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  ‘‘I have to go to Port St. Mary, you see. The roads being so very poor I wondered if I might make a little passage aboard your vessel.’’

  I can’t say I much wanted him aboard, even just for the hour or the two it would take us to reach Port St. Mary, but it’s hardly easy saying no to bishops. Besides, if there was one man in Peel City who wouldn’t be in the know as to what particular kind of ship that the Sincerity happened to be, it was him, so there’d be no great harm. Or so it seemed at the time. Up he climbed onto the deck, in his purple and his silly-looking straw hat to keep the sun off his fine Englishman’s head.

  Soon after that it was time to be away. As the wise man says, keep a good wind waiting and it’s nothing you’ll be eating I called out for the bowline to be let go and the two towing boats started off pulling away till their tow ropes snapped taut. Then the Sincerity gave a kind of shudder and a little strip of water opened up between her and the quay. I recall thinking that, though we were hardly a yard gone, we were started now, after all these weeks of waiting, and then I dropped into wondering about the mysteries of how things would turn out, and what thoughts I’d be thinking when I returned. Not that I guessed even a glimmer of the truth of it, of course. If I had, I would probably have jumped straight back ashore. I gave a wave to Ealisad, though she hardly waved back, being still in her huff and then the crews of the two boats pulled at their oars and slowly the harbour began to change its shape, till it was scrinched up small behind us, and its waving bodies were hardly bodies anymore but just a crowd. After that there was no time for looking, as we were out in the swell, rocking nicely, and there was work to be done. The tow ropes were let go, the boats were brought up, and the boys were scampering aloft to let go a sheet or two and catch the wind. Soon the last sight of Peel was gone complete, and it was time to twist your head about and give a thought to what was next.

  It was then that the Bishop of Man started getting himself bored. I suppose now he had monkeyed a passage out of us he could cast off his charm, and soon he was yawning and strutting his way about the deck as if he’d been suffering shipboard life for months. It was the creatures he found to amuse himself There weren’t very many aboard—I reckoned we’d only need fresh meat for a week or two and money was close, so I had got us just a dozen chickens, one sheep and a pig—but still they were enough for the bishop. There he was in his purple and his silly straw hat, clucking at the chickens and poking his fingers through into the coop, or trying to stroke the sheep, which didn’t like him. He must’ve thought himself a proper St. Francis. Not that any of that was so bad. No, what was bad came just after.

  ‘‘What a splendid pig.’’

  It mightn’t seem much to one who doesn’t know, but it was to those that did. Not that I ever trouble myself with any foolish superstition, for sure, but I dare say some aboard did, and they’d have told you, certain as death, that there are particular words that must never be spoken aboard a Manx boat when she’s out at sea or it’ll be bad luck all voyage. Though I’m hardly an expert, like I’ve said, there’s some persons insist you mustn’t say rabbit but instead pommit. Likewise for herring you must always say child. For a cat you say scraper. For a mouse you say lonnag. The wind is Old Bags. Rats are Uncles or Big Fellows. Ree Yn Laa- that’s King of the day in English—is the sun, while Ben-rein Nyhoie, which means Queen of the night, is the moon. Blue Judith’s a mermaid. Blue John’s the sea. And you must never, ever say pig, but always swiney.

  Of course, mistakes will happen, and the bad luck can be stopped easy enough if the proper thing is done. Whoever spoke wrongly should, as I’ve heard, shout ‘‘cold iron’’ and then touch the ship’s cold iron as quick as he can. This is hardly difficult after all, and so might as well be done, if only to quieten any that have such foolish beliefs. The trouble was that in this case it had been said by a foreigner, and a bishop besides. Consequently we none of us said a word, though one or two might have given him looks, and he might have noticed them too. Certainly he left the pig alone quick enough, and I recall that he went below soon afterwards, complaining of the sun, till we reached Port St. Mary and were rid ourselves of the old scriss.

  Not that I was bothered by any of this myself of course, having no time for such windiness, but I dare say there might have been one or two aboard who were troubled that such a thing had happened just as the Sincerity set sail on this, her first voyage as a Manx ship of particular purpose. So there were more than a few words said about Bishop Chalmers when, just fifteen days later, Tom Teare gave his third shout down from the masthead.

  ‘‘The cutter, she’s turning towards us now.’’ Well, that left no doubting.

  In my experience once bad luck gets started on a man it will go on, and Captain Clarke of the coast guard cutter HMS Dolphin was bad luck pure as air. As his vessel bore down at us I had hopes we might catch some addled old gent thinking of his retirement, all belly and gout yawning at the paperwork, but no, not at all, the Captain Clarke who stepped aboard the Sincerity’s deck was one of those shiny-buttons Englishmen, all peering out of his uniform at the world, hungry to find what laws it’s gone and broken. Why, there wasn’t even a ‘‘good morning’’ out of him as he glanced about him, six marines following just behind in case he should feel lonely. All he said was ‘‘Captain … ?’’

  ‘‘Kewley,’’ I obliged, handing him the ship’s papers.

  ‘‘Registered port Peel City, Isle of Man,’’ he read, giving me a little knowing glance when he got to Isle of Man, as if to say, I know all about that little spot. ‘‘Sailing to Maldon, Essex, with salted herring.’’ Now he played the actor a little, shaking his shiny-button head and pretending himself mystified. ‘‘I must say I’m a little surprised at your destination. Unless I’m very much mistaken Maldon is a fishing port. Are you sure they’ll be interested in a boatload of herring?’’

  I gave him a shrug. ‘‘There’s fish and there’s fish.’’

  Of course it wasn’t the cargo he was really interested in. That was just starting. ‘‘What troubles me, Captain, is your position. Your voyage is from Peel to Maldon, is it not? So why, I wonder, should we discover your ship sailing northwards from the direction of France?’’

  I had an answer ready, at least of a kind. ‘‘We were hit by a squall just yesterday. It must have blown us thirty miles away to south.’’ As it happened, there had been a bit of dirty weather the day before, and it had been from the north. As the wise man says, choose your lies like you choose your wife, with care.

  Not that it did any good. Clarke showed his claws now, which he was always intending. ‘‘Captain Kewley, I must ask you if contrary to your documents, you have broken your journey at a foreign port? I would advise you to answer with great caution, as any mistruth shall certainly be found out, and shall lead you to be fined so heavily that you will soon wish you had never gone to sea.’’

  There was only one reply I could give and I gave it, with as much offended dignity as I could find. ‘‘Certainly we have not.’’

  ‘‘Do you have any cargo aboard other than the salted herring listed here?’’

  ‘‘That neither.’’

  He seemed pleased, like a hound that’s smelt rabbits, and straightaway turned to his six boys in scarlet. ‘‘I want this ship searched and searched well.’’

  So there we were. Matters weren’t turning out quite as easy as kicking pebbles on a beach after all. Not that he had us yet, for sure, but it was a proper worry, while I hated the notion of my ship being poked at and prodded by strangers like some common street harlot. I’d taken what precautions I could to keep her fancies clothed, though this was nothing much more than making sure that everyone was kept busy, there being nothing like idleness to make a body nervous, while the last thing we wanted was some fit of stammering or a hasty glance in the wrong direction. Juan Brew, the chief mate, and Parrick Kinvig, the second, were shouting out orders like seven devils, making their boys jump around the deck with chores, or scamper up
aloft to trim the sheets. China Clucas, the ship’s giant, was at the wheel, while belowdecks in the workshop Chalse Christian the carpenter was sawing away at a piece of wood and Ritchie Moore the sailmaker was having a good sew at his canvas, while Mylchreest the steward was tidying the cabins.

  That just left Rob Quayle, the cook, who was set to cleaning out the pigsty, this being the safest chore for him. Quayles, I should tell, were well known for being strange articles, being odds every one of them. Rob Quayle’s father had died when he was only a babe—from pure screaming madness as some persons said—and so he was brought up by his mother, who kept a rotten little house down by the herring salting sheds and earned her pennies washing other bodies’ dirty clothes. Whether it was this made Rob Quayle strange, or he just took his strangeness from the rest of those Quayles, that I wouldn’t like to guess, but strange he was for sure, with his long face and worrying eyes, keeping to himself and thinking everyone was talking about him, which quite often they were. No, it was hardly a surprise he was soft as butter for the company of creatures. It was the swiney that the Bishop of Man had called pig that he made his best friend, and in the two short weeks we’d been out from Peel they already seemed proper family, so hardly an hour went by without Quayle going over to talk to it or feed it a choice scrap he’d found. As for the pig himself you couldn’t imagine a more conceited beast. The better its food, the fuller it got with high notions of itself till Quayle was going half mad thinking up things it wouldn’t turn up its snout at and leave.

  ‘‘There’s only one thing that swiney hasn’t tasted,’’ was the joke that went round, and it was a joke Quayle hated. ‘‘And that’s a nice leg of pork.’’

  Not that we were any of us in a mood for jokes now, as Captain Clarke set his marines poking about the ship. They started in the ship’s hold, which was danger, but could be handy too, as our cargo might work in our favour. I had chosen this with some care, there being few things dirtier, slippier and generally more stinking than fifty barrels of salted herring. Captain Clarke did what he could, standing well back when his soldiers started opening up barrels, but the fact is there’s no escaping a mighty dose of fish. As the redcoats emptied them out onto pieces of sailcloth, a proper mighty stink filled the air, and little specks of oil and skin and bone went splattering this way and that, jumping a surprising distance, so they sprayed over the marines, and even caught Captain Clarke’s shiny uniform and shoes. Well, he didn’t like that at all, for sure, but it never stopped him, more was the shame. Even when his boys had been through two dozen barrels, the hold was fuggier than dog’s breath and not a scran of anything had been found, still he was keen as mustard.

  ‘‘That’ll do, Sergeant,’’ he called out, as if he was having himself a fine old time. ‘‘Let’s start on the rest of the ship.’’

  That was a worry. So round the vessel they traipsed, groping and prodding, with me following behind keeping watch. First to the fo’c’sle, where the soldiers went through the crew’s sea chests and poked at the hammocks and clothes hanging up to dry. Next to the work cabin, where Chalse Christian the carpenter and Ritchie Moore the sailmaker were looking sombre with their pieces of wood and canvas. It was in the pantry I got a proper scare. Clarke took himself a peek—nothing so bad there—but then, rather than just content himself with a sight of biscuits and beef and such, he had to go and put his hands round the top of the doorframe and sort of lean himself in. For a moment I couldn’t tell if he might’ve accidentally fingered that certain piece of cord that hung there. Only when he swung himself back out, looking as sour as before, did I breathe more freely. Then we got to the dining cabin. This might be the finish of us or could save us altogether. You see, I’d given a good deal of thought to this particular spot, thinking there’s nothing better suited to keeping a lady’s honour protected from dirty rummagers than a good dose of high finery. What was more, it worked, and a sight better than those salted herring. Even as Captain Clarke stepped inside I could see his face beginning to soften a little.

  ‘‘What a collection you have.’’

  I went with the wind. ‘‘It’s a hobby of mine, I suppose. I’ve always been an admirer.’’

  Now he was roaming the room peering at them one by one. ‘‘The Albert is very good. Where did you find them?’’

  ‘‘In Peel City. There’s a good deal of interest on the island.’’ I can’t say this was exactly true. In fact there was no interest on the island except from passing Englishmen, so I’d had to send as far as Liverpool to find the prints. But as I saw it, if I was to be a patriot, then why not the whole Island of Man with me? ‘‘My favourite is the Victoria. Now there’s royalty, is there not?’’

  ‘‘The way she leans upon the lion is very natural.’’ For the first time since he had come aboard there was a civility in the man’s voice, as if I might deserve to be treated as a full human creature rather than as a mere lawbreaker unproved. ‘‘And it’s unusual to see so many of the children displayed all at once.’’

  As it happened, I had taken a little trouble over these, learning them every one by heart. ‘‘Victoria, Albert Edward, Alfred, Alice, Helena, Louise, Arthur and little Leopold,’’ I recited. ‘‘I’m looking out a Beatrice of course, though I dare say she’ll need to have a few more months on her before we’ll see her picture.’’

  ‘‘The two busts are also very good.’’ He had a peer at the one of Victoria, which was fastened to the top of a tall hollow block against the wall. Fortunately he didn’t look too long. Would you know it, he was looking doubtful, even a little guilty. I suppose the man simply could not imagine that a fellow who knew by heart the names of all nine royal children would think of cheating Queen Victoria’s own loyal customs. That was the end of his interest in the search, for sure. He had the marines poke around the cabin a little, but when the sergeant tried to look behind the print of Albert, Clarke turned quite huffy.

  ‘‘I think that’s enough,’’ he said sharply, as if inspecting the ship had all been the poor body’s idea, and a mighty rotten one besides. ‘‘You can return to the boat now.’’

  Well, here was a sweet moment to savour. If you happen to come from a small country of the world, like Man Island, you can’t go expecting too many victories over foreigners—Waterloos and Bannockburns and such—but this seemed not so far off in its way. There we’d been, invaded, occupied and staring disaster in the nose, and now our enemies were fleeing away back to where they’d come from. Why, by the time we were back on the deck, and were stood by the pigsty, watching the marines lower themselves over the side, Clarke was almost apologizing.

  ‘‘I hope your fish will not have been spoiled, Captain?’’

  It was all I could do not to look too pleased. ‘‘Ah, I’m sure they’ll be fine enough.’’

  ‘‘Well, I must thank you for your cooperation, and I hope you’ve not been inconvenienced.’’ With that he stepped back towards the ladder so he could join the marines in the boat below.

  We were as close as that, truly we were. Go on, Captain Clarke, just get yourself and your snurly fish-splattered uniform off my deck and be gone. Away with you, so we can save ourselves all that trouble and journeying and hiding in cellars and worse—much worse—besides. Why, the very thought of it makes me quite shake with wanting. But no. There he is, already so well over the side that he’s just shoulders and a head, when he has to give that final glance in my direction, you know, for politeness—as if I wanted the big snot’s smile—and it was done. All of a sudden I realized he was looking just a little too long. Now he was having a frown, his eyes all beady and wondering. That wasn’t good. Next he was pulling himself back onto the deck, and I knew we had trouble.

  ‘‘What’s that you’ve got there?’’

  It wasn’t me he was asking but Quayle, the cook, and Quayle looked like he’d been patted on the head with lightning. ‘Just cheese,’’ he stuttered, ‘‘for the swiney here.’’

  Clarke peeled the cheese from his hand
—a mighty chunk it was, and all foreign-looking in its shape—and took a deep sniff ‘‘And where might this cheese be from?’’

  I guessed quick enough what was up. There had been a row of shops right by the quay of that certain discreet port, and Quayle must have slipped across without anybody noticing. Seeing how the silly fritlag would only stammer us into worse trouble, I shot him a look to quiet him. ‘‘Peel, wasn’t it?’’

  ‘‘So this is Manx cheese, is it?’’ Clarke turned it over, and then his face went all sort of white and he held it up for me to see. ‘‘And I suppose this is Manx writing?’’

  Would you believe it, there was a big tear of French newspaper stuck to the underside, that it had been wrapped in. I knew Quayle was a windy dawd of a one but still I could hardly believe he had been so stupid as this. And all for that useless lump of swiney.

  Clarke had himself a quick stare at the paper. ‘‘This is dated just four days ago.’’ You’d have hardly recognized him as the same man as a minute before. Quite gone was all his shiny-buttons cheeriness. Now his voice was sort of breathish and his face had gone quite pinched with fury. Sad to say, I’m sure he wouldn’t have been half so bad if I hadn’t managed to catch him so nicely with the prints of Queen Victoria and all her babes. He had been duped and he knew it, and there’s nothing your uniformed Englishman hates more than being shown stupid by foreigners.

  I had to say something. ‘‘Wasn’t there a fishing boat we ran into? You must’ve bought the cheese off them, mustn’t you, Quayle?’’

  Quayle nodded weakly. He’d have agreed if I’d said he’d bought it off some passing shark. Not that it made much difference now, as Clarke wasn’t going to believe a word I said, though it was seven times true. Besides, buying goods off a foreign ship without declaring it was almost as much breaking the law as buying them from a foreign port.