there. Next time not so much. Some electrical cable damage aft. The engineers are working on it. No hull damage, thank God. No rudder or engine damage.” He drank again. “A shell caused some havoc in one of the staterooms. Not theirs or the children’s. My worst problem is figuring out how to feed my crew. Most of the crockery in the galley broke when we started slinging ourself all around like a maniac with an ass-itch. Got a cook with a broken arm, too. The doctor doesn’t need his heroin today, he’ll patch everyone up. Aren’t you drinking?”
Michael took a sip and managed his initial reaction. It was not exactly France’s finest.
“Sit while you can,” Beauchene suggested, and Michael took the better of the two bad chairs. “There you go.” Beauchene was speaking not to Michael but to the bottle. It was a croon of appreciation, or perhaps dependency. Michael thought that one man’s heroin was another man’s brandy. “Ah, oui !” Beauchene took another drink and closed his eyes. He leaned back in his chair. “ Le moment mûr ,” he said.
Michael knew what that meant: The mellow moment.
“Haven’t had many of those?” Michael asked. “Except from a bottle?”
“Not many, thank you for asking.” The captain’s eyes remained shut. Then they suddenly opened and the red glare had returned. “Who the fuck are you? Or, rather…who the fuck do you think you are? Receiving my radio messages and giving orders? I could shoot you for either one of those!”
“And then,” Michael said easily, as he sipped the mixture of pinesap and hot glue, “you’d have one less gunman.”
“One less pain in my ass, you mean. I ought to forget about the shooting and knock your brains out.” That statement caused him to frown and stare again into the bottle. His swig this time was a long swallow of needful thirst. “Damn, what a day,” he said.
Michael had to ask the question. “Why do you hate him?”
“Him? Him who ?”
“You know.”
Beauchene grunted. “I told you. He’s a black nigger and he’s a college boy. They put him here to ride my back. Imagine that! After all these years, a nigger on my back! And not just any one, but a college boy! Oh, they’ve got big plans for him, you can count on that.” He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desktop. “They put him on me to get experience . That’s what they said. To get the actual experience of seamanship . But you know…you know …that’s not all of it. Non ! They want him watching me. Taking notes. Judging me, for any error. Because of my past mistakes, you see. A few errors. A few scraped hulls and mishandled cargo. Always the captain’s fault, oui ? And now look what you’ve gotten me into! If we get out of this, how will I have a job?” Another swig of deadly brandy went down his pipe. “Two men are never going home. Do you get that? And how many more will never be going home? Eh? So how will Captain Gustave Beauchene ever have a job after this?” He abruptly slammed the bottom of the bottle down on the desk. “ Answer me !” he shouted, his face contorted with pure rage.
Michael was very careful in his reply. “When we get out of this, the British Secret Service will arrange a job for you with any British merchant line you please to approach. I can promise that.”
“Oh, can you? Promise me a job sailing a desk through a sea of papers? Or perhaps you can get me a job in a bakery? Making crumpets and little tea-cakes for fags with umbrellas?”
It struck Michael then. Gustave Beauchene bore a hatred not only for Eman Kpanga, but for the entire world.
Beauchene was very intelligent. Michael knew the man must have seen some realization in his face, because the captain smiled grimly and said, “You think you know me, is that it? From your little histories and spy papers? Did you know, then, that I was the third generation of my family’s bakery in Paris? That this was to be my continuation of the very profitable
Michael took a sip and managed his initial reaction. It was not exactly France’s finest.
“Sit while you can,” Beauchene suggested, and Michael took the better of the two bad chairs. “There you go.” Beauchene was speaking not to Michael but to the bottle. It was a croon of appreciation, or perhaps dependency. Michael thought that one man’s heroin was another man’s brandy. “Ah, oui !” Beauchene took another drink and closed his eyes. He leaned back in his chair. “ Le moment mûr ,” he said.
Michael knew what that meant: The mellow moment.
“Haven’t had many of those?” Michael asked. “Except from a bottle?”
“Not many, thank you for asking.” The captain’s eyes remained shut. Then they suddenly opened and the red glare had returned. “Who the fuck are you? Or, rather…who the fuck do you think you are? Receiving my radio messages and giving orders? I could shoot you for either one of those!”
“And then,” Michael said easily, as he sipped the mixture of pinesap and hot glue, “you’d have one less gunman.”
“One less pain in my ass, you mean. I ought to forget about the shooting and knock your brains out.” That statement caused him to frown and stare again into the bottle. His swig this time was a long swallow of needful thirst. “Damn, what a day,” he said.
Michael had to ask the question. “Why do you hate him?”
“Him? Him who ?”
“You know.”
Beauchene grunted. “I told you. He’s a black nigger and he’s a college boy. They put him here to ride my back. Imagine that! After all these years, a nigger on my back! And not just any one, but a college boy! Oh, they’ve got big plans for him, you can count on that.” He leaned forward and planted his elbows on the desktop. “They put him on me to get experience . That’s what they said. To get the actual experience of seamanship . But you know…you know …that’s not all of it. Non ! They want him watching me. Taking notes. Judging me, for any error. Because of my past mistakes, you see. A few errors. A few scraped hulls and mishandled cargo. Always the captain’s fault, oui ? And now look what you’ve gotten me into! If we get out of this, how will I have a job?” Another swig of deadly brandy went down his pipe. “Two men are never going home. Do you get that? And how many more will never be going home? Eh? So how will Captain Gustave Beauchene ever have a job after this?” He abruptly slammed the bottom of the bottle down on the desk. “ Answer me !” he shouted, his face contorted with pure rage.
Michael was very careful in his reply. “When we get out of this, the British Secret Service will arrange a job for you with any British merchant line you please to approach. I can promise that.”
“Oh, can you? Promise me a job sailing a desk through a sea of papers? Or perhaps you can get me a job in a bakery? Making crumpets and little tea-cakes for fags with umbrellas?”
It struck Michael then. Gustave Beauchene bore a hatred not only for Eman Kpanga, but for the entire world.
Beauchene was very intelligent. Michael knew the man must have seen some realization in his face, because the captain smiled grimly and said, “You think you know me, is that it? From your little histories and spy papers? Did you know, then, that I was the third generation of my family’s bakery in Paris? That this was to be my continuation of the very profitable
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