The Wreck of the Mary Deare

by Hammond Innes

  ‘The police?’ He was staring at me, white-faced. ‘How could I?’

  ‘But if you’d told them about the offer Dellimare made you . . .’

  ‘Do you think they’d have believed me? It was only my word. I’d no proof. How could I possibly justify . . .’ His gaze switched to the envelope lying on the table. ‘You see this money?’ He reached out and grabbed up a handful of the fivers. ‘He offered it to me, the whole lot. He had it there in his cabin and he spilled the whole five thousand out in front of me—out of that envelope that’s lying there; and I picked it up and threw it in his face and told him I’d see him in hell before I did his dirty work for him. That’s when I warned him that I’d kill him if he tried to lose me the ship.’ He paused, breathing heavily. ‘And then that gale and the for’ard holds suddenly making water and the fire in the radio shack . . . when I found him down in that hold—’ He was still staring at me and his features were haggard and drawn, the way I’d first seen them. ‘I was so sure I was justified—at the time,’ he whispered.

  ‘But it was an accident,’ Mike said. ‘Damn it, you didn’t mean to kill him.’

  He shook his head slowly, pushing his hand up through his hair. ‘No, that’s not true,’ he said. ‘I did mean to kill him. I was mad at the thought of what he’d tried to make me do—what he was doing to the ship. The first command I’d had in ten years . . .’ He was looking down at his glass again. ‘I thought when I put her on the Minkies, that I could get back to her, get rid of his body and prove that he was trying to sink her—’ He was staring at me again. ‘Can’t you understand, Sands . . . I had to know I was justified.’

  ‘But it was still an accident,’ I said gently. ‘You could have gone to the authorities . . .’ I hesitated, and then added, ‘There was a time when you were prepared to—when you altered course for Southampton after rounding Ushant.’

  ‘I still had the ship then,’ he muttered, and I realised then what his ship meant to a man like Patch. So long as he’d had the Mary Deare’s deck under his feet and he was in command he’d still had confidence in himself, in the rightness of his actions.

  He reached out his hand for the bottle. ‘Mind if I have another drink?’ His tone was resigned.

  I watched him pour it, understanding now how desperate was his need to justify himself. I remembered how he’d reacted to the sight of the crew huddled like sheep around Higgins in the office at Paimpol. His first command in ten years and the whole thing repeating itself. It was an appalling twist of fate. ‘When did you feed last?’ I asked him.

  ‘I don’t know. It doesn’t matter.’ He swallowed some of the drink, his hand still trembling, his body slack.

  ‘I’ll get you some food.’ I got up and went through into the galley. The stew was still hot in the pressure-cooker and I put some on a plate and set it in front of him. And then I asked Mike to come up on deck. The freshening wind had thinned the mist, so that the hills were dim, humped-up shapes, their shadows thrown round the cove and falling away to the narrow gap of the entrance. I stood there for a moment, wondering how I was going to persuade him. But Mike had guessed what was in my mind. ‘You want Sea Witch, is that it, John?’

  I nodded. ‘For four days,’ I said. ‘Five at the most. That’s all.’

  He was looking at me, his face pale in the faint glow of the riding light. ‘Surely it would be better to put the whole thing in the hands of the authorities?’ I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know how to make him understand the way I felt. And after a while, he said, ‘You believe him then—about the Dellimare Company planning to sink the ship in deep water?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I murmured. I wasn’t sure. ‘But if you accept that the cargo has been switched, that the whole thing was planned . . .’ I hesitated, remembering how scared Higgins had been. If Higgins had started that fire and knocked Patch out and panicked the crew . . . ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I do believe him.’

  Mike was silent for some time then. He had turned away from me and was staring out towards the entrance. At length he said, ‘You’re sure about this, John? It’s a hell of a risk you’re taking for the fellow.’

  ‘I’m quite sure,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘Okay. Then the sooner we get under way the better.’

  ‘You don’t have to come,’ I said.

  He looked at me with that slow, rather serious smile of his. ‘Sea Witch and I go together,’ he said. ‘You don’t get the one without the other.’ He glanced up at the masthead. The burgee hadn’t been taken down and it showed the wind westerly. ‘We’ll be able to sail it.’ He was thinking we’d make better time under sail, for our engine was geared for power, not speed.

  Down below I found Patch leaning back, the glass in his hand, smoking a cigarette. He hadn’t touched the food. His eyes were half closed and his head lolled. He didn’t look up as we entered.

  ‘We’re getting under way,’ I told him.

  He didn’t move.

  ‘Leave him,’ Mike said. ‘We can manage. I’ll go and start the engine.’ He was already pulling on a sweater.

  But Patch had heard. His head came slowly round ‘Where are you making for—Southampton?’ His voice had no life in it.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘We’re taking you out to the Minkies.’

  He stared at me. ‘The Minkies.’ He repeated it slowly, his fuddled mind not taking it in. ‘You’re going out to the Mary Deare?’ And then he was on his feet, the glass crashing to the floor, his body jarring the table. ‘You mean it?’ He lurched across to me, catching hold of me with both his hands. ‘You’re not saying that just to keep me quiet. You mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I mean it.’ It was like trying to convince a child.

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘My God, I thought I was finished.’ He was suddenly laughing, shaking me, gripping Mike’s hand. ‘I think I’d have gone mad,’ he said. ‘The uncertainty. Ten years and you get a ship and you’re in command again, and then . . . You don’t know what it’s like when you suddenly lose confidence in yourself.’ He pushed his hands up through his hair, his eyes alight and eager. I’d never seen him like that before. He turned and scrabbled up a whole pile of fivers that were lying on the table. ‘Here. You take them.’ He thrust them into my hand. ‘I don’t want them. They’re yours now.’ He wasn’t drunk, just a little crazed—the reaction of nerves strung too taut.

  I pushed the notes away. ‘We’ll talk about that later,’ I said. ‘Can you navigate into the Minkies without a chart?’

  His mind seemed to snap suddenly into place. He hesitated—a seaman considering a nautical problem. ‘You mean from Les Sauvages to the Mary Deare?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He nodded slowly. He was frowning, his mind groping for the bearings. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure I can remember. It’s only a question of the tide. You’ve got a nautical almanac?’

  I nodded and it was settled. I had charts for the Channel. All I lacked was the large-scale chart of the Minkies. ‘We’ll hoist sail in here, before we get the hook up,’ I said. I reached for my monkey jacket and slipped it on, and then we went up on deck and got the covers off the main and mizzen. I sent Mike to get the engine going whilst Patch and I put the battens in and hoisted the mainsail, tacking it down so that the luff was set up taut. The starter whined and the engine caught, throbbing at the deck under my feet. Sea Witch was suddenly alive. We hoisted the dinghy on board then and the ship bustled with activity as we got her ready for sea.

  It was whilst I was up for’ard, hanking the big yankee jib on to the forestay, that I heard it—the beat of an engine coming in from the sea. I stood there for a moment, listening, and then I extinguished the riding light and ran aft, shouting to Mike to get the hook up. It might be just another yacht coming in, but it wasn’t the night for yachtsmen to be risking their boats, feeling their way into a place like Lulworth, and I had no desire to be caught in here with Patch on board. We were outside the law and I wanted to get clear of the cove wit
hout being seen. I switched off the lights below and sent Patch for’ard to help Mike, and then I was at the wheel and the chain was coming in with a run as I manoeuvred Sea Witch up to her anchor on the engine.

  The sound of the boat coming in was quite clear now, the beat of its engines throbbing back from the cliffs. The white of her masthead light appeared in the gap, bobbing to the swell. The green eye of a starboard light showed, and then the red as she turned in.

  ‘Up and down,’ Mike called.

  ‘Leave it there,’ I called to him. ‘Hoist the yankee.’

  The big jib floated up, a blur of white in the darkness. I hauled in the sheet and Sea Witch began to glide through the water as I swung her bows towards the gap. The in-coming boat was right in the entrance now. ‘What do you think it is—the police?’ Mike asked as he came back aft to help trim the sheets.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘Get the mizzen hoisted.’ For an instant I saw Patch’s face, a white glimmer in the darkness as he stared seaward, and then he went aft to help Mike. I was keeping the engine throttled right back so that they wouldn’t hear it above the noise of their own engine, hoping I could slip out without their seeing us in the darkness.

  There wasn’t a great deal of wind in the cove, but we were moving, steadily gathering way. The other boat came in slowly. She had a spotlight and she flashed it on the rocks by the entrance, holding a middle course between them. And then she was inside and we were bearing straight down on her. Under sail I had no chance of giving her a wide berth. I just had to hold my course and hope that she’d turn away.

  But she held straight on and we passed her so close that I could see the whole shape of her, a big sea-going motor boat with flared bow and a long sloping deckhouse. I even caught a glimpse of the man in the wheelhouse, a dim figure peering at us out of the night.

  And then their spotlight stabbed the darkness, momentarily blinding me, picking out the triangle of our mainsail in glaring white, and a voice hailed us. I think he was asking the name of our ship, but the words were lost in the roar of the engine as I opened the throttle wide, and we went steaming out through the gap. The sails flapped wildly as we came under the lee of the cliffs and the boat heaved to the swell. Then we were through and the sails filled. Sea Witch heeled, the water creaming back from her bows and sliding white past the cockpit as she surged forward under the thrust of power and sail.

  ‘She’s turning,’ Mike shouted down to me.

  I glanced over my shoulder. The motor boat’s masthead steaming light and the red and green of her navigation lights were showing in the black outline of the land behind us. She was coming out through the gap.

  Mike tumbled into the cockpit, hardening in the main sheet for me as I headed south on a broad reach. With the ship blacked-out—not even a binnacle light—I sailed by the wind, my head turned every now and then over my shoulder to watch the motor boat. Her masthead light began to dance as she met the swell in the entrance, and then it was swinging steadily, rhythmically as she pitched to the sea, and the red and green of her navigation lights remained fixed on us like two eyes. Her spotlight stabbed the darkness, showing glimpses of black, lumpy water as it probed the night.

  ‘If we’d got away half an hour earlier . . .’ Patch was staring aft.

  ‘And if we’d been five minutes later,’ Mike snapped, ‘you’d be under arrest.’ His voice sounded on edge and I knew he didn’t like it any more than I did. ‘I’ll go and get the anchor on board.’ He disappeared for’ard and I sent Patch to help him.

  It was cold in the cockpit now that we were under way. But I don’t think I noticed it. I was wondering about the boat behind us. It had gained on us slightly and the spotlight, reaching out to us across the tumbled waters, lit our sails with a ghostly radiance. It didn’t probe any longer, but was held on us, so that I knew they’d picked us out. The drizzle had slackened again and our white sails made us conspicuous.

  Up for’ard Mike was coiling down the halyards, whilst Patch lashed the anchor. They came aft together. ‘John. Hadn’t we better heave-to?’

  ‘They haven’t ordered you to.’ Patch’s voice was hard and urgent. ‘You don’t have to do anything till they signal instructions.’ He was back at sea again and a man doesn’t easily give up in his own element. He came down into the cockpit. His face had tightened so that there was strength in it again. ‘Well, are you going on or not?’ It wasn’t exactly a challenge, certainly not a threat, and yet the way he said it made me wonder what he’d do if I refused.

  Mike jerked round, his body bunched, his quick temper flaring. ‘If we want to heave-to, we will.’

  The spotlight was switched off. Sudden blackness descended on us. ‘I was asking Sands.’ Patch’s voice trembled out of the darkness.

  ‘John and I own this boat jointly,’ Mike flung out. ‘We’ve worked and planned and slaved our guts out to have our own outfit, and we’re not going to risk it all to get you out of the mess you’re in.’ He stepped down into the cockpit, balancing himself to the pitch of the boat. ‘You’ve got to heave-to,’ he said to me. ‘That boat is gradually coming up on us and when the police find we’ve got Patch on board, it’s going to be damned hard to prove that we weren’t slipping him out of the country, especially with all that cash sculling around below.’ He leaned forward, gripping hold of my shoulder. ‘Do you hear me, John?’ He was shouting at me above the noise of the engine. ‘You’ve got to heave-to before that police boat comes up on us.’

  ‘It may not be the police,’ I said. I had been thinking about it all the time they’d been up for’ard. ‘The police would have sent a patrol car. They wouldn’t have come by boat.’

  ‘If it’s not the police, then who the hell is it?’

  I glanced over my shoulder, wondering whether perhaps imagination hadn’t got the better of reason. But there was the boat, still following us. The white steaming light was swaying wildly, showing the slender stick of her mast and the outline of the deckhouse. ‘She certainly rolls,’ I murmured.

  ‘What’s that?’

  I turned to him then. ‘Did you get a good look at her, Mike, as we came out?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘What sort of boat was she—could you see?’

  ‘An old Parkhurst, I should say.’ Mike’s training as a marine engineer had given him a quite remarkable knowledge of power craft.

  ‘You’re certain of that?’

  ‘I think so. Yes, I’m sure she was.’

  I asked him to go down below then and look up Griselda in Lloyd’s Register. ‘And if she’s in the book and her description fits, then I’d like an estimate of her speed.’

  He hesitated, glancing quickly from me to Patch, and then he disappeared for’ard towards the main hatch. ‘And if it is Griselda?’ Patch asked.

  ‘Then she was chartered this morning,’ I said. ‘By somebody who was in that court.’

  The spotlight was on us again and he was staring at me. ‘Are you sure?’

  I nodded and I could see him working it out for himself. Sea Witch heeled to a gust of wind and I felt the drag of the prop. Spray splashed my face. And then Mike was back. ‘How did you know it was Griselda?’ he asked me.

  ‘I was right, was I?’

  ‘Yes—it’s either Griselda or a sister ship. Fifty-foot over all. Built by Parkhurst in 1931.’

  ‘And her top speed?’

  ‘Hard to say. She’s got two six-cylinder Parkhurst engines. But they’re the original engines and it depends how they’ve been maintained. Flat out, I’d say she might do a little over eight knots.’

  Sea Witch was heeling farther now and the wave-tops were lopping over on to the foredeck. ‘In calm water.’

  ‘Yes, in calm water.’

  The wind was rising and already the seas were beginning to break. I was thinking that in a little over two hours the tide would turn. It would be west-going then and the freshening wind would kick up a short, steep sea. It would reduce Griselda’s speed by at least a k
not. ‘I’m standing on,’ I told Mike. ‘We’ll try and shake them off during the night.’ And then I explained about the yacht broker I had met with Hal and how Higgins had warned me. ‘Higgins even guessed you’d come down to Lulworth,’ I said to Patch.

  ‘Higgins!’ He turned and stared aft. The spotlight was on his face and there was something in the way his eyes shone—it might have been anger or fear or exultation; I couldn’t tell. And then the spotlight was switched off and he was just a black shape standing there beside me.

  ‘Well, if it’s only the Dellimare Company—’ Mike’s voice sounded relieved. ‘They can’t do anything, can they?’

  Patch swung round on him. ‘You don’t seem to realise . . .’ His voice came hard and abrupt out of the darkness, the sentence bitten off short. But I had caught his mood and I looked back over my shoulder. Was it my imagination or was the motor boat nearer now? I found myself looking all round searching for the lights of another ship. But there was nothing—only the blackness of the night and the white of the breaking wave-tops rushing at us out of the darkness. ‘Well, we go on. Is that right?’ I wasn’t sure what I ought to do.

  ‘You’ve no alternative,’ Patch said.

  ‘Haven’t we?’ Mike stepped down into the cockpit. ‘We could run for Poole. That boat’s following us and . . . Well, think we should turn the whole thing over to the authorities.’ His voice sounded nervous.

  A wave broke against the weather bow, showering spray aft, and we heeled to a gust so that our lee decks were awash. The sea was shallower here. There were overfalls and Sea Witch pitched violently with a short, uncomfortable motion, the screw juddering under the stern and the bows slamming into the waves so that water was sluicing across the foredeck. ‘For God’s sake cut that engine!’ Patch shouted at me. ‘Can’t you feel the drag of the prop?’

  Mike swung round on him. ‘You don’t run this boat.’

  ‘It’s stopping our speed,’ Patch said.

  He was right. I had been conscious of it for some time. ‘Switch it off, will you, Mike?’ I asked.