Seagulls in My Soup (20 page)

The monster had secured a long, thick nylon mooring line from her port stern right across all three bows of
Estrellita,
Cresswell
, and
Dreadnaught,
onto the jetty bollard, and was now, as well as shoving with all the might of a thousand horses, hauling in the nylon line with his after capstan! It was as if a great big bully was not only pushing his way into a line of little old ladies, but was crushing them to death with his stomach as he drew himself to the wall behind them with hawserlike arms.

Aghast, I glanced up at the bridge of the killer. There were three figures up there, one in a flowered shirt with dark glasses. The owner, I told myself swiftly. Another in a white hat and dark glasses—the guest. And one in a white cap and jacket and dark glasses and toothbrush mustache. The “Captain.” Not a trace of expression on any of the faces, except that of haughty might and right.

It all took place in seconds. I shot up the ladder, took in the scene, bent down . . . and then I did something that I had never done before, and which I sincerely hope I shall never have to do again.

I grabbed my double-bladed Royal Navy deep-sea diver's knife—it was more like a Roman short-sword—from its brass “Siebe Gorman” sheath just inside the companion-way, and I flew ashore. I don't remember leaping, or scrambling, or clambering, or climbing. The next thing I knew I was ashore, with my diver's knife at the throat of a large, dark, white-jerseyed seaman who was standing by the straining killer-hawser. He ran, wild-eyed. I sawed through the thick nylon line with the wicked edge of the knife. The line twanged and shot back into the harbor water with a
zuzz,
just as
Dreadnaught
smashed her stern against the cruel stones of the quay. Something went bang, even over the roar of the killer-craft's engines, and
Dreadnaught,
as Amyas, now on
Cresswell
's deck, staring aghast, started to sink by the stern. We both shot wild looks at one another. In an flash we both knew that poor
Dreadnaught
's propeller had smashed against a rock, and that her propeller shaft had been bent so badly that her stern gland had been ripped open, and that filthy harbor water was now pouring into the wretched little boat just as Amyas' life-blood was pumping wildly through his heart.

I tore down the jetty, knife at the charge, toward another gin-palace crewman who was standing, flustered, at her starboard mooring line. As I raced for him I saw out of the corner of my eye that the powerboat's stern was swinging clear now of
Cresswell
, but had taken my bowsprit with it.

I lunged at the crewman, I must have been screaming my head off, but if I was, I didn't hear it. The noise of the killer's engines was too high. A moment before I reached him the little crewman, his eyes bulging at me, threw himself into the harbor. I slashed the other rope just as the killer's engines died. Then, as he swung round slowly to face the east wind, I shouted up at the men on the monster, “You great clumsy bastards! You come ashore and I'll cut your bloody balls off!”

Then I came to my senses just as quickly, it seemed, as I had lost them. To this day I think I did the right thing. If I had not cut the lines, all three small craft would eventually have been crushed against the wall and probably sunk.

The little old man on
Estrellita
was now on deck. He was staring calmly, sternly, wordlessly, at the ruin and carnage around him. Amyas was still on
Cresswell
's deck, holding onto her guardrail as he wept silently and stared down at the filthy harbor water, into which
Dreadnaught,
with a gurgle, had completely disappeared. I, too, looked down to see the last of her air bubbles reach the oily surface and pop. For a minute I looked silently at Amyas. He was like a broken man.

A voice came from the killer ship. It boomed out tinnily across the harbor. They were using their loud-hailer. “I have reported you to the local harbormaster and the chief of police on my radio. Do not move from where you are . . .”

I cupped my hands around my mouth. “Get stuffed!” I shouted.
“GET STUFFED, YOU SODDIN' GREAT OAF!”

“YOU ARE TO REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE—POLICE ORDERS!” yelled the voice.

“POLICE BULLSHIT!”
I roared at him, and climbed back onboard
Cresswell
. At least if I were to be arrested it would now be onboard a British-registered vessel, I thought. Let them pick the bones out of
that
bastard!

Amyas threw me a look of abject misery. He slumped down onto
Cresswell
's side-deck, his head in his hands. I put my hand on his shoulder. “Bugger 'em, Amyas . . . Oh, sorry, mate. I got a bit excited.”

“It's all right, Tristan,” his voice sobbed. “I understand.”

“You can stay onboard
Cresswell
if you like, mate, until we figure out how to raise
Dreadnaught,
” I said.

I looked around me again. The haughty figures on the bridge of the killer ship were all three gazing in my direction, the two civilians with their arms over the bulwarks, folded, and the skipper inspecting me through a huge pair of binoculars. Still enraged, I threw him a British two-finger sign, then an Italian three-finger sign, then a French four.

I turned to look for the little old man, but he had gone below again, probably, I thought, to check the hull of his tiny fishing boat to make sure she wasn't leaking. That reminded me to do the same, even though I knew that
Cresswell
was as tough a nut as ever there was.

Leaving Amyas, his head still in his hand, on deck, I hurried through my boat, inspecting her frames, checking the bilge-water level to ensure that her keelson had not been strained; and her coachroof beam knees, her futtocks, and her ribs, to see that they had not shifted. Even if I was headed for the jail, I thought, I'd make sure that
Cresswell
was all right, and Amyas could look after her for me until Sissie got back from Majorca.

As I set my plans, a harsh, imperious voice yelled out from the jetty. “
Cresswell
!” it shouted; then, in Spanish, “Come on deck with your hands up. You are under arrest!”

That's it, I thought. I stretched my hands up in good old Texas style and headed up the companionway, telling Nelson softly to stay where he was. As I ascended the ladder I saw, crowded all around
Cresswell
's stern on the mole, about twenty Spanish navy seamen and their young officers, and a dozen Guardia Civil in their black leather hats and gray uniforms. Every one of them, except the officers, had a rifle or an automatic gun of one kind or another, and every one of those pieces of armament was pointed directly at my heart. I froze on the weatherdeck, silent.

“You are to come with us. You are under arrest!” A naval lieutenant addressed me, glowering as darkly as his twenty years or so would allow. Behind him all the sailors and policemen stared sullenly, threateningly. The lieutenant then waved his pistol at Amyas. “You, too!” he ordered.

Amyas had just started to rise from the deck when suddenly there was a commotion among the four officers on the jetty. Startled, the young lieutenant who was doing all the arresting, was arrested himself. He jolted upright as if rammed stiff by an electric shock, and saluted. As he did, he hollered
“Marineros, aten . . . ción!”
Seamen, attention! All his uniformed minions sprang to attention and saluted as their guns clattered to their sides. All the Guardia Civil were now heels-together and eyes-front, facing the little fishing boat. I turned to look at what had caused this transformation. It was astounding. You could have feathered me down with a knock!

The little old man was now in the
full dress uniform of a general of the Spanish Army!
It was complete with sword and a great sash thrown across his shoulder. Around his hat was a red band under a badge so big and so golden that it looked like a pride of lions.

The little general's Spanish was far too rapid for me to understand exactly, but I caught the gist of what he said as he languidly gestured with a white-gloved hand across his shoulder at the drifting powerboat: “Lieutenant, you will arrest that offender—that offender against the laws of God, the dignity of man, and the rules of common decency. You will place an armed guard onboard his boat, and you will hold him here for as much time as it takes to salvage the vessel of this
caballero.
” He gestured, again languidly, at Amyas, who, surprised as I was, gaped at him.

The little general continued. “You will attend all three of us, tomorrow, early, to ascertain our estimations of damage sustained by our craft and ourselves by the actions of that
moron.
” Again he flicked a white glove at the powerboat. “And you will multiply that sum by three. That will be the amount of the fine which you will levy against that
animal.
After our repairs and the salvage of this gentleman's boat have been effected, you will then ensure that the surplus of money is donated to the local orphanage. Is that clear?”

“Si, Señor Gobernador-General . . .”
The lieutenant hesitated, nervously, still rigidly at attention.

“Well, there are problems?” the little general snapped.

“There is no salvage firm on the island . . . It will take a long time for them to come from Barcelona.”

“Time is essential. That boat must be raised tomorrow or the day after!”

“But . . . ?” The lieutenant was shaking by now.

I turned and addressed the general.
“Perdoneme, Señor General . . .”

The general turned to me. His face softened. “Yes, my friend?”

“Er . . . there is a salvage firm on the island . . . but it's foreign-owned.”

The general smiled. “I don't care if it's owned by the Russians! I want this thing cleared up before I leave Ibiza! Anyway, where is this firm, and who owns it?”

“It's right here.” I reached over and slapped my hand on Amyas' shoulder. “Cupling and Jones, Limited, Marine Engineering and Salvage Company. British,
señor,
” I told the general as his eyes gleamed with amusement. “Branches in Chatham, Portsmouth, Plymouth, Hong Kong, and Singapore!” I left out Gibraltar; it was a touchy subject at that time in Spain.

The little general threw his head back and laughed. On the jetty all the sailors' and policemen's faces relaxed, and they started to grin. Then the general's face turned serious. “Do you think you can do it? Do you think you can raise
Señor
Cupling's boat?”

“Yes, sir, but we'll need the Port Captain's permission to use certain pieces of equipment and property which are lying in the harbor.”

The general gave an impatient wave of his hand. “No problem,” he said. “He's having dinner with me tonight. Write me a list of whatever you need. This young man here . . .” he flicked a hand at the navy lieutenant, “will be responsible that whatever it is, it is provided for you, and that you are afforded whatever other assistance our marine authorities can give you.”

“Thank you,
señor.
”

He bowed slightly. “No
hay de que.
No need. It is I who am in your debt after you helped me onboard earlier today,
Señor
Jones. You see, courtesy is not merely its own reward . . . And by the way . . .”

“Señor?”
I grinned at him.

“When you proffer that estimate for repairs and salvage, bear in mind that the orphanage here is not very rich. I was there before I came onboard this morning. I think you may as well make sure that at least some little good comes out of the evil events of this afternoon . . .” As he said this, one of his dark eyes flickered just a tiny bit. Or was it a wink?

From my dinghy I recovered
Cresswell
's anchor chain with a grapnel, and secured her well again. Then, over supper of beef kidney and chips, Amyas cheered up. We now had a plan. Tomorrow we would set to and raise
Dreadnought
from her grave.

“What was it that officer called him? It wasn't just general, as it were?” Mister Cupling asked me.

Nelson whoofed. He loved kidney.

“No, Amyas, it was
governor
-general. He's the boss of all the bosses in all the Balearic Islands. It just goes to show, you never know who it is you're meeting, do you, as it were?”

I'll fire this trip, but I'll fire no more,

Chorus:
O-ho, O-ho ho!

I'll take my money and I'll go ashore,

Chorus:
Fire down below!

Miss Nancy Bell, oh, fare you well,

I'll pay my money and I'll go ashore.

A bully boat, and a bully crew,

And a bully-ragging captain, too.

The possum jump and the panther roar,

I awoke this morning at half-past four.

I crept out safely from my hive,

And took a dram at half-past five.

Says I, “Old boat, let's have no tricks!”

Her boiler burst at half-past six.

So now we travel under sail,

'Cos Jonah's the man that swallowed the whale.

I'll fire this trip and I'll fire no more,

I'll pay my money and I'll go ashore.

—“The Sailor-Fireman”

This is probably the first of the very few stoker-engineer's songs, sung when the first engines were fitted onboard sailing ships. It originated, it appears from the inclusion of the word “possum,” in the United States, probably in the mid-nineteenth century.

The little general was up and about very early the next day. I heard him padding about over onboard
Estrellita del Mar
before dawn. He accepted an invitation to join Amyas Cupling and me for breakfast in
Cresswell
. Eggs and kipper, scrumptiously fried to a turn by Amyas, who was now rigged out in my spare pair of working jeans and one of my tee-shirts. He had washed his feet.

After discussing with the general his little boat for a while, I asked him how long he had been cruising about alone.

“Ah,
Señor
Tristan, I have been sailing much more ever since I fell off a horse. Had a bad injury, you see. I used to love horses—still do, in fact, but I can't manage it any more. I'm seventy-three now. So I sail around in my little boat. I don't do too much sailing; she has a good engine and I only sail on the calmest of days. I love it.”

The general, again in his black suit, thought for a moment, as if dredging words from his subconscious. “It's the . . . very antithesis of army life in a lot of ways—the informality, the camaraderie with all differing types of people. And yet in some other ways it's very similar to the military—the need for order and some kinds of regulations to keep the vessel in good . . .” He looked as if he were searching for a word.

“Fettle,” I prompted.

“What's that word?” The little old man screwed up his eyes.

“Good fettle. It's the Saxon equivalent of the opposite of chaos, of anarchy. It's having things shipshape, the way a sailor likes it; the way it has to be for the sea to let him survive. What do you think, Amyas?” I looked at Mister Cupling, offering him a share in the conversation.

Amyas looked serious. “Order? I should think that sums it up in one word, as it were? After all, can't sail a boat around for long that's not in good order, can we?”

A vision of
Dreadnaught
hobbling from Scotland to Greece, under a continual refit, passed through my mind. “No, you're right about that, Amyas,” I replied.

The young naval lieutenant, along with a burly petty officer and two ratings, arrived just after six-thirty. The lieutenant seemed at first flustered and disappointed to see all of us old men up, about, alive, and awake before he arrived. Then he perked up and dashed onboard
Cresswell
like a lad arriving at a fairground, all pink cheeks, gray-green eyes, and enthusiasm.

“Must be from Galicia,” the general muttered, “and anxious to succeed.”

Then, down in
Cresswell
's cabin, the lieutenant caught sight of the general's face. He froze to attention. So did his men.

The general looked up, stern-faced, but with a twinkle. “Well, lad, don't just stand there! Say something! What's your name?”

“Francisco Alvarez Dominguez . . .” etc. etc. etc. The name went on for about a minute, like a ship's passenger list.

“Well, lieutenant,
Señores
Cupling and Jones. . . .
Limited
 . . . have worked out what they will need for the repairs and salvage operation. They've discussed it with me, and I've approved the plan and the charges for the work to be done and the equipment to be employed. Now, I'm flying to Barcelona today, and I'll be back in three days. When I get back I'll expect to see
Señor
Cupling's boat afloat again!”

“Señor!”
Lieutenant Francisco's head jerked upright.

The general strolled to the companionway ladder and handed Francisco a piece of paper. “Now when you relieve your armed sentry on that floating
pig-sty
out there, you give him this. Tell him to pass it on to the
animal
who drives that
thing
around, and to inform him,
from me,
that he has exactly forty-eight hours to get hold of this amount and to hand it over to
Señores
Cupling and Jones here. If he doesn't, you can tell him I'll have his boat taken to Palma cavalry barracks and mashed up with the horse bran!”

“Señor!”

“Good. Now, get together with these two
caballeros
and see that they get whatever they need!”

“Señor!”

The general mounted the ladder and passed over to his own boat. Before he went below he turned again to the young lieutenant, who was still standing at attention. “Oh, and one other thing, son. Make a good
Spanish
job of it, eh?”

“Señor!”
shouted the young man. When the general disappeared he looked down at the piece of paper. Softly, he whistled. He looked at me. “My men are ready,
señor,
all ready. What do we need for this operation?”

I introduced Amyas and myself, to put the lad at ease. He introduced himself again. Then, after Amyas had handed him a cup of tea, and a flaskful for his men on the jetty (“Cheer them up a bit, as it were, eh?”) I clapped my hand on the lieutenant's shoulder and started reading off the list that Amyas and I had worked out the evening before, over supper. When I started reading the list and describing our intentions, Lieutenant Francisco's face was clouded; then, as I rambled on and made swift sketches on the back of an old chart, his expression lightened, became intrigued, enthusiastic, and finally amused—so much so that he at last laughed.

“Marvelous!” he said. He looked at me in my Breton smock, tea mug in hand, a mischievous gleam in my eye. Then he stared for a moment at Amyas and his mustache, twitching and grinning as they hovered over our shoulders. Suddenly the lieutenant straightened.
“Señores,”
he intoned gravely, “you know I'm beginning to think you really
are
professional salvaging experts!”

“Actually for salvaging spirits, as it were,” Amyas murmured, with a wink at me. The mustache twitched in agreement.

“Yeah, Johnny Walker Black Label, preferably,” I muttered. “Come on, let's get
Cresswell
and
Estrellita
out of the way.”

I suppose some people must think of sailing vessels as mere collections of inanimate objects, like planks of wood and bits of iron and nails, wire, and canvas. They may be right, but if they are, then the old, dying hulk
Rosalinda
and her next-door neighbor must have been the most deliciously excited bits of inanimate matter that ever existed when they felt Amyas and me jump onboard them.

As we had walked along the town quay toward the hulks, they had looked sulkily depressed, as gloomily miserable as ever, like old ladies with migraines, too pained to bother to fix their hair, too old and worn-out to have it done for them.

As soon as my feet hit
Rosalinda
's deck, and Amyas' directly afterward, I felt a transformation in the old derelict. Some people will say that it was only the vibrations as our weights descended onto her rotting decks that made her tattered halyard wires jiggle and tremble, and that it was merely an odd squally gust which fluttered the ragged tatters of her moldy mainsail as Amyas and I headed for her cargo-hatch coaming and gazed down into the murky water, still and clammy, in her hold. Others will say that the voices I heard, as we discussed getting the water out of her, were only the echoes of our own words bouncing back at us from the great oak frames in the ghostly shadows of the side-decks. Others will say that sailors are superstitious creatures, and anyway, all small-boat voyagers are a bit dotty and liable to let their imaginations run away with them.

But I say—I swear—that as Amyas and I boarded that old derelict her pulse leapt; it seemed that the spirits of every man who ever sailed in her jumped for inexpressible joy. We had not lowered ourselves down on her deck like curious sightseers. We had no cameras slung around our necks. We were not looking for quaintness or bizarre curiosities from the distant past. We had little thought in our heads about the “romance” of sail. We were not dreaming of her past voyages—
and she knew it.
The moment we bowled onboard her that old girl's fainting blood
raced.
She knew that we were gauging her remaining strength. She knew we
wanted
her. She knew that, in some way, she was still useful. As we stared down into her hold she heaved and sighed, welcoming us—but it was only a passing fishing boat's bow wave that did that, of course.

Her next-door neighbor, an even more ancient, stump-masted ruin, which had been merely fidgeting as we inspected
Rosalinda,
seemed almost to faint entirely away with anticipation and excitement as Amyas clambered over her decayed bulwarks. He first walked back to her stern and peered over her counter. “This one has no name, Tristan. Sort of nameless, as it were!” he called.

I plunged my knife into
Rosalinda
's mainmast. It was sound enough. “Good,” I sang back, “then we'll call her
Bloody Neverbudge
!”

Amyas grinned as I hopped onto the nameless wreck. “
Bloody Neverbudge
—she certainly looks it,” he said. “Hasn't moved in years, I'd say, but she must be built like Gibraltar, as it were. Hardly a drop of water in her. About a foot—probably rainwater.”

“That's a wonder, Amyas, because she's got dropsy,” I replied. I meant that her keel was hogged; that is, it dropped down from the horizontal forward and aft.
Bloody Neverbudge
seemed to take that as a compliment. Her rotten gaff boom, which was swinging loosely over my head, suddenly moaned as if in pleasure.

After Amyas and I had prodded around the hulks' mooring posts and their bulwarks with our knives, seeking out the rot and marking the sound wood with great chalked crosses, for about an hour, the Spanish navy turned up. It brought two commandeered fishing boats. One of these belonged to Josélito, my local fisherman friend. I waved at José as his boat slowly chugged up to the hulks. He grinned back at me hugely. He was obviously pleased. He would be paid well for his labor, and it seemed he was remembering my Halloween visit to the graveyard with Rory O'Boggarty, Ireland's Hope and England's Dread. I winked at him.

Both fishing boats had portable diesel water pumps on deck. Both had twenty fathoms of two-inch chain laid out. Each had a Spanish navy scuba diver, both of whom were already donning their rubber suits in a welter of joking about how they were going to manage to make it with the mermaids, dressed so.

By the time
Rosalinda
and
Bloody Neverbudge
(even the Spaniards were calling the ancient ruin by her new name now) were pumped out, Amyas and I, with the help of a couple of seamen, had one end of each long chain secured around the bases of both mainmasts, and the fishing boats were securely lashed alongside both of our hulks. With the amount of water taken out of
Rosalinda,
her hull had risen a couple of feet out of the harbor. Now both old ladies drew less than three feet under their bows.

Soon our little squadron was ready to get underway. Before we cast off the shackles of the hulks' imprisoning mooring lines, Francisco, as I had requested, planted staffs, with Spanish ensigns bent to them, on the sterns of the two hulks. The old ladies shivered with delight and seemed to be charmed at being invited out by a young, good-looking officer of their very own navy—but of course it was only the vibrations of the fishing boats' engines. Let no one ever think that they were thrilled almost out of their keels to be stepping out again, pretty new red and yellow shawls over their shoulders . . .

With a great roar as the fishing boat engines accelerated, and a mighty swirl and churn of mucky harbor water, the hulks moved off, shy and reluctant at first; then, as the fishing boats gently, courteously insisted, and as the lashing lines took up their strain, and after the old ladies and we had glanced around nervously to make sure their slips weren't showing, the whole fleet moved steadily in the forenoon sunshine across the dead-flat water of the harbor.
Rosalinda
and
Bloody Neverbudge
felt the wind in their hair—what was left of it; the jagged, torn, rotted bits of sail still aloft. They sighed with pleasure and delight. I was in
Rosalinda
and Amyas was in the more ancient ship. There was no point in our trying to steer the hulks—their rudders had dropped off, or been removed, long before.

“See you in Miami, Amyas,” I shouted.

“After I've had a look around the Bahamas, as it were!” he sang back over the yards of passing water between us. Both the old ladies jolted at this, as if they imagined we were serious—but of course it was only our passing over the bow wave of a ferry from Formentera. Of course boats don't imagine; of course they don't dream; of course they don't
know.
Any sensible landlubber knows that! What do these sailors, these wandering fools, think the folks of the towns and cities are? Idiots? Romantics?

By the time we got both the hulks' bows alongside the sunken
Dreadnaught,
and both of the long chains into
Dreadnaught
's main hatch and out through her forward hatch, and back to the hulks; and both hulks' cargo holds so full of water that their keels both rested on the harbor bottom; and both chains tautened up around the masts, and the portable pumps again sucking water from the sunken old ladies, it was time for lunch.

Amyas, Francisco, and I, all three of us filthy shipmates, strolled over to Antonio's bodega. We took one of the seamen with us to collect sandwiches for his mates, who stayed and watched the water gush from the diesel pumps, and the two hulks' hulls slowly, slowly rise again, and the cables from the sunken
Dreadnaught
slowly, slowly tauten. Francisco ordered the petty officer to stop the pumps as soon as the cables were dead taut, and to await our return. Such is the life of the owners of a salvage company and a naval officer.

It was obvious, when we reached Antonio's, that the events of the day before, and of the morning, were now common knowledge, but of course distorted out of all proportion. From the loitering ancients outside the door we learned that “communist swine” had “made an attempt on the life of the governor-general, and ought to be castrated.” Antonio insisted that a bomb had been planted in
Dreadnaught,
which the foul murderers had mistaken for
El General
's boat. From Rory O'Boggarty, who sat, as usual, in the back of the bar, in gloomy shadows, a customary bottle of beer in front of him, we received a quote from W.B. Yeats: “Sure,
the center cannot hold . . . and the ceremony of innocence is drowned
 . . .”