Free The Devil's Eye by Ian Townsend Page B

Sagitta , gave Maggie a tight smile and welcomed her aboard. She stepped forward and her husband was beside her being slapped on the back, whisky materialising in his hand.
    Maggie knew most of these men, her husband’s colleagues, regular visitors to the Crest of the Wave and the hotels of Port Kennedy, and sometimes to the Residence.
    ‘No need for introductions,’ said Murray, a Scot, who introduced the men anyway. ‘Alfred Outridge. You know Alf.’
    She knew Alf quite well; had stayed with his brother’s family at New Farm in Brisbane on her way back from New Zealand with Alice. Alfred Outridge was a managing partner of Clark’s Sagitta Pearling Company and had joined the fleet for the season. He was a neat man in his late thirties with wet eyes and a dry wit. She shook his hand and was about to say something when Murray said, ‘Right, and you must know young Harold Outridge, my supercargo. Andthis is his friend Mr Edward Atthow from the Silvery Wave and his friend Mr John Nicholas.’
    Harold, Edward, and John were of the same species of young men: clean-shaven and indistinguishable. They nodded to her as one.
    Murray continued: ‘Captain Jefferson from the Silvery Wave .’
    Maggie took a step towards Jeff, who nodded and took a step back. ‘Marcos Perez from the Admiral . Almost a white man, eh?’
    Had Murray even noticed that she’d arrived by way of the Admiral only hours before? ‘And the captain of the Channel Rocks Lightship has honoured us with his company this evening as well. For some reason. Mr Fuhrman.’
    ‘Gustaf,’ said Fuhrman, taking Maggie’s hand. ‘Very pleasant to see you.’ She thought he might be about to kiss it in some European way, but Captain Murray took her hand back and put a glass in it.
    ‘Champagne,’ he said. ‘It’s been bobbing at four fathoms since morning. Lost two bottles at five.’
    ‘I’m very grateful.’
    ‘Ten shillings a bottle.’
    ‘Worth every penny, I’m sure.’
    ‘You know that Maggie doesn’t drink, Robert,’ said Porter from behind her.
    ‘Nonsense,’ said Murray.
    The deck of the Sagitta was smaller, busier than that of the Crest of the Wave. It was strewn with coils of rope and although as neatly cluttered as the deck of any working schooner, it was in every way inferior to her husband’s.
    The crew had gone to considerable trouble, though, and all the Britishers as well as Perez and Fuhrman now stood with drinks in their hands or hands behind their backs smiling and nodding, begging her to exclaim her amazement at the state of the vessel.
    Maggie looked around and said, ‘The lights. And the deck. It smells like…’
    ‘Lavender water.’
    ‘I’m amazed,’ she said, which seemed to do the trick. The men broke away into pairs to talk and Porter was at her side.
    ‘Relax,’ he ordered. ‘You’re scaring them.’
    ‘I’ve said nothing.’
    ‘It’s the way you stand.’
    ‘The way I stand?’ Maggie looked down at her feet, which seemed perfectly spaced in sensible shoes.
    ‘I mean, you…’ and Porter seemed to be struggling to describe the way Maggie stood—‘you lean towards them.’
    Maggie didn’t know how to answer this. Perhaps she did have a habit of facing the person she was talking to, of taking an interest in what was said, and yes, of leaning and even expressing an opinion, if asked.
    ‘Oh, for God’s sake Maggie, don’t tell anyone what you think ,’ her husband said, before stalking off to the knit of captains.
    Maggie bit her lip and turned away.
    She could see the Crest of the Wave as a shadow and her ears strained for the sound of Alice’s cry. She knew the rhythm of the fleets well enough, having lived aboard her husband’s schooner until her pregnancy with Alice showed and she was packed off to Auckland.
    It seemed quiet, even for a weekday night, with just a few luggers in the bay to unload shell or for repairs, or to water. There were none of the loud spontaneous eruptions of music that