slacks.
‘It has still fouled our nets, damn you,’ rasped the Mallaig man, his face getting redder. ‘Should I lose a whole set o’ gear over one o’ your sharks?’
‘Anything more to it, Dave?’ asked Carrick neutrally.
‘A lot.’ Rother nodded and stood silent for a moment while the rope fenders creaked on either side. ‘Look, you know how we work. We nail a shark, hitch a flag-buoy marker on our end of the harpoon line, leave it, and start hunting again. Either we collect on the way back and tow in a string of the brutes or we radio another of the boats to do the job.’ He gave a bitter glance at the drifter skipper. ‘Except lately all we’ve come back to is a drifting buoy and a cut line … and this time we caught someone at it.’
‘An’ I’ve told you why,’ bellowed Skipper Craig indignantly. ‘Don’t blame me for the rest, Rother. If folk aroun’ the islands wish your guts would rot out that’s not my doing.’ Turning, he spread his hands appealingly to Shannon. ‘Captain, the man’s a bloody lunatic. Before he tried to ram us he fired on us wi’ that damned gun. Suppose he’d hit us?’
‘All right,’ rasped Shannon impatiently. ‘Rother, your turn. Did that happen?’
‘Two practice harpoon sticks and Yogi aimed wide.’ Rother grinned slightly. ‘If he’d wanted, he could have planted the real thing right up this idiot’s fat …’
‘That’s enough.’ Shannon glanced away and cleared his throat quickly.
‘What happened to your nets, Skipper?’ asked Carrick, stifling a grin.
‘We cut them an’ ran.’ Skipper Craig shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘They’re back there somewhere.’
‘Britain’s maritime glory,’ murmured Rother with a heavy sarcasm.
Shannon grunted and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Rother, I’m putting your boat under arrest. You’ll return to Portcoig.’ He saw the Mallaig skipper begin to grin and sniffed. ‘No need for you to look so happy. The same applies to you. Mr Carrick …’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a couple of men and take charge on Rother’s boat. I’ll put Pettigrew on the drifter.’
‘What about my gear?’ protested the drifterman.
‘You can pick it up on the way.’ Shannon considered the collection of boats around them. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Carrick. I’ll break up the spectators. You’ll find us back at Portcoig.’
* * *
Their unwelcome Fishery Protection passengers aboard, the lines holding the fishing boats were slipped. As they drew clear Marlin ’s diesels quickened and she started off, curving towards the nearest of the hovering flotilla.
‘That’s it, Dave,’ said Carrick wryly, grabbing a stanchion aboard the Seapearl as the Fishery cruiser’s wash sent them lurching deeper in the swell. ‘You heard the man. We go back.’
Balancing beside him, Rother gave a short chuckle which held an amused malice. ‘Then get on with it,’ he invited caustically. ‘Earn your keep – Shannon hasn’t done me any favours.’
Shrugging, Carrick took stock. The half-dozen men of the shark-catcher’s crew were clustered in a scowling group near the wheelhouse. He’d brought Clapper Bell and a rating named Logan, a quietly dependable hand who’d once been a fisherman.
‘Take the helm,’ he told Logan. As the man edged past into the wheelhouse Carrick turned to the muttering group. ‘Break it up. Some of you get a hose working. I want that detergent shifted before it settles.’
They didn’t react for a moment. Then one cleared his throat and spat carefully over the side.
‘You heard,’ rumbled Clapper Bell. ‘Move.’
Silent, they stayed where they were and Dave Rother chuckled, saying nothing.
‘Then maybe one o’ you feels like doin’ something different,’ declared Bell with a heavy scowl. ‘Who’s the brave lad? Let’s have him, if you’ve anyone with guts enough.’
Suddenly, Yogi Dunlop shoved forward from the rest. The harpoon gunner’s clothes were still
‘It has still fouled our nets, damn you,’ rasped the Mallaig man, his face getting redder. ‘Should I lose a whole set o’ gear over one o’ your sharks?’
‘Anything more to it, Dave?’ asked Carrick neutrally.
‘A lot.’ Rother nodded and stood silent for a moment while the rope fenders creaked on either side. ‘Look, you know how we work. We nail a shark, hitch a flag-buoy marker on our end of the harpoon line, leave it, and start hunting again. Either we collect on the way back and tow in a string of the brutes or we radio another of the boats to do the job.’ He gave a bitter glance at the drifter skipper. ‘Except lately all we’ve come back to is a drifting buoy and a cut line … and this time we caught someone at it.’
‘An’ I’ve told you why,’ bellowed Skipper Craig indignantly. ‘Don’t blame me for the rest, Rother. If folk aroun’ the islands wish your guts would rot out that’s not my doing.’ Turning, he spread his hands appealingly to Shannon. ‘Captain, the man’s a bloody lunatic. Before he tried to ram us he fired on us wi’ that damned gun. Suppose he’d hit us?’
‘All right,’ rasped Shannon impatiently. ‘Rother, your turn. Did that happen?’
‘Two practice harpoon sticks and Yogi aimed wide.’ Rother grinned slightly. ‘If he’d wanted, he could have planted the real thing right up this idiot’s fat …’
‘That’s enough.’ Shannon glanced away and cleared his throat quickly.
‘What happened to your nets, Skipper?’ asked Carrick, stifling a grin.
‘We cut them an’ ran.’ Skipper Craig shuffled his feet and looked sheepish. ‘They’re back there somewhere.’
‘Britain’s maritime glory,’ murmured Rother with a heavy sarcasm.
Shannon grunted and stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. ‘Rother, I’m putting your boat under arrest. You’ll return to Portcoig.’ He saw the Mallaig skipper begin to grin and sniffed. ‘No need for you to look so happy. The same applies to you. Mr Carrick …’
‘Sir?’
‘Take a couple of men and take charge on Rother’s boat. I’ll put Pettigrew on the drifter.’
‘What about my gear?’ protested the drifterman.
‘You can pick it up on the way.’ Shannon considered the collection of boats around them. ‘That’s it for now, Mr Carrick. I’ll break up the spectators. You’ll find us back at Portcoig.’
* * *
Their unwelcome Fishery Protection passengers aboard, the lines holding the fishing boats were slipped. As they drew clear Marlin ’s diesels quickened and she started off, curving towards the nearest of the hovering flotilla.
‘That’s it, Dave,’ said Carrick wryly, grabbing a stanchion aboard the Seapearl as the Fishery cruiser’s wash sent them lurching deeper in the swell. ‘You heard the man. We go back.’
Balancing beside him, Rother gave a short chuckle which held an amused malice. ‘Then get on with it,’ he invited caustically. ‘Earn your keep – Shannon hasn’t done me any favours.’
Shrugging, Carrick took stock. The half-dozen men of the shark-catcher’s crew were clustered in a scowling group near the wheelhouse. He’d brought Clapper Bell and a rating named Logan, a quietly dependable hand who’d once been a fisherman.
‘Take the helm,’ he told Logan. As the man edged past into the wheelhouse Carrick turned to the muttering group. ‘Break it up. Some of you get a hose working. I want that detergent shifted before it settles.’
They didn’t react for a moment. Then one cleared his throat and spat carefully over the side.
‘You heard,’ rumbled Clapper Bell. ‘Move.’
Silent, they stayed where they were and Dave Rother chuckled, saying nothing.
‘Then maybe one o’ you feels like doin’ something different,’ declared Bell with a heavy scowl. ‘Who’s the brave lad? Let’s have him, if you’ve anyone with guts enough.’
Suddenly, Yogi Dunlop shoved forward from the rest. The harpoon gunner’s clothes were still
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