Merchant Royal (Part 1)

Somewhere in the South Atlantic Ocean

Colvin carefully folded the yellowed parchment, tucking it safely inside the pocket of his overcoat. Leaning back on his chair, puffing away through his maple wood tobacco pipe, he gazed out of the window as though in a trance; the sea had always produced that calming effect on him. As it would have on most people for that matter. For him, the sea held as much reason for trepidation as it did for reverence, almost as if some novel eventuality lurked around the corner. The waves seemed to be dormant that afternoon and its soft murmurs gave way to the cawing of wheeling seagulls overhead, gliding in concurrence to the cool ocean breeze.

His cabin window, (if it could be called a window, that is) was a dinner-plate sized porthole with a sea facing view, which could only be a meagre compensation for the cramped state of his deck house.

Leering vacantly at the vast expanse of the ocean before him, the Second Officer couldn't help but think of the bizarre turn of events to bestow upon his colleagues and him in the last week. And nor could he stop pondering over the letter - a single folio of thick 17th century vellum, that was secure within the inner pocket of his leather sailor's crombie. The contents of it churning over and over in his mind like a recording on a rather faulty Montgomery Ward radio, put on repeat. He remembered Algoa Bay, when the captain had docked by Port Elizabeth for refueling and food supplies. It was there, where the crew of the SS Bergamot had uncovered a potentially life changing proposition...

Port Elizabeth, Algoa Bay, 1952

The skies had turned a shade of amber, setting in a warm South African dusk, the bolts of radiance ebbing away as the sun began to sink behind the horizon.

Captain Jerome, sweating profusely, unloaded the last of the wine barrels onto the wharve.

"Righty'o then, that's the final one. Look sharp lads we've still got a hard evening ahead of us", he said wiping beads of sweat off his brow.

"Its not everyday Goodsby sends us a handsome cargo now is it?" First officer Anvil piped up, as the dockworkers rolled away the remaining barrels of the expensive inebriant to the stockrooms. Goodsby brewery...was the leading wine exporter of the day, and the only source of livelihood and income for the crew of the SS Bergamot.

Algoa Bay was, in every sense a typical port of the Cold War years; a hub of bustling activity, attracting shipments of firearms, food supplies and every other commodity of militia you could think of, set amidst a concord of bonded warehouses and storerooms. Flourishing the exacting coastline that it was, it held a kernel of local pubs, chippies and clubs frequented by hard- labored sailors from far and wide.

A roar of laughter emanated from the local alehouse, 'The Three Lions'. It was a little hut of wood and tin, built upon a timber walkway near the quayside; a moment later, it became evident that the source of commotion was a rather gruesome brawl between seafarers having had a little too much to drink..

"Come on you rascal! Let's see what you've got!" A heavily built bloke sporting a bloody nose staggered out of the pub house, holding a half smashed bottle in one hand. The crowd was plainly enjoying this, for half a dozen men had now come outside, jeering , shouting and laughing at the spectacle. In the din, no one noticed a tall man in a black overcoat slip quietly into the pub. "He's on the roof!" One of them bellowed and the crowd roared with laughter again.

A rather scrawny youth was perched atop the tin roof of the shack, apparently too frightened to come down. The giant of a man below grinned. "Well if it ain't the rabbit who escaped the cooks", he taunted. "You can sit up in your hole for as long as you like. I'm not leaving till I've had you strung up by your guts!" He brandished the half- smashed bottle in the air, his grin revealing a line of broken teeth. "No? Well I'll have to come up there me'self then!" And with that he began to climb up a wooden step- ladder next to the back door of the shack.

"I'm sorry! It was an accident, Duncan! I never meant to knock it over!" Panicking, the young boy frantically searched for another escape route but couldn't find one. He was trapped. He began to kick as a large, hairy arm came out of nowhere and clasped tightly at his ankles, pulling him down.

"Leave him alone. " A calm voice carried from amongst the crowd, endowed with a strange firmness such that it made even Duncan loosen his grip on the boy and look around. The onlookers parted in unison, not unlike the regression of performers on a stage, to reveal a tall man in a black overcoat and wearing a brown Chenille dixie cap.

"And who are you? I ain't afraid of coppers " Duncan growled.

The man laughed. "Evidently not! It isn't a question of who I am, more a question of what I'm capable of." The man had a Scottish brogue unheard of in these parts; soon enough the onlookers had returned again, some looking apprehensive, some excited.

"But anyway!" he continued. "You alright up there, laddie?" He cocked his hat at the boy on the roof, giving him a friendly wink. "And no, I'm not a copper. As a matter of fact I am not an enforcer of law in any form or guise" he continued.

"Then why don't you sodder off then!" Duncan roared, "Or will I have to teach you a lesson or two as well?" He advanced, holding up his fist threateningly...

To Be Continued...