MICHAEL proved himself adept at the ship repair work, and soon earned the praise of the foreman. He was working hard on the repairs to the Dauntless, hoping to complete them soon—there was more involved in this than merely the repairs to the hull, since some of the ship’s superstructure had also been damaged in the storm. So the work was expected to take some weeks. He and Rachel were still hoping to find passage aboard either the Dauntless or a comparable ship: traffic to the Indies was beginning to build up again after the winter break. But the ship’s owners had yet to put in an appearance.
Rachel was restless. She had little to do except keep their room clean and tidy. She did the shopping and cooking, but they ate out at restaurants quite often. Meals were cheap in Rigo, for which they were thankful: Michael was already saving quite a bit on his wages, but they still needed to be careful with their money. Rachel often came out to the waterfront to join Michael for lunch, which they had in one of the many inns along the road there.
Sometimes they met up again with the old seaman with the white beard, whose name, they learned, was Bill Morgan: the one who had first claimed acquaintance with Uncle Axel. He told them, he was fully retired from seafaring and had no plans to take ship again. “The waterfront’s a good enough berth for me, now. All I want is the smell of salt in my nostrils. Let the youngsters risk the storms!”
After a while, Michael and Rachel, feeling they could trust this man, took the plunge. “We intend to take ship ourselves, when I’ve earned enough at the shipyard. But we really want to sail east—not south to the Indies. To a place called ‘Europe’ if we can, or alternatively one called ‘Africa’. Do you think there’s a ship that might take us that way?”
“Well, now—that’s asking quite a lot. Many seafaring folk say, there’s nothing to see if you sail east. Just water going on for ever and ever—or even, until you fall off the edge of the world. I don’t hold with that last bit of nonsense, I know perfectly well the Earth is round—I didn’t learn navigation for nothing! There have been some reports of ships having touched islands over to the east, and even larger landmasses—continents perhaps. One of them could well be the place you call ‘Europe’—though I’ve not heard that name. But the continents may be all Badlands—and there’s no trade to the east, so you’d be hard pressed to find a ship’s captain willing to take you that way.
“But I’ll tell you what: your best bet is to find yourselves a square-rigged ship—a brig or full-rigged—rather than a fore-and-aft-rigged one such as a schooner. The square-riggers will be slower beating against the wind, and can’t go as close the wind as a fore-and-after. But they’re faster running downwind. All captains want to keep well clear of the Black Coasts (you’ll have heard about them no doubt). So they tend to steer due south out of Newf, rather than the direct route which is south-west; then they turn west upon reaching the latitude of the Indies. Takes longer but safer! A square-rigger’s captain may even steer a bit east of the line, so as to then take advantage of being able to run the trade wind towards the south-west.
“So you might get a captain to drop you off at one of those islands I mentioned. Whether you can get a passage from there to the mainland, if it really is ‘Europe’, I don’t know.
“ ‘Africa’ I do know about. Legend has it that a lot of the folk living in the Indies (black-skinned folk, you’ve probably seen some of them here in Rigo) originally came across from Africa, thousands of years ago, before Tribulation. But nowadays Africa is more or less completely uninhabitable. I don’t mean, in the way that the Badlands, the Black Coasts, are uninhabitable. You won’t die of ‘Badlands sickness’ if you set foot in Africa. But you’d die anyway: it’s all desert: no water, no food. You’d starve to death, if the thirst didn’t get you first. Hardly anyone lives there. So don’t go there!”
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“Thanks a lot, that’s very helpful,” said Michael. “As it happens, I’ve been working on a square-rigger: the Dauntless, in dry dock up at the shipyard. Carpentry work: that’s my main skill. Do you know that ship? Do you think they’ll take us?”
“Ah, the Dauntless, eh? A fine ship! Yes I know her well, I’ve sailed in her myself. Wasn’t in the last crew, who ran her aground; I’d never have let that happen. Pack of idle landlubbers, I reckon! Well, the owners weren’t best pleased with all the expense they were put to, so they’ll probably be firing quite a few of the old crew and taking on new hands. You could try for the post of ship’s carpenter, Michael—I reckon you don’t have any experience of seamanship, which is a pity. And Rachel would have to go as a passenger. They won’t take on women as hands.”
As Michael was talking to Bill, he glanced at the saloon’s swing doors, and stiffened. Standing just outside, in the street and gazing intently over the doors, was a young, strong-looking man—about Michael’s age—with straw-coloured hair: a face that looked vaguely familiar…
But no! This man’s hair was cut short, not tied in a pony-tail. And now that Michael cautiously studied the face, it was not the man he’d seen at the farm-gate and at the funeral. However the resemblance was striking. Michael quickly turned his head away, hoping that the man hadn’t seen him staring at him.
But the straw-haired man was scanning all along the bar, and when his eyes lit on Michael he gave him a long hard look. He seemed to hesitate for a while, then he apparently made up his mind. He pushed his way through the swing doors and walked straight up to Michael and Rachel.
“You’re Michael, aren’t you?”
Michael wondered whether it was best to ignore this man. After all, he could hardly make trouble here, with so many people around, many of them Rigo people and seafarers, very different from Waknuk folk. But he decided that deliberate rudeness wouldn’t help, so after a pause he said “Sorry—have we met some place—do I know you?”
“No. But you are Michael, aren’t you.” Michael could only nod. “Right, I’ve got a question to ask you. A personal question. Don’t get me wrong!—I’m not here to pick a fight! Do you mind?” … and he glanced at Rachel and the old seaman.
“Whatever you want to say to me, you can say it right here. I’ve nothing to hide,” (this was a lie). “And this lady happens to be my wife. And this is a good friend of ours,” indicating Bill. But the latter shook his head and gestured towards a corner of the room.
So the straw-haired man nodded to Rachel, and she and Michael left their friend and followed the young man to an empty table away from the other customers.
Whatever his motives, he seemed friendly enough. First of all, he offered them drinks, and when three beers arrived, they sat around the table drinking in silence for a while. The young man seemed to be taking some time before deciding how to broach whatever subject was on his mind.
Eventually he put down his glass and fixed Michael with a steady stare.
“One question. Did you kill my father?”