The Lonely Sea: Collected Short Stories

McCrimmon and the Blue Moonstones

The wind was blowing offshore from the native quarter, so that breathing, up-town, was only a matter of tolerable difficulty. Night, if not peace, had fallen over the city. The hour was late and all honest citizens were at home, asleep. The streets of Alexandria were thronged.

The scene was typically Eastern. Uncounted thousands were strenuously engaged in their legitimate pursuits of boot-blacking, pocket-picking and the retailing of every conceivable article rigorously proscribed by Egyptian law. But, for the most part, the bulk of the crowds wandered aimlessly, purposelessly around. Some went one way, some another; but whichever way they went, they went only because they happened to be going that way.

But one there was who, although among them, was clearly not of them — one who hastened briskly along, whose every step betrayed the man of action, whose face held that calm set born of fixed determination, whose eye held the bright gleam born of high resolve and, possibly, too much gin. McCrimmon, Able Seaman, torpedoman aboard His Majesty's Ship ILARA, proud possessor of two badges, a distinguished name and a remarkable set of moral principles, had an urgent appointment which would brook no delay.

HMS ILARA had arrived back in Alexandria, from the Aegean, only that morning, with a large section of her after-funnel missing — the souvenir of a slight estrangement which had arisen between her and the 9.5 German batteries on Milos. McCrimmon, ruthlessly sacrificing his normal afternoon sleep, had hied him ashore immediately after dinner and sought out a certain Mr McCrimmon, a third, or it may have been fourth cousin of his. Mr McCrimmon was a dockyard worker, or, more precisely, one who was paid for being present in the dockyard at certain stated times. He was not due to go home for almost two years yet. He had newly come, it appeared, into the possession of certain valuable information, and, blood — however diluted — being thicker than water, he had, after due deliberation and several brandies, parted with this to his cousin. The latter had maintained throughout an attitude of detached boredom which had deceived no one.

The information, in brief, was this. He, Mr McCrimmon, had learned, through a devious but reliable channel, of a certain native ashore who had rather a fine set of semi-precious stones. That they were not family heirlooms or otherwise legally come by, Mr McCrimmon was quite sure; but that was irrelevant. What was relevant was the fact that their current owner was prepared to sell them at a fantastically low price. They would fetch several times that amount in the inflated home market. Would his cousin, whom he trusted above all men and who was due to go home shortly, carry out this transaction for him and forward fifty per cent of the proceeds?

His cousin would, and 'tis thus we find him striding through the crowded streets, looking neither to the left nor to the right, automatically cuffing all such boot-blacks as came within range and pausing only occasionally, with a muttered curse, to study proffered works of art, by old masters and others, then hastening along again.

His appointment, as mentioned, would brook no delay. He had already delayed long enough in a saloon down by the Bourse, slaking his thirst and playing poker with three Armenians and a Cypriot. McCrimmon had done very well out of the game, and might have been there yet, had not some inquisitive bystander seen fit to comment, in terms of loud admiration, upon the exquisite delicacy of the workmanship whereby the backs of the cards were painted in fifty-two different patterns. When an impromptu court of enquiry was set up to investigate the ownership of the cards, McCrimmon had left. He had not even stayed to collect his winnings, a recollection which caused him to grind his teeth from time to time as his feet spurned the dust of the Saad Zaghoul.

Arriving at the further end of this, the main street of the city, he turned left and disappeared into one of the several ornate restaurant cum dance-hall establishments clustered around Ramleh Station. Briskly saluting the commissionaire, whom he took for a rear-admiral, McCrimmon passed within the portals, tightened his grip on hat and coat as he went by the hat-check counter and looked around the vestibule. It was empty. The jewel merchant had not yet arrived.

Leaving a few words of instruction and a still fewer number of piastres with the receptionist, McCrimmon vanished within the restaurant. He chose a table where he could observe the cabaret without undue strain to the eyes and seated himself. Removing the 'Reserved' card on the table, he handed it, with a grandiloquent gesture, to a passing waiter, along with his order for refreshments. The waiter, convinced that he was dealing with yet another exiled king in disguise, bowed low and moved off.

McCrimmon bent a supercilious eye around the restaurant. It was in no way different from a score of others he knew — the same plush settees, curtained alcoves, brass rails, minute dancing-floor, tired palms and even more tired string orchestra.

He lackadaisically watched the efforts of a couple of professional dancers, demonstrating an old-time waltz. The lurid handbill on his table referred to them as 'a pair of talented and finished artists'. McCrimmon questioned the 'talented' but agreed with the 'finished', privately estimating the date at twenty years previously. His boredom mounted apace.

An hour passed. McCrimmon had just lowered his fifth John Collins, and was waxing impatient, when a waiter signalled him. The orchestra was playing 'Carmelita' and, as McCrimmon walked out, the music harmonized very well with the not unmelodious tinkling given off by the chromium ashtray and monogrammed forks and spoons in his coat pocket.

Pressing a cylindrical disc of some base metal into the gratified waiter's hand, McCrimmon emerged into the vestibule. Again there was no one there, but as the waiter had informed him that someone awaited him, he pressed through the only other door, other than the exit, leading off the vestibule.

Again he drew a blank — in one sense. For, though the washplace, for such it was, was empty, McCrimmon's professional attention was drawn to the row of gleaming chromium taps. He bethought himself of his uncle, proprietor of a flourishing plumber and gasfitter's firm in the Broomielaw, Glasgow. Muttering some proverb about time lost never being regained, McCrimmon drew forth a ten-inch Stilson wrench, expertly calculated with his eye the gauge of the gland nut on the taps and was adjusting the spanner when a low, sibilant voice behind him said 'Meester!'

McCrimmon started, performed some masterly sleight of hand with the Stilson, then turned unconcernedly round. If innocence of expression were any criterion, any unbiased judge, could he have seen him in company with an average archangel, would have branded the latter as a habitual criminal.

Before him stood, or crouched, a diminutive, dark-skinned individual, clad in a scarlet fez and an off-white nightgown. His feet were bare. To the casual eye, he seemed to be shaking hands industriously with himself; McCrimmon correctly interpreted this as a gesture of propitiation. Again the apparition spoke.

'Meester Creemon?' he enquired.

McCrimmon, deeming it useless to point out the correct pronunciation of a legendary Highland name to the unlettered heathen, merely nodded assent. The native, equally a man of few words, said no more. Beckoning, he turned, slipped out of the doorway, through the vestibule and into the street. McCrimmon, suitably impressed by his conspiratorial air, cast a last regretful glance at the chromium taps, made a mental note to bring a haversack next time and lurked after him.

Satisfied that he was not alone, the native shuffled noiselessly across the square. McCrimmon followed, keeping, as became an upholder of the dignity of Western civilization, several ostentatious paces to the rear. The guide led the way up the rue Sana Zaghoul, over the hill, down the other side and into the native quarter immediately east of the docks.

As the streets grew meaner and darker and the smell more villainous, so did McCrimmon's grip on his wrench tighten. But he did not hesitate. Was he not a McCrimmon? Had not his ancestors done their part nobly and well at Bannockburn and Flodden? Had not, in more recent times, his grandfather run more bootleg hooch throughout the Western Isles than any other man in contemporary history? Had he not seen, with his own eyes, his father, with that cheerful contempt of death so characteristic of the McCrimmons, cheer the Glasgow Rangers to victory whilst imbedded in a solid phalanx of Celtic supporters? There was no lack of glorious precepts. Besides, he had lifted his elbow many times that evening. His courage was as the courage of ten. McCrimmon pressed on.

His guide suddenly stopped before a delapidated cafe; outwardly, at least, it was unprepossessing in the extreme, McCrimmon, following the guide through the hanging reeds screening the doorway, found that the outward facade belied the interior, which was considerably worse. It consisted of a bar running the length of the room, half a dozen tables with wicker chairs and a few stools. In one corner, a scruffy individual was toasting a flat loaf over an open brazier. Hard by him two aged gentlemen were squatting on the floor, manfully sucking at a bubbling hookah. McCrimmon could not discern what, if anything, was happening at the other end of the room. Visibility did not exceed four feet.

The guide evidently felt completely at home here. Leading McCrimmon over to a rickety table by the brazier, he sat down and, in a burst of confidence, disclosed himself as one Mohammed Ali. Parenthetically, it may here be remarked that fifty per cent of the male population of Egypt are called Mohammed Ali; the remaining fifty per cent, unambitious souls, are content with calling themselves Mohammed or Ali.

Introductions thus tardily effected, McCrimmon, whom the refinements and social trappings of big business left completely cold, called for drinks and brusquely demanded that they come to business. Mohammed Ali slid a hand into a fold of his robe and drew out a small, washleather bag. Weighing this speculatively in his hand, he said nothing, but his enquiring, meaningful glance more than compensated for any lack of words.

McCrimmon demanded to see the stones: Mohammed Ali declined. Surely the English Meester would at least demonstrate his good faith by showing his money. McCrimmon, writhing under the double insult of the opprobious epithet 'English' and the disrepute into which the word of a McCrimmon had clearly fallen among the savage tribes of the East, groped for the handle of his Stilson.

Mohammed Ali, to whom the higher forms of etiquette were obviously a closed book, chose this moment to begin manicuring his hands after his own unostentatious fashion. His nail-file took the form of a 9-inch, double-edged throwing knife; McCrimmon, reflecting that, after all, the rude and untutored upbringing of these unfortunates entitled them to pity rather than censure, magnanimously changed his mind about the Stilson and thrust his hand into his left coat-pocket, where he kept his wallet. It remained there for a few seconds, then emerged slowly. His hand was empty. His face wore a most peculiar expression. Not to put too fine a point on it, his wallet was gone.

What ensued would have thrown any aspiring etymologist into transports of rapture. With every second word unprintable, McCrimmon anathematized the world in general and Alexandria in particular for five full minutes without repeating himself once. He held his audience spellbound. Finally, he calmed down, soothed by Mohammed Ali's consoling words and several glasses of native-brewed arrack.

After much further argument and bandying of words, it was agreed that they should meet again on the following night, at a cafe at the hither end of the Sherif Pasha — a rendezvous insisted on by McCrimmon. The advantages were two-fold — it was in the white quarter, and McCrimmon was not unknown there; had they been there that evening, wallet or no wallet, the necessity for a further assignation would not have arisen…

McCrimmon sat on for some time, drinking moodily and deciding to leave only when Mohammed Ali showed no signs of supplying any further arrack. Clutching at the wavering bar in an effort to steady it, he rose to go; he wore the weary air of a man whom fate could harm no more. It was, after all, a pardonable assumption.

Launching forth in the general direction of the door, he found it blocked by a quartette who showed no signs of complying with his imperative calls for gangway. Focusing his eyes with considerable difficulty, McCrimmon peered at the nearest of the four; his mind, harking back several leagues, ultimately identified him as the Cypriot to whom he had been demonstrating the finer points of poker earlier on in the evening. Intuition told him who the remaining three gentlemen were.

Shocked into comparative sobriety and hoarsely uttering the war cry of his clan, McCrimmon leapt back. A high-speed camera would have recorded but a blur as his hand streaked for his Stilson wrench. Wild Bill Hickok, at his best, would have stood in silent wonder. Alas for McCrimmon, the miraculous speed of his draw was grievously hampered by the plethora of assorted cutlery in his pocket. True, it caused but a second's delay: but it is a scientifically established fact that a heavy stool, impelled by the arms of an enraged Armenian, can cover a distance of four feet in less than half that time.

A naval patrol happened to be passing by as McCrimmon emerged, in slightly unorthodox fashion, through the closed lattice window of the cafe. It was an unusual method of exit, but not sufficiently so to warrant investigation by any average hardened naval patrol. Pausing only to separate him from the splintered woodwork festooned around his neck, the patrol picked him up and escorted his tottering form to the sanctuary of the docks.

Dragging himself away from the mirror wherein he had been gazing with rapturous admiration for the past ten minutes, McCrimmon adjusted his hat to the correct angle befitting an Active Service A/B, donned his raincoat, checked up on his armoury and prepared to leave the mess-deck.

It was nightfall on the following day, Sunday. During the morning McCrimmon had held a council of war with his cousin, who was that day accumulating an impressive amount of overtime in 'A' Turret. Annoyed as he initially was by McCrimmon's intrusion — for even the most phlegmatic amongst us resents any interruption of a deep and healthful slumber — his cousin was soon cursing luridly and gnashing his teeth in perfect sympathetic unison with McCrimmon as the latter unfolded his sorry tale. But there were no hard feelings — amongst the McCrimmons, recriminations are quite unknown. Another wallet of notes would be forthcoming by evening. The loss, McCrimmon assured his grateful cousin, could be made good by another two or three overtime weekends, even though he was not the man he was, as he had latterly begun to be troubled by insomnia. Many a lesser man, in his circumstances and in the light of recent events, would have categorically refused to venture ashore; but there are no lesser men among the McCrimmons.

He was watch aboard that night, but had easily circumvented that slight technicality by mortgaging his rum for the next three days to a messmate — a practice strictly at variance with Service regulations, and, therefore, all the more dear to the heart of McCrimmon.

Satisfied that all was well, and that his wallet, only to be used as a last resort, was securely stowed in an inner pocket, he climbed briskly up the rope ladder to the upper deck passageway. It is here worth recording that the steel ladder, normally in position, had been removed that morning for the purpose of welding new foot-grips on the worn, shiny steps.

He arrived ashore in the liberty-boat some thirty minutes later, passed out of the dock, strode up through the native quarter, rolled his way along the vast cobbles of the rue Soeurs, turned into Mohammed Ali square, crossed it diagonally and disappeared down the Sherif Pasha.

On arrival at the rendezvous, he exchanged a few genial words with the proprietor — an old acquaintance of his — pressed some genuine Egyptian currency into the hands of the two large Yugoslav waiters and seated himself in the private recess curtained off from the restaurant. Here he patiently awaited the arrival of Mohammed Ali, from time to time smiling with smug self-satisfaction and automatically easing the heavy wrench in his pocket.

Ten minutes passed, and Mohammed Ah arrived. He was not alone. The man who followed him in stood about six foot one in his bare feet and was so broad that he found it necessary to turn sideways in order to pass through the doorway. A large man by any standards, he was puny and stunted when compared to the other two dark-skinned individuals who pressed in behind him. Mohammed Ali's companions appeared to have been chosen with a complete lack of the aesthetic viewpoint.

McCrimmon ground his teeth in black fury and bitterly marvelling at the depravity and depths of distrust of human nature, he smiled broadly and greeted Mohammed Ali with a cordiality that would have embarrassed any but the blackest-hearted. Mohammed Ali remained unmoved.

The wrench was hastily pushed well out of sight and the wallet dragged forth from the more remote fastnesses of McCrimmon's clothing. Mohammed Ali, permitting himself the merest smirk, took out the washleather bag, unloosened the neck and spilled the contents on the table. There were eighteen stones in all, blue moonstones, small but perfectly matched.

McCrimmon, who probably knew less about precious stones than any other man living, produced a magnifying glass which the Navigator had carelessly left lying around his chart table and proceeded to examine the stones with the hawk-like eye of the Hatton Garden expert.

For a long time he examined them, one by one. He picked each new one up hopefully, scrutinized it and cast it away in a disparaging fashion, carefully allowing his expression of disappointment to deepen after each unspoken condemnation. Mohammed Ali fidgeted and fumed. McCrimmon ignored him completely.

Mohammed Ali's patience wore very thin. Clearing his throat after his unpleasant fashion, he stated his price as 800 piastres. McCrimmon, rapidly calculating that, on figures supplied by his cousin, this would give him only 500 per cent profit, cast away another moonstone with an even more marked degree of disgust, and laughed hollowly. He had spent much time in practising and bringing to its present state of perfection that hollow laugh of his and it had served him well more than once in the past.

It effected Mohammed Ali not at all. McCrimmon once more gnashed his teeth and offered 500 — a ridiculously high price, but he, McCrimmon, was not the man to haggle over an odd piastre. Neither, apparently, was Mohammed; he restated his original figure and then the haggling began in earnest. Both called for alcoholic sustenance; not, as the innocent might expect, from a spirit of amity but in the fervid, if unChristian, hope that it might cloud the other's intellect. When McCrimmon left the cafe a brief two hours later, the blue moonstones were his; his wallet, true, had been lightened to the extent of 500 piastres, but he was more than satisfied with the night's work. Granted, there had been a slightly unpleasant scene when McCrimmon, producing a 1938 Currency Quotation book, had endeavoured to pay in Greek money (rate of exchange, in the year '44, due to inflation, being approximately five million drachmas to the penny); but further reflection, coupled with the sight of one of Mohammed Ali's bodyguards absentmindedly tying knots in a small crowbar, had convinced him of the unwisdom of this. Still, as aforesaid, he was satisfied. McCrimmon decided to celebrate.

Some time after midnight, it was borne in upon McCrimmon that, for every twenty paces he took, he was making no more than one yard's direct progress. Rightly calculating that it would thus take him several hours to cover the mile that separated him from the docks, he hailed a gharry. Mounting, he enthroned himself on the collapsible hood and shouted ironic encouragement to the decrepit Jehu, who uselessly belaboured the ancient collection of skin and bones barely supported by the gharry's shafts.

They arrived at № 14 gate in ten minutes. McCrimmon vaulted gracefully over the side of the gharry and collapsed in an inert heap in the gutter. Picked up and revivified by the army guard, he staggered down to the quay and found that the last liberty-boat had departed three hours previously. He hired a felucca, and his powerful, off-key baritone, rendering the 'Skye Boat Song', reverberated among the silent ships as the two natives laboriously rowed out of the windless inner harbour. In the outer harbour, with sail raised, he switched to 'Shenandoah', and so went through his painfully extensive repertoire, craftily changing to 'Rule Britannia' as the felucca came within earshot of the Officer of the Watch of the ILARA.

Making good his escape up the chainladder while the natives searched the bottom of the boat for the handful of carelessly thrown Glasgow Corporation tramway tokens, McCrimmon made his way for'ard. He disappeared into a convenient patch of blackness which enveloped the port side amidships of the ILARA, and tarried there a space while he opened the heavy steel doors of a small compartment and tucked the bag of blue moonstones safely inside. They were completely hidden. He closed the door, tightened the clamps with a tommy bar and departed on his way, smirking widely and fulsomely congratulating himself on his own genius. At no time was McCrimmon's faith in his fellow-man very marked.

He passed within the for'ard screen door and navigated his unsteady way to the hatchway leading down to his mess-deck. Above this hatchway brightly burned a warning red lamp; this he incorrectly judged to be merely yet another of the brightly coloured spots which had been interfering with his vision for some little time. Swinging his leg over the coaming, McCrimmon started to descend the ladder with the careless aplomb of the born sailor; it was not until he recovered consciousness several hours later in the Sick Bay that he recollected that the ladder had been removed the previous day.

On the following day the ILARA left for operational duties. Three days later McCrimmon was well on the highroad to recovery and on the fourth he suffered a serious relapse.

About 7.00 am on the fourth morning, the ILARA intercepted and sunk a small German transport evacuating troops from Crete. McCrimmon had heard the news and had been not unaware of desultory gunfire. About 10.00 am he summoned the Sick Berth Attendant and lackadaisically asked for details. He was told that the trooper had been disabled by gunfire and, when emptied of troops, sunk by torpedo.

Insofar as it was possible for a complexion the colour of saddle-leather to match a snow-white pillow, McCrimmon's now did just this. Finding some difficulty with his breathing, he asked the SBA whether he knew which tubes had been used. The SBA did and informed him that the port ones were the ones in question. The SBA was now thoroughly alarmed, as he had it on the best authority that only dying men plucked the coverlet after the fashion his patient was now using.

Moaning slightly, McCrimmon mustered the last tattered shreds of the legendary McCrimmon courage and feebly enquired whether the torpedo which had done the deadly deed had issued from X, Y or Z. 'Ah! no, no, not X.' 'Yes — X.'

As the first wave of kindly oblivion swept over his shattered frame, McCrimmon momentarily and agonizingly relived those few moments of inspired cunning — now clearly seen for the maniacal folly that it was — when he had stowed the moonstones inside X torpedo tube. With the fleeting realization that 'jewel-studded Aegean' was no longer the empty phrase that it had been in Byron's time, McCrimmon lapsed into a stunned unconsciousness which caused the SBA to have no hesitation whatsoever in calling both medical officers at once.

Physically speaking, McCrimmon eventually made a complete recovery: mentally, he is scarred for life. More terrible still, internecine warfare has at last destroyed the historic solidarity of the Clan McCrimmon. I met McCrimmon the other day, striding briskly along Glasgow's Argyll Street, with an empty haversack over his shoulder — he had just been on a visit to his plumber uncle in the Broomielaw — and he told me sadly that, even after the lapse of years, his cousin was still looking for him.