Hammond Innes - The Wreck Of The Mary Deare

No answer. My torch showed a glint of polished brass and the duller gleam of burnished steel amidst the shadowy shapes of the engines. No movement either … only the sound of water that made little rushing noises as it slopped about to the roll of the ship.

I hesitated, wondering whether to go down to the stokehold, held there by a sort of fear. And it was then that I heard the footsteps.

They went slowly along the starboard alleyway — boots clanging hollow against the steel flooring; a heavy, dragging tread that passed the engine-room door, going for’ard towards the bridge. The sound of the footsteps gradually faded away and was lost in the slapping of the water in the bilges far below me.

It couldn’t have been more than twenty seconds that I remained there, paralysed, and then I had flung myself at the door, dragged it open and dived out into the alleyway, tripping over the step in my haste, dropping my torch and fetching up against the farther wall with a force that almost stunned me. The torch had fallen into a pool of rusty water and lay there, shining like a glow-worm in the darkness. I stooped and picked it up and shone it down the passage.

There was nobody there. The beam reached the whole shadowy length as far as the ladder to the deck, and the corridor was empty. I shouted, but nobody answered. The ship rolled with a creak of wood and the slosh of water, and above me, muffled, I heard the rhythmic slamming of the door to the after deckhouse. And then a faint, far-distant sound reached me, a sound that had a note of urgency in it. It was Sea Witch’s foghorn signalling me to return.

I stumbled for’ard and as I neared the ladder to the deck, the foghorn’s moan was mingled with the noise of the wind soughing through the superstructure. Hurry! Hurry! There was a greater urgency in it now; urgency in the noise of the wind, in the foghorn’s blare.

I reached the ladder, was starting up — when I saw him. He was outlined for an instant in the swinging beam of my torch, a shadowy figure standing motionless in the recess of a doorway, black with a gleam of white to his eyes.

I checked, shocked into immobility — all the silence, all the ghostly silence of that dead ship clutching at my throat. And then I turned the beam of the torch full on him. He was a big man, dressed in reefer and sea boots, and black with coal dust. Sweat had seamed his face, making grime-streaked runnels as though he had wept big tears and the bone of his forehead glistened. All the right side of his jaw was bruised and clotted with blood.

He moved suddenly with great rapidity, came down on me with a rush. The torch was knocked from my hand and I smelt the stale smell of sweat and coal dust as his powerful fingers gripped my shoulders, turning me like a child, twisting my head to the cold daylight that came down the ladder. ‘What do you want?’ he demanded in a harsh, rasping voice. ‘What are you doing here? Who are you?’ He shook me violently as though by shaking me he’d get at the truth.

‘I’m Sands,’ I gasped out. ‘John Sands. I came to see-’

‘How did you get on board?’ There was a note of authority, as well as violence, in the rasp of his voice.

‘By the falls,’ I said. ‘We sighted the Mary Deare drifting and when we saw the lifeboats gone, we came alongside to investigate.’

‘Investigate!’ He glared at me. ‘There’s nothing to investigate.’ And then quickly, still gripping hold of me: ‘Is Higgins with you? Did you pick him up? Is that why you’re here?’

‘Higgins?’ I stared at him.

‘Yes, Higgins.’ There was a sort of desperate violence in the way he said the man’s name. ‘But for him I’d have got her safe to Southampton by now. If you’ve got Higgins with you…’ He stopped suddenly, his head on one side, listening. The sound of the foghorn was nearer now and Mike’s voice was hailing me. ‘They’re calling you.’ His grip tightened convulsively on my shoulders. ‘What’s your boat?’ he demanded. ‘What sort of boat is it?’

‘A yacht.’ And I added inconsequentially: ‘You nearly ran us down last night.’

‘A yacht!’ He let go of me then with a little gasp like a sigh of relief. ‘Well, you’d better get back to it. Wind’s getting up.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We’ll have to hurry — both of us.’

‘Both of us?’ He frowned.

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘We’ll take you off and when we reach Peter Port…’

‘No!’ The word exploded from his lips. ‘No. I’m staying with my ship.’

‘You’re the captain, are you?’

‘Yes.’ He stooped and picked up my torch and handed it to me. Mike’s voice came to us faintly, a strangely disembodied shout from the outside world. The wind was a low-pitched, whining note. ‘Better hurry,’ he said.

‘Come on then,’ I said. I couldn’t believe he’d be fool enough to stay. There was nothing he could do.

‘No. I’m not leaving.’ And then a little wildly, as though I were a foreigner who had to be shouted at: ‘I’m not leaving, I tell you.’

‘Don’t be a fool,’ I said. ‘You can’t do any good here — not alone. We’re bound for Peter Port. We can get you there in a few hours and then you’ll be able.

He shook his head, like an animal at bay, and then waved an arm at me as though signalling me to go.

‘There’s a gale coming up.’

‘I know that,’ he said.

‘Then for God’s sake, man … it’s your one chance to get clear.’ And because he was the captain and obviously thinking about his ship, I added, ‘It’s the one hope for the ship, too. If you don’t get a tug out to her soon she’ll be blown right on to the Channel Islands. You can do far more good-’

‘Get off my ship!’ He was suddenly trembling. ‘Get off her, do you hear? I know what I have to do.’

His voice was wild, his manner suddenly menacing. I stood my ground for a moment longer. ‘You’ve got help coming then?’ I asked. And when he didn’t seem to understand, I said, ‘You’ve radioed for help?’

There was a moment’s hesitation and then he said, ‘Yes, yes, I’ve radioed for help. Now go.’

I hesitated. But there was nothing else I could say, and if he wouldn’t come … I paused halfway up the ladder. ‘Surely to God you’ll change your mind?’ I said. His face showed in the darkness below me — a strong, hard face, still young but with deep-bitten lines in it, made deeper by exhaustion. He looked desperate, and at the same time oddly pathetic. ‘Come on, man — whilst you’ve got the chance.’

But he didn’t answer; just turned away and left me there. And I went on up the ladder to meet the weight of the wind howling along the deck and find the sea a mass of whitecaps with Sea Witch pitching violently two cables off.

I had stayed too long. I knew as soon as Sea Witch turned to pick me up. She came roaring downwind, the big yankee jib burying her bows deep into the wind-whipped waters, her long bowsprit thrusting into the backs of the waves, spearing them and coming out in a welter of spray. Hal had been right. I should never have boarded the ship. I ran to the falls, damning the crazy madman who’d refused to be taken off. If he had come with me, there would have been some point.

Sea Witch heeled over in a gust as Hal fought the wheel, bringing her round through the wind, all her sails flogging madly. The big yankee filled with a crack like a pistol shot, heeling the boat over till all the weed-grown boot-topping showed in the trough of a wave; and then the big sail split across and in an instant was blown to tatters. The wind was strong to gale in the gusts and she should have been reefed by now, but they hadn’t a hope of reefing, just the three of them. It was madness for them to attempt to come alongside. I had never seen a sea whipped up so quickly. But Mike was waving to me, signalling downwards with his hand, and Hal was braced at the wheel, edging her up towards the ship’s side, mainsail shivering, barely filled, the remnants of the yankee fluttering in streamers from the forestay. I caught hold of one of the falls then and swung myself out over the side, slithering down hand over hand until the surge of a wave soaked me to the waist and I looked up and saw that the rusty plates stood above me, high as a cliff.