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We're adrift, not far from the Canaries.
Seagulls loop and turn in the wide white sky. There’s kelp in the water. Even the fish seem different. But onboard the Frontier, expectancy is strangled by the long silence of another windless day. Captain Burroughs communicates with monosyllabic asides to Effemery, who in turn (to no avail) harangues the men. It's another day of idle sails.
‘Do you know where we’re going?’ I attempt to draw information from the RH I. Seedat.
‘Well, let me see, old boy.’ He strokes his chin, extends an arm and points to the featureless horizon. ‘At the minute, I believe we are going in this direction.’
No great insight there.
Later, in the shifting light of a whispering paraffin lamp, I study a folded note. Next door, the repetitive sawing of my father’s snores threatens to collapse the cabin's paper-thin walls. The air inside my pint-sized cove is close and stale. It smells of wood polish and moth balls and sweat.
The note, slipped under my door only a few moments ago, sheds no further light on the conundrum of the ship's present drift, but it's full of mystery all the same. I read it once more. You will find the hatch to the forward hold open tonight. Find out what you can from the stowaway. That's it. No name. No explanation. The handwriting is tight and precise, the curves deliberate. No ink smudges at all. I'm certain it's Herr Oppenheim’s.
An hour later, I stand at the door and listen for feet. Nothing. I open it and peer into the gloom. No movement. There’s a slight chemical odour wafting from the head, down the passage. I arrange the bundle of food (a half-loaf of rhy bread and some green olives) under my free arm and shut the door behind me.
A vicious cold prowls the forward deck. There are stars out, bright holes drilled into the pitch black. I clamber over intricate piles of coiled rope, on lookout for the burly red-bearded captain, or any shadowy movement. The deck is sedate, eerie in the half-moonlight.
At the forward hold hatch, I pause and listen to my thumping heartbeat. Oppenheim shares my view it seems. There's only one way to dispel all this talk of omens and superstition. We have to let the crew know they've nothing to fear ... that he's just a regular lad.
Down the spiral stairs I go, into the black hold, accompanied only by the echo of my steps. 'He's just a regular lad,' I repeat under my breath. A regular lad.
The incident of the stalled engine (an engine which purportedly has never stalled), in conjunction with the incident of the stowaway (the likes of which the Frontier has apparently never hosted) has unsettled the men. These seafaring souls are a superstitious lot. They see omens in everything.
Captain Burroughs is having a hard time commanding order. Jones and a few others have spent many hours in the bridge voicing their concern.
‘We should never ave locked up the lad in the engine room, Cap’n, Sir. Ave you seen his eyes? E’s got the devil in im.’
‘What do you suggest then, man?’ The Captain’s voice is easily heard without the familiar drone of the engine.
‘Overboard, skipper. Throw im to the sharks.’
They’re right about one thing. His eyes aren’t exactly normal. Firstly they’re a searing ice blue. I’ve never seen eyes that startling. But the most peculiar thing is the way his left eye roams with no apparent connection to the right. A lazy eye, that’s what I think it’s called. Very sinister.
There’s something else that’s got the men in a state. The wind. It’s died altogether and the quickly hoisted squaresail is making little, if any, difference. In fact, we’re drifting with the current now, at the mercy of the sea.
The tension aboard ship is palpable. ‘The Captain will contain this situation, son.’ My father appears at my side on the port rail. ‘There is nothing to be concerned about. Nothing at all.’
I shrug. ‘I’m not in the least bit concerned.’
‘No, no of course not.’ He nods and looks relieved when Herr Oppenheim comes by. ‘I say Oppenheim, what do you make of all this?’
Oppenheim is preoccupied. He glances up at the squaresail. ‘She’s a fine vessel. A little heavy in the water, but a good sea vessel all the same. She needs a fair gust to get going, but the gust will come.’
‘And the engine?’ I ask.
He shoots me an irritated look. ‘I am an engineer. There does not exist an engine which I cannot fix.’
Even my father’s eyebrows are raised at the defensiveness of his tone. Clearly there is something very wrong with the engine and Herr Oppenheim is none the wiser. Perhaps the men are right. Perhaps the stowaway has cast a spell on us. It’s a ludicrous thought, and yet …
‘She was launched on the 23rd of July 1879. Her maiden voyage was to the Isle of Man und by the end of the year she had sailed to her first foreign port. She’s been a working ship und a fighting ship in the Great War. She’s travelled to Trinidad und Brazil und Barbados. She’s navigated fog und ice und hurricane. She is three-masted with a deadweight of about 300 tons und her engine is a marvel, that is to say, a thing of beauty.’
Herr Oppenheim, a German engineer, knows his subject by heart and it holds him in thrall. ‘The ship dimensions are 115 ft. in length, breadth 25 ft., depth of hold 12 ft.’
We descend iron stairs into darkness. He begins to raise his voice over the roar. ‘Our speed is approximately six knots thanks to the 32 horse power single cylinder semi-diesel engine. Quite reliable.’
The immediate thing that assails me in the engine room is not the intense heat, nor the stifling gloom, nor the pungent reek of diesel and coal, nor even the terrific thunderous crank of the pump. Instead it’s the bone-jarring throb, which shudders from my toes to my fingers and drowns all other sensation.
He turns to me and shouts. ‘Are you okay? You seem rather, shall we say, distracted.’
I nod, but in truth I’m still seething from a conversation with my father only this morning. ‘It’s nothing.’ I can’t bear to have this all yelled at such a pitch.
Oppenheim is not so easily dissuaded. ‘Your father wants only what is best for you.’ As I've said, he’s an astute man.
I recall my father’s recent words of encouragement when, at last, I confront him about being working passengers. ‘My intention isn't to make your life a misery, Harry. I’m trying to make you a man. Work is good for you, Harry. The devil finds mischief for idle hands to do.’
As I consider his notion of a Christian work ethic I notice a movement in the recesses of the room. Two shining orbs bore through the gloom. Lights? I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise and a cold chill run down my spine.
They’re not lights … they’re eyes.
No sooner do I make this discovery than an extraordinary thing happens. That great thing of beauty, the ship’s 32 horse power engine heart, stutters, splutters and dies. Yet, still the vibrations run through me.
At dinner, in the Captain's mahogany and brass private dining cabin, the atmosphere is as formal as the dress code. Bouts of silence are punctuated by the lone voice of the RH I. Seedat, who draws on enthusiastic anecdotes to buoy the conversation. But even he can’t lift the sombre mood.
To my immediate left sits Herr Hanz Oppenheim, which affords me a perfect opportunity to carry out the first step of my plan. To my right is the dour Captain’s wife. My father, with whom I've not yet had an opportunity to air my grievances, is seated to the Captain’s left. The Captain is at the head of the table and to his right, Effemery. Most annoyingly, Miss Burroughs is seated beside the first officer and they are at the minute engaged in deep conversation, which, though inaudible to me, I'm convinced is not as interesting as her bobbing head of brown curls and serious expression suggests. My knife clatters to the plate, but she takes no notice. Alongside her the RH I. Seedat catches my eye and winks.
I turn to Herr Oppenheim, but he is expressing another opinion on Bach to the RH I. Seedat, so I shift my attention to the Captain’s wife who is engrossed in observing her daughter across the table. 
She is perhaps in her mid forties and was plainly once beautiful, but life has exacted a heavy toll and it shows in every line on her face, in particular the disapproving furrows which gather at her painted lips. I notice not once does the Captain even glance in her direction.
‘It is not polite to stare, young man.’
I swivel in the chair to find Herr Oppenheim regarding me over the rim of his spectacles.
‘Oh … I uh … I was …’
He smiles and changes tack. ‘I have seen you rather busy about the place of late, yes?’
I see my opening and take it. ‘Yes, though I’d rather be …’
He cuts me off with a swish of his napkin and a dab at his lips. ‘Assisting me in the engine room, perhaps, ja?’
Oppenheim is clearly an astute man.
‘To be perfectly honest, Herr Oppenheim, I’m not sure I know anything about engines.’ I can hear Miss Burroughs' laughter floating above the rest of the conversation.
‘This is not a problem. It is people who know very little und think they know a lot who pose, I should say, the most significant problem.’
He dissects his roast beef (or something resembling roast beef) into precise rectangles, and I know this is exactly the man to help me find the stowaway.
‘Meet me outside my cabin on Thursday after breakfast und we shall begin your tutelage.’
The sea is ponderous and grey. Early morning dew clings to the rigging and it's brittle cold. The sun is a weird crystal ball dissipating an emerald mist. Black-backed gulls dive-bomb a silver current - a shoal of mackerel.
I'm lugging a full pail of soapy water aft (that's to the stern, the rear of the vessel, for the uninitiated). The bucket is heavy and the water warm. It sloshes and spills and splashes my shoes. My toes squelch inside the sopping canvas. Deck-scrubbing duty is not exactly what I had in mind when my father suggested a leisurely sail down the west coast of Africa. I slam the bucket floor to the decking and blow into my hands. This business is for the birds. As though attune my thoughts, a gull screeches overhead and, with an obnoxious plop, a white-grey glob of crap splatters the deck at my feet. I pull the collars of my duffel coat closed and breathe plumes of smoky breath into the chilled air. What wouldn't I give to be home?
It's spring 1934, two years prior, and there's a pleasant breeze. I'm leaning at the fence leading to the woodland. Beside me, Raffles, raucous and excited, is leaping at butterflies and burrowing his nose into the damp soil. I gaze back towards Arbor Hall. It's a sensible, elegant sight. Nothing dramatic or savage about it. Rolling hills, stately poplars, a discreet curve of gravel. It’s been in the St John family for centuries. Mother’s haven from the world. I wonder what she’d make of all this.
On the far side of the schooner I see my father. He's in discussion with able seaman Jones, whom I recognise for his thatch of thick curly black hair and twitchy hand movements. My father’s expression is both empathy and concern. He’s not yet seen me.
Now is as good a time as any to approach. There’s nothing to be gained in running away. His words, not mine.
A familiar waft of floral perfume stops me in my tracks. Before I can hide, an exaggerated cough brings me about and I’m face-to-face with number two on my list, twirling a damned parasol, Miss Celeste Burroughs. I step backward and feel my foot plunge into the pail of water. Perfect.
‘Miss Burroughs.’ I tip my hat and ignore the bucket.
She’s all cool disdain and exquisite indifference. I step to the side and drag the bucketed foot with me. Without a word of acknowledgment, she brushes past; though I’m convinced she strays longer than necessary.
A mistress and a temptress. She’s just like the sea.
I’m in the galley peeling potatoes alongside the perspiring cook. Peeling potatoes. Honestly. Is this what my young life has amounted to? Apprentice missionary and potato peeler?
Note, I say cook and not chef. This is no oversight on my part. I believe I’ve made it clear on several occasions that the product of this galley is under par. These potatoes, for instance, will be transformed into a thick gloop, which will arrive tableside cold, hard and unpalatable.
He’s Portuguese, the cook. Did I mention that? Señor Batata Maudieto. Doesn’t speak a word of English. So I take great pleasure in telling him, or rather his tall off-white hat (he's a stout, vertically challenged fellow), exactly what I think of his culinary masterpieces. A list of his most recent achievements include:
1. Gruel
2. Grey paste-like matter (egg, my father informs me - with little conviction)
3. A colourless plant-like substance (cabbage, says my father - with less conviction)
4. Yellow sponge-like matter (an egg variant, I assume - with no conviction)
5. More gruel (you get the picture)
I make lists, like this one, to pass the time. I focus on everyday things: wind direction, names of fish that break the surface, birds that circle overhead, places I intend never to visit (the Kalahari for example), and people who annoy me. That sort of thing.
I can hear the unmistakable clip of boots strutting the dining hall. He’s out there – top of my list – first officer, Elliot F. Emery, or Efemmery, as I’ve taken to call him. It’s his doing I’m down here in the bowels of the schooner with the humourless cook at my side. Efemmery controls the work roster and I’ve a feeling I’m in for a rough couple of months. I'll be scrubbing the deck next. Which is a subject I intend to take up with my father at the earliest opportunity. The captain's remark about us not being paying passengers has thrown me. Am I to assume I've been duped into a working trip?
‘One cannot expect something for nothing,' declared father at the bridge (in reference to the stowaway). 'He’s just a lad, certainly, but lessons need to be learned. There’s nothing to be gained in running away.'
The stowaway's incarceration continues to stir debate. RH I. Seedat agrees with my more lenient sentiment. ‘By golly old chap, that young fellow has some gumption, no?’
I haven’t seen the kid for three days. The RH I. Seedat believes they’ve secured him in the engine room with a plan to offload him when we dock at the Canary Islands. I must find a way to see him. Seedat assures me the Canary Islands are some distance away. I glance at the harassed cook, throw an under-peeled potato into the bowl (my rebellion against forced labour) and begin to formulate a plan.
I’ve spent the better part of two weeks avoiding the schooner’s bridge. It’s easy to see why now. Captain Burroughs occupies the cramped space the way a grizzly might a cave. I find myself staring at him – at the individual hairs in his red beard, the line of a white scar running his cheek – wondering how it’s possible this colossus was ever a child.
What’s it to be? I’m tempted to ask. Lashed at the mast with a bullwhip, Sir? Beaten to a pulp with a barnacled plank?
I draw up to my full 5 foot 11, thankful for last year’s growth spurt. But I’m no match for Emery. His uniform gleams brilliant white, the gold buttons burn perfect circles in my eyes and his black boots are slick and shiny. He’s standing to attention beside me. I’ll admit, he’s not half impressive … confound the man.
Burroughs digs his hands into his pockets and stares out to sea. ‘Unless you’re partial to custody in the hold for insubordination, I suggest you answer!’
The stowaway is silent. I nudge him in the ribs with an elbow, but the fellow doesn’t budge. I’ll be damned if I’m locked up for his impertinence.
‘He’s, um … a little shy, if you know what I mean, Sir.’
Burroughs turns a dark eye on me. ‘I was addressing you?’
There is a moment of excruciating silence, followed by a garbled simultaneous confession:
‘Captain, Sir, I found this stowaway in the coal roo …’
‘Captain, I only felt that if anyone should be giving …
We stop, and Emery glares at me. ‘What right does this … this civilian have, Sir?’ He spits the word civilian as though it’s a disease. ‘What right?’
We are spared the captain’s response by a knock at the door. My father pokes his head through. Salvation at last. Tell them, Father. Tell them God’s on our side. My father’s expression is inscrutable. ‘You called for me, Captain?’
The Captain nods. ‘With due respect, Father St John, it won’t do to undermine an officer’s authority aboard my ship, you understand.’
This is not going well. My father shoots me a speculative glance. ‘I see.’
‘Indeed. I shall have to...’
‘But, we’re paying passengers!’ I blurt, indignation evident in the pitch of my voice.
‘Ah, yes ... there is the nub of it, Boy. Are you paying passengers? Are you indeed?’ He stares at me with his steel-grey eyes and I throw my father a look of wild accusation. Am I really alone here? Alone, and under siege?
I’m at the stern, plotting my escape. My latest plan is to attach a lifebuoy to my waist and simply leap off the edge, yelling Geronimo. I watched a film recently where the Apache leader yells his name as he leaps from a high cliff into a river. It seems appropriate. Perhaps I could yell Harry, but I'm not convinced it would have the same effect.
I wonder about the height of the fall. I’m concerned that if Celeste should happen by (she promenades the deck at this time of the morning and the likelihood is high), I shall have to put on a display ... execute a swallow dive, or something. The thought fills me with anxiety. I peer over the edge at the unfathomable depths and fixate on the froth churned by the blades of the engine. Perhaps not this end.Of course, one has to take several other conditions into account: the direction of the prevailing wind, possible currents, the distance to land and, not least of all, the presence of man-eating sharks. I finger the newly-formed scab at my throat. Exactly how much blood does it take to send a shark into a man-eating frenzy? It goes without saying I've no answer to these questions.
Above me, the groan of mast and the idle flap of sail suggest a mild breeze. A north-westerly. So, there’s one thing I know, after all. I suppose you learn things from watching these sea-types.
I’m standing like this, lost in thought, when a great ruckus comes from the forward deck. Unable to reach consensus with myself on whether to pursue my latest plan, I succumb to curiosity and venture forward on the port side.
I push through a throng of startled shipmates, to find first officer Elliot F. Emery interrogating a small bundle of dirty laundry. On closer inspection I see the laundry is, in fact, a small lad. His face is blackened by soot and he stands, cap in hand, unafraid eyes fixed on his tormentor. There is something of the artful dodger about this lad.
Emery is all strident bluster. ‘Answer the infernal question!’
No response from the lad.
‘Perhaps a keel-hauling will refresh your memory.’ It’s clear Emery’s bluffing, but his arrogant manner annoys me. Before I know it, I’ve stepped forward.
‘Is this not a matter for the captain?’ I can hear the waver in my voice.
There is silence as all eyes swivel to me. It occurs to me, while I watch the colour rise up Emery’s neck, that the kid and I are not dissimilar. We’re both trying to escape. Here I am, formulating a plan to desert the ship and here’s this stowaway, risking life and limb to make it aboard. … what a little fool he is.
What a fool I am. I watch Emery’s lips move ... but before he has the chance to respond, a familiar shadow falls across the deck.
‘What's all the commotion?’ the distinctive voice of the captain booms and Emery seethes. I know I’ve not heard the end of this.
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