Bridge over troubled water

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?