you've not got what it takes, when you know you've drowned a dozen hands, it's hard to get along with yourself when you're cold sober. Poor devil! And seeing yourself a Third Mate at his time of life when you've been a master on your own poop. How would you feel? Eh? Be honest, now!"

"So that's it — conscience! Fancy — Dougie a master! What happened?'

"I'll break your neck if you ever tell anyone a word about this, mind you! Well, it was ten years ago or more — quite a case at the time on this coast. MacDougall was master of a decent little barque — Eileen.. something or other — coal from South Shields to Falmouth. One of those cursed thick autumn fogs in the Tyne — suppose he should have anchored, really. Anyway, going down river on the ebb he ran down a loaded collier brig at anchor. Hands all turned in, poor devils, what chance had they got with all that coal under them? By the time he'd let go an anchor and got his boats down there wasn't a thing afloat, not a solitary thing. Of course, the skipper of the brig should have had a bell sounding — that was the only thing that saved MacDougall's ticket. But who'd ever make him a master again? You can think what it would mean, can't you, Jim? Third Mate till you're thrown — what the devil are you playing at, man? Hard-a-port, for God's sake!' And he threw himself across the deck to help the scared, struggling seaman to spin the great wheel over.

The man turned to him a face as livid-white as a corpse: "She won't answer the wheel, sir, she won't answer!" He let go of the spokes with one hand to point at the huge bearded crest hanging over the taffrail astern. "It's that sea, sir, it's got a-hold of her!" In another second he would let go of the wheel altogether and dash forward, and a few seconds after that the next sea — a hundred tons of furious white water — would crash down upon, and through, Sardis's hatches. Brodie reached out to snatch a heavy wooden pin from the rail at the foot of the mizen. Still holding the wheel hard over, he thrust his improvised truncheon in front of the staring eyes: "See that, Tulloch? I swear to God that next time you look round you'll get that across the back of your head, and we'll see whether you've got any brains or not. Look at her head, man, she's answering now. Now meet the swing — ease your wheel — midships! There you are." He turned again to Jim: "Get another hand on the wheel. My compliments to the Captain, request permission to shorten sail. And look lively!"

When Jim tapped fearfully at the smooth panelling of the Captain's door there was little sign of the pompously genial Cameron who had earlier beamed and bowed and strutted among his Directors. Instead, a peevish voice called out: "Ay, what is it now?"

"From Mr Brodie, sir, permission to shorten sail."

"Has the breeze freshened, then, boy?"

"Yes, sir. Well, I think so."

"An officer on my ship doesn't think, Mr Robbins, he knows. Tell Mr Brodie I'm coming up."

Brodie's reception of the message was interesting. He made no comment, but the twitch at the corners of his mouth showed his annoyance, and he was plainly uneasy. Even Jim could see his reason: Sardis was now going nearly as fast as the following seas, and was therefore becoming almost unmanageable. Sooner or later, at this rate, she would be "pooped", overwhelmed and swung round by a following sea, to be left a helpless victim of the next wave. Many of the glorious flying clippers had met their end in this way.

"Now then, mister, what's this, what's this?" said Cameron as he stepped out on deck, with the same condescension that he had shown to Jim.

"Freshened a lot, sir. Had to double up on the wheel, but she's still yawing. I should like to shorten sail to slow her; or bring her round and heave-to, better still."

The Captain's irritation increased: "Heave-to, mister? Do you not mind this is a deep-sea passage? It's not a Saturday afternoon trip down the Clyde, y'know. You miss all this fair wind, you add three days to the voyage. Don't you realize the cost to the Company, mister? These emigrants eat an awful lot, you know, in three days. You can snug her down to lower tops'ls, and let's have no more of this nonsense."

Out of the corner of his eye Jim saw the working of the strong muscles of Brodie's jaw, and his vice-like grip on the rail as he roared into the dark: "Watch on deck! Take in spanker and upper tops'ls! Close-reef lower tops'ls! Jump to it!"

Chapter III

Curious, Jim thought, how an ordinary ventilator acts like a perfect voice-pipe. His two-hour dog-watch on deck was over, it being just after six o'clock the following evening, and a hot dinner was no doubt ready for him below, and yet curiosity tied him guiltily to the chart-room ventilator, which brought up to him the voices of Brodie and the First Mate.

"What do I think of it, mister?" he heard White say. "I'll soon tell you that. I don't like it one little bit. Look here" — there was a rustle as he unrolled a chart — "here's the next stage. Look at all these blasted banks off the Thames! 'Ow close would you want to go to those if you were master? When did we last have a proper fix?"

"Bass Rock."

"Ay, eleven o'clock last night — nineteen hours ago!"

"And nothing but snow and sleet ever since."

"Exactly — not a blasted sight of anything. And don't forget old Bougie's had two watches since then, so God alone knows where we are now!"

"What did the Old Man say when you saw him?"

"You'd not believe it if you weren't there. I had a job ter get him interested. He kept wittering on about a twopenny-a'penny mooring-rope we lost yesterday — that daft young fool Robbins wants his backside kicked. In the end I kept on, and he said: 'Och, we'll keep on down-Channel outside the Goodwins'."

There was another rustle of paper, then Brodie's voice came up again: "Well, I've marked this six o'clock position on the chart, but I wouldn't trust it within five miles. You never know what a wind like this will do to the tides. We might be miles east or west of that fix."

"Well, I tell you, I've been thirty-two years at sea, and I've seen nothing like it. It's like running down a street in the dark with your eyes shut and your head down."

"He usually comes on deck for some fresh air before his supper."

"Should be there all the time in this weather. I would."

"Shall we both try him, then?"

"Can if you like. It's like banging your head against a ruddy brick wall, though — Ey-up! That's his cabin door: on deck, lad."

Jim started furtively away from the mouth of the ventilator, and made himself inconspicuous in the forward corner of the poop as the Old Man himself came on deck, closely followed by the First and Second Mates. The great man rubbed his hands cheerfully, and beamed upon them: "What's your six o'clock position, Mr Brodie?"

"Twenty-eight miles east of Lowestoft, sir. But of—"

"Ay, ay, very good, very good! It's a grand run we've had from the Forth, ay, a grand run. And all stick and string — not a pound of steam. I told the Chairman, Mr McTaggart, she'd be a flier, ay, a flier."

Jim just caught the gleam of the whites as Brodie turned his eyes significantly to the First Mate. Then the Second spoke: "I was going to say, sir, that I'm not happy about that position. We've not had a sight of anything since Bass Rock — it's all dead reckoning from there on. I mean, it's a long way in this weather."

The smile had faded from the Captain's face: "Mr Brodie, did you not sign on as a qualified officer?"

"Yes, sir, but—"

"And have you not got every modern aid to navigation aboard this ship?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have you not supervised the steering and read the log?"

Brodie's face was paler than ever; the First Mate broke in: "I think what Mr Brodie means, sir, is that it's all dead reckoning. We've not had sight of a thing in the last nineteen hours to help us to check our position. It's a tricky run, sir, past the Thames mouth — lot o' banks.—"

"Mr White, after fifteen years as master on this run I don't think I need any lessons in chart-reading. Now, is there anything further you wish to say?"

"Yes, sir." White's blunt obstinacy was roused by the sarcastic malice of the Captain's manner. "With respect, sir, it's the considered opinion of meself and Mr Brodie that we're standing into danger as we are. We think we should heave-to under engines until the weather clears, or at least until daylight."

"I see." There was a long taut silence as Cameron looked in fury from one set white face to the other. "I shall be writing a special report on this for the Company, and of course I shall enter a record in the ship's log. You gentlemen will find you've done a bad day's work for yourselves today. In the meantime, course is as laid down by me on the chart; and you'll be good enough to call me, Mr White, if the weather clears."

There was another long silence between the two men after he had gone, until White spoke with a gloomy bitterness: "See what I mean? Fat lot o' good that's done us. That's what you get for speaking your mind to that daft old jumped-up swaggering popinjay."

"Ay, ay. You know, we should do something about our own tickets, in case he piles her up."

"I know, mister, I know. Soon as I come off watch I'll write down an account of the warning we gave him; you can witness it, an' we'll both sign it. Then we'll keep it up our sleeves, just in case we're in the dock ourselves one day."

This was only Jim's second voyage, but he knew enough of the sea and its ways to know that it was a sensational scene that he had witnessed. It was not often that a first-rate ship's senior officers openly joined to oppose the Captain. The dramatic scene had enthralled him, but now it was over he felt bewildered and alarmed; if there wasn't a firm chain of authority from the Captain to the deck-boys, what was a ship but an iron shell filled with a rabble? Jim would rather face White at his most brutal than see the same man stand up and almost defy his Captain.

Even his dinner of fresh beef, potatoes and cabbage (only one day out, they still had plenty of fresh "shore" provisions) didn't altogether cheer him. Before turning in just after eight o'clock, he stood for a few minutes by the lee rail, looking ahead and out to starboard, where lay the mysterious dangers which the Mates could foresee. But there was nothing but a void of small, thinly-falling flakes. It was easing; it must clear soon, surely? But would it be in time?

Below him on the long flush of the main-deck a few handfuls of the emigrants still huddled in groups or paced aimlessly up and down. From one of the groups arose the thin mournful notes of a melodeon, playing a Highland lament. It was wet, cold and dangerous on deck, but Jim knew what had driven these men up there: the long, ill-lit holds, roughly fitted with plain deal bunks and flimsy partitions, would now be thick and stifling, crowded with the sick and the elderly, all attempting to sleep through the shrill bedlam of frightened, bored and mischievous children. Overcrowding, dirt, sickness, boredom and irritation — these were the lot of emigrants in weather like this; cattle frequently travelled more comfortably.

Jim's sleep was fitful and uneasy, and the mere footfall of the Bosun's Mate outside jolted him into consciousness. The man grinned broadly: "Quarter to twelve, sir. Still pretty thick on deck. Watch your cup o' cocoa, sir, as you get out. It's a good thing to have inside you when you've got the graveyard watch." Jim was forced to smile sheepishly in return; well, you couldn't deny his friendliness, even if he was too familiar. When the sweet gritty cocoa was drunk he certainly did feel more like facing his middle watch, that long desert of hours from midnight to four o'clock.

When he reached the deck he found Brodie already there talking to MacDougall, and looking — in view of the blow to his career — surprisingly cheerful: "Beginning to look a bit more like it, don't you think, mister? Glass rising steadily now. Snow thinning out — might see some lights yet before we get to the worst of it. Seen anything at all?"

"Not a blasted thing, mister, not a blasted thing. I'm thinking it's a bad business, pounding through this shoal water on a night like this. Ay, a bad business."

"Try telling the Old Man that! He been up lately?"

"Och, he took a few turns up and down about four bells."

"I see you make us six miles south-east-by-south of the Shipwash lightship?"

"Ay, that's about it!"

"Surely to God we should see the Sunk lightship before long, if it keeps clearing! Only about six miles off to starboard there; chart says it's visible eleven miles."

"Ay, well that's your worry now, thank God. I'm away to get my head down. Course sou'-sou'-west; alter to south-by-west in half an hour. All right, then, mister?"

"Right-o, got the weight. Course sou'-sou'-west. Good-night, Mr MacDougall. You'll have all the Channel to yourself when you come on again in the morning."

"An' a good job too." MacDougall was muttering sullenly as he groped his way to the hatch. "A bad business, skeltering about these shoals.. " His voice became lost in the wind and sea noises.

"Not so happy tonight, Jim. The Scotch must have run out! Now then, you've got to use your eyes as you've never done before. Seen the chart?"

"No, sir."

"Never come up here without doing that. Well, all along our beam out there to port, about three miles off, is the Inner Gabbard shoal — not a bad one at all. We alter to port, as Dougie said, when we clear the southern end of it. Now the Old Man's idea in altering to port is to keep clear of the really devilish shoals farther ahead to starboard — like the Long Sand and the Kentish Knock. They're real killers — dry right out at low water. Wouldn't mind a sovereign for every good ship that's finished up on those. Still, as I say, that's twenty miles ahead. We've still got a good chance, if we keep our eyes really peeled, of seeing the Sunk. That'd save our bacon, because we could do a running fix on it. Now it's ahead and to starboard. Here's a pair of night-glasses; get over to that starboard rail and get on with it."

"What's its characteristic, sir?"

"Sorry, I forgot. Two flashes every twenty seconds. It should be fairly fine on the starboard bow at the moment."

"Ay, ay, sir." Jim was tense with excitement. His night-vision was excellent, and here at last was the chance to do something, to be the right man for the emergency. Here was a job which he knew he could do better than Brodie and White, for all their seamanship. Steadying himself to the heavy rolling and surging, he began his sweep of the darkness, summoning every effort of concentration, to the task. Slow minutes passed, and his fingers became too numb with the inaction to work the focusing knob of his glasses. Still nothing in sight but a few last snowflakes dancing in the foreground against a back-cloth of black emptiness. The agony of the cold in his finger ends became too much to bear; he lowered his glasses and began to beat his hands together. He didn't want to get caught at this, so he stole a furtive glance over his left shoulder at the still figure of Brodie by the wheel, and it was in this glance that he saw it — the needle-point glitter of a tiny star low in the sky!

"Look, sir!" he yelled. "Astern! It's clearing!" 'By God, you're right, Robbins! Bosun's Mate! My compliments to the Captain — weather clearing to windward."

"Ay, ay, sir," came a voice from the darkness of the main-deck, followed by the hasty pounding of feet.

"All the same, young man," said Brodie, turning to Jim, "you'd no business to be looking there. Now get on—"

"And look, sir — a flashing light, right under the star. Port quarter!"

"Right! Keep your glass on it while I try to pick it up. Count the flashes and the interval."

"There it goes again, sir!"

"Got it! Now count."

As soon as the brief wink was gone, Jim began to count, using the old dodge of saying: "I reckon one, I reckon two, I reckon three," so as to keep pace with the seconds, until the lonely gleam shone again. "Thirty, sir. Single flash every thirty seconds."

"What? Can't be. Check it again while I have a look at the chart." He tore to the hatchway, stepped over the high coaming, and fell with a sliding crash the whole length of the ladder. For suddenly, and with a dull, brutal shock, Sardis stopped her free, headlong career through the dark.

Things happened with a flashing violent swiftness, so that a year of life seemed to be contained in a minute. Jim saw the deathly-white face of the helmsman lit from below by the glow of the binnacle-light. The man was spinning the now useless wheel and screaming at him: "Sir! sir! She's on the sand, she's on the sand!" In the same moment there were two sharp cracks like gunfire as the topsails burst with the extra weight of the wind, and only a second later the huge sea, which had been slowly overtaking them while they were under way, thundered, feet thick, over the taffrail, racing forward with savage speed. Without thinking, Jim leapt for his life at the base of the mizen, and was just able to swing his feet on to the pin-rail four feet off the deck as the vicious tide reached him. The helmsman was not so well-placed, nor so agile. Jim saw the water pluck him like a matchstick from his grasp of the spokes and hurl him sickeningly against the forward rail of the poop.

Jim was at his side by the time the water had cleared through the scuppers. Blood ran from a huge dark cut on the man's forehead, and the whole head was bent back, like that of a broken puppet.

It was the first dead body Jim Robbins had ever seen.

Chapter IV

For a few seconds there was stillness on the poop, as the sick, shivering apprentice pulled uselessly at the shoulders of the dead seaman. Then, with a babel of voices, Brodie, White and the Captain burst out of the hatchway, the two latter still hauling on their watch-coats. The two Mates made a simultaneous rush for the voice-pipe to the engine-room.

"Right, lad, I'll take over now!" said White, as Brodie blew the whistle to attract attention. "Engine-room? Full astern — hard as you can go. She's on the sand." He straightened up and turned his tense staring face to the Second. "She'll never come off against this blow. Still, we got to try everything. How's the tide?"

"Falling. Half-ebb. Low-water half past three."

"We've just a chance. If she won't come off, we'll let go port anchor — give it plenty o' cable; she might come off at high-water if it'll hold, and the wind eases. Right, then?"

"Ay, ay, sir." Brodie dashed away down the ladder and along the main-deck, shouting as he ran: "Bosun! Cable party muster on the foc's'le. Clear away port anchor!"

Slowly the real meaning of what had happened sank into the numbness of Jim's mind: Brodie had said "Ay, ay, sir," to the Mate. He'd never called him "sir" before. Then White was…?

Cameron, too, was coming round from the shock which had left him grey-faced and speechless at first. He spoke with a desperate attempt at his old swagger: "Mr White, I should like to know the meaning—"

But he got no further, for the Mate swung his powerful shoulders round and thrust his face into the Captain's with a look of terrible anger that Jim was to remember all his life. He was sobbing with fury: "Get out o' my sight! Get out o' my sight, you daft murdering old swine! I haven't time to talk to you. With your 'Company this' an' 'Company that' — see where you've landed us! What about all them old folks and nippers down below? Has your Company given us enough lifeboats for them? Has it?" He seized the lapels of Cameron's coat and shook him like a rat, shouting with a choking fury: "Go on — has it? Has it?" He sent him reeling back against the idle wheel. "Now get out o' my sight! You're not fit to be up here. So help me, if I see you on deck again I'll smash your cocky face to pulp. Now, get below." Without a word Cameron left the deck. Two minutes of time had broken him; for the pitiful slanting stoop of his shoulders showed that he would never give a man an order again.

Mr White had no time for thought or pity, however. He turned to Jim: "Here — you! Get the lead; drop the line straight down and tell me if she's moving." Jim snatched up the coil of rope and lowered the seven-pound cylinder of lead into the sea until — all too soon — he felt it touch the bottom. The screw was now threshing round at its full revolutions, shaking and jarring the whole ship. From time to time the whole mass of the ship was lifted bodily by the sea and then dropped with a cruel shuddering jolt on to the hard sand. As Jim looked down the vertical lead-line he could see a foaming soupy brown tide flowing forward along the ship's side. Yet the angle of the line never shifted; she was fast.

"She shifted at all?"

"No, sir. Not moved."

"Very good." White moved heavily to the voice-pipe and spoke down it quietly. "Stop engines. Keep up your head of steam." And quietly and wearily he spoke into the darkness forward. "Pass the word to Mr Brodie, let go port anchor. Veer cable to two shackles on deck."

It was over for the moment. Nobody could do anything now to shift the Sardis. Looking at his watch, Jim was amazed to find that only twelve minutes had elapsed since that hideous dragging grasp had robbed the ship of her life. Even so, with the tide ebbing at full speed, the water-level would have dropped nine inches in that time, and every inch as it slipped away caused more tons of Sardis's weight to rest on the sand. Nothing in the world would budge her an inch now.

From away up forward in the darkness he heard the dull roar of the cable in the hawsepipe as Brodie let go. He guessed what was in the new Captain's mind: when the tide rose again and Sardis refloated, she would clearly be driven farther and farther on to the sandbank. If she paid out cable as she went, for a while, there might be a chance of the anchor holding when she stopped paying out; then she might float off as the tide came surging up. The look on White's face told Jim that it was a desperate hope.

"Not much more we can do, mister," said White as Brodie came up from the main-deck. "One hand anchor-watch; one hand up here; fire a distress-rocket now, and every hour after until daylight. Rest of'em better turn in — don't know where or when they'll get the chance again, poor swabs. All hands on deck six o'clock. Should start to float about six-thirty. Tell Bosun I want 'em to come aft for a few words first thing. Get that fixed, and you and me'll get the chart and try and see where the hell we are. Here — you! Nip down and get me the North Foreland to Orfordness chart; pin it on a board or something. And get a light, too."

Jim returned to the deck to find it deserted except for White and Brodie, who had now lit their pipes. The same savage wind still flung its gusts out of the north-east, but overhead the whole windward hemisphere of the sky was alight with stars, and in a moment the moon would be uncovered. The sea-noise was more muffled, and he saw with awe that the huge steep waves were now curling and shattering long before they reached the ship. Soon they would have less than six feet of water around them. And she needed seventeen-and-a-half to float in.

"Now then, mister, that's the light you saw just before she struck, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir. Flashing every thirty seconds."

"How does it bear now?"

Brodie stooped his head over the compass, and swung the azimuth ring round to get the bearing: "East-by-north, a quarter north."

"This has got me beat, mister. Can't make it out. Going by our twelve-thirty position on the chart, there's no blasted light on that bearing except the Outer Gabbard, and that's flashing four times every twenty seconds. It just don't make sense.'

"I've got it, sir. Here you are — the Galloper — flashing every thirty seconds."

"Ay, but talk sense, man; that's — what? — fifteen miles south of where we are."

"There's nothing else, sir. It must be the Galloper."

White swallowed hard, and, looking up slowly from the chart, stared fixedly out at the light. "Then God help all of us, Brodie — God help us. We're on the Kentish Knock, lad. The worst o' the lot."

"Just a minute, sir. There's more lights coming up now. Look, over there — fine on the starboard quarter, faint. Flashing two" — he counted — "every twenty seconds. The Sunk! But it's miles away astern of us! And we were looking for that on the bow when she struck! Want a bearing, sir? Just — north-by-west."

"Ay, that's it, then. Kentish Knock — north end. But how in God's name did we get there? Look here — we're a good fifteen miles south of our fix. How could we be so far out? We got the log, and you know we added a bit on top o' that, to allow for the wind and sea. But fifteen miles! Fifteen!"

Brodie walked over to the little dial on the rail. "Reads three-six-one and a quarter, sir. That puts us three miles off the Inner Gabbard. How could we have travelled another fifteen miles? Unless. ."

"I know. I thought the same. It might be damaged — hit a bit o' driftwood or something. Well, we'll never know that now. Look here." He leaned over the tafffrail and hauled in the snowy plaited log-line hand-overhand, until the mangled end of the rope appeared. "Just as I thought. Got caught round the screw when we went astern. What's it matter now, anyroad?" And despondently he flung the cord away. "Here, Robbins, you streamed it, didn't you? Robbins! Where you got to now?" He looked round the poop-deck, now crisply lit by brilliant moonlight, but there was no sign of the apprentice. White grunted tolerantly: "Crafty little devil! Must have nipped off to get his head down while we were looking at the log. Don't much blame him, though."

"Shall I keep the deck, sir?" asked Brodie.

"No, lad. Get yours down and all — there's nowt to do up here until she floats."

"What's the chance of coming off then, do you think?"

"You're a seaman, Brodie. You don't have to ask me a daft question like that. What? Come off against a weight o' wind like this? It'd take four or five tugs."

"Wind might moderate, of course."

"Ay, might. But you know what it is when the wind gets up in the north-east this time o' year. Could blow for a fortnight. 'Course, if the wind eased off it wouldn't matter all that if she didn't come off. We could stay here a twelve-month. And we could get the passengers away."

"And if it's still a gale when she floats?"

"Then I wouldn't give two bob for the lot of us, mister, and that's a solid fact. Seen it happen in the Mersey in a westerly blow — plenty o' sand there too. An onshore sea like this'll pound her to pieces, and this blasted sand'll break her back like a carrot."

The moonlight shone on the broad white face of the new Captain, and Brodie was moved beyond words to see tears trickling down his cheeks.

"Seven hundred and fifty souls below, Brodie, without us poor swabs. Seven hundred and fifty. And what chance have we got? No one knows we're here, and if they did — why should they drown themselves along of us? We haven't got boats for anything like all of'em — and if we had what chance would they stand in this sea? And there's nowt I can do. Absolutely nowt. By God, it's hard, Brodie, it's hard on the chap in my position. I've been in some tight corners, you know, in my thirty years' sea-going. I was Mate once on one of the Western Ocean schooners. I remember one trip coming back with cod from Labrador in the winter, she lost every stick o' mast; cargo shifted, seams started. There she was, right in the middle o' the North Atlantic, on her beam-ends, with half the hands on the pumps, more dead than alive with cold and weariness and hunger. And by God we got her back to Portmadoc, you know! Another time on the Australia run, coming from Geelong with wheat, crew all Swedes: the whole lot of 'em mutinied — wouldn't work the ship; Old Man thought they'd do for the lot of us officers at one time. I went in the fo'c's'le — I'm not boasting, mind — ordered the nearest man out on deck. He didn't move. I bashed him with my bare hands so he was on his back for three days. The rest didn't lift a finger. Had to smash up three of'em — then the rest came on deck like lambs. Never gave another bit o' trouble." There was a long pause. "And now — only twenty miles off land, first-rate ship, first-rate crew, and there's not a single thing in the world I can do."

"There's the rockets, sir. Surely the hands on the Sunk lightship must see them. They'd pass the message on through the Cork Lightship to Harwich. There's a steam tug there, I know for a fact. She could be out here by daylight."

"Ay, mister, could be. If the Sunk sees our signal, and if she passes it on, and if the Cork sees it, and if. . what's the use, lad? Besides, I've heard things about this coast. After the storm's gone and everyone's drowned — that's when they come out to a wreck — for whatever they can hack off her and carry away."

"The smacks, you mean, sir? Ay, ay, they're bad enough about here, so they say. They come out from the Colne and the Kent shore. Salvagers, they call themselves."

"Salvagers?" White gave a bitter laugh. "Savages'd be more like it. God-forsaken, thieving savages."

Chapter V

The dark interior of the tiny cabin was almost quiet, for the main fury of the waves was still breaking yards to windward of the dying ship; but the quiet was broken by the dry, choking sobs wrenched out of the body which lay face downwards still fully dressed, across the bunk. Like the storm outside, the sounds of the young man's heartbreak rose and fell in gusts; but inside, in its own world now, his mind tramped ceaselessly round and round the same treadmill of bitter remorse. And round and round like vague figures on a hideous dream roundabout, came the same faces and things — White, the log, Brodie, MacDougall, Captain Cameron, the broken neck of the helmsman, the winking light of the Galloper, and the sand.

You miserable snivelling coward, one part of his mind seemed to say; you were quick enough to sneer at poor old Dougie, and join in with other people's contempt. You were quick enough to judge the Captain too. They didn't measure up to your standards, did they? Well, what about yourself? There was some excuse (not much, but some) for what they did. What can you find? You — the would-be seaman? Would a seaman be such a childish half-wit as to fool about with a thing which means life or death? Would any sort of man be such a filthy coward as to hide the damage he'd done to a sensitive machine because he was afraid of a thump on the ear and an entry in the log? How many hundred poor folk will pay with their lives at high water for a few blows that you couldn't face…?

It was at this point of the torture that, time and time again, the victim's agony broke out into a desolate storm of dry sobs. Now he hardly remembered the words that had broken him — had turned him from a fairly courageous, though not very useful, junior officer into a shattered walking shadow — as broken as Cameron, as dead to the world as the smashed helmsman. When the frantic violence of his grief had passed he would remember all his life the brutal, cold, numbing stab of fear that had paralysed him as White had looked up from the chart at Brodie, saying: ". . a good fifteen miles south of our fix. How could we be so far out? We got the log…' THE LOG! It wasn't possible, but he'd forgotten it since the first night of the voyage. The business of Dougie and the Captain had driven the broken fin and his fear of White clean out of his mind.

For a few moments he had been certain — indeed, he had hoped — that White would look up and say, 'Robbins, you put us on the Kentish Knock!' If only he had, the horrible truth would have been spread and shared. But instead he had simply walked gloomily over and hauled up the broken rope. It was when Jim had realized that he was entirely alone with his secret that he had dashed forward, to halt in the darkness by the lee rail, looking down at the tumbling foam. He had stood there for many minutes, while the Mate called from the poop; but he was now too dead, far too sunk in lifeless apathy, to climb that rail, balance, and then jump.

And so, to the hand who called him, he appeared to be still alive when hands were called at six that morning. White and Brodie were too anxious about other things to notice his numbness, his misery. Though he was no longer a young man, but only a mechanical puppet, his outside showed little change.

As he emerged on deck, White was standing at the break of the poop, surveying the small crowd of seamen beneath him. He held up his hand for silence, which fell swiftly and utterly: "Lads, we've no time to argy-bargy, but I got two very grave things to tell you. First, as you can see, we're in a damned tight spot. I don't have to tell you that she may break up on the rising tide. Now I think you know that I'm not one to be trifled with. What I say goes. And I know I can rely on the fellers in front of me to do as much as men can do. That brings me to the second thing: last night I removed James Cameron from the command of this vessel. I'm now master, and I've appointed Mr Brodie as Mate. It was entirely my decision, and I'll take full responsibility for it when we reach port. That's all. Carry on forward. Bosun and steward report to me."

The men moved away from the poop with little of the buzzing excitement that would normally have followed a Captain's overthrow. White watched them go with concern, then turned to the Bosun: "Now then, Bosun, you can see wind's as bad as ever. Mr Brodie and I think she'll pound to pieces at high water. I want you to get all lifeboats cleared away ready for lowering. We can't use the weather side, o' course, or they'll be knocked to pieces, so you'll only be able to swing out two at a time. They should ride alongside to leeward all right, though, so start getting 'em in now." The Bosun, heavy and red-faced, caught the urgency in White's tone, and clattered almost nimbly down to the main-deck, bawling as he went. In his place now stood the slight, pale and rather studious figure of the officers' steward, shivering in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves. He seldom came on deck at all, and, ignorant of the disaster, had been busy on the routine scrubbing of his pantry when the summons had arrived. He was bewildered as well as peevish, for he knew nothing of the violent end of Cameron's career, nor of White's new rank.

"What is it, sir?" he asked impatiently.

"How much whisky you got aboard?"

"How much whisky, sir? Well, I haven't got my stores book with me, of course. I really didn't know—"

"Come on, you wittering old woman — how much Scotch?"

"Well, in round figures, speaking unofficially, of course, about ten cases; but I don't quite—"

"Right. Get it up here. Dish it out. Bottle to every six hands."

"Give it to the. . Surely you—" He faltered to a stop as the great raw hand of the Captain closed over a belaying-pin, then turned and dashed below.

"Might cheer 'em up a bit," said White to Brodie. "You heard what the carpenter told me just now, I daresay? Four foot o' water in two o' the lower holds."

"That was the pounding on the sand, I suppose?" said the Mate. "We shan't be able to keep it from the passengers much longer. They'll hear it swilling about underneath them. I've been having a job as it is to keep them below. Keep coming up to complain about the delay. Delay! Funny, really, I suppose."

"They'll have to stay there, though, till the boats are over-side, or we'll not get one away with hundreds of 'em sculling about on deck. Listen now, lad. Get your gun and two good men — big uns, you know. Get 'em all together on the 'tween-decks and tell them they're being sent ashore — or any cock-and-bull story you like, for that matter. Tell 'em they got to be ready, but stay down below till they're told. Show them your pistol."

Mr White had been hoping to hang on until daylight before sending the boats away. A rescue attempt might be made, and even if it was not, the boats must stand a slightly better chance of survival by day. Even so, heavily-loaded boats would be in the most appalling danger in the steep, high seas that were now beginning to shake the stranded hulk with their force. Once they were out of the shelter given by the ship he gave them no better than one chance in five of escaping capsize or swamping. Still, since Sardis was already leaking, there was no choice. By eight o'clock the full fury of the sea might well be breaking clean over the main-deck, and then it would be too late.

He looked over the lee rail; a few boats were already secured by their painters to the rail; even on this sheltered side they surged to and fro wildly as the sea rose and fell; in the bow of each boat a seaman prodded frantically at the ship's side to keep the boat off. On the main-deck was a scene of furious activity: while one body of hands cut and slashed with axes and knives, ripping off lashings and tarpaulins, the remainder went to each boat in turn, securing to its slings the hooks of great blocks which hung from the yard-arms of the fore and mainmasts. There was a flurry of shouts, and the boat was snatched aloft; a small body of hands on the braces swung the end of the yard over the water, and the boat was rapidly lowered into the swilling, heaving froth.

A still, hunched figure among the ant-like bustling of the seamen caught White's attention. Young Robbins! Got a bad attack of the jitters, by the look of it. That sort of thing could spread. "Hey — Robbins! Make yourself useful. Tell Cameron to come up here. Then go and help Mr Brodie down below."

The limp puppet that had once been an apprentice slouched mechanically into the doorway that led under the poop-deck, tapped on the familiar panelling, and repeated the message. On the open deck again, he headed for the hatchway to the main hold, from which came the stale stench of poor, unwashed, crowded people, and a roar of confused noise. At the bottom of the ladder he saw the backs of Brodie and two seamen; only a few feet away, in a half-circle, stood the vanguard of a wild and frightened herd — uncertain, bewildered, caught between a desperate desire for action and a sapping, paralysing fear.

From the ship's side came the thundering boom of a giant sea. The whole ship trembled from the ponderous blow, which shifted her sideways so roughly that the great packed mass of bodies stumbled sideways with a quick moan of terror. Inevitably, the men who considered themselves the toughest had shouldered their way to the front; their leader, unshaven and hollow-cheeked, turned to the crowd, raking them with his glittering, fanatical eyes: "You felt that, did you not? D'you believe the swine now when he says we're no in danger? Are you still going to let him pen us up down here like pigs, while he and his mates save their dirty hides?"

Brodie was deathly pale, his jaw muscles clamped rigidly. "Right you are, then — I warned you." He nodded towards the mob's leader; the seaman on his left leapt forward. He seized the man's jacket with his left hand; his raised right hand grasped a polished belaying-pin that he had hidden until now. There was a dead crack of wood on bone, and the leader pitched limply among the crowded feet. There was a furious murmur of anger, which was silenced in a gasp as the threatening half-circle saw the gun in Brodie's hand.

"Now you can shut up and wait," he said. "The boats are being got ready now." He looked at the nearest ranks of able-bodied men with bitter scorn and played his trump card. "I suppose you gentlemen in the front are getting ready to be first away?" There was an angry clamour from the rear; the old and young were thrust to the front, and the committee of resistance melted away. An excited seaman leaned down to call: "Mr Brodie, sir! Captain's compliments, first boatload on deck if you please."

As the first thirty, mostly mothers with babies in arms, filed past Jim, the whole ship shook and shifted to another savage blow. Again the crowd swayed helplessly; this time there were crashes as piles of luggage and trunks were thrown to the deck. "Not a bit too soon," said Brodie quietly to the seaman on his left. "That was a good 'un you gave him. Can't see him on his feet yet."

Chapter VI

Cameron was not quick to obey the new Captain's curt message, but he did obey it, and stood silently and passively before Mr White.

"Right, Cameron. I'm giving you a chance to save some of the lives you've thrown away. God knows I'd like to shoot you like a mad dog — but I can't afford to. You were a decent enough seaman once, they say. Are you willing to take charge of the first lifeboat away, and act as guide to the others? Or do I have to send MacDougall?'

There was a long pause as Cameron, half-turned away, stood savouring the bitter humiliation of White's question. Then he turned his back entirely and looked out to leeward: "I'll do it," he said.

"Right. Now I'll tell you what I want you to do. You'll have a compass in your boat: I want you to head due north, and keep wind and sea on your starboard bow. I'm putting two seamen and two able-bodied passengers in each boat, so you should have enough oarsmen to do that. Tide and wind'll be setting you into the estuary at about three or four knots, so if you steer north you should cross right over the Long Sand into Black Deep. Plenty of water over the sand for small boats. Then once the tide falls you're in sheltered water — and on a shipping route too. If you can last two hours you should be all right. Got it?"

Cameron gave the smallest of nods, his head averted, and descended to the main-deck to meet the first party of white-faced, terrified passengers. One by one the boats were loaded; hard-case seamen, doomed to remain aboard and face an icy death, nevertheless comforted the old folk with clumsy tenderness, and joked and played with the small children to distract them from their terror. It was half-past seven on a clear, bitter morning when the last boat, with MacDougall in command, let go and drifted rapidly away to the south-west, rowing laboriously and clumsily to join the straggling armada now lost out there in the half-light.

As the last boat's painter fell into the water, a gloomy, despairing emptiness settled on the men and women who remained. The score of seamen stared silently out to leeward; a few stokers were busy dumping buckets of glowing coals over the side, for the Captain had ordered the fires to be drawn; knots of black-clad emigrants — mostly the able-bodied and childless — looked with dread at the even grey ranks of seas that marched at them ceaselessly out of the north-east.

White felt pressing on his shoulders not only his own despair, but that of all his companions in disaster. Action was needed; he forced himself to smile and rub his hands together: "Right, now we'll think about ourselves, lads. Mr Brodie! On the fo'c'sle, please: veer cable as she shifts up the shoal; we'll have her off yet! And Mr Brodie," he beckoned to the Mate to come closer, nodded towards the lifeless figure against the rail, and muttered: "And take that miserable spineless young gowk with you, for God's sake. Can't stand the sight of him any longer. He can point the cable for you." Thus Jim Robbins was soon leaning over the bulwark on the foc's'le, holding out a stiff arm to show the direction in which the anchor-cable was "growing".

As the cable grew taut, Brodie motioned to the hand on the brake of the cable-holder, and a few more fathoms of chain surged through the pipe. The man working the wheel of the brake was Able Seaman Jordan, who had so much enjoyed White's baiting of Jim. Now his harsh mahogany features were set grimly; like all the rest of the men, he knew that this was a slender help. Sand was wretched stuff for holding an anchor in a gale like that.

Soon the sun was up, the sky gathered colour and imparted it to the waves, giving the ruffled water to windward a magnificent dark blue. The sky was utterly clear, yet little met their eyes but heaving seas. Away down to leeward the desolate leaning masts of a wreck showed up sharply, and small specks were scattered on the sea around them — the lifeboats! It was hard to see clearly, as each speck was constantly appearing and vanishing as the huge troughs and crests rolled past; but a keen eye could see that several of the specks showed white and smooth — the upturned bottoms of capsized boats. Right away to the east could be seen in sharp silhouette the topsails of a barque running to the southward. Of the land nothing showed, save for a blue haze in the south that could have been the high ground of Thanet in Kent. And still the huge bitter wind howled at them out of the washed sky.

Half an hour passed. Time after time, Jim saw the chain grow taut as the ship drove farther on to the shoal, then slacken as more was paid out. Gradually even Jim was aware, however, that Sardis was moving less and less with every wave; the wind had now swung her round so that she was broadside-on to the cruel sledge-hammer seas. At first, she had lifted to them like a man cringing from a blow, her keel landing again and again with a hideous jar on the hard sand. Now she was lifeless and passive; unmoving.

"How's the cable now?" shouted Brodie into the wind.

"Still slack, sir — up and down," Jim replied. He felt a shoulder brush against his; Jordan had rushed across from his post on the brake to stare over the bulwark at the hanging cable.

"That's it, then," he said quietly. "Done for. Water's going in and out of her, same as if she was a lobster-pot. That'll break clean over her presently."

"Jordan!" Brodie was shouting angrily. "Get back to—" It was an order poor Brodie did not finish in this life. As he began to speak, Jim heard Jordan give a weird scream; the apprentice had a glimpse of a vast dark-blue slope above him, capped by a sliding avalanche of foam. Then the seaman flung him flat on his face under the shelter of the bulwark, and lay there piled on him, while tons of water shot in a solid stream across them three feet above their tense bodies. Almost extinguished by the roaring crash of the wave were the brief, terror-filled screams of the hard seamen who saw Death reaching out to touch them. Jim and Jordan lay stiffly, grasping with incredible strength whatever solid fitting came to hand. When, at last, they raised themselves from the streaming deck the foc's'le was empty of life; the whole of the starboard bulwark had been shorn off at deck level. Of the officer and three seamen nothing remained but a sodden cap, lodged in the machinery of the cable-holder.

Even in his deeply-shocked coma, now made worse by the horror of that moment, Jim felt a kind of awe that he was alive. Yet he was alive now in the way that a dumb animal is alive, and it was an animal instinct that made him stumble to his feet and start to make his way to the ladder which would lead him down on to the main-deck. A kind of unthinking urge drew him to join the crowd — the tightly-packed huddle of passengers and crew on the poop. He was at the head of the ladder when Jordan's great hand seized his upper arm, just as White had on the first night.

"Where d'you reckon you're off to, then, mate?" Jordan was a rough, independent man at the best of times; he had now entirely dropped whatever slight respect he might have had for Jim's rank. "You must be blinking daft, charging about. Why don't you look where you're going?" And he pointed grimly to the main-deck. It was now like a half-tide rock: most of the deck was swilling deep in white water; only the tops of the hatches showed as islands of sodden green tarpaulin. The freak sea which had swept their companions like flies to their deaths had ripped off part of the cloth of one of the hatches, and each succeeding smaller wave dragged and worried at the hatch-beams and the tarpaulin, so that a bigger and bigger breach was made.

" 'Ow do you fancy your chance o' gitting through that lot, then, you silly young beggar. Now you listen here. You want to git through this turn-out?"

Jim nodded dumbly.

"Right, then, matey. You and me only got one chance. See that forem'st? Well, git up them shrouds, fast as ever you can." He led the way to the laddered stays on the windward side of the ship, where the wind would force them against, and not away from, their precarious holds on the ratlines. Step by step, Jim forced himself upwards, falling far behind the tough top-mast hand, who ran up and down such dreadful rope stairs every day of his life. As Jim mounted higher the wind seemed to pluck and drag more and more viciously at his strong oilskin coat, and several times his stomach turned somersaults of fear as numb feet and hands slipped on the ropes. Once he cried out in panic as both feet missed the ratlines and kicked wildly in the air; the urge to live was strong now, however, and Jim forced his cold stiff muscles to bend and stretch until at last he saw just above his head the junction of the stays with the mast and the "lubber's-hole" cut in the stout wooden platform of the foretop. As his head passed up through the hole he felt the strong grip of Jordan's hands hauling him up, and heard the harsh taunting voice: "Took your time, didn't you? Scratching about down there like a blessed old hen. Now you're up here, git your back shoved up against them top-m'st shrouds and sit still. It ain't much of a place for having a walk round."

Indeed, their refuge from the sea was nothing but an open, semi-circular wooden platform, sixty feet above the deck, from whose sides the top-mast shrouds led up another eighty dizzy feet to the top-gallant mast-head. There was plenty of room for two men to sit, high above the reach of the waves, until the mast fell, or the wind dislodged them or bit through their clothing to freeze them, or (perhaps) until a rescue boat wallowed in the seas alongside.

Placing their feet against the mast, the two men braced themselves firmly against the taut rigging, turning their backs to the wind, and pressing against each other for warmth. Yet still the deadly cold air seeped into every inch of flesh, and constant shivering racked them, however they beat their arms or pounded their hands together. At length Jordan spoke between rattling teeth: "It ain't no good, is it, cocky? We got to git some shelter; can't go on like this — very soon freeze else. Gitting near high-water, I know. Never mind — have to charnst it. I'm a-going down again, see what I can find." Jim's mind was almost surrendering to the continuous agony of the cold, and he merely nodded.

He was roused out of his deadly drowsiness by a rough prod in the stomach; Jordan was back, and was busy hauling on a rope which led down through the lubber's hole: "Give us a hand, mate. Here you are, cop hold of this and help me heave up on it. Know what's on the end of it? The cover off of the old cable-holder. Found it wedged underneath. Good old bit o' cloth, y'know, being as it's new." The bundle of tarpaulin was, of course, swinging wildly on the end of the rope, often getting foul of other objects for a time, so that the struggling men felt, as it came up into view, the first stealing sensations of blessed warmth in their limbs and bodies. There was a further cramped, awkward struggle as they hauled the thick green cloth between them, cautiously spread it and secured it by its own ropes to the stays. Every move and hold was slow and careful, for the battering gusts seemed to be maliciously trying to thwart them and gave sudden vicious tugs at the stiff cover. At last, panting from their efforts, they were able to push their backs firmly against it. Their hands were aching as the tingling blood returned, but it was a blissful feeling to be sheltered against the wind that now shrieked past harmlessly. They were now as safe as they could be from the danger of exposure.

"A-a-ah!" Jordan leant back with a sigh of contentment, and grinned at Jim. "That's a bit better, ain't it, cocky? Just like old Robinson Crusoe!"

Chapter VII

The grin on Jordan's face did not last long, for he looked to his right down along the flooded main-deck to the poop. Clusters of small black figures clung desperately round any fixed object — the mast, the wheel and its casing, the binnacle, the shrouds. The sloping angles of the latter were picked out sharply in black, for they were laden with survivors from top to bottom — doomed passengers clinging with feeble, inexperienced hands and feet to the strange springing ladders.

"Look at them poor beggars," said Jordan with real compassion. "What chance have they got? They'll come off of there like flies presently."

Yet Mr White had done all a man could do for his passengers. They, not the seamen, had been allowed to seek refuge in the shrouds of the mizen-mast. The seamen clung with pale despair to whatever they could find on deck — some silent, some cursing, a few praying, all gasping and shuddering as the icy water flung itself upon them. With every wave the depth of the boiling white flood on deck was greater; each wave was imperceptibly stronger in its drag on numb, exhausted hands and arms; after each wave now the black clusters were thinner and smaller, for each rushing wall of foam licked a few victims from their holds, and shot them across the deck to the yawning gap which earlier seas had torn in the lee bulwark, and so into the sea, now only a few feet below the level of the poop. Many, weary to death of the long struggle, knowingly allowed their grasp to relax, and met their fate half-way.

Captain White, whose grip on life was strong, was still left, under water for most of the time, long after all his passengers and crew had been swept from the deck, choking and gasping, to leeward. Several passengers still clung to the mizen shrouds, but for them there was no refuge such as Jim and Jordan had found in the foremast. Since Sardis was rigged as a barque, she had only two fore-and-aft sails on the mizen, and the mizen-top was not a stout, broad piece of decking like the foretop, but only a light wooden framework, scarcely a refuge for a monkey.

Yet White had the will to live, and the strength of a bull. Carefully timing his rush, he reached the foot of the lee mizen shrouds and began to make his way doggedly to the top. Indeed, he would almost certainly have got there, left to himself. But high above him on the ratlines was a woman passenger who had now been clinging there for nearly an hour, while the remorseless wind froze her fingers and tore at her wide skirts. White had hardly begun his ascent before the north-easter at last overcame that feeble grip. Struck unawares as he climbed by that hurtling body, how could even White survive this last cruelty of fate? Without a cry he disappeared into the foam to leeward. For thirty years he had watched, worked, starved, bullied and fought to be a master; and yet his only command was not a ship but a stranded carcass. In his hands she had not been afloat one minute.

Twenty minutes later at nine-thirty, when the tide reached its height, a few screaming gulls were the only living creatures that the two castaways in the foretop could see. From end to end of the ship, the waves broke freely across the deck, flowing without hindrance into the ruined hatchways, and smashing with terrible blows against the upperworks. Stunned by the horrors they had so closely witnessed, and exhausted by their own efforts, Jim and Jordan sank into a cold uneasy sleep, while the lonely wind whined on through the cordage all around them.

The thrust of an elbow in his ribs brought Jim struggling back to consciousness; at first he gazed stupidly at the bright sky and the drifting white clouds. Where was the white sash frame and the almond tree of his window at home? Or the round scuttle of his poky grey cabin? Then he saw, only a foot or so from his eyes, the red cheeks and sprouting black bristles of a face, and knew where he was.

"Ah, you ain't snuffed it yet, then?" said Jordan.

For an instant, waking up, he had been free of the crushing black burden of his guilt. Now it was with him again. He felt his courage, his energy, his hope, drain swiftly away. "I'm all right," he said.

"Beggared if I've ever been so cold in all my life," said Jordan, beating his arms stiffly across his chest. "That old wind's a proper stepmother's breath, no mistake. Still, that's eased off tidy. It ain't more'n a fresh breeze now."

Every limb of Jim's body seemed to be clamped into position, and at first every move was agonizing. Still, he straightened himself, beat his arms, and looked around dully.

"Blest if you ain't a miserable 'erb, though," grumbled Jordan. "What I can see, you might just as well be dead. What's the matter with you? Ain't you glad to be here? What about the rest of'em — every mother's son — rolling about in the tide down there, with their hair waving acrost their faces like weed?"

Jim stared down at the curiously narrow-looking ship beneath them. He said nothing, for he had no words in him. The sky and sea were a glittering, aching blue; though the ponderous slow swells still crashed along the port side, the wind was falling away fast. He had bathed at Bournemouth in rougher water. The tide had almost left them now, and close to leeward patches of sand were showing, their backs beginning to dry in the keen air. He struggled round to face out to seaward, and there in the east the sun gleamed on the canvas of ships running down-Channel. The arteries of sea commerce were open again.

Jordan's eyes followed his: "Fat lot o' good looking at them. They ain't going to bother about us. What's another coupla masts round here? You and me's got to look up for ourselves. I'm going down again, to see what I can get. You stop up here — you're more trouble than what you're worth. See that line there?" He pointed to one of the innumerable ropes leading down the mast to the deck. "When I holler, heave up on that."

Left alone, Jim sank back against the tarpaulin that had saved their lives, and dozed again, until jerked awake by an angry shout from below. So cramped and dazed was he that his crawl to the mast nearly cost him his life. After trying several ropes, to the accompaniment of abuse roared from below, he at last found the one that was loose. He sat down and painfully hauled the rope in, until a sodden seaman's kitbag came into view. He leant forward and swung this over on to the floor of the top, and was still gazing apathetically at it when Jordan's head came up through the lubber's hole.

"What? Ain't you had a look what's inside, mate? I dunno what to make of you. Some o' them poor swabs below are more alive than what you are." Jordan was a man who lived for the moment; he was puffing with his efforts, and his eyes gleamed again as he grinned and smacked his palms together. "Same as I said, it's like old Robinson Crusoe what our old marster used to tell us about. You want some grub, you got to look round, help yerself, see? Know what, mate? You and me's going to eat! Look here what I got in this bag." He began to ransack the kitbag, producing things triumphantly from it like a confident conjuror: first a square tin of ship's biscuit, then a big round tin of bully beef. Both of these, being sealed, were in perfect condition. Next, he produced a closed billy-can of water.

The first stirrings of life came back to Jim, as the sight reminded his stomach that it had had no food for eighteen hours. With life came curiosity, and the beginnings of friendship for his only companion — in the world, as it seemed. "How did you get all that?" he asked.

"Used my loaf, cocky," said Jordan, cackling and tapping his temple with a bent finger; "used my ignorant old Able Seaman's loaf. You know that little old store the cook's got, alongside of the galley? Well, that had stood up to it, all right; 'course, the door was locked, but you know we got them axes up on deck for cutting away rigging? Well, didn't take me long to get the door down with one o' them. So we got enough grub to last us a twelve-month or more."

"What about the water?"

"That was easy. We got a drinking water tank alongside the door to the foc's'le, same as they used to have what they called a scuttle-butt in the old days. Ah, but you ain't seen the best of it. Look 'ere, now!" A conjuror once more, he dragged out from inside his coat a flat black bottle with a white label. "What you reckon to a drop o' that to keep the cold out and cheer you up? Used to do old Dougie good! I went inside the foc's'le, see. Well, you never seen such a sight in all your life — half a foot of water standing in there, with everlasting of old clobber and bedding, and baccer, and chests, and ditty-boxes, all swilling and floating about. You just think — this time yesterday them poor fellers owned all them odds and ends, and looked after 'em, and swopped 'em, and kept 'em tidy. Now they're just a lot o' dirty wet rubbish. Anyway, I knew old Scouse had some o' this what he'd smuggled aboard at Leith. Didn't take me long to find his chest and split it open. And there we are! Pretty nigh full; he ain't drunk more'n a fly's eyeful!"

"You're going to drink that?"

" 'Course I am. So are you if you got any sense." He uncorked the bottle and raised it to his lips for a long gurgling pull, lowering it at last with a deep sigh of pleasure. "Caw, that don't half warm your guts. Your turn." He offered the bottle to Jim.

Jim turned away moodily. To drown scores of seamen and then drink their carefully-hidden whisky supplies! "No thanks," he said.

"Go on, don't act so blessed daft," said Jordan scornfully. "What you reckon old Scouse would do if he was setting up here and I was down in the hog-wash? Die of thirst? Go on — fill your boots!"

Jim tilted the bottle, choking at first at the sting of the fiery liquor. But it certainly gave you a glow, setting your innards alight as it descended, and he gave the bottle back with a ghost of a smile.

"Ah, that's the idea. That'll make you talk about your grandma! Now we'll very soon have a bit of grub."

He took his heavy knife out of its sheath, and roughly hacked open the two tins. He handed Jim two or three of the square thick biscuits, and prised out a great solid lump of the cold, congealed, fatty meat, which he thrust into Jim's hand. "There you are, then. That'll line your ribs. You won't have to be too fussy up 'ere. You ain't down in the ward-room now, with your silver and your clean glasses, and that cissy old woman of a steward dancing round you. You got to live like poor old Jack now!"

For a long time the two men ate silently and ravenously, cramming great mouthfuls down their throats. They finished the billy-can of water to help out the dust-dry biscuits; then, chewing the last of their meal in a leisurely way, they passed the whisky bottle to and fro and talked quietly of their future.

"Do you think anyone knows we're here?" said Jim. "What about all the rockets we shot off last night? Surely someone must have seen them?"

"Ah, I don't know, mate. We're a tidy way off-shore, you know. There's a lifeboat down at Ramsgate, but that's — what? — more'n twenty miles off. They got an old steam-tug — the Liverpool — over at Harwich — and that's twenty mile off, too. Only chaps as might see us is them in the Sunk, and there's no bounds how long it'd take them to pass a signal to shore."

"You seem to know the place pretty well."

"Should do, mate. I live just over there." He waved a hand to the south-west. "Down Whitstable way, there. Ever been there?"

"No. That's where the oysters come from, isn't it?"

"Ah, that's right. I started on one of the oyster yawls when I was a lad, years ago. I'm in hopes I'll very soon be back on the beach there."

"At Whitstable? How?"

"Ain't you never heard of the salvage smacks? Well round these parts salvage from wrecks is a reg'lar thing in the winter for the fishermen. Can't catch fish in this sort of weather, see. So the fellers from down our way, and the Essex men from Rowhedge up the Colne River, there, they hang about to see what they can snap up."

"At sea in this weather in those little smacks? Pretty dangerous, isn't it?"

"Dangerous? You don't know what you're on about. My old mates in the salvage smacks, they know these parts like the backs of their hands. They keep in under the lee o' the big banks, in the sheltered water, see. They can jill about for a week if they have to. Only when you git a gale o' wind from the nor'-east, you don't have to wait that long for a wreck, gen'ly. 'Course, the old job ain't what it was. These old lifeboats what they're setting up all over the place, they're the ruin of it. The old smacksmen don't half carry on about 'em."

"These salvagers must be wonderfully brave chaps to risk so much just to help other people," said Jim seriously. He flushed with annoyance when Jordan burst into peals of harsh uncontrollable laughter.

"Caw!" he spluttered at length. "Beggared if you ain't got a lot to learn. Help other people, eh? That's a good 'un! I wisht old Dukey could have heard that one. See, matey, they sorter help theirselves at the same time, you might say." He was silent for a while, scanning the western horizon keenly. "I lay you any money, matey, there's half a dozen of them over there just out of sight, what have seen these masts from their mast-heads. Only they're waiting, see. They won't turn up today." With a swing of his arm he sent the empty bottle spinning into the sea. "What time's high-water tonight?" he asked.

"Just after ten o'clock," said Jim sullenly.

"Go on, now. You don't want to bite things like that," said Jordan genially. " 'Twas only a bit o' my fun, you know. Ten o'clock, eh? Well, more'n likely that'll roll her over, and you and me'll see our old shipmates again. But if it don't, I shall be surprised if we don't see some of me old mates from Whitstable tomorrow morning. In the meantime," he stretched contentedly, then stood up and looked down cheerfully at Jim; "in the meantime, cocky, you keep your eyes open up here while I have a bit of a scout round below."

Jim leant over to watch him descend. The sea had calmed still further, and the swell was going down. Only a foot or two of broken water now surrounded the ship, and bare sand showed fifty yards away to leeward. The man had reached the desolation of the deck now, and began to make his way aft to where, a few hours before, those other little black figures had been mercilessly licked off the face of the earth.

Chapter VIII

"No, Mister Brass-bounder," thought Jordan, as his sea-boots met the deck, "you ain't the sort I can trust. I'll have a go at this lark on me own." He whistled tunelessly as he made his way aft, and caught himself muttering gleefully again and again: "Ernie, you poor ole swab, you're made for life! You done the last day's work you'll ever do, mate." If ever a man was on the threshold of a fortune, Ernie Jordan was that man. A whole wreck, a whole 3,000-tonner to yourself! It was the sort of golden dream that generations of seamen had dreamt — an impossible Ali Baba's cave. He could still hardly believe his luck — it was not the sort he was used to. Seven hundred and fifty passengers, all cleared out quickly! If they hadn't left something worth-while behind it would be pretty hard luck: they had to have a start in Australia — how else could they do that but by taking their sovereigns with them? But they might have given them to the Old Man to look after — there was a big safe in his cabin.

" 'Arf a minute, then, Ernie," he muttered, and retraced his steps for'ard. He poked about in the carpenter's workshop, and came out carrying a heavy hammer and a cold chisel. He ducked into the silent, wrecked foc's'le where the water still stood inches deep and rummaged round to find the best and strongest kit-bag. This time the scene did not depress him at all, for he was in a fury of trembling haste to collect his fortune from aft. Yet swiftly as he worked, his mind raced far ahead. A little snug old cottage, somewhere in the woods over Tyler Hill way, where you needn't even smell the sea, let alone see it. You would just lean all day against its white gate, feeling the warm sun on you, and watching the smoke drift up from your cigar. And the pick of the girls for miles around! "You'll be a catch — that's what you'll be, matey," he cackled.

As he entered the doorway under the poop, he glanced backwards up at the foretop, to see whether he was being observed. But the young brassbounder and the tarpaulin showed only as a small shapeless lump. "Not a bad idea, him having a drop o' skimmish. I lay that'll keep him quiet for a bit. Ain't used to it."

The Captain's cabin, when he reached it, was as much of a shambles as the foc's'le; it had been completely under water at high tide, and the terrible pounding of the after-end of the ship had shaken all the drawers from the fine cabin furniture and scattered their contents into the shallow dirty lake which still covered the deck. The furniture would be a prize for the smacksmen when they came, but Jordan was after something which made pieces of wood seem like chicken-feed.

"There she stands, then," he breathed, looking at the solid modern safe against the bulkhead. "Now I wonder where the silly old swab kept his key? Might have been in his desk — still, take me a week to find it in all that old clobber on the deck. Most likely had it round his neck. Right, then; if I can't fetch the back off of that, my name ain't Ernie Jordan." He was a massively powerful man, and it took him only one well-timed heave to crash the safe face-downwards on to the deck. He ran his fingers thoughtfully along the edge of the safe's back to find the line of the weld, and soon the cabin rang to the mighty blows of the hammer on the chisel. "Funny thing," the thought went through his mind as he grunted and grimaced with the effort; "these clever chaps with their fancy locks — they never think of some strong ignorant beggar like me having a go at the back."

It was hard, monotonous work, but the thought of the wealth inside drove him on, so that his great arms and shoulders worked like a machine. Time was against him, for soon the inevitable tide would be slopping around him, and when that was gone and the morning came, there might be a hundred men swarming over the wreck. With every blow, the chisel bit a fraction farther into the welded seam. At the end of two hours and a half, when he was sweating, and deafened by the noise, one corner of the back of the safe had been cut from the sides. Roused now to a fever-pitch of excitement, he dashed for'ard again, to return with a thick crow-bar. "Now, matey," he said to the safe as he drove the thin end into the cut, "we'll very soon see what you've got in you." Levering upwards, he prised a triangular flap of the metal up and back, up and back, until his hand and his whole arm could reach inside the safe, and gather all its contents. He was trembling all over as he rummaged round, drew out one package after another and placed them on the desk-top. "Now, then!" he said with a deep breath, and wrenched off the hasp of the larger of the two cash-boxes.

"Ah, I thought so!" he cried triumphantly. "Full to the blessed top with sovrins! Hundreds of'em — hundreds of pounds for you, mate! Let's have a look at this other one." He picked the smaller cash-box and with one wrench of the chisel ripped off its hasp. "This here feels light. Ain't much here, I'm afraid." The box proved to contain dozens of little sealed envelopes, each bearing a name. "Whatever's this here lot, then?" said the disappointed man. Might as well have a look inside while he was at it. He carelessly ripped open the first envelope and peered inside. What he saw made him exclaim hoarsely: "Cor! My godfathers! Diamond rings! Three of 'em. Worth fifty quid each, I lay! However did he come to have them?" Fumbling awkwardly in his frenzied haste, he ripped open all the envelopes, piling their contents on the desk as he did so. Every one contained jewellery of some value, though there were no more quite so well filled as the first. He sat down on a sodden chair, gazing almost fearfully at the richly-twinkling pile. "I can't make it out," the thought went whirling round his bewildered brain; "whatever is he doing with all this joolery in his safe?"

Had Jordan been a better reader than he was, the answer would have been easy enough to guess. Each packet bore the name of a passenger, and among the papers in the safe — which he had ignored — was a carefully-written list of items and depositors. Jewellery was the easiest form of wealth to carry, and for that reason all but the poorest had left with the Captain their life-savings in the form of new jewellery — mainly rings. Few indeed of the shrewd Scots passengers had kept their wealth about them in the jumbled, crowded emigrant holds, for it was well-known that many men left for Australia only a few hours ahead of the police. The chance of a new start attracted the worst, as well as the best, of the nation.

If Jordan was nearly illiterate, he was no fool, and already his canny brain was sizing up the perils which lay ahead. He was the possessor of a fortune of twelve or thirteen hundred pounds, but he had still to get it ashore undetected. He worked fast, shooting all the sovereigns in the cash-box into a canvas money-bag. To these he added another hundred pounds' worth of ship's gold, which Cameron would have carried for incidental expenses in ports of call. The real prize — the jewellery — he placed in a stout buff envelope which already contained some documents which he did not bother to examine. All the time his foxy wits were scheming: "Now then, Ernie, mate, you'll have to box clever, else you'll lose the blessed lot, and fetch up in chokey. Suppose the tug turns up first with the Customs chawies on board? I dursen't have anything on me, then. . They'll very soon find that safe. . Right, then! I say I don't know anything about it — they can't prove nothing if they don't find nothing on me. I'll shove this here envelope in the coat pocket of that little old moosh up there; the state he's in, he won't notice. Suppose he does, though? I know — seal it down — say they're ship's papers what can't be opened. He's green enough to swaller that. Pinch 'em back later when we're ashore. Right! Now suppose the smacks git here first? They ain't going to believe I've sat up there like an old rook and let a good wreck go. Anyhow, they'll find the safe, too. . Right! I'll have about a quarter of the gold stowed away where I can show it to 'em. Git the rest of it out of sight. I know, git a few bits o' tackle from the chart-room — that'd make it look better."

Soon, all his careful preparations were ready. The gold was divided into two very unequal batches, there was a sack of instruments, mostly damaged, from the chart-room, and the large, stout buff envelope was stowed carefully inside his watch-coat. There was still much profitable exploring to do in the officers' cabins and the emigrant holds, but it was now nearly dark and the tide had turned. The rest would have to wait till tomorrow, even if it meant sharing with a dozen others.

Carrying the richest of the loot — the gold and the "ship's papers", he made his way for'ard along the darkening deck. He could not hurry here, for his journey was beset with dangers. A sharp breeze still blustered out of the east, the deck was shattered in places, and the bulwarks were gone altogether. Entering the pitch-dark of the carpenter's shop, he groped round for the little barrel of copper nails which he remembered seeing under the bench. He staggered with it to the ship's side and shot overboard three-quarters of its contents. Back in the ship, he tipped the remnant of the nails into a bucket, placed the larger bag of gold in the empty barrel and covered it with the nails. "There y'are, mateys. Hang on there till I want you," he said, grinning.

He went warily up the foremast shrouds; if the brass-bounder was asleep there was no point in waking him up. Stealthily, holding his breath, Jordan hauled himself on to the platform and crawled over to peer closely into the face of the apprentice. He grunted softly: " 'Ere — you awake, cocky?" but there was no sign of a flutter in the closed lids, so Jordan eased himself gently into his place alongside Jim. Still the young man gave no sign of life — the strong liquor and his full stomach saw to that. Gently, inch by inch, the seaman eased the envelope into the roomy pocket of Jim's watch-coat, and carefully closed the flap over it. The cloth was so thick and heavy that even a wide-awake man would hardly notice the added bulk.

Less cautious now, Jordan swung himself into the shrouds again, and from there stepped neatly across to the foot-rope of the lower yard. He leant forward on his stomach over the massive pine spar and thrust the smaller bag of sovereigns firmly into the thick canvas folds of the furled foresail, addressing it as he did so: "And you stop there till I want to show you to some of me mates. Now then," he muttered, as he continued on his way down to the deck, "don't see why we shouldn't have a bit of a celebration." He returned along the main deck to the steward's pantry, where with a few tremendous blows of the crow-bar he opened the spirit cupboard and seized the two nearest bottles. When these were firmly rammed into his pockets he thought about food. It would be a long time before he could get any more; there was still plenty of biscuit aloft, but the officers no doubt had something better in their pantry than bully beef. He ransacked all the cupboards, finally giving a growl of triumph when he found a whole untouched ham. "Ah, thought so! Can't expect these beggars aft to stomach the muck we have to eat. You come along o' me."

It was as he stepped cheerfully out on to the dark, perilous main-deck that he heard it — the first deep groanings of tortured metal on the point of breaking. "Gawd!" he muttered to himself, "she's going to break in half. You best hurry up, Ernie boy!" But it was too late for hurrying: he was less than half-way along the deck when there came a long grinding, wrenching crash, as thousands of rivets lost their hold. A wide, jagged chasm opened across the deck in front of him, and while he was still staring at it in breathless horror, the stern half of Sardis, on which he stood, rolled heavily over to port, into the pit which tide and waves had been patiently digging ever since she had grounded. The broken planks, the loose hatch-covers, and the seaman with his leg of ham, were emptied deliberately into the dark water alongside, where the strong flood tide seized them and drew them forward along the ship's side. The man screamed and scrabbled for a hold on the smooth wet plates, but he had put to sleep the only creature who could have helped him, and the icy flow soon carried him into the darkness towards the south-east.

Chapter IX

Only a few seconds after Jordan's last cry, Jim Robbins was snatched from heavy sleep to wakeful terror by the squeaking groan of rending timbers; he sat dazed with horror as the huge top-mast and top-gallant mast crashed in ruin around him. The shrouds behind him suddenly went slack and followed the mast in its fall; hundreds of fathoms of cordage fell round him and over him, entangling his body and limbs, and he narrowly escaped death when a great wooden block came whizzing out of the dark to strike a glancing blow on his shoulder. He had now enough presence of mind to keep still, and after the long seconds of dread a new silence descended on the ruined ship. Jim had time to look around and below him to see what had caused this new disaster. As soon as he saw the break in the hull he knew the cause of the dismasting: a sailing-ship is like a forest of tall trees roped together for mutual support. Fell one, and many more will follow. The sudden break in the ship between the main and foremast had set up cruel strains in the beautiful, balanced web of the rigging. Something had to go, and that something had been the foremast, which now ended in a splintered stump about six feet above Jim's "island". Jim looked up at the yellow brightness of the bare wood and thought: "Why me? Why should I be chosen to survive? If the mast had gone at the deck where should I be now?" And then the thought struck him — "Jordan! He must have been on deck somewhere!"

He wriggled himself free of the octopus coils of the fallen rigging and peered down into the darkness aft; he could just make out the forepart of the ship below him, still standing upright, and the broken end of the after part, which was now lying slumped steeply over to port. He shouted time and time again into the darkness, but there was no reply except the soft whine of the cold wind and the lap of the cold sea. Jim could see that the waves were now over the main-deck and would soon cover the foc's'le, but still the thought went round his brain: "He saved me three times over — and he didn't even like me. The lower shrouds are all right. I can go down. He might be down there injured or trapped. And he saved me." The real Jim Robbins was coming to life — not a particularly daring young man, but as brave as most.

It felt strange to be walking about again; the deck seemed like a twenty-acre field — yet terribly exposed and dangerous. And the foretop seemed, from there, a warm, safe haven of refuge. He remembered a small lonely boy playing exploring games in the twilight in a dark shrubbery and looking at the warmly-lit steamy windows of the house.

Yet he did what he could, calling and searching, going even into the yawning, dripping darkness of the crew's mess, until he felt the first waves break over his feet, and knew that he was alone, and would soon be dead himself if he did not climb. As he climbed, he found remembered words from his schooldays echoing in his head — "Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea. ."

He had time, when he had reached his "island", to realize how miserable indeed his new situation was. He realized, for instance, how much he missed the rough, careless warmth of his companion. For all his harshness and contempt, he had been generous, he had been strong, and he had known what to do. Jim had never known a father, and thus did not grasp what it was that made him weep for the vanished Jordan.

And things around him had changed for the worse, too. No longer was there any shelter, for the shrouds, to which the friendly tarpaulin had been tied, now led downwards in twisted, tangled chaos. The raffle of cordage on the foretop could soon be cleared with a knife, and there was still half a tin of biscuit, but Jim had not given a thought to getting water when below, and after a trial, he found it impossible to swallow the dust-dry crumbs of biscuit without a drink. He could still survive up there, but it was no longer the snug little oasis that Jordan had made it. He curled himself up, dog-like, against the bitter wind, but many cold hours passed before his shuddering body lost consciousness.

Skipper John Dunn of the steam tug Liverpool swung his ship to face wind and tide, rang down "Stop engines" and bawled "Let go!" to the man standing by the anchor winch. Then he turned to the uniformed figure beside him — Walter Blunt, of Her Majesty's Customs and Excise, Harwich — "There you are, then, Walter. That's the best I can do for you. Looks a mess, don't she?"

"Not a sign of life, John. Not a sign. Let's try a couple of toots." He reached up to the siren lanyard and sent a series of long mournful blasts echoing round the shapeless black hulk. "All gone, mister, every man jack," he said.

"All right, then. Don't blow off all my head of steam."

"We should have come out last night, John, when we first got the message about the lifeboat being picked up. Might have saved a few."

"Think so? Not on your life! My guess is they all went overboard on the morning tide. Look at the deck, the way it's been swept. Poor swabs — nothing we could have done. We should only have drowned ourselves as well."

"Ay, ay. Well, I'd better have a look-see, I reckon. Can you put me aboard her?"

"Ay, you can have the small boat. Daren't go alongside in this swell. And don't be long; I don't trust my anchor in this sand. Get back aboard in half an hour or you can row yourself back to Harwich."

Two seamen busied themselves in launching the small boat, and the Customs man took up the Skipper's glass and put it to his eye, sweeping it round the eastern horizon. What he saw made him give a quick groan of anger: "There they are. Skipper — the blasted vultures! I knew it." What he had seen was only a scattered row of black triangles on the horizon, like sharks' fins in a tropic sea. But he knew that he was seeing the tops of the topsails of the salvage smacks as they beat to windward towards the wreck.

"What is it?" asked the Skipper, "the salvagers?" (Like all East Coast seamen, he pronounced the word to rhyme with "wagers".)

"Ay — those damned pirates. They're only waiting for us to clear off, so that they won't have to bother with any survivors. I'll have to stay on the wreck, then, and keep them off. They'll strip it in two tides if I don't."

"Look here, Walter: if you make up your mind to stay on that wreck I won't be answerable for you. That'll turn over any minute, like as not. Talk sense, man. You've got a missis and three kids in Harwich. There's always been salvagers, and there always will be. You can't stop them on your own. Their fathers were all smugglers — it's in the blood."

"Well, I'll put up an official warning on the wreck anyway. Much good that'll do," said Blunt sullenly, as he swung himself into the boat.

He was a serious and conscientious officer, and gave the decks of both halves of the stricken Sardis a thorough search, hallooing constantly and listening for a reply. He stood at the base of the foremast, gazing thoughtfully upwards at the broken mast and its litter of gear. But from the deck nothing showed of Jim's body, and the young man lay silent and unconscious, and heard nothing of the shouts and footsteps below. He lay there like one dead as the dinghy danced away across the narrow gap of water to the tug. The paddle-wheels churned the water, and half an hour later the Liverpool was hull-down on a course for Harwich. After its brief ebb, the full tide of emptiness returned to that evil place.

It was three hours later, almost on the stroke of noon, when the first smack shot up head to wind, with all her canvas flapping briskly, and nosed gently up under the lee bow of the wreck. She was a black-tarred twenty-ton cutter, with the beautiful high bow and low square stern of the estuary smack. Her working sails were tanned a rich brown, and a neat plate on her stern announced her as the Maud of Whitstable. The Skipper, standing aft at his tiller as she scraped alongside, grunted at the tall tow-headed giant for'ard: "Catch hold of her, Shiner." Up went a stout hook at the end of a heaving-line; three times it clattered against the iron-work above their heads, only to fall back. The fourth time, it held securely. "Up you go, my Bert," said the Skipper, and a small monkey of a man swarmed rapidly up to gain the deck. Down came the Maud's sails with a run, and five minutes later she was safely moored head and stern, with great bundles of hazel-sticks slung between her and the wreck to deaden the ceaseless bumping; Bert Anderson, her Mate, had found and lowered a rope ladder, and Dukey Smith, king of the Kent salvagers, was rubbing his great grubby paws and grinning triumphantly into the little leathery face of his mate: "See, Bert, it's same as I told yer. Them Essex fellers have got a good two hours' sailing to git here, by the time they gone round Long Sand Head and punched a foul tide. Lucky we was orf Margate way." And he dealt the little ginger-moustached man a tremendous playful blow in the ribs.

Bert grinned too, in the direction of the third hand, Shiner Bright, and his words came from between two rows of broken black stumps of teeth: "Ah. Some say good ole Dookey. That right. Shiner?"

Shiner merely jerked his head upward. He was a physical giant, well over six feet tall, and massively built, but Fate had played a cruel joke when she named him Bright, for he seldom spoke or showed any feeling. He waited with an ox-like patience while other men exchanged ideas in words which, to him, were a meaningless buzz of sound.

"Still," Dukey was saying, "we got to get a wriggle on, though, if we're going to clean up here. Bert, you stop here and have a good look round. Me and Shiner'll get aboard the after-end, have a look round the cabins and that."

" 'Arf a minute, Skipper," said Bert, rummaging amid the tangle of ropes at the foot of the foremast. "What you make o' this?" And he held up an empty bully-beef tin which had been roughly hacked open. "Funny place to find a thing like this."

"Look here, mate, we got better things to look for than that. We ain't got time for old tins. You git below and turn out them sea-chests."

"Right you are, Dukey. Funny, though, all the same."

Soon the Skipper and the silent third hand were scrambling up the sloping deck of the after-part, while the Mate searched busily and methodically through one sea-chest after another, making a neat pile on the mess-table of everything of value — coins, notes, tobacco-plugs, watches and trinkets. He heard the bump of the boat again, and the sturdy figure of the Skipper filled the doorway. His face was a dark red and his voice trembled with a thick fury: "Bert," he said, "there's something queer what I don't like about this here hooker. You want to see the Captain's safe. Some thieving beggar has gone and split it all open like a kipper. Nothing left but two busted cash-boxes, a few bits of paper, and some little envelopes, all tore up. Look 'ere!" He thrust a handful of crumpled paper under the nose of the Mate, who was the only reader aboard. Bert put on his steel-rimmed spectacles and shuffled through the papers. Finally he gave a low whistle of surprise.

"Know what this is, Dukey? This must have been one o' these emigrant packets; this 'ere's a list o' gold and joolery what the passengers left the Captain for safe keeping. All them little envelopes had jools in 'em once."

Dukey's agony increased, and he shook his fists in front of his face in desperation: "Well, where are they, then? Look 'ere, Bert: this packet must have gone aground Tuesday night. We first seen her masts Wednesday forenoon, same time as we seen those capsized lifeboats; nothing's been near her till this morning, when the old Liverpool turned up. Well now, the Captain would hardly break up his own safe, and the Customs chavvy wouldn't either, so who did? Who the hell did, and where is he now?"

Bert pointed to the ragged line of Essex smacks approaching from the north. "We ain't got long to find out, Skipper. Them beggars from the Colne'll be here in an hour." He stroked the bright ginger stubble on his lean chin, thinking hard and looking round at the littered deck. "Suppose one feller was left behind 'ere," he said. "Come low water, he could go where he liked, do what he liked. Well then, where is he now? He ain't down here. . 'Arf a tick!" His keen eye had caught the red-gold gleam of new copper on the deck, and he stooped down to pick up a copper nail. "Now there's another funny thing. What's a new copper tack doing on deck?"

"Could have been there since before she grounded."

"Then how is it it ain't been trod on or washed off. Look here, there's a reg'lar trail of'em to the ship's side. Suppose we have a look where they come from?" He stepped over the coaming into the carpenter's shop.

Dukey exploded with irritation: "What's the matter with you, mate? I always reckoned you was well-britched in the head. Never known you act so blessed daft, beggaring about with old tins and nails."

"Never mind, Skipper," said Bert, emerging on deck with the barrel of nails. "Let's have a look in here while we're at it." He shot the contents of the barrel on to the boards. The tightly-crammed money-bag lay there among the nails, and Bert unfastened it with trembling fingers.

"Gaw!" There was a simultaneous gasp from the three men as the tide of gold poured out. Until now the patient Shiner had merely looked open-mouthed at each speaker in turn; now he, too, caught their excitement and knelt down with them to finger the bright coins. It was while he was doing this that his eye caught sight of a full kit-bag, half-covered with ropes, under the bulwark by the foremast shrouds. " 'Ere, look, Bert," he said, pointing. " 'Notherbag!"

"What we got here, then?" said Bert, opening it. "Couple of sextants, chronometer with the glass smashed, couple of telescopes, deck-watch. Few quids' worth there, too, Dukey."

"What the hell do I care about old clobber like that," said Dukey, still running the gold lovingly through his hands, "when I got this lovely stuff to play with? Bert, me dear old matey, I always said you'd got a good headpiece. Didn't I always say that, Shiner? Beggared if you didn't ought to be Prime Minister in the guvment."

"Ah," said the Mate, "but you're forgetting we ain't found the jools, though. I'll lay they're worth more than that bagful. This 'ere looks like a trail, you know," he said, running his eye thoughtfully across the deck and up the shrouds. "Up there." He pointed to the foretop. "If there's anyone left alive, that's where he must be. Find him, we'll perhaps find them jools." He swung himself up into the rope ladder, and began to mount.

Dukey called out scornfully: "You're off your head, Bert. Look at all that old clutter up there. There ain't room for a sparrer, let alone a man."

But still the little wiry figure went steadily upwards.

Chapter X

The Mate's cry came floating thinly down from above: "Here he is, Dookey. He's up here!"

"Dead?" bellowed Dukey.

"Don't know. Passed out, like. Looks in a bad way. 'Ang on, I'll put a bowline on him and let him down."

Soon the three men were again kneeling on the deck, looking down into the reddened, chapped face of the apprentice. "Hel-lo!" said Dukey in surprise, "an orficer! A little old brassbounder. He must have got 'em — crafty young swab. Is he alive, Bert?"

The Mate had thrust his hand inside Jim's coat. "Yeah, Dookey. His heart's still beating a bit. Best have a look at his pockets. He might have the jools on him." Almost at once he gave a long "a-a-h" of delight as he drew out the stout buff envelope. "Hold your hands out, Skipper." He up-ended the package, and a glittering stream of gold and precious stones formed itself into a still lake in the hollow of the huge, calloused, tarry hands. In the stunned silence that followed all the men felt the clutch of wonder mixed with something like fear, as the dead Jordan had. It was a prize to stun a wealthy man; to these poor men, accustomed to living hand to mouth, and ignorant of any luxuries except those of the crudest and cheapest kind, it was like a blow between the eyes. Shiner knelt speechless, his jaw hanging slackly down; Dukey stared unmoving, speaking incoherently: "Bless my heart and soul if you ain't a wonder, Bert… Crafty young swab… We can all retire, mates, never see the blessed sea n' more… Only we have to give 'im to share."

Bert raised his head: "How do you mean, then, Skipper?"

"Well, all we got to do is help ourselves, ain't it?"

"Help ourselves? It ain't quite so simple as that, I don't reckon. What about when he comes round and finds they ain't in his pocket?"

Dukey was puzzled: "What can he do about it, then? You ain't scared of him, are you? We're three to one, after all."

"What can he do?" said Bert. "Well, I'll tell you what I'd do in his place. I'd say: 'You chaps hand them jools back, or I'll blow the gaff on you to the Customs.' That's what I'd say."

" 'Ow the devil can he say that," said Dukey irritably, 'when we can say we found 'em in his pocket?"

Bert shook his head patiently: "You don't see half of it, Dukey. Don't forget, he's an officer. What's to stop him saying that he found these jools somewhere, and was just looking after 'em for the Company. I lay these Customs chavvies'd sooner believe an officer than what they would us. See what I mean, now?"

Dukey was more subdued now: "Ah, see what you mean, Bert. Well, we'll have to work together, then. Get him to share."

Anderson looked up at the approaching smacks, now only a mile away. "That's all very well, Skipper, but we gotter work fast. We don't want that lot to see him. Let's get him down our after-cabin. You get aboard, and me and Shiner'll lower him away. Git him out of sight. I got a better idea than sharing, only it'll have to wait a bit."

Luckily for them the smacks were running down towards the port side of the Sardis, and no one saw the limp form lowered overside and dragged below into the cramped after-cabin of the Maud.

Leaving Shiner to keep an eye on the captive, the two men had ample time to regain the deck of the hulk before the first Essex smack bumped alongside. Soon they were arriving in twos and threes, until a dozen were tied up. Bustling helpfully about, Dukey and his mate gave cheerful welcomes which puzzled their old rivals; they caught heaving-lines and hauled in mooring-warps, exchanging greetings with hard-bitten acquaintances, who had been with them at the gutting of many fine ships.

One of the Rowhedge men, looking suspiciously round the deck of the Sardis, peered beneath his brows at the smiling Anderson and said: "You lot have bin here pretty nigh two hours; you mean to tell me you ain't done nothing but tip over a keg of nails?'

"Bin having a bit of dinner, mate. Gotter look after the inner man, eh? Anyhow, we didn't want to touch nothing till you got here. Share and share alike's the rule, ain't it? Fair's fair, after all."

There was a savage outcry aft when the broken safe was discovered, and there was a hasty and violent committee meeting held round its remains, but it was finally decided by the experts that the Kent crew would not have had time to locate the safe, cut it open, dispose of the loot, and still be on deck ten minutes before the first of the Essex craft arrived.

After this the salvagers spent little time in talking, for time on a wreck was precious. At any moment she might turn over or break up further, or the wind might freshen and force them to cast off or be battered to pieces. No time was wasted on sentiment either; like butchers at the body of a steer, they gave no thought to the beauty and pride of a brand-new ship, nor to the pitiful fate of the passengers and seamen whose gear they were rifling. Impassively they put their axes through the splendid mahogany panelling of the cabins, and shook out the threadbare, carefully-mended clothes of the poor. Times were hard, and it was their winter trade.

All the hours of daylight they laboured on the wreck, attacking first the upper decks, then penetrating farther down as the tide flowed out of the ship's carcass. As the tide fell, their own craft sank farther and farther down until they too were aground on the sand. They cared nothing about this, for their smacks were the splendid products of local craftsmen, designed especially to take the ground safely. It did mean, however, that they had to rig rough derricks from the wreckage of the foremast to lower away their heavier prizes. Great bundles of fine woodwork ripped from the cabins were made up into slings and went swaying down into the holds of the smacks, together with chairs, tables, bunks, mattresses, and even the very doors.

The rigging was dotted with busy figures, too. Since Sardis was a new ship belonging to rich, careful owners, all her spars, sails and running rigging were brand-new and of the very best. So all her miles of hemp rope, so cunningly spread by the Clyde riggers, was cast off and unrove through the squealing blocks to be tied in great gleaming brown hanks and tossed into the gaping holds of the smacks. Then the blocks themselves were tied in bunches and sent to follow them. A rich harvest was coming to all the ships-chandlers for fifty miles around.

Some of the more enterprising and skilful of the Rowhedge men were coolly at work one hundred and eighty feet up on the mainmast, swaying down the royal and upper top-gallant yards, from which height they may have looked down a little scornfully at the wiry figure of Bert Anderson poking and prying round about the fore-top. Bert, on the other hand, was hardly able to contain his laughter at the sight of these men toiling and taking risks for shillings' worth of wood and hemp, when such prizes lay below in the Maud. "And," he said to himself, "that'll pay me to have a good old scout round here, 'cause this is where he was, if he wanted to hide anythink else." More to evade suspicion than to secure so cumbersome a prize as the huge foresail, he was idly sawing through the gaskets that held the furled sail to the yard, when he came upon the smaller of Ernie Jordan's moneybags, still rammed firmly into the heavy canvas folds. He did not need to examine its contents; he merely glanced casually round to see if anyone had seen his discovery. But the salvagers were all too busy at their grisly work, and no one noticed him descending to the deck and thence to the Maud's cabin. Even Dukey was too occupied coiling down a hawser, and was startled out of his wits when the small wily face was thrust close to his: "Found another bag, Dukey! 'Undred and fifty lovely quid!"

"You ain't!" said Dukey in a hoarse whisper, his eyes gleaming wildly.

"Sshh! You'll give the blinking game away, Skipper. Same as they say — never rains but what it pours!"

The Skipper's berth of a Thames Estuary smack was a curious contraption. It was like an ordinary bunk, built fore-and-aft against the ship's side, except that it could be totally enclosed by sliding wooden doors, so that the Skipper could sleep, if he wished, in a kind of cupboard, dark and stuffy, but at least private.

Jim Robbins had been laid in the Skipper's berth in the Maud, for the salvagers bore him no ill-will, and had indeed put themselves out to make him comfortable. The sliding door at the head of the berth had been left a few inches open to give him fresh air — or what passed for fresh air in a smack's cabin.

Thus the first impression that came to Jim's awakening mind was of inky darkness, pierced by a narrow band of yellow light, from beyond which came the murmur of voices and the sounds of occasional movements of heavy boots. Full consciousness came slowly, however, and it was long before the low buzz of talk resolved itself into words.

"Who's wild, then?" a deep voice was asking.

A sharp voice like that of a rook replied: "These Rowhedge chavvies."

"Rowhedge" — he had heard the name before. Where? The way it had been said was the same, too.

"What call they got to be wild, then? Good wreck, ain't it?"

"Ah, but it ain't so good as what they expected. See, Dukey, they was hoping she'd be full up of general cargo, 'Stead of that, 'twas only these here h'emigrants. They ain't aboard, and if they was you couldn't hardly sell 'em." There was a short gruff laugh; then the cracked voice went on: "Well then, when they got down to the lower holds at low-water, what you reckon they found? Road-rails! Blinking great sixty-foot lengths of rail for the railways out there. Tell you what, I very near bust meself laughing to see the poor beggars standing there looking at 'em, and wondering how they was going to shift 'em." There was a roar of laughter. Jim had been utterly bewildered at first, at the change from the cold, windy, open platform to the warm, close pitch-blackness of the berth. Now the clouds slowly cleared from his mind. He was afloat, and in a small craft, to judge by the quick jerking of the motion. And the men? They must be the salvagers Jordan had spoken of. Just a minute — one of them had called the other "Dukey" — the man Jordan had mentioned! And the queer drawling accent — that was the same too — they must be Kent men like Jordan, and he was aboard their smack.

Then his body began to remind him of its needs. His face, ears, and hands throbbed and felt raw, as if they had been rubbed with sandpaper, and his mouth was intolerably parched. In a strange croaking voice which he hardly recognized, he heard himself say: "A drink. Get me a drink."

There was a quick, startled movement from the cabin; the sharp voice said: " 'Ello-'ello! He's awake!" The door was slid right back and a figure loomed black against the painful flood of light. Bert Anderson bent over him, peering into his face. "Ah, there you are, sir. We wondered when you was going to wake up."

"Where am I? Who are you?"

"You're on board the Maud, o' Whitstable, sir. I'm Bert Anderson, Mate. That's the Skipper, Mr Dukey Smith, and him over there, that's ornery seaman Bright. Now, how about a drop o'rum? Or p'raps whisky? Or port wine?"

"Thanks. Rum, if you please."

"Don't thank me, sir, 'tis all out of your own wardroom." There was a bellow of laughter from the appreciative Dukey. "Now then," went on the Mate, "what you fancy to eat? We got bully, ham, or you can have some o' this big ole tin of tongue what we've started. And we ain't finished the duff what old Shiner made, either. You could foUer with a bit o' that, sir."

It was not hard to detect the mockery behind the apparent respectfulness; it reminded him of Jordan. However, the solid food was welcome, for it was now late evening, and he had not eaten for more than twenty-four hours. Had he not been so ravenous, it would have seemed embarrassing to eat at the little central table under the curious, critical stare of the three smacksmen — the powerful Skipper, with his wildly-tangled black hair and beard, harsh, handsome features and flashing, violent eyes; the wiry, neat little Mate with his mobile puckered face framing a short carroty moustache; most disconcerting of all, the mountainous third hand, slumped over the table, chin on hands, so that the dull pale-blue eyes, the slack-hanging jaw and the un-moving pasty features were thrust within three feet of Jim.

" 'Ad enough, sir?" said Dukey, when his plate was at last emptied. "Glass o' whisky? It ain't often we has company aboard. You just have whatsomever you fancy. Smoke? I got a new clay somewhere you could have. No? Well, have a chaw. Take a bite off my plug here," and he produced the remains of a cake of black chewing-tobacco from his pocket, politely brushing off the dust and fluff with a tarry hand.

This, too, Jim declined hastily and apologetically. Dukey replaced it, gave a deeply cunning wink in Bert's direction, spread his elbows among the greasy litter of the meal, fixed Jim with a penetrating stare, and began: "Now then, sir, you know as you're among friends here, what'll help you all they can. And you're going to need all the help you can git, from what I can see. Only o' course, there's a bit of… of… What's the blessed word I want, Bert?"

"Financial."

"That's right — a bit of financial arranging to do first — just between friends, o' course, and taking account of all the risks run, and all such things as that…"

Jim sat looking in utter bewilderment from one face to the other. "I've no idea what you're getting at," he said, uneasy fear beginning to creep through him.

The Skipper's face darkened and he spoke sarcastically. The pretence of friendship and respect had vanished from his voice: " 'Aven't you, now? Aven't you? Well, would you mind very kindly showing us the envelope you got in your left-'and coat-pocket?"

Chapter XI

Jim simply looked puzzled as he took out the envelope; but as he held it to draw out the papers, the jewellery poured out on to the dirty boards of the table, and every scrap of colour drained away from his face, leaving it a sickly yellow. His hands trembled violently and uncontrollably, and he looked up slowly to stare into the sneering face in front of him.

Dukey reached down to the deck beside him and dumped two full jingling money-bags on the table, carelessly spilling out a flow of gold. "And then there's this little lot you forgot about," he said.

Jim sank his sweating face into his hands and looked long and silently at the fantastic wealth piled in front of him. His words came at last, stammering and incoherent: "I don't understand, Mr Smith… I just… I don't know anything about it… Really… I know it must seem queer to you…"

There was a bellow of harsh laughter in the tiny stuffy cabin, and Dukey said: "Queer? It ain't queer at all to me. All I know is you're a crafty young beggar, acting so flaming innocent." He turned to Bert, and doubled him up with a grotesque imitation of Jim's speech and manner: " 'Reely, Mister Smith, sir, reely!' "

"Jordan!" said Jim suddenly, as the idea dropped like a pebble into the whirlpool of his mind. The laughter stopped abruptly: had Jim looked up he would have seen the Skipper and the Mate exchange a look full of meaning. "That's who it must have been — Jordan. He was a seaman on the Sardis. Come to that he said he knew you."

Dukey was looking troubled and undecided at this unexpected turn of events. He was about to speak again when Bert leapt to his feet, holding up a finger for silence: " 'Ark! Ain't that someone creeping about on deck? Let's have a look, Skipper! Shiner, stop here." In an instant the two men had shot up the short ladder to the deck. So dazed was he, Jim scarcely noticed their sudden bolt.

Groping for'ard after the retreating figure of his Mate, Dukey was puzzled and irritated: "What you on about, mate? There ain't no one up here."

"Course there ain't, Dukey, 'course there ain't. I just wanted a word with you in private, like. This Jordan business — that must be Ern Jordan — you know, that big feller from Island Wall. Dark chavvy. I heard he'd gone up north somewheres."

"Ah, could be him — unless this old boy's making it up."

"What, him?" said Bert contemptuously. "He's too blooming green. When he seen them sparklers he didn't know which way up he was. Besides, how could he make up the right name?"

"See what you mean, Bert. Still…"

"Look, Skipper: say Ern Jordan and old mooshti below there was left alone on a wreck. Which one do you reckon would be most likely to help himself to stuff like that?"

"Well, Ern, I suppose. But still, you know…"

"Right. Now, would he let on about it to this little half-baked officer? Eh?"

"Suppose not, Bert. Not if he could help it."

" 'Course he wouldn't. Now then, tell you what I reckon, Dukey: I don't reckon we ought to let on that we believe him about old Ern taking it.'

"I don't see it makes much difference, mate. We're three to one, like I said before. If we can't make him cough up a good share of it, my name ain't Dukey Smith. I'll very soon put the fear o' Gawd into him."

The little man shook his head irritably, impatient of the slowness of the Skipper's wits: "You don't want to end up in the quod in Canterbury, do you, Dukey? Suppose we take most of it off of him, then put him ashore in Whitstable; he'll very likely go straight to his owners or the Customs and tell 'em all about it. He'd have nothing to lose, see? Then where should we be? Behind bars, mate, that's where." He paused to let the warning sink in, then went on with his nagging questions: "Have you thought, Dukey, about what you are going to do with him? And with them jools?'

Dukey had not got Bert's quick, chess-player's wits, and had not realized that their apparently easy triumph would bring these worrying problems in its wake. A horrible suspicion suddenly struck him, and he turned frightened eyes towards Bert. "Bert! You don't mean…?" He nodded towards the cabin and drew the edge of his flat hand quickly across his throat.

"No! 'Course I don't! What you take me for, a blinking child-murderer! I got an old boy o' me own very near his age, don't forget." Dukey relaxed with a deep sigh of relief, as Bert went on: "All the same, you know, we can't just let him go — not till we got rid of everything. This is what I reckon we best do: say we don't believe him about old Ern. Put the wind up him good and proper about having these things on him. Then we'll p'raps give him a few sovrins to keep him quiet — so that he's in it with us, as you might say — and then we'll keep him as another hand on board, so as we can keep an eye on him for a few months.'

"He wouldn't sign on board our old smack — not an officer, same as he was."

"Dukey," said the Mate patiently, "you leave him to me. Time I get finished with him, he'll sign anything. And another thing," he murmured, as they moved towards the companion-way, "ain't no good us giving old Shiner too much. He don't know what to do with it himself, and you know what an everlasting old wind-bag his Mum is. The whole town'd know about it in half an hour if he turned up home with some of them rings."

The two young men were still hunched silent and motionless under the round yellow glow of the cabin lamp.

"Now then, mister," said Bert in a serious tone, "what was this you was saying about some other feller? What you say his name was?"

"Jordan. He was a seaman; big, dark chap."

"You ever heard of him, Dukey?"

"Never," said Dukey emphatically, catching on just in time. "No chap that name ever lived in Whitstable in my time."

"Where is this feller now, anyway?" asked the Mate.

"He fell overboard when she broke in half, I think. He went down on deck in the afternoon, and I never saw him again."

Bert Anderson turned to the Skipper with a satirical grin and said: "What do you think o' that for a yarn, Dukey? I suppose this chap Jordan's ghost come up the shrouds and put the jools in your pocket after that?" The Skipper removed his pipe, and spat on the deck without speaking. "Yeah," went on Bert indignantly, "and that's what I think, too. Fancy running down a poor feller what's dead. Gawd rest him, and can't defend hisself! You blasted young jumped-up officers are all the same. What do you lot care about poor old Jack, what does all the work?"

Jim clenched his fists in desperation. "But it's true — everything I've told you. I can't prove it, but it's true! You must believe me!" He was nearly weeping with fear, bewilderment and frustration. For the third time in the last few days, he seemed to be struggling in the dark in a bottomless shifting quicksand — first the log, then the wreck, now this, where the menace was all the more horrible because it was all so baffling and strange.

"Same as you say," Dukey said, "you can't prove nothing. If we don't believe you, what chance you got when we take you up to the magistrate? He ain't met old Admiral Crawford yet, has he, Bert? What do you reckon that cantankerous old swab would give him? Ten years?'

"More like twenty if he had the gout that day!" said Bert, laughing, but watching Jim closely through narrowed eyes. It was the moment to strike.

He placed his hand with a friendly gesture on Jim's shoulder and smiled at him as he raised his white face: ЭCheer up, matey, cheer up. P'raps it won't come to that. We don't want to shop you. Let the blinking old bluebottles do their own dirty work. We'll git you ashore and git rid of the stuff for you at the best price we can git. Only there'll have to be one or two conditions. I mean, to start with, you can't expect us to do it for nothing. We're family men, see — look at the risks we're running for you. We'll have to split all this up between us."

For answer, Jim swept his hand violently across the table, brushing hundreds of pounds' worth of gold and diamonds away from him on to the deck: "Take it all! Get the damned stuff out of my sight! I don't want to see it again!"

Dukey's great hand gripped his forearm like a vice: "Oh no you don't,' he said. "I ain't having that. We're all in this together. You'll have some of them sovrins if I have to ram 'em down your throat!"

Bert broke in soothingly, delighted at the way things were going: "Ah well, I daresay we can all agree on summat suitable. Now the other thing is, we'll all have to stick together for a while, so what say we sign you on as a fourth hand for the Maud? Just until everything's disposed of and things have died down a bit."

"Sign on with you?" Jim could hardly believe his ears. "You must be harmy to suggest it."

"Oh yeah?" said Dukey in a fury. "Well, what exactly was you going to do, mister high-and-mighty snivelling brassbounder? Run home to your Mum and tell her about the nasty men you bin with?'

The angry question brought Jim up with a jolt. Another dreary wasteland of misery lay ahead. What exactly was he going to do when he got ashore? He realized with some surprise that it was a question he had not thought about since Sardis had first shuddered to a stop and the wave had flung the poor broken body of the helmsman at his feet. Ever since that snapping of the safe, secure routine of big-ship life he had done nothing but survive from one minute to the next. Well then, what was he going to do? What would Brodie have done? He would have wired the owners from Whitstable; they would have sent his fare to Edinburgh, and he would have joined another ship from there.

Jim tried to see himself following this procedure, and knew at once in his heart that he would never do it. He did not waver, or debate it with himself, for there was no need. Could he, the criminally stupid and careless coward who had killed the Sardis, her crew and most of her passengers, ever face — alone — an official Board of Enquiry? He could imagine the keen, sober faces of the assessors facing him from their high bench as he stumbled through his story — faces that knew the sea and all its ways, faces that instantly detected every futile lie. They were the wet, drowned faces of White and Brodie.

Neither could he see himself in the rich, lofty, quiet offices of the Company in Princes Street; he could never again face squarely the shrewd, bald old men around the magnificent polished table, the Directors who had engaged him and entrusted him with a tiny share in the management and safety of their newest and proudest ship.

"All right, then," he said. "I'll sign. You can give me what you like. I don't care."

With that the taut silence exploded into relaxed talk and laughter. "That's the idea, matey, that's the idea," said Bert. "You won't find it a bad old life, considering." Inside he was bubbling over with triumph at the victory of his cunning: "Got you, mister, got you, for all your posh talk and schooling. You got to get up early to get round old Bert." But he said, amiably enough: "What about a drink on it, Dukey? We got plenty!"

"That's the idea, mate, that's the idea! Shiner, clear all this old clobber off of the table and git out another bottle o' Scotch. You'll have a mate to help you now."

Jim looked through the thick haze of the smoky cabin at the jubilant face of the Mate. A heavy, dead emptiness seemed to have settled in his vitals; never again, he felt, would he ever enjoy anything, fear anything, or care about anything. Once again he had betrayed his calling by not taking his punishment; once again, the full burden of what he had done was thrown upon him. And with the deadness inside him was a deep and bitter malice against the Skipper and the Mate. You cocky little swab, he thought, as the Mate swallowed a huge gulp of the whisky; you think you're so clever at blackmail. If it wasn't for the log I'd damned soon show you whether I was frightened or not. What the hell do I care about a few magistrates? All right, said this black hatred inside him; all right, Bert Anderson, you win. But just you wait. Just you wait.

Chapter XII

There were heavy aching heads aboard the Maud next morning, but the regular crew were about early. Jim was roused from his sleep by a thunderous kick on the door of the forepeak, the dark dirty hole which was to be his future home, and which he shared with the massive, silent Shiner. For many hours he had lain awake, listening to the regular ponderous snores from the other side, and scratching at a dozen maddening bites. The Maud possessed no sheets and few blankets; it seemed to Jim unlikely that his had ever been washed. The fore-peak was wedge-shaped, for it was the foremost compartment; right in the angle of the bow was built a stout open box, which contained the anchor chain. Jim supposed that the sour, mouldy stench of the forepeak was caused by the mud and filth which came in on the cable, dried, and flaked off into the bilge below.

Thus he was not sorry to get out on deck in the still, frosty dark of the morning, and go aft for breakfast — thick slices of cold bacon, eaten with slabs of sad stodgy bread made by Shiner, and washed down with strong tea, to which had been added a dash of rum — "Just to warm up yer guts," as Bert said. Jim wondered as he ate what it would be like to be one of the vultures, ripping out the bowels of the Sardis, for he took it for granted he would be made to work at once.

When they had all finished, however, Dukey led the way on deck and said: "Well, then, mates: we'll say me and Bert go up top-sides, Shiner stop here to stow the stuff, and you — what's your name, by the way?"

"Robbins — James Robbins."

"Oh! James! James! What you think o' that for a name, Bert? None o' your low-down common Jims!" The two men roared with laughter, and Dukey seized Jim by the arm: "Well, me Lord James, I'd reckon it a honner if you'd just git below and stay there. You won't be no good today."

"That's right, Jim," said Bert more kindly. "You had a rough old do up that mast there. You might just as well have a rest for a bit longer. As he and Dukey stood on the deck of the Sardis a few moments later, he said quietly to Dukey, "Lay off the old boy, now, Dookey. You keep on like that, no bounds what he might do. Let him settle down a bit."

A boring day followed for Jim. Sleep proved impossible, for every fifteen minutes or so a great untidy sling of assorted salvage landed with a rumbling crash on the deck, to be noisily stowed below by Shiner. Sick of the tedium of the stinking darkness below, Jim stood for hours staring idly out of the forepeak hatchway at the toiling giant. He guessed the real reason for his stay below; the salvagers all knew each other pretty well, and Dukey did not want to encourage questions about him from the Essex men.

Standing there, hour after hour, Jim noticed gradually that the smack was bumping more and more heavily against the ship's side, and that the wind was beginning its old familiar whine through what was left of Sardis's rigging.

Up on the wreck, however, there was great jubilation, for one of the Essex men, exploring further into the vast dark lower holds, had found, beyond the useless rails, three whole large bays stacked high with every sort of farming implement, and bundle upon bundle of hand tools. Tackles were hastily rigged, torches taken down, and soon dozens of ploughs, cultivators, horse-rakes and mowers, all gaudy with their brilliant new paint, were being lashed into place on the decks of the smacks, where they seemed ridiculously out of place. Sheaves of pitchforks, whose spotless handles had been awaiting the hard hands of the New South Wales pioneers, were grabbed instead by the tarry hands of sailors and stowed in the fishy holds of their smacks.

Dukey and Bert saw to it that they had their share, and rubbed their hands as they looked down on Shiner lashing the last of the four ploughs into place. "There you are, Bert," said Dukey, "I knew there must be some decent cargo in her somewheres. Some o' this stuff'll sell a treat down Canterbury market, if we can git it there. How we going on down there. Shiner? Pretty near full?"

"Yeah. Pretty near."

'There we are, then, Bert. And look at them bits of cloud coming up from the north-east. Time we wasn't here. We'll just finish off the paint-locker, have a bit of grub, then sling our hooks and run for home.' He looked round the bustling deck and smiled. "Best old wreck I ever seen, Bert. All the same, I wisht we could have found room for that planner them Rowhedge fellers got up. My old gel's always going on about having one in the front room. Silly beggars, women. She can't play a blessed note!"

Jim slipped out of sight as the Skipper and the Mate came back aboard, and all three worked to complete the safe stowage. Soon they all went aft, but it was not long before Shiner's clumsy tread sounded outside, and his pale face peered down: "Skipper says come aft, sharpish," he said.

Dinner was exactly the same as breakfast, for no one had been able to do any cooking. The three men ate a giant, leisurely meal, for they had worked five hours in the winter air; there was little talk until their stomachs were full. Then the Skipper sprawled back at full length on his bunk and talked over future plans with Bert; Jim noted bitterly that they were now so sure of him that they no longer concealed anything from him. He noted, too, that though Bert had more or less taken charge of the blackmail, Dukey was now indisputably the Captain. "Well, Bert," he said, "we've got a good old mixed bag aboard here. These old ploughs, f'rinstance, they're too big to lug about. We'll just have to take 'em into the harbour and collect the salvage on 'em, all proper an' above-board. But all that rope and timber, and them small tools and tins of paint — that's a mortal pity to waste all that. I reckon we'll land 'em up at Perce's place. He'll stow it in one of his haystacks for us if we see him all right afterwards. What time's high-water over Seasalter Flats? Just after midnight, ain't it?"

"About that, Dookey."

"And that's a run of — what — about thirty mile from here, ain't it? Should do that in about five hours with this blow behind her."

"We might as well stop here a bit, then, Skipper. 'Tis only two o'clock."

"Ah yes, but I ain't taking no chances with the money and the jools. The Customs chaps'll guess we've been at this wreck; we don't want one of them finding that lot when we tie up at Whitstable. What we'll do is play the old Essex dodge on them: we'll go straight down to Reculver an' jill about off there. We'll stop one o' the Whitstable sprat boats — there's sure to be some of 'em going out on the ebb. Now then, Bert, I want you to go aboard her, and take the money and jools with you. Then you can either stay with them till they come back to Whitstable or, if you can, get them to land you at Margate, and come back home on the railway. No one won't search a poor sick chap comin' off of a fishing boat. We should be back in harbour on the noon tide tomorrow."

It was clear to Jim by the way they beamed at him that Dukey and Bert were very proud of the plan. He did not return the grin, nor did he understand the reference to "Perce's place", but he was forced to admit that it was an ingenious and elaborate way of getting the best out of their haul. These rough, dirty and nearly illiterate men were clearly a lot sharper than they looked and sounded.

Ten minutes later, the sails were hoisted, the lines let go, and they were drifting on the tide out of the lee of the wreck. As they came clear, the stout tanned sails caught the wind with two vicious snaps; Dukey raised his arm in farewell to the Essex salvagers as he tacked round Sardis's stern; then up came the tiller towards the wind, the bow swung round to point south-west, and away she roared before the solid north-easterly breeze. The close-reefed mainsail rose and fell as she rolled and ramped down-wind, and Jim saw the dead, shapeless remains of the proud Sardis dropping below the grey horizon. However, he spent little time in looking about, for as soon as they were clear of the wreck Bert shouted for'ard for him: "Here, Jimmy! Git a bucket o' water and clear up these dinner things."

Not long after, while he was attempting to clean the cold bacon grease from the tin plates with cold sea-water and a filthy dish-rag, Bert came into the cabin and sat down opposite. "Bit of a job, ain't it?" he said. "Never mind, you'll soon get the 'ang of it. I been thinking about you, Jim, and talking to Dukey. He says if you want to let your Mum and Dad know you're all right, he don't mind, so long as you don't tell 'em where you are. He don't want 'em mixed up in this."

The hard knot of bitterness and hatred inside Jim began to soften at this act of kindness. Yet still he found it hard to talk. "No need," he said. "I haven't got a father or mother alive."

Bert was genuinely shocked and embarrassed: "Oh, er, I see. I only thought… Well, I got a boy o' me own just started at sea, you see, and I know what I'd feel… Well, you see what I mean."

"I've only got a guardian — my uncle. He's a lawyer. He won't care much." Jim's memory was back in the elegant white-panelled office overlooking the main street of the little Cotswold town. He could see the wrinkles of distaste on the face of the spruce, smooth man at the desk, as he said with finality: "Very well, then, James. But I feel that it is only right to point out to you that if — against my expressed wishes — you persist in this lunatic desire to become a sailor you have nothing further to hope from me, either now or at my death. I trust I make myself perfectly clear?"

That was clear enough, thought Jim. Clear enough, too, that the sarcastic old devil never wanted to see him again anyway. Sooner go back to the Company office than to that stuck-up, superior old swine to be one of his poor relations again. Go back again to being introduced to everybody as "my poor sister Florence's boy who is making his home with us"? Never again, thought Jim, never again. He was utterly alone and adrift in a strange, hard, dangerous world, and he was burdened still with the lives he had thrown away. Well, then, I'll drift, he thought. We'lljust see what happens.

When he next went on deck, the low green line of the Kent coast lay across the bow about five miles off; it was almost pleasant to see the real land after that deadly barren hump of sand, and to feel the surge and roll of a live craft again. He got himself out of Dukey's sight up for'ard, and watched the uneven line of low clayey cliffs come nearer; a mile off-shore, Dukey altered course to run westwards, parallel with the shore, and Shiner came up to the bow too to keep a look-out for the Whitstable spratting boats.

An hour's run along the coast brought them to a desolate stretch, featureless except for two strange square towers of flint. Shiner pointed to them, and made one of his rare speeches: "Reculver Towers." A moment later, Dukey thrust the tiller down, and Bert hauled in the mainsheet hand-over-hand, and shouted to Shiner: "Haul your fores'l sheet a-weather!" Then, hove-to and pitching steadily into the rising sea, they settled down in the gathering dark to wait for the fishing-boats.

"There you are, Bert," said Dukey, after only ten minutes. "One coming straight for us. Show 'em the light. That's right, wave it about a bit."

"Well, then, Skipper," said Bert, as the smaller craft shot under their stern and went about with a thundering of canvas, "see you later." He slapped the breast-pocket of his thick sea-jacket, which bulged out prominently. "I got it all safe in here."

Four hours later the roar of the Maud's anchor in the hawsepipe broke the dark silence of Seasalter Flats, at the mouth of the East Swale. All the evening, Dukey had sailed the smack slowly up over the ebbing tide, showing no lights, and keeping well out from the long string of lights which shone from Tankerton and Whitstable. Now, with only the marshes to shorewards, he had edged in, with himself at the tiller. Shiner standing by the anchor, and Jim amidships with the lead-line. Right opposite them, the single light of a lonely farm showed over the sea-wall. "One-and-a-half fathoms!" Jim called quietly.

"Right," said Dukey, his voice far below its normal volume. "Pass the word to let go."

The rest of the night was a long-drawn nightmare that Jim was to remember all his life. The Maud had scarcely lost way before the Skipper had them hastily launching the small boat which was carried upside-down on deck. In a trice Dukey and Shiner were into it, and as they fitted their oars into the rowlocks, Dukey was rattling out orders to Jim: "Now then, you start getting the hatch-covers off and the main halyard ready for swaying up cargo. See the light of that house? That's Peasmarsh Farm — Perce's place — the farm where we're going. Git the lamp alight below; bring it up here when we flash from the beach. Got it, mate? Right-o, then, Shiner, give way together!" Both oars bent as the two powerful oarsmen lay into their work, and the light craft shot off in a flurry of foam.

Jim had scarcely cleared the hatchway when the flash came from the beach. A few moments later he heard the thud of straining oars and heard the roar of bow-waves. He could see the need for haste: the mud where their anchor lay would be exposed at low water. All that salvage had to be unloaded before the water slipped away again, for it would be extremely dangerous for a well-known salvage smack to be found high-and-dry in such a place.

Together with the Maud's dinghy, a larger beach-boat shot out of the dark and crashed alongside. The strange boat was heavily manned; half of her crew sprang up the smack's side and swarmed all over her, getting timber, paint, blocks, rope and farm tools ready for hoisting out. There must have been some furious midnight turning-out in the little cottages scattered along the sea-wall, for ten minutes later three more beach-boats arrived and unloading began in earnest; all the heavy slings of cargo that had been lowered in from above had to be heaved up by human muscle.

When at last the stem of the last boat was swallowed up by the darkness, Jim had been hauling as hard as he could on a rope for four hours, and was swaying with exhaustion. Dukey and Shiner seemed tireless, however, and without a moment's pause, the former grunted: "Right, lads! Up mains'l, up anchor. Then set your fores'l. We're off out to sea again."

Every nerve of Jim's body was crying out for rest and sleep, and he was appalled by the news, and mystified as well. He was relieved to find, some hours later, that it was only another part of the elaborate plan to make an innocent home-coming. Dukey tacked the Maud easily out to sea while they all chewed massive sandwiches of bread and bacon which Jim had prepared, and drank strong tea. Then, as dawn began to tinge the eastern sky, he put the tiller up and said: "Give her the main-sheet, Jim. That's it — right out. We want to be pointing the right way now it's getting light. We must be pretty nigh out to the Girdler now, so we got a nice run of about nine mile back to Whitstable. Just nice time to git in on the tide. Now, don't forget, you two 'erbs — we just come straight from the wreck. Bert left there two days ago on a Ramsgate trawler because he had a funny turn. Got it?"

Just after eleven o'clock the Maud ran under foresail only into the entrance channel of Whitstable harbour. Steep, lumpy seas followed her down the approach, until she turned to starboard into the square, sheltered basin. She glided across the smooth water, her sail now hanging limp, and there, standing on the quay wall at her usual berth was the small familiar figure of Bert Anderson. He soon hailed them, caught the heaving-line, and helped to make her fast, but all the time he was talking gloomily to a little knot of railwaymen and barge-hands who had gathered round him: "Look at that! All the risk and trouble, and hard work, and what did we get? A few blinking ploughs!" He spat despondently. 'Same as I say, this salvaging lark's finished. No money in it these days."

Chapter XIII

The hot August sun swung lazily across the sky, and the little harbour sweltered in the heat. The tide was out, and the evil-smelling black mud on which all the craft lay grounded popped and bubbled. The pitch, too, bubbled out of the seams of the decks; all around, the shimmering heat danced up from cobbles, railway-tracks, iron roofs and shingle. Wagons loaded with sacks of the first barley from the Downs beyond Canterbury stood in the siding, and the little tank engine that had brought them hissed gently and steadily behind them. It was the dinner-hour, and the loaders and crews were murmuring in small groups in patches of shade.

The smack Maud was not in her usual berth, which had been taken by a smart grey Norwegian barquentine. Instead, she lay outside Trilby, one of Abraham's fleet of magnificent sailing-barges, which were the arteries of this little port. The Maud was lifeless, except for the hunched shape of a young man, sitting with his back to the mast, engrossed in a book. It was Jim Robbins, though his lawyer uncle would have had the greatest difficulty in recognizing him. His face was stubbly, and darkened by a deep tan — and also by a fair amount of dirt; the tar and grease of his trade had worked into his nails and every pore of his hands. Those hands and fingers were now thick and ugly, too. In spite of the heat, he still wore, from sheer habit, the fisherman's rig of blue jersey, blue serge trousers, and sea-boots. The smoke curled up from black shag in the bowl of his short clay pipe.

In many ways, the eight months he had been a smacksman had been a surprise to Jim. There had been the cooking, for a start: he had not realized that nearly half of his time would be spent cooking and cleaning up for this strange family of four. Now he could roast a bit of beef, boil bacon and fry rashers, bake bread and produce a plum duff which even the formidable Dukey would describe (with a sigh of contentment) as "a good old gutful o' grub".

For another thing, these eight months had been the idlest he had ever known. During the stormy months of January, February, and March the call of the wrecks had been too strong for Dukey and Bert to ignore, in spite of their new wealth. Salvaging was in their blood — a kind of craving which kept them beating about inside the banks for weeks of bitter weather, on the off-chance of another glittering prize like the Sardis. Of course nothing else of the kind had turned up, but there had been all sorts of small pickings — tows given to disabled barges, pilotage for those who had lost their way, help in refloating craft which had grounded, help in unloading the cargoes of those which would not refloat until they were lightened, and the recovery of the anchors and cables of those who had been forced to slip them. The best prize since the Sardis, without doubt, had been the smart little yacht which they had found, unharmed but abandoned by her timid amateur crew, drifting seawards in a westerly blow near the Tongue lightship. Bert and Shiner had sailed her to Ramsgate, and there had been a handsome salvage payment. Dukey had no objection to taking even honest money, if it was offered.

During the winter months, then, their fortunes had made little difference to their lives, except that their little wooden cottages now gleamed with paint, and the after-cabin of the Maud reeked of brandy, whisky and cigars. But when the spring gales had come and gone, and the shipping of the Estuary went safely about in the fine soft weather, they had felt no desire to continue working. Normally, they spent the summer fishing for sprats themselves, and acting as carriers for the fleets of smaller craft. Maud was far larger and faster than most of the Whitstable spratting fleet, and it paid the skippers of the smaller boats to transfer their catches to the Maud and let her take them to the markets. Dukey and Bert, in their new splendour, found nothing attractive in this dull and respectable trade, and preferred to spend most of their days and nights in The Steam Packet, the pub at the harbour gates.

They put Shiner and Jim to work refitting the Maud after the salvage season. The two senior officers would merely supervise, swaying unsteadily, a glass in one hand, a cigar in the other, peering blearily at the two younger men, and bursting at various times into choking laughter, crude sea-songs and, occasionally, sentimental tears. They were the joke of the town.

During the summer they made a few short carrying runs, partly to keep up appearances, partly to keep promises which they had made when drunk the night before. But always they treated these trips as yachting cruises, lolling down below with their bottles and cigars, while Shiner took the helm. Shiner and Jim sailed the smack all round the Kent coast, taking their tons of silver sprats to Faversham and Sittingbourne to the west, and round the coast to the holiday resorts as far as Dover. Often Shiner would become weary of the hours at the tiller, and would say to Jim: " 'Ere, you take 'er for a bit." Whenever he did so, the old dread and misery would return to Jim. He would remember the damaged log, the faces of White and Brodie, the clutch of the sand, and the thin shriek of the lost souls in the rigging. He knew himself able to sail and pilot the Maud better than Shiner, for he had learnt quickly, but always that dead cold lump of fear inside him made him refuse, muttering some excuse. He could no longer face being responsible for anything.

Even during the long idle spells in harbour, the hideous memories of those three January days were never far away. Jim's life was not unpleasant, and he lived in close company with the rough, bustling, cheerful men of the harbour — the shunters, dockers, bargemen (or sailor-men, as they were called) and fishermen; yet he was moody, silent and aloof, and had not formed one real friendship.

Still, he had luckily found pleasures which had saved him from total misery — and perhaps mental breakdown. During the long sunny summer months in that dry corner of England he had had many whole days of idleness, in which he had been able to explore the little town of Whitstable and the surrounding district. He was not, of course, short of money, for he had hardly touched the share of the sovereigns that had been forced upon him. One fortunate day he boarded the train at the station across the road from the harbour and rode in it, ratthng through the woods and roHing fields, to Canterbury. This was the first of many days that he was to spend there, sauntering through the civilized bustle of its streets, gazing upwards at the leaping, arching pillars in the cathedral nave, sitting for hours in the cool cloisters, while the slow strokes of a great deep bell sank soothingly into his mind. He could not say why, but it was only while he was in and around the cathedral that he could forget the death of the Sardis.

To the west of the cathedral, a rather dingy street of little shops ran towards the east, and it was while looking aimlessly into the window of a slovenly second-hand shop that he took the next fortunate step. His eye was caught by the title Paradise Lost on the torn grey binding of a book in the threepenny tray. The title seemed to fit his own plight well enough, and, besides, seemed to awaken a long-buried school memory. Wasn't that the book that old Fletcher, the Latin master, had read to them once? Vaguely he remembered the grand rolling sound of it, though he had understood nothing of its subject, except that it was about Adam and Eve. On an impulse he bought it, and straightway a door opened to him, showing a wider, grander, more terrible world beyond his own troubles.

A few weeks later he had a small library of the classics — all from the same source — wedged into a dirty shelf in the forepeak, and his mind no longer tramped round the same treadmill of misery, but suffered, swore, threatened, bragged, prayed and even laughed with the swarming characters of Milton, Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, Fielding and Smollett.

He found his third pleasure in the vast stretches of woodland which lay between Whitstable and Canterbury. In fine weather he spent whole days wandering through the tidy coppices of oak and sweet chestnut, or watching absorbed as the friendly woodmen, working with axe and spokeshave, made beautiful light hurdles from the underwood. His meals of bread and cheese and splendid bitter beer he took at The Red Lion, on the Canterbury road, or, if he had wandered farther, in The Dog and Bear at the far edge of the wood. Here, and in the wood, he enjoyed the slow, dry, drawling talk of settled men who knew their place in life. Once he came across a young man about his own age planting larches, and found that, despite his occupation, he was fond of Wordsworth, and was a poet himself.

And so, here in the summer sun, on the deck of the Maud, Jim was lost in the doubts, delays and dangers of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, when a dark shadow fell across the page, and he looked up quickly to see the bulky figure of Herbert Chubb, master of the Trilby, standing opposite him on the barge's foredeck. "You must be proper wrapped up in that old book, Jim, if you never heard a chap my size coming. What you got there?"

Jim closed the book and placed his hands over it almost guiltily. He had suffered a good deal from the wit of Dukey and Bert. "Oh, it's called Hamlet. It's a sort of play."

A look of genuine pleasure and surprise swept over the plump, kindly face. "Well, I never! You reading Hamlet! Fancy that! One of my favourites, that is."

Jim, too, looked surprised and delighted: "You mean you know it?"

"Know it? You cheeky young swab, I knew it before you was thought of — pretty near off by heart. I seen it done on the stage down Canterbury a couple of years ago. Pore old 'Amlet — he never could make up his mind." Herbert Chubb sat down on the hatch of the for'ard hold and filled his pipe, looking steadily and curiously at Jim. "I've orfen wondered about you, seeing you working your guts out for old Dukey Smith. How did you come to git mixed up with this crooked lot?"

Jim looked down at his hands, confused and uneasy: "Oh, it was last winter. They're not too bad."

"Ah, but you ain't answered my question, Jim. Whatever in the world made a well-spoken chap what can read Hamlet sign on as fourth hand of a salvager?"

Jim flushed and spoke sullenly: "It suited me. Still does. I know what I'm doing, and I'm not complaining."

"All right, all right, it's your look-out, mate, your look-out. I don't want to poke my nose in your affairs." The Skipper was offended, but his concern for Jim stopped him walking huffily away. They seldom had a chance to talk privately. "Listen now, matey. Tell you what I'll do. You please yourself — take it or leave it. You know old Charlie Skinner, what's sailing Mate with me now? Well, poor old swab, he's past it, see. Can't do the heavy work. I have to do pretty near everythink. Right, then: you can come third-hand along o' me any time — now, if you like. Once you got the 'ang of things, old Charlie'll be glad to pack it in. What you say?"

"Thanks, Mr Chubb. Good of you. But — well, I can't, I'm afraid. Not now, anyway."

"All right, Jim. Only you listen to what I got to tell you, and think about it presently. I know Dukey and Bert have struck lucky somewheres, and I don't want to know anythink about it. Live and let live, I say. But it ain't going to last, Jim, I can tell you that. These 'ere new lifeboats what these societies are setting up all over the place, and these steam-tugs — they're going to knock the bottom out of salvaging in a few years, you mark my words. And how much will Dukey and Bert have saved? Eh? You know how much. They'll be on the beach, mate, afore they're much older. Now then, you come barging along o' me; smart young chap like you would git barge of your own in two years, and I lay you ten to one you'd very soon have Dukey and his like coming cap-in-hand for a job. And another thing: I can look any man in the eye and say every penny I earn's an honest one. Could old Dukey say that, do you think?"

"Look, Mr Chubb, I can't tell you why, but I can't leave now. Some day — I don't know — I might be glad of your offer."

"Right you are then, Jim, boy, right you are. We'll leave it like that. Now let's go and have a pint at The Packet. I been down the hold trimming dusty old barley all morning; have to do it on my own, see, 'cause the dust gets on poor old Charlie's chest.'

They clambered ashore and picked their way over the railway tracks round the end of the basin. 'Mind you,' said Chubb, 'I got to be fair. If it hadn't been for a salvager from Rowhedge once, I wouldn't be here talking to you. That was a nasty old turn-out, that was.

"Twas when I was Mate aboard the Azima — years ago, like; we'd just brought a load o' stone from Maidstone to repair the sea-wall at a little old seaside place called Clacton. Well, we anchored a few cables off-shore for the night. Wind was only light airs, same as this today. About five o'clock in the morning it started to blow like the devil out of the south-east — all of a sudden, like. 'Course, we was caught on a dead lee shore; anchor started dragging, so we burnt a flare. Up comes one of these big old salvage smacks. Her Skipper yells: 'I'll come close down your port side — git ready to jump!' Well, Jim, I never seen anything like the way he shaved past us in all that wind and sea. There wasn't more'n a foot of water between us; we didn't have to jump much — we very near stepped aboard her as she went rooting past, doing about ten knots. 'Course, as he went round our stern, he was very near on the beach hisself, and he had a hell of a job working his way tack-and-tack off that horrible shingle. Treat to see 'em do it." He stopped to face Jim, with his hand on the latch of the bar door. "So you see why I say live and let live, Jim. They never got a blinking penny for chancing their necks like that. I know they're a rough old lot o' sharks, but they ain't bad all through. It's same as old 'Amlet says about the pirates 'They dealt with me like thieves of mercy.' Come on, mate, let's see what old Albert's bitter tastes like today."

Chapter XIV

Jim stretched his legs out across the greasy deck, eased his back against the mast, and felt the utter weariness soaking into every bone and muscle. The clock of Rochester cathedral struck eight o'clock on that fine calm summer evening. The work on the wharves lining the River Medway was over for the day; as it was a Friday evening the dockers, sailormen, lightermen and tugmen had drawn their money and left long ago for the small, rowdy pubs of the mean streets bordering the river. Dukey and Bert had left long before the usual knocking-off time, and Jim had guessed why. From their huge winks and schoolboyish excitement it was evident that today was the great day when the jewels from the Sardis were to be sold for cash; their spending of the gold so far had certainly been so prodigal and foolish that Jim wasn't surprised that it was beginning to dwindle. For eight months now they had been steadily flinging it away, buying any foolish luxury that they, their wives, or relations could think of. Huge quantities had passed through the till of The Steam Packet, where for nights on end the bar had been packed to the doors with new-found cronies, pleased to drink themselves to the floor at the salvagers' expense. "Drink up, me old mates, drink up! Plenny more where this comes from" — such had been Dukey's motto ever since January. Their apparent purpose in coming to Rochester was to unload sprats for the London market, but there were, in the back streets of the Medway towns, many pawnbrokers' shops where no questions were asked about where things came from. And of course it was better to make this sort of sale well away from home.

So as early as four o'clock that afternoon Jim had looked up from the stifling hold to see them going for'ard to where the shoulder of the bow lay against the wharf. They were already half-tipsy, and clutching each other for support; once on the wharf Dukey turned and held up a large buff envelope: "Cheerio, mates! Keep all on shovelling them sprats and see you don't hang about. We gotter go and see my old uncle!" Then, with a roar of laughter, they disappeared round the corner of a timber stack, and Jim went back to his grinding labour.

His day had started before dawn, when they had left Whitstable and tacked against a light westerly along the shore of Sheppey towards the Nore. There they had kept their rendezvous with a group of spratting smacks, and Jim and Shiner had spent two hours pitching bucket after bucket of the almost liquid silver fish into the Maud's hold. Then the anchor had to be hove up laboriously on the crude handspike winch. In the late afternoon, after hours of short tacking against the fluky breeze, they had made fast to Rochester wharf, and had at once begun to unload the catch, which had to be packed in barrels and put aboard a London train that evening to be sold at Billingsgate the next day. The price was better on Saturday than on any other day.

Hour after hour, while the shadows of the masts and sheds grew longer, Jim worked away in the close fishy reek of the hold. His job was to shovel the sprats into a big bucket, which Shiner hauled up and emptied into an open barrel. Two dockers were busy nailing on the lids and trundling the barrels away to a trolley. Jim was now fit and hard, and the drudgery he had done in the last half year had put inches of flesh and muscle on to his arms and shoulders; but hard and skilfully as he worked, the silvery slithering heap seemed to be never-ending, and his great flat wooden shovel no more than a teaspoon.

Yet at last the cargo was gone, and he and Shiner had been able to walk, stiff' with fatigue, to a corner shop, where they bought huge pasties, full of hot potato, onion and steak. These they ate ravenously in a corner of a crowded, smoky pub, at the same time swilling down cool mild-and-bitter beer.

And now the day was over, and from head to toe Jim's body was full of contentment and weariness. He savoured every puff of his black clay pipe, and relaxed in a way that only the tired manual worker knows. Idly he watched the ebb coming down under the bridges, and the smart red trains of the South-Eastcrn and Chatham Railway rattling through the black girders of the railway bridge. From where he sat he could look upstream right under the railway and road bridges, and he was mildly surprised to see, far upstream, a sailing barge running down with the ebb. All the other barges were now tied up for the night. This one must have a keen Skipper, one who put money before leisure.

While she was still well above the bridges, he saw a man in a rowing-boat pull out to her and clamber aboard. Jim had learnt enough of the life of the Estuary to know that he must be a huffier. This fine 130-ton barge would have to lower her great mast and sails to clear the bridges, and hoist them up again on the downstream side. She carried only a Skipper and a Mate; the former would be at the wheel, and the latter, on his own, would take a long time to get the mast and sails up. An accident might easily happen in that time, while the barge was drifting helplessly. So a strange race of pitiable, half-derelict men gained a living of a sort as hufflers. They rowed out to barges approaching the bridges, secured their boats astern of the barge and, for the price of a few pints of beer, helped with the urgent lowering and hoisting of the heavy gear.

This skilful shooting of the bridges under sail was something Jim had not yet seen, so he watched with close attention. The barge held on to her full sail until it seemed to him that she must smash her gear against the road bridge; then, at the last moment, the mast, with its sails still set, fell steadily backwards to rest along the deck. Under the bridge, the barge became a black silhouette, end-on to him, but as the bow slid smoothly out into the yellow sunset light he could see the two figures of the Mate and the huffier in the bow rising and falling alternately as they worked hastily at the handles of the winch, winding in the stay-fall. The sun gleamed a rich red-gold on the smart pine spars as they rose imperceptibly to the vertical; as the deeply-laden barge passed abreast of Jim the sails were filling again to the gentle following breeze, and the ripple was beginning to murmur at her stem. The huffler, a short, stooping man in shabby blue serge, was walking aft to where the Skipper stood. Suddenly, Jim was not watching idly; he was riveted to the spot, his eyes staring at that shambling figure. He knew him. He didn't have to think about it, or argue about it. That walk was a part of his memory. He knew him — but who the devil was it? His mind was in a whirl: it was ridiculous that he could not find the name which was so nearly on his lips.

Then the huffler cast off and the Skipper waved and bawled a farewell which came clear across the water: 'Cheerio, Scottie! See yer next week!" And Jim had got it. Dougie! It was Dougie — no doubt about it. Poor Dougie, who'd fallen from master to Third Mate, had now fallen to the very foot of the ladder. No man who could get a job as a deck-hand would be a huffler, for the living was lonely, hard and precarious. Just a minute, thought Jim, what am I doing pitying him? At least he had a respectable career before his ruin: here am I, right at the start, not much above a huffler. What about me, when I'm his age…?

It was strange — some things you had to think about and argue with yourself, others seemed decided for you without your knowing why. Just as he knew that the huffler was Dougie, as he knew equally certainly that he had to see him, and talk to him.

MacDougall had slanted his boat in towards Jim's side of the river, and was easily within hailing distance; but Jim did not call, for if Dougie did not want to see him — and probably he didn't — he could easily pull over to the other side and disappear long before Jim could get round across the bridge. So Jim rose, knocked out his pipe, and set off along the wharf at an easy walk, keeping his eye on the boat. He crossed the busy main street at the end of the bridge and came out on to a wide road leading along the riverside. He was waiting at the foot of a flight of stone steps as Bougie's boat slid alongside; as he glanced over his shoulder, Dougie saw him, but took no notice of him, for by now Jim looked exactly like any other hand from a smack, barge or collier brig. Jim spoke as he shipped his oars: "Good evening, Mr MacDougall. It's a small world, isn't it?"

The man started as if shot, and his head whipped round to reveal a face drained of every scrap of colour. He took a quick glance at Jim's face, and clearly recognized him, for he at once dropped his eyes and looked shiftily away: "Ye've got the wrong feller, mister. Sinclair's my name — they call me Scottie aboot here. Now I'm away off home, so I'll say goodnight to ye." He had hastily got out his oars and was shoving off against the stone wall, but Jim had a firm hold of the bow of the boat, and now took out the painter. "Not for a minute if you don't mind, Mr MacDougall. Come and have a drink with an old shipmate first."

"Hey, what's the game, mister? Who are you, talking aboot old shipmates? I've not set eyes on ye before. Now, will you let go o' my boat before I fetch ye one across your head with this oar?"

"Why don't you look me in the face,Dougie? You did just now, and you know damned well that I'm Jim Robbins, apprentice, of the Sardis, and that you're Third Mate Neil MacDougall of the same ship. So let's stop pretending, shall we? Come on and have a drink, now."

One glance at the young man convinced MacDougall that to struggle was useless. Muttering bitterly, he stowed the oars in the boat and unshipped the rowlocks. Then he followed Jim up the steps.

"So you got ashore with your lifeboat, then?" said Jim, as they walked towards the main street.

"Ay, I got ashore. Much good it did me," said MacDougall sourly. He stopped outside the garden gate of a small house. "Ye'll need to wait while I leave my gear in the shed here," he said, and went in, carrying his rowlocks and a lantern.

He disappeared into a garden shed, and Jim strolled over the road to sit on the low wall by the river and enjoy the sweeping view of the ebbing stream. The thought had just entered his mind that Dougie was taking his time, when his senses were alerted by an odd crunching noise. What was that? Someone jumping down from a height on to gravel! A few seconds later he was in the garden, and at once he saw the way Dougie had gone. A crumbling brick at the top of a wall on the other side of the garden showed the bright red of a recent boot mark. Jim threw himself over the wall, and found himself on a small path which led between two walls along the backs of the rows of houses. He looked rapidly from left to right; no one was in sight. Which way had he gone? Just a minute — that elder bush growing out of the wall on the corner to the right was swaying. There was no wind.

Jim tore to the corner of the path, confident of seeing the retreating Dougie not far off, but instead he saw nothing but a long straight stretch of the path — once again quite devoid of life. He couldn't possibly have got to the end of it in that time.

Every few yards along the right-hand wall was a door leading to a back garden. He must have dodged into one of these, but which? It must be one of the first dozen. Jim walked slowly now, looking round carefully and listening attentively; Bougie's heavy breathing might give him away, for he must be pretty puffed by now. Jim reasoned that he must be still in the garden, for he could hardly go right through a strange house to get to the street.

Then he heard a confused babel of many voices, and he noticed that, unlike most of the doors, which appeared to be little used, one door was brightly painted and had a well-worn track leading to it. A few empty beer bottles and the remains of a crate told him the rest: it was the back entrance of a pub. Here was an easy way to the street for a fugitive!

As he lifted the latch of the back door of the pub, the deafening noise of shouting, laughing, quarrelling voices burst upon him with its full force. He jostled his way through the standing groups of workmen, and looked swiftly round the smoke-filled room; he caught a quick movement in the corner, and there, sitting at a rough table and shading his face with his hand, was MacDougall.

Chapter XV

Jim laid a hand on the heaving shoulders of the runaway: "Well, well, Mr MacDougall. What about this drink we were going to have? You didn't use to run away from it like this."

"What are ye chasing me round like this for? I want nothing to do with ye."

"Look," said Jim, "I must have a talk with you. We can't talk in this den — let's go into the bar parlour." He motioned MacDougall towards the door, and they entered the snug bar parlour, quiet and empty except for a few respectable tradesmen and their wives, who looked up from their little tables with surprise as the two roughly-dressed sailors entered. The landlord, heavy and red-faced, looked at them contemptuously through his little serving hatch.

"Here, Jack," he said to Jim, "we don't reckon to have you fellers in here. This is the bar parlour, you know." A year ago, Jim would have fled, red-faced, from such a greeting, but life on a smack had changed him. He simply strode up to the hatch and rested his elbows on it looking steadily into the mottled face: "Well, you've got us, mate. I've got money and we're not drunk or misbehaving, so there's not a lot you can do. Two bitters and two penn'orth of shag."

Jim and the Scot sat drinking and smoking for some time before Jim at last broke the silence: *How many got ashore, Dougie? Do you know?"

"Och, what's the good of asking me, mister? The boats got scattered miles apart. We got picked up by a steam packet in Black Deep. We saw a good many boats capsized — mebbe half of them. I suppose the rest were picked up, or ran ashore somewhere. The packet that got us found Cameron's boat floating keel upwards. Most of the folk in her were still hanging on, but Cameron was gone. They said he didn't try to save himself. And a good thing too. What had the poor devil got to live for after that? Man, he was mad to do what he did — ye mind I said so at the time to yon feller Brodie." MacDougall sighed and shook his head. "I think about it now and then while I'm setting there in the boat. And I still cannae think what got into a good wee seaman the like o' Jamie Cameron."

It was Jim's turn now to fall silent. Every word MacDougall spoke opened up old wounds. Jim knew that the moment was coming when at last he would unburden his mind of everything. Dougie, the only man alive, for all he knew, who had served on the Sardis, had to be told, no matter what he thought of Jim afterwards, no matter what he might tell the Company or the law. Jim realized at last that this was the reason for his blind determination to get hold of Dougie when he saw him. He must either tell someone or go mad.

"It wasn't Cameron," he said, and looked Dougie full in the face. He was surprised to see it suddenly turn a dull, muddy grey, as it had when they first met.

The older man scraped back his chair and half stood up: "And what the hell do ye mean by that, mister? Who was it if it wasn't the Old Man?"

"Me."

Jim stared down into his glass. He sensed that Dougie had relaxed into his seat again, staring incredulously at him. When Dougie spoke again, there was more warmth and pity in his voice than Jim had ever known before. He grasped Jim's upper arm and shook him gently: "Och now, laddie, talk sense for God's sake. Ye didnae stand a watch nor give any orders. How could ye be responsible for what happened? Here," he gathered the glasses, "we've had enough of this damned Sassenach mash. I'll away and get some man's drink, and ye can tell me what's on your mind, ye daft young swab."

Moments later he sat down again with two glasses of whisky: "There ye are, laddie. Uisge Beatha, as they say in the Gaelic — the water o' life. Have a dram of that now." And he settled himself to listen.

Jim began haltingly, for he had held it all back for so long, but every detail was burned in his brain and soon the words came flowing out, as if he were reciting a passage leant by heart. When he had finished he found his fists clenched, his whole body taut, tears in his eyes. MacDougall sat in silence. Perhaps he didn't believe the story. "Don't you see?" said Jim. "The log being damaged explains everything. Cameron thought the log-reading was the one thing he could rely on when everything else was doubtful. He was quite right to think that. But instead, it was worse — far worse — than useless. Isn't it millions to one against a log getting damaged while it's running?"

"Ay, I suppose so."

"Then where's Cameron's fault? Why shouldn't he believe it? White and Brodie did, after all."

"Ay, so did I, lad, so did I."

"Well, what did you think when she went on the sand? Did you think the log had been damaged by driftwood or something?"

"Ay." There was a strange far-away look in MacDougall's eyes. "To tell ye the truth, I didnae think much about it at all. Here, get me another dram if ye've any money left. I've none."

When Jim came back the other man drained the full glass with an absent-minded gulp and stared out unseeing across the room. "No, laddie," he said, "I didnae think much about the log. I'd got other things on my mind. D'ye know what, laddie? You and me are two poor swabs in the same boat — like a couple o' mongrels with tin cans tied to our tails."

Jim was dumbfounded by the confession. He had been so sure for so long that he was alone to blame. So that was why Dougie had looked so odd when Jim said Cameron was not to blame.

Dougie went on, speaking with a calm bitterness. "D'ye mind that half-an-hour before she struck, you and Brodie relieved me? And d'ye mind that ye were both all out to catch a sight o' the Sunk lightship?"

"Group flashing two every twenty seconds," said Jim mechanically.

"Ay, that's the one. Well, laddie, ye're going to get a big shock. I know now that about twenty minutes before ye came on deck I saw the Sunk."

Jim felt a prickling sensation spreading across his scalp as his jaw dropped uncontrollably. MacDougall looked up quickly and gave a short grunt of bitter laughter: "Ah, ye see! It's your turn now to have a shock. You're not the only poor devil that's been going round with a bad conscience."

"But what happened? Why on earth didn't you tell us?"

"Och well, it sounds bad enough now, after what happened, but I — well, I just couldn't be bothered. At the time it didnae seem to matter. The weather was clearing — I thought ye'd soon get a proper fix. And how was I to know about — eh — about what ye've just told me?"

"You tell me your story, Dougie. Get it off your chest."

"Ay, well, as I say, it was about twenty to twelve, pitch-black and still snowing, ye remember. I'd had a few pulls at my wee black flask — did ye know about that? Ay, I thought so. Well, for all that, I was chilled to the marrow and sick to death o' the whole damned thing — the ship, Cameron, White and the rest of ye. Then up comes one of the look-outs: 'Excuse me, sir," he says, "but I'm thinking I saw a light out there to starb'd.' So I looked and I looked, and in the end, I just caught a tiny wee flash on the beam, and then I thought I saw another straight after. But I couldnae be sure, what with the snow, and the whisky, and my eyes not being what they were. We both kept looking out there on the same bearing, but there wasnae another glint o' light. So, being the most dirty, lazy, drunken, child-murdering old devil that ever called himself a sailor — what did I do, laddie? What did I do? Nothing! Nothing!" He covered his face with his hands; his shoulders shook and tear-drops trickled through his fingers.

Jim crossed hastily to the bar, ignoring the astonished looks of the sleek shopkeepers and their wives. An utter silence fell on the bar parlour, except for the sobs of the small tough old seaman in the corner. The look on Jim's face checked the sneering remark on the landlord's lips. When Jim got back to Dougie with the refilled glasses he had recovered himself again.

"Thank ye, laddie. I need it. Och, I bet these folk in here are wondering what's blown in tonight!"

"Never mind about them. What happened then?"

"Well, I went down and looked at the chart, but — not knowing about the other business — I couldnae make any sense of it. I couldnae see any light for miles on that bearing. I was just wondering whether to get the Old Man on deck when I heard Brodie coming. So I thinks to myself: 'Och, he's a smart young feller — mebbe he'll see it. I want to get out of this awful wind. Why should I get the wee Cameron strutting up here and have to miss my sleep while he havers about? A fine mood he'll be in, too, the cocky old swab.' So I just went below, Jim." He raised his haggard face to look Jim in the eye. "I just went below, and said nothing. All those poor wee bairns were tossed into that cold, cold sea because a useless old drunk…"

"All right, Dougie, all right. As you said yourself — how were you to know? It isn't all on your shoulders any more. There's two of us now, two mongrels with tin cans. Look, what about going home? It's getting late."

They made their way silently to the door, watched with the greatest relief by the landlord and his respectable customers. As the door closed behind them the tension eased and a hubbub of conversation began.

The lamplit streets were quiet, for the pubs had not yet driven out their customers. Soon Dougie halted outside the door of a dingy sailors' lodging-house, and glanced up at its yellow brick walls and grimy windows. "Yon's the dirty flea-ridden hole where MacDougall the huffler lives," he said. "Come on up. I've a wee bit in a flask and some bits of bread and cheese."

MacDougall's room contained nothing but a crude wooden bed with a straw mattress, a table, a ruin of a cane-bottomed chair, and a cupboard with no doors. From outside came the puffing and whistling of shunting engines, and the curious jangling music of lines of trucks striking each other as they were jerked up and down the goods yard. "Yon row goes on all night," said Dougie. "Ye get used to it. Cut yourself a lump o' bread and cheese while I find the wee flask." To do this he lifted a loose board of the bare floor, thrust his arm into the hole, and groped round for a while. "What d'ye think of that for a wine cellar, Jim? There's no locks on the doors, ye see, and some queer folk about."

They munched in silence for a while, sitting side by side on the bed. Then Dougie said: "Ye've not told me yet how ye got away. Ye weren't in the boats. What about White and Brodie and the rest of the hands? All gone?"

"Aye, Dougie, all gone but me — the most useless."

"Yon Brodie now — he was a grand wee feller, a grand feller. What happened to you, then?"

He sat silent as Jim told his strange story, raising his eyebrows and whistling in astonishment as Jim told of Jordan's looting of the safe, and of the salvagers.

"Aye," he said, as Jim ended his story, "I've heard about the salvagers. They've an awful bad name hereabout. From what ye say of these three you're with, I'm thinkin' it's no sort o' life for a smart, decent wee feller the like of you. Where's the future in that? Why don't ye sling your hook — tell them to go to blazes?"

"I might do that. But what then? I can't go back to the Company."

"No. Ye're like me there. This place is not a bit too far away from Edinburgh for me. But ye're young and strong — ye've got a good head. Ye could get a berth anywhere."

"Up to now I haven't wanted anything else. Now, knowing there's two of us — somehow I don't feel so bad."

"Two of us, laddie? I was thinking o' that as we came along. There was more than two, Jim. What about the Old Man for a start, eh? He was so damn keen on a fast trip, and so pleased with himself, he acted like a madman all along, not heaving to or reducing speed. And another thing — he knew well enough what sort o' watch-keeper I was. Did ye not wonder how an old wreck the like o' me got a berth in a brand-new ship? Well, I'll tell ye. Do ye mind a feller called McTaggart, the Company Chairman? And do ye mind that he had an awful pretty young wife — his second, y'see? Well now, what ye didn't know is this — the new Mrs McTaggart is my brother Hector's lassie. I kept on at her about doing her old uncle a good turn — and there ye are! She can twist old McTaggart round her little finger, and ye mind how the Old Man was nearly falling down to lick the Chairman's boots. And that's how a lazy drunken old hulk gets a Third Mate's job on the finest ship in Scotland. So that makes four of us, laddie. And what about White and Brodie, even? They knew about me too, as I daresay ye know. Why did they not report it? I'll tell ye, laddie — it would have meant them taking my watches all the way to Australia. So they kept quiet, and the wee bairns and their mothers paid for it that morning." He turned slowly to face Jim. "When ye come to weigh it up, laddie," he said, "we're nowhere near so important as we thought we were."

Chapter XVI

The Maud lay silent as Jim stepped off the ladder on to the foredeck. He was puzzled — the cabin lamp was alight, throwing a yellow gleam up the hatchway aft, yet surely Dukey and Bert could not be back? Surely if they were back aboard with a new supply of money there would be a racket of singing, laughing and shouting coming from the cabin? His question was soon to be answered, for as his boots sounded on the deck a figure ran up from below and came towards him. It was Dukey, and as he halted a yard away Jim could see that he was drunk without being cheerful; a dull savage fury showed in every line of his face.

Jim felt a violent twist of fear inside him. He made to go down the ladder to the forepeak, but Dukey's paw landed on his right shoulder and spun him round. The reddened stubbly face, reeking of spirits, was thrust within inches of his. Jim's stomach felt hollow with fear.

"Stop where you are, moosh!" said Dukey, breathing heavily with fury. "I been waiting for you. Where you been?"

"Ashore. For a drink."

Dukey brought his right hand across his body, and swung a back-hand blow that landed stingingly on Jim's mouth. "Sir! You call me sir! You snivelling 'arf-baked brass-button monkey, you! Ain't I master aboard here? And who the hell said you could go ashore? Eh?"

Jim was bewildered as well as afraid. He had never seen Dukey like this before. What on earth had happened? Yet something in him rebelled at the utter unreasonableness of it all — "We'd got out all the cargo," he said sullenly. "You weren't here. I didn't see why I shouldn't."

Before he could guard himself, another vicious backhand lash bruised his lips. But this time Dukey was beside himself; clenching his fist, he brought the same arm back to land a tremendous blow on Jim's cheekbone. As the young man hit the deck he felt a brutal blow in his side as the Skipper's heavy sea-boot drove into his ribs. Dukey was standing over him, breathing heavily. "Get up off of there," he said. Jim got painfully to his feet. "Now, mister orficer, what do you call me?"

"Sir."

"That's right. And you see what you get for going ashore without asking me. Now go on aft and get me and the Mate some supper. You clutter off like that again, you won't get up for a month."

Jim walked slowly aft, his head muzzy and ringing, his ribs aching intolerably. Two of his front teeth felt loose. He found Bert Anderson below sitting uneasily at the table and scraping out the bowl of an old briar-pipe. Without a word Jim lit the oil stove and began frying rashers of bacon. After a long silence Bert cleared his throat awkwardly and said: "Look here, Jim, I heard all that. Keep clear of old Dukey for a few days, eh? You see what he's like. And for Gawd's sake don't aggravate him no more. You know what'll 'appen. He ain't all that bad, reely — only he's hasty. He very near done in a chap once, up Faversham way."

Bert spoke quietly, for above their heads the deck resounded to the moody pacing of the Skipper.

"What's up with him, Bert? I've never seen him like that before."

"Ah well, 'tis the jools, see. He's had a shock. So've I, for that matter."

"Why? Couldn't you sell 'em?"

"We had a blinking job to, mate. We went to 'alf-a-dozen posh-looking shops — they wouldn't look at 'em. Well, you see what 'twas — a couple of rough ole boys like us turning up with that lot. I suppose they reckoned we was burglars. We got out quick before they called in the bluebottles. In the end, we finished up in a dirty old place in a back street. There was a little ferrety foxy old chap behind the counter — just a dirty swindler if you ask me!" Bert spoke with a burning, honest indignation, so that one might have thought the jewels were a legacy from his white-haired grandmother. "Nasty cunning old swine — he knew he had us where he wanted us. He kept all on saying: 'Of course, gentlemen, I should reely check these goods with the p'leece first. It's all a bit irregular, you know!' Then he says: 'And of course, times being bad, the trade for this sort of thing's very slack!' Well, I tell you I thought old Dukey was going to swing for 'im once or twice, he looked so wild-like. In the finish, know what he give us! Twenty-five quid the lot.

Twenty-five measly quid! Good many of them rings was worth double that, each!"

"Well, you've got some money now. And anyway, they weren't yours. What have you got to grumble about?"

Bert was outraged by this unheard-of opinion: "What? What do you mean, not ourn? They was salvage, mate! That's a very old custom, that is! Us poor fishing chaps have been salvaging wrecks for hundreds of years. Everybody round here knows that."

"Maybe. But it still isn't legal, as you know very well."

"Legal! Legal!" He spat the words out with the bitterest contempt. "Ark at you! What you know about it? Anyway, suppose it was all took up to London, and them old lawyers started arguing over it; how much d'you reckon would be left of it when they'd had a go?"

The boots above stopped their pacing, and made for the hatchway. Bert jerked his head in warning. "Look up now, mate! You remember what I told you."

Later, when Jim was at last in his bunk, utterly weary, but unable to sleep for the ugly throbbing of his ribs and his cheek-bone, he went through the strange jumbled events of that evening. It seemed a week since he had heard the deep tones of the cathedral clock striking eight.

If ever a young man had cause to feel miserable it was Jim, one would have thought, yet oddly enough, deep in his mind he felt more at peace than at any time since the Sardis left Leith. For one thing, he found himself not drifting, but thinking — and in a resolute way — about the future; for another, this crowded evening had shown him his course. He must begin again. He was not another Shiner, to be kept like a mangy dog by Dukey Smith. That was not life, that was just an existence. Just as certainly, he could not begin again as an apprentice on deep-sea steamers. He could not now go back to the Caledonian Orient Line, and no other would take him without a reference. Then it must be Herbert Chubb, of the Trilby — "Come third-hand along of me, any time you like," he had said, and he looked the sort of man who meant what he said. Sooner or later they would be in harbour together, and then he would join the Trilby. Dukey and Bert would never let him go if they could help it — but go he would, somehow, some time.

As it happened, the time was not long in coming. Three days later, while the Maud lay idly alongside the quay at Whitstable, Jim saw the masts of a barge coming down the entrance channel, and in a moment the Trilby rounded the corner, the sun glinting on her handsome pine spars, her rich red sails and her smart blue paint. With the last of her way she sidled into the wall astern of the smack. For some time Chubb was busy securing his craft and going to the barge company's office to report for orders. At last he came strolling for'ard to stare at the Maud. Dukey and Bert were, as usual, at the Packet, and Shiner was, as usual, snoring in the forepeak.

"Can I come aboard, Mr Chubb?" Jim called.

" 'Course you can, matey, 'course you can."

The barge was deep-laden, and Jim could step from the counter of the smack on to the foredeck. Chubb looked at him steadily: "Well then, Jim, you thought any more about coming with me?"

"Yes, I have. I'd like to. When will you be ready to sail?"

"What's today?"

"Monday."

"Ah. Well, it'll take a couple of days to get this foreign corn out of her, then say a day-and-a-half to load with malting barley for London. Say Friday afternoon then. You got it fixed up with Dukey yet?"

"No. He won't let me go, I'm pretty sure."

"Well then, mate, I'd be very glad to have you, but I don't see how you're going to do it. I mean, there's three of'em, you know."

"I know. Just leave it to me."

"I know what, Jim. You slip off some time Friday when they're up the pub, and stow away aboard the Trilby. You could get in my bunk, f'rinstance."

"No, I'm not doing that, Mr Chubb. You've got to keep coming here to earn your living. It'd mean endless worry and trouble for you. No, when I walk off the Maud I'm going to do it in broad daylight under their noses. You just let me know on Friday when you're ready to let go, and leave the rest to me."

"I don't like it, Jim, beggared if I do. I mean, Dookey's a rough old chavvy, you know. I don't see…"

"I'm coming with you, Mr Chubb, and that's all there is to it. I've been thinking, I reckon I know what I'm going to do." Jim's face was pale and moist with sweat; the plump face of the Skipper was troubled.

"Another thing, Jim: suppose you're off on a trip somewheres when I'm ready to sail?"

"We shan't be. I heard them talking about it this morning. There's one other thing, Mr Chubb: they'd better not see you and me talking before Friday, in case they get suspicious. That Bert Anderson is as fly as they make them."

Chubb shook his head, wrinkles of worry furrowing his broad red face. "All right, Jim. Whatever you say, mate. I only hope you know what you're doing."

Friday was the longest day Jim had ever known. He and Shiner were employed on deck, greasing down the lower-mast, painting the elegant white top-mast and renewing the running rigging. All day as he worked he kept his eye on the small dockside gang shooting the sacks of barley into the Trilby's holds. Inch by inch she sank deeper in the water, and at last the whitish heaps of grain showed level with the hatches. Then it seemed to take hours for Chubb and his aged mate to lift back the hatch-beams and lash the tarpaulins securely over them, moving with the calm, slow deliberation of men who knew their trade. All the while, Jim's nerves seemed to be tying a bigger and bigger knot in the pit of his belly; all the while, as the testing time drew nearer, his fear of the ruthless, powerful Dukey grew stronger; all the while his half-formed plan seemed more and more futile and doomed to failure.

Then at last he saw old Charlie Skinner get into the small boat and row across the harbour, unreeling the thin wire of the dolly-winch as he went. That meant Trilby was about to leave; the Skipper was ready now to wind in the wire, hauling the barge to the harbour entrance.

Then he saw that Chubb was standing on the fore-deck, his hand raised in a signal.

Shiner looked up, his mouth open with mild surprise, as Jim threw down the rope he was splicing and went below to the forepeak. His jaw sagged much further when Jim emerged a moment later, a small kitbag of tarred canvas slung over his shoulder. Even he seemed to grasp that it had to do with the departing barge, for he, too, dropped his work and ran clumsily aft to the cabin where Dukey and Bert were gloomily drowsing off the effects of their dinner-hour drinking. Shiner was mouthing incoherent cries, and in an instant, it seemed to Jim, the small after-deck was full of angry blue-clad figures. He halted by the mast. In spite of the agony of nerves and fear within, his face showed nothing but a sullen, dogged obstinacy that puzzled the Skipper and the Mate. This was a new Jim Robbins. And after that good hiding at Rochester!

Yet still Dukey misjudged his man. Jim was standing stock-still, facing them, with no sign of retreat or fear. Dukey glanced round at the waiting barge and her Skipper, and at once sized things up: "Oh!" he said with a derisive cackle, "deserting, is it, now? Where d'you reckon you're off to?"

"I'm leaving," said Jim steadily. "I'm signing on on board the Trilby. And you won't stop me."

Dukey threw his head back in a bellow of laughter: "Oh no? Well, we'll very soon see about that." He dug Shiner in the ribs. "Go on, Shiner, tune him up a bit and chuck him below." And he waited to see the sport while the invincible Shiner lumbered eagerly for'ard down the starboard side, his hands outstretched. Jim backed away; he had stopped thinking now. The instinctive fighting animal in him had taken over. He had expected a rush like this, and was ready. His retreat made Shiner increase his speed. At the last moment, when the huge hands were almost touching Jim's chest, he leapt aside to his right like a cat, poised for an instant in a crouch, then as the great blundering body came abreast of him he drove his left shoulder upwards and outwards with all the force in his strong flexed legs. He felt the hard bone of his shoulder drive deep into Shiner's stomach, just below the ribs, driving out all his wind. With the speed of his own clumsy advance, the young giant was hurtled over the side; there was a brief cry of surprise, pain and terror, a giant splash, then silence.

Dukey stood dumbfounded at the utter rout of his champion. He choked with black rage: "You dirty young swab — you've killed him! He'll drown. You know he can't swim. Now you have arsked for it. Bert, see about Shiner. I'm going to 'alf-kill this feller now." He began to advance menacingly for'ard, his face horrible with fury. And then he faltered to a stop, his jaw dropped in astonishment; Jim, too, was advancing, on his face a steady grim scowl, and in his hand — the cause of Dukey's astonishment — a heavy knife, its newly-ground edge glinting in the afternoon sun. Dukey stood, crouching, weighing up the chances of a rush attack. But his opponent was no fool, and held the knife low, pointing upwards.

Jim sensed the thought racing through the fierce Skipper's mind. Now was the time to move: "The next one that comes for me will get this under his ribs." He felt his arm shaking, and hoped that Dukey would not notice too. "I'm coming aft, Dukey, and if you're still in my way when I get to you this is what you'll get." He motioned with the knife. "Get back round the other side of the tiller! You won't? Right then." He walked steadily towards the great figure barring his way, his face still set and cruel, his inside once again quaking with suspense and fear. Dukey's face was pale now, his eyes staring wildly. Jim was only four feet away when the Skipper's nerve cracked, and he backed suddenly, feeling his way with his hands, his eyes fixed on the thick glittering blade.

Something inside Jim shouted that he had won the hideous game of bluff, but he still forced himself to look murderous. Soon he had reached the counter itself, and Dukey had backed right round to the port side of the cabin-top. Without looking round, Jim swung his kitbag up on to the barge's stern. "Here's my dunnage, Mr Chubb. I won't be long. I just want a word with Mr Smith here. Right Dukey — stop there and listen to me. You and I have got to talk sense. And keep still. You make a move at me and I'll stick you like a pig. What the hell d'you think I am? D'you think I'm going to be your slave all my life? Well, I'm not; I'm finished with you. And if you think you're going to get me back with your half-baked blackmail you can think again. You and Bert thought yourselves so smart, and all the time I didn't care a brass farthing for your talk about policemen and magistrates. It just suited me to stop with you, and now it suits me to go — for good. Now then, get this straight. I know enough to put the three of you behind bars for years. Well, you leave me alone, and I'll do the same. I won't whisper a word so long as we can live and let live. You go your way and I'll go mine. But God help you if you lay a finger on me, or Mr Chubb, or this barge! I'll shop the lot of you for ten years. You know I've got all the facts. And that's my last word to you. Mister Dukey Smith."

Dukey stood sullenly silent and unmoving as Jim turned and scrambled up on to the bow of the barge. Chubb had long since cast off the moorings; he now threw himself at the mangle-like handle of the winch, and as the cogs went clinking round, the wire tautened, and the bow of the barge began to swing out from the quay wall and the smack. Jim took the other handle, and the two men conversed quietly as their backs rose and fell. "Jim," said Chubb, "just behind you there's a good old iron crank off the lee-board winch. I've got one this side too. We'll stand by with them if they rush us. Don't git that gurt old knife out again for Gawd's sake. That makes me shiver all through."

"They won't rush us, Skipper. They're too busy — look!" Dukey and Bert were now squatting amidships, striving to haul out the vast, floundering body of the third hand.

Ten minutes later the Trilby, with all sail set, was heading on the starboard tack towards the end of Sheppey. Jim, still trembling all over from the horrible strain of his game of bluff, was trying vainly to hold a match still enough to light his pipe. Herbert Chubb, his hands on the brass wheel, watched him with sympathetic amusement and a good deal of respect. "Well, I don't know, Jim, if you ain't a tidy bloke, beggared if you ain't. I never thought you had it in you. Cor, that put the wind up me proper, the way you came aft with that old carver. That's one of them culch-axes, ain't it? What they use for opening oysters?"

"I don't know. I found it in the forepeak, all rusty, and sharpened it up."

"Suppose he'd jumped at you? You wouldn't have stuck him with it, would you?"

"I don't know. You know what they say about a cornered rat."

"Anyhow, I hope you don't treat all your Skippers like that. You'd have a good target 'ere!" He took one hand from the spokes to slap his comfortable paunch. "Well, Jim, I reckon you'll like it aboard here all right. 'Course it's hard work, but it ain't all spit and polish and compasses and sextants like the big ships. If we was a deep-sea packet you'd have to git up the old log an' stream it now."

The log! It was still a nasty jolt to hear the word, but it was not so bad now. Not nearly so bad.

Chapter XVII

'O, me dad was a fisherman bold,

An' 'e lived till 'e grew old,

'Cos 'e opened the pane an' popped out the flame,

Just to see how the wind do blo-o-ow,

Just to see how the wind do blow.'

Herbert Chubb was in high good humour, and the brisk, cool westerly wind brought the sound of his song for'ard to where Jim and Charlie Skinner were coiling down the mooring ropes on the hatch. It was dusk on the Monday after Jim's dramatic desertion from the Maud; after a sultry day of rain the sky had cleared from the west, and a firm following breeze with the first of autumn in it was pushing the barge Trilby down the endless winding Thames reaches. Astern, the ruffled water was still whitish in colour, but the crowded cranes and warehouses of Woolwich and Silvertown showed stark and jet-black against the sky on either beam.

Old Charlie grinned, and motioned with his head towards the Skipper: "Ole man's happy tonight."

"Don't blame him," said Jim. "After all, he's laying the barge up for a fortnight tomorrow. I suppose that's the only chance you ever get for a holiday — while she's being refitted?"

"Ah, that's all, mate. Never stop long any other time. Hark at him, though: he's like a two-year-old!"

"Why's he in such a hurry, though? He left Wapping with only half a cargo. That can't be very good business."

Charlie gave a throaty chuckle: "Ah, you know why that is, Jim? 'Is missis! Gaw, I never heard a tongue like what she's got. She don't half give old Herbert some ear-'ole sometimes. Well, her niece is getting married over at Heme Bay there tomorrow, and Herbert's gotter go to give her away, being as her dad's gorn. If he ain't home dressed up in his best clobber by ten o'clock he's gonner pay for it, mate! She won't half create!"

Jim laughed. It was rough justice, for Chubb had spent the last three days bawling at him irritably for his clumsy bungling with the strange ropes and winches of the barge. It was odd how all Chubb's good humour seemed to disappear once the moorings were let go.

"Jim!" came a shout from aft. "Time we were showing a light. Come back here and get the lamps out. And don't slop the oil about, neither."

As Jim came back up on deck with the red and green side-lights he heard Chubb give a snort of disgust. "Look at that!" he said, "the way this tug feller's coming across. Sight too fast for this time of night."

Jim followed his gaze out into the dusk on the starboard side; out on the bow, showing faintly against the Woolwich wharves, was the white wedge of a huge bow-wave. The paddle-tug which was pushing it rapidly towards them could hardly be made out, though the smoke from her spindly funnel streamed away clearly against the sky.

"I know these river tug-men; they go the shortest way if they can, never mind about giving way to sail. Trouble is, when you're running free at a good lick, like we are, you can't do much about it. You see, he'll try to slip across our bows; he won't give way till the last minute.' Chubb stuck out his jaw, and grasped the wheel more firmly. "Well, I ain't giving way to him."

And then, suddenly, it was like the Sardis on the Kentish Knock: disaster struck in seconds, before anyone could raise a hand. Watching with tight jaws and a dry mouth, Jim sensed all in a moment that the tug would not clear them ahead — she had misjudged their speed — and that she had held on too long to alter course. From being a phantom in the darkness to starboard, she became in an instant two hundred tons of steel right under the bow of the barge. At his elbow, Chubb was bellowing desperate curses, and Jim found himself yelling wordless shouts of panic. Then he was aware of Chubb wrenching and spinning the wheel to starboard; for a few violent seconds the lit portholes and glaring stoke-hole of the tug, and the white faces of her crew were tearing past a few feet from the port side. Then the great sails felt the full weight of the wind; the air was filled with their deep thunder, and the lightly-laden barge heeled until the white water seethed and raced along the deck-planks themselves. A second later there was a terrifying crunch as Trilby's bluff bows hit the steep wash of the tug; there was a choking scream from the hatch-top, and for a horrible moment they saw the pitching figure of the old Mate silhouetted against the foaming wake of the tug. Then he had gone, and the tug was a blur astern.

A second after that Jim had launched himself over the port rail. As he dived he caught the first words of the Skipper's shout: "Stop where you…" then he was five feet down in the stinking yellow river water, thrashing his arms and kicking off his heavy leather sea-boots. He surfaced, choking and gasping, to find himself in a silence and stillness more frightening than the panic and tumult of the last few minutes. Treading water, he revolved himself slowly, and soon saw, twenty yards away, a faint gleam of foam as the old man clawed and trampled the water. As he swam towards the struggling man, Jim tried to summon up to his mind what he had heard and read about life-saving; in the end, all he could remember was that he should approach from behind. But was there time? He was horribly hampered by his thick serge trousers and was making slow progress; he decided to approach in a half-circle and hope for the best, but when he was still five yards off, old Charlie seemed to twist round in the water, and the wildly-staring eyes looked right at him. As he reached out his arms towards the old man, Jim felt the lean, bony despairing hands fasten in an iron grip on the folds of his jersey under his chin. He trod water, trying to shout instructions, but his mouth and nose were suddenly filled with water, and they were both six feet down, wrestling murderously.

Then, somehow, he found he was gulping in air again. But this could not go on: he had never rescued anyone before, and had not swum a stroke for two years; his chest was labouring to draw in breath, his eyes stung, his mouth and nose were full of the sickening taste of mingled sulphur, oil, sewage and decay, and all the muscles of his body felt as weak as string. This, then, was the last chance. He let go of Charlie, brought his hands down in front of his waist, clasped them together, and thrust them upwards with all his strength between the skinny arms. No grip could stand that, and the old man fell away. Now he must stop him getting another hold like that — and it was no time for politeness or half-measures. Jim brought his right fist over in a hard overarm swing, and felt the sharp bone of the Mate's bristly jaw bite into his knuckles. Then the old man was limp, a tame, lifeless object, and Jim was kicking away hard, with his hands under Charlie's armpits.

It was not until then that the deadly danger of their plight came home to him: the river was a good half-mile wide here, there was no traffic on it, it was nearly dark, and the strong ebb was driving them seawards at two knots at least. On the north side were the sheer wharves of warehouses, on the south the treacherous mud-flats of Plumstead Marshes — unless… Yes, there was a tall, narrow leaning shape in the darkness towards the marshes; and where it joined the water there was a gleam of phosphorescence that could mean only one thing — the ripple under the bow of Trilby as she tacked back towards them. Jim gave as loud a shout as he could, and raised an arm for a second; he thought he heard an answering shout from aft, but he couldn't be sure. Then his heart lifted with joy as he saw the masts and sails open out; the barge had altered course to pass downstream of them. So Chubb had seen them!

There was a thunder of shaking canvas as the Skipper put the barge about, and back she came on the other tack. Somehow he had managed to back the foresail to deaden her speed, and she came drifting slowly down on them from upwind, crabbing sideways through the water. At last he could see Chubb crouching, one hand on the wheel, peering into the darkness at them. "Jim!" he shouted, his voice full of tension, "I've got the setting-boom towing astern. Cop hold of that and hang on!"

There was the setting-boom, surging slowly ahead only a few feet away, the stout wooden spar that was used for poling the barge by hand in docks and narrow creeks. Still holding the Mate with one arm, Jim seized the boom firmly; Chubb locked his wheel and came right aft to haul in the tow-line. There were a few seconds of convulsive effort, and Charlie Skinner and Jim were stretched, coughing and panting, on the deck of the Trilby.

Chubb did not rise from his kneeling posture, but bent over the elderly Mate. "How are you then, Charlie, me old mate?" he said sympathetically. "That's right. Get your eyes open again; you're back aboard the old Trilby. Blessed if I didn't think you was a goner, though. Here, you help me below with him," he said over his shoulder to Jim.

Now that it was all over, Jim found himself trembling, and not only because of the cold. Still, somewhere deep down within him there was a warm feeling of release and happiness — a feeling he had not had since the moment when Sardis grounded. This time, when the crisis had occurred he had not been found wanting in courage. Could anyone have done more? He had risked his life to save another… And yet Chubb said nothing to him, but fussed as tenderly as a mother over the old man.

Suddenly through the open companion-way came the sound of a distant shout, and the hasty ringing of a ship's bell. Chubb leapt for the ladder, yelling to Jim: "On deck! Let draw that fores'l as quick as ever you can!"

Seconds later, Jim was for'ard by the starboard shrouds; he quickly cast off the bowline, the great brown sail shot across the horse on which it travelled, and the barge began to gather way. At the same time, he saw the reason for the shout: not more than a few yards away, down-tide and down-wind, was a cluster of three collier brigs secured to a buoy. The watery gap was closing every moment, for the barge was still drifting, rather than sailing. Forgetting how icy cold he was, Jim watched in an agony of suspense; if only she would gather a bit of way she would pass clear ahead. But look at that tide ripping and gurgling past the buoy!

"Going about! Stand by to back the fores'l!" came the shout from the wheel, as Chubb finally saw the hopelessness of trying to pass ahead. Up came the bow into the wind, but the Trilby had been travelling too slowly, and Chubb gave a groan of angry disappointment as she hung head to wind, drifting astern. The next moment all her timbers shook as her port side crashed heavily into the outermost of the moored colliers; there was a brief rending and splintering of timber, as the projecting anchor of the collier bit deeply into Trilby's side. The crash was followed by a chorus of angry yells and curses in broad Tyneside accents; but at least the shock had the effect of knocking the barge on to the right tack. Soon she gathered way, and Chubb steered her out to mid-river, so as to get the best of the favourable ebb. Only when she was once more running quietly on her old course did he call again: "Come aft!"

Jim walked back, puzzled and uneasy at the harsh, curt tone in which the words had been said. He was not to remain in doubt much longer, for as he approached hesitantly Chubb stared at him with a look of bitter anger and said: "You — you're sacked! Soon as we git back you can pack your bag. Dukey can have you back for all I care."

"What for, Mr Chubb, what for? I've done nothing wrong. I saved him, didn't I?"

"You saved him!" Chubb put a world of angry scorn into the words. "I'll tell you what you did: you nearly drowned a poor old man what's sailed with me fifteen years now, and never let me down yet. You nearly drowned your silly self and all, and what's more, you nearly wrecked this here boat what's my living. That's what you did!"

"But it's not fair! I didn't know… I only thought about saving Charlie Skinner."

"You only thought about being a Sunday school hero, that's what. You never listened to my orders. I'm only the Skipper, what was at sea before you was in your cradle."

"But he was drowning. I had to."

"Drowning? Of course he was — think I didn't know that? D'you think I was going to leave him there to it? That the sort of chap you think I am? Listen here to me: if you'd stayed aboard to help we could have spun her round on a penny-piece — these things handle like a yacht, y'know — and you could have had the small-boat over the side in no time. You'd have reached him a sight sooner than what you did, and no danger to anyone. But oh no, that's not good enough for mister blessed hero—" He broke off, and spat savagely over the side. "You're lucky, mate. If I'd had a rope's end, and the time to spare, you wouldn't have an inch o' skin on your back by now. Well, git below and look after poor ole Charlie. There's some rum at the back of my bunk. Better put some dry gear on yourself, too, I s'pose."

Chapter XVIII

Jim went below with leaden feet. A year ago he would have been near tears, but he had been through too much for that. Instead, he felt all over him the dead, flat hopelessness — the lifeless despair so hideously familiar to him at one time — the mood which he had been so sure was gone for ever. What did it matter what he did? What did anything matter? A few emigrants, an old barge-hand — they all had to die some time. What did it matter? The emigrants he had failed; he had done his best about the Mate, but the result was the same. He was a hated and despised failure both times, an outcast, more hateful and more dangerous in his folly than outright competent rogues like Dukey and Bert.

Charlie Skinner was still lying in his sodden clothes as they had left him. He was shuddering violently, and seemed in a bad way; but after Jim had helped him to change into dry warm shore-clothes, and had given him a generous tot of the rum, he had enough strength to speak feebly, and even to smile. "You can have my job now, Jim. This lot has finished me for the sea; I don't want no more after this. But you done very well, lad, very well indeed, no mistake. Jiggered if you ain't made my jaw ache, though. You had to do it, I suppose." And he lay back more contentedly to sleep.

"Main-sheet!" came the loud cry from the deck. When Jim appeared, Chubb simply said: "Slack out a bit more. Up with your port lee-board." Jim obeyed the orders in silence, and returned below to the forepeak to change his own clothes, which, after all this time, seemed to be freezing to his body. When he came on deck again he made no move to go aft, but sat on the for'ard end of the main hatch, idly watching the small waves sliding past in the red glow of the port side-light, while again his mind tramped round the familiar treadmill of despair: what would he do when they reached Whitstable? Get another berth? How? On what? Give up the sea? Then what? What else was he trained for?

On and on went the tormenting thoughts, and all the while the low roar of the bow-wave rose and fell as the barge rolled gently in the steadily-mounting following sea; the red-tinted waves grew larger as the low banks drew away, and the packed warehouses gradually gave place to low, bare sea-walls. Once they overtook a slower, deeply-laden barge, and once they were passed themselves by a splendid passenger liner, strung with jewelled lines of lights. But for these, the river was empty of life. Then the banks disappeared altogether, and but for the occasional winking buoy they might have been in mid-Pacific.

"Main-sheet!" The Skipper's shout broke the hours of silence, and Jim walked sullenly back along the deck, which was heaving now as the steep, short Estuary waves overtook them in endless succession. "Slack her right off," said Chubb. Jim obeyed in the same dreary silence, and had begun to walk for'ard again when the Skipper called, in a more friendly tone: "Half a minute, Jim. Don't go off like that." Then, to his relief and joy, he saw that Chubb had taken one hand from the wheel and was extending it towards him: "I got to ask your pardon, mate," said Chubb sheepishly. "You don't want to listen too much to me when I get riled. I don't think, see; I just open my big old mouth and out it all comes. I've always bin like it — you ask old Charlie. I've given him the sack many and many a time, and he's still aboard. My bark's worse than my bite, though."

Jim found he was still holding the Skipper's hand out of sheer happiness. "Then you don't want me to…"

"No, 'course I don't, mate. I know I bin on at you a bit, but you done all right for a first trip — not bad at all. And that other business — the way you went over after old Charlie — well, that was daft, like I said, but your heart's in the right place. And that took a bit of nerve, too. I wouldn't have done it for a pension. But you're lucky to be alive, no mistake. I don't want to boast, but there ain't another Skipper on the river who could have found you. I've got cat's eyes, see?"

"What about the collision? Will there be a case about it? I mean, that was my fault, really."

"Case? Case? Better not be, mate. I'll give 'em case if there is! Why, these north country colliers, that's the way they use to go about — keep on till you hit something, and trust that to knock you round. Many's the coat o' paint they've cost me. Besides," he added with a shrewd wink, "twas so blessed dark they couldn't have read the name."

"What about your ship's side? Can I make it up out of my pay?"

"Don't you talk so blessed daft, boy! She's going up on the blocks in the barge yard tomorrow; they'll very soon scarf another piece in that gunwale. Don't you worry about that." They exchanged friendly grins in the dark. Then Chubb looked about him at the tiny lights of the channel buoys: "Pretty near out to the Girdler now, Jim. Must be low-water by now, too. We'll bring her round for Whitstable now. In with your main-sheet while I put the helm down. Then we'll have the lee-board down, port side. Shan't be able to get in at Whitstable, o' course. Have to anchor out with the oyster-yawls till there's enough water in the harbour. Now then," he said, when the change of course had been completed, and they had turned out of the deep shipping lanes into the shallow water where only they could go, "you come here and sit on this skylight 'side of me. Time someone talked like a father to you, my lad, and it'll have to be me."

Jim sat down obediently beside him as if Chubb were indeed his father; it seemed natural to him to do so.

"There's something funny about you, Jim, and I want to get to the bottom of it. I mean, it was blooming queer finding you in with them salvagers like that. And I've noticed you these last few days when you ain't been doing nothing — you're all twisted up inside about something — you got something on your mind what don't give you no peace. 'Tisn't no good going on like that, y'know. Whatever it is, you got to get rid of it. So why not tell me all about it?"

And so, for the second time, Jim told the story of the Sardis and her crew, and of his part in her loss. It came out slowly and haltingly at first, then more swiftly as he noticed the utter absorption of the Skipper in the fantastic turns of events. Finally, as the first twinkle of the lights of Whitstable showed low down to the south, he came to the end: "The rest you know, Skipper. And I swear that's the whole truth of it. So now you see…"

"Ah, I do, mate, I do." Chubb shook his head solemnly. "Tell you the truth, Jim, I hadn't reckoned on anything quite so big as this. 'Course, I know it's easy to talk now, but why the devil didn't you tell this chap White when you broke that log thing?"

"Too scared, Skipper. He would have half-killed me."

" 'Course he would, Jim. So would I for that matter, if I'd been in his place — that's discipline. But you'd soon have got over that, see. Instead of that, you got some things now what you'll never forget. Of course, they'll sort of die down out of your mind as time goes by. I mean, you ain't quite such a lost soul now as what you was a couple of months ago."

'I don't quite see why you asked me about all this now. Why now — tonight? I'm no different tonight."

"Ah, 'twas the look on your face when you went overboard after Charlie — that's what had me worried, Jim. You looked more like a chap drowning hisself than one rescuing someone else."

The simple truth of the Skipper's observation struck Jim like a flash. "Yes, I suppose I was," he said. "You see, I had to find out whether…"

"Whether you had any guts? That's it, ain't it?"

"Yes, that's it. And you can see why, can't you? I mean, so many things have gone wrong since I started at sea."

Chubb chuckled sympathetically: "You're a daft young 'erb, no mistake, Jim. What call was there to do that, after the way you settled Dukey and his lot? That took the biscuit, that did; I'll never forget you walking aft slow, with that horrible ole knife. But it isn't just that, is it? You can't just leave things like they are?"

"What more can I do, then? I can't bring those poor devils on the Sardis back to life.'

" 'Tisn't for me to tell you what to do — you're old enough for that yourself. No, of course you can't bring them poor souls back, but you can always do your duty to your Company; tell 'em all about it — make a clean breast of it, like what you done to me. Now that would take some guts all right."

That struck home like a knife: the bitter humiliation of crawling back to that polished table in Edinburgh — that was worse than a dozen Dukeys or fifty drowning men. Jim shook his head vigorously: "No, I could never do that. I couldn't face them."

"Well, like I said, 'tisn't for me to say. But look here, Jim: you seen them tally clerks up at the docks this afternoon, booking down the corn as they tipped it in? Well, when the clerk says a hundred tons has gone in, well, then, a hundred tons has got to come out again, hasn't it? Else I lose my job?"

"Yes. But what's that to do with me?"

"Can't you see what I'm gitting at? One way and another, what with being daft, and being a bit windy, and then having a mountain of cruel luck on top o' that, you've started something — something too big for a lad like you to finish. Well, you'll never have no peace till it is all finished and done with, like what the corn is when they book it out again when we unload. You got to go right through with it. Or look at it this way: you remember poor old Hamlet, when his dad's ghost told him he'd bin murdered by his brother? Well, he could twist and turn about, and argue with hisself, and git up plays, and all that, but in the end he'd got to face the job he'd been set just the same. Might just as well have done it straight off. See what I mean, Jim? You're 'Amlet now, like… Well, git yourself for'ard now and stand by to let go the anchor. And you think about what I told yer."

At half-past seven the next morning the first docker to arrive for work at Whitstable Harbour looked over the wall to see Herbert Chubb, his pipe going well, sunning himself after breakfast on the fore-hatch. "What cheer, my 'Erbert!" he called genially. "Caw, 'tis a marvellous life you yachting gents live, setting about in the sun all day."

"Aye-up, my Perce," said Chubb. "You chaps want to try it. I was under way all last night while you was snoring. Didn't get in till dawn."

"Oh," said Perce, bubbling with excitement, "you ain't heard the news, then?"

"What news?"

"Well, there was one of these Scotch chavvies prowling about here last week, asking everlasting questions. When Dukey and Bert come in on the tide yesterday midday, there he was with a couple of coppers. Nabbed the lot of them. Shiner and all. They reckon in The Packet 'twas all to do with that big salvage job they done. You remember — last January? 'Ere — I just thought! That new third hand of yours was one of 'em, wasn't he? He wants to look out, else he'll be in the jug down Canterbury too."

"He ain't here," said Chubb gruffly. "He went off first thing on the train. On his holidays, like."

Chapter XIX

The chair in the outer office of the Caledonian Orient Line was splendidly finished in superb wood, like all the furniture there. But it was hard and stiff-backed; Jim had been sitting there an hour and a half now, while the elegant grandfather clock ticked the afternoon away. From behind the door to his right, the rich Scottish voices rose and fell monotonously, interminably. All through the long journey north, all through the two-hour interview with the Marine Superintendent, the tension inside him, the sick, dry, metallic taste in his mouth, had been increasing. Now that the moment had come for the door to open, the moment when he would stand once more at the end of that long polished table, every nerve and muscle in his body was taut and snapping. He toyed with the wild idea of flight: even now it was not quite too late. But the outer office was long and busy, with its parallel lines of high desks, at which sat clerks on high stools — clerks who every now and then threw hasty glances of morbid curiosity at his strained face, shabby blue jersey and cheap serge suit.

No, it was too late to run now. Besides, there had been too much running and hiding. He had been long enough making up his mind; hour after hour, while Trilby pitched gently at anchor among the oyster-yawls, he had paced the deck, turning Chubb's words over and over in his mind. Now he had burnt his boats: one way or another it would soon be played out, over, done with. And whatever happened to him, it must be better than what he had been through since January. He could see that now.

There was a sudden step just the other side of the door, the voices inside fell still, the door opened, and he saw the grave face of the clerk who had taken down his long statement that morning. He followed him into the dark-panelled room, towards the chair at the vacant end of the long narrow table; along each side of the table, in perspective, was a row of shrewd, seasoned faces, each turned to look curiously at him. In the centre at the far end sat the massive figure of the Chairman, McTaggart, dressed in tweeds of a sporting check, for the great man had been hastily summoned from the golf course. Yet oddly enough, it was not McTaggart who drew Jim's attention, but the stranger who sat on his left, a slightly-built, frock-coated man with a high, glossy white collar. He was young and freckled, with short sandy hair that stood up in bristles; his eyes were of the clearest, lightest blue, the blue of snow-shadows on a sunny day, and they seemed to stare and stare into Jim's very soul.

McTaggart cleared his throat portentously, and picked up a sheet of paper from the table. As he raised his head to speak, Jim could read in the deep lines of his brow and heavy, mottled cheeks the strain of the disaster his Company had suffered. "Well, Robbins," he began, "we've all read the statement that you made to the Marine Superintendent this morning. It's a statement of a kind I never expected to read from an officer of my Company. The Board has summoned you this afternoon to question you on this, and to decide your future. I may say the latter point will not take us long. And Mr Duncan here on my left represents our insurers, the Leith Marine Mutual Insurance Society. You will answer his questions also."

He paused, and in the silence Jim could hear every tiny rustle of papers and click of pencils; then with another ponderous cough the Chairman began again: "Now then, young man: the breaking of the patent log was a foolish and expensive piece of mischief, but no more. What was criminal was your failure to report it to the officer of the watch — Mr White, I believe. How do you account for that?"

"I was afraid, sir."

"I see. A young man training to be a ship's officer in the finest Company in Scotland was afraid of a wee bit of ordinary discipline?"

"No, sir. I was afraid of Mr White's discipline. He used to—"

"Hold your tongue, you impudent scoundrel! Mr White was an experienced and respected officer, and a fine seaman. I'll not sit here and hear his memory abused. Remember where you are — and who you are." He produced the last words with a spurt of vicious contempt. This was not the timid young man they had appointed to the Sardis, and like most conceited and pompous men, McTaggart was easily rattled.

"Now we come to the second day of the voyage, January the third. You state that you and Mr Brodie had the first dog watch and, of course, the middle watch the same night—"

Half-way down the table, a fat, frock-coated man leaned forward irritably: "Mr Chairman, sir, some of us here are mere bankers and merchants. Could we not have the times of day in the Queen's English?"

Again McTaggart was flustered: "Ay, ay, just so, gentlemen, just so. The first dog-watch is from four to six in the afternoon, and the middle watch is midnight to four o'clock. Now then, Robbins, did you or did you not know that the ship was in — eh — um — navigational difficulties?"

"Yes, sir, I did. Mr Brodie and Mr White thought the Captain—"

"Silence, sir!" McTaggart was livid with alarm and fury. "Answer my questions with a civil tongue, and keep your dirty lies about better men to yourself! So then, you knew there were navigational problems; and yet you still said nothing. Why?"

"I had forgotten about it, sir."

There was a dead silence. Jim's face was as white as paper, and rigidly set. He stared at the reflections of the windows in the high polish of the table. McTaggart licked his lips; his victim was down at last, and only required kicking: "You had forgotten. Forgotten. A fine admission for an officer of my line to make. In all my years I've not heard the like. And when did this very defective memory of yours begin to function again?"

"When we struck the sand, sir. I heard Mr White and Mr Brodie talking about an error in the ship's run."

"I see. And you still said nothing?"

"No, sir. What was the good then?"

There was a tremendous crash as McTaggart brought a fist down on the table. "Will you hold your insolent tongue there?" he screamed. Jim raised his eyes to the end of the table. The Chairman's heavy, red face was contorted with fury, yet somehow it was the ice-blue steady stare of Duncan's eyes that he found more unnerving. And he fancied that he could read in the thin freckled features a look of distaste. For whom — McTaggart or himself? It was hard to say.

The Chairman was pointing a trembling stubby finger at him: "Now I'm warning you, Robbins, for the last time, to keep a civil tongue in your head and just answer the questions. You don't seem to see that we hold you in the hollow of our hands. We can crush you like that!" He clenched his fist suddenly together. "We come now,' he said in a sneering, but more controlled voice, "to the very interesting question of your reason for coming forward so honestly and manfully now. Will you kindly tell the Board and Mr Duncan why you came back now — this week — after nearly nine months? Take care, now."

Jim felt uneasy; there was something behind this question which he did not understand. They all seemed to know something which he did not know. All the faces were turned towards him. "It's difficult for me to say, sir," he said.

McTaggart gave a triumphant, mirthless laugh: "Ay, I'm sure of that, Robbins, I'm sure of that. Well? We're still waiting for you."

"Well, you can see from my statement that until lately certain people have been preventing me."

"Ay, we read that; I've not seen such a parcel of lying balderdash in all my life."

"It's only lately that I've been able to think things out for myself. And I've had the advice of an older man I can trust. He suggested it."

Again McTaggart's blunt fist jarred down on the table; again, livid fury distorted his features: "How dare you, sir! How dare you try to pass off your greasy, dirty lies on this Board!" There was a scattered chorus of "hear hear", which encouraged the Chairman still further: "Do you take us for a gaggle of bairns or halfwits? We've seen more of this world than you, my lad, and we know a lying coward when we see one. Do you think we don't know the real reason why you came crawling back?"

Jim was bewildered to distraction; he felt just as he had that night in the cabin of the Maud, before Dukey produced the looted gold and jewels. He felt that all those around him were speaking another language, that there was some dark, vague barrier between him and them.

Then a new voice began, calm and steady in pitch, but with a kind of power, a cutting edge to it. It was Duncan of the Leith Marine: "Come, come, now, gentlemen. We're getting nowhere. Mr Chairman, may I question this officer?"

"Ay, ay," said McTaggart heavily. "I've used all the patience I had on him."

"Thank you, sir. Mr Robbins, did you or did you not know that Smith, Captain of the Whitstable smack Maud, and his crew are now in custody, charged with stealing valuables from the Sardis?"

Jim's jaw dropped in astonishment. So that was it!

They thought he had come back, knowing that the game was up, and hoping to dodge punishment by betraying the smacksmen still further? No wonder there had been such a hullabaloo! "No, sir," he said firmly, "I did not."

A savage babbling uproar at once broke out down the long table. Duncan tried vainly to make himself heard; McTaggart was theatrically shaking his fist at Jim. Suddenly, Jim was on his feet, grasping the edge of the table; he trembled violently, but with rage, not fear. He had had enough. He had come back to them, very much too late, but at least voluntarily, and this was to be his reward — to be the helpless butt of all their hate and fear. Well, he wasn't helpless any more, and he would show them. Gradually a hush fell as they saw him standing.

"Gentlemen," he said, in an unsteady voice, "I came here of my own free will to tell the truth and take my punishment from you and from the law. I've been utterly unworthy of my trust, and I haven't attempted to defend myself. But I am not a liar. I now tell you once more that I had no idea that anyone had been arrested. If you don't believe me I shall leave the room and you must do whatever you think fit." He sat down in silence, and he fancied that, as he did so, Duncan narrowed his eyes and gave him a tiny nod of approval.

At once, McTaggart began again, bitter contempt still in his voice: "If you've finished your speech, Robbins, perhaps we could get back to some facts. These wreckers were arrested at midday on Monday. Today is Wednesday, is it not? I take it you must have left this place — eh — Whitstable, on Tuesday — yesterday?"

"'Yes, sir."

"I see. I've not been there; is it a large port, Mr Robbins? The size of Liverpool, mebbe?"

"No, sir; it's very small."

"I see." McTaggart was full of glee at his approaching triumph. "And yet, during twenty-four hours in this very small port you'd not heard of the arrest of a whole ship's company — your own shipmates until a wee while ago? Think very carefully now, Mr Robbins."

"No, sir," said Jim firmly. "I can explain—" but his words were drowned in another ugly clamour, which did not die until Duncan rose to his feet, his mouth twitching with controlled anger: "Gentlemen, is this any sort of way to conduct a meeting? As this young man says, what the devil is the good of questioning him if you keep jumping down his throat? I'd like to remind you that the claim for the Sardis has been met in full. It's my Company that's out of pocket now. Mr Robbins, let me explain: after the Customs had taken possession of the hulk of the Sardis, certain very suspicious features came to light. We sent a claims investigator to the Essex and Kent coasts from which the so-called salvage smacks operate. He found nothing conclusive until last week, when the Chatham police discovered the stolen jewellery in the course of a raid on a disreputable pawnshop there. The pawnbroker gave a description of the seamen who had sold it to him; the rest was fairly simple. Do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"Very good. Now then, as these gentlemen have suggested, it seems very strange that you did not know of these arrests?"

"I'm now employed on a barge, sir. We left Wapping late Monday afternoon, and made fast at Whitstable at first light on Tuesday. I caught the first train, and met no one on my way through the harbour that morning."

A low angry growl of disbelief began to rise; Duncan's light eyes flashed angrily, and he rapped the table sharply: "Gentlemen, as your Chairman said a while ago; you're grown men. Do you not see that these are statements that can be, and will be, checked? Is not that better than a lot of muttering and shouting? There's nothing impossible in what the lad says."

He was about to go on when there was a tap on the door, and a uniformed messenger entered, carrying a long envelope. "For Mr Duncan, sir," he said to the Chairman. "Just delivered, sir."

Duncan examined the envelope before he opened it, and held it up briefly. "Couldn't have come at a better time, gentlemen. I've been expecting these. Copies of the statements made to the Kent police by Smith and his crew. I asked our man to post them to me. If you'll excuse me…" and he opened and began to read attentively.

McTaggart moved in to re-open his attack: "Well, Robbins, even supposing this story of yours is true, which I myself very much doubt, you're still left facing a mighty big question: you knew these fellows had the gold, you mebbe shared a wee bit of it — why did you not inform the police long since?"

"At first, sir, I was out of my mind about the log and the loss of the ship. They were very violent men, and I was in their power. I had to fight to get away."

"Ay. But even then you did not come forward!"

"No, sir. I made a bargain with them when I left — if they let me alone I would keep quiet."

"I see. A fine bargain that was! Typical of Mr Robbins, don't you think, gentlemen? You must have known it was illegal, as well as dishonourable?"

"I know, sir, and I'm prepared to be punished for it. I'm not proud of it. But things seemed very different then — and after all, they did save my life. And whatever lies they may tell—" he pointed to the foolscap sheets which Duncan was reading — "I only had the small amount of gold they forced on me. And I still have most of it, ready to be surrendered."

Duncan must have been half-listening, as well as reading, for he looked up sharply from the paper and said to Jim: "You've misjudged your men, Mr Robbins. In fact, I'd say you owe Smith and Anderson a handsome apology, even. Listen to this now — it's a part of Smith's statement: 'You was asking about a young fellow called Robbins, what we found aboard the hulk. Well, we don't know where he is — no bounds where he might be. And he never joined in the share-out, except we made him take a few sovereigns to keep his trap shut. We're the chaps you want. Only, like I said, we never busted that safe. We just found the gold lying about.' A very curious form of the English tongue they have down there, Mr Robbins, but you could hardly wish for better friends, considering where they are."

A wave of shame swept through Jim as he remembered what he had just thought and said. He was learning very thoroughly the lesson that men, both good and bad, are not always what they seem. Evidently the salvagers had some queer code of honour, and were doing their clumsy best to head off the police from him. "I'm sorry now for what I said, Mr Duncan. Truly sorry. And what they say about the safe is quite true. One of the crew of the Sardis broke that open; he's dead now. His name was Jordan — and he saved my life too."

Duncan looked steadily at him and nodded. McTaggart suddenly leaned back in his chair, looking at Jim with vindictive malice. "Ay, ay, Mr Duncan, this is all very well. Mebbe he's not a thief. But as far as this Company's concerned he's not got much to hope for. He's still guilty of the gravest breaches of discipline. This Company, young man, sets high standards of competence and devotion for its officers."

Jim felt rage and disgust rising to choke his throat. The insufferable meanness and pomposity of the man! He raised his head angrily: "Did that apply to your wife's uncle, Third Mate MacDougall?"

The shot went right home. McTaggart turned a dull yellow instantly; his mouth opened and closed like a fish's. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead. At last his rage and fear found words: "You wicked, insolent young devil! Have you forgotten where you stand? Do you not see that you might find yourself in dock for manslaughter by criminal negligence? Have you thought of that? It all depends on whether we press charges or not, Mr Robbins."

Again Jim's face was white and drawn; again Duncan came to his rescue. "Mr Chairman, what is the use of this sort of mud-slinging? Besides, I must point out to you that Mr Robbins' evidence will make a great deal of difference to your Company's future, one way or the other."

McTaggart paled again, and gripped his pencil convulsively: "Evidence? What evidence?"

"You will recall that the Court of Inquiry on the loss of the Sardis was rather inconclusive, as there were no officers present to give first-hand evidence about the ship's navigation. After this discovery of such an important witness my Company will naturally ask for the inquiry to be re-opened."

There was a flurry of anxious sidelong looks and whispers among the Directors; McTaggart sat hunched, staring silently ahead. Duncan went inexorably on: "And I must say that there are several features of this affair about which my Company are most dissatisfied: the inadequate provision of lifeboats, the extraordinary conduct of Captain Cameron — which Mr Robbins' story has displayed more clearly — and the fact that MacDougall, whom this young man has just referred to — was dismissed from two previous posts for drunkenness on duty. We've not been idle behind the scenes, you see, Mr Chairman."

If McTaggart looked worried before, he now seemed to have aged ten years in a few moments. He gazed ahead, twisting sweaty hands round his pencil; then he bent his head to the right and held a hasty whispered conference with the Marine Superintendent. Then, to Jim's astonishment, he gave a ghost of a sickly grin down the table at him. "Well, Mr Robbins, it was a bad business, but we're not men to bear grudges. We're willing to let bygones be bygones, and in view of your — eh — honesty in coming forward, we're offering you a post as steward on board the Maeotis — a very fine ship. Of course, the pay is not princely, but we carry a good class of passenger — open-handed with money, you understand…"

Again Jim rose, but this time with a feeUng of sudden triumph. Here was McTaggart, the great McTaggart himself, crawling before him in pitiful fright. "Mr Chairman," he said, his chin now lifted in confidence, "I've now got a job I like with a Captain worth twenty of your Company. Good day to you."

As he turned away there was another hurried conference, and McTaggart half-rose to his feet, fluttering a trembling hand at Jim. His fear was almost pathetic: "Eh, just a moment, Mr Robbins, just a moment! The Superintendent has just reminded me that the Maeotis is short of an Assistant Purser. Now there's a bonny chance for a young man. Better pay than a Second Mate—"

"Mr McTaggart," said Jim, "I've found out a few things about you and this Company today: now, sir, I wouldn't stay to lick your boots if you made me Chairman." He turned and strode out of the door.

A minute later, still boiling with anger and disgust, he was striding down the street away from the office when there were hasty steps behind him, and a hand grasped his elbow. He turned, scowling, for he expected to see a messenger from McTaggart, but the scowl vanished when he saw the smiling face of Duncan.

"Steady on, young man, steady on. It's not a race, is it? If you'll just step round to my office we'll see about some lodgings for you while the inquiry's on. I'm afraid you'll have to stay for a week or more, but I'm sure my Company will see to your expenses. And we'll need to get you a good lawyer too, after what you said to old McTaggart. Man, you did well in there! I liked the way you stood up for yourself. Mind — I'm not defending what you did — but that's all behind you, and you've been punished a hundred times over for it, I'm thinking. And when you look at it fairly — well, most of what happened after you broke the log was just cruel luck. Fate's a tricky thing; most young fellows do daft things some time or another, and nothing comes of it. But with you, all these other things came together on top of your mistake — and there you are. You find yourself attacked by a lot of frightened old lubbers who just want to find someone to blame for their own negligence and greed. But from the look of you, I'm thinking too that you've learnt your lesson now. Next time you'll know what to do. So cheer up, young Jim, and we'll get this unpleasant business over as soon as we can."

In the event, it was nearly a fortnight before Jim once again crossed the cobbles and railway lines of Whitstable Harbour, and found himself looking down at a Trilby transformed by her refit, and gUttering in the autumn sun with new paint and varnish. Chubb was cutting the spun-yarn lashings off a coil of brand-new manila rop^e, and looked up as the footsteps halted. At once the Skipper read in Jim's face the exhausting strain of the long and searching inquiry; he saw that it was not a time for questions or conversation. Here was a young man who needed something to do.

"Oh, you're there, are you, mate?" he cried cheerfully. "Come on down and get that shore clobber off. You can help me reeve this new tops'l halyard. You're back home now, me lad."

End of book

Content

F. F. Nicholls
THE LOG OF THE SARDIS

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX