At four the new shift arrived, and five minutes later a Korean seaman presented a grubby receipt from his wallet. The attendant looked sourly at him, shuffled among the racks and cursed as he hefted the heavy kit over the counter.
Porter shouldered the kitbag, lifted the bulging strap-bound case, and went out to the cab rank. In twenty minutes he was pulling up at the rooming house.
It was a shabby, run-down place, close by the docks. The proprietor was drowsing on a stool outside. He didn’t bother getting up for the Korean seaman but confirmed that he was booked in and told him where to pick up his key in the lobby. Room 11, first floor.
Porter took his gear up and let himself into the decrepit room. Not a sound in the building. No one else seemed to be in it and he wondered if the phone worked. He had seen one, on the wall, in the passage below. He went down to find out.
‘Phone? Help yourself,’ the proprietor said. ‘It takes tokens.’
There was a push-button light in the dark passage. He read the number on his piece of paper, shoved a token in, and dialled the port office. The light went out twice before he had the right department, and he had to put another token in the phone. But they had his particulars and the man at the other end was irritable. They had been given them that same morning, he said. Why inquire again? There was nothing new. No long-haul ship in. Maybe one would come, in a day or two. They had his number. He got them to repeat it, and found they had it wrong. He gave them the right one, and smiled grimly. Yoshi had told him just to wait. Keep to the plan and wait, he said. Well, it was on just such details — as with the derrick — that the best plan could come adrift. Check everything. He hung up and went back to his room. Now he could wait. Tomorrow; after 3 p.m.
A good sleep and a calm morning watch had cleared the captain’s mind, and he now knew what to do. The load to be picked up at Otaru was a broken cargo of canned tuna — 126 tons of it, salvage from a container ship, gone overboard and declared unfit for the Japanese market. The Russian Trade Mission had snapped up this bargain, for delivery in Murmansk. The crates had been reassembled on several hundred pallets, and were due to go in number one and number two holds.
This cargo, as a further reading of his orders confirmed, was ‘at captain’s discretion’. It was a late booking, and the Russians had squeezed a cheap rate. He decided he would exercise his discretion. A pity, but the fiddling job involved much crane work and would take hours; certainly three. Three hours gained. That left only an hour to dispose of. Not so bad. He would think of something.
He took what he needed from the medical chest, and went aft to inspect Ushiba. He unlocked the door of the heads, switched on the light, and relocked behind him. The man’s sweating face was going to and fro on the stretcher and his eyes fluttered dazedly in the light. He was quite secure, however; firmly pinioned; couldn’t hurt himself. It was hot in the tiny compartment and he was naked. The bosun had hosed him down a couple of times but the place still smelt very bad.
The captain held a handkerchief over his nose. ‘Ushiba, how do you feel, man?’ he asked nasally above the rumble of the engines.
Ushiba’s mouth opened and closed but only gurgling came out of it. He had been doing this for some hours. His lips had a white crust; probably from the rice water. It had stopped him vomiting, anyway. His colour was the same.
‘Ushiba, I’m going to give you another injection,’ the captain told him. ‘It’s very good for you.’
He tore open a new needle package and a vitamin ampoule. Ushiba jerked a little as the plunger went home. The book had recommended buttocks but the captain was not anxious to pick about Ushiba’s underparts: he chose a thigh.
‘There we are.’ A little blood, not much. He stuck a dressing on it. ‘Keep your spirits up! Bosun will be seeing to you soon.’
Bosun was at that minute seeing to Ushiba’s mattress, over the stern rail. Nobody was working there. He had scrubbed out the bunk with antiseptic, and now peeled off his rubber gloves and sent them after the mattress, into the Sea of Japan.
Before turning in, which he did very late again, the captain discussed final plans with the mate.
Otaru was not a busy port and would not need much advance warning. They would need some warning, of course. For one thing, he wanted a fast turnaround, and for another they had to be told that he was not picking up the tuna. Since the cargo had been specially assembled, and was waiting for him, this could cause irritation in Otaru, and quite possibly requests for confirmation, from the freight forwarders or the ship’s owners. This would not be a good idea.
A much better idea was to leave it to the last moment, a moment when Otaru would not be in a position to ask silly questions but would still have time to make the arrangements he wanted. The arrangements were only to dump his wool and take on oil. Two ship movements involved, it was true — for the refuelling dock was not a cargo dock — but quite possible to do it within a turnaround of two hours. And also possible, since he was expected anyway, for them to arrange it at three hours’ notice. This would mean radioing them at seven in the morning.
The mate agreed with the reasoning and the captain asked for a shake at 6.30, and at last got to his bunk. Two a.m. again.
But the anxious moments ahead robbed him of sleep, and his temper was not good when he spoke to the seven o’clock idiot at Otaru.
‘No loading. Just unloading,’ he barked. ‘And oiling. I want to discharge, oil, and leave by 1200 hours. Have you got that?’
‘Captain, you can’t discharge and oil at the same time.’
‘I know that! I’ll discharge first. I’ll discharge and then oil. And there’s one thing more. Are you there?’
‘Yes.’
‘I want another deck hand.’
‘Yes.’
‘I want you to get another deck hand.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you understand all that? I want to discharge, oil, and board another deck hand. Are you there?’
‘Captain, I can’t get you a deck hand at seven in the morning.’
‘I don’t want one at seven in the morning. I want one when I get there!’ the captain howled. ‘You’ve got my ETA. Have you got my ETA? Hello — Otaru? My ETA is 1000. Please confirm my ETA. Otaru, can you hear me?’
This taped conversation, greatly enjoyed by the next shift, was subsequently ordered to be kept under lock and key; but that was for a Board of Inquiry and some time later.
Meanwhile the Suzaku Maru ploughed on, and at 0830 rounded the point and entered Ishikari Bay. Just a little later, peering through his glasses, the captain discerned the cranes of Otaru, and decided it was time to go below and have a look at Ushiba again. He invited the bosun to step below with him.
Ushiba, to the captain’s eye, looked much the same. His head was going to and fro and he was gurgling. The bosun thought he was worse. He said he was no longer keeping down the rice water, and he hadn’t slept. He had not been hosed much in the past few hours, but there was not much to hose. His strength was going, and without the rice water he probably needed more vitamins.
The captain made no comment, but he took a different view. It seemed to him (and he had it confirmed by the mate at the subsequent inquiry) that despite failing strength Ushiba was still too vocal. Better than a vitamin injection would be a sedative one. A sound sleep would do Ushiba more good than vitamins, particularly while being landed and stowed in an ambulance.