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The weathered masts were reaching into a driftwood sky that morning when I first saw the derelict ships, old square-riggers by the look of them. Chained to makeshift moorings, they tugged like giant seahorses, but with nearly all the life gone out of them. Tattered rigging, loose fittings, and unpolished green brightwork enough to make a sailor cry. They were the monarchs of sail in their day, but that day had long passed. Their once-proud masts now served only as perches for the occasional passing gull among the twisted trees along the south shore of the lower reaches of the River Thames. No more would they await the arriving tug for the tow up-river, with their holds full and lads eager to walk the shore again. They were used up and turned out like whores in the wind.

The three ships lay moored side by side along the Kentish side of the outer Thames Estuary, not far from the great river's mouth, across the mud banks and sand tied together by tussocky grass. Farthest from shore wallowed the remains of what had once been a proud four-masted barque, now a rusted hulk, long since dismasted. Rivets and steel plates had been peeled back to reveal the main hatchway in an attempt to use her as a coal barge years before, the ultimate humiliation for any sailing ship. She lay awash in the mud as if to serve as a breakwater for the other two and that at least she did quite well.

The ship closest in was a three-masted barque with a steel hull; she looked more sound than the wooden three-master in the middle, which had some of her yardarms either missing or in sorry disrepair. The shoreward vessel had a gangway down to the nearby bank, so that it appeared that one could use it to board all three. I took care walking across the wood and metal planking that made a path across the marshes and had a closer look. The name was still discernable on her bow: the Bonnie Clyde.

Gone were the days of the great clipper and packet ships, once a common sight here; they had fallen victim to progress. The steam engine had made them obsolete, and up-river bridges of a newer, more efficient time now restricted the passage of tall ships forever. Oh, but they made a magnificent picture when under full sail on a fine day with a stiff wind at their backs! No wonder that hundreds of writers and millions of spectators have expressed the opinion that this was among the most splendid sights ever to be witnessed anywhere, as well I knew first hand. Alas, even the greatest of spectacles fade from favour with the passage of time.

As I wandered along the shore I thought of all that they had been. Aboard these ships seamen once lived in quarters that today would be considered intolerable, their diet dreadful, their work hard and extremely dangerous. Their voyages often took months to reach destinations, and it was not uncommon for a man to spend several years travelling different trade routes before returning home with little money to show for his efforts. Voyages were always dependent upon the hope of favourable weather. Sailing had long been regarded as one of the most hazardous ways to travel, for ship disasters were commonplace; vessels sometimes disappeared without a trace.

The busy Thames was every bit as challenging as the English Channel, for collisions and obstacles were a constant hazard for all craft navigating these waters. So it had been for centuries, but seafaring men had still been drawn to sign on and ship out before the mast, but now the masts were gone, except for these.

I had spent a good deal of time walking along the bank looking each them over, remembering a time long ago when a friend of my uncle arranged passage for me aboard such a ship, and what a fine adventure it had been! I stood a long while at the bottom of the gangway waiting for some sign of life, but saw no one around, so, with absence of ceremony, I climbed the ageing wooden planks to the deck.

As I came aboard there was, of course, no officer of the watch to speak with, so I was left to wander alone. I thought over the past few years that had brought me from the War in Europe to this peaceful spot. More or less intact, somewhat like these old ladies, I remember thinking. It was a year after the War and there were not nearly enough jobs for sailors, or practically anyone else for that matter. Times were hard for those returning home as well as for those who had fought the War on their own doorsteps.

I looked about with a sigh at the twisted cable and untidy ropes. It was sad to see her in such a state but her deck was in remarkably good condition, as were the masts and standing rigging, while almost every yardarm was accounted for. In fact, there was new rope around the main boom, to my eye clearly showing that work had been done recently. But surely everyone hereabouts knew and cared little that these were nothing short of wrecks, awaiting some grim fate. Damned shame, I thought, damned waste of a good ship here.

Walking up through the fo'c'sle, I passed two fairly new mechanical brace and halyard winches designed to ease the backbreaking task of hoisting and turning the enormous yards. With their use, much of the arduous work at the capstan could be avoided. Walking the capstan round is backbreaking work, as anyone knows who's done it.

The winches seemed rather out of place here, a little too modern for an old ship. Not only that, but they didn't look as though they were completely installed. The main yard had been lowered, and rested on the port and starboard rails, lashed with new chain and good running rigging all around. I ducked under the huge yard, and headed towards the stern. Of the two starboard lifeboats I passed, one had rotted out and collapsed on its chocks, the wood warped and split. The other and the two to port were equally dismal, and I noticed they were not even capable of retaining rainwater, much less of being serviceable for anything else. I sighed. What a mess, I thought; damned shame, such a pity.

It was a rather crisp afternoon on the water. Turning my collar up and reaching for my pipe and lighter, I put one foot up against the old boat chock and, having stuffed my pipe, struck the lighter. With a hand cupped around to deflect the wind, I was enjoying my third puff when the old timber under my foot that held the lifeboat suddenly gave way to my weight, sending me to the deck with a resounding crash. An indignant wharf rat scurried off down the deck to hide elsewhere, and a gull, equally offended, took wing. I was glad that the lifeboat didn't fall as well.

As I collected myself and began to rise, I was startled as a booted figure clad in a heavy sweater, with piercing blue eyes glinting out from beneath the brim of his cap appeared seemingly out of nowhere. With an embarrassed smile, the "hello" had just left my lips as he burst out in a hard Scottish burr: "What the bloody hell d'ye think you're doin' here?"

"Well," I replied, brushing myself off, "I was just passing, and–"

"Ye've been sent by those Government Officials, have ye?"

"What? Which officials?" I said, bewildered.

He pursed up his leather-like face and raised the brim of his cap an inch. "Those who want tae take her tae her grave," he answered darkly.

"Take who?" I gasped. I didn't know if he was just trying to scare me or perhaps was some old crank gone mad. Still, it was a bit frightening.

"This 'ere ship, lad. Are you telling me ye know nothing of it?" he demanded, his voice rising.

"Look, I'm… that is, I just returned from the War and…"

"In the War? Army, eh?" he coughed scornfully.

"No, Navy," I corrected, as I stood up and brushed myself off.

"Well! We have a sailor here, do we?" he said, looking me over with a keen eye.

"After a fashion. I was a ship's officer in the Royal Navy aboard the–"

"I don't bloody care about any bloody Royal Navy," he snapped. "Why, this ship had nae a gun on her, but by gaw, for two years we sailed through the U-boats carrying ammo and shells while the Jerries thought our hold was filled with guano."

"Guano?" I asked stupidly.

"Aye, bird shit!" he grimaced, taking his pipe from a pocket.

We laughed at having thus established ourselves as fellow seamen, then went and sat down on the main hatchway to relight our pipes and chat. Looking at this old man, a deep-water square-rigger sailor and looking every bit the part, I could hardly wait to hear his story, but it was not immediately forthcoming.

As I struggled with my lighter, flicking it again and again, the old man reached into his pocket and brought out a box of Swan Vestas to light his own pipe first, before passing the box to me without comment. The flaring match revealed every wrinkle in his face and hands, evidence of his many years of gruelling shipboard toil. He looked over at me, seemingly out of one eye, and I grew increasingly self-conscious, less like the naval officer I had been and more like some callow cabin boy.

The old man cleared his throat ceremoniously. "Now then," he began, "I've been at sea fifty-two years, man and boy. I was a master on other rigs thirty-some years and then five years master aboard this one. My taking charge of her now, this for me is what any captain would call his last command. I hate tae waste a good ship because of government fools, people who sit in small rooms and make big decisions. Three years ago they took her oot o' service and left her here to rust with the last of them," he lamented. "She's been a fine ship. Now it's either cut them up or, if the Government Officials get their way, they'll take them out for target practise or scuttle them. And still another tap-dancing nitwit political twit thinks she'd make a fine pub if they put her up dry!"

"You mean permanent dry dock?" I asked.

"Aye," he said sadly.

"Well, I suppose that's better than the other two options."

"They're no bloody options at all!" he cried. "This ship belongs on the water and nae here getting weather-beaten by the North Sea gales. Well, it's a mercy that at least the auld barque on the seaward side still makes a fair breakwater. Never wished any ship harm, except them German ones, but she was slammin' into baith o' these. So we sank her to the mud, and a good job too."

"You sank her?" I exclaimed.

"You ask a lot o' questions, young man. For aught I know you're in with some o' those Government Officials."

"I've got no reason to lie to you, sir; I told you, I just returned within the last year–"

"Aye, aye, from the War. I heard ye. Can't be too careful. Anyway, I expect you're too young."

Too young! "Too young for what?" I said, bristling.

"To be one of those Government Officials," he growled. "Are you nae listening, lad?"

"Yes, well, I just wasn't sure what you meant," I said. I hadn't the slightest idea what he was on about and wanted to tell him to put a sock in it.

He gave me a quizzical look. "What did you think I meant, eh? Here, just what is your name, laddie?"

"Flynn," I said, automatically putting out my hand.

"Right," he answered. "and Bowman's mine." He wiped his hands on his trousers and extended one to me. His grip was just as firm and as rough as his words. "Now answer me, Flynn. What was it you thought I meant? Eh, lad?"

"I thought you meant I was too young to understand the way you feel, and it isn't so. When I was 15, I sailed with the maritime service on the Jackson, a four-masted barque, training for entry into the Merchant Navy. I put in some good years, and just when I was ready to qualify, along came Hitler. I finished up as a lieutenant aboard a destroyer in the North Atlantic, escorting convoys."

The old man's mouth opened as if to speak, then clamped down on his pipe, and he sat quietly reflecting behind clouds of smoke. Watching him, I hoped that he'd conceived a bit of respect for me, or at least for the training I had received, along with the dangers I'd faced–but to this he said nothing.

I could hear now only the sounds of the water and the creaking of the ship. The old man sat with eyes fixed, seeming to gaze within and beyond. The late afternoon sun was giving off little heat now and a fog was forming out beyond Sheerness. Still he took scant notice, and sat without a word. I could hardly continue sitting near without trying to make some kind of conversation, so I pondered exactly what to say. I stood up and stretched, looking at the masts towering above us.

"Kind of romantic, the era of sail," I began, and then stopped, realising how trite that sounded.

The old man jumped up as if he'd been stung by a bee. "Romantic!" he cried; "romantic? Aloft hauling in wet canvas sail in a damned cold ocean gale, hands so frozen they can hardly grip, with only the wind at your back holding you against the yardarms, hoping you can make it down the ratlines without taking a fall to the pitching deck below? Ye hae a damn strange idea of romance there, Flynn. Little wonder ye're not married."

"I didn't know it showed," I said in surprise.

"It does," he answered.

"And you?"

He knocked the ash from his pipe and refilled it before speaking. "Thirty-two years we were," he said at last in a gruff voice. "Lost her in the bombing. Stayed in London where we thought it safe. And at first Hitler only sent his packages over to the military targets. Nineteen-forty… October, it was. Direct hit on our house and me down river. I could hear the planes coming in from the deck of this very ship and the sirens wailing like lost souls… Aye, well, at least after that we had no more need to worry over one another when I was at sea. Missing, they said." He cleared his throat. "She was a fine lass, my Meg."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Bowman," I said quietly.

"No matter." He turned and walked aft up the ladder to the bridge deck so I followed him up to the helm. He then sat with one hand on the large double wheel, which I saw had a foot brake to help control or slow the turning of the helm in rough seas. "Put in many an hour at this helm; it seemed only fitting that I should be caring for the auld Bonnie once she was retired." He patted the wheel in a comforting manner.

"What do you do now?" I asked.

"Answer stupid questions," he said, turning away. After a moment he looked back at me almost apologetically. "Well, I'm a pensioner of the company now. Enough to keep me in food and almost enough to keep the rain off me head."

"You live aboard?" I asked.

"Aye, till they carry me off," he said, looking grim.

I wasn't too sure who 'they' were, the old shipping company or Government Officials but I said, "they wouldn't do that, would they? That is, surely they won't bother you. After all, you've taken care of things around here."

"They don't want us around, Flynn, and taking care of things isn't what they want either. And bother us? Why, ye'd think they'd naught better to do."

"Mr. Bowman," I began, "at the risk of asking yet one more stupid question, who exactly are 'us'?"

"Meself and some others who feel the same about this ship; sailors, deepwater men all."

"So then, that was who helped you sink the old coal barque, eh? That's grand! Just spot on." I said, thinking I was being complimentary.

"You just keep that under your hat, young man," he cautioned.

"Not to worry, sir. I work at an Inn about just at the end of the lane from here, so if I can help you..."

Bowman scowled. "And what makes you think help is needed? Besides, have ye naught better to spend your time at?" he snapped.

"Well, if you think being at the beck and call of a fussy biddy-hen landlady is a better way to pass the time, then you must be mad."

"Mad I'm not," he snorted, "a bit daft I may be." A thought lit his eye. "Would that Inn be the old Beasley place?" I nodded. The path I'd followed down to the water led right back to the Inn; no one could miss it in passing, for it stood just off the roadway, but I didn't say more. "I know it well," he said with a sort of laugh.

There was no way of telling what he meant by that, and I wasn't about to ask, so I returned to our original subject. "At the risk of sounding daft myself, this ship doesn't look as if she's a total loss. The standing rigging looks to be taut and sound; now, if enough good line could be found….and the main running rigging could easily be replaced. Ah, and I couldn't help noticing those winches; they could certainly handle the yards if properly rigged."

I kept on, pointing out this and that as I went, and spouting on about everything that I came across. "This deck," I continued, "surely all it needs is a bit of caulk and holystone…" I stopped suddenly, realising that my mouth was running away at a clip. I turned to meet Bowman's condescending stare. There was an uncomfortable silence.

"Well, first we'd need some sweepers fore and aft," he suggested.

"Right," I agreed, without thinking.

With one quick motion he snatched a broom from its resting-place and shoved its handle into my hand. I blinked. He almost grinned, but his beard made it hard to tell. "Wouldn't ye agree that we've no need of officers on this ship as yet? Now, manpower- of that we do have need." I stared at him, surprised at the sudden steely ring of command in his voice.

"I suppose so," I responded, not very heartily. I had worked hard to become an officer, and sweeping and such was for ordinary seamen, after all. Thankfully Bowman didn't pursue this line.

"Getting a bit cauld this day, eh, lad? Care for a wee dram?" he asked.

I was surprised "Oh, no! I couldn't deprive you of...." but he waved me off impatiently.

"There's always a drop of the right stuff for lads like you. Come along now."

I followed him over to the hatch, where a shove at the cover revealed the ladder to the deck below. We clambered down, and as my eyes became accustomed to the darkness, many things began to make even less sense to me. Below decks the wood on the bulkhead and ladder were every bit perfect. A brass lamp shone above the chart table I could see down another ladder below. So much for this being a wreck, I thought.

Through another bulkhead and down a small passage aft was the captain's cabin. The old man walked right in, so I followed suit. This room probably looked as good as it did the day she was launched, save for some upholstery. The aft ports were the size of small windows, with a grand view of the Thames waterway.

"Blimey, you do live here!" I exclaimed, wide-eyed.

"Thought I told you that," he said.

"Yes, but this is wonderful! And the captain's cabin, no less."

"She's got a captain; she's got me, and I her captain remain." There was real pride of place in his voice; even to be captain of a derelict was no cause for shame, by god!

He reached inside the cabinet and placed an unlabelled green glass bottle and two heavy crockery mugs on the chart table. With a steady skilled hand, he slowly poured two equal portions, handing one to me. "Air do slainte," he toasted.

"That's grand; sure to warm the blood," I concurred. "Cheers," I added, lifting the mug to my lips. Another surprise. This was good malt whisky and we sat sipping and savouring the amber liquid as if it were gold itself.

"So, then, Captain Bowman–isn't that how I should address you?"

"I've been called worse," he assured me.

"Yes, sir," I said under my breath, adding mentally 'I daresay you have' recalling my first impression of him, but I wouldn't have dared say that aloud. There was nothing to be gained by stirring him up needlessly, after all. I looked about the cabin, then continued: "I must say, sir, this ship isn't what she seems from above. Topside is a bloody wreck from a distance, yet close up she's not so bad; the wood is fine, the seams appear tight, and then there's down below here. Tell me then, is her hull sound?"

He glanced up from his drink and sat back in the chair with a crafty look. Freed from his scarf and turned-up collar, his gray whiskers looked much like a lion's mane and thick dark eyebrows bristled over his eyes. He made quite a picture.

"Quite sound. Been easier to work below," he remarked, "no one to see."

"To see what?" I enquired, a bit confused.

"What ye noticed a'ready, lad. Why, with a few weeks of bollocks-bustin' topside, we could get her out with, say, half or better sail."

"Out? Sail?" I cried in astonishment. "This? I mean, this? Aboard this ship?"

"This very ship, aye."

"But her rigging is a mess; those lines couldn't hold half their load, and no one knows if the upper topsails or topgallant yards would stand the strain, much less how the sails would hold up. Good lord, it would take a pretty penny to put it right!"

He only laughed. "So, you know a bit about sailing these ships, do ye? Ha! Now you sound just like those Government Officials. Well, it don't take but strong backs and quick minds."

"That doesn't quite pay the piper." I said, then wondered if that might not be the best expression to use with a Scotsman. My answer came quickly.

"Bugger the bloody piper! You young pups today… Look ye, young man." Taking up the bottle, he replenished our mugs and tucked the bottle into the inner pocket of his watch coat. Then, reaching under the table, he pulled out two large Navy torches, and handed me one. "Come along now," he said, and it did sound like an order.

Down a darkened passage we went, shining our lights, as if in a coalmine. We went from his cabin down another ladder to the 'tween deck and moved forward until we came to another bulkhead about amidships. The air was damp and musty, and the overhead so low in places, even ducking would lose me my cap half the time. The old man stopped outside of one of the hatches and took a sip of his drink.

"Know where this goes?" he asked. From where we were, I could only guess.

"To the main cargo hold?" I hazarded.

"Aye, that it does." Turning his light first on me, then onto my cup, he produced the bottle from his coat and refilled our cups. "Come on, lad, drink up."

I leaned half-sitting against the inside hatch with my mug and had one more nip. If I tried to match him sip for sip, I'd be plastered in no time, and I was already feeling a bit loose in the joints. Bowman's face was in shadow but I could see he was serious.

"I'm going to show ye something now, Flynn, and ye must never speak of it to anyone. I ask you now for your word on it." He gravely put out his palm. I shook his hand and promised. Sounded quite the mystery to me, but I quietly listened on.

"Aye," he said, "you're right about the rigging, but if it were replaced before we're ready, it might give us away."

"I don't follow," I said. "You'd be hard pressed to come up with the half of what you'd need."

He made no answer to this, but simply reached over and threw open the dogs that secured the hatch. As I was still leaning on it, I fell through the opening like so much baggage, tumbling over a dozen or so objects before reaching the bottom and finding myself once again in the unenviable position of being flat on my arse looking up at Bowman.

"Take care now, lad! Now up wi' ye," he said impatiently.

Angry and incensed, I got up to confront him, but when I picked up my torch, what I saw took all the words from my lips. Nearly filling the hold were hawsers and lines of every size, both hemp and wire; there were all types of line, modern winding tackle, shrouds with ranks of manilla, and nylon ropes hanging and piled in neat coils. As I moved my light around I thought that this was a true bo'sun's gold mine. I sat down on a barrel next to a makeshift table covered with marlinespikes, serving mallets, sail-maker's palms, and an assortment of tools for sail-making and rigging work. I looked at Bowman.

Even in the sharp shadows cast by the torches, the grin on the old man's face was plain to see. Here was a cargo hold filled with enough line to re-rig the entire ship…and then some.

"Captain Bowman," I began, "Where on earth did you get…I mean where did all this come from?"

"Not yet, lad. Maybe, all things being right, ye'll know enough in time. Come along now," he chuckled, and turned to go out. I pulled on my cap and backed out of the hold. As I turned to follow him, I forgot about the low overhead and caught myself a hearty smack. It felt as though I'd nearly knocked my head off, but luckily it was only my cap. I snatched it up hastily, hoping the old man had not seen me, and hurried along the dark passage after him. Walking along the 'tween deck, I shined my torch into the old cabins and divided rooms, still looking to be in remarkably good condition. When we came back to the chart table, Bowman again set the bottle on the table and then fell into a chair.

"Well, Flynn, what d'ye say? Do ye think I'm a crazy old fool?"

"I never thought you a fool, Captain Bowman. To tell you the truth, I don't know what to think. But if you could re-rig this ship, say if, what then? Surely she's still property of the Crown. It would be much like an act of piracy to make off with her."

"Piracy? When something is thrown away and ye save it, is it theft?" he asked indignantly.

"Well, no. But this isn't quite the same."

"Now, no one said a word about stealing. 'Relocation' is what we're talking about. 'Liberating' her, you might say, taking her back to Scotland where she was built. There she'll be looked after."

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"We've people there and they've a real docking to give her, a home port. 'Tis the only way, lad. We've tried everything and talked to everyone." His expression hardened. "A nod is good as a wink to a blind man. They don't give a damn up in London," he said bitterly, pounding his the table with a gnarled fist. Giving a long sigh, he took up the bottle and added to our mugs.

We sat back in silence, listening to the waves. The last of the sun was streaming through the round porthole, casting an amber-hued spotlight beam over the chart table. The ship's clock on the bulkhead sounded its bell, and I reached for my pocket watch to check the hour. Just then there arose a distant sound of the voices and footsteps of men coming aboard. I looked to Bowman for some reaction but he showed no surprise. He got up slowly and drew out his pocket watch. Mumbling something under his breath he took three more mugs from the shelf and placed them on the table. The voices grew louder, then the compartment hatch opened and down came three more figures of a distinctly salty character, all well bundled against the wind.

Two made directly for the bottle, greeting Bowman with jokes and chaffing, while the third ploughed his way towards the warmth of the cabin's pot-bellied stove near my end of the table. He was swathed in a long mackintosh, and his face was muffled by yards of scarf, which prevented his noticing me at first. He set to unwinding himself, and after a few ells of scarf had come away, a blunt old face emerged. The watery grey eyes suddenly grew large as they lit upon me, and as quickly narrowed with suspicion. I started to put on my best smile, but it didn't get far. His lips quivered, then twitched open.

"And what would it be you're doing here?" he asked in a heavy Irish brogue. The room was instantly silent and all eyes were cast on me. All I could think was, 'Damn, three more just like Bowman!' I didn't feel like defending my presence to this lot but I had to say something. I got up and looked at the old salt standing before me.

"That's the second time today someone's asked me that." I said, motioning to Bowman, who now, at last, remembered to introduce me.

"This here is Flynn, lads, Royal Navy. But in spite o' that he's worked on proper ships and could be of real use to us."

"Oh," stuttered the scarved one, "and how is it you'll be doing that?"

"I'm not sure, really," I admitted, "but I've a strong back and some real sailing experience…"

"Ah, experience!" he coughed, and then laughed sarcastically. "Perhaps I'll learn something."

"Yes," I agreed with equal sarcasm, "perhaps you will." I turned away, leaving him muttering soundlessly.

"That's our Ned… Edward, if you will," said Bowman. "Bloody good navigator; not much on first impressions, just what you'd expect from an old mick." I looked to Edward for some sort of reaction, but his face was quite expressionless. Bowman turned to the next man. "This is Boris; he's a Russian. Not much on English, but he's a damned fine rigger, none like him; you'll soon see."

Boris pulled off his woollen cap and gave me a nod, black eyes glinting. I held out my hand. "Flynn's the name," I said. Though not an especially large man, Boris seemed impressively fit, and had a likeable earnestness about him. A smile gleamed through his moustache as he took my hand in a wiry grip. I later learned more of him. Rather ironically, Boris had managed to get out of Russia some years earlier and had come to London to get a better life. Then the War came and life had not really become better. Here we were impoverished and war-torn also, but it was really the sea he regarded as his home now, the sea, and not just some new flag.

"Boris," he grinned. He pointed to the bottle on the chart table. "Is good, yes?"

"Excellent," I agreed. My thoughts turned to the rigging. "I must say you have a daunting task ahead of you."

"Thank you very good, Nah Zdorovye!" Boris said, taking a long drink.

Bowman cleared his throat. "Told you, not much on English."

"But big in heart," added Boris modestly, with an expansive gesture.

I lifted my cup. What a strange lot, I thought and began to wonder if my tentative offer to help was wise. I decided to reserve judgment for the time being.

Edward joined us and, fixing a sharp look upon me, wordlessly picked up his drink. "Young man," he began, then paused for a swallow of scotch. His lips took on that quivering. Here it comes, I thought, one more bit of sarcasm, and I'm through with the whole lot of them.

"If your work is as good as your words," he said, "well, eh, a strong back is welcome. There's much to be done, and no time to do it all." There! A friendly gesture at last.

I was about to say something in return but the last of the three, a huge burly bear of a man, now leaned towards Bowman and spoke up in a quiet voice. "You'll want to know; no one followed. As soon as it's dark we'll unload."

"Good show," nodded Bowman, and then jerked a thumb in my direction. "This chap calls himself Flynn."

"Yes, I heard." The giant hove near and loomed over me. "Harris," he said, extending a massive hand that all but swallowed up my own. I had to wonder if I'd get it back whole, but the expression on the face above me, with its sandy jaw line beard, was reassuringly mild. The beard was repeated in a fringe of hair around the back of his head, which left the top bare and shining pink. The overall effect was that of a sort of vast benevolence, yet one had the overwhelming impression that in any fray this was someone you'd want to see in your own corner, and not in the other fellow's.

Finally he released my hand, which I cautiously flexed. "Excuse me a moment," he said, and made his way to a large armchair. He lowered himself into it with a grateful sigh, and a piteous groan from the chair, poured a long steady measure of whisky and took a sip. He gave me an appraising glance and then looked towards Bowman. "How much does he know?" he asked.

"Enough," grunted Bowman.

Harris turned back to me. "Well, Flynn, as Edward here has said, we've much to do, for this job of ours is just beginning, and it means the world to us. So I hope you'll not give us up, but bust your arse along with the rest of us, else I'll kick it into proper shape for you." And he gave me such a gentle, kindly smile that the hairs stood up on the back of my neck. "Cheers," he added, lifting his mug.

"I'll do my very best, Harris," I gulped. Good God, I did seem to be committing myself, and I hadn't even known Bowman more than a few hours, intriguing as it all sounded.

"Never a good idea to always do your very best; people will then always expect it of you," he joked. "You've a peculiar accent. Whereabouts are you from?" he asked.

"Well, I was actually born in America," I began cautiously.

"Ooh- bred and weaned beyond the pale, is it?" growled Edward darkly, and Harris gave a few clucks of the tongue at the disclosure of my shameful ancestry.

I folded my arms and glared at them. "I trust you'll not hold it against me that Great-Granddad, Shamus, took it into his head to forsake the Auld Sod for the New World during the Potato Famine." I shot a pointed glance at Edward- who hastily looked elsewhere. "And while my father, rest his soul, may have committed the unpardonable sin of being born on American soil, my mother, rest her soul, was born English. We eventually moved here to stay–after I was weaned. I had most of my schooling in Hampshire, before going to apprentice on the Jackson and then joining the Royal Navy. I'm no Yank; I'm a subject of the King, so in future I'll thank you not to twit me about my American blood."

The company looked about at one another and took this in without further comment, then pulled up their chairs closer to the pot-bellied stove. Harris leaned forward, opened the door, and stirred the coals with the poker. Taking up the tongs, he extracted a large bit of coal from a nearby box and tossed it in, then fell back into his chair and began his report.

"The spare wireless parts were hard to find, but I've enough for sure to put the radio right. I've two pumps and several tins of petrol to keep them going a few days. Good new hoses, too; keep the hold dry and lots of rigging parts. Boris, you'll go through and see what's of use and what's rubbish."

"Aha," said Boris, pulling on his watch cap.

Harris waved a hand. "Not yet; wait until it's dark. Oh, and deep-six anything with ship's markings if we can't paint over them." Boris nodded that he understood.

While we waited for full dark Harris and Bowman sat and told the most outrageous tales of their seemingly innumerable adventures during their twenty- and fifty-odd years at sea, some of it as shipmates. Between them, they had lived an odyssey that spanned many years, and could probably fill a score of volumes if written down. Edward and Boris howled with laughter, and volunteered little stories of their own as the evening wore on.

The place was cheery now; the ice was broken and we were starting to get to know one another. I could see that Edward, except when on occasion giving forth his low choked laugh, was a taciturn and reserved man. When he was about to speak, his lips took on a nervous quiver, as if the words were stirring about within, waiting to fall out. Boris was more easygoing, and casually accepted most of life's tasks as not too much trouble, simply another thing to do. He'd been a rigger most of his life, and was more at home aloft than on deck. That Russian accent of his was thicker than a London fog–but I somehow suspected that he knew or understood more English than Bowman gave him credit for.

About 7 o'clock, Harris got up and looked out of the porthole. "Well, Flynn, let's put that strong back of yours to some use. You help Boris unload; Bowman and I need to chat a moment. You too, Edward."

"Right," I replied. Rising, I laid hold of my coat and followed Boris to the main deck. The instant the hatch opened we were greeted by a blast of frigid night air.

I hustled shivering into my coat, while Boris turned his face full into the breeze as though it were no more than a balmy summer's evening.

"Good night, not too cold," observed Boris pleasurably.

"I expect it is if you're used to Siberia," I muttered through chattering teeth.

He gave me an amused look. "No, my friend, Siberia very, very cold."

I shuddered. "I'll take your word for it, Boris."

As we reached the gangway, I could make out a war-weary ex-Royal-Navy lorry standing over on the bank. With the grace of a cat, Boris shot down the creaking old planks of the gangway, not even bothering to use the rope handrails. As I started after him I felt the ship roll a bit with the tide, and grasped the ropes while my knees struggled to keep my two feet under them. Finally reaching the bank, I looked over at Boris. "You make it look so easy!"

"Is only hard up top there," he said, pointing aloft to the towering masts. "You slip here, you only splash; you slip there… you splat."

"Right; well, I shall try not to splat. " But I wasn't feeling at all reassured as I looked up into the darkness.

Reaching into the back of the lorry, Boris threw back the tarpaulin. There were buckets of paint, great tins of petrol, boxes of damned near everything one could wish for to build a better ship. It was staggering.

"Where did all this come from?" I asked in amazement.

Boris looked through the mass of goods, and finally lifted out a hauling block marked H.M.S. Princeton. "From this," he said, indicating the letters on it.

"Good Lord, man, don't tell me we're reduced to theft," I said in alarm.

"Hardly," came a voice behind me. I turned to see Harris making his way towards us. "The Princeton is in the scrapyard. Damned pig of a ship; she'll be broken up soon and needing none of this."

Then it came to me. Harris was very likely more than a mere deck-hand, and might well be the inside connection to the scrapyards of the Royal Navy, whence he could easily have been smuggling things out bit by bit unnoticed. After a moment I worked up the courage to ask him about the possible connection. Even as I spoke I suddenly thought I may have overstepped, so I made my question short. He could always laugh it off should he not want to give over this information, but I was rewarded with a ready reply.

"Aye, that's true, every word," he said carefully. Then he looked me in the eye and gave me that kindly smile again. "And a word to no one," he added sweetly.

I suppressed a shiver. "Well, I have to say it's brilliant. Up till now I was thinking that this ship couldn't ever be saved, but with that main cargo hold and everything else, you might well carry it off. Or we might."

Harris only smiled. "Not a thing done slap dash," he added.

"But really, I had no idea that you were so well organised, so well-equipped," I added lamely. So much in fact, I thought, that you must be the one who 'organises' the endless supply of whisky in unmarked bottles.

Harris once more bent his disquieting smile upon me, but mercifully at this point took the smile along with himself and clambered up into the back of the lorry with Boris. Each threw out a sack to me; I caught one while the other well-nigh caught me. I gathered them both awkwardly into my arms. "Right." I said, and began to trudge back up the gangway. The fog that I had earlier seen gathering was now rolling in thicker by the minute.

"I feel like a grave robber in a Sherlock Holmes mystery," I called back to Harris.

"Sherlock Holmes robs graves?" asked Boris.

Harris looked up with an amused glint in his eye. "Yes, indeed; simply doted on it," he remarked blandly. "Everyone knows that grave-robbing and the violin were the great Sherlock's favourite pastimes, mate."

Boris turned and gazed at him narrowly. Harris fidgeted and then rolled his eyes skyward. "Oh, never mind," he said absently, "let's have at it now."

It took a long hour to unload that bloody lorry, and it seemed as though a bit of every ship scrapped must have been in there. Bowman sorted things for storage with Edward, locked together in a constant fray over what was or wasn't useful. Boris stood by silently; perhaps unable to determine what exactly they were on about. I envied him his poor English; then again, perhaps he just had an unflappable nature.

When the last bit of gear was safely stowed on board, we all filed back below decks. Between the pot-bellied stove and the heat of our labours the cabin now seemed positively tropical, a welcome change from the crisp night and the thickening fog.

"I must be getting soft," I groaned as I pulled off cap, scarf, and coat, and fell back into a chair. I was ready for a nice cup of tea, but Bowman was busily pouring another round of whisky. I feebly held out my hand for a mug of the restorative.

"It's a shame the sail locker doesn't shape up to the cargo hold," Bowman said.

"Why? I asked, "how much sail is there?"

"Not much that's of use. Too much mildew and just plain rot. Ha! I know what ye're thinking. All that rigging won't move a wind ship with nothing to catch the wind. Aye, but we're hoping to get lucky."

"Lucky?" I turned to Harris, who sat back with his eyes closed, a smoking pipe comfortably held in the corner of his mouth.

"Good canvas is hard to come by, and that we do find is too small," he sighed, "why, you'd have to stitch so much together, it'd probably split in a dozen places in the first hard blow; simply not for the doing."

"How would you sew it if you had it?" I asked, "doing it by hand would take forever."

Harris settled back even further and blew out a smoke-ring. "No need for that. We've friends in the garment trade, Jewish folk I helped get out of Europe when things got too bad. Really nice people and they have quite a fleet of sewing machines, including some heavy duty industrial ones. They're watching out for a volume of canvas and have already contacted one or two retired sail-makers to help with the sewing on the bolt ropes, making the cringles and all those other finishes, without which the sails would be useless. I think I'll pop by there tomorrow and see if there's anything in the wind, so to speak. Care to come along, Flynn?"

My aching muscles reproached me. "Well, I work all day, you know. I'm not sure that I could tackle another load so soon."

Harris laughed. "Small chance we'll fetch a cargo tomorrow."

I thought for a moment. "Well, I'll give it a go, but it has to be at tea time. As long as it's not too far away and we're not late back."

"Not to worry," said Harris airily, "no place is far away when I'm driving."

"I've just remembered, I've some work to finish up at the Inn," I exclaimed. Reaching for my pocket watch, I winced as I saw that it was after 2 o'clock in the morning. It was late… or early, depending how you looked at it. "I must be going. I've really enjoyed this evening, despite the work, and I look forward to seeing you all again soon. Captain Bowman, Boris, Edward, and you, Harris–good night, everyone."

As I bundled up against the night, I was still wondering just what the devil I had blundered into, and what I had let myself in for. But, I reflected, although my work at the Inn kept the wolf from my door just now, it was just temporary. Soon I would have to be making other plans and this sounded a good deal more exciting than working at the Inn. We shook hands all around, and then I quickly climbed the ladder into the night.