Night Sky

by Clare Francis

  Fischer was willing to gamble that the skipper was a stranger to the islands.

  He’d catch him at dawn, then, trying to creep in. But he’d have to get in close, to be sure.

  He looked up to where the young navigator hovered attentively nearby and asked him to find the largest possible chart of the islands.

  Even before he saw it he knew it wouldn’t be very detailed, but it would have to do.

  In the meantime … He had another problem. Recharging the batteries. He would have to surface to charge his batteries and compress some air for diving purposes. He had no choice. The power to the electric motors was already running low.

  He called the Chief and together they calculated the minimum charging time they could get away with.

  Six hours.

  Full daylight at 0700. They’d have to get onto the surface by 0030 at the latest then.

  Six hours. An awful long time. He shuddered involuntarily.

  Then he had an idea.

  It wouldn’t eradicate the danger entirely, but it would reduce it considerably. It was risky: very.

  But it was the only way.

  The navigator brought the chart, the best he had. It covered the area from the Scillies to Falmouth. The islands were not shown as clearly as Fischer would have liked, but it would suffice.

  The navigator said, ‘There’s also the pilot book, Herr Kaleu. I could make a larger sketch chart from that.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Any particular features that you want me to study?’

  Fischer stood back from the chart, ‘Yes – rocks … Or rather a lack of them. We need an area near the islands which is safe from rocks, yet close enough to make us look like a rock … You see, we have to find somewhere to hide.’

  The water came out of the darkness, flying across the deck in great sheets, drenching everything. Despite the waterproofs, Julie was soaked through. She could feel the icy water trickling down her neck, spreading slowly down, even into her crutch. Her eyes were sore, the eyelids sticky as if covered with glue, and her lips were swollen and tender from the salt. She didn’t bother to duck when she felt the bow hit a wave. She didn’t care any more.

  She was hand-steering now, the tiller jerking and bucking in her hand. Since the wind had come up, the boat wouldn’t sail by itself any more … Not that she knew which way the boat was heading half the time. The compass was unreadable. She’d completely forgotten about the oil for the compass light. It was too late now. From time to time, when she remembered, she shone the torch on the compass, but its beam was getting dimmer all the time and the course more difficult to read.

  The course, when she did manage to read it, was all over the place. God only knew where they were heading.

  But it didn’t seem very important any more.

  She stared forward into the darkness, her body braced against the violent bucking motion of the boat. It was so tempting to just let your mind slip away into nothingness. The movements of the boat were hypnotic; so too the loud hissing and roaring of the wind and the waves. They rocked her into a state of mindless inertia. She saw the darkness as a friend now, a cocoon which encircled and protected …

  Her eyes drooped, her head fell forward. She awoke with a jerk. God, her head ached …

  She wondered if Peter was all right. And David. She hadn’t heard from either of them for hours. She should go and see them, but she didn’t. It was so much easier to stay here … and not to move, to let her mind drift …

  She vaguely realised that the tiredness and the cold had paralysed her brain and frozen her will-power. It was weak and shameful to give in to it, she knew, but she was incapable of moving, of acting, of doing … She was in a sort of trance, half-believing that by staying still and ignoring things, the nightmare might somehow go away. She thought: I would pump the water out, I would go and see David and Peter … I would … But it’s safer to stay here – and, oh God, easier too – And I’ve got to steer, haven’t I? And, if the others had needed me, they would have shouted for me, wouldn’t they? And I’m so tired, I can’t do any more …

  Her brain was so fuddled she couldn’t sort the arguments out. They’d been scrambling in her mind for hours – though exactly how long she had no idea. Time seemed to spread out before her like a fan, wider and wider … until suddenly the fan closed and there was no time any more. She was confused … Sometimes she couldn’t even remember how long she’d been at sea. One night? Four?

  Once she saw grass growing out of the water … Another time she saw lights, sparkling …

  Now, once again, she dozed.

  Suddenly she was wide awake.

  A noise. She could hear it, loud and distinct, above the persistent wail of the wind.

  A tearing noise …

  A second later there was a loud flogging.

  The sails? – Or the mast …!

  She murmured, ‘God!’ and stood up, feeling the first touches of panic. What to do? Christ, what to do?

  ‘Mummy! Mummy!’ Peter was almost screaming.

  ‘It’s all right! Just sit tight!’ Julie shouted.

  What to do?

  The piece of rope was still fastened round the tiller. She took a loose end and tied it to the cleat on the uphill side of the boat. Then she made her way carefully across the deck and tied the other end to the lower cleat.

  The flogging and rattling were deafening. Julie pocketed the torch and made her way forward along the uphill side of the deck. She lunged for the mast and found it. It was vibrating and shaking violently – but it was upright. Something at least.

  An avalanche of spray poured down on her. She blew the water off her lips and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She reached for the torch and shone it upwards at the sail.

  Or what remained of it. She groaned. There was a tear right across the middle, from one side to the other. The tattered remnants of canvas were beating themselves to death, shaking the wooden spars like a dog shaking a rabbit.

  They would have to come down … the lot: the sail, the long wooden pole at the bottom of the sail, the shorter pole at the top. She looked at the ends of the two poles: they were both held by ropes – ropes that must end here, at the bottom of the mast.

  But which ones? There were a dozen ropes tied to cleats on a wooden frame at the base of the mast.

  Trial and error. It was the only way. She undid one rope and, shining the torch upward, gently let the last turn slip off the cleat. Nothing: there was no tension on the rope. She tried the next. Ah! A lot of tension here. She searched the sail for signs of something coming down … Nothing. Without knowing why, she shone the torch forward. The little sail – it was half down! Blast!

  She hoisted it up again as best she could and tried another rope. At last: the outer end of the lower pole was moving downwards. Right: mark that one and look for the ropes controlling the shorter, higher pole.

  She found one finally and let it down until the outer end was almost in the water. Now the other inner end, the one joined to the mast. Triumphantly, she found that one too and lowered it.

  Now, the two poles were lying almost parallel to each other, just a few feet above the water, but swung well out from the boat. She would have to get them in somehow …

  She went back and hauled in on the rope near the tiller, the one she’d used to adjust the sail. There was much less pressure on it now and, to her surprise, the lower pole came in quite easily. She lowered it carefully on to the deck. Panting hard, she regarded the upper pole. She couldn’t see any way of getting it in: in the dim yellow light of the torch she could see no rope leading from its end towards the boat.

  The boat lurched and the pole suddenly swung inwards, lunging over the deck. Aha! Julie thought. Nearly got you!

  She waited for it to happen again. It swung in once, but not so far and she couldn’t reach it. Then at last it swung right over, almost knocking her off her feet. She threw an arm round it and held on for dear life. The boat rolled back; she was jerked ag
ainst the boat’s side. She held on grimly and looked for something to tie round the pole. She felt around with her hand and touched a rope which was fastened to the pole. She took hold of it and held tight. The boat lurched and the pole tried to swing out again, dragging her towards the rail. She gripped the rope tighter until it ground into her flesh. Then the boat rolled back and the pole swung in again. She stepped quickly backwards and, fumbling around the base of the mast, felt for a cleat. The pole started to pull outwards again but she got one turn of the rope onto the cleat; waited, then got two more turns.

  She went to the other side of the mast and, finding the right rope again, lowered the pole onto the deck.

  Triumph! As she leant panting against the mast, she smiled to herself in the darkness. She’d actually tackled something! – And succeeded.

  She said aloud, ‘Well done!’

  She unfastened the rope which held up the little sail in front and tightened it a bit more, then rubbed her hands. What next? Yes: the other jobs! She had the ridiculous feeling she could do anything now. Getting the big sail down had been only half as difficult as it had looked. Now everything else would be easy!

  First – David … She went forward and shone the dim yellow light of the torch into the area under the deck. It was still fairly dry here, thank God. David was awake and bewildered, his eyes large and staring. He tried to smile but it was an effort. He seemed to be in constant pain. ‘Sorry … not helping …’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t be silly. No need to worry!’ She patted his arm. ‘Just you rest!’ She put the water bottle to his lips. As she put it down she noticed a dark stain on his sleeve. Vomit … And – she stared, horrified – something dark, blood. ‘Are you all right, David? Oh, David!’

  ‘I’m … all right.’

  But he wasn’t, she could see that. She shook her head miserably.‘Oh dear, I shouldn’t have let you come!’

  ‘No! No!’ He gripped her arm. ‘I’m glad, very glad … I always wanted to get to England. Are we almost there?’

  Julie blinked. ‘I don’t know.’

  He nodded slightly and closed his eyes. Julie watched him anxiously for a moment, then pulled the sacking up round his chin and made her way back to the stern.

  Peter next. He was crouching in the corner of the deck, sobbing quietly. She hugged him and whispered to him until, at last, she managed to calm him. She adjusted his jacket so that it protected his head better from the spray, then went to the tiller and shone the torch on the compass.

  North-west – or thereabouts. Not bad! Not bad at all!

  Gradually she realised something had changed … It took her a moment to identify it. The boat was riding the waves much better now. There was less water coming over and the deck was not tipping so far. The tiller wasn’t jerking about so much either, and the lines seemed to be holding the boat on course again. Yet the wind hadn’t diminished. She realised dimly that it must be the loss of the sail that had made things easier. A blessing in disguise! She felt almost euphoric.

  But the jobs now, the jobs! Pumping: that was essential. But before that, something she had been meaning to do for hours. She had noticed two life-rings on either side of the tiller, attached to the back of the boat. She found one and unhitched it and, leaning down, slipped it over Peter’s head. She took the other one forward, to David and, waking him gently, made him put it on. There wasn’t a third.

  Then she went to the pump and, after inserting the handle in the socket, began to pump methodically, singing loudly as she rocked back and forward. Now and then she almost laughed. In the strangest way, she was ridiculously happy.

  It took well over an hour this time. The sweat poured off her, and she felt hot and clammy inside her wet clothing. Her back ached terribly, but she ignored it, working herself harder and harder.

  Once she paused in the eternal pumping and thought: I’ve discovered the secret of all this – perhaps it’s the secret of everything. Never give in! Never give up! Richard wouldn’t have. He would have enjoyed the challenge … Maurice too … Yes, the secret: Never give up!

  Finally, when she could hardly pump any more, the handle went easy in her hand, the pipe sucking on empty air.

  She staggered back to the stern and flopped down on to the helmsman’s seat.

  She made an effort to concentrate. There was one more thing … Yes, what David had said … About arriving … When, he had asked.

  She had no idea. What had she worked out before? Twenty-four hours … That meant they should arrive now! God …!

  But wait. They were going much slower now that the big sail was down. That would make a difference.

  Also, they’d been west of their course for most of the time. She corrected herself: No, all the time … That meant they would miss the land altogether. It must do, otherwise—

  She had a nasty thought. It had been in the back of her mind for some time. Perhaps Michel had given her a course to a safe part of the coast. Perhaps, by steering outside it, she was even now leading them straight for a dangerous, rocky part of the land …

  Perhaps this north-westerly course wasn’t safe after all …

  She could think of only one thing to do. Steer even further west. To be absolutely sure.

  Yes! West North-west. That would be the safe thing to do!

  Until dawn at least. Then she would turn the boat towards the east again …

  She decided to hand steer. But before she settled down, she reached into the oddments box and found another length of thin rope. She went to Peter and, kissing him, tied it round his waist. She tied the other round her own.

  It was probably the wrong thing to do. If anything happened she would drag him down … She couldn’t ever bear to think about it.

  But whatever happened she wanted to be with him. She couldn’t bear to think of him floating away from her … She murmured, ‘Where you go, I go.’ Then she untied the tiller and put the boat on to its new course.

  ‘What you got, Radar?’

  ‘The Scillies, bright and shining like a lot of little stars, Skipper!’

  ‘Range?’

  ‘Bishop Rock ten miles, bearing 030.’

  ‘And how’s the picture?’

  ‘Good. There’s a strong breeze blowing, about twenty-five knots, but I’m not getting too much clutter. The waves can’t be that big, probably because the wind’s offshore now.’

  ‘Right-ho. Taff?’

  ‘Yes, Skipper?’

  ‘When we get within five miles of Bishop Rock give me a course to a point five miles south of the Lizard, then we’ll take another leg in towards Falmouth.’

  ‘Roger, Skipper.’

  ‘And Radar, shout when you see anything, however small.’

  ‘Always do, Skipper. Eyes skinned like hard-boiled eggs.’

  The pilot grimaced at the expression.

  He looked down into the blackness and thought about the submarine and wondered what she was doing at this very moment. Racing for home? Creeping between the Scillies and Land’s End? Hiding near the shore?

  There might just be time for more than one run. If so, he’d try another further south, then perhaps a sweep to the north of the islands. He’d decide nearer the time.

  The intercom crackled.

  ‘Radar to Skipper. Contact ten miles to starboard, angle twenty degrees.’

  The pilot licked his lips. ‘Where is it in relation to the islands?’

  ‘Five miles south of St Mary’s. But it’s a really small target, Skipper. I mean, it doesn’t look like a U-boat. Though I can’t be sure …’

  ‘Keep an eye on it. Taff?’

  ‘Yes, Skipper.’

  ‘Give us a course to the target.’

  ‘Roger.’

  ‘Wireless?’

  ‘Yes, Skipper.’

  ‘Have we been notified of any friends at sea in this area?’

  ‘No, sir. No convoys. No MTBs or MGBs …’

  ‘Radar, could it be a mine?’

  ‘Don’t
think so, sir. And we don’t usually pick up anything that low in the water …’

  ‘But it’s definitely a target?’

  ‘Oh yes. No doubt about that.’

  If it had been the old radar the pilot might have doubted him, but it wasn’t, it was the H2S and he believed him.

  ‘Wireless to Skipper.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘We were notified that the U-boat was meant to be pursuing a small craft, sir. Maybe this is the small craft—?’

  That was exactly what the pilot had been thinking. If so, then where was the U-boat?

  The navigator’s voice came over the earphones. ‘Taff to Skipper, course for target 055 degrees, range ten miles.’

  The pilot switched to manual and took the plane onto her new course, reducing height at the same time.

  He exchanged glances with Reid, the co-pilot, and said into the mike, ‘Might as well go and have a look.’

  ‘Definitely!’

  But the pilot had a feeling about this one – a bad feeling. Something told him it wasn’t a U-boat.

  ‘Range five miles, Skipper.’

  ‘Right ho.’ As the pilot took the plane down to seven hundred feet he felt the familiar exhilaration, the thrill of the chase.

  ‘Radar to Skipper. Look … I may be nuts, but …’

  ‘Out with it!’

  ‘I’ve got a moving rock. Just to the south of St Agnes. Quite close in … But it’s moving, sir.’

  The pilot stared unseeing into the night, his mind racing.

  It couldn’t be! But even as he thought it, he knew it could … just possibly …

  He said into the mike, ‘Size of contact?’

  There was a slight pause. ‘Larger than the first, though still small. Not a ship at any rate. Could be a U-boat.’

  Jesus Christ! Yes!

  The bastard was hiding!

  ‘Taff, guide me in to this second contact. Reid, keep me above the rocks. How high are they, Navigator?’

  ‘Navigator to Skipper. If we make a run from the southeast to the north-west, there’s nothing above seventy-five feet …’