51
HARRY WALKED ALONG the dock towards the Devonian. The small suitcase he was carrying made him feel like a schoolboy on his first day of term. What would the headmaster be like? Would he sleep in a bed next to a Giles or a Deakins? Would he come across an Old Jack? Would there be a Fisher on board?
Although Sir Walter had offered to accompany him and introduce him to the captain, Harry had felt that would not be the best way to endear himself to his new shipmates.
He stopped for a moment and looked closely at the ancient vessel on which he would be spending the next month. Sir Walter had told him that the Devonian had been built in 1913, when the oceans were still dominated by sail and a motorized cargo vessel would have been thought the latest thing. But now, twenty-six years later, it wouldn’t be too long before she was decommissioned and taken to that area of the docks where old ships are broken up and their parts sold for scrap.
Sir Walter had also hinted that as Captain Havens only had one more year to serve before he retired, the owners might decide to scrap him at the same time as his ship.
The Devonian’s Articles of Agreement showed a crew of thirty-seven, but as on so many cargo ships, that number wasn’t quite accurate: a cook and a washer-up picked up in Hong Kong didn’t appear on the payroll, nor did the occasional deckhand or two who was fleeing the law and had no desire to return to his homeland.
Harry made his way slowly up the gangway. Once he’d stepped on deck, he didn’t move until he’d received permission to board. After all his years of hanging around the docks, he was well aware of ship’s protocol. He looked up at the bridge and assumed the man he saw giving orders must be Captain Havens. Sir Walter had told him the senior officer on a cargo vessel was in fact a master mariner but should always be addressed on board as captain. Captain Havens was a shade under six foot, and looked nearer fifty than sixty. He was stockily built, with a weathered, tanned face and a dark neatly trimmed beard that, as he was going bald, made him look like George V.
When he spotted Harry waiting at the top of the gangway, the captain gave a crisp order to the officer standing next to him on the bridge, before making his way down on to the deck.
‘I’m Captain Havens,’ he said briskly. ‘You must be Harry Clifton.’ He shook Harry warmly by the hand. ‘Welcome aboard the Devonian. You come highly recommended.’
‘I should point out, sir,’ began Harry, ‘that this is my first—’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Havens, lowering his voice, ‘but I’d keep it to yourself if you don’t want your time on board to be a living hell. And whatever you do, don’t mention you were at Oxford, because most of this lot,’ he said, indicating the seamen working on the deck, ‘will think it’s just the name of another ship. Follow me. I’ll show you the fourth officer’s quarters.’
Harry followed in the captain’s wake, aware that a dozen suspicious eyes were watching his every move.
‘There are two other officers on my ship,’ said the captain once Harry had caught up with him. ‘Jim Patterson, the senior engineer, spends most of his life down below in the boiler room, so you’ll only see him at mealtimes, and sometimes not even then. He’s served with me for the past fourteen years, and frankly I doubt if this old lady would still make it halfway across the Channel, let alone the Atlantic, if he wasn’t down there to coax her along. My third officer, Tom Bradshaw, is on the bridge. He’s only been with me for three years, so he’s not yet earned his ticket. He keeps himself to himself, but whoever trained him knew what they were doing, because he’s a damn fine officer.’
Havens began to disappear down a narrow stairwell that led to the deck below. ‘That’s my cabin,’ he said as he continued down the corridor, ‘and that’s Mr Patterson’s.’ He came to a halt in front of what appeared to be a broom cupboard. ‘This is your cabin.’ He pushed the door open but it only moved a few inches before it banged against a narrow wooden bed. ‘I won’t come in as there isn’t room for both of us. You’ll find some clothes on the bed. Once you’ve changed, join me on the bridge. We’ll be setting sail within the hour. Leaving the harbour will probably be the most interesting part of the voyage until we dock in Cuba.’
Harry squeezed through the half-open door and had to close it behind him to allow enough room to change his clothes. He checked the gear that had been left, neatly folded, on his bunk: two thick blue sweaters, two white shirts, two pairs of blue trousers, three pairs of blue woollen socks and a pair of canvas shoes with thick rubber soles. It really was like being back at school. Every item had one thing in common: they all looked as if they’d been worn by several other people before Harry. He quickly changed into his seaman’s gear, then unpacked his suitcase.
As there was only one drawer, Harry placed the little suitcase, full of his civilian clothes, under the bed – the only thing in the cabin that fitted perfectly. He opened the door, squeezed back into the corridor and went in search of the stairwell. Once he’d located it, he emerged back on deck. Several more pairs of suspicious eyes followed his progress.
‘Mr Clifton,’ said the captain as Harry stepped on to the bridge for the first time, ‘this is Tom Bradshaw, the third officer, who will be taking the ship out of the harbour as soon as we’ve been given clearance by the port authority. By the way, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Havens, ‘one of our tasks on this voyage will be to teach this young pup everything we know, so that when we return to Bristol in a month’s time the crew of HMS Resolution will mistake him for an old sea dog.’
If Mr Bradshaw commented, his words were drowned by two long blasts on a siren, a sound Harry had heard many times over the years, indicating that the two tug boats were in place and waiting to escort the Devonian out of the harbour. The captain pressed some tobacco into his well-worn briar pipe, while Mr Bradshaw acknowledged the signal with two blasts of the ship’s horn, to confirm that the Devonian was ready to depart.
‘Prepare to cast off, Mr Bradshaw,’ said Captain Havens, striking a match.
Mr Bradshaw removed the cover from a brass voicepipe Harry hadn’t noticed until that moment. ‘All engines slow ahead, Mr Patterson. The tug boats are in place and ready to escort us out of harbour,’ he added, revealing a slight American accent.
‘All engines slow ahead, Mr Bradshaw,’ came back a voice from the boiler room.
Harry looked down over the side of the bridge and watched as the crew carried out their allotted tasks. Four men, two at the bow and two at the stern, were unwinding thick ropes from the capstans on the dock. Another two were hauling up the gangway. ‘Keep your eye on the pilot,’ said the captain between puffs on his pipe. ‘It’s his responsibility to guide us out of the harbour and safely into the Channel. Once he’s done that, Mr Bradshaw will take over. If you turn out to be any good, Mr Clifton, you may be allowed to take his place in about a year’s time, but not until I’ve retired and Mr Bradshaw has taken over command.’ As Bradshaw didn’t give even the flicker of a smile, Harry remained silent and continued to watch everything going on around him. ‘No one is allowed to take my girl out at night,’ continued Captain Havens, ‘unless I’m sure he won’t take any liberties with her.’ Again, Bradshaw didn’t smile, but then he may have heard the comment before.
Harry found himself fascinated by how smoothly the whole operation was carried out. The Devonian eased away from the quayside and, with the help of the two tug boats, nosed her way slowly out of the docks, along the River Avon and under the suspension bridge.
‘Do you know who built that bridge, Mr Clifton?’ the captain asked, taking his pipe out of his mouth.
‘Isambard Kingdom Brunel, sir,’ said Harry.
‘And why did he never live to see it opened?’
‘Because the local council ran out of money, and he died before the bridge was completed.’
The captain scowled. ‘Next you’ll be telling me it’s named after you,’ he said, putting his pipe back in his mouth. He didn’t speak again until the tug boats had reached Barry Island, when they gave two more long blasts, released their lines and headed back to port.
The Devonian may have been an old lady, but it soon became clear to Harry that Captain Havens and his crew knew exactly how to handle her.
‘Take over, Mr Bradshaw,’ said the captain, as another pair of eyes appeared on the bridge, their owner carrying two mugs of hot tea. ‘There will be three officers on the bridge during this crossing, Lu, so be sure that Mr Clifton also gets a mug of tea.’ The Chinaman nodded and disappeared below deck.
Once the harbour lights had disappeared over the horizon, the waves became larger and larger, causing the ship to roll from side to side. Havens and Bradshaw stood, feet apart, appearing to be glued to the deck, while Harry found himself regularly having to cling on to something to make sure he didn’t fall over. When the Chinaman reappeared with a third mug of tea, Harry chose not to mention to the captain that it was cold, and that his mother usually added a lump of sugar.
Just as Harry was beginning to feel a little more confident, almost enjoying the experience, the captain said, ‘Not much more you can do tonight, Mr Clifton. Why don’t you go below and try to catch some shut-eye. Be back on the bridge by seven twenty to take over the breakfast watch.’ Harry was about to protest, when a smile appeared on Mr Bradshaw’s face for the first time.
‘Goodnight, sir,’ said Harry before making his way down the steps and on to the deck. He wobbled slowly towards the narrow stairwell, feeling with every step he took that he was being watched by even more eyes. One voice said, loud enough for him to hear, ‘He must be a passenger.’
‘No, he’s an officer,’ said a second voice.
‘What’s the difference?’ Several men laughed.
Once he was back in his cabin, he undressed and climbed on to the thin wooden bunk. He tried to find a comfortable position without falling out or rolling into the wall as the ship swayed from side to side as well as lurching up and down. He didn’t even have a wash basin to be sick in, or a porthole to be sick out of.
As he lay awake, his thoughts turned to Emma. He wondered if she was still in Scotland or had returned to the Manor House, or perhaps she’d already taken up residence at Oxford. Would Giles be wondering where he was, or had Sir Walter told him he’d gone to sea and would be joining the Resolution the moment he landed back in Bristol? And would his mother be wondering where he could be? Perhaps he should have broken her golden rule and interrupted her at work. Finally, he thought about Old Jack, and suddenly felt guilty when he realized he wouldn’t be back in time for his funeral.
What Harry couldn’t know was that his own funeral would take place before Old Jack’s.