THE harbour was set in a natural bay on the north shore of Lake Melf, which seemed to be about three miles wide at this point, although it seemed to narrow to less than a mile wide, over to the east. Michael tried to make out the far shore, but it was shrouded in mist and little could be discerned. Benjamin explained that the route to the ocean was to the north-east, via the narrow strait. He could tell them little about the shipping on the waterfront: seafaring was not his line of expertise and he had never sailed on the ocean, himself. They could see many ships of all different sizes and types, moored along the waterfront—but little activity except on the smaller ships and boats. Michael and Rachel guessed that these were for plying the coastal trade, perhaps as far as the island of Newf to the south, while the big ocean-going ships stood idle for the present, awaiting calmer weather at the onset of Spring.

Michael was on a mission, however, and they could not linger here long, especially since the afternoon was well advanced. He insisted on being shown where the shipyard was: the place where the ships were actually built, or repaired. So Benjamin led them along the front, past numerous bars and saloons—which reminded Michael of something else. He’d promised himself that, upon reaching Rigo, he’d make enquiries after David’s ‘Uncle Axel’ who was believed to have made for here—although he had very little to go on: he’d never met the old man and didn’t even know whether ‘Axel’ was his Christian name or his surname. But that could wait…

They reached the shipyard. There were a few ships in various stages of construction, plus one ship in dry-dock which was evidently undergoing repairs. Michael recognised it as a brig, with two square-rigged masts, about 150 tons he guessed. Part of the starboard hull was stove in at the forward end. There were two or three men working on the ship, and he hailed them.

“Do you know if anyone’s on the lookout for a good carpenter? I’m after a position, around here if possible.”

One of the men paused his work, and looked Michael over. “You’d better speak to the Chief. Over there,” he said, pointing to a hut across the yard.

So they went over to the foreman’s hut. Michael asked the others to wait while he knocked, went in, and introduced himself to the foreman. He explained his wishes in a few words.

“Carpenter, eh? If you’re good enough, we can certainly use a skilled carpenter. There’s not much work on just now, but it’ll pick up in a week or two when the big ocean-going ships get moving again. You say you’ve plenty of experience, but not worked on ships? Well, at least you’re honest about it—so many lads come here and tell me all sorts of stories! I can tell from your accent, you’re not from these parts, so I’m not surprised if the sea is new to you. Let’s see what you can do. We’ve still got an hour of daylight—at present we’re not working nights, but will do so when the trade picks up.”

They walked across to the brig, and went on board. Some of the foredeck had been taken up, to give access to the hull. “This is the Dauntless. A fine ship. I’m sure you’ve had a look around already: you can see how her hull’s been stove in, just on the waterline. Ran aground, she did, just at the entrance to Lake Melf, trying to make for the lake entrance in a strong squall. The crew abandoned her and were all saved, luckily: once the squall subsided they were able to re-board and re-float her, and with temporary patching they managed to limp her back to the harbour.”

“Is she an ocean-going ship? Sailing far?” asked Michael, tentatively.

“Yes she certainly is. Been south as far as the Indies, if you know where those are: I’m sure your friend does,” nodding towards Benjamin. “One of the fleet of ships that does the spice run, bringing back cloves, nutmeg, pepper, tea, coffee, bananas, rum, all sorts of things. Couldn’t do without her—which is why she’s in for repairs. So—how about a little job, then? You see that several of the ribs—the timbers that run crosswise across the hull, are broken. See if you can fix one of them.”

“I don’t have my tools with me,” said Michael, simply. He didn’t want to explain how he had had to abandon them in Kentak, when he and Rachel had to flee for their lives. “Is there somewhere I can borrow some?”

“Sure. Look in the tool shed over there.” And with that the foreman returned to his hut, promising to return later.

Michael took a little while selecting saws, an adze, planes, chisels, and a rule; then, with the help of one of the other workers, he picked up a suitable log from the pile of timber in the yard, carried it on board the ship, and fell to work, carefully trying to replicate the curved shape of the rib he was replacing. He was delighted to find that his skills had not left him, and in a little over half an hour he had successfully spliced in a new timber to replace the damaged rib. Just as he was stepping back to admire his handiwork, the foreman re-appeared.

“Well, well, lad! That looks pretty neat to me. And firm enough, I hope!” He went over to the newly-fitted rib and gave it a hefty kick. It did not budge. “And solid enough, too. But,” and he bent over and squinted along the line of ribs, “not quite the right shape, my boy. Just an inch or two out of line. Of course, when you’re putting up rafters in a barn, or whatever you’re used to where you come from, that sort of thing doesn’t matter—but it does matter on a ship. If the ribs are even a little bit out of true, she’ll spring a leak.

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“But never mind about that. For someone who’s never fitted a ship’s rib before, you’ve done admirably, my boy. So come along tomorrow and I’ll have a job waiting for you: you’re hired. The first thing I’ll set you to do is to repair that rib—and all the others which are broken—properly. One of the other lads will show you the technique for getting them true. And then, after that, there are the planks—we call them strakes—which go lengthwise over the ribs. They have to be properly shaped too. So there’s plenty of work lined up. I’m confident you’ll do.”

Michael was a bit disappointed that he had not quite hit the mark with his first attempt at ship repairs, but he was delighted to get the job all the same. The foreman had not yet mentioned wages, but Rachel and he did not need much: enough to pay the rent, keep them in food and clothing, and hopefully buy them a passage across the ocean. Oh, and of course, to re-pay Peter’s loan—but Peter had already said, that could wait.

There was one more question he wanted to ask the foreman: “Do you know when this ship will be ready? When she’ll sail, and where to? My wife here and I would like to book passage, if it’s going where we want to go.”

“Can’t answer for that, sorry, you’ll have to ask the owners—and they won’t be back for a few weeks yet. I wish you luck.”

With that, they took their leave of the foreman and walked back along the waterfront. Michael and Rachel proposed to have some­thing to eat in one of the many bars along the street. They invited Benjamin to join them, but he excused himself, saying he had to get home to Laura and the children, and supper would be waiting for him there.

“Are you OK with finding your way back to the inn? You say you are? All right then, good night.” And with a wave, Benjamin was gone.

So Michael and Rachel were left on their own to sound out the bars. Michael had already explained to Rachel his intention of seeking out David’s Uncle Axel, if there was even a remote chance he might be in the area. So they walked into the first bar and tentatively asked the landlord.

“ ‘Axel’, eh? Unusual name. No, can’t say as I remember anyone called that. Christian name or surname?”

Michael said he didn’t know.

“And gammy leg you say? Elderly, but quite tall and sturdy, walks with a stick, bushy grey eyebrows?” This was as much of David’s description of his uncle as Michael could remember. “No, sorry, can’t think of anyone fitting that description. You could try some of the other bars along the road.”

So they thanked him and went along to the next bar. They had no better success at the next four they visited. But at the sixth bar, as they were explaining once more to the landlord, an old man with a bushy white beard, who had overheard their enquiries, came up to them.

“Did you say ‘Axel’? And did you say, you heard his name from a friend of yours who knew him since childhood? I wonder if your friend got the name wrong. I used to sail alongside a chap called ‘Alex’—‘Alexander Stubbs’ was his name in full. And yes he broke his leg while at sea, and after that retired from seafaring. I haven’t seen him since, I’m afraid. Any more you can say about him?”

Michael suddenly remembered something else David had told him. “He had a wife, name of Elizabeth, lived here in Rigo, but she died while he was away at sea. That would have been his last voyage, the one in which he broke his leg.”

“Well, that fits as well. I do remember Alex had a wife living here, and that she’d died. So it looks very much as if we’ve pinned down your man. But I’m afraid I’ve not seen him for many years—certainly not come across him in Rigo recently. Sorry.”

But just at that moment another, younger man came over to join them. He was dressed in a vivid scarlet jacket, resplendent with bright brass buttons, breeches, knee-length close-fitting boots, and a wide-brimmed hat. Both Michael and Rachel were puzzled at his clothing. Some sort of uniform, they guessed. “Are you the Deviations Inspector here?” Michael asked.

“No, not exactly. But my job here is to help keep the peace—make sure that folks behave themselves!—and to help out anyone in trouble, strangers especially. We’re policemen: people here call us ‘Mounties’ because we do most of our work on horseback. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. Alexander Stubbs! I recall the name. But I’m sorry, it’s not good news.”

“Please tell us,” replied Michael. “We’ve been seeking him out for a long time.”

“He’s dead, I’m afraid. A man answering your description was found lying in the roadway, about a month ago, just over ten miles west of Rigo. A horse was standing nearby, and all the evidence points to him having fallen from his horse. An accident. His neck was broken: it must have been a quick end with very little suffering,” he added, noticing that Rachel was close to tears. “And yes, his Normalcy card was on him, and it gave the name ‘Alexander Stubbs’. So it looks like that’s your man, I’m afraid. I’m so very sorry…”

At this point Rachel could no longer hold back her tears. But she was composed enough to hiss a quick thought-shape at Michael: “It wasn’t an accident!” Michael, as he comforted her, couldn’t help but agree with her. “I wonder if Yellow-Hair was involved in this? Axel was already suspected, back in Waknuk. Poor Axel—so he never made it to Rigo.”

When Rachel had recovered herself, they thanked their new-found friends and decided to order a light supper, with a couple of glasses of ale, right there at that bar. But they could eat and drink only little of it. Wearily they took their leave and made their way back to the inn.