‘It was my honest opinion,’ he said. And he acted on it as they entered harbour. But he was back up on the bridge as they tied up, which was at 1000 hours precisely.
A hammering on the door woke Porter at half past ten in the morning. The proprietor had insisted on his sharing a bottle of cheap shochu the night before and his head was thick.
‘Phone for you — the port office,’ the man called hoarsely. He was cursing.
Porter scrambled down the stairs in his underpants. The phone was swinging in the passage.
‘Sung Won Choo?’
‘Yes.’
‘A ship needs a deck hand — long haul, through the Arctic, you interested?’
‘I might be. When is she in?’
‘She’s in. Half an hour ago.’
On time then. Bang on time. ‘What ship?’ he said.
‘Suzaku Maru, a tramp.’
‘A tramp. Well, I’ll think about it.’
‘There’s no time. If you want her, go right there — I’ll let them know. She’s sailing in ninety minutes.’
Sailing in ninety minutes? He couldn’t understand any of this but he went rapidly back upstairs. Give them less than an hour, was the plan. He’d barely have an hour. He took a shower, yelled for the proprietor to call a taxi, dressed, paid up and departed with his breakfast in his hand.
For an extra 250 yen the driver took him on to the dock, inquired for the berth and drove him right to it. The berth was vacant, and much confusion was going on in the wake of the ship’s apparently rapid departure. In the confusion it took time to discover where she was now. She was now evidently at an oiling wharf. But for another 250 yen, the driver said, he would take him there, too.
The oiling wharf was also in a state of confusion. Hoses throbbed as fuel was pumped into the Suzaku Maru. Everywhere hands were busy clearing up tufts of wool scattered from bales broken open in the hurried discharge. In the wheelhouse the captain anxiously watched. Almost 11.30 and no new hand had shown up yet. On the dockside he could see the ambulance, its doors open. He could just make out the ambulance men themselves, on the deck. Ushiba was on a stretcher there, in a patch of shade. He had been inserted into a pair of pyjamas and was now quite peaceful, eyes closed, a clean sheet tucked up under his chin. The ambulance men seemed unsatisfied about something. The captain drummed his fingers and looked at his watch.
On the deck the ambulance men were talking to the bosun.
‘He’s a funny colour for food poisoning,’ one of them said.
‘Isn’t he? It’s his liver. Masked by the booze, you see,’ the bosun explained. ‘Came back aboard pissed out of his mind and in the morning he was like this — shellfish.’
‘They don’t usually go to sleep, though.’
‘No, you’re right. He couldn’t. Throwing himself about. Captain thought the best thing was, give him a sedative.’
‘Well, that wasn’t the best thing. Hard to say what’s up with him now. Still, they’ll find out in hospital.’
‘Sure,’ the bosun said, and watched them lift the stretcher. He was still watching, from the rail, when the taxi drew up below. A Korean got out. Pigtail. Sloppy kitbag and case. Always trouble, Koreans. Late, lazy, lippy. This one was going to need gingering up.
‘Hoy! You!’ he yelled, as the man had the nerve to stop and look at the patient, actually start chatting with the ambulance men. ‘Get up here!’
The man came up the gangplank.
‘You the new hand? Sung?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re late. Dump your kit here and go up and see the mate, on the bridge. Look lively, now.’
The new hand went up to the bridge and saw the mate, who rapidly checked him out. Papers in order; had served with the line; knew the ships. He took him to the captain.
The captain had watched these proceedings with relief. He briefly catechised the new hand and got him to make his signature. A series of thumps had signalled the disconnection of the hoses. He signed for the oil, told the mate to cast off, heard the bawled orders to let go fore and aft, and took the ship out himself.
As the wharf slid away he reflected that in the confusion the ambulance men had not asked for Ushiba’s belongings; not even his papers. Without his papers it was not possible to say where he had been. Well, it wouldn’t interest them at the hospital where the man had been. They’d have their own procedures for finding out was wrong with him.
In due course.
His stuff could be sent back from Murmansk; perhaps Sweden; even Rotterdam. The owners would have to be informed, of course. He would radio them after putting on a bit of seaway. Quite a bit of seaway. He decided to put it on fast.
‘1315 hours. Cleared Ishikari Bay,’ reported the log. ‘Speed 12 knots. Heading 135°.’ North. Later he would have to go north-east. Much later still, with the Bering Strait behind him and Cape Dezhnev to be rounded, another correction would be needed. North by north-west.
19
Five days and 1300 miles out of Otaru, the bosun decided it was time to ginger up the new hand.
No definite signs of laziness had come out of him yet, and he hadn’t been caught late for watchkeeping. But he was lippy. He seemed to turn things over in his mind before carrying out an order. He had commented on the new mattress in his bunk; had asked questions about Ushiba. And he showed too much interest in the ship’s movements. All out of order for a new deckhand, and a Korean deckhand at that.
The bosun went briskly forward, rattled down the steps, and looked briefly into the fore ends.
‘Sung! Topside now. Look alive!’
He said it once only, and was waiting, in the lee of a container, out of the wind, as the man came up on deck, his eyes still puffy from sleep.
‘Now then, Sung. Ever greased a Takanawa?’
‘Not when I’m off watch,’ Sung said.
The bosun’s lip tightened. ‘You’re on again at night,’ he said, ‘when it’s dark. I want to see you do it now. Well be frosting up soon.’
So they would. Sakhalin and the Kuriles were well behind them. The Kamchatka peninsula had been passing for some hours on the port side.
‘Tomorrow afternoon,’ Sung suggested, ‘I will be on again. Then it will be light.’
‘And maybe iced up. Get your gear.’
The man gave his momentary stare, then shrugged and went below. But he was soon back, with his woollen hat and donkey jacket; also gauntlets, grease gun and chipper from the locker.
He went through the drill properly enough; first switching on the eleven-ton derrick’s electric motor. And standing back smartly as the dangerous thing kicked and the big arms shuddered round.
‘All right. Now manual,’ the bosun said.
‘Manual needs two men.’
‘Here I am,’ the bosun said, and winked. They could all work by the book. ‘Set her up for greasing.’
He watched as the man unhoused the equipment, and located and fitted it: brake lever and distance piece, reduction gear and turning assembly; all properly fitted. He gave him little help. Whatever the book said, the job could easily be done by one man in calm seas. Two men were needed only with pitching and slippery decks — one to revolve the cogs in turn and clamp home the bar brake, the other to get in with the grease gun. That was when the accidents occurred to arms and legs; and invariably to the grease man.