"How does Barkway come into this?"
"He carries her accordion home, sir."
The Captain sighed. "All right. I think I've got the picture. Well, Barkway's in trouble. And if he misses the ship, he'll be in trouble with the British Consul as well as me."
"Sir," said Brotherhood formally.
"What is it?"
"Could I slip ashore and make a phone call?"
"Yes, but be quick."
"Yes, sir." As Brotherhood backed away, intent on whatever sort of rescue operation he had in mind, he said: "Here's Mr. Mansell, sir."
There were times when the Captain, looking at Tim Mansell, his Fourth and junior Officer, was seized with an almost violent wish to be twenty-four again, full of the vitality and the incomprehensible optimism of youth; and other times when he thanked his stars that he was quit of such nonsense for good. If the Captain had any favourites among his four deck officers, three apprentices, and sixteen engineers, it was Mansell; though the latter would scarcely have guessed it during nine-tenths of his working day, when he seemed to draw as much invective, scorn, and impatient correction from the Captain as from anyone else in authority, including First Officer Tiptree-Jones.
But though he was the dog's-body on board the Alcestis (for so he phrased it ruefully, and so it was phrased for him, when there was any question of overtime on watch or extra duty in harbour), yet he was a resilient young man, and seemed to thrive on it. His boyish good looks always made him a great favourite with passengers; above all, he had that unassailable good humour, that intense physical well-being, which could carry young men of his age past any danger, any despair short of death itself. It was obvious that he loved the life of a sailor, that he loved the sea; there was on his face now a glowing satisfaction that they were about to set out on another voyage, another adventure—and this time to the Caribbean, to Africa! The Captain did not find the feeling infectious, but he found it endearing. If he had had sons, he would have hoped to have such a one as this. Though that did not mean that he would have spared the rod, at any time.
Tim Mansell was smiling, entirely without reason, as he said:
"Sir, the Purser's compliments, and Mr. and Mrs. Tillotson have just come on board."
"Are they being looked after properly?"
"Yes, sir. Purser's shown them to their suite."
The Captain nodded. "What are they like, Fourth?"
"Rather small, sir. But lots of luggage."
For some reason the Captain found that an entirely adequate picture of the Tillotsons.
"All right," he said. "I'll come down in a minute."
"Very good, sir." Mansell turned to go.
"And Fourth—"
"Yes, sir?"
"See that you sweat up on navigation, this voyage."
"Oh yes, sir!"
"Yours is terrible. Worst I've ever seen. You'll never get a mate's ticket at this rate."
"I'll work on it, sir."
"See that you do." He nodded in dismissal, and Tim Mansell strode off down the passageway as if making straight for his books.
Left alone once more, the Captain thought briefly of the Tillotsons. "Small, with lots of luggage"—the description fitted countless passengers who thronged the Alcestis, year in and year out. Small men made money—it was a law of nature, it failed only with ship's captains. . . . Pursers made money, too; pursers, chief stewards, and head-barmen. It was another law of nature, with the same mortifying exception. But if his own purser were looking after the Tillotsons, then the Tillotsons were getting the full treatment, the way he wanted it. A good purser, money-maker or not, was in many ways the mainspring of a ship, and Alcestis had one of the best.
There was a quick step in the passageway, reminding him that even short daydreams were out of place, so close to sailing time. It was Brotherhood returning again, breathing rather heavily with the effort of speed.
"Well?" asked Captain Harmer curtly.
'Barkway's on his way now, sir."
"I should bloody well think so!"
"His alarm didn't go off, sir."
"I'll make his alarm go off," said the Captain grimly. But secretly he was pleased at the outcome. A man left on shore, particularly at the beginning of a long voyage, was a damned nuisance, posing endless problems with reports, cables, and explanations; everyone from the Labour Exchange to the local Consulate General had to hear about it in triplicate. At least he had been saved all that bother.
He was pleased in another way also, on a less official plane. Barkway had been rescued from really bad trouble by a shipmate on board the Alcestis. Harmer was always glad to know that his crew were ready to dig each other out of such holes as these. It marked the difference between a crew, and a collection of six hundred and forty-two men. Essential during the war, it often proved a blessing in peacetime also.
Brotherhood, seeing the Captain relaxed, less grim of brow, added:
"Sir, the First Officer told me to tell you, the other passengers you were waiting for just came aboard."
"The Beckwiths?"
"That's them, sir."
Captain Harmer picked up his cap.
"All right. I'm going aft. Let me know when the pilot comes on board."
"Very good, sir."
"And give him a drink if I'm not here. One."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll be in the Princess Suite. Or next door in A6."
It was time to start wooing the customers.
2
In a broadening, talkative stream, the passengers moved along the quay, up the gangway, and into the warm embrace of the Alcestis. For them, preparing to escape New York's raw winter air, she was more than a handsome ship; she was the whole promise of the future, she was spring and summer rolled into one. Once aboard her, and in a few hours—days at the most—they would be installed in a glamorous tropical haven where nothing could harm them. No ship ever sailed without excitement and expectancy, but this was something special. For when the Alcestis sailed, she sailed straight into paradise, and everyone knew it.
Among the passengers and their friends, some were frolicsome— it was only three o'clock, farewell lunches had a tendency to prolong themselves, and precautions had to be taken against bars which could not legally be open for business until the ship sailed. Some, again, were sad—almost incomprehensibly, until one remembered that, like weddings and christenings, all sailings were vaguely sad. Some were efficient and determined, others dropped their tickets and mislaid their hand luggage. Some were blase, some were impressed. But they all had one thing in common. There was a prosperous air about this invasion which stuck out like a church spire on Wall Street. These were solid citizens on the move, and everything about them—the complicated cameras, the pigskin luggage, the voices, the massive purple orchid-corsages—proclaimed it at full strength.
Above the gangway, discreetly masked by a boat-awning, a handful of young officers, Tim Mansell among them, watched with care as the passengers trooped aboard. They were gauging the ordeal of their future.
It was in many ways a crucial moment. From this time onwards, they were assigned to full-time duty; company rules dictated that for the next eighty days they had to exert themselves at every conceivable aspect of shipboard sociality, from playing bingo to escorting shore-trips, from shuffleboard to fancy dress, from deck-tennis in the sun to cha-cha in the twilight. They had, in fact, to knock themselves out amusing the customers, and they wanted to see which, if any, of the customers might possibly repay the trouble. It was a time-honoured embarkation drill known as "inspecting the talent". Though other company rules, less explicit but formidably clear, forbade them to compete with the male paying passengers in the realm of love, yet there was always a chance that the male paying passengers—so ancient, so decrepit, so indisputably over thirty years of age—might not recognize a good thing when they saw one. The phrase for this particular slice of good luck—"broaching the cargo"— did not need elaboration in any ship over 500 tons.