31

The Lady Hawkins cast off her lines at dusk and eased into the yellow fog of Boston Harbour. The promenade deck was damp and the seagulls appeared and disappeared, screaming and descending with great flapping wings on any debris in the dirty water. MacQueen wore his overcoat and turned up the collar. A sturdy tugboat nudged the bow into the stream, its bells clanging and its long funnel emitting puffs of dark smoke. Its propellers churned the surface, and strange objects bobbed to the surface then sank again to the bottom. A chilly north wind was blowing, and MacQueen backed into the lee of a bulkhead. O’Dwyer had put on tennis shoes and was slowly running around the deck with a towel around his neck. MacQueen cupped a match with a wince and lit a cigarette. Two of the Frenchmen were standing disconsolately in their trench coats with felt hats jammed on their heads. They gesticulated to one another, and both seemed to be talking at the same time.

The pilot blew a mighty blast from the funnel that startled everyone. The terminal disappeared into the vapour, and the chorus of foghorns echoed the scale across the harbour in muffled and continuous cacophony. The captain appeared in a brief flash of gold braid on the port wing of the bridge, then disappeared back into the wheelhouse. They ponderously swung about, then slowly headed for the harbour approaches. The ghostly outlines of anchored merchant ships drifted past them through the mist. In the slow swells at the harbour’s entrance the pilot took his leave, clambering down a rope ladder into a waiting launch. Then the decks commenced to quiver as the engines gained power and the great screws forced the graceful, grey ship out into Massachusetts Bay. Darkness descended, and everyone retreated into the interior. The first officer took over the watch, the blackout was checked by the bosun’s mate, and the ship settled into the long swell of the ocean. Once past Cape Cod it would be rougher, but with a following wind it wouldn’t be too bad.

The bar was open and the ferry pilots were in their usual place. The French group were clustered in a corner drinking wine, the lady still wearing her beret. The room heaved gently and the aproned bartender polished glasses in front of a mirror that reflected back through the double doors and out onto the landing above the stairwell. There stood Admiral Hawkins, resplendent in his cocked hat, looking through a telescope. The railing cut off his lower half, but MacQueen knew it by heart. He wondered what Sergeant Cyples was doing tonight as he studied his own appearance in the bar mirror.

O’Dwyer’s reflection appeared beside MacQueen, who turned around. The American’s face was shining with vigour and his eyes were as deadly as ever. His face was set in his mirthless grin and his shoulders seemed ready to burst from his jacket.

“Have one on me, young fella,” he said. “Two beers.” He held up two fingers to the barman and asked, “What’s your name?”

“Just call me, Kennedy, sir,” said the barman. “Two drafts coming up.” The glasses were tall and tapered to a slight stem before widening into the base. They were cold, and a mere half inch of froth topped the golden liquid. Each glass was ensigned with the CNS house flag.

“You know how to pour, Kennedy,” said O’Dwyer, snapping a five-dollar bill and passing it across the bar. He threw a quick glance at the French table, then looked at the ferry pilots. They had produced a deck of cards, and one was dealing.

“Who are they?” asked O’Dwyer.

MacQueen told him, and he glanced at them again.

“Christ,” he muttered. “All sorts of freaks are for hire these days.” He put a foot on the brass rail and swallowed some beer. “Any music, Kennedy?” he asked.

“I’ve only got a Victrola,” said the bartender. “Sometimes Sparks pipes some music down from WT, but he likes the classical stuff.”

“Let’s hear it,” said O’Dwyer. It was Debussy, and the bartender turned it low. The French table immediately stopped talking and sat in sudden rapture. The card players didn’t notice, and O’Dwyer ignored it. “I like Benny Goodman,” he said. “He played at Carnegie Hall so he must be good. I just know what I like.” He stretched his neck in a nervous gesture and jutted his chin. He had both hands on the bar, with a lot of cuff showing. His black shoes were polished and his heels clicked on the parquet floor. He made MacQueen feel tired even when he was relaxing. The gong rang for dinner.

“Poker tonight in the Garden Lounge,” said one of the ferry pilots. “Everyone is welcome and the stakes aren’t high. We take turns buying the drinks, and no beer.”

The engines rang “full steam ahead” and the ship shuddered more noticeably. The waves had started to crest in the black night, and fog whipped around the lookouts on the wings of the bridge. The captain hovered over his map table, calibrating their new route on the chart. The course was due east from Cape Cod, then angled into Bermuda. The first officer shouted the compass bearings to the helmsman down a brass voice pipe, and his orders were echoed back. The captain had broken open his sealed orders, and he gazed at the final sentence:

Immediately, on any visual sighting, you will take evasive action in the opposite direction.

That would free the field of fire for his four-inch gun, thought Captain Griffith, with a grim smile. At least they won’t blow our own funnel off.

“Steady as she goes,” said the captain. He would have a bite in his quarters and lie, fully clothed, on his bunk.

“Aye aye, sir,” replied the first officer. “I’ll ring for your steward, he’s down below. If anything happens we’ll rouse you right away.”

The Lady Hawkins plunged and bucked through the dark night on this next leg of her voyage south. There were no stars to guide her, and other ships that were afloat wished her no good. There was nothing to be done about it, however, as a Lady can only do her duty. The salt spray hurled itself against the heavy glass windows of the bridge house. The helmsman stood, with his legs apart, tightly grasping the helm, his eye on the great brass compass that swung in a pedestal in front of him. In the engine room, the stokers checked their gauges and wiped their greasy hands on swatches of waste. In the fo’c’sle, the off-duty watch were finishing their supper. A lookout huddled unseeingly on the circular platform of the four-inch gun. And in second class the mother and her children groaned once more and lost all of the food they had eaten while in Boston Harbour. Man’s triumph over the waves is only conditional, and even then he insists on disputing possession of these vast wastes on the surface of the sea.

MacQueen, feeling slightly overdressed in a blue suit, went in to dinner. In the old days, everyone had worn dinner jackets or mess jackets, and the ladies wore long dresses. At eighteen he was already a throwback.