A Ravel of Waters

'A political captain makes a half-assed sailing captain,' said Brockton.

'If Grohman is not aboard Jetwind when I arrive tomorrow,I sail without him,' I said. 'The more I hear of him, his intrigues and his political involvements, the less I like him.'

'I wouldn't say Grohman isn't a good sailor,' answered Lund. 'But he's a true-blue Argentinian — half-Spanish, half-Scots. In addition, there's wild, dangerous blood in him, probably Indian. The mixture could produce strange characteristics.'

'Thanks for the tip,' I replied. 'But I think I know how to handle him.' Lund flashed a grin at Brockton. 'I reckon you would.'

The two youngsters suddenly appeared carrying a bell. Lund gave them some coins and handed the bell to me.

'This ship's bell comes from the wreck of an old barque which has lain beached in the Straits of Magellan for donkey's years. Her name was the Ambassador; the man who built her also happened to be named Lund. No relation that I know of. I salvaged her bell a long time ago, just for the hell of it. Now I'd like you to have it for Jetwind. I said Jetwind has divided public opinion. Down here in the south we're mostly of Scots and British descent — we're on your side, Captain Rainier. The bell's sort of to wish you good luck. You manage to get that ship out of Port Stanley and you'll have every mother's son in these parts doing a Highland Fling for you.' 'I'll manage all right,' I said. 'Who's going to stop me?'

Lund was looking over my shoulder. He made a quick silencing gesture and stood up. I pivoted round. A man was striding on to the patio. He was carrying a silver-handled riding crop, a rebenque the Argentinians call it, as I learned later. The whiteness of his officer's cap accentuated his swarthiness and dark, over-large, penetrating eyes. Deep lines from nostril to chin might have been tooled into his lean cheeks by riding the pampas or standing sea watch. He was young — about my age. But his ancient Indian blood had made the handsome Spaniard in him prematurely mature.

'Senor Grohman,' said Lund. 'May I introduce Captain Peter Rainier, who, I believe, is taking over command of Jetwind?’

Brockton and I were sitting next to one another — Lun,d's half-turned introductory gesture included us both.

Grohman stopped short and slapped his leg with the whip. 'Which of you is Rainier?'

I remained still and regarded the angry face. I said emphatically, 'Mister Grohman, let's get this straight. I am Captain Rainier — understand?'

I heard Brockton gasp; Robbie Lund moved out of the line of possible cross-fire. 'On whose authority are you taking over?'

I kept my cool despite his provocative air and tapping whip.

'Just pick up the nearest phone and call Axel Thomsen in Cape Town. I have his number right here. I was with him only last night. He'll be more than delighted to establish contact with the man who blew Jetwind's chances. He's been trying to get hold of you ever since you inexplicably put into Port Stanley.' That stopped his tap-tapping and his hectoring air.

I added, 'If you want on-the-spot proof, I have a letter of appointment signed by Axel Thomsen. However, I don't have to parade my credentials to you or anyone else. I am captain of Jetwind, and I stay that way.'

Grohman shifted his ground at my tone. He indicated Brockton. 'Who's this man?'

'I could be anyone.' There was a strange note in Brockton's voice which I was to recall later. For the moment, though, I was fully preoccupied with Grohman. 'But I happen to be an American newspaper-man.'

'Sit down, Grohman,' I continued. 'We have a lot to talk about.'

Lund seemed quite anxious to leave the battle-field, and moved away.

Grohman threw the ornate whip on the table like a gauntlet of defiance and sat down.

'First,' I said to him, 'get this absolutely clear. Mr Thomsen didn't specifically ask me to fire you but he gave me blanket authority to do what I wished in the best interests of Jetwind. I'll beach you here and now if you don't behave more like a ship's officer than a Mafia strongarm boy. I don't like that whip. Get rid of it before anything else.'

Our eyes locked. They seemed to stay that way for minutes. Watch out for that Indian blood, a bell rang at the back of my brain, or he'll come at you with a knife.

But he didn't, although I was ready to hit him — hard. Instead, he pulled in his breath like a deep sigh as if he'd reached some inner decision which hurt him but which was expedient. He thrust the whip out of sight under the table.

His truculence had not wholly disappeared, however, He said, 'If this man's a reporters I don't want him listening to a private conversation.'

Brockton half-rose. 'Hold it, Paul.' I told Grohman, 'He stays.' I indicated the bottle, 'Paul,' I added. 'See if you can find us some Scotch. I can't stand more of that sweet stuff’

Grohman seemed willing to take me up on any issues even Argentinian wine. 'It is the best wine we have,'

'That may be, but it still doesn't make me like it. It's sweet and jammy. Ask Robbie Lund for Scotch.' 'It'll be a pleasure,' grinned Brockton.

'Now then, Grohman,' I said when he had gone. Tor the moment we'll skip the motivation — or lack of it — which landed you in Port Stanley. Once there, however, your duty was to stick with the ship, not to flip-flap round South America where no one could contact you. What in hell's name made you leave?'

His lean body started to surge forward in anger; it cost him an effort to hold himself in check. There was a kind of suppressed fire about the man. I thought he could be dangerous with a little provocation. Nevertheless, I had no intention of soft-soaping him.

He chose his words. 'I had an obligation to inform the Argentinian authorities.'

'Are you crazy? An obligation to inform foreign authorities about Jetwind's activities in a British port! What the devil has Jetwind got to do with Argentina? Your authorities were difficult enough about granting my "white card" when they heard I was Jetwind's new skipper.' 'That police officer will lose his job for granting it.'

That jolted me. 'How would you know? It only happened this morning.'

The slightest sneer tugged at the left-hand corner of his mouth. 'I have friends.'

'It seems so, Grohman. They seem more important than sticking to your job. What is behind all this coming and going?'

My tone needled him into replying just as Paul arrived with the Scotch. Grohman stuck to the wine. He banged down his glass angrily.

'I was doing what was right. You do not understand — or you do not even want to understand — how delicate the political situation is over the question of the Falklands.'

'There's enough about it written over every wall in town,' I observed.

'Las Malvinas son nuestras!' he echoed heatedly. 'Who first sighted the Falklands a century before the British ever came near — a Spaniard, Americo Vespucci, in 1502…'

Brockton said over his glass, 'Vespucci wasn't a Spaniard. He was a Florentine.'

The derision in my snort was like throwing petrol on a fire to Grohman. Now and then he stumbled to find an English word as his speech free-wheeled angrily.

'Maybe, maybe, but he sailed for Spain, Vespucci did. It was also he who discovered the Tierra San Martin long before the British or Americans, nearly three centuries later…'

'Tierra San Martin?' I asked. 'Where now would that be?'

'He means what the rest of the world calls the Antarctic Peninsula,' Brockton filled in ironically. 'All nations agreed to standardize the name in the sixties. Except Argentina.'

I was glad to have Paul to support me in this verbal duel. He seemed to be particularly well informed for a newspaper-man.

'For a hundred and fifty years we have been wronged,' Grohman went on, knocking over the wine bottle with a vehement gesture of his left hand. 'The Malvinas originally belonged to Spain. They were stolen by the British! After the Spanish colonies in the New World had revolted against Spain, the Malvinas passed legally to the new United Provinces of La Plata and we tried to occupy them — legally…'