Freeman Wills Crofts - The Pit-Prop Syndicate

Hilliard was waiting at the platform barrier.

‘Hallo, old man,’ he cried. ‘Jolly to see you. Give me one of your handbags. I’ve got a taxi outside.’

Merriman handed over the smallest of the two small suit-cases he carried, having, in deference to Hilliard’s warnings, left behind most of the things he wanted to bring. They found the taxi and drove out at once across the great stone bridge leading from the Bastide Station and suburb on the east bank to the main city on the west. In front of them lay the huge concave sweep of quays fronting the Garonne, here a river of over a quarter of a mile in width, with behind the massed buildings of the town, out of which here and there rose church spires and, farther down-stream, the three imposing columns of the Place des Quinconces.

‘Some river, this,’ Merriman said, looking up and down the great sweep of water.

‘Rather. I have the Swallow ’longside a private wharf farther up-stream. Rather tumbled down old shanty, but it’s easier than mooring in the stream and rowing out. We’ll go and leave your things aboard, and then we can come up town again and get some dinner.’

‘Right-o,’ Merriman agreed.

Having crossed the bridge they turned to the left, up-stream, and ran along the quays towards the south. After passing the railway bridge the taxi swung down towards the water’s edge, stopping at a somewhat decrepit enclosure over the gate of which was the legend ‘Andre Leblanc, Location de Canots’. Hilliard jumped out, paid the taxi man, and, followed by Merriman, entered the enclosure.

It was a small place, with a wooden quay along the river frontage and a shed at the opposite side. Between the two lay a number of boats. Trade appeared to be bad, for there was no life about the place and everything was dirty and decaying.

‘There she is,’ Hilliard cried, with a ring of pride in his voice. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’

The Swallow was tied up alongside the wharf, her bow up-stream, and lay tugging at her mooring ropes in the swift run of the ebb tide. Merriman’s first glance at her was one of disappointment. He had pictured a graceful craft of well-polished wood, with white deck planks, shining brass work and cushioned seats. Instead he saw a square-built, clumsy looking boat, painted, where the paint was not worn off, a sickly greenish white, and giving a general impression of dirt and want of attention. She was flush-decked, and sat high in the water, with a freeboard of nearly five feet. A little forward of amidships was a small deck cabin containing a brass wheel and binnacle. Aft of the cabin, in the middle of the open space of the deck, was a skylight, the top of which formed two short seats placed back to back. Forward rose a stumpy mast carrying a lantern cage near the top, and still farther forward, almost in the bows, lay an unexpectedly massive anchor, housed in grids, with behind it a small hand winch for pulling in the chain.

‘We had a bit of a blow coming round the Coubre into the river,’ Hilliard went on enthusiastically, ‘and I tell you she didn’t ship a pint. The cabin bone dry, and green water coming over her all the time.’

Merriman could believe it. Though his temporary home was not beautiful, he could see that she was strong; in fact, she was massive. But he thanked his stars he had not assisted in the test. He shuddered at the very idea, thinking gratefully that to reach Bordeaux the Paris-Orleans Railway was good enough for him.

But, realising it was expected of him, he began praising the boat, until the unsuspecting Hilliard believed him as enthusiastic as himself.

‘Yes, she’s all of that,’ he agreed. ‘Come aboard and see the cabin.’

They descended a flight of steps let into the front of the wharf, wet, slippery, ooze-covered steps left bare by the receding tide, and, stepping over the side entered the tiny deck-house.

‘This is chart-house, shelter, and companion-way all in one,’ Hilliard explained. ‘All the engine controls come up here, and I can reach them with my left hand while steering with my right.’ He demonstrated as he spoke, and Merriman could not but agree that the arrangements were wonderfully compact and efficient.

‘Come below now,’ went on the proud owner, disappearing down a steep flight of steps against one wall of the house.

The hull was divided into three compartments; amidships the engine room with its twin engines, forward a store containing among other things a collapsible boat, and aft a cabin with lockers on each side, a folding table between them, and a marble-topped cupboard on which was a Primus stove.

The woodwork was painted the same greenish white as the outside, but it was soiled and dingy, and the whole place looked dirty and untidy. There was a smell of various oils, paraffin predominating.

‘You take the port locker,’ Hilliard explained. ‘You see, the top of it lifts and you can stow your things in it. When there are only two of us we sleep on the lockers. You’ll find a sheet and blankets inside. There’s a board underneath that turns up to keep you in if she’s rolling; not that we shall want it until we get to the Mediterranean. I’m afraid,’ he went on, answering Merriman’s unspoken thought, ‘the place is not very tidy. I hadn’t time to do much squaring—I’ll tell you about that later. I suppose’—reluctantly—‘we had better turn to and clean up a bit before we go to bed. But’—brightening up again—‘not now. Let’s go up town and get some dinner as soon as you are ready.’

He fussed about, explaining with the loving and painstaking minuteness of the designer as well as the owner, the various contraptions the boat contained, and when he had finished, Merriman felt that, could he but remember his instructions, there were few situations with which he could not cope or by which he could be taken unawares.

A few minutes later the two friends climbed once more up the slippery steps, and, strolling slowly up the town, entered one of the large restaurants in the Place de la Comedie.

Since Merriman’s arrival Hilliard had talked vivaciously, and his thin, hawk-like face had seemed even more eager than the wine merchant had ever before seen it. At first the latter had put it down to the natural interest of his own arrival, the showing of the boat to a newcomer, and the start of the cruise generally, but as dinner progressed he began to feel there must be some more tangible cause for the excitement his friend was so obviously feeling. It was not Merriman’s habit to beat about the bush.

‘What is it?’ he asked during a pause in the conversation.

‘What is what?’ returned Hilliard, looking uncomprehendingly at his friend.

‘Wrong with you. Here you are, jumping about as if you were on pins and needles and gabbling at the rate of a thousand words a minute. What’s all the excitement about?’

‘I’m not excited,’ Hilliard returned seriously, ‘but I admit being a little interested by what has happened since we parted that night in London. I haven’t told you yet. I was waiting until we had finished dinner and could settle down. Let’s go and sit in the Jardin and you shall hear.’

Leaving the restaurant, they strolled to the Place des Quinconces, crossed it, and entered the Jardin Public. The band was not playing and, though there were a number of people about, the place was by no means crowded, and they were able to find under a large tree set back a little from one of the walks, two vacant chairs. Here they sat down, enjoying the soft evening air, warm, but no longer too warm, and watching the promenading Bordelais.

‘Yes,’ Hilliard resumed as he lit a cigar, ‘I have had quite an interesting time. You shall hear. I got hold of Maxwell of the telephones, who is a yachtsman, and who was going to Spain on holidays. Well, the boat was laid up at Southampton, and we got down about midday on Monday week. We spent that day overhauling her and getting in stores, and on Tuesday we ran down Channel, putting into Dartmouth for the night and to fill up with petrol. Next day was our big day—across to Brest, something like 170 miles, mostly open sea, and with Ushant at the end of it—a beastly place, generally foggy and always with bad currents. We intended to wait in the Dart for good weather, and we wired the Meteorological Office for forecasts. It happened that on Tuesday night there was a first-rate forecast, so on Wednesday we decided to risk it. We slipped out past the old castle at Dartmouth at 5 a.m., had a topping run, and were in Brest at seven that evening. There we filled up again, and next day, Thursday, we made St Nazaire, at the mouth of the Loire. We had intended to make a long day of it on Friday and come right here, but as I told you it came on to blow a bit off the Coubre, and we could only make the mouth of the river. We put in to a little place called Le Verdon, just inside the Pointe de Grave—that’s the end of that fork of land on the southern side of the Gironde Estuary. On Saturday we got here about midday, hunted round, found that old wharf and moored. Maxwell went on the same evening to Spain.’