Free Ocean Prize (1972) by James Pattinson Page B

with me, is it? Well now, I don’t happen to agree. I’d say it’s to do with anybody when a young lad’s being hammered senseless.” He looked at the other men and there was contempt in his eyes. “Why were you lot letting this go on? Haven’t you got any spirit in you? Why didn’t you stop it?”
    They shifted their feet uneasily and avoided his eyes, but said nothing.
    Trubshaw sneered. “They knew they couldn’t stop it. No more than you can.”
    “Ah, but I can,” Orwell said. “And I will.”
    Trubshaw said, coldly menacing: “Get away from me, Chippie. Don’t try to stop me or it’ll be the worse for you. I’m goin’ to learn that young cub some manners, and not you nor nobody else ain’t stoppin’ me.”
    “I’m stopping you, Trub,” Orwell said, and he moved in between Trubshaw and Wilson. “I’m stopping you.”
    “Are you lookin’ for a fight too?” Trubshaw sounded surprised. He thrust his chin out belligerently. “Cos if so, that’s what you can ’ave.”
    “I’ll not fight with you,” Orwell said. “I’m not daft.”
    “Then get out of the way, an’ stay out.”
    Orwell stood his ground. “I’m not moving. You let him be. I’m telling you.”
    “And I’m tellin’ you, Chippie—” Trubshaw made a move to thrust Orwell aside and found a wide-bladed knife with its point no more than an inch from his stomach.
    “Don’t start anything, Trub,” Orwell said. The knife had been in a pigskin sheath on the back of his belt and again he had moved more swiftly than was usual with him.
    Trubshaw glanced down at the knife and then up at Orwell. The carpenter overtopped him by more than a foot. “You wouldn’t do it.”
    “Want to try me?”
    Trubshaw looked as though he would have liked to do so but could not quite bring himself to the mark. The muscles on each side of his jaw stood out, iron-hard, as he clenched his teeth.
    “When it comes to a choice betwixt sticking a knife intoyour guts and being beat up,” Orwell said evenly, “it’s the knife every time for me.”
    Trubshaw stared into Orwell’s eyes, clenching and un-clenching his fists. And Orwell stared coolly back at him, the knife held firmly in his right hand. It was obvious to everyone present that he was perfectly prepared to sink the blade into Trubshaw’s belly if such an action should become necessary.
    It must finally have become obvious to Trubshaw also. He gave a harsh laugh that sounded more than a little forced. “Okay, Chippie, ’ave it your way. You can put that knife back where you found it. I’ve finished with the kid. I reckon I’ve learnt ’im ’is lesson anyway.”
    He moved to a chair and sat down, took a tin of tobacco and papers from his pocket, and began to roll a cigarette.
    The tension eased. Men started talking again. Orwell slipped the knife back into its sheath and helped Wilson to his feet. The incident was ended.

SIX
ERRAND OF MERCY
    I t was nine days since the Hopeful Enterprise had left Montreal, and in all that time the weather had been good, the engines had given no trouble, and to all appearances there had been nothing to worry even the most nervous of men. Yet, in spite of everything, there were worried men on board: no amount of good weather could ease Barling’s mind as the days passed and the moment drew inexorably nearer when the ship must be sold and the Company go into liquidation. Nor were the engines now Jonah Madden’s sole, or even chief, concern; for what did it matter about engines if this was to be the last voyage? And all things pointed to the probability that it was.
    The third worried man was Charlie Wilson, still gloomily anticipating inevitable arrest when the ship reached England. The effects of his beating-up bothered him less; the stiffness in his limbs, the bruises all over his body, the cuts on his face—all these were painful enough, but they were merely physical pains from which he would recover, and indeed recover quickly, since he had the