The Mystery of the Mud Flats. Maurice Drake
again, having had a royal holiday ashore. That’s all. It can’t be anything else Let’s get the spuds aboard I hate doing it I hate waste. But after all we may as well have some unknown fool’s money as anybody else. Here’s my last word about it, skipper; always see you’re paid in advance and lay by against a rainy day.’
There was no difficulty about that. Cheyne was always ready to make an advance whenever I asked him, even when sometimes the money was for my own purposes. We sprung our topmast a month later, and though, strictly speaking, I ought to have paid for repairs myself, Cheyne authorised me to get a new spar at his expense. ‘Get a good stick and don’t waste time about it.’ That was always his cry. ‘Hurry. Hurry. Make quick voyages.’
‘And he’s losing money on every voyage, sure,’ Voogdt said once almost despairingly.
After the second potato trip he wrote to a friend of his in London, asking for particulars of our employers, only to find the so-called company was not registered as a company at all. He showed me the letter.
‘There you are,’ said he. ‘That settles it. They must have got hold of a capitalist mug, and they’re bleeding him. Only—’ He stopped.
‘Only what?’
‘Well, I should have thought a fellow like Cheyne would have opened his sham store in a more amusing place. The Riviera, say. And there’s Ward. Cheyne may be a rogue and a fool, but Ward’s neither, if I’m any judge of a man. What’s he doing in that galley?’
It didn’t worry me that I couldn’t answer his questions—if I can’t understand a thing, I just disregard it and get on with the work; but to him unsatisfied curiosity was like a prickle in his flesh.
However, as time wore on he seemed to be easier in his mind, and after a few trips we’d got the hang of the trade and were just making voyage after voyage without remark. Each voyage was much like the last. We nearly always had light cargoes, and took away as much ballast as we could get in two tides. We always traded in the English Channel, and nearly always to different ports. In fact the only port we called at twice was Dartmouth, and on our second visit, three months after the first, we lay at Kingswear, on the other side of the river. In those three months we’d made about ten journeys: to Looe, Penzance, Falmouth, Fowey, Teignmouth, Plymouth, Newhaven, Southampton and Kingsbridge. By that time we were so accustomed to the round that even Voogdt accepted each new order without remark.
My bank account was growing and as I’d given Voogdt and ’Kiah bonuses from time to time, we were a flourishing concern. Whatever folly the company represented we had no reason to complain.
Early in September we were ordered to Guernsey, but just outside the Scheldt it came on to blow real nasty from the south-west. It looked like an equinoctial gale, and we stood across to the North Foreland intending to drop anchor there till it blew itself out. It lasted two days, and whilst we were lying at anchor we saw the Kismet coming down river towards us, reefed down but with a bit of topsail hoisted. Just as she passed Birchington, about a mile from us, she got a sudden buster of a squall off the shore, and before you could say ‘knife’ her topmast was over her side. She luffed up towards the shore, all she could, and dropped anchor to clear away the raffle and mess. At Voogdt’s suggestion we rowed over in our dinghy to proffer assistance. The wind was gusty and strong, but the water smooth, and we soon reached her and climbed aboard.
The skipper, elderly, and a typical coasting master, stood in the waist placidly directing his three hands as they hacked and cut away the wreckage. He was dressed coaster-fashion, in blue coat, guernsey and trousers, gaudy red carpet slippers and a bowler hat, once black, but now green with age. He nodded to us as we went to bear a hand, and when things were getting tidy invited us into his cabin and offered us a drink.
I told him we were from the Luck and Charity, and that turned our talk on our only mutual acquaintances—our employers. The old man seemed well pleased with them, and apparently knew a good deal more about them than we did.
‘Mr Cheyne—a fine young fellow ’e is. A true sailor, I call i’m. Miss Brand’s ’is cousin—she’s a most amoosin’ young person; and there’s Miss Lavington. She’s a real lady, that.’
‘Have Miss Brand and Miss Lavington got anything to do with the company, then?’ I asked in surprise.
‘Sure-ly. It’s mostly Miss Lavington’s money in it. Mr Ward, ’e’s a partner, too. Them four.’
I caught Voogdt’s eye. ‘Only those four?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know of any other.’
‘Have you been with them long?’
‘Jus’ over a year. I signed charter for another year only las’ month. Good people, they are. Mr Ward spoke mos’ complimentary about the last year’s working, an’ gave me a fifty-pound bonus an’ a shilling a ton rise.’
‘What are you getting now, then, Capt’n?’
‘Nine-an-six a ton burthen between the Tyne an’ Terneuzen.’
‘Don’t you go farther north than the Tyne?’
‘No. The Olive Leaf, she trades from the Scotch ports. They’re thinking of putting on another boat for the Irish Sea. If they can’t get one to suit them, Mr Ward says they’ll build.’
Voogdt asked a question, forgetting that etiquette demanded he should hold his tongue in the presence of his betters, and the old skipper shut him up at once. After that we both felt rather uncomfortable and took our leave as early as we could.
Next day the wind eased a bit and shifted into the north-west, so we set sail for Guernsey. The last we saw of the Kismet as we rounded the Foreland her people were getting their new topmast aloft.
IN THE MATTER OF A DESERTING SEAMAN
AS a general rule one of the most talkative of men, Voogdt none the less had his silent days, days when he grudged even monosyllables, only grunting assent or dissent in answer to direct questions. Sometimes such a mood would last him half-a-week; once it was over he talked like a mill, as though to make up for lost time. He was a good talker, and his silences were the less agreeable for the contrast.
Throughout the summer I had never known him so silent as during this trip to Guernsey. The gale had left a long sea behind it that did nothing to enhance our comfort aboard, and a sulky shipmate only added to my annoyance. By the time we reached St Peters Port I could have kicked him with the greatest goodwill in the world.
He cheered up a bit when we got in harbour, and I began to be sorry for him—with a little touch of contempt, perhaps—thinking that it was the roughish weather he had been suffering from. He worked well, as he always did now, getting out the ballast, but in the evening staggered me by announcing that he was leaving the Luck and Charity.
‘What on earth for?’ I asked, fairly taken aback.
‘That was our agreement, James, if you remember. I was to leave you where and when I pleased. Well, I please now and here.’
‘But why? Have I done anything?’
‘What haven’t you done? You picked me up out at elbows and starving, and you’ve put fresh life into me. That’s what you’ve done. And I’m going to repay you by deserting just as the winter’s coming on. I feel a sweep, old man, but I must go.’
‘Is it the winter you’re afraid of?’ I asked.
‘Call it that. I can’t give you a better reason or I would. Don’t make any more difficulties about it. I feel ashamed to leave you like this, but I tell you I must go. That’s all.’
‘What are you going to do? Have you enough money to get on with?’
‘No;