Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 19

  Chapter 18 : 1877

  Stephen Waters leaned on the port rail of the steam ship Eastern Star and stared at the grey waters of the South China Sea. It was late March and as the ship moved steadily north towards the British Crown Colony of Hong Kong, the temperature was dropping and the swell rising.

  He had no intention of remaining in Hong Kong for longer than necessary; he had heard little to recommend it during his time in Sydney and Angus Jackson, the wiry Scottish captain of the ‘Star’, had reinforced what he’d heard.

  “The place is one big slum, laddie. There are legions of Chinamen floodin’ into it; shacks geyin’ up everywhere. And today’s shack is tomorrow’s cess pit. There’s a putrid sorta stink that hangs o’er it mosta the time. And my God, the heat! It’s hotter than Hades in the summer. You’ll best be leavin’ as smart as ye can, laddie.”

  Stephen would nod in agreement. His goal was India, the mystical land he had read so much about in the past few months.

  Musing on India, he remembered the fine woollen shawl made from goat hair from Kashmir that he had bought in London for Tella before his return to Florence in 1870. He had been in mourning for his wife, Millie, who had been killed in a riding accident at the age of seventy. He had been Robert Trenton when he married Millie in England, but to Tella he was still Pierre, the man who rescued her from the gutter and who later introduced her to the Conte di Clemenza when he was commissioned to paint the family’s portraits. She had married the conte’s only son, later becoming the Contessa di Clemenza and mother to their seven children.

  Millie and Robert had been married for over thirty years and he was shattered by her death. Inevitably, he returned to his Tella, who, at ninety-six, seemed as enduring as himself.

  “She would have felt nothing, Pierre,” whispered the frail old woman. “Her life was extinguished as quickly as a pinched candle flame loses its life. You poor man; it’s only now in my ridiculously old state that I can appreciate how difficult things must be for you. I have lost so many loved ones, not just my beloved husband, but children and even grandchildren, while this old body still carries on. God alone knows how it does; I’m nothing but skin and bone. I am worried that one day all that will be left is my soul. With nothing to hold it in place, it will fall out of my clothes and lie helpless on the floor.”

  He laughed. “Your soul will always be with me, Tella, part of it anyway, since there are many claims on it. My part will never leave me.”

  Tella’s face became serious. “Do you find it hard, Pierre? Too hard at times?”

  “It’s always hard to lose loved ones, Tella. But I am not like an old man outliving his children. I have never been old. The only time I thought I felt old was when I was Luca di Stefano. I knew no different, so for a while, I thought as an old man. Then I finally realised that not only was I not old, I was young. My mind worked, and still works, as a young mind. My body stays strong, fit, active and healthy. Although that doesn’t stop the sadness when I lose someone. I shall miss Millie as much as I miss Beth or Maria or Arlette. Still miss them. But they are always with me; I can remember them so well. It’s as if they are parts of a whole; parts of wives who have yet to be. Is that strange, Tella? I doubt I am making much sense.”

  She smiled at him lovingly. “You are making perfect sense, Pierre. And you are such a strength to me, surrounded as I am by my huge and ever-changing family. You are the constant in my life, Pierre. You have been for almost ninety years.”

  He stayed in Florence until finally, five years later at the age of a hundred and one, Tella simply did not wake up one morning. There was no fuss, no illness. The night before he had visited her and they had talked as ever of their lives, their loved ones. She had kissed him goodnight, smiled and gone to sleep.

 

  Three weeks after Tella’s death, Pierre, as the family also knew him, had set out for Genoa and a new start. On the way, he prepared a set of documents for his new persona: Stephen Waters, a twenty-seven-year-old Englishman.

  In Genoa, he roamed the shipping offices; he’d decided to go to the Americas. Lacking inspiration for one of the many possible destinations, he wandered at dusk to the docks where he found both steamers and sailing ships. He had never been to sea on a steamer and compared with the majesty of the sailing ships, he thought the modern craft lacked elegance. He loved the graceful lines of the three-masters, the creaking of their mooring ropes, the smell of pitch, and he thought of voyages in the Mediterranean in Jacques Bognard’s boat two hundred years before.

  In his reverie, he hadn’t noticed a group of youths prowling the docks. As he turned at the corner of a warehouse, he almost bumped into the largest of the group, a swarthy, greasy-haired youth who had detached himself from his friends and silently approached him.

  “My apologies, signore,” said Stephen, “I was daydreaming.”

  “Well, you should be more careful, signore,” replied the youth loudly, an arrogant sneer lifting his top lip. “Your actions could cost a man dearly on this dangerous dock. It would take very little for a man to end up in these oily waters. I feel you owe me more than a few easy words that I doubt have sincerity. No, signore, since I have come close to drowning at your hand, I consider a substantial payment as recompense for your foolhardy actions is obligatory.”

  Stephen stared at the youth in confusion. “You exaggerate, signore. I did not even touch you.”

  “But you caused me to step backwards, signore, such was the shock of your uninvited proximity! One more step and I should have plunged into the blackness and found my life extinguished.”

  Stephen snorted derisively. “We are at least ten good steps away from the dock’s edge. You were never in any danger.”

  The youth squared up to him. He had the face of a prize-fighter, the skin around his eyes scarred from many fights.

  “So, signore, first you threaten me with death, second you refuse to compensate me and finally, you insult me by branding me a liar!” As he spat the words, the youth pushed his face within inches of Stephen’s.

  “I think this creature needs a lesson, boys!” he yelled to his friends.

  He pulled his right arm back, his large fist clenched ready for the punch he intended to deliver.

  But it never arrived. Instead, the youth was suddenly lifted vertically from the ground, his body rotated and then projected sideways towards the dock’s edge with great force. As he hit the ground, his left foot caught in a mooring rope and he stopped abruptly, his body hanging half over the water.

  Stephen looked back to where the youth had been standing and saw what appeared to be a giant standing there grinning at him.

  “Hey, you ox, you’ve got a lesson to learn for that!”

  The giant turned towards the voice that had come from behind him, watching in amusement as two of the other youths charged across the dock towards him, followed closely by their three friends. One of the front two was brandishing a knife. As he launched himself at the giant, the knife suddenly separated from his hand, bouncing onto the dock with a clang. The giant’s left arm had chopped down on the youth’s wrist so fast that Stephen saw only a blur. In one fluid motion, the giant grabbed the two youths, one in each of his massive hands, and swung them through a sweeping arc so that their heads crashed heavily into each other. He then pulled them apart and swinging his arms up and back, tossed them over both his own head and Stephen’s.

  The remaining youths skidded to a halt and turned on their heels to run. However, they hadn’t gone two steps when the middle one flew backwards, launched in the direction of the giant who cuffed him aside as if swatting a fly. The youth had run straight into the fist of another man, this one very much shorter but packed with muscle. Echoing the actions of the giant, the second man spun round and grabbed the remaining youths as they ran at full tilt. He hauled them back towards him and closing his powerful arms like jaws, crashed their heads together and tossed them aside.

  The giant grunted in satisfaction and ambled over
to the youth who had been threatening Stephen. He looked down on the foot that was still caught in the rope. He raised his own massive boot above it.

  “Don’t!” screamed the youth. “I can’t swim.”

  “All vermin can svim ven zey needs to,” said the giant, and stamped on the youth’s foot.

  Stephen winced at the crunch of bones as the youth disappeared over the dock edge with a scream. The giant looked around, found a large piece of timber and tossed it after the youth.

  “Hold zat while you are learning to svim, vermin.”

  He walked over to Stephen and took hold of his coat. Stephen flinched but the man was only straightening it for him. There was a laugh from behind. “Don’t worry, my friend, he’s only helping to tidy you up. Doesn’t do for a gentleman to look rumpled.”

  The smaller man walked up to Stephen and held out his hand. “Johanne Van der Merwe.”

  “Stephen Waters,” stuttered Stephen, still shocked at the action of the last few seconds.

  “You are English?” said Van der Merwe, switching from his heavily accented Italian.

  “Yes,” nodded Stephen. Suddenly aware of a huge presence behind him, he turned to see the giant holding out a hand the size of a leg of pork. Stephen extended his own hand hesitantly, expecting it to be crushed. But the giant shook it gently and smiled, his white teeth sparkling. “Lars,” he said, his voice so deep that the word was like the rumbling of distant thunder.

  Stephen gazed at him in awe. He was all of six foot ten, and two hundred and eighty pounds of muscle. By contrast the other man was no more than five foot six, but his equally muscular body made him seem larger.

  Van der Merwe laughed. “Big bugger, yah! But a mouse really, eh Lars!” He punched the giant lightly on the arm. The reply was another distant rumble.

  “I must thank you, gentlemen,” said Stephen, coming to his senses.

  “No thanks needed, Englishman,” replied Van der Merwe. “We saw that group of louts strutting through the dock. They were clearly up to no good, so we followed them.”

  “Well, it was my good fortune you did,” said Stephen.

  Van der Merwe laughed again. “I think, Englishman, you need a few lessons in the art of self-defence. Come, buy us some dinner; we can talk, yes?”

  “So you want to go to sea, Englishman?” said Johanne through a mouthful of the meat he’d just torn from a pork rib with his teeth.

  “In a sailing boat!” he added, laughing. “Did you hear that, Lars? This Englishman’s a traditionalist; he wants to sail.”

  There was a reverberation from Lars that could have been laughter, but it could equally have been a register of the satisfaction he was feeling from the massive meal he had almost finished.

  “You have sailed before, Englishman?” continued Johanne.

  “From Marseille to Genoa, yes, and I have taken the boats that run across the English Channel on many occasions.”

  “But you have never been on the ocean.” It was a statement, not a question.

  “Well, the Mediterranean–”

  “Is a puddle; it is not the ocean. I will tell you Englishman, in the past twenty years, me and Lars, we have sailed all the oceans and we have been round both Capes many times. There are storms in the Mediterranean, yes, and they need respect, but the ocean; that is different.”

  He looked Stephen in the eye, his own twinkling with a perpetual amusement that Stephen would get to know very well. “Do you know the difference between a steamer and a sailboat, Englishman?”

  “Of course, I–”

  “No, I don’t think you do.” He tore the meat off another rib and raised his tankard to the bar for more wine. “I will tell you. A sailing boat is at the mercy of the wind, the currents and the weather, while a steamer – just the weather. A sailing boat cannot travel in a straight line, it must zig and zag all over the ocean, sometimes travelling backwards. A steamer will always travel forward.”

  He paused for a swig of the fresh wine.

  “A sailing boat bobs around like a cork. It pitches and rolls and is very uncomfortable, unless it is going fast, when it is magnificent. But when you are becalmed in a steaming hot ocean – no wind, running out of water, the heat blistering your skin – you don’t care about magnificence. No, all you care about is moving, and you don’t care how. If you could tie the boat to Lars and whip him to tow it through the water, you would do it.”

  He paused as Stephen smiled at the thought.

  “Believe me, Englishman, I have thought of trying it more than once.”

  Stephen nodded thoughtfully.

  “I have heard, Johanne, that steamers are noisy, the vibration from the engines and propellers always present, and the odours most disagreeable.”

  Johanne nodded. “It is true there are some steamers that are not pleasant, but most are comfortable enough now the designs are improving. After a while you do not hear the engines, and as a passenger you will get food that is fresh and edible and a cabin you can move in. I tell you, Englishman, for the past three years now, me and Lars, we have worked on steamers, some big, some small, some agreeable, some not. But we would never go back.”

  He stopped to let Stephen digest his words.

  “Anyway, Englishman, you need to come with us if you are going to sea. You must learn to box, to defend yourself. I shall teach you. It is not something even a young man like you can learn overnight. It takes time and patience. Of course, I cannot teach you on board and anyway, I should not have time. Me and Lars, we are stokers, shovelling coal all day. When a stoker is not working, he is sleeping. But we do not depart for a week, so you can learn the basics, heh! And then when we get to our destination, you can learn some more. You will soon have the skills to protect yourself. Tell me, Englishman, why do you want to go to sea? Are you a naturalist?”

  Stephen smiled, amused at the thought. “No, Johanne, I am an artist, a painter of portraits and landscapes. And there is so much of the world I should like to see, so many places and peoples.”

  “An artist! Well, well. That, then, is another challenge. I shall need to teach you to box without damaging your hands.”

  “What is your destination, Johanne?” asked Stephen. “Indeed, our destination. Where are we bound?”

  “Why, to the Brazils, Englishman! To Rio de Janeiro!”

  The lessons went well. Johanne was old friends with the master of a fencing academy who let them use his premises. Stripped to the waist and wearing tight white cotton knee breeches, Johanne and Lars were a fearful sight. Johanne was an expert bare-knuckle boxer, having learned the art in Amsterdam in his youth. He practised almost daily with Lars who, while less expert, had the huge size, power and lightning reactions to counter any opponent.

  When Stephen stripped off his shirt for his first lesson, Johanne complimented him on his physique. “While you clearly do not work on your muscle, Englishman, your lean frame tells me you treat your body with respect.”

  Stephen smiled to himself at the irony of this. He wondered what Johanne would say if he knew he was about to throw punches at a man almost four hundred and fifty years old.

  “Let’s see if we can’t tone that frame and tune those reflexes,” added Johanne. He raised his fists in a defensive stance and, without warning, threw three punches to Stephen’s face in rapid succession, each of them stopping just short. Before Stephen could even move, Johanne was back in his defensive stance while Lars stood in the background chuckling quietly.

  Johanne put his hands on his hips and rocked back on his feet, laughing. “Oh dear, Englishman, you are already unconscious and we have barely begun! Never mind, I guarantee that within a short time you will not only be swaying and ducking in more than ample time to avoid those punches, you will also have replied with punches of your own. Now let’s get to work. First, raise your arms like this and I shall explain how you can defend yourself.”

  Stephen proved to be a good student with a natural ability. Once Johanne had explained the basic st
eps, the positioning of the body, the need to be constantly adjusting his feet, it started to make sense to him and he became hungry to learn.

  Once he had cooled down and got his breath back, Stephen would sit down with his sketchpad while the two Dutchmen continued to spar. To Stephen’s eyes, they were like Roman gladiators circling each other in deadly combat. Seeing him sketching on the first day, the two were keen to discover what he could possibly be putting on his paper. When he showed them, they shook their heads in amazement. “These drawings seem alive, Englishman, like they are moving pictures. Can you turn them into paintings?”

  “That’s what I’m planning for the voyage,” said Stephen.

  Four months later, they landed at Port Jackson in Sydney, the capital of the British Colony of New South Wales, having changed ships in Rio de Janeiro and Valparaiso in Chile. Every morning they went to ‘Joe’s Boxing Gymnasium’ where Stephen’s skills were honed until Johanne was satisfied his reflexes and abilities were sufficient for him to give a good account of himself if the need arose.

  After a few weeks, Johanne announced that he and Lars needed to go back to sea. “But we shall be back in a few months, Englishman. You will still be here, yes?”

  It was six months before the pair appeared again, arriving unannounced one evening at Stephen’s small apartment. By this time he was impatient to leave, his research for his trip to India complete.

  “Englishman!” exclaimed Johanne, as Stephen opened the door. “Surprised to see us?” he said, throwing his arms round Stephen and hugging the air out of him.

  “Surprised and delighted,” gasped Stephen, once Johanne had put him down.

  The pair followed him into the apartment, filling it immediately with their bulk, their bags and their delight at seeing him again. Johanne was full of tales of their travels while Lars grunted along in deep resonating agreement.

  “You have arrived at an opportune time, my friends,” Stephen told them finally. “I am ready to leave. I was hoping that perhaps you would like to accompany me.”

  He told them of his plans to go to India and how he wanted to spend some years there. He was so full of enthusiasm that Johanne kept his doubts to himself.

  “How are you planning to get to your mystical land, my friend?” Johanne asked.

  “By way of the Straits Settlements; it seems the most direct route,” said Stephen.

  Johanne nodded. “The most direct, yes, but not the best.”

  Stephen frowned. “What would you recommend?”

  “Hong Kong,” said Johanne. “There are even more sailings to Hong Kong and far better services in better vessels from there to India.”

  Stephen shrugged. It made little difference to him so long as he departed soon.

  “I shall make enquiries for you tomorrow, Englishman.”

  During the days that followed, Johanne and Lars enjoyed themselves in the bars in the dock areas, teaming up with other Dutch seaman. Stephen left them to carouse while he sorted out his extensive portfolio of paintings. He was leaving most of them with a dealer, but there were still a number he intended to keep and they needed careful packing.

  At one o’clock one morning, he was surprised to hear a quiet but urgent knocking on his door. He opened the door to a worried-looking Johanne.

  “Stephen, can I come in?” he said.

  Stephen was shocked: Johanne had never used his first name.

  He closed the door as Johanne slumped in the chair.

  “What has happened, Johanne? Is it Lars?”

  The Dutchman shook his head. “Lars? No, Lars is fine. He didn’t come with me this evening. Can’t take the pace.” He paused.

  “I have a problem, my friend. A big problem.” As he said this, he peeled off his scarf. Stephen saw that his face was cut and bruised. He looked down at his hands; they too were bleeding from the knuckles.

  “You have been in a fight, Johanne?”

  The Dutchman nodded. “Yes, a bad one. It was not my fault, Englishman, I didn’t start it, and I didn’t finish it. But I shall be blamed.”

  “Blamed? Blamed for what?”

  “There were three of them. They were waiting for me in an alley. It was going well; I had them. Then one of them produced a knife and charged at me. But at the same moment, another one rushed at me from a different direction. I ducked and the two of them collided. The knife went straight into the other one’s heart. He was dead in seconds.”

  He stopped, the events playing back in his eyes.

  “The one with the knife, he threw it at my feet. Started yelling that I’d killed his friend. Yelling loudly. Yelling for the constables. Two of them appeared out of nowhere. There was pandemonium. One of the constables said that it was the gallows for me, that they didn’t tolerate drunken foreigners killing their citizens.”

  “So what happened? You escaped?”

  Johanne nodded. “They had hold of me. Big fellas but not fit. I suddenly swung them both together. It’s a trick I’ve used a lot. Crashed their heads. They went out like lights, Englishman.” He shrugged. “I then hit the one with the knife. Only once, but he won’t wake up for a while and his jaw is busted. Then I had to do the same to the other one, because he had pulled a knife as well. Then I ran. I didn’t know what to do, but then I heard a lot of commotion and those whistles the bobbies blow, so I kept to the shadows and came here. They didn’t see me. No one did.”

  Stephen rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He removed the scarf from Johanne’s neck and pulled off his woollen hat. The single cut on his face was very superficial, as was the bruising. He studied the Dutchman’s hairless head and face and pursed his lips, nodding to himself.

  “The trouble is, Johanne, you have a very distinctive head. Your baldness is unusual and people remember it, but that could be to our advantage.”

  “I don’t understand, Englishman.”

  “Johanne, we have got to get you out of the country. The constables will be looking everywhere for you and if they catch you, they will hang you, for sure. Any trial will just be for show. They will get plenty of witnesses to say you killed the man. Until you leave, you’ll have to stay here. You are sure that no one saw you?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Then let me clean you up and tomorrow I’ll make some arrangements.”

  In the morning, Stephen was up early. He made some coffee and woke Johanne.

  “Johanne, help yourself to some breakfast. I need to go out for a while. I’ll first go to warn Lars and then fetch your things. Then I’ll need to go out again.”

  “Where to, Englishman?”

  “The theatre, Johanne. I’m going to the theatre!”

  When Stephen returned, he was carrying two parcels. He put the smaller on a table in front of Johanne and unwrapped it to reveal a number of packets, pots and brushes.

  He looked up at Johanne and studied his face. Then he turned to Lars, who had arrived while Stephen was out.

  “Lars, I should like to introduce you to Mr Waters.”

  Lars frowned. “You are Mr Waters, Englishman,” his voice rumbled.

  “I am indeed, Lars. But this is also Mr Waters.” He nodded his head towards Johanne. “Mr Ernest Waters. My father.”

  A series of disconnected vibrations emerged from the region of Lars’ throat, while Johanne cocked his head in question.

  Stephen waved his hand across the goods arrayed in front of him like a conjuror.

  “I told you this morning I was going to the theatre. Actors work in theatres and actors are very skilled at altering their appearances. At the theatre, I asked for the names of suppliers of theatrical costumes, props, wigs and so on.”

  He stopped in amusement at their frowns.

  “I am not an actor, but I am skilled – very skilled, in fact – in the application of false hair, wigs and make-up. I can turn you, Johanne, from your forty-something fit and vital self into Ernest Waters: aged, bent and grey-haired.”

  Stephen picked up the larger parcel.

/>   “Here, old man, are your new clothes. Actually not so new, I picked them up at a second-hand store. The jacket is rather too large for you. It will disguise your muscular frame and droop on you when you adopt the stoop I shall teach you. Your walking stick I left by the door.”

  Johanne nodded slowly.

  “That is amazing, Englishman, if you think you can really do it. But what about papers? The officials at the docks are very particular about papers – passports as they are sometimes called. They will be looking for me and scrutinising all papers.”

  Stephen stood and walked over to a drawer and pulled out a large envelope. Removing some papers, he passed them to Johanne.

  “Take a look at these.”

  Johanne flicked through them.

  “These are your papers,” he said, puzzled.

  “That’s right.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Well, I know they are my papers because I made them. From scratch. There is nothing genuine about any of them.”

  Johanne stared back at the papers in his hands, checking them and holding them up to the light.

  “You made these, Englishman?”

  “I am an artist, Johanne. It is not too difficult.”

  “So you are not really Stephen Waters?”

  “No, I am not.”

  “Are you on the run from the law as well?”

  Stephen laughed. “Technically, I suppose I am.”

  Not wanting to dwell on the subject, he clapped his hands. “So, Ernest Waters, you are going to have to forego the pleasure of stoking coal on this forthcoming voyage; the work is far too strenuous for a man of your age. You will, for a change, be a passenger. As far as the authorities here are concerned, we shall be father and son, returning to England by way of Hong Kong and India.”

  Johanne touched Stephen’s arm, his eyes moist.

  “If we can get away with this, I shall be indebted to you for the rest of my life, Englishman.”

  “Nonsense, I am merely repaying my debt to you. Of course, if we don’t get away with it, the rest of our lives will be rather short. They will hang us both.”

  Stephen found a steamer heading for Hong Kong, the SS Eastern Star, due to depart five days hence, and booked a first class cabin with two berths. Returning to the apartment, he sent Lars to sign on as a stoker. Lars was back within the hour. “All done, Englishman. I know the captain, Angus Jackson. He wanted to know where Johanne is. I told him Amsterdam with his sick mother.”

  The next morning, Stephen started the laborious task of applying hair and whiskers to Johanne’s face, laying them down in strands until he had a full but neat beard and a moustache. The head hair took longer but the result was astounding. After applying some fine make-up to give him a sallow, grey-yellow complexion and finishing off with a number of liver spots on his temples and forehead, he handed Johanne a mirror.

  “There, Johanne, I don’t think your own mother would recognise you.”

  Johanne stared at himself in awe, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t recognise me if I bumped into me in the street. This is incredible, Englishman. Who taught you how to do this?”

  “Someone I met a long time ago, Johanne. Come, put on the clothes and I’ll show you how to walk.”

  When they got to the shoes, Stephen pulled a pebble out of his pocket. “Slip this inside the left shoe. It will be a constant reminder to you to limp.”

  As Johanne hobbled around the room, practising using the walking stick, he quickly transformed into a man of seventy.

  “You shouldn’t smile like that, Johanne.”

  “Can’t help it, Englishman. I’m too happy.”

  The slow half-mile walk to the docks on the evening of their departure passed without incident. Arriving at the immigration desk, they joined the small queue of passengers waiting to board. Stephen handed over their papers and the official took them away to check them against a list.

  “Mr Waters?”

  Stephen turned to the voice. The official was pointing to Johanne. “No, Mr Waters senior.”

  Stephen touched his ear to indicate that his father was a little deaf.

  The official smiled understandingly. “I was wondering if your father would like to sit down while we process the papers.”

  “Thank you,” said Stephen. “Come, Father, let’s sit over here.”

  Ten minutes later they were on board. “This is not going to be the easiest of times, Johanne, You are going to have to wear that disguise for the whole voyage. It will get itchy and uncomfortable, and you must always be on your guard.”

  “If it’s a choice between an itchy neck and a stretched one, I’ll take the itchy one every time,” smiled Johanne.

  Low cloud covered the hills of Hong Kong Island as they moored in the harbour. A small armada of sampans arrived to take the bags to shore, the sampan boys jostling for position in the choppy water. The chief steward was directing operations, yelling instructions at everyone, his words being interpreted into screeched Cantonese by the shipping company’s head boy.

  A larger steam-powered vessel came alongside. A gangplank with railings on either side was set up, and the captain arrived to bid farewell to his guests, shaking each one by the hand. When it came to Stephen and Johanne’s turn, Stephen walked forward.

  “Goodbye, Captain Jackson. I should like to thank you for all you have done to make this voyage a most pleasant experience for my father and me.”

  The captain bowed his head courteously.

  “Ma pleasure, Mr Waters, ma pleasure. Ah hope to see you on board again. You too, Mr Waters,” he said, nodding towards Johanne.

  Johanne bowed his head, saying nothing.

  They started across the gangplank.

  “Good luck, Mr Waters!” called out the captain. “And good luck to you too, Johanne!”

  Stephen and Johanne stopped in their tracks and turned their heads, their eyes wide. But the captain was already saying his farewells to the next passenger.