The man started as if shot, and his head whipped round to reveal a face drained of every scrap of colour. He took a quick glance at Jim's face, and clearly recognized him, for he at once dropped his eyes and looked shiftily away: "Ye've got the wrong feller, mister. Sinclair's my name — they call me Scottie aboot here. Now I'm away off home, so I'll say goodnight to ye." He had hastily got out his oars and was shoving off against the stone wall, but Jim had a firm hold of the bow of the boat, and now took out the painter. "Not for a minute if you don't mind, Mr MacDougall. Come and have a drink with an old shipmate first."
"Hey, what's the game, mister? Who are you, talking aboot old shipmates? I've not set eyes on ye before. Now, will you let go o' my boat before I fetch ye one across your head with this oar ?"
"Why don't you look me in the face,Dougie ? You did just now, and you know damned well that I'm Jim Robbins, apprentice, of the Sardis, and that you're Third Mate Neil MacDougall of the same ship. So let's stop pretending, shall we? Come on and have a drink, now."
One glance at the young man convinced MacDougall that to struggle was useless. Muttering bitterly, he stowed the oars in the boat and unshipped the rowlocks. Then he followed Jim up the steps.
"So you got ashore with your lifeboat, then?" said Jim, as they walked towards the main street.
"Ay, I got ashore. Much good it did me," said MacDougall sourly. He stopped outside the garden gate of a small house. "Ye'll need to wait while I leave my gear in the shed here," he said, and went in, carrying his rowlocks and a lantern.
He disappeared into a garden shed, and Jim strolled over the road to sit on the low wall by the river and enjoy the sweeping view of the ebbing stream. The thought had just entered his mind that Dougie was taking his time, when his senses were alerted by an odd crunching noise. What was that? Someone jumping down from a height on to gravel! A few seconds later he was in the garden, and at once he saw the way Dougie had gone. A crumbling brick at the top of a wall on the other side of the garden showed the bright red of a recent boot mark. Jim threw himself over the wall, and found himself on a small path which led between two walls along the backs of the rows of houses. He looked rapidly from left to right; no one was in sight. Which way had he gone ? Just a minute — that elder bush growing out of the wall on the corner to the right was swaying. There was no wind.
Jim tore to the corner of the path, confident of seeing the retreating Dougie not far off, but instead he saw nothing but a long straight stretch of the path — once again quite devoid of life. He couldn't possibly have got to the end of it in that time.
Every few yards along the right-hand wall was a door leading to a back garden. He must have dodged into one of these, but which? It must be one of the first dozen. Jim walked slowly now, looking round carefully and listening attentively; Bougie's heavy breathing might give him away, for he must be pretty puffed by now. Jim reasoned that he must be still in the garden, for he could hardly go right through a strange house to get to the street.
Then he heard a confused babel of many voices, and he noticed that, unlike most of the doors, which appeared to be little used, one door was brightly painted and had a well-worn track leading to it. A few empty beer bottles and the remains of a crate told him the rest: it was the back entrance of a pub. Here was an easy way to the street for a fugitive!
As he lifted the latch of the back door of the pub, the deafening noise of shouting, laughing, quarrelling voices burst upon him with its full force. He jostled his way through the standing groups of workmen, and looked swiftly round the smoke-filled room; he caught a quick movement in the corner, and there, sitting at a rough table and shading his face with his hand, was MacDougall.
Chapter XV
Jim laid a hand on the heaving shoulders of the runaway: "Well, well, Mr MacDougall. What about this drink we were going to have? You didn't use to run away from it like this."
"What are ye chasing me round like this for ? I want nothing to do with ye."
"Look," said Jim, "I must have a talk with you. We can't talk in this den — let's go into the bar parlour." He motioned MacDougall towards the door, and they entered the snug bar parlour, quiet and empty except for a few respectable tradesmen and their wives, who looked up from their little tables with surprise as the two roughly-dressed sailors entered. The landlord, heavy and red-faced, looked at them contemptuously through his little serving hatch.
"Here, Jack," he said to Jim, "we don't reckon to have you fellers in here. This is the bar parlour, you know." A year ago, Jim would have fled, red-faced, from such a greeting, but life on a smack had changed him. He simply strode up to the hatch and rested his elbows on it looking steadily into the mottled face: "Well, you've got us, mate. I've got money and we're not drunk or misbehaving, so there's not a lot you can do. Two bitters and two penn'orth of shag."
Jim and the Scot sat drinking and smoking for some time before Jim at last broke the silence: *How many got ashore, Dougie ? Do you know ?"
"Och, what's the good of asking me, mister? The boats got scattered miles apart. We got picked up by a steam packet in Black Deep. We saw a good many boats capsized — mebbe half of them. I suppose the rest were picked up, or ran ashore somewhere. The packet that got us found Cameron's boat floating keel upwards. Most of the folk in her were still hanging on, but Cameron was gone. They said he didn't try to save himself. And a good thing too. What had the poor devil got to live for after that? Man, he was mad to do what he did — ye mind I said so at the time to yon feller Brodie." MacDougall sighed and shook his head. "I think about it now and then while I'm setting there in the boat. And I still cannae think what got into a good wee seaman the like o' Jamie Cameron."
It was Jim's turn now to fall silent. Every word MacDougall spoke opened up old wounds. Jim knew that the moment was coming when at last he would unburden his mind of everything. Dougie, the only man alive, for all he knew, who had served on the Sardis, had to be told, no matter what he thought of Jim afterwards, no matter what he might tell the Company or the law. Jim realized at last that this was the reason for his blind determination to get hold of Dougie when he saw him. He must either tell someone or go mad.
"It wasn't Cameron," he said, and looked Dougie full in the face. He was surprised to see it suddenly turn a dull, muddy grey, as it had when they first met.
The older man scraped back his chair and half stood up: "And what the hell do ye mean by that, mister? Who was it if it wasn't the Old Man?"
"Me."
Jim stared down into his glass. He sensed that Dougie had relaxed into his seat again, staring incredulously at him. When Dougie spoke again, there was more warmth and pity in his voice than Jim had ever known before. He grasped Jim's upper arm and shook him gently: "Och now, laddie, talk sense for God's sake. Ye didnae stand a watch nor give any orders. How could ye be responsible for what happened? Here," he gathered the glasses, "we've had enough of this damned Sassenach mash. I'll away and get some man's drink, and ye can tell me what's on your mind, ye daft young swab."
Moments later he sat down again with two glasses of whisky: "There ye are, laddie. Uisge Beatha, as they say in the Gaelic — the water o' life. Have a dram of that now." And he settled himself to listen.