He came to where Vargas’s boat bobbed at the foot of a ladder. It was a motor-launch, not very clean but serviceable. Vargas owned the boat and plied for hire. His bread and butter trade consisted of taking patrons of Phizackerly’s and similar establishments back to their ships. At this time of day however, business was non-existent unless you went out and actively sought it. Vargas preferred to sleep under the awning he had rigged aft over the well.
Phizackerly climbed down the ladder and nudged Vargas awake with his toe. Vargas rubbed at his face and said politely, “It is good to see you, Fizzy.”
“You’re a lazy bastard.” Phizackerly sat in the stem. “Let’s ’ave a run around the pool.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I want to.”
“But it is business, yes? You don’t go around the pool for nothing so it is business and I wonder what may be in it for me, so I ask why?”
“For you? You’ll get paid.”
“Ah! I get paid.”
“You always get paid.”
“Ha!”
“And anyway,” Phizackerly settled back comfortably, “if it hadn’t been for me you wouldn’t be in the position you’re in today with your own boat and able to kip through the day. Living like a lord you are and you owe it all to me and don’t you forget it.”
“I will never forget it because each day for fifteen years you remind me.”
Phizackerly did not answer that. A shadow crossed his face at the reminder of the passage of time. Fifteen years since he had —
Vargas said uneasily, “Hey! It was a joke.”
Phizackerly remembered that it had been hard work, out for long hours at all hours and in all weathers. Now he could go to bed drunk like a gentleman, wake for Juanita in the dawn and turn over again afterwards. He was a practical man. He flashed his teeth pink and white at Vargas. “’Course. Get on with it.”
And when Vargas started the engine and they puttered out into the basin Phizackerly said, “’Ave a scout round the old Thunder.”
“We can’t go close unless you keep under the awning. That Captain, he said he’d sink us if you went alongside again.”
Phizackerly said seriously, “I have some sad news. He’s dead.”
“Dead? Ah. That is very sad.” Vargas cheered up a little but then said, “There is still that First Lieutenant.”
“He isn’t Captain. The new Captain is new.”
“Ah-ah!”
“Ah-ah yourself. Get on.”
So they cruised slowly around Thunder where she lay at anchor and Phizackerly took care to stay in the shelter of the awning. He saw Lieutenant Miles had the watch and Garrick was on the bridge. He knew them both; too well. He said nostalgically, “Still, I sometimes miss them days when you was running me out to the ships.” Because that was how Vargas bought the launch, by working Phizackerly’s pilot cutter for him. “Sometimes I even wish they were back, them days.”
Vargas thought he was lying or mad. He knew Phizackerly very well and thought the odds were all on that he was lying. He crossed himself and said, “Sometimes, so do I.”
Phizackerly saw Cherry’s boat leave the quay and head for Thunder. He pointed and Vargas swung the launch around Thunder’s stern and tucked her in alongside Cherry’s boat at the foot of the accommodation ladder. As the side-boy carried up the suitcase Phizackerly nipped across the Consul’s boat and up the ladder with a facility born of years of practice.
Smith stood by the entry port, abstracted, uneasy.
Phizackerly appeared, grey topper in hand as he stepped on to Thunder’s deck. With the other hand he whisked a garishly printed handbill from a sheaf in the tail pocket of his coat and slapped it in the hand of the startled boy manning the side. He whispered hoarsely, “Special rates for young fellers.” And winked lewdly. The boy gaped.
Phizackerly tucked the topper under his arm and ducked his head in a little bow. “G’morning, Captain.” He swept the ship in one swift, fore and aft approving glance. “Ah! What a pleasure to tread the deck of a King’s ship again. Fine ship you have, sir. Fine ship. Does you credit, sir.”
Smith said cautiously, “Thank you, Mister —?”
“Phizackerly, sir.” He stepped forward and held out a skinny hand. Smith took it and found it a hard, dry claw. “Arnold Phizackerly. A prominent member of the British business community here. Entrepreneur an’ impresario.”
“What?”
Garrick came stalking and rasped in cold explanation, “Brothel keeper, sir.”
“Oh?” Smith was off-balance a second, then amused. As he stared at the cheekily absurd little man and thought, ‘Brassnecked little devil,’ he had a strong temptation to laugh. It seemed a long time since he had laughed.
He showed no outward sign of amusement but Phizackerly sensed a lack of animosity and seized the opportunity. A number of men had found work in the vicinity and were listening. He said, “It takes all kinds, as you might say, sir. And the door of my house, Fizzy’s Palace of Entertainment, is always open.” It seemed that in an abstracted moment the handbills slipped from his fingers and scattered on the breeze, to be rescued by the men. “I reckon I provide a little bit of old England, a little bit of home, for these lads and that means a lot.”
Garrick said, “Any lad I catch coming out of your whorehouse will certainly find it means a lot. It’s out of bounds and has been for over a year.”
Phizackerly pretended not to hear; he was there to try to have the ban lifted. “I know what it means because I had the honour to serve the old Queen, Gawd Bless Her. Wearing the Widder’s clo’es as you might say.”
Garrick said, “He deserted from a line Regiment.”
Phizackerly did not bat an eyelid. “So when I had to leave the sea-faring profession my first thought was to use my little bit o’ savings to make a little bit of England out here.”
Smith asked, “You were a seaman?”
Garrick plugged remorselessly, “He was a river pilot.”
Phizackerly finally acknowledged him. “That’s right, Mr. Garrick, pilot.” And to Smith, this time with genuine pride, “I was the first pilot here back in ’ninety-two when they opened the copper mines. I found the channel and brought the first ship in with me own hands and after that it was me an’ the pilots as worked for me, apprentices like, and nothing moved in or out of this port without us. Not until they bought the dredger and had the short channel dredged out, that’s the one they use today. And they talk about the mist of a morning at the mouth of this river! Why, in my time —”
He had to pause for breath and Garrick admitted grudgingly, “That’s true. Only he and his pilots could thread that channel and he made a fortune before the mining company decided it would be cheaper to buy the dredger.”
Phizackerly had finally made a point but he threw it away. Smiling paternally at the young Commander he said, “Why bless you, sir, I’ve had more fine ships through my hands than you’ve had fine women.” He heard the catch of Miles’s breath, saw the expression of bad-tempered dislike on Garrick’s face replaced by no expression at all, and he saw Smith’s lips tighten and the pale blue eyes grow hard. He knew he had gone badly wrong. He said cheerfully, but watchful, apprehensive, “Just a joke, sir. To make me point, as it were.”
Smith smiled at him and Phizackerly did not like it. “You’ve made your point, Mr. Phizackerly, and now I’ll make mine. The next time you set foot on this ship I will throw you into the cells or over the side. That is a promise.”
He was still smiling and he had spoken quietly but Phizackerly found comfort in neither. He lifted the topper before his narrow chest like a shield and mumbled, “Time I was getting away.” He retreated behind the cover of the top-hat, clapped it on his head as his feet found the ladder and dropped from sight.