Bernard Cornwell - Wildtrack

Angela came back inboard and curled herself into the crook of Bannister’s arm. He wrapped her in the blanket, then fed her two of the pills which, I knew, would do no good now. “There’s only one cure for seasickness,” I said heartlessly.

“Which is?” Bannister asked.

“Stand under a tree.”

“Very funny.” He held her tight. “What do you think of Fanny now?” he asked me.

“I think he’s a Boer brute.”

Bannister offered me an assured and tolerant smile. “I mean, what do you think of him as a helmsman?”

“He’s good.” I tried to sound ungrudging. Mulder was gybing the boat now, swinging her stern across the wind so that the boom slammed across the hull. It could be a dangerous manoeuvre, but his control was so certain that there was never a single jarring thud.

At the same time he had his foredeckmen changing jibs. As soon as one was made fast Mulder ordered it changed. “He’s very good,” I added truthfully.

“Nadeznha found him. He was running a charter service in the Seychelles. She nicknamed him Caliban. Don’t you find that a good omen?”

Caliban was the monstrous son of the witch, Sycorax. “No.” I looked at the prostrate Angela. “Is she your Ariel?” Bannister did not want to pursue the fancy. “Fanny’s good,” he said, “and very few people know just how good he is. Think of him as my secret weapon to win the St Pierre. That’s why I need him, Nick.”

I grunted. The hour and a half I’d spent on Wildtrack was not enough to tell me whether this boat and crew could lift the St Pierre off the French, but I allowed it was possible. The boat was fast, Fanny was clearly brilliant, and Bannister had the ambition.

And he would need it, for the St Pierre is the greatest prize of racing-cruisers.

The French organize it. There’s no big prize money, and it isn’t really a race at all because an entrant can choose his or her own starting time. The only rules are that a boat must be a production monohull and not some skinny one-off built for the event, that it must begin at Cherbourg, sail round the islands of St Pierre and Miquelon off the coast of Newfoundland, then, without touching land, run home to Cherbourg again. The course is around four and a half thousand nautical miles: a windward flog all the way out against currents and gales; a lottery with fog and ice at the turn; and a fast run back in heavy seas. At the end of the season, whoever has made the fastest voyage holds the prize.

Odd rules, but there’s wily method in the Gallic madness. For a start, there’s a political method. European rule of North America ended long ago, except in two tiny and forgotten islands, St Pierre and Miquelon. They’re French possessions, ruled from Paris, unconsidered island trifles that were never swept up by the British and were overlooked by the Canadians. The race is thus a constant reminder to the French that the Tricolour still flies on North American soil.

Then there’s a more hard-headed purpose to the rules. French boats are good. The Jeanneaus, Centurions and Beneteaus have dominated the St Pierre and each successive win has been an advertising triumph to sell more French boats around the globe. To win the St Pierre a boat has to be good, hardy and fast. Each year a score of factory-prepared boats from Britain, America, Holland, Germany and Finland try to crack the race, and each autumn, when the fog and ice sweep southwards to finally close the St Pierre season, the French are still the holders and a thousand more orders go to keep French boatyards busy. As a marketing tool, the St Pierre is a miracle, and if a foreigner could take the prize, even for a year, it would be seen in France as a disaster.

“I’m planning a late run,” Bannister said now, “and the far north route. With any luck I’ll come home just when the autumn programme schedule begins. That’ll start next season’s shows with a triumph.”

“Is that why you’re doing it?”

“I’m doing it to prove that a British boat can do it. And for Nadeznha’s memory. And because the television company are paying me to do it, and because my audience want me to win.” He rattled the reasons off as if by rote, then paused before adding the final justification, “And to prove that a TV star isn’t just a powder-puff in an overlit studio.”

He had given the final reason lightly, but I suspected it was the most important spur to his ambition. “Is that what people think?”

“Don’t you?” he challenged me.

“I wouldn’t choose the life,” I said, “but I suppose someone has to do it.”

He smiled. “Most of them are just powder-puffs in overlit studios, Nick. They think they’re so damned clever merely because they’re on the idiot box, while the truth is that the job demands a great deal less intelligence than people think. So if I want to make my mark properly then I have to achieve something rigorous, don’t I? Something like the St Pierre. It may not be the VC, but it will do.” It was a remarkable admission, even beguiling in its candour, and it explained why Bannister surrounded himself by strong men like Mulder and his loutish crew. Acceptance by such brutes made Bannister feel strong. He laughed suddenly, perhaps embarrassed because he had betrayed something personal.

Angela’s miserable eyes watched me over the edge of her blanket.

I put a hand on the small wheel that was linked to the larger helm in the central cockpit and I felt the rudder’s tremors vibrating the stainless-steel spokes. I was thinking of the night of Nadeznha’s death. If Wildtrack had been running before a heavy sea then why, in the name of God, would an experienced sailor con the ship from the aft cockpit? The centre cockpit would be far more comfortable, but perhaps Nadeznha Bannister had chosen this smaller cockpit as a vantage point to watch for the great waves looming from the darkness behind. I shivered as I imagined the tons of freezing water collapsing on to Wildtrack ’s stern. It would be just like being hit by a truckload of cement dropped from two floors up.

Angela twisted round to throw up the seasickness pills and I politely looked away, past the danbuoys, to watch Wildtrack ’s seething and curling wake. A cormorant flew low and fast across our stern.

“Do you think Wildtrack can win it?” Bannister asked abruptly.

“With luck, yes.”

“Would you like to be a part of it, Nick? As navigator?”

“Me?” I was astonished by the offer. “You don’t need a navigator, Bannister! You’ve got more bloody electronics on this thing than an Apollo mooncraft!”

“The race rules say we must carry a specialist navigator.”

“I thought Fanny was your navigator?”

“He was, but he’ll take Nadeznha’s place as a watch captain this year.” Bannister turned as his crew spilt the spinnaker from its chute.

The gaudily coloured sail blossomed as he turned back to me. “It’s really Angela’s thought, not mine, but I like the idea very much.

Why don’t we end your film by showing you leaving Cherbourg in Wildtrack? The film will be transmitted while we’re at sea, and it’ll help whip up some public enthusiasm for the film about the race itself.”

I didn’t think he’d asked me because of any affection for me, but it was still somewhat demeaning to realize that he only wanted my film to be a taster for his own greater triumph. “I thought the end of my film was Sycorax sailing into the sunset?”

“Maybe we’ll use that over the opening titles. But think of it, Nick!

Winning the St Pierre!” Bannister spoke with a sudden enthusiasm.

“Licking the Frogs at their own game!”

Angela watched me like a sick hawk. I shook my head. “I’ve never been a speed-merchant. I like going slow.”