A Ship's Tale Read Free

government officials get their way, they’ll take them out for target practise. And still another tap-dancing political twit thinks she’d make a fine pub if they put her up dry!”
    â€œYou mean permanent dry dock?” I asked.
    â€œAye,” he said sadly.
    â€œWell, I suppose that’s better than the other two options.”
    â€œThat’s no bloody option at all!” he cried. “This ship belongs on the water and nae here getting weather beaten by the North Sea gales. Well, it’s a mercy that at least the auld barque on the seaward side still makes a fair breakwater. Never wished any ship harm, except them German ones. She was slammin’ into baith o’ these, so we sank her to the mud, and a good job too.”
    â€œYou sank her?” I exclaimed.
    â€œYou ask a lot o’ questions, young man. For all I know you’re in with some o’ those government officials.”
    â€œI’ve got no reason to lie to you sir. I told you, I just returned —”
    â€œAye, aye from the War. I heard ye. Can’t be too careful. Anyway, I expect ye’re too young.”
    â€œToo young! Too young for what?” I said, bristling.
    â€œTo be one of those government officials,” he growled. “Are ye nae listening, lad?”
    â€œYes, well, I just wasn’t sure what you meant,” I said. I hadn’t the slightest idea what he was on about and was about to tell him to put a sock in it.
    He gave me a quizzical look. “What did ye think I meant, eh? Here, just what is your name, laddie?”
    â€œFlynn,” I said, putting out my hand.
    â€œRight,” he answered. “And Bowman’s mine.” He wiped his hand on his trousers and extended it to me. His grip was as firm and rough as his words. “Now answer me, Flynn. What was it you thought I meant? Eh, lad?”
    â€œI thought you meant I was too young to understand the way you feel, and it isn’t so. When I was fifteen, I sailed with the maritime service on the Jackson , a four-masted barque, training for entry into the Merchant Navy. I put in some good years, and just when I was ready to qualify, along came Hitler. I finished up as a lieutenant aboard a destroyer in the North Atlantic, escorting convoys. Wretched duty, that was.”
    The old man’s mouth opened as if to speak, and then clamped down on his pipe. He sat quietly reflecting behind clouds of smoke. I hoped he had developed a bit of respect for me for the training I’d received, along with the dangers I’d faced. To this he said nothing.
    I could hear only the sounds of the water and the creaking of the ship. The old man sat with eyes fixed, gazing within and beyond. The late afternoon sun was fading, and a fog was forming out beyond Sheerness. Still he took scant notice, and sat without a word. I could hardly continue sitting near without trying to make some conversation, so I pondered exactly what to say. I stood up and stretched, looking at the masts towering above us.
    â€œKind of romantic, the era of sail,” I said, then stopped, realising how trite that sounded.
    The old man jumped up as if he’d been stung by a bee. “Romantic!” he cried. “Romantic? Aloft, hauling in wet canvas sail in a damned cold ocean gale, hands so frozen they can hardly grip, with only the wind at yer back holding ye against the yardarms, hoping ye can make it down the ratlines without taking a fall to the pitching deck below? Ye hae a damn strange idea of romance, Flynn. Little wonder ye’re not married.”
    â€œI didn’t know it showed,” I said in surprise.
    â€œIt does,” he answered.
    â€œAnd you?”
    He knocked the ash from his pipe and refilled it before speaking. “Thirty-two years we were,” he said at last in a low voice. “Lost her in the bombing. Stayed in London where we thought it safe. And at first Hitler only sent his packages over to