The Lion of Sole Bay (Strong Winds)

by Julia Jones

  “Your house? That, like, mansion?”

  “Only the top floor. But it’s still mega. My sister inherited it from some great-uncle or something.”

  “Couldn’t you wave for help?”

  “No-one’s there. They were going straight to the hospital to be with Dad first.”

  Elsevier turned the barge north-east. Her broad bow butted hard into the waves and Hendrike got wet. She left the foredeck and walked three times anti-clockwise round the captured lion, staggering a little as the barge began to rise and fall with the waves. Then she went below. It seemed she didn’t notice anyone else existed.

  Drie Vrouwen settled to her new course: Helen made them push the cargo back amidships then she retied the cords as best she could. Her fingers were cold and Elsevier had slashed the ropes in random places. Water was running down the metal side decks. The prisoners were shivering.

  “You must hold on where you can,” Helen told them. “Then it’s best to return below. We have a long voyage ahead. I will organise the watch system.”

  Luke, Mike and Angel looked at each other.

  They wondered what they’d done.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Whiting Bank

  Thursday 6 November, dark of the moon

  Luke

  Helen didn’t bother to tie them up again. Luke could see why. They had shown that they were weak. By helping shift that cargo they had agreed to their captivity. They had drunk to the bottom of the beer mug and taken the King’s shilling.

  Drie Vrouwen’s main cabin was a living space without warmth or comfort. There were old books in plain covers and pictures of warships covered with figures and symbols. Luke, Mike and Angel sat in depressed silence on hard bench seats which were covered in dull brocade and felt as if they had been stuffed with horsehair. All the windows and the portholes were curtained with thick, dark, light-absorbing velvet that swung heavily backwards and forwards. You would never guess that a young girl had spent her summer here.

  The barge was bumping and lurching. Luke didn’t think that he’d be seasick – what had he left to be sick on? – but he wondered about the others. Ants was no way as tough as she made herself out to be and Mike…Mike had been a lot worse than he had last night.

  Helen appeared to have read his mind.

  “Here,” she said, holding out a blue packet of Stugeron. “You should all take these. We have a long journey and it is not fun if you are ill.”

  “We won’t be so much use to you, you mean,” said Luke.

  “That also. It is necessary to be practical when you are at sea.”

  They took the pills.

  “I have your phones. I can send one text from each if that would help,” said Helen.

  He knew that she despised them. He almost hated her more now she was trying to be nice.

  “What would you say in the text?” Mike asked. “My phone’s ruined anyway.”

  “To your wife? That you and Angela have been offered a trip up the coast by your friends and you plan to stay another night. Whatever will help her to be calm. This is your choice. It’s okay by me if you decide to let her worry.”

  “I have a job!” he exploded, waving his arms pointlessly. “Yesterday I explained I had a family crisis, continuing from the day before. Today Nelly will have rung and told them that I’m sick. How can I expect her to phone in tomorrow and tell them I’ve gone boating up the coast?”

  Helen shrugged. He was speaking English, not Dutch, but it seemed she’d got the gist. Also that she didn’t care much whether she had or hadn’t.

  Elsevier was at the helm: Hendrike had changed into a long plain dress that looked as if it was made of brown felt. She moved around restlessly, paying no attention to anyone. She didn’t speak to Helen, Luke noticed. Didn’t even look at her.

  She had called out some question to Elsevier and the answer had apparently been yes. Then she’d tied a big apron over her dress and might have begun preparing something in the galley area.

  She kept stopping and walking away. Then she’d come back and carry on again. Her balance wasn’t very good. Finally she coiled her long white hair into two buns like ear-muffs. Maybe this blocked something out? It definitely appeared to calm her down and she began to look as if she were cooking seriously. It was almost a whole day since he’d eaten.

  “Mum will be out of her head with worry,” said Angel to her father. “Do you think she’ll ring the police?”

  “After the session we had with them yesterday? No.”

  “She’ll definitely bike down to the creek.”

  “And we’ll be gone. Poor, poor Nelly.”

  “Then she’ll have to cycle home again. On her own. Not knowing.”

  “ALL RIGHT! Send my wife a text, Mejuffrow de Witt. How can you do this to us? You seemed such a nice girl when we met. So sensible. You share a great name – whether you know it or not. You don’t deserve it.”

  “It’s called necessity,” said Helen. “We’ve taken a prize. We need to get it home safe.”

  “Use the ferry service.”

  Helen didn’t bother to answer.

  “And you?” she said to Luke.

  “You know my dad’s in hospital. Send the text to my sister. She’s called Anna. Her number’s in the phone. She understands about adventures.”

  Anna was so clever. Anna was his only chance. Anna would surely guess that there was something wrong and then she’d find out how to track the signal from the phone and rescue them.

  Helen wasn’t stupid either. Mike’s mobile was dead after its dunking in the river so she sent both the texts from Luke’s, then went on deck and dropped it overboard.

  “I have still my phone to make a call tomorrow or whenever you are able to return. The more help you give, the sooner we arrive and cheerfully. My mother is preparing some food and we will have a system for keeping watch. It is not safe if one person is too tired.”

  She had dark circles under her eyes. Her skin was stretched tight across her bones and her cheeks were hollow. The word haggard came into Luke’s mind. He saw the bruise which discoloured one side of her face.

  He didn’t feel sorry for her at all.

  She didn’t care what he noticed or what he thought. This was a mission: he’d been press ganged.

  “My mother is making pottage,” she told him “It is for everyone. There will also be bread. You will carry a portion to the Kapitein together with her full glass of geneva – carefully so it does not spill – and then you will take the helm so she can eat. You are now on her watch and you will be wise if you obey. I have Mijnheer Vandervelde with me from six pm and Engel will assist my mother with her general duties. It may be she can sleep. At ten pm we all will change and then again at two.”

  The captured crew ate their pottage in silence. It was so thick you could stand your spoon up in it. No chance that it would slop. You could probably have turned the bowls upside down and made little mounds like pea-green sandcastles. It was tasteless, but who cared? It could have been the winning entry from a TV celebrity chef and they’d have had trouble getting it down – except that they were all so desperately hungry. And frightened about the night ahead.

  Then Helen gave Luke an oilskin jacket and sent him on deck with Elsevier’s meal and a glass of clear liquid poured from a large stone bottle. The Kapitein accepted the food and drink without a word or smile and jerked her head to indicate that he should take the tiller.

  “Course 030 degrees,” she said. “You understand how to steer? I am watching you like an eagle of the sea.”

  She looked like something out of a black-and-white pirate film in that hat and boots and cloak. Or a faked-up musketeer. It was humiliating to be so scared of someone who was dressed in such stupid clothes.

  It was the gun that did it for him. Like it obviously did for Ants. Sent him complete
ly shaky. The gun that he couldn’t see but which he knew would be there, pointing out from within the heavy cloak, ready to blast him if he made one wrong move. He could almost feel the bullet ripping into his body. The heat, the pain and then…the blood. He wouldn’t be playing war adventures any more.

  Elsevier had seated herself in the corner of the cockpit. She stared as he shivered. The cabin had been warmed by the working of the engine. He hadn’t brought his jacket or any of his spare clothes on board and the oilskin that Helen had lent him was just that – old-fashioned oilskin: solidly black and waterproof with no soft lining or modern thermal layers.

  Drie Vrouwen’s tiller was cold to the touch. It was metal and was bolted to the high black-painted rudder by a pair of thick metal plates. There was no chance he could pull it out and use it as a weapon – even if he’d had the nerve.

  You had to stand to steer Drie Vrouwen. There was a rigid canvas awning that provided some protection from the weather. It had large clear plastic inserts but these didn’t give very good visibility especially when they were being dashed constantly by drizzle and salt-spray. If you really wanted to see clearly you had to look round it or move outside. It was even wetter and colder there.

  Inside there was an illuminated compass and a garishly bright chart-plotter. It showed their track as a moving pink line following the north-east curve of the coast.

  The daylight was already fading. When Luke looked out over the port side of the barge towards the shore he couldn’t properly see the beach and the sandy cliffs where he and Liam had played all summer.

  The last time he’d been at sea heading north along this coast he’d been on board Strong Winds. He’d been in primary school then and still living with Rev. Wendy. He’d been ten years old. Almost a different person! He remembered when he’d come on deck in his pyjamas, playing at being a hostage, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and grumbling when he heard that they were ‘only’ going to Lowestoft. It had been one of the best days of his life. He’d been with Donny then and Skye. And Gold Dragon, who was dead.

  Strong Winds had pulled along with her sails full, racing the following waves. Even when the tide turned and it got rough she’d felt as if she was leaping in the water. That she was joyful.

  Drie Vrouwen didn’t leap or surge. The wind was against her and she was battering her way through, demolishing each sharp-peaked wave and flinging spray to either side. She was sort of like angry and determined. Fighting the sea, not riding it. Lift and bang, lift and bang. You couldn’t imagine Drie Vrouwen playing in the water, not ever.

  They’d all be with his dad at the hospital by now. Would Anna have guessed that the message wasn’t from him? What would they say to Bill when Luke didn’t show up? Would they tell him that Luke had gone wandering up the coast with unknown people on an unknown boat or would they make some excuse?

  Except that his dad did know Drie Vrouwen. They’d been neighbours for months, though not friends. What had his dad said about demons when he was on the morphine? Revenge? Blood gelt? He must have guessed something: Luke should have listened better.

  Elsevier had finished her food and was drinking her geneva. She struck a match and held it curved in her hand so that her face was illuminated from beneath. He guessed she was doing it on purpose; that she knew how spooky she looked. It was such a put-on.

  Elsie. He was going to call her Elsie. Cut her down a bit. Call it in his head even if he didn’t have the guts to say it aloud. Not Elsevier and definitely not the Kapitein.

  Her face returned to shadow, touched occasionally with orange. She had lit herself a cigar. Luke didn’t like tobacco. It gave him asthma if he was indoors but he guessed that wasn’t something that would bother Elsie.

  Gold Dragon had smoked a pipe. Donny said he really missed the smell.

  Luke looked again at the chart-plotter. The pale pink line crept steadily north-east, taking him further from his home and the people he loved. The sea stretched ahead and so did the night. There was a lighthouse in the distance, its whiter beam intermittently lighting up the sky. He knew that one. It was Orfordness – another familiar mark.

  It was almost dark now and the rain was coming down. Everything was blurry from inside Drie Vrouwen’s spray hood. Elsie had turned a windscreen wiper on but it didn’t seem very effective. Was he just supposed to follow her compass course and watch the pink line on the electronic chart? His dad had set lobster pots off the beach in the summer. They were marked with black flags but you wouldn’t have been able to see them on a night like this. It was a pity the barge hadn’t got tangled in one.

  “You. Go and look out for the buoy.”

  Elsie had stood up and was jabbing her finger at a small flashing dot on the plotter. She took the tiller from him and gestured that he should go out onto the side deck to confirm they were on the right side of the buoy that marked the beginning of the next long shoal.

  Luke didn’t have a safety harness or a life jacket. It was cold and exposed on the narrow deck and it felt slippery, even though it had metal ridges. Drie Vrouwen had started to roll as well as to lift and bang. He remembered how easily Mike had gone overboard. He got down and crawled.

  The fronts of his jeans were sopping from the knees down and his gloveless hands were frozen by the time he found a secure lookout place. It was next to the bundle that was the crimson king. What had Mike said – that it was something off of a warship? That made sense with all the bad feelings he’d got from it.

  Helen’s knots looked a mess and the bashing of the barge against the waves was putting them under strain. The edge of the material was stretching and one of the eyelets had already come out. Luke hesitated. He wondered whether there was anything he could do to loosen the knots or fray the material faster? The thing was a monster but he didn’t want those women to have it. No reason – except the fact that they wanted it.

  Elsie was shouting at him. He was glad he couldn’t hear what she was saying. His fingers were too cold to make any headway with the knots. Next time he came up here he’d try to bring a knife.

  Luke looked ahead and to starboard across the tossing water. There were white waves breaking in the distance and before them, quite close really, a pinprick of flashing light. He counted the seconds as Donny had once explained.

  “One thousand, two thousand, three thousand …”

  It wasn’t all that easy. He got to fifteen thousand before the flashes began again. Had he missed some? He should have asked how many there should be. Or Elsie should have told him. From their top floor apartment at Bawdsey you could see about twenty different navigation marks on a clear night and they all had different patterns when they were flashing. Different colours too. You needed to know which one you were meant to be looking for if you wanted to find it quickly.

  Luke tried again.

  The stolen figurehead slid and tugged beside him. Was the lion writhing in its bonds or was the motion getting rougher? Luke looked across towards the shore on the other side of the boat. There was a distant green light showing between the waves. And now the lighthouse beam had turned red instead of white. It was like some wild quasar game that they were playing as they struggled through the dark

  Elsie was yelling again. Gesturing him to come back. Luke sighed. He crouched onto the wet side deck again and crawled.

  He felt Drie Vrouwen alter course. Elsie had turned her sharply to port across the waves and she was beginning to roll violently. Luke found the single low guard rail, lay down flat and hung on as best he could. He could so easily go over.

  The deck plunged towards the sea and up again. Down – and Luke could see the bubbles of white foam that the barge was making as she motored away from the quick flashing buoy. Up – and he was thrown against the cabin side.

  Small streams of water cascaded along the deck with each down-roll, seeping up inside the bottoms of his jeans and down into his socks and trainers. Th
e up-rolls were the ones he could use. It took him three before he made it back to the cockpit and the relative shelter of the spray hood.

  The lighthouse beam was white again. Elsie had returned Drie Vrouwen to her course and was gesturing furiously at the plotter.

  “Stupid, ignorant son of a creek-crawler. You almost ran us on that sand.”

  Luke looked where she was pointing. He could see the lighthouse beam segmented on the display into green and white and red. And if they had continued in the red section they would have gone into shallow water, very shallow water, a shoal. That’s where the waves had been breaking.

  Okay, they’d obviously had a narrow escape. But it hadn’t been him on the helm. His emotions began churning round like deeper layers of the sea. Scraps of anger and resentment and the residue of fear came tossing up like flecks of shell.

  Luke knew that there were long, thin, shallow banks of sand and shingle all along this coast. Some were close inshore: some miles out to sea. They’d been there for centuries, growing and shifting. That’s what made the fishing grounds. It made danger too, and wrecks. He hadn’t totally connected this knowledge with coloured lights and flashing navigation buoys.

  He felt stupid. She was right about that.

  Luke looked more closely at the chart-plotter. This sand was called the Whiting Bank. It even had his name on it! That was what the flashing light was marking.

  “My dad’s never a creek-crawler,” he told Elsie. “My dad’s a fisherman and the son and the grandson of fishermen. And that means I am too.”

  “Well, who’d have guessed?” she sneered. “Now take the helm again, mud-spawn, while I re-plot.”

  “Maybe you should an’ all. Maybe it was following your course that put us too close to the shoal in the first place. Maybe you ain’t much better as a navigator than I am as a fisherman’s son.”

  She’d been wearing heavy leather gloves and had taken one off to adjust the instrument settings. Two strides across the cockpit and she’d hit him with it before he could protect himself.