very absence of required lights would be cause enough to stop her.
The wheelhouse roof was just above his waist level. Stooping, he peered through the side window and saw the silhouette of a mariner in a peaked cap. He knocked.
The man at the wheel gestured to him to enter. He had to crouch to enter and climb down a short ladder to reach the deck inside.
“Sir, I’m Patrick—”
“No names,” growled the skipper.
“Right-oh. I mean, aye, sir. But I’m supposed to be meeting a man….”
“The Irishman.”
“Is he aboard?”
“Nope. Waiting ashore.”
“Oh.” While not exactly gushing, the skipper didn’t seem actually hostile. Patrick ventured a question. “May I ask why the wheelhouse is lower than the main deck?”
“So there’s somewhere to duck down when the bullets start flying.”
“Gosh, I’d hoped the stories I’ve heard were exaggerated. The Coast Guard actually shoot to kill?”
“Ayup. Leastways, I don’t say they mean to kill, but when you turn a machine gun on a manned ship, accidents happen.”
“I suppose so.”
“Even with bulletproof glass and armour plating.”
“Which she has?”
“Purpose-built.”
Patrick was silent for a moment, contemplating the degree of adventure he was encountering. “Are you … er … are we expecting to meet any Coast Guard ships?”
“Regular patrol cutter hereabouts is paid off. Shore station likewise. But there’s no knowing where they’ll pop up. We can outrun ’em, given half a chance, even their new cutters.”
“I thought your engines sounded sweet. Where do you intend to land the stuff?”
“No names. We’ll get you where you’re bound. You don’t need to know how.”
“Sorry!”
Patrick expected to be dismissed ignominiously to join the crew. However, the nameless captain ignored him henceforth. After waiting for a few minutes, he found a stool and sat down, leaning back against the rear window. He even managed to sink into an uneasy doze without falling off the stool.
He dreamt he was standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, with motor-car horns blaring all around him. The noise woke him.
A brilliant white light flooded the small cabin. The moon? No, much too bright, and it moved with a disconcerting unsteadiness. “What …?” he asked, confused.
“Get down! Last thing we need is them to find a limey aboard. Go nap on those sacks.” The captain pointed at a pile in the corner. “Pull one over you. If you’re questioned, you’re my sister’s deaf-mute boy.”
“Aye, sir.” As Patrick ducked below window level and scuttled over to the sacks, a Klaxon horn bellowed again, followed by a loud-hailer.
“Ahoy,
Barleycorn!
U.S. Coast Guard. Stand by to be boarded.”
The beam of the searchlight remained on the wheelhouse. “Damn their eyes!” the captain swore. “It’s illegal to throw a searchlight on the bridge of a ship! Pity I’m in no position to report them, though if it comes to trial….” He let roll a slew of oaths but throttled back the engine. He hauled himself up the short ladder to the main deck.
Huddled among the sacks, which smelled of a curious mixture of fish, spirits, and tar, Patrick heard only fragments of the ensuing conversation.
“… Double-crossing whoreson skunk …”
“Hey, take it easy. Me and the boys just figured …”
“… Had a deal …”
“… Spare a coupla crates …”
Concluding that he was not going to be arrested in the immediate future, Patrick stopped cowering and made himself as comfortable as possible on his odiferous bed. He was half-asleep again by the time the captain returned with another man.
“Greedy bastard’s made us run late,” the captain growled. He resumed his post at the wheel and the purr of the engines swelled. “It’ll be daylight before we’re in signalling distance.”
“What we need’s one of those radio transmitters,” said the other in the dogmatic tone of one who was repeating oft-unheeded
The wheelhouse roof was just above his waist level. Stooping, he peered through the side window and saw the silhouette of a mariner in a peaked cap. He knocked.
The man at the wheel gestured to him to enter. He had to crouch to enter and climb down a short ladder to reach the deck inside.
“Sir, I’m Patrick—”
“No names,” growled the skipper.
“Right-oh. I mean, aye, sir. But I’m supposed to be meeting a man….”
“The Irishman.”
“Is he aboard?”
“Nope. Waiting ashore.”
“Oh.” While not exactly gushing, the skipper didn’t seem actually hostile. Patrick ventured a question. “May I ask why the wheelhouse is lower than the main deck?”
“So there’s somewhere to duck down when the bullets start flying.”
“Gosh, I’d hoped the stories I’ve heard were exaggerated. The Coast Guard actually shoot to kill?”
“Ayup. Leastways, I don’t say they mean to kill, but when you turn a machine gun on a manned ship, accidents happen.”
“I suppose so.”
“Even with bulletproof glass and armour plating.”
“Which she has?”
“Purpose-built.”
Patrick was silent for a moment, contemplating the degree of adventure he was encountering. “Are you … er … are we expecting to meet any Coast Guard ships?”
“Regular patrol cutter hereabouts is paid off. Shore station likewise. But there’s no knowing where they’ll pop up. We can outrun ’em, given half a chance, even their new cutters.”
“I thought your engines sounded sweet. Where do you intend to land the stuff?”
“No names. We’ll get you where you’re bound. You don’t need to know how.”
“Sorry!”
Patrick expected to be dismissed ignominiously to join the crew. However, the nameless captain ignored him henceforth. After waiting for a few minutes, he found a stool and sat down, leaning back against the rear window. He even managed to sink into an uneasy doze without falling off the stool.
He dreamt he was standing in the middle of Piccadilly Circus, with motor-car horns blaring all around him. The noise woke him.
A brilliant white light flooded the small cabin. The moon? No, much too bright, and it moved with a disconcerting unsteadiness. “What …?” he asked, confused.
“Get down! Last thing we need is them to find a limey aboard. Go nap on those sacks.” The captain pointed at a pile in the corner. “Pull one over you. If you’re questioned, you’re my sister’s deaf-mute boy.”
“Aye, sir.” As Patrick ducked below window level and scuttled over to the sacks, a Klaxon horn bellowed again, followed by a loud-hailer.
“Ahoy,
Barleycorn!
U.S. Coast Guard. Stand by to be boarded.”
The beam of the searchlight remained on the wheelhouse. “Damn their eyes!” the captain swore. “It’s illegal to throw a searchlight on the bridge of a ship! Pity I’m in no position to report them, though if it comes to trial….” He let roll a slew of oaths but throttled back the engine. He hauled himself up the short ladder to the main deck.
Huddled among the sacks, which smelled of a curious mixture of fish, spirits, and tar, Patrick heard only fragments of the ensuing conversation.
“… Double-crossing whoreson skunk …”
“Hey, take it easy. Me and the boys just figured …”
“… Had a deal …”
“… Spare a coupla crates …”
Concluding that he was not going to be arrested in the immediate future, Patrick stopped cowering and made himself as comfortable as possible on his odiferous bed. He was half-asleep again by the time the captain returned with another man.
“Greedy bastard’s made us run late,” the captain growled. He resumed his post at the wheel and the purr of the engines swelled. “It’ll be daylight before we’re in signalling distance.”
“What we need’s one of those radio transmitters,” said the other in the dogmatic tone of one who was repeating oft-unheeded
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