A Ship's Tale (3 page)

“Mr. Bowman,” I began, “at the risk of asking another stupid question, who exactly are us?”

“Meself and some others who feel the same about this ship. Sailors, deep water men all.”

“So then, that was who helped you sink the old coal barque. That's spot on, just grand,” I said, thinking I was being complimentary.

“You keep that under yer hat, young man,” he cautioned.

“Not to worry sir. I work at an inn down the end of the lane from here, so if I can help you…”

“And what makes ye think help is needed? Besides, have ye naught better to spend your time at?” he snapped.

“Well, if you think being at the beck and call of a fussy bitty hen of a landlady is a better way to pass the time, then you must be mad.”

“Mad I'm not,” he snorted, “a bit daft I may be.” A thought lit his eye. “Would that inn be the old Beasley place?”

I nodded. The path I'd followed down to the water led right back to the Beasley Inn. No one could miss it in passing, for it stood just off the roadway.

“I know it well,” he laughed.

I returned to our original subject, “At the risk of sounding daft myself, this ship doesn't look as if she's a total loss. The standing rigging looks to be taut and sound. Now, if enough good line could be found…the main running rigging could easily be replaced. Ah, and I couldn't help noticing those winches, they could certainly handle the yards if properly rigged.”

I kept on, pointing out this and that as I went, and spouting on about everything that I came across. “This deck,” I continued, “surely all it needs is a bit of caulk and holystone…” I stopped suddenly, realising that my mouth was running away at a clip. I turned to meet Bowman's condescending stare. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“Well, first we'd need some sweepers fore and aft,” he suggested.

“Right,” I agreed.

With one quick motion, he snatched a broom from its resting place and shoved its handle into my hand. I blinked. He almost grinned, but his beard made it hard to tell. “Wouldn't ye agree that we've no need of officers on this ship as yet? Now manpower—of that we have need.” I stared at him, surprised at the sudden steely ring of command in his voice.

“I suppose so,” I responded. I had worked hard to become an officer, and sweeping was for ordinary seaman. Thankfully Bowman didn't pursue this line.

“Getting a bit cauld this day, eh lad? Care for a wee dram?” he asked.

I was surprised “Oh no! I couldn't deprive you of…” but he waved me off impatiently.

“There's always a drop of the right stuff for lads like you. Come along now.”

I followed him over to the hatch, where a shove at the cover revealed the ladder to the deck below. As we climbed down, my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, and many things began to make even less sense to me. Below decks, the wood on the bulkhead and ladder were every bit perfect. A brass lamp shone above a table I could see down another ladder below. So much for this being a wreck, I thought!

Through another bulkhead and down a small passage aft was the captain's cabin. The old man walked right in, so I followed suit. This room probably looked as good as it did the day she was launched, save for some upholstery. The aft ports gave a grand view of the Thames waterway and the light reflected the water on the overhead.

“Blimey, you do live here!” I exclaimed, wide-eyed.

“Thought I told ye that,” he said.

“Yes, but this is wonderful! And the captain's cabin, no less.”

“She's got a captain. She's got me, and I her captain remain.” There was real pride of place in his voice. Even to be captain of a derelict was no cause for shame!

He reached inside the cabinet and placed an unlabelled green glass bottle and two heavy mugs on the chart table. With a steady hand, he poured two equal portions, handing one to me. “Air do slainte,” he toasted.

“That's grand. Sure to warm the blood,” I concurred. “Cheers,” I added, lifting the mug to my lips. Another surprise: this was good malt whisky! We sat sipping and savouring the amber liquid as if it were gold itself.

“So then, Captain Bowman. Isn't that how I should address you?”

“I've been called worse,” he assured me.

“Yes sir,” I said under my breath. I looked about the cabin, “I must say sir, this ship isn't what she seems from above. Topside is a bloody wreck from a distance, yet close up she's not so bad. The wood is fine, the seams appear tight, and then there's down below here. Tell me, is her hull sound?”

He glanced up from his drink and sat back in the chair with a crafty look. Freed from his scarf and turned-up collar, his grey whiskers looked much like a lion's mane and thick dark eyebrows bristled over his eyes. He made quite a picture.

“Quite sound. Been easier to work below,” he remarked. “No one to see.”

“To see what?” I enquired.

“What ye noticed a'ready, lad. With a few weeks of bustin' arse topside, we could get her out with half or better sail.”

“Out? Sail?” I cried. “This? Aboard this ship?”

“Aye, this very ship,” he said.

“But her rigging is a mess! Those lines couldn't hold half their load. No one knows if the upper topsails or topgallant yards would stand the strain. Good lord, it would take a pretty penny to put it right!”

He laughed. “So you know a bit about sailing these ships, do ye? Ha! Now you sound just like those government officials. Well it don't take but strong backs and quick minds.”

“That doesn't quite pay the piper.” I said, and then wondered if that was a wise expression to use with a Scotsman.

“Bugger the bloody piper! Look here, young man.” Taking up the bottle, he replenished our mugs and tucked the bottle into the pocket of his watch coat. Reaching under the table, he pulled out two large Navy torches and handed me one. “Come along now,” he said, and it did sound like an order.

Down a darkened passage we went, shining our lights as if in a coal mine. We went from his cabin down another ladder to the 'tween deck, and moved forward until we came to another bulkhead amidships. The air was damp and musty, and the overhead so low in places, even ducking would lose my cap.

The old man stopped outside one of the hatches, “Know where this goes?” he asked.

“To the main cargo hold?” I guessed.

“Aye, that it does.” Turning his light first on me, then onto my cup, he produced the bottle from his coat and refilled our cups. “Come now lad, drink up.”

I leaned half sitting against the inside hatch with my mug, and had one more nip. If I tried to match him sip for sip, I'd be plastered in no time. I was already feeling a bit loose in the joints. Bowman's face was in shadow but I could see he was serious.

“I'm going to show ye something, Flynn, and ye must never speak of it to anyone. I ask ye now for yer word.” He gravely put out his palm and I shook his hand and promised. Sounded quite the mystery to me, but I quietly listened on.

“Aye,” he said, “ye're right about the rigging, but if it were replaced before we're ready, it might give us away.”

“I don't follow,” I said. “You'd be hard pressed to come up with half of what you'd need.”

He made no answer to this, but simply reached over and threw open the dogs that secured the hatch. Because I was leaning against it, I fell through the opening like baggage, tumbling over a dozen or so objects before reaching the bottom, and finding myself once again in the unenviable position of being flat on my arse looking up at Bowman.

“Take care now, lad! Now up wi' ye,” he said impatiently.

Angry and incensed, I stood up to confront him, but when I picked up my torch, what I saw took all the words from my lips. Filling the hold were hawsers and lines of every size, both hemp and wire. There were all types of line, modern winding tackle, and shrouds with ranks of manila, and nylon ropes hanging and piled neatly in coils. As I moved my light around, I thought this was a bo'sun's gold mine. I sat down on a barrel next to a makeshift table covered with marlinespikes, serving mallets, sail-maker's palms, and an assortment of tools for sail making and rigging work. I looked at Bowman.

Even in the sharp shadows cast by the torches, the grin on the old man's face was plain to see. Here was a cargo hold filled with enough line to re-rig the entire ship—and then some.

“Captain Bowman,” I began, “Where on earth did you get…I mean where did all this come from?”

“Not yet lad. Maybe all things being right, ye'll know enough in time. Come along now,” he chuckled, and turned to go out.

I pulled on my cap and backed out of the hold. As I turned to follow him, I forgot about the low overhead and caught myself a hearty smack. It felt as though I'd nearly knocked my head off, but luckily it was only my cap. I snatched it up hastily, hoping the old man had not seen me, and hurried along the dark passage after him. Walking along the 'tween deck, I shone my torch into the old cabins and divided rooms, still looking in remarkably good condition. When we came back to the chart table, Bowman set the bottle on the table and fell into a chair.

“Well Flynn, do ye think I'm a crazy old fool?”

“I never thought you a fool, Captain Bowman. I don't know what to think. If you could re-rig this ship, what then? Surely she's property of the Crown. It would be much like an act of piracy to make off with her.”

“Piracy? When something is thrown away and ye save it, is it theft?” he asked indignantly.

“Well no, but this isn't quite the same.”

“No one said a word about stealing. Relocation is what we're talking about. Liberating her, ye might say. Taking her back to Scotland where she was built. There she'll be looked after.”

“How do you know that?” I asked.

“We've people there and they have a real dock to give her a home port. 'Tis the only way, lad. We've tried everything and talked to everyone.” His expression hardened. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind man. They don't give a damn up in London,” he said bitterly pounding the table with a gnarled fist. Giving a long sigh, he took up the bottle and added to our mugs.

We sat back in silence, listening to the waves. The last of the sun was streaming through the round porthole, casting an amber hued spotlight beam over the chart table. The ship's clock on the bulkhead sounded its bell, and I reached for my pocket watch to check the hour. Just then, the distant sound of voices and footsteps of men coming aboard could be heard. I looked to Bowman for some reaction, but he showed no surprise. He got up slowly and drew out his pocket watch. Mumbling something under his breath, he took three more mugs from the shelf and placed them on the table. The voices grew louder, the compartment hatch opened, and down came three figures of a distinctly salty character, all well bundled against the wind.

Two made directly for the bottle, greeting Bowman with jokes and chaffing, while the third ploughed his way towards the warmth of the cabin's pot-bellied stove near my end of the table. He was swathed in a long macintosh and his face was muffled by yards of scarf. As he set to unwinding himself, a blunt old face emerged. The watery grey eyes suddenly grew large as they lit upon me, and quickly narrowed with suspicion. I started to put on my best smile, but it didn't get far. His lips quivered, then twitched open.

“And what would it be you're doin' here?” he asked in a heavy Irish brogue. The room was instantly silent, as all eyes were cast on me. I didn't feel like defending my presence to this lot, but I had to say something.

“That's the second time today someone's asked me that.” I said, motioning to Bowman, who now remembered to introduce me.

“This is Flynn, lads. Royal Navy. But in spite o' that, he's worked on proper ships and could be of real use to us.”

“Oh,” stuttered the scarved one, “and how is it you'll be doin' that?”

“I'm not sure really,” I admitted, “but I've a strong back and some real sailing experience…”

“Ah, experience!” he said sarcastically. “Perhaps I'll learn something.”

“Yes,” I agreed with equal sarcasm, “perhaps you will.” I turned away, leaving him muttering soundlessly.

“That's our Ned…Edward, if ye will,” said Bowman. “Bloody good navigator. Not much on first impressions, just what you'd expect from an old mick.” I looked to Edward for some sort of reaction, but his face was quite expressionless.

Bowman turned to the next man, “This is Boris. He's a Russian. Not good with English, but a damned fine rigger. None like him.”

Boris pulled off his woollen cap and gave me a nod, dark eyes glinting.

I held out my hand, “Flynn's the name.”

Though not an especially large man, Boris seemed impressively fit. He had a likeable earnestness about him. A smile gleamed through his moustache as he took my hand in a wiry grip. Ironically, as I would learn, Boris had left Russia years earlier, and had come to London to get a better life. Then the War came and life got worse. Here we were, impoverished and War-torn in England, but it was really the sea he regarded as his home now.

“Boris,” he grinned. He pointed to the bottle on the chart table. “Is good, yes?”

“Excellent,” I agreed.

My thoughts turned to the rigging. “I must say, you have a daunting task ahead of you.”

“Thank you very good, Na Zdorovye!” Boris said, taking a long drink.

Bowman cleared his throat. “Told ye, not much on English.”

“But big in heart,” added Boris modestly, with an expansive gesture.

I lifted my cup. What a strange lot. I began to wonder if my tentative offer to help was wise. I decided to reserve judgment for the time being.

Edward fixed a sharp look on me, “Young man,” he began then paused for a swallow of Scotch. His lips took on a quivering.