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CHAPTER SIX
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which begins with a misunderstanding and ends
with an unexpected ducking
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I swerved to the right near the Island of Wight and went to Southampton.
I dropped anchor offshore, left Lom behind to take care of the herrings,
while Fooks and I got into a skiff and rowed to the shore.
We landed in a beautiful spot: there was a lovely green lawn, paths strewn
with sand and signs everywhere: "Property of Archibald Dandy. No trespassing."
Before we moved several steps we found ourselves surrounded by a throng
of well-dressed gentlemen. I just could not make out whether these were
Mister Archibald Dandy with his family, the Foreign Secretary with his
retinue, or a troop of secret agents. When we got talking it turned out
that they were ... beggars. Begging is strictly forbidden in England,
but it is all right if you wear a tailcoat -then it is simply a matter
of a gentleman helping out a brother gentleman.
Well, I distributed some small change among the resplendent beggars and
on we went. Suddenly I saw another of their kind, long as a beanstalk.
When we came abreast he took off his top hat and made a formal bow. Well,
I rummaged in my pocket, found a penny and dropped it into his top hat.
I expected to receive a dignified thank you but instead the man flushed
all over, snorted, put a monocle in his eye and said impressively:
"I am Archibald Dandy. Who do I have the honour of addressing?"
"Sea captain Christopher Wrungel," I introduced myself.
"Pleased to meet you, " he said. "Defend yourself, Captain!"
I tried to apologise, but he would not listen. His dander was up good
and proper. He set his top hat on the lawn, took off his coat... Well,
I accepted the challenge, peeled off my coat, and took up a stance.
Fooks was equal to the occasion too. He walked a little aside, and, in
a proper referee manner, shouted: "Seconds, out! Gong! Box!"
Mister Dandy started hopping around me, flailing his fists and puffing
like boys puff when they play locomotives. Then he went into attack.
I swung my fist - and barely stopped it in time. You see, I suddenly realised
that with the difference in height between us wherever my fist landed
it would be below the belt, and a foul. He, meantime, was punching the
air above my head. A waste of time if ever there was one. And so the first
round passed in sparring.
I don't know what the outcome of the bout would have been if it had not
been for Fooks's bright idea.
"Hop on, Captain," he said and bent to let me climb his shoulders. Once
astride him, I felt on an equal level with my adversary, so to speak,
and could let Mister Dandy really have it.
"Let's begin, Fooks," I said.
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Mister Dandy was a fair boxer. I got a good punch on the bridge of my nose, but, recalling the pugilistic exploits of my youth, I spurred on Fooks, closed in and dealt my opponent a crushing uppercut.
He stood still for a second, then closed his eyes, lowered his arms and suddenly dropped like a mast. Fooks took a watch from his waistcoat pocket and started the count. Mister Dandy did not come round until forty seconds passed. He rubbed his jaw, looked around wonderingly, saw the two of us, jumped up and began dusting his clothes.
I introduced myself a second time and apologised, explaining the reason for the misunderstanding. We shook hands, fell to talking and were soon on the friendliest of terms. He offered to show us his estate, gave us a cup of tea in his manor house, and then I, too, brought him for a return visit to the Rage.
Mister Dandy was delighted with my yacht and started counting on his fingers:
"Let's see, today is Thursday, that means tomorrow is Friday and the day after tomorrow, Saturday. Mister Wrungel!" he shouted, "Providence itself has sent you! On Sunday we are having the grand national yacht race. You must win it. I'll come with you, and Mister Baldwin's nose will be put out of joint."
To tell the truth, I did not at once catch on, but Mister Dandy explained it all to me. It appeared he had a neighbour, Mister Baldwin, and there was a long-standing rivalry between them in everything: their family, neckties, pipes. But the main argument was over yachts. Both were inveterate yachtsmen, and when it was a matter of yacht racing, they were prepared to lay down their lives to lick one another.
Well, Mister Dandy, a knowledgeable man, had taken a good look at my Rage, appreciated its lines and handiness and decided that this yacht would win in any race and in any weather.
"Do agree," he said. "It's an interesting race, and your yacht is a splendid craft, take my word of a gentleman that you'll win both the Grand Royal Prize and the Admiral Nelson Prize."
Not that I coveted prizes too much, but why not accept? The yacht was first-class, the crew reliable, and I would steer it myself. We had a fair chance of winning.
I nearly gave him my word when I recalled the herrings. Who was going to look after them? I explained to Mister Dandy that I was bound hand and foot by the herrings. He was very much upset, but then said he would arrange something. And he was as good as his word. That same day I was given permission to drive the herd into the Portsmouth Admiralty dock.
Then we set about preparing the yacht for the race: smeared the sides with lard, put away everything that could get in the way, like before a battle, bowsed the tackle taut.
On Sunday morning Mister Dandy arrived on the Rage in a white coat with a pipe between his teeth. He had two'crates with whisky and soda -water loaded on board for the occasion of unexpected defeat, put his monocle in his eye, lit his pipe and sat down in a deck-chair on the afterdeck. You know what a yacht race is like: a multitude of masts, sails, pennants, crowds of spectators on the shore. One gets all worked up. I am a very level-headed person as a rule, but I felt flurried too. We lined up for the start and waited for the signal. The flag went down, the sails unfurled, and we raced ahead. The Rage started the race splendidly, though I say it myself. We were in far the lead, cleaving the water and I was already foretasting victory.
I led the race almost to the finish, but I made a mistake towards the end. In our complacency we pressed a bit too close to the shore, lost the wind and our sails flapped. We might just as well blow at the sails from a nostril. Lom was scraping the mast, invoking the wind, Fooks was whistling -also to lure the wind, but all was of no avail, so much superstition and balderdash. I give no credence to all these old wives' tales. The Rage was rocking on the waves, our competitors were almost upon us, and the first among them was Mister Baldwin.
Mister Dandy glanced back, swore, dived into the crate, poured himself some whisky and knocked out the cork from a soda-water bottle.
The cork blew out like a cannon-ball, and we noticed that the Rage jumped a bit forward. Well, depressed as I was, my mind was working as well as always. It was not like me to drown my sorrows in wine. Instead I recalled a sea proverb: "There are no bad ships, no bad winds, there are only bad captains."
Well, whatever you might say, nobody would class me as a bad captain. I am certainly a good captain, though I say it myself. So I came up with an idea.
All the three of us took up positions aft and began knocking out the corks from soda-water bottles.
Mister Dandy caught on too. He produced a handkerchief from his pocket and set about giving us commands. It worked even better now that we laboured conceitedly.
"After guns, fire!" he yelled.
Three corks flew out with thunderous plops, seagulls hit by our missiles dropped onto the waves, soda-water gushed forth, and the water behind our stern churned. Mister Dandy kept up his waving and yelling and it was as grand a sight as the Battle of Trafalgar.
The Rage went ahead on the rocket principle, gathering speed. Soon we rounded the promontory, the sails filled with the wind and the ropes tautened and sang.
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The next day the newspapers were full of the race and our victory. Friends we did not know had come to congratulate us. But we did not only earn friends but also quite a few enemies as well. It was all Mister Baldwin's doing. He started a whispering campaign and wove intrigues. It all ended in a lot of unpleasantness, but the unpleasantness was plotted secretly and we had no inkling of it when we went to collect our prizes.
The royal yacht-club gathered in the most solemn atmosphere in the weighing room of the old customs house.
It is regarded as the greatest honour that the prize should weigh more than the winner. They suggested that I mount the scales, but I decided I could well afford to weigh up the whole crew, there were so many prizes awarded us. So we all mounted the scales. Mister Dandy, Lom, Fooks and myself. The other scale held a whole crockery display, bowls, vases, cups, goblets and glasses. Then they added a heap of medals and badges, and a few knick-knacks, and when the two scales became balanced, the chairman of the Yachting Club began his address.
I don't remember his words precisely, but he was certainly very friendly. "Bloodless victory...", "the best of the best...", "a fine example for our young people", and other words to this effect.
I was really moved, you know.
But as soon as the chairman finished his address, Mister Baldwin rose to speak.
"Is the honourable Lord Chairman aware that the prizewinner Captain Wrungel has violated the traditions of our club by prancing on a horse while wearing his seaman's uniform?" he asked and produced a Norwegian newspaper showing me astride a horse.
Well, there is no denying that the photograph is not very fitting for a sailor, so I was not very much surprised to hear murmurings in the hall. Still and all, I had won the race, and the winners, as we know, are not judged. That was the gist of the chairman's reply. The noise died down, and I thought we were over the rocks, when this Baldwin took the floor again.
"And is the honourable Chairman aware," he continued, "that the said Captain Wrungel has intercepted a load of herrings bound for a British overseas territory, and that the method of transportation suggested by Mister Wrungel is injurious to the interests of ship-owners who are subjects of the British crown?"
That was quite a trump card, let me tell you. Traditions and uniforms are all very well, but they place their trading interests above such sentimental matters in England. The hall was now in an uproar. But Mister Baldwin was not yet done. He raised his voice and continued:
"And is the Lord Chairman aware that the said herrings, which, as has been established, are injurious to the interests of British ship-owners, are at present, through the good offices of Mister Archibald Dandy, and with his direct connivance, being penned in the Admiralty dock of His Royal Majesty? Are you, finally, aware that the said Archibald Dandy has stooped to crime against God and King and so far forfeited the duty and honour of a Briton as to hire himself out to act as Moscow's secret agent?"
That was like a bomb explosion. A regular pandemonium broke loose in the customs house. Some booed, others clapped, then all jumped from their seats, divided into two opposing sides and began to advance on one another with the most belligerent attitudes.
At this point Mister Dandy could contain himself no longer. He jumped down from the scales and threw himself at Baldwin. That was the signal for a general free-for-all.
We would probably have been trampled down in the melee that followed, but the prizes saved us. As soon as Mister Dandy jumped down, our scale was swung up to the very ceiling and we watched the fray from up there unassailed.
And let me tell you that it was quite a battle. The air was thick with grunts and snorts, the thudding of thick British skulls, the crunching of old English furniture.
The honourable gentlemen became carried away, pounding each other with whatever came to hand, and the floor became strewn with teeth, real and artificial ones, collars and cuffs.
Gradually the battle began to abate, most of the combatants heaped on the floor.
We came down over a heap of prostrate bodies and made for the exit. At that moment Mister Baldwin stirred and emitted a deep sigh.
"Are you aware..." he wheezed out crossly.
At this point the chairman came to as well, raised himself on an elbow and rang his bell. "No, I am not aware of anything," he said meekly and dropped back.
It became quite still. We picked our way out, heaved a sigh of relief and ran as fast as our legs would carry us to the Rage. Once there, we set sail and headed for Portsmouth to claim our herd of herrings.
Luckily the news about the affair at the customs house had not yet reached the docks. They let out our herrings without a murmur and even wished us bon voyage. Well, off we drove them, at a leisurely pace, and an hour later sighted the Isle of Wight. We skirted it, drove the herrings into a more compact herd and, leaning on the gunwale, watched the low shores of England melt in the distance.
I was still shaken by the recent events. Lom also looked depressed. Only Fooks seemed happy. He had managed to snatch a golden chain with a little anchor from among the prizes on the scales and was now looking for the hallmark.
But very soon he spat disgustedly and said, giving me the chain:
"In our line of business people get bashed by candlesticks for this kind of thing!" I examined the chain and saw the reason for his displeasure. The end link of the chain bore a clear mark: "Artificial jewelry factory. Made in England."
"Well, the craftsmanship is above reproach and the factory is a reputable one," I said returning the chain.
At that moment the sail flapped behind my back and the next moment I was floundering in water. I thrashed about blindly and caught hold of something solid. When my eyes cleared I discovered I was clutching at Lom's leg, and his head was in front of me.
In his turn Lom was holding onto Fooks's leg, while Fooks was clutching at the golden chain whose little anchor had caught at the Rage's bulwark.
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The little chain actually saved us. If not for it, the yacht would have gone ahead, herrings and all, leaving us in the sea.
Having assessed the situation, I commanded loudly:
"Steady there!" then pulled myself closer to Lom, there from on to Fooks, and then, along the chain onto the Rage. Lom and Fooks followed suit.
Once back on deck, I examined the chain again. It was really amazing - not a link was bent. It was first-class craftsmanship!
"Take good care of it, Fooks," I said.
Then we had each a glass of rum to warm ourselves up, I appointed the watches and spent another ten minutes or so on deck with my pipe, watching the horizon and living over the events of the last few days.
"Goodbye, merry old England!" I said. We certainly had had a merry enough time there.
I finished my pipe and went down.
Early the next morning Lom came to wake me up for my watch and reported that we had entered the Atlantic Ocean.
