Hammond Innes: Atlantic Fury

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘It looks very beautiful.’ And I climbed up through the continuation of the fault, up the slabbed stairway and out through the, final cleft into the sunlight. The fog had thinned, so that it no longer looked like a sea below us, but more like the smoke of some great bush fire. It was in long streamers now, its tendrils lying against the lower slopes, fingering the rock outcrops, turning the whole world below us a dazzling white. Iain stood quite still for a moment, drinking it in, savouring the beauty of the scene just as I had done. But his eyes were questing all the time, searching the slopes of the hills and seaward where the rents in the fog were opening up to give a glimpse of the Atlantic heaving gently to the endless swell. The sunlight accentuated the greyness of his face, the lines cut deep by fatigue. He looked old beyond his years, the black hair greying and his shoulders stooped. As though conscious of my gaze he pulled himself erect. ‘We’ll walk,’ he said gruffly. ‘Some exercise — do us good.’ And he started off towards the head of Strath Mhurain, not looking back to see if I were following him. He didn’t talk and he kept just ahead of me as though he didn’t want me to see the look on his face.

At the top of the Druim Ridge he paused, looking down into Shelter Bay where the fog was still thick. And when I joined him, he turned and started up the High Road, heading for the Lookout. He went fast, his head bent forward, and he didn’t stop until he’d reached the top of Creag Dubh. Then he flung himself down on the grass, choosing the south-facing slope, so that when the fog cleared he’d be able to see down into Shelter Bay. ‘Got a cigarette on you?’ he asked.

I gave him one and he lit it, his hands steadier now. He smoked in silence for a while, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs, his head turned to feel the warmth of the sun, his eyes half-closed. ‘Do you think they’ll have guessed where I was going in that boat?’ he asked suddenly.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Probably.’

He nodded. ‘Well, if they have, they’ll send a helicopter as soon as the fog clears. Or will they come in a ship?’ I didn’t answer and he said, ‘It doesn’t matter. From here you’ll be able to watch them arrive.’

‘And then?’ I asked.

‘Then …’ He left the future hanging in the air. He was watching two sheep that had suddenly materialised on an outcrop below us. They were small and neatly balanced with shaggy fleeces and long, curved horns. ‘It would be nice, wouldn’t it,’ he said, lying back with his eyes closed, ‘if one could transform oneself — into a sheep, for instance, or better still a bird.’ Startled by his voice, the sheep moved with incredible speed and agility, leaping sure-footed down the ledges of that outcrop and disappearing from view.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about — now,’ I said.

‘No?’ He raised himself on one elbow, staring at me. ‘You think I should go back, do you? Tell them I’m not Braddock at all, but Sergeant Ross who deserted in North Africa. Christ! Go through all that.’ He smiled, a sad, weary smile that didn’t touch his eyes. ‘Funny, isn’t it — how the pattern repeats itself? Lieutenant Moore, Colonel Standing…. I wonder if that little bastard Moore is still alive. Ten to one he is and ready to swear he gave the, only order he could. Probably believes it by now. No,’ he said, ‘I’m not going back to face that.’

He was silent then, lying there, smoking his cigarette — smoking it slowly, his face, his whole body relaxed now. I thought how strange the human mind is, blank one moment and now remembering every detail. The sun, shining down into the horse-shoe curve of Shelter Bay, was eating up the fog. The whole world below us was a blinding glare. And high in the brilliant sky above an eagle rode, a towering speck turning in quiet circles. ‘Well …’ He shifted and sat up. ‘I’ll leave you now.’ He looked around him, turning his head slowly, taking in the whole panorama of the heights. ‘God! It’s so beautiful.’ He said it softly, to himself. Then, with a quick, decisive movement, he got to his feet. I started to rise, but he placed his hand on my shoulder, holding me there. ‘No. You stay here. Stay here till they come, and then tell them … tell them what you damn well like.’ He dropped his cigarette and put his heel on it. ‘You needn’t worry about me any more.’

‘Where are you going?’ I asked.

But he didn’t answer. He was staring down into the bay where the fog had thinned to white streamers with glimpses of the sea between. ‘What’s that? I thought I saw a ship down there.’

‘I think it’s a trawler,’ I said.

‘Are you sure it isn’t …’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s a foreign trawler.’ And I told him how I’d been down into the bay and heard the crew talking in a language I couldn’t recognise.

He stood for a moment, staring down into the bay. The streamers of the fog were moving to a sea breeze and through a gap I caught a glimpse of the vessel lying at anchor with a boat alongside.

‘Yes. A foreigner by the look of her.’ Another rent and the view clearer. I could see men moving about her decks and a lot of radar gear on her upper works. And then his hand gripped my shoulder. ‘Donald my Donald,’ he said, and the way he said it took me back. ‘Thanks for coming — for all your help. Something to take with me. I’d rather be Iain Ross, you know, and have a brother like you, than stay friendless as George Braddock.’ And with a final pat he turned and left me, walking quickly down the Druim Ridge.

I watched him until he disappeared below the ridge, not moving from my seat because there wasn’t any point. A little later he came into sight again crossing the top of Strath Mhurain, walking along the slopes of Aird Mullaichean until he reached the outcrop. He paused for a moment, a small, distant figure standing motionless. And then he was gone and I sat there, seeing him still in my mind going down that subterranean fault, back to the geo and the waiting lobster boat. The bright sunlight and the warm scent of the grass, the distant clamour of the birds and that eagle still wheeling high in the vaulted blue; the whole world around me full of the breath of life, and I just sat there wishing I could have done something and knowing in my heart there was nothing I could have done.

I watched the fog clear and the trawler lift her boat into its davits. She got her anchor up then and steamed out of the bay. She was flying a red flag, and as it streamed to the wind of her passage, I thought I could make out the hammer and sickle on it. She rounded Sgeir Mhor, turned westward and disappeared behind the brown bulk of Keava. And later, perhaps an hour later — I had lost all track of time — a helicopter came in and landed on the flat greensward near the Factor’s House. Men in khaki tumbled out, spread into a line and moved towards the camp. I got up then and started down to meet them, sad now and walking slowly, for I’d nothing to tell them — only that my brother was dead.

They found the lobster boat two days later. A trawler picked her up, empty and abandoned about eight miles northeast of Laerg. Nobody doubted what had happened. And in reporting it there was no reference to my brother. It was Major George Braddock who was dead, and I think it was the story I told them of what had really happened in North Africa that caused the various officers concerned, right up to the DRA, to be so frank in their answers to my questions. And now it is March again here on Laerg, the winter over and the birds back, my solitary vigil almost ended. Tomorrow the boat comes to take me back to Rodil. I finished writing my brother’s story almost a week ago. Every day since then I have been out painting, chiefly on Keava. And sitting up there all alone, the sun shining and spring in the air, the nesting season just begun — everything so like it was that last day when we were together on Creag Dubh — I have been wondering. A man like that, so full of a restless, boundless energy, and that trawler lying in the bay. Was he really too old to start his life again — in another country, amongst different people?