Ships in Space

The British Interplanetary Society is considering launching a boat from Earth, hurling it 746 million miles through space, and plopping it onto one of the minus-290 degrees Fahrenheit methane oceans of Titan. This mission to Saturn’s largest moon would be the first of its kind to probe an alien ocean and—depending on the weather conditions—could be the first spacecraft to witness extraterrestrial rain. It would be flown in bits from the James Watt Foundry in Birmingham, along with a small, cryogenically frozen contingent of Kronstadt Sailors (well used to cooler climes) and transportation mules. The 2,766 pieces including a deconstructed Bolinder-Munktell marine diesel and two crankshafts will, on arrival, be reassembled on the shores of Kraken Mare.

This is not a cat related story as such, since there will be no moggies on the trip.   The payload of some 250 tons precludes the carrying of an adequate additional supply of Boz-snacks.   However we shall follow its progress eagerly, with a view (If it is successful) to getting an Arctic Coleyfishtrawler up there whilst the seas on Titan are still relatively virginal.

I Come From The Stars

Phoebus had had a plan – he’d wait.   The thing would get hungry, or bored, or homesick, or just forget why it was hiding, and then it would come out.   His plan had not included being shouted at.

He sat up, stunned.   Then quickly went into the lounge and woke Boz, who was sleeping on the sofa.

“I think you’d better come and see this.”   They padded, together into the dining room.   “I found it outside.   It’s just called to me, in Cat.”

Boz tilted his head to one side and studied the creature.   "Did it say anything useful?"

“It said,  ‘Take me to your leader.’   Do I have a leader?”

“Shouldn’t think so.   What’s a leader?"
"Should I poke it?"
"No."   Boz pushed his nose towards the alien.   "Let's humour it.   What are you and where are you from, little creature?"
Well, so far so good.   There were two of the terrifying predators now.   The second one was even bigger and a darker orange, but with more white.   It did not look any less dangerous.   1Fnyrdh's throat was dry and she was trembling slightly - imperceptibly she hoped.
"I am 1Fnyrdh of the Kwmbry and I come from up there..."
The two cats looked up.
"Did it just say it fell off the ceiling?" asked Boz.
"It's making it up." replied Phoebus, "I brought it in from next door's garden."
"No..." 1Fnyrdh indicated towards a large transparent rectangle in one of the walls, "...out there.   I come from the stars."
"Now it says it fell through one of the shiny holes in the big black roof.   Has it got concussion?"
Phoebus had dropped onto his elbows and was beginning to wiggle his bottom.   Before he could pounce Boz stopped him.   "Give it a bit longer, this is fun."
"I am a space wrecked traveller, sole survivor from a doomed Galaxy Class ore carrier.   I am unable to return to my home world without your assistance."   She assumed the posture of a supplicant.   Then, indicating her surroundings 1Fnyrdh continued, "Your species has obviously achieved wondrous technological advances, are you capable of interstellar flight?"
"What is technological?" asked Boz.
"What is advances?" asked Phoebus.
"You are too modest, this vast hall with its amazing artefacts, the many buildings beyond, only a great civilisation could construct such marvels or take all this for granted."
"This..." explained Boz, "...is Home.   You don't construct Home, it just is; it's more to do with philosophy than physics."
"And we are ginger moggies from the planet Hereandnow," added Phoebus, "and we eat small creatures - even annoyingly deluded, gobby ones that think they are aliens."
Not going quite so well now, then.   Oh, Sqwrll!   If this was Star Quest she'd just shoot her way out of this mess and steal herself one of their space ships.   Only they didn't seem to have any space ships and Leading Spacepeople were hardly going to be let loose near guns.   The crews of VLBCs were notoriously quirky.   It was a long time between ports and you had to be a bit mad to be out there in the first place.
"We may have got off on the wrong foot here.   Please, let me try to explain.   I have inadvertently become trapped on your planet, which, pleasant as it may seem to you, is far from my home.   I am considering the possibility that you are not the dominant species here and I wonder if you could put me in touch with..."   The voice of the translator distorted.   There was a pause, then it said, "Battery low!" in all known languages and went silent.   1Fnyrdh carried on for a while in Kwmbrysh, but it was pointless.

When Richard came in to see what all the meowing was about he found the three of them standing motionless, each apparently waiting for one of the others to do something.
"What the hell have you brought in this time, Phoebus?"   He peered down at the tiny creature with its long pointed face, black boot-button eyes, grey velvety coat and short, whip-like tail. "That's not a mouse, what on earth is it?"   It looked up as he dropped a beer glass over it and slipped a piece of card underneath.   As he inverted the assemblage the little animal fell into the bottom of the glass, squeaking angrily.   Richard carried it carefully outside whilst Phoebus and Boz searched all the nooks and corners of their dining room for their now missing lunch.   Richard walked some way down the lane and stopped at an overgrown patch of waste ground.   He tipped out the none too grateful animal that he felt he had rescued at no slight inconvenience to himself.
"Off you go, little feller.   This should give you a head start.   And be a bit more careful in future."

Are Clangers Edible?

Phoebus had brought it in through the cat-flap and then lost it.   More often than not the ones that got away were field mice, but this one was sort of silvery and a bit slippery.   It may have gone under the dresser.   Phoebus clawed about for a bit, rediscovered a long lost toy and then went into the kitchen for a snack.

They had run into real trouble as they approached Jupiter.   1Fnyrdh of the Kwmbry, as the first spawned offspring in her pod, had been expected to take up an apprenticeship under her biological parent, but instead had run away to space.   Just short of three standard years later, stressed yet highly motivated by the multiple alarms sounding around her, she occupied the post of Leading Spaceperson on the Sunburst Supernova a Galaxy Class VLBC cargo transporter, the size of a small city and with a carrying capacity of just over a billion Short (Qrwm) Tonnes.   Not that size had proved an advantage just at that moment.   A massive solar storm had taken out anything with a processor in it and fried Kilometres of micro-wiring.   Quantum Uncertainty Computers can be finicky at the best of times, their awesome power deriving from the myriad multiple states possible compared to the on-or-off, 1s or 0s of binary computer systems.   But they would not work if they were being watched, and the pulse of solar radiation had definitely given the impression of something that  was watching, and probing, and fiddling about.   Whilst the small crew had been absorbed with restoring control the mega-vessel had ventured too far into the gravitational field of the gas giant.   Swift action had avoided capture, but a sling shot effect had accelerated them towards the centre of the planetary system.   Then they had collided with the asteroid.  

Sunburst Supernova’s spine snapped instantly and she began slowly to fold.   There was a moment of silence and calm and then, with a succession of shudders and groans the great craft broke up spewing grit clouds of ore out into space.   The entire officer class had been wiped out when the navigation deck was destroyed, much of the accommodation had experienced explosive depressurisation.   1Fnyrdh had assisted her surviving companions into a life-craft and watched it depart.   Then she attended to her own survival.   Mind numbingly loud klaxon alarms and strobing red companion-way lights kept her mindful of the impending danger, but were in no way helping.   She located what was probably the last undamaged life-craft, battled into one of its personal environment suits, rushed through the standard checks, blew the bolts and blasted away from the doomed carrier.   Onboard automated systems with some restored functionality turned both life-craft towards a distant blue planet.

As the two craft approached the blue planet 1Fnyrdh could make out an atmosphere and clouds.   The navigation computers on both craft calculated the correct safe entry angle and velocity and the first life–craft made precise adjustments to its attitude.   Her companions’ small vessel was some ten minutes ahead.   It entered the outer layers of the planet’s atmosphere, glowed briefly and exploded.   1Fnyrdh urgently flicked the life-craft systems to manual, the computer resisted, 1Fnyrdh insisted.   Everyone in the crew had undergone extensive simulated disaster training, she had narrowly failed hers and been scheduled for reassessment.   Never the less she made tiny adjustments to her craft’s trajectory, too much and she would bounce off the atmosphere into the chill darkness, offered a fervent prayer to her Pod Deity despite having ignored it since childhood, recalculated and made a few more adjustments, and then gave up; she was only guessing anyway.

After a fiery and nerve racking descent she did not so much land as crash.   The life-craft bounced once and skidded, scoring a linear, dirty brown scar across a plain of tall, broad-leaved grassland.   It pitched over a low, bare hillock and came to rest amidst the roots and trunks of a cramped cluster of flowering trees.   1Fnyrdh pulled the release catch on the outer hatch.   There was a hiss, but it did not move.   Two stout kicks and the hatch cover flew away, 1Fnyrdh leapt down and was standing on the surface of an alien world.   She had walked some distance along the track gouged out by her careering life-craft when something unseen cuffed her off her feet and into the long grass.   As she lay, dazed, immense ivory sabre teeth pierced the collar of her environment suit and crushed the survival pack on her back.   She was lifted, dangling into the air and the gigantic monster that had her in its grip set off at a dash.   1Fnyrdh passed out.

She came round as she was dropped onto the cushioned floor of a vast chamber.   From the compromised state of her shredded environment suit she deduced that the alien atmosphere must be breathable.   It smelled acrid and she felt slightly light headed but her breathing was steady and nothing ached any more than she would expect after her recent rough treatment.   She rolled onto her back and looked up.   The creature standing over her was terrifying.   Superficially the beast resembled the Clrntz*n back home, only built on a totally different scale.   It was six times her height, maybe more, a hundred times her bulk, with golden eyes and a covering of fur striped in shades of sandy orange.   Its belly fur was white and it was displaying a lethal armoury of claws and teeth.   1Fnyrdh leapt up and ran.   She was fast in this strange atmosphere, but so was the beast.   As she zigzagged to avoid the slashing claws she neared a long, low cave.   She threw herself at it and rolled beneath the overhang, scrabbling quickly to the back.   An extended paw searched the cavern, but she managed to evade it and eventually her antagonist lost interest and withdrew.  

There was no way of telling if the automated distress signaller back on the Sunburst had got off a message before the ship broke up or if the one on the life-craft had been working at all - and, either way, little likelihood that a signal would be intercepted in the near future.    As spots went, this was a tight one.   Cautiously 1Fnyrdh surveyed the environment beyond her refuge.   The chamber covered an area greater than a snychb!ll pitch and was twice the height of a gy6 tower; these creatures may be aggressive, but they must have advanced technology and presumably a developed culture.   What had they been told in the lecture on first contact?   She unlocked the helmet from the collar of her environment suit and laid it to one side, then took a universal translator from the hip pouch of her suit, clipped it round her throat and switched it on.   Pulling out the receiver she plugged it into one ear, it crackled and emitted a high-pitched whistle.   She unstrapped it, banged it hard against the back wall of the shelter and tried again.   When she spoke into it, it seemed to be translating into something.   The creature had returned and was lying some distance from the cave mouth with one eye closed.   1Fnyrdh reflected on the state of her suit and removed it; she had better look as smart as possible for the occasion.   Then she moved warily into the open, ready to take cover again at the slightest movement on the part of the orange alien.   She drew a deep breath and shouted.

A Ship's Cat

By the time they got back to Maldon Hythe there was pandemonium.   Ships were facing in all directions with hairy matelots  heaving on shore lines, brawny seafarers fending off with long boathooks called hitchers and the less competent  tasked with holding car tyre fenders between colliding hulls.   Everyone was shouting and more boats were arriving every moment, at speed, throwing lines ashore or dropping anchor to swing round.   The whole fleet was trying to tie up at the same time.   A crowd of landsmen ashore was enjoying the spectacle.

As each vessel was secured gangplanks were thrown out and the jostling, noisy multitude of seafarers headed for the Rotting Hulk Inn.   With Centaur made fast her crew also took off towards the ale house.   When Rich opened the hostelry door it was so crowded within that people fell out and the babbling cacophony hit them like a shock wave.   He and Potkin pushed through to the bar.   Everyone was laughing and clapping each other on the back.

After a while a bell was rung and all fell silent.   The commodore of the local yacht club gave a speech and the Lord Mayor presented prizes.   Centaur won a cup for the first boat home and Ironsides received one for being first across the line at the start, her skipper being far too wily to have been distracted by Absalom Rowbottom's dirty tricks.   Other boats received prizes for second and third place and everyone got a wooden shield for taking part.   Then the commodore said, “And finally we have a special prize for outstanding seamanship.”   He held up the award, a huge stuffed turbot in a glass case.   A brass plaque read:

Seamanship Prize

Awarded to POTKIN

Ship’s cat

Everyone cheered and threw their hats into the air.   All the crew wanted to congratulate Potkin.

With the prize giving at an end the ships’ crews gathered in a back room for the match supper.   There was jelly, steak and kidney pudding and party hats for all.   Moses Smith toasted the skipper and Potkin.   Then Absalom Rowbottom had their winner’s cup filled with an alcoholic cocktail of rum and whiskey, beer and pop, and passed it round the crew.   When he got to Potkin he said, “Well done.   We were lucky you came along.”

After the meal there was dancing and music.   A gnarled and ancient barge skipper, relic of the days in trade, was lofted onto the table and Heartsease Finbow sprang up beside him.   They launched enthusiastically into a song about a sailor called Barnacle Bill.
"Whose that knocking at my door?" she squealed in a forced falsetto.
"It's only me from over the sea I'm Barnacle Bill the sailor."   Everyone ranted and roared and joined in the chorus.

Late that night the crews drifted back to their ships and turned in.   Richard and Potkin went to their cabin.

“Well,” said Rich, “You’re a real sailor now.”

Potkin climbed wearily into his hammock and curled up.   Happily he purred himself to sleep, where he dreamed of desert islands in a turquoise sea, flying fish and albatrosses.   It was the dream of a true ship’s cat. 

Peril on the Sea

Now, this chapter is REALLY technical in places, unless you are a sailor.   But it is also dead exciting, so try and stick with it if you get a bit lost.   I skipped over the jargonny bits, and it were still good.

Absalom Rowbottom rounded the outer mark skilfully close to the buoy and Centaur hardened up onto the wind.   The gale seemed to blow even harder and screamed through the rigging.   Centaur heeled further with a loud, long creak, foaming sea rushing past the gun'als and the le'ward shrouds swaying slackly.   With each pounding into the short, steep seas of a wind over tide the hull shuddered along its length

Potkin stood awkwardly on the tilting deck with a huge grin on his face and water streaming along his whiskers to fly as arcing droplets off the ends.   With a loud crack the mighty leeboard took the weight of the surging vessel, the churning sky seemed to be joining in the race.   And then there was a groan, and a bit of a twang.
Watched from the deck the topmast began to bend into an alarming S-shape.
“Drop the tops’l!” shouted the skipper, “Or we’ll lose the mast.”
Rich cast off the topsail halyard, which writhed through the air as it came free.   The sail dropped a couple of feet and jammed.
“Bother!” shouted the skipper in an anxious tone pitched considerably higher than his norm.   He threw his top hat on the deck and jumped on it.
“Someone has to go aloft, or all is lost.”
Rich looked up.   The mate looked up.   The crew looked up at the flapping sail their eyes wide and staring, their faces pale.   No-one moved.
Was it the spectral voice of his pirate ancestor whispering in his ear?   Somehow Potkin knew what had to be done and that it had to be done quickly.   Leaping for the mast he dug his claws into the pine and began to scramble upwards.   He gripped tightly and hugged close to the luff of the main sail for protection as the spray laden wind plucked his fur out into stiff, saline spikes.   He eased his way cautiously around the iron crosstrees and scampered up the topmast using the topsail hoops as a ladder.   Reaching the masthead he  paused for just a moment and then flung himself out towards the headstick.   There was a brief aerial plummet before he crashed into the spar and clung onto the head of the sail with every tooth, claw and sinew he possessed.   The spar jerked, shuddered and the jammed rope came free.   The tops'l came rattling down the mast with Potkin still firmly attached and came to rest in the crosstrees, the tangle of rope canvas and cat in a flapping bunch of buggers still high above the deck.   Once everything stopped crashing about him Potkin was hanging, shivering and caked in sail dressing, that noxious concoction, beloved of East Coast sailors, of fish oil, red ochre and secret, less savoury ingredients.   At least he was now waterproof.   Throughout this heroic adventure Rich had been climbing the ratlines towards him.   On reaching the crosstrees he lifted Potkin across his shoulders and brought him carefully down to safety.
Now I know that many of you are, at this stage, totally bemused, so here goes with a bit of nautical explanation:
The headstick is a bit of wood (spar) tied along the top, or head of the topsail.   The halyard is a rope passing through a pulley at the top of the mast and tied to the headstick to pull the sail up (haul yard... see?).   The luff (front) of the topsail is tied to hoops which go round the top-mast and allow it to slide up and down.   Easy, isn't it.
Oh, and me Dad swears that "bunch of buggers" is a legitimate technical term.
Potkin had acted too quickly to be scared, but once he was safely back on deck he began to quiver with fear and excitement.   The crew stood round him and cheered whilst the skipper turned his battered topper gloomily in his weathered hands.   With danger passed however, the race was far from done.  
Soon everyone was back at his post.   Sailors showed Potkin what they were doing and explained why and gave him little jobs to do.   He was too small to wind leeboard winches, but felt he was really getting the hang of this tailing business.

They raced back towards the river, still well ahead of the few barges that had not turned back in the storm or retired with broken gear.   As they crossed the finish line the little brass canon was fired on the committee boat and Potkin could see Heartsease Finbow and the tortishell cat from the Rotting Hulk Inn jumping, waving and cheering wildly on a nearby oyster smack.

The Outward Leg

Next morning the crew rose early and grumpily.   It was still dark with the feintest hint of a dawn along the eastern horizon.   Emerging sleepily on deck Potkin listened for the sound of birds breaking wind, but heard nothing.

Ebenhaezer Coleye had cooked up  a satisfyingly filling Full English for the crew, to be followed by toast and preserves whilst for Potkin he had prepared pan fried Portuguese sardines topped with a Kean's Farm vintage cheddar cheese melt, lightly browned under the grill.   The moment breakfast was over and still holding steaming mugs of tea, the crew turned to on deck and Moses Smith descended into the engine room with a blow torch.   After roughly twenty seven minutes of pumping and hammering, some coaxing and cursing in his native tongue and, eventually a wheezy mechanical cough, there came the easy, hollow donk donk donk of a gently idling single cylinder marine Bolinder diesel which made the stern bounce and blew smoke rings from a nine inch diameter exhaust pipe in the mizzen rigging. Potkin tried to keep out of the way as everyone pulled on ropes and the skipper shouted orders.
The mooring lines were cast off and the Centaur chugged a slow gamelan as she followed the river down stream.   Once the tops'l and foresail were set the ageing Bolinder was silenced and the majestic barge ghosted down river in company with the other contestants.   By the improving light of morning further sails were set.   The main sheet was hauled out, hooked to an iron ring on the horse and moused securely in place. (For those of you who, like me, are finding this a bit technical: a sheet is a rope what controls a sail and a horse isn't a horse it's a big beam of wood going from one side of the boat to the other so as the sail can flap and clank along it; and I have no idea what the mouse was doing.   Or... if you are still confused, imagine a lot of fluttering sails and slapping ropes and people jumping about and a bit of shouting followed, mostly, by a period of calm and everything looking like it's supposed to.)   A stays'l thrashed it's way slowly skywards and was brought under control.   The mizzen sail was set and trimmed.   Rich taught Potkin to “tail”.   The stalwart cat was not sure what he was doing, exactly, but he gripped a rope firmly in his teeth and pulled backwards as hard as he could while Rich and the mate heaved and grunted.   Eventually all the sails were billowing out and the barge heeled to le’ward, straining in the freshening breeze.   It started to rain.
As they approached the start line they saw a mass of barges zig-zagging past each other, at speed.   There were distant multiple cries of, "Starboard!"
To Potkin's horror Absalom Rowbottom drove Centaur straight into the centre of the mayhem and joined in, "Starboard!" he cried, spinning the wheel wildly.   A dozen vast and unwieldy craft swept back and forth along the start line waiting for the gun.   They ducked under sterns, shot across bows.   As a dented, steel hulled barge named Ironsides rushed smugly by, rashly close to Centaur's stern, Absalom surreptitiously took a rusting shackle pin from the pocket of his long coat and, whistling innocently, lobbed it high into his rival's tops'l.   It rattled onto the deck where a whiskerless lad retrieved it, looked worriedly aloft and rushed with it to his skipper.
Something akin to a smile, but much more scary, split across our skippers face.
"They'll be a long time wondering where that's come from."
On the five minute gun all the barges rounded up and commenced their dash for the line.   (There is, I am assured only one gun, a little brass canon, but several bangs.   On the ten minute bang everyone must switch off their engines and the five minute bang signals frantic manoeuvring by the keenest skippers for the best position at the start.   The aim is to reach the starting line, going flat out, just as, BUT NOT BEFORE, the start bang goes off.)   Several craft, including Centaur, were neck and neck as there came another report and a puff of white smoke from the committee boat.   The race had begun.
With the leading barges clearing the mouth of the river the wind became a gale.   Dark clouds twisted and turned as they rolled past and the chill rain stung Potkin’s face.   He was glad to be wearing his waders and sou’wester.
Centaur began to pitch wildly as the lumpy seas battered her hull, great waves crashed over her bow and swept along the deck.   Potkin was cold and a little frightened.   He could taste his breakfast when he burped and was sure his fur was turning green.   He found an upturned bucket by the mast and curled up beneath it.
The crew, hunched against the wind, was still pulling on ropes called sheets while the skipper shouted, “Lee ho!” and “Leggo!” and the sails crashed from one side of the ship to the other.
As they swept onwards towards a buoy far out to sea, Eben staggered on deck with mugs of hot tea.   Potkin was wishing that he had stayed at home, but after the warming drink he felt a little braver and the queasy feeling in his stomach began to subside.   He nibbled a ginger biscuit and quickly perked up.   With barely a memory of his former discomfort Potkin was chatting to Rich about how much he was enjoying the voyage when they rounded the black and yellow north cardinal buoy which had been designated as the outer mark. 

SB Centaur of Harwich

Arriving on the scuffed pine deck of the sailing barge Centaur Rich and Potkin were met, close to the head of the gangway, by a rotund figure somewhat wider than he was tall, wearing a grease stained, woollen tea-cosy on his head and a leather apron with assorted boning, filleting and skinning knives stuffed into the waist.   He had a black, cardboard eye-patch and a peg leg made from the richly French polished leg of a Queen Anne chair, more ornately rococo than practical considerations required, but it did have a beautifully carved ball and claw foot.   He explained that he had lost his own leg at the battle of Jutland.   Potkin thought that he must have been very careless to mislay an entire leg, but perhaps in the heat of battle it was easy to do that sort of thing.   This fellow it turned out was cook aboard Centaur and revealed his name to be Ebenhaezer Coleye, plain Eben to his shipmates.   He showed them where to sling their hammocks and then introduced them to the saloon, a large, low ceilinged, heavy timbered space, dimly lit by hissing Tilly lamps and with a black-leaded pot-belly stove at its heart.   Here they met some of the crew.

First was the skipper, name of Absalom Rowbottom, unnaturally tall with stooped shoulders, a man, brooding and lonely, weighed down by the responsibility of command.   A jagged white scar ran across his brow, behind the patent leather eye patch and over one cheek to disappear into one of his bushy, greying sideburns.     He wore a towering black stovepipe hat tied under his chin by beeswaxed string and a black oilskin long coat over a pair of similarly coloured rubber thigh-boots.
The mate was a muscular, shaven headed, heavily tattooed native of the distant island of Mersea.   His scant clothing implied a disregard for our east coast chill, and his one good, black-hole of an eye sucked in the world around with all its suffering and woe and let not a glimmer escape from within.
“Moses Smith’s my name.” he said to Potkin.   He and Rich seemed to be old shipmates and they chatted of previous voyages and adventures.   There were no further introductions as, it being half past opening time, the whole ship’s company rushed ashore to the pub.
The local alehouse was called the Rotting Hulk Inn.   It had a faded sign swinging wildly in the wind and was a high, eccentric, weatherboarded building, clinging tenuously to the edge of the salt flats.   Inside the bar it was cramped, dark and warm.   Every nook and corner was cluttered with nautical paraphernalia donated  by travellers on all the seven seas, fixed to walls and ceiling by drawing pin and Blue Tack were tobacco browned paintings of ships, sharks’ jaws, blocks, fishing floats, dried fish, half hulls, the scrimshaw carved tooth of the very whale that had devoured Westward Ho Smy and postcards, many creased and dog eared, from every location with a seaboard.   There were wax encrusted Mateus Rose bottles with worn down candles on every table. The customers jostled noisily, fierce looking people, some ragged, others flamboyant in feathers and ribbons, some boiler suited or Guernsey smocked, and occasionally an embarassed yachty in yellow wellies trying to keep a low profile.   Many of the rapscallions carried cutlasses or harpoons and exuded an aroma of Stockholm tar and bilge water, mariners all.
Richard ordered pints of deep headed bitter beer for himself and the crew and a saucer of milk for Potkin. Eben smiled at the cat and poured a tot of pusser's rum into the milk. He felt kindly towards Potkin who was shy and nervous in the press of strangers.    As Potkin was lapping his milk a slim torti-shell coloured cat came up to him.
“Hello sailor.” She said, “Would you like to buy me a drink?”
Potkin thought it would be impolite to refuse so he ordered her something mauve and very expensive in a champagne coupe. It came with a cherry on a stick. When they had finished their drinks she said,
“Would you like to come upstairs for a cuddle?”
Potkin replied that he could not as he had to keep an eye on Rich. She smiled gently at him and sighed.
“You’re a sweet cat. Come and see me again sometime.”
When Potkin rejoined Rich he was sitting at a table chatting with the skipper of a local smack, Heartsease Finbow, whose jade velvet eye patch trimmed with lace complemented perfectly her shock of flame red hair
“I thought you’d scored there.” she said to Potkin with a smile and girlish laugh.
The drinking and talking, some singing  and roistering, went on late into the night.  
Finally, “That’s enough, now.” shouted Absalom Rowbottom above the din; “We rise at sparrows’ fart.”
Arm in arm they reeled back to the ship and turned, gratefully, into their hammocks.