The Maggie (12 page)

‘Good morning, sir. It's a fine day.' Leaning from his wheelhouse the Skipper greeted him warmly, as though there had never been any misunderstanding about cargo, no chase, no hard words.

Marshall came fully out on to the sunlit deck and the fresh wind blowing his hair only added to the wildness of his appearance. ‘Where are we? Where are we?'

The Skipper indicated with his pipe stem their position on the map. ‘We'll be in Loch Mora under the hour, Mr Marshall. We're just about there. Ye can see Beinn Chareagach over yonder, and that's Beinn Na Croise on our port quarter.'

Despite the Skipper's fair words and open countenance Marshall would accept nothing on trust. He looked intently at the map, squinted suspiciously across the water to the line of mountains. He even took a compass bearing.
Unless the Skipper had produced a fake map they were, in fact, heading for Loch Mora. He could just see the dilapidated pier.

The boy came to his side. ‘Will ye not be having some breakfast, sir?'

Marshall shook his head ungraciously. ‘No, thanks. I'll wait till I get to . . .' He paused and his expression changed as he caught the odour from the galley. Yesterday's long walk and now the keen air, the sunlight, the scudding water. He hesitated, ‘Well . . .'

In the forward cabin he attacked the plate of ham and eggs and the mug of tea set before him by the boy. As he ate he was aware that the boy, standing by the stove, was watching every mouthful.

‘There's plenty more eggs, sir.'

‘No, thanks.' Marshall cleaned the plate with a piece of bread and leaned back in his chair. ‘Mmm . . . Mmm . . . That's the biggest meal I've eaten in years.'

The boy suggested eagerly, ‘More tea?'

Marshall hesitated, then pushed the mug across. ‘All right.' After the humdrum strain of business, the sudden apoplectic chase, he felt relaxed. In the untidy cabin, with the greasy plate, broken teapot, a mug of dark brown tea in his hand, it seemed impossible to judge things by any normal values. The Skipper was a rogue, but a cheerful rogue; the boy at least was loyal.

Marshall asked, ‘Don't they ever call you anything but ‘the wee boy'?'

‘My name's Douggie, sir.' He had collected the plates, and was now washing them in a bucket of water.

Marshall said, ‘Well, Douggie, you're a good ham and eggs cooker, anyway.'

From the smile that flickered across the pert, serious face it was obvious that the boy was pleased. For a few moments he washed with vigour, sloshing a good deal of water over the deck. Then he looked up. ‘Why won't you let the Captain take the cargo for ye, Mr Marshall?'

Marshall was quite calm now. He explained reasonably and gently. ‘Because he caused me a great deal of trouble and expense. You know that.'

‘I know, sir. But why won't ye let him take the cargo for ye?'

‘Well, he double-crossed me. He behaved very badly.'

‘I know he did, sir. But why won't ye let him take the cargo for ye?'

Marshall drank his tea. He looked thoughtfully at the boy's serious face, then he chuckled and shook his head in admiration. He said, ‘Douggie, I could use a few people like you in my own business. You'd better come and work for me.'

The boy considered this seriously. Then he explained, ‘I wouldna want to leave the Captain, sir. The Captain is the best skipper in the coastal trade. Everybody knows that. There's not many skippers like Captain MacTaggart.'

Marshall subdued a smile. ‘You're so right.' He leant forward. ‘Tell me: was the Captain really born aboard this boat, or is that just a . . . ?'

The boy was collecting the knives and forks from the table. ‘Yes, sir. He was. Right here in this cabin.'

‘But how did that happen?'

‘Well, sir. 'Twas like this. The
Maggie
was just launched then. The Captain's granddad was the skipper of her, and his dad was the mate. Well, the Captain was supposed to be born in Applecross, but his mother needed a doctor, so they were taking her across to Portree, and there was a storm . . .' He shrugged, ‘So the Captain was born right here on the
Maggie.'

Marshall was silent. He tried to imagine the rough night, the woman moaning in the bunk; the tossing boat, the husband at the wheel. And out of that night of agony had been born – the Skipper. He saw for the first time that under the bland air of untrustworthy innocence the Skipper really did love the
Maggie
. She was more to him than any other boat could ever be.

The boy was saying, ‘If we got the rest of the money from ye, sir, we could get her plates put right. It would mean a lot to the Captain. Why won't ye let him take the cargo for ye, sir?'

Chapter Nineteen

(1)

In the morning sunlight Loch Mora looked picturesque but deserted: hardly the place for a swift movement of cargo. As the
Maggie
tied up at the wharf a crofter drove a few shaggy cattle out on to the dilapidated pier, where they stood looking disconsolately over the water. The pub door was shut, and only the lowing of a bull from some hidden barn showed that there was life at all in the cluster of cottages. The rising moorland was deserted, and along the line of hills a dark pine forest rose like a wall.

Marshall called to the crew, ‘Come on now. Let's get moving. We'll be hard pushed as it is before the CSS boat comes in.'

The three men and the boy started reluctantly to unload the cargo, with McGregor controlling the donkey-engine and the mate at the derrick. The Skipper shuffled between the hold and the wharf, showing by his good example how to forgive a personal affront. The boy, following him backwards and forwards, looked so bitterly at Marshall that
the American found himself turning away in embarrassment. Was he really to be blamed for wanting his cargo safe? Any rational observer would confirm that the old Puffer was unseaworthy. There were many hazards between Loch Mora and Kiltarra: rough seas, uncertain tides, rocky shores, where a boat could have the bottom ripped out of her in a matter of minutes. And was the Skipper such a good seaman that he could be trusted to deliver the cargo safely, whatever the hazards? Despite the boy's loyal protests Marshall could not forget the fiasco at Glasgow. ‘Puffer stuck on subway!' And the pilot's admiring testimonial, ‘I seen him so drunk . . . !'

Marshall shook away his doubts. ‘Get a move on there. Get a move on!'

They worked stoically, accepting their fate – all except the Skipper. As the cargo piled on to the wharf he retreated to his wheelhouse, where he leant broodingly, looking at nothing and saying nothing, but, Marshall felt, thinking a lot. He would have given a great deal to have known what plans were hatching behind that formidable nose and the bright speculative eyes. Marshall moved uneasily along the wharf, trying to think what he would do if he were in MacTaggart's place. But it was no good. The man was a lunatic. Although he couldn't feel entirely at rest until the CSS boat came in, he could see no possible weakness that even a man of MacTaggart's ingenuity could turn to advantage. The cargo was there, on the stone wharf: the last crate was being landed.

He looked towards the pub. The door was open now and the landlord standing in the doorway raised a hand in
salutation. There was a window facing the wharf. Marshall called, ‘MacTaggart!'

‘Aye?'

‘I'm going over to the pub to phone. But, in case you should have any bright ideas, remember that I'll be by the window. I'll be able to see everything.'

(2)

The wee boy walked disconsolately along the deck. His face was dirty and his hands were cut from handling the wooden crates; but his physical discomfort was nothing compared with his soreness of spirit. The Skipper had been defeated. The
Maggie
would be sold or broken up. The inevitable end was near. He dragged wearily towards the stern.

Then he stopped. Here was something that no one had seen, not even Marshall. The rails at the stern were broken and the stern was projecting eighteen inches or so directly under the heavy cross-beams of the pier. As the
Maggie
rose with the tide . . . ! He turned excitedly to the wheelhouse. ‘Captain, sir!'

The Skipper turned disinterestedly, ‘Aye?'

‘Captain, sir, look at the way she's lying. When the tide comes in will she no' catch under the pier?'

The Skipper turned without undue concern. A foot or two in reverse. There was no hurry.

The boy said timorously, ‘Wait a minute, sir . . . I mean, sir . . . If ye left her the way she is, and the tide comes in, would there no' be an . . . accident?'

At first the Skipper did not grasp the point. ‘Are ye daft, lad? It would ruin . . .' His voice trailed off as understanding showed in his eyes. He looked guilelessly across at the pub where Marshall was telephoning by the open window. The American was watching alertly, but no one could see what was happening or what was likely to happen under the pier except from the deck of the
Maggie
. The Skipper smiled broadly as he clapped the wee boy on the shoulder. ‘Aye,' he said. ‘Just leave her the way she is. Ye're a good lad, Douggie. A good lad, and I'm not denying it. Ye'll be a skipper one day, yourself.'

(3)

Marshall could not have said how soon he began to sense that something was wrong. Along the window ledge beside the telephone he had placed neat stacks of shillings; the window was open and, as he had said, he could see everything that happened on the wharf. McGregor was there and Hamish the mate. The Skipper and the boy were talking on deck.

He started as the operator connected him with his number. ‘Hallo, World International Airways?' Then for a few minutes his attention was diverted as a grubby boy came along the road, driving a score of geese. As they waddled across the cobbles they protested with waggling tails, outstretched necks and a loud indignant cackling. Auk-auk-auk! Auk-auk-auk! Marshall looked furiously at the urchin and then at the crew, who were watching him with amusement from the wharf. He dared not shut the
window. It even crossed his mind that they might have arranged this – as a diversion? It could easily be the fruit of MacTaggart's fertile brain. Auk-auk-auk!

‘Hallo! World International . . . ? Hallo!'

He put down the receiver and slammed the door shut.

‘Hallo! Hallo! Is that . . . ?' He bellowed angrily. ‘Who's shouting? Do you know who you're talking to?' Down the road the cackling came as mocking laughter. Auk-auk-auk! Auk-auk-auk!

His piles of shillings diminished as he indulged in an orgy of telephoning: so many orders to be given, so much to arrange. And on the wharf the Skipper and boy had joined McGregor and the mate. They were laughing uproariously together. Was it then that he had his first premonition of disaster?

He hurried through his last conversation. ‘Right. Thank you, Miss Peters. Tell Mrs Marshall I will definitely be home tomorrow. Thank you.' He replaced the receiver slowly as the
Maggie
's crew came across the sunlit road. He heard the Skipper's cheerful cry, ‘All right, lads, I'll buy the drinks.'

Marshall took a few paces into the road and then stopped to watch as they approached. His misgivings grew as they came nearer. They were laughing, nudging, full of the joys of life, such an extraordinary change of attitude from their previous despondency.

They passed close to him without stopping. They were all grinning fatuously and, as they entered the pub, the mate began to giggle. Marshall turned and followed them into the bar.

He stood aggressively in the doorway. ‘All right, all right. Let me in on it, will you? What's so funny?'

They turned together, leaning on the bar, and looked at him with bland innocence.

‘Oh, hell!' Marshall stalked angrily into the road and crossed over to the wharf.

His first thoughts were for his cargo. Crates, timber, machinery: he checked it all carefully, pressing his finger into sacking covers, testing the weight of boxed crates. There was nothing wrong that he could see. He sat down on guard. Far out on the water a cargo boat was turning shorewards. The CSS boat? A surge of laughter came from the pub, across the deserted street, and up into the silent hills. A dog was sniffing round the cargo. At the end of the pier the cattle bellowed mournfully to the sea. Marshall sat doggedly on guard.

Although there was no possibility of disaster that he could see, he still turned uneasily from the merriment in the pub. A piano was played for a few inaccurate bars. Outside in the sunlight the boy was staring over the sea. Marshall tried to laugh away his fears: the cargo was here, on the wharf; he was sitting on it. The CSS boat was on its way.

One of the cattle lowed and was answered by its mate. Then again . . . Marshall looked round, puzzled. It seemed to him that the sound he had just heard, a deep, hoarse groaning, had not come from the cattle. And yet . . . He couldn't be sure. It was like the lowing he had heard before and yet, somehow, different. Perhaps he had been mistaken.

He settled down again, and again the noise broke through his complacency. There was no doubt about it this time. It hadn't come from the cattle. He saw them standing dejectedly with heads bent, silent. The deep groaning came again.

Marshall turned curiously but without much alarm to the pier. It
must
be the cattle! He walked out, picking his way carefully across the rotten timbers, until he was standing only a few yards from the end of the pier. Now then! The noise was repeated, more loudly than before, and it was now behind him, between the pier and the wharf.

He looked suspiciously round but could find nothing to account for the noise. Outside the pub the boy was standing up and the three senior members of the crew had come to the open window with beer glasses in their hands. Marshall began to panic.

The groaning was almost continuous now although it seemed to increase and lessen in intensity with the ebb and flow of each wave. The pier! He could feel the whole framework shuddering. The warning sounds were now deep and nerve-shattering. The timbers beneath his feet were bending and groaning. Rise and fall; screech, shudder. Utterly bewildered, he tried desperately to remain calm. He couldn't understand what was happening.