Алистер Маклин: The Lonely Sea

‘Take her alongside, Eric, and tie up,’ said George. ‘The presence of a man of tact is called for up there, or I’m much mistaken.’ With that, he leapt ashore and scrambled up the bank to the scene of conflict.

Conflict there undoubtedly was, but it was very one-sided. The man who had been pushing the gate shut, a very large, swarthy, unshaven and ugly customer with the face of a retired prizefighter, continued to close it steadily, contemptuously fending off the redhead with one arm. Such blows as she landed had no effect at all. An elderly and obviously badly frightened lock-keeper hovered nervously in the background. He made no attempt to interfere.

‘Now, now, Mary, me gal,’ the prize-fighter was saying. ‘Temper, temper. Assaulting a poor innocent feller like myself. Shockin’, so it is. A criminal offence.’

‘Leave that dock gate open, Jamieson,’ she cried furiously. ‘There’s plenty of room for two barges, and you know it. Cutting people’s tiller ropes! It’ll cost me an hour if you go through alone. You – you villain.’ The redhead was becoming a trifle confused. She struggled fiercely but to no effect at all.

‘Language, language, my dear.’ Bart grinned wickedly. ‘And tiller ropes’ – he started in large surprise – ‘I don’t know what you are talking about. As for letting your barge in…No-o-o.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘I couldn’t risk my paint.’ He spat fondly in the direction of the battered hulk which lay in the dock below.

‘Can I be of any assistance?’ interrupted George.

‘Beat it, Fancypants,’ said Bart courteously.

‘Oh, go away,’ snapped the redhead.

‘I will not go away. This is my business. This is everybody’s business. An injustice is being done. Leave this to me.’

Jamieson paused in his efforts and regarded George under lowered eyebrows. George ignored him and turned to the redhead.

‘Mary, me gal – er – I mean, Miss – why won’t this ruffian let your barge into the lock?’ he asked.

‘Because, don’t you see, it’ll give him an hour’s start on me. His barge is far older and slower. It’s sixty miles to the Granary yet. He’s determined to get there first, so he’ll use any method to stop me.’ Tears of rage welled up in her eyes.

George turned and faced Black Bart.

‘Open that gate,’ he commanded.

Bart’s mouth fell open, just for a second, then tightened ominously.

‘Run away, sonny,’ he scoffed, ‘I’m busy.’

George removed his yachting cap and placed it carefully on the ground.

‘You leave me no alternative,’ he stated. ‘I shall have to use force.’

Mary clutched his arm. Her blue eyes were no longer hostile, but genuinely concerned.

‘Please go away,’ she pleaded. ‘Please. You don’t know him.’

‘That’s right. Oh please,’ Bart mocked. ‘Tell him what I did to your father.’

‘Silence, woman,’ George ordered. ‘And hold these.’

He thrust his spectacles into her reluctant hand and swung round. Unfortunately, without his glasses, George literally could not distinguish a tramcar from a haystack. But he was too angry to care. His normal calm had completely vanished. He took a quick step forward and lashed out blindly at the place where Black Bart had been when last he had seen him.

But Black Bart was no longer there. He had thoughtfully moved quite some time previously. Further, and unfortunately for George, Black Bart had twenty-twenty vision and no finer feelings whatsoever. A murderous right whistled up and caught George one inch below his left ear. From the point of view of weight and the spirit in which given, it could be in no way compared to the encouraging clap he had so recently received from the Minister of Supply. George rose upwards and backwards, neatly cleared the edge of the lock and, for the second time in the space of an hour, described a graceful parabolic arc into the depths of the Lower Dipworth canal.

The girl, white-faced and trembling, stood motionless for a few seconds, then swung frantically round on Black Bart.

‘You swine,’ she cried. ‘You vicious brute! You’ve killed him. Quickly, quickly – get him out! He’ll drown, he’ll drown!’ The redhead was very close to tears.

Black Bart shrugged indifferently. ‘I should worry,’ he said callously. ‘It’s his own fault.’

Mary, colour returning to her cheeks, looked at him incredulously.

‘But – but you did it! You knocked him in. I saw you.’

‘Self-defence,’ explained Black Bart carefully. ‘I only stumbled against him.’ He smiled slowly, evilly. ‘Besides, I can’t swim.’

Seconds later, another splash broke the stillness of the summer evening. The lady had gone to the rescue of her rescuer.

‘Get off my barge,’ she ordered angrily. ‘I don’t want your help.’

George seated himself more comfortably on the counter of the barge and peacefully surveyed the wooden jetty where the three boats had tied up for the night. He appeared none the worse for the accident of a couple of hours earlier.

‘I will not get off,’ said George, calmly puffing at his pipe. ‘And neither,’ he added, ‘will Eric.’ He indicated his companion who then engaged in viewing the night sky through the bottom of an upturned tankard. ‘Every young lady – especially a young lady struggling to carry on her father’s business – needs protection. Eric and I will look after you.’

‘Protection!’ she scoffed bitterly. ‘Protection!’ George followed her meaningful glance towards the white shorts and green jersey on the line. They were still dripping. ‘You couldn’t take care of a wheelbarrow. Can’t sail, can’t swim, can’t defend yourself – a fine protector you’d make.’ She breathed deaply and with fearful restraint. ‘Get off!’

‘’Ere, ’ere, Miss,’ said the aggrieved Eric, ‘that’s not quite fair. The guv’nor’s no sissy. ’E’s got a medal, ’e ’as.’

‘What did he get it for?’ she queried acidly. ‘Ballroom dancing?’

‘The lady, I’m afraid, Eric, is annoyed,’ said George. ‘Perhaps justifiably so. All dragons,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘are in a state of perpetual annoyance.’

‘What was that?’ the lady demanded sharply.

‘Nothing,’ said George, courteously but firmly. ‘You will now please retire to your bed. No further harm will befall you or your boat. Eric and I,’ he finished poetically, ‘will watch over you to the break of day.’

Mary made as if to protest, hesitated, shrugged her shoulders resignedly, and turned away.

‘Suit yourself,’ she said indifferently. ‘Perhaps,’ she added hopefully, ‘you’ll both catch pneumonia.’

For some time, there followed sounds of movement in the cabin, then the light was switched off. By and by the sound of deep and peaceful slumber drifted up the companionway. It was in many ways a pleasant sound – infinitely so, indeed, in comparison with the obligato of snores already issuing from the two faithful watchers in the stern.

Sleep, however, was not universal. Far from it. Black Bart and his henchman were not only awake, but uncommonly active. The latter had stealthily vanished into the engine room of George’s cruiser: Black Bart himself was squatting on one of the submerged cross-beams bracing the piers of the jetty. Looped over his shoulder were about sixty feet of slender wire hawser. One end was secured to the pier, the other to the rudder of the barge, immediately below the sleeping warriors. The coils he let fall gently to the bottom of the canal.

At 7.00 a.m. the following morning, George and Eric left the barge in a hurry. The frying pan wielded by the redhead was daunting enough, but far more devastating were her scorn and derision.