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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Simon Fonthill
- Sprache: Englisch
Simon Fonthill, his wife Alice and trusty '352' Jenkins are bound from the Chinese port of Tientsin for Durban, South Africa at the urgent request of Kitchener. The rusty tub that is to take them across the sea does not inspire confidence and, more worryingly, neither does the captain. When matters come to a head, all three must pull together to ensure that their plans and lives aren't wrecked.
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Seitenzahl: 58
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014
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“PIRATES – STARBOARD SIDE!”
A Simon Fonthill Short Story
JOHN WILCOX
For Simon Tompsett, who planted the idea
Contents
“Pirates – Starboard Side!”
The words ‘rust bucket’ sprang to mind as Simon Fonthill stood at the deep-water berth and regarded the ship to which he had just committed himself, his wife Alice and Jenkins, his ex-batman and old comrade, for the next few weeks. The SS Bellingham looked what she was: a tough, stumpy maid-of-all-work cargo steamer, the type that regularly ploughed the ocean highways, binding the British Empire together in this year of 1901.
She lay alongside now in the northern Chinese port of Tientsin nuzzling her salt-stained starboard side against the stonework, as the swell moved her gently in and then out again when the fenders eased her off. The ship’s gangway had years ago lost its shore-side wheels and its edges squeaked as they rubbed against the cobbles. The ship fretted against the berthing ropes as though she was anxious to go to sea again. And perhaps she was, for she was not a thing of beauty in port, where she looked old and out of place. The sea was her element; the ocean, where strength and stamina, not elegance, were required to carry her assorted cargoes from port to faraway port.
Today, her holds were laden with China tea, packed into square wooden boxes, and, studying her now – taking in her bluff bow, her single, strictly vertical funnel, her short masts and derricks – Fonthill felt reassured. Her looks didn’t matter. Bellingham would surely get them safely, if not comfortably, to South Africa.
Alice agreed as, the next day, two rickshaws deposited them at the bottom of the gangway. ‘Not exactly a smart Cunarder,’ she murmured as Jenkins supervised the baggage loading. ‘But she looks as though she can do the job.’
‘Just as well,’ said Simon. ‘There’s nothing else sailing from here that will get us to South Africa before the war against the Boer ends. And we’re not exactly paying ocean-liner fares.’
A sniff announced the return of Jenkins. ‘It don’t look as though it’s big enough to go round the bay at Rhyl,’ he reflected, his Welshness betraying his anxiety. His accent grew more pronounced when this bravest of men – a formidable fighter with fists, knife or rifle – faced water or heights. ‘I think I’d rather walk, if it’s all right with you, bach sir. I’d probably get there first, anyway. Will it float?’
‘Well it’s not sinking now, is it? Don’t be such a ninny. Come on. Let’s find our cabins.’
The word dignified the small cubbyholes that were to be their quarters: a two-bunk, one-washbasin arrangement for Simon and his wife in a deckhouse just abaft the bridge, and a broom cupboard next door for Jenkins.
The Bellingham had just been coaled and Alice ran a disapproving finger along the washbasin to inspect the traces of coal dust. ‘Better than Peking, anyway,’ she sighed. She had been holed up for six weeks in the legation in the Chinese capital during the Boxer Rebellion, which had just been crushed by an international force that had been led to the city by Fonthill and Jenkins. The lifting of the siege had earned Simon worldwide renown and had led to him being urged by General Kitchener, the chief of staff to the commanding officer in South Africa, to sail for the Cape to join him in the war against the Boers.
Simon sat on the top bunk, his feet dangling, as Alice attempted to put away her clothes. He fished out Kitchener’s cable and read it aloud again:
WE NEVER MET IN SUDAN BUT WARMEST CONGRATS ON YOUR WORK IN CHINA STOP WAR WITH BOERS HERE FAR FROM OVER STOP DESPERATELY NEED YOUR HELP FOR URGENT TASK STOP CAN YOU SHIP CAPE TOWN SOONEST STOP LETTER FOLLOWS STOP
Impelled by the general’s note of urgency, Fonthill had cabled his agreement and the trio had left before Kitchener’s letter had arrived, failing to get a liner sailing immediately for South Africa but taking passage instead in the Bellingham, whose captain had not only promised a prompt departure but also a direct, non-stop voyage to Durban in Natal.
‘What the hell can Kitchener mean by “urgent task”?’ mused Simon. ‘As far as I can see from the papers here, the Boer War is as good as over, in spite of what K says.’
‘Yes, well, we all three know the Boers from the war there twenty years ago.’ Alice spoke with difficulty, holding down a blouse between her chin and bosom as she attempted to smooth it. ‘I can’t see those horsemen giving up just because we’ve captured Johannesburg and Pretoria, their main cities. They’ll continue the war from the veldt. You’ll be needed to fight ’em at their own game. Old Kitchener knows you’re not a regular soldier. He’ll be wanting to fight like with like.’
‘Hmm. Well, one thing’s for sure. I don’t want to rejoin the bloody army. And neither will Jenkins.’
With the tide on the flood, they heard the wire ropes being slipped and the ship’s engines begin a slow beat. Bellingham had no need of a tug and the ship gently moved away from her berth under her own steam. That evening the three passengers leant against the ship’s rail and watched the sun set over the Chinese mainland, silhouetting the Chinese junks flitting about the Gulf of Chihli as though they were black cut-outs from a lantern display.
The trio themselves presented an interesting contrast. Alice and Simon were exact contemporaries at forty-five years of age and striking, each in their own way. Fonthill, at five foot nine inches tall, was some four inches taller than his wife. He was trim-waisted after campaigning on the Chinese plain but broad-shouldered. His fair hair was only tinged with grey at the temples and his eyes were a gentle brown, contrasting with his firm jaw. His nose had been broken by a Pathan musket years before and it was now hooked, giving his face a predatory air, perhaps that of a huntsman. Alice was also fair-haired and her face was browned by the sun, quite unlike that of Indian memsahibs who always sheltered their complexions under wide-brimmed hats. Her eyes were a steady grey and only a firmness of jaw prevented her from being beautiful. She, too, had put on no extra ounces from middle age, not least because of the meagre rations that had sustained all of the defenders of Peking.
