The quick boat men, p.9
The Quick Boat Men, page 9
‘With a pole?’
‘It was a very strong pole. I’d been reading about a spar torpedo and I was trying to show Georgina how they worked. In the old days they aimed the boat–’
‘–and blew themselves up.’
‘Well, sometimes. But sometimes it worked. I was trying to show her how. But the throttle moved. Uncle Egg, you really have got it wrong. The throttle should go forward to advance it and come back for retarding it. That’s the automatic thing. It’s like reining in a horse. Forward to give it its head. Back to slow it down and stop it.’
‘You could be right, boy.’
‘And it did torpedo her.’
‘You can say that again. It cost me a small fortune to raise her and pump her out. Your Aunt Edith was furious. She got over it, though. Especially when she heard about the shipwreck. It lifted a load off her mind when she found you were safe and well. She’d been thinking you’d got into bad company.’
Edward grinned. ‘I did at times, Uncle Egg.’
‘Well, that’s all over now.’ Egg laughed. ‘You’re home and part of the family again and we want to know what you got up to, what you’ve done.’
‘Why didn’t you write more often?’
‘Because I never received any letters from you or Aunt Edith. Or Georgina come to that.’
‘We wrote,’ Egg said. ‘We all wrote. Well, perhaps Maurice didn’t. But the first news we had of you was from that man, Orlando.’
‘I’m sorry to say he’s dead. In the earthquake.’
They climbed into Egg’s sit-up-and-beg De Dion Bouton.
‘This all your luggage?’
‘I’ve got used to travelling light.’
‘Didn’t the family who took you in help at all? Distressed British seaman and all that sort of thing? Jerseys and so on from the slop chest.’
‘Uncle Egg, after 28th December nobody had anything. Not even the wealthiest.’
‘Sorry. Didn’t realise. Talk to you later about that. Now tell me, what are your plans?’
‘I don’t really know.’
‘I could use a good seaman.’
‘Here? In the boat-yard?’
‘While you’ve been away I’ve developed some new ideas. There’s a demand for quick motor boats. Whitehead’s self-delivering torpedo’s revolutionised thinking in the world’s navies. They all want torpedo-carrying craft and they want the fastest that can be devised. Builders in every country in the world are designing for paraffin/petrol engines and the refinement of round bilge forms, and boats are reaching thirty-five knots. Hydroplanes are probably exceeding that with less power and lower fuel consumption, and hard chine planing hulls called skimmers are coming into fashion.’
Egg developed his idea with enthusiasm, gesturing wildly, often with both hands off the steering wheel. ‘People think torpedoes are becoming such a menace – especially after the Japanese wiped out the Russian fleet at Tsu Shima – they’re building ships to destroy the torpedo boats. They call them torpedo boat destroyers – or just destroyers. So the torpedo-carrying craft have to be faster still so they can’t be hit. I’ve designed one or two types that hit the nail on the head.’
‘What kind of engines? Petrol, paraffin or steam?’
‘Not steam. Not for speed.’
‘So where would I come in?’
‘Ever thought of becoming a salesman?’
‘What of?’
‘Boats. My boats.’
‘What about Maurice?’
‘You know Maurice. He isn’t the type. He’s an office man. We’ll talk terms later.’
Vibrating heavily, the car drew up at Creek House. Through a grey mist, Edward could see varnished masts and spars and the familiar white shapes in the steady drizzle. Beyond them, the trees at the other side of the creek were ghostly shapes with long, reaching arms.
‘Mother! Maurice!’ Slamming the door open, Egg began to shout. ‘We’re back. It’s Teddy.’
Aunt Edith came hurrying down the stairs. Maurice appeared from the study. He was smoking a cigar. ‘Ah ha,’ he said, exhaling a puff of smoke. ‘The prodigal returns.’
‘Hello, Maurice.’ Time had done nothing to soften their mutual animosity.
‘Teddy!’ Aunt Edith enfolded Edward in her arms. ‘You look half starved,’ she said, wiping tears from her eyes. ‘We’ll have to feed you up, I can see!’
With the smell of roast beef coming from the kitchen, Edward flicked idly through The Times. England seemed like a foreign country, he was so out of touch. Then there was a ring at the doorbell and the Vicar and his wife and daughters were announced.
‘Teddy,’ Augusta shrieked as she ran towards him.
‘Gus.’ He held her at arm’s length, aware that she had grown taller and rounder and that the parts of her that had touched him felt soft and pleasing. ‘You look lovely.’
Georgina presented her cheek for a chaste peck and the Vicar’s wife kissed him. ‘Like father, like son,’ she said. ‘Rushing off to sea and forgetting your responsibilities.’ The Vicar offered a limp hand and expressed the hope that in Edward’s dire straits in the shipwreck and at Messina he hadn’t forgotten God.
‘Didn’t have much time to think about Him,’ Edward confessed. ‘I was rather busy.’
Egg dispensed thimble-sized glasses of sherry – which, after what he’d drunk in his time at sea, Edward considered a very tame beverage. He noticed that Augusta was allowed it now, as an indication that she was grown up. Maurice dashed his down in one gulp and wandered out of the room. When he returned, he was holding a larger glass, and the liquid in it smelled of whisky.
Lunch started noisily, with everyone asking questions but by the end of the meal, Edward was doing the talking and everybody else was listening.
‘How absolutely awful,’ Augusta said. ‘Being in a shipwreck.’
‘He’s not the only one,’ Maurice pointed out. ‘I’ve been in a shipwreck, too. You remember? You helped.’
After lunch, Egg called Edward into his study to discuss his plans. It sounded exciting but Porthelt was small and not very accessible, and Edward couldn’t imagine a high-powered buying committee from the Royal Navy, or any other navy, wasting their time looking for it.
‘We should take the boats to them,’ he suggested.
‘What have you in mind?’
‘There are regattas during the summer, all along the coast. Portsmouth, Poole, Plymouth, Cowes. There are always motor yacht sections. Why not show the boats there? Enter them for races. If they’re as good as you say they are, they’ll wipe the floor with the opposition and you won’t need to sell them. They’ll sell themselves.’
‘I think you might be on to something,’ he said. ‘You’d have to know how to handle the boats. You’d have to be quite expert and that would mean spending some time getting used to them. It would end with a directorship, of course. You and Maurice would be running the place eventually, Maurice handling this end, you handling sales.’
It all sounded splendid in theory, except for Maurice.
‘That’s settled then,’ said Uncle Egg. ‘How about coming to the boat-yard on Monday? That’ll give you time to settle down. Get yourself some decent clothes, though. Can’t have you frightening the coastguard.’
That evening Edward walked down to the water’s edge. It was cold but, wearing a heavy jacket loaned by Egg and one of Aunt Edith’s scarves, he stood at the end of the jetty and stared over the misty river, suddenly aware of how suffocated he had felt surrounded by family and friends.
There was no wind and the water was still. A few seagulls screeched overhead, and across the creek there was a splash as a rat dived in. As he gratefully drew in deep breaths of salty air the boards of the jetty creaked and he turned to see Georgina materialise out of the mist with the Vicar’s spaniel.
‘Georgy.’
‘Thought I might find you here,’ she said. ‘I was taking the dog for a walk.’
Edward couldn’t think of anything to say.
‘How does it feel to be home?’ Georgina prompted.
Edward shrugged. ‘Odd.’
‘Being at sea didn’t sound like much fun to me.’
‘It had its moments.’
‘All those rough men.’ She shuddered.
‘Some of them were good chaps.’ He thought of Paddy McWilliams and the first trip on the Dolly Colgate. ‘They pinched my money to get drunk, but if I was in trouble – with the police, for instance – they’d see me all right.’
‘Were you in trouble with the police?’
‘Once or twice.’
Silence fell between them once more. The spaniel cocked his leg against a wooden spar, then yanked at his lead.
‘I think he wants to go back.’
‘I’ll see you home,’ said Edward.
They walked to the Vicarage, not speaking, and stopped in the porch just as it began to grow dark.
‘Thank you, Edward.’ Georgina turned to face him.
There’d been times at parties when she’d been soft as silk, waiting for his kiss outside the door in one of the games they’d played, and at other times with needle-pointed elbows and knees and bursts of breathless laughter.
She was standing close to him, her face lifted, her eyes on his. He thought of Rafaela in Messina, his promises and what had happened between them, when she leaned forward and kissed him on the lips.
‘There, Edward,’ she whispered. ‘A home-coming present.’
He drew a deep breath but as he reached for her she slipped away.
‘I must be going now.’ She smiled. ‘I expect your Uncle’s got a lot to talk about now you’re joining the firm.’
She turned away abruptly and stood for a second in the open doorway, framed in the glow from the gaslight inside. Edward walked slowly to the gate. ‘Good night, Georgina,’ he said.
Eleven
On the following Monday morning Egg took Edward to the boat-yard and led the way to the drawing office.
‘As you know,’ he said, ‘this firm’s been involved with quick boats since my father started it. We build river boats for South America and our launches have been used in the university boat race for the officials. We produced sixteen-knot boats as long ago as 1890 and they brought us loads of orders. Now, as we know, it’s torpedo boats. The need these days is for something fast and sturdy which is a good sea-keeper. The engine’s the thing. We’ve made experiments, but, of course, so has everybody else: Hydraulic jet propulsion. Propellers of all shapes and sizes. In the end it always comes back to the power plant.’
He paused and adjusted his spectacles. ‘We’ve had our disasters too. Snake, which was built for the navy, was lost and the court martial claimed it was structural weakness. It wasn’t, of course. No court martial is qualified to pontificate on causes but they always do if only to show it isn’t naval slackness that’s to blame.’
He gestured at the drawing board. ‘This is the Bourdillon Mark III. Hand started. There was a bit of a problem over it having to be set low but I’ve overcome that by using an extra shaft and a chain. It’s fast.’
Edward studied the drawings. ‘Is that what I’m supposed to be selling?’
‘Not yet. For you I’m thinking of forty-five-foot launches powered with two Bourdillon IIIs, each developing seventy horsepower. Their weight’s only about one and a half tons and we think we can reach seventeen knots with them – ideal for naval purposes.’
‘As torpedo boats?’
‘The navy’s used fifty-six-foot picket boats with a dropping gear carrying two eighteen-inch torpedoes and they’re found to be stable if the boat doesn’t exceed ten knots. I think mine could go faster.’
Edward frowned. ‘Seventeen knots isn’t very fast for a torpedo boat,’ he said.
‘That’s because the navy insists on paraffin. They lose about fifteen per cent of their power output from the same engine capacity. But the navy doesn’t like petrol. They consider it dangerous.’
‘So is being hit by gunfire. There’d be less chance of that if the boat were faster.’
Egg’s idea intrigued Edward. It seemed to have great potential. Selling boats would make him virtually his own master, and he would be able to travel where he pleased so long as he justified it with sales. Above all – and the thought kept returning to him – it meant that eventually he could talk on equal terms with Rafaela.
‘When were you thinking I should start?’ he asked.
‘In two or three months’ time,’ Egg said. ‘You’ll need to be well acquainted with the boat. We have two available at the moment. It’ll mean using them constantly and reading everything you can about them.’
‘I’ll need a mechanic with me.’
‘All the time?’ Egg looked startled.
‘If these boats are what I think they are, I’ll need someone to answer finer points about the engines. And he’ll need to keep them in tip-top condition because it won’t look very good if they break down while they’re being demonstrated.’
‘Did you have someone in mind?’
There was only one contender. Edward spoke to Sam Nankidno the next morning as he crouched over the shaft of one of Egg’s steam launches.
‘How goes it with Alice Appleby?’ he asked.
Sam looked up. ‘She’s took up with that young feller who runs the dairy counter in the grocer’s.’ He sounded bitter. ‘A bloke who slaps water into butter all day.’
‘So you’ll be free now?’
Sam grinned. ‘There are plenty of other fish in the sea.’
‘I meant, free to do what you please.’
‘What are you getting at, Eddy?’
‘Ever thought of travelling, Sam?’
Sam looked up. ‘Me? Can’t afford it.’
‘Would you like to?’
‘Who wouldn’t?’
‘What about these new boats the yard’s turning out?’
‘The forty-five-footers? They’re good.’
‘And the engines? Have you worked on them?’
‘The older men get those jobs.’
‘Fancy having a go at them?’
‘Not half. Look, what’s all this about?’
There was a little grumbling at the engine shop as the news about Sam went round. But the grumblers were all older family men who had no wish to leave home, and adjustments were made in shifts to allow Sam in.
As soon as the boats were ready, one was put in the water and the trials began. They spent a few minutes admiring it, then Egg gestured. ‘Start up,’ he said.
The engine came to life with an explosion and a puff of blue smoke then settled down to a steady rumble that spoke of power. The trials went well and the boat’s speed was calculated at 15 knots. With Sam’s tinkering, they pushed it up to 17 knots but could go no further.
‘If we ran on petrol,’ Edward asked, ‘how fast would she be?’
Egg rubbed his nose. ‘Twenty-five. About there.’
‘Suppose we converted them wholly to petrol. Would it take long?’
Sam explained. For petrol and paraffin there were two separate fuel tanks and two separate leads to the carburettor. The engine started on petrol then switched to the vaporising oil. When they stopped they switched back to petrol so that the carburettor was left with petrol in it.
‘Otherwise you have to drain the whole system,’ Sam said.
‘Good,’ Edward said. ‘All we need now are the throttles changing. Forward for fast. Back for slow. Let’s do it.’
The boat moved down the creek, its engines rumbling heavily. There was a lop on the sea but with Egg, Edward and Sam aboard the boat showed she had good sea-keeping qualities and they soon reached a speed of 22½ knots.
Egg’s eyes shone with delight.
Edward and Sam now had virtually full control of the trials of Dido and Aeneas as Egg had christened the two boats. As the summer holiday period arrived, they found themselves moving about the south coast, either towing a Bourdillon on a huge trailer hauled by a clanking steam engine, or putting it on board a coastal vessel at Southampton and dumping it in the water at their destination. Most of the comments at the various regattas were complimentary, but the yachting fraternity did not really approve of anything that didn’t carry canvas. Nevertheless, the boats won everything they entered and started to sell.
Twelve
Edward argued for a design that would make the craft lighter.
‘My skimmers,’ said Uncle Egg, ‘will be the lightweight boat of the future. Fast as hell. These are heavy boats. Designed for the navies of the world. War boats.’
‘No one’s at war, Uncle Egg,’ said Edward.
‘They will be before long, the way the Kaiser’s behaving. The French have a boat that does twenty knots, with a forward central-firing torpedo. Everybody wants them now.’
‘But Uncle Egg, if you want to sell these things as torpedo boats, aren’t we wasting time doing what we are doing? We should be selling them to the navy.’
Egg liked the idea. But getting the navy interested was more of a job than they had anticipated. When Edward finally managed to obtain an interview, he was dismissed with a condescending lecture.
‘The navy doesn’t deal in small boats,’ he was told. ‘We have the biggest fleet in the world and it’s made up of huge steel ships. If we were interested in going fishing, then we might consider your proposal, but we are too busy.’
Edward returned to Porthelt in a fury. ‘If those peabrained, self-satisfied arses don’t want them,’ he said, ‘what about selling them abroad? There must be someone – France, Holland, Denmark, even America, who’d be interested. And what about Italy?’ Edward deliberately left the Italians until last in case his eagerness made Egg suspect he might have other motives.
Egg smiled. ‘I think Italy might be a very good place to start. There’s a chap in Naples called Gaspare Boboli. Army man. Your father knew him. He’d be a perfect contact.’
With the two boats almost ready, Edward sent off a telegraphed message to Rafaela. ‘Coming soon,’ he wrote.
Within a day he received a reply. ‘Make it very soon. I send you kisses. Rafaela.’
