A King's Trade (38 page)

“What have your divers discovered so far, sir?” Lewrie asked as he shared a look with the Bosun, Mr. Pendarves, who was sitting on the edge of his catamaran with his feet and shins in the water, alongside the damaged rudder.

“Rudder iss fucked, Kaptein,” Goosen replied with an expression halfway ‘twixt a scowl and a grin. “Sacrificial fir baulks shattered, die main piece, uhm…iss die green-twig broke. Not clean broke but hang by shreds? Thin end, oop dahr, iss strained at both tiller-head holes, it flop too much after break happen. Be bitch to fix, oh
ja.”

“Come from too much helm effort, sir, th' tiller-head holes,” Mr. Pendarves added, flapping his feet and shins in the harbour water. “Gudgeons an' pintles ‘bove th' waterline
seem
sound, but, th' way she were swingin' so free, I've low hopes ‘bout the two lowermost.”

A pair of Oriental-looking sprogs came bursting to the surface in welters of foam, bobbing like corks for a moment before starting to paddle with their legs and wave their arms sideways to stay afloat. One swabbed water from his face and long hair, then kicked a few feet over to Goosen's barge, took hold of the gunwale, and began a palaver in a tongue that was most-likely half-Dutch and half-Javanese, neither of which Lewrie could follow.

Goosen listened, nodded here and there over the choicer bits, sucked his teeth and winced, then translated.
“Kaffir
say gudgeon at bottom of sternpost iss
open.
Iss bolted to sternpost, but die hole-for-pintle-part iss not hole, but like diss!” Goosen said, frowning, and holding up one hand, thumb and fingers forming a cylinder, before snapping them apart to make a wide U-shape.

“And the lowermost pintle?” Lewrie prompted.

“Iss half tore loose, Kaptein, wit' pintle pin
bent,”
Goosen further translated, bending his forefinger into a crook to describe it. “Die bolts heff tore up rudder, too. Next-est to sternpost, be gone. Pintle fitting hang by last bolt, next-est to aft end.”

“What in God's name
hit
us, then?” Lewrie wondered aloud. “If the lowermost of the five sets of pintles and gudgeons are the thickest and heaviest-forged of all?”

“Ah, but deepest part of main piece rudder taper thinnest, die wood be planed slimmest,
Kaptein,”
Goosen pointed out, with too much heartiness to suit Lewrie. “Bronze thickest, but bolts shortest, for die upper four pintles and gudgeons be
expect
to bear die most weight.”

“And the fourth set?” Lewrie further enquired, his hopes for a quick repair sinking.

“Bent,” Goosen told him, making as if to wring out a wet towel. “Bad
wrench,
when rudder be shot. Pintle and gudgeon there
both
are wrench. When Frenchman dammitch rudder oop dahr, whole weight go on die next-est oop set. Gudgeon dahr be wrench almost out. Gon' need whole
new
rudder, oh
ja!
New pintles, gudgeons, bolts, nuts, top to bottom,
ja!”

Tell me something we
didn't
know!
Lewrie sourly thought, musing on that sad news and looking away, up the shattered sternpost and the rudder to the square overhang of the transom. He had to smile, nonetheless, for the sash-windows of his great-cabins were open, and both of his cats were posed in them, paws resting on the sills, intrigued by such a rare sight below.

“We've received enough iron and bronze to have new pintles and gudgeons fashioned ashore,” Lewrie stated, looking back at the sweaty Dutchman. “If our own armourer cannot do the work, that is. New oak, of this size… ? Or, is there some sturdy local tree that might serve just as well, hereabouts, Mister Goosen?”

“Local timber? Pah!” Goosen countered with a humourless laugh. “Die
verdammte
African termite eat
gut
timber, quick as goat eat paper,
Kaptein!
Unt oop in mountains… die Cederburg, Hex Mountains, die Drakensberg, iss only
pine
grow tall unt straight,” he said, waving a hand at the far distant blue ranges surrounding Table Bay. “Termite, he bad as ship-worm. All rotten, in a few year, oh
ja.”

“Well, damme,” Lewrie sourly said.

“Other African tree,” Goosen morosely went on,
“if
sound,
not
full of termite, not grow thick unt straight, unt iss only good for die knees, fashion pieces. Before you
rooineks
come, I can get
fine,
big wood from Rotterdam…Hamburg oak,
English
oak, compass oak, unt Americanischer
white
oak,
gut
for ship repairs, but now …” he said with a fatalistic shrug. “Ashore, heff
many
blacksmither, carpenter, but…little to work wit', you see.”

“Then we're stuck here ‘til an Indiaman comes back with a hunk of teak or mahogany,” Lewrie spat. As he mused over
that,
even more of Goosen's Javanese divers bobbed to the surface from their mysterious work below the hull, gasping for air and laughing together, which did little for Lewrie's sour mood, either.

How long
can
they hold their breath?
he asked himself, for he was sure that they'd been down long before he'd been rowed round the stern. “We can't wait
that
long, Mister Goosen,” he said, trying not to sound like he was pleading. “Surely, there must be something…”

Lewrie rather doubted he and his officers could
invent
enough make-work aboard an idled, crippled ship for two whole months of dull thumb-twiddling to keep the crew from going dull or querulous. And, if their last shore liberty was anything to judge by, his only other option was to keep them penned aboard ship, else Cape Town would end in splintered ruins long before a replacement rudder turned up!

“Wahl…” Goosen drawled, with a cagey stroking of his beard. “Table Bay
iss bad anchoring,
Kaptein
Leew…Loo…
myhneer.
Unt, worser iss False Bay, other side of peninsula, below Simon's Town. I know of a fresh wreck, dahr. One of your
rooinek
Indiamen, drove in by bad wind to first-est shelter. Her
kaptein
mistake Cape Hanglip as Good Hope, at last see Simon's Town, unt try steer there, but hit die Whittle Rocks, for iss too far North of best-est course to round die Noah's Ark Point. Drive ashore to save what he can before she sinks?
Ver' gut
work, dat, for he miss Roman's Rock unt hard shoal, then go aground on sand beach
North
end of Simon's Bay.”

“A wreck,” Lewrie said, most dubiously.

“Drive ashore bows
first-est, Kaptein!”
Goosen hooted in glee. “Stern, sternpost, unt
rudder
still in six, eight feet of water, oh ja! Was three, four month ago, middle of winter. Die
burghers
down dahr get much work for to salvage… much
booty,
for it three days before
rooinek
soldiers, or your navy, get there to stop them, haw haw haw! Almost nobody drown, for
rooinek kaptein
iss
die slim kerel…
crafty fellow, see? But, ship is total loss.”

“God A'mighty, Cap'm sir,” Mr. Pendarves exclaimed, “her rudder must be s' big, ye could whittle a
barge
out'n it! There's
some
o' it still sound oak, sure!”

“But, you say she's been salvaged over, looted…?” Lewrie said, unwilling to raise false hopes too soon.

“Other chandlers unt me been strip her over,” Goosen admitted. “Mast, spar, sail canvas, unt cordage…upper bulwarks, deck planks, unt blocks. Locals take boats, cabin goods, straightest oak timbers for houses, unt I
was
going to go down dahr unt burn what is left for her nails unt metal,
butt…”
he drawled, brightening. “Stripped so far only halfway, to midships, so far. Hoisting rings still standing. You hire my
kaffir
divers to undo bolts unt t'ings, rig hoisting line wit' kedge capstan unt shear-legs…! I sell you
big
rudder for
gut
price,
Kaptein
Loo…
myhneer!”

“Well, I'm damned!” Lewrie said with a happy
whoosh
of wind. “We could sail down round the Cape, take your barge, our launch and cutter, and…”

“Iss
big
rudder, big sternpost, too,
Kaptein,”
Goosen cautioned. “Get offshore in heavy Cape swell, wit' that aboard, you swamp, sure.
Nie,
best-est, you hire timber waggon.
Volk
at Simon's Bay, dey heff
many
boats, all sizes. I speak to my cousin, Andries de Witt, he heff timber waggons, heff
big,
strong dray horses. You, me, my
kaffirs
unt two-dozen men of yours for heavy pulley-hauley. Well, maybe take
more
waggons, for shear-legs, heavy cables, tents, food unt water, rum unt beer …your men ride in waggons, not walk so far, too, ja! One day down, two, three day work like Trojans, one day back, unt you heff new rudder, quick as
wink,
haw haw!”

“You're
sure
it's still there, not looted, yet,” Lewrie pressed. “Word of honour, it's in good shape!”

“On Holy Bible, on my
vertroue
in God, it is so,
Kaptein!”
the stout older fellow vowed, one hand in the air pointing to Heaven, with a suddenly solemn air.

“And…just how much d'ye expect this expedition of ours will cost, Mister Goosen?” Lewrie asked him, satisfied that the Indiaman's rudder and sternpost was still there, but suddenly leery when it came to talk of “cousin Andries” and his magically available waggons.

“Wreck now belong to me, rudder unt sternpost belong to me unt other chandlers, but… I give you
gut
price, word on that, too! My cousin Andries, well… I am sure
something
be worked out, to mutual satisfaction,
Kaptein
Leer…
myhneer,”
Goosen swore, his face going as cherubic, and as innocent, as the veriest babe at Sunday school.

That's what I was afraid of,
Lewrie thought with a well-hidden sigh, but… reached out and shook hands with the cagey bastard. If he played his hand well enough, there was a good possibility that the Navy might sport him the cost, entire!

K
apitan
Lewrie!” a tantalisingly familiar voice interrupted a foul musing as Lewrie's little train of waggons reached the Southern outskirts of tidy little Cape Town, almost into the first of the farms and vineyards, on the dusty road to Simon's Town.
“Zdrasvutyeh!”

Oh, shit, and where's her papa?
Lewrie thought with a twinge of alarm as he reined his hired mare and wheeled her slowly about, to see the equally familiar spirited white gelding loping to catch up with his caravan. Eudoxia Durschenko was beaming fit to bust as she easily and athletically “posted” in her stirrups, heels well down, and back just as straight and erect as a fence-post as she came near.

“Is good be seeink you, again,
Kapitan
Lewrie!” Eudoxia gaily called out as she reined in her horse to a walk, patting his neck as he tossed his proud head and snorted in frustration that his fun was over. “Ve have not see you at circus or theatre, since comink here, pooh, fine
Engliski kapitan.
Where you are goink wit' ox and waggon?”

That had been the first surprise; “cousin” Andries de Witt had refused to risk his precious dray horses, as big as English Punches, to haul that much weight, and had supplied six oxen to each long and narrow, pink-ended waggon, that rose up so high at “bow and stern” that they resembled Yankee dorys, and a round dozen oxen as the team for the timber waggon, which was little more than two sets of wheels as tall as a man, and a stout frame linking them together.

“Mistress Eudoxia…
enchante!”
Lewrie responded in an equal gayness, and doffed his newly-purchased wide-brimmed farmer's hat to her. “You keep well…you and your father?” he asked, not taking it for granted that the surly bastard wasn't lurking somewhere over the next rise, or skulking behind the last house but one to spy on her. “As to where I'm going, we're off to salvage a new rudder for my frigate, to replace the one the French shot up.”

“Da, and it was so
brave
of you,
Kapitan,
to save us from the
Fransooskie,
las' week!” Eudoxia quite prettily gushed as her gelding came up alongside his mare, ‘til they were riding knee-to-knee. And a rather slim and attractive knee it was, for Eudoxia, paying no heed to prim Dutch Boer proprieties, was wearing a pair of green moleskin breeches, only slightly less snug than the skin-tight ones she wore in her performances, black-and-tan knee-high riding boots, and was,
gasp!,
shamelessly
astride
her saddle. And if Eudoxia
had
made an attempt at “propriety” by wearing a loose linen shirt tucked into those breeches, with a loose and unbuttoned tan suede waist-coat over it, the shirt's collar was unbuttoned nearly all the way down the placket. To top off her
outré ensemble,
she had chosen a light grey, wide-brimmed hat with perhaps her one and only gesture towards proper femininity, for it was flounced with long, trailing ribands, one brim pinned up over her right eye, with a long, locally-obtained ostrich plume caught in the fold.