The safety officer checked they were all wearing the correct safety equipment including their emergency flotation vests.
“Infernal things get in the way, and they add extra weight,” Ferghal grumbled when the safety officer had moved on to check the next crew. He shifted the vest on his broad chest and shoulders, still not finding a good fit. “Right, into the boat, please. We’re clear to get ourselves into position.” He hefted a heavy oar he’d brought down to the boat. Unlike the standard oars, this one had a longer blade that was straight and without the feathered curve.
“Aye, aye, Mr Coxswain, sir,” quipped Keiron as the six rowers took their places and checked the stretcher boards, eased the seats in their runners and shipped their oars.
Keiron watched with interest as Ferghal unshipped the rudder, stowed it beneath the sternsheets, then shipped a heavy rowlock in the sternpost and fitted his oar. “What the devil? How will you steer?”
Ferghal grinned. “With this — a steering sweep. Better than a rudder in these conditions.”
“Is it allowed?”
“It is. I checked. There’s no rule against it. The rules state there must be a coxswain, and he or she must steer the boat. I shall steer with this.”
Shaking his head, Keiron laughed. “I’ll be damned. Something new every time you take us out.”
Ferghal grinned and checked that everyone was ready. “Cast off,” he ordered. “Fend off the bow.” Letting the bow idle clear, he said, “Give way, port.” Using the sweep, he forced the bows further round until the boat was completely clear. “Oars, port — now, together. Give way. Keep it slow and steady.”
He watched as another crew was thrown into disarray when their bow oar’s life vest inflated after the boat shipped a burst of almost solid spray. Idling the boat into a suitable position, he ordered, “Oars all. Bow pair, hold us in position.” He leaned forward, and just loud enough to be heard by the bow oarsmen, he said, “Disarm your flotation vests. Damned things will be a danger in this sea.” Satisfied they’d done it, he added, “Now make sure everything loose is tied down or stowed where it will not come adrift. We cannot afford anything rolling about once we start.”
WATCHING FROM THE SHORE, COMMODORE JAMES HERON noted with approval the way the boat rode the white-capped waves with Ferghal’s sturdy figure upright, his feet braced against the motion and the long sweep oar making easy movements to which the boat responded almost at odds with the other boats struggling their way out to the start.
Turning to Harry, he remarked, “Ferghal makes it look as if he and his crew are out in a flat calm. I can see you fellows have a definite advantage here, Harry.” He laughed. “I rather think the Yotties’ reputation will never be the same again.”
Recognising the compliment, Harry nodded and smiled. “After the launches and barges we were used to, sir, these craft are toys, and I doubt they can really keep the sea as a good boat should.” His grin lit his face. “But Ferghal knows how to make the boat and the sea work together, sir. His crew will show the others a clear stern chase.”
“I think you’re right.” Nodding as Theo, Niamh and Danny joined them, he added, “I’ve seen pictures of boats steered as he is doing. It seems to be very effective in these conditions. Some of the other coxswains are struggling to keep their boats dry.” He raised his binoculars. “Right, the starter boat has them under orders. This should be interesting — but why has Ferghal opted to pull out to the end of the line like that?”
Harry took the binoculars for a closer look. “Oh, he’s a cunning one!” He laughed. Handing the binoculars to the Commodore, he said, “See, the others are bunched already, but where he is, there will be clear room for his oarsmen.”
“They’re off!” exclaimed Danny when the starting gun fired, the smoke whipped away by the wind.
FERGHAL HAD THE BOAT GATHERING WAY TOWARD the start line when the signal sounded.
“Now then, me hearties,” he called, leaning into the motion. “Keep it long and steady. Conserve your strength and pull together.” He coaxed his team into a steady stroke, slowly building them up to a comfortable pace that sent the boat surging across the short chop. “Watch my face and keep your concentration on the stroke,” he called. “Pull, out, feather, dip, pull,” he called steadily, and his crew settled into the rhythm.
His strategy paid immediate dividends when they rapidly pulled themselves into a leading position ahead of the boats bunched on the shore end of the line. The steady rhythm sent the lightweight hull skimming across the waves, spray bursting away from its bows as it did so.
Behind them two boats entangled their oars and drifted across the path of another boat that had to change course to avoid colliding with them. With adroit skill, Ferghal shaved a small point and turned slightly along the shoreline using wind and waves to increase their speed without increasing the strain on the rowers.
Their lead grew from one boat length to two, then three, gradually opening the gap as the watchers on shore cheered the boat and crew. Ferghal knew that the crucial effort was yet to come, when the boat must turn on the distant mark and pull back to the starting point to finish. He focused all his attention on the boat and let the wind and water speak through his senses as he urged his crew on.
HARRY’S ATTENTION WAS DRAWN TO A COMMOTION at the promontory, and he let out a guffaw when he saw the Dreadnoughts’ boat broach as the bow oar dug into a wave then fouled the next oar. Dragged round by this mishap, the boat shipped water and capsized. “Oh, famous!” he exclaimed. “That leaves the Dreadnoughts, the Terrors and the Gorgons out of the race altogether. Ferghal has only to finish now, and the race is ours.”
“Blood-thirsty young devil, aren’t you, Harry?” Niamh smiled as she watched her ancestor and ward, his face alive with the sheer pleasure of being involved in something he so clearly enjoyed and understood. “Gloating over your opponents’ misfortune like that!”
He grinned at her. “It’s not gloating, Aunt. The Dreadnoughts have Miles, Laschelles and Barclay. That is all I shall say on the matter.”
Further along the gallery, Eon Barclay’s father heard the remark, and turned his head to study Harry. Frowning, he made his way to find some refreshment. So that was the youth his brother was so keen to capture or kill.
The Commodore noticed the man’s studied interest in Harry and his quick departure, and he made a mental note to learn more about him.
“Ferghal’s turned!” called Danny.
“My God,” exclaimed Theo, “He’s taking a line right along the wind. Look at that boat fly.”
Suddenly the boat was leaping through the water, spray bursting over its prow as it surged forward as if under some sort of power. Without breaking the rhythm, Ferghal avoided the nearest oncoming boat and the three remaining that followed.
“Steady now,” he called to his crew. “We’ll be wanting everything you have to finish. Keep it easy until I give the word.” He altered course slightly to bring the boat close to the shore where the water was a little calmer and the assembled crowd and structures provided something of a lee.
Now everyone could see the effort being given by the rowers. The concentration on their faces as they kept their eyes on Ferghal was almost palpable even as he eased the boat around the point and began the final dash to the finish. To the crowd’s amazement, he increased the pace and the boat accelerated as his rowers responded, every muscle straining as they maintained their rhythm, their eyes fixed on their coxswain.
“I think he’s going for a record here,” breathed the Commodore. “And what a record this will be.”
The finishing gun fired, and the crowd burst into a wild cheer as the oars ceased their power stroke and eased down to a more leisurely rhythm. Heaving her head round with a few powerful strokes on his steering sweep, Ferghal allowed the boat to idle back to the shore seven or eight boat lengths ahead of their next competitor.
Ferghal grinned at his crew. “We did it. I told you it w
ould be well with us, and we’ve done it!” He glanced at the scrutineers waiting on shore. “Rearm your flotation vests. I’ve a feeling they expect it.” He watched as the crew swiftly and without fuss did as he told, making it look as though they were merely easing their muscles as they inflated their vests.
The boat touched the pontoon as Ferghal heaved the stern round with the sweep, and the bowman passed the painter to a scrutineer. The rest unshipped their oars and clambered out stretching and easing their muscles, glowing with pride and success as the retired and rescued crews gathered round noisily offering their congratulations.
Unshipping the long sweep, Ferghal joined them and shook hands with the scrutineer, a Lieutenant, who took a swift look at the boat and its equipment then held out his hand.
“Well done, Mr O’Connor. You and your crew have just made history. That was one of the best boat races I have ever seen.”
“Thank you, sir.” Ferghal smiled as his crew clustered round him. “But I didn’t do it alone!” His team let out another whoop of joy, and before Ferghal knew what was happening, Keiron yelled, “Grab him!”
The six oarsmen grabbed Ferghal, hoisted him over their heads, and made a run to the end of the pontoon where they threw him out into the lake as far as they could to the applause and laughter of the crowd. Ferghal emerged spitting water and floundering to clamber onto the pontoon, hindered by his inflated vest and almost helpless with laughter. As he finally regained the pontoon, he grabbed Keiron’s hand and dragged him into the water with him.
“So it’s a mutiny you want to have, is it, Mr Stroke,” Ferghal called, laughing down at Keiron spluttering in the water. “Well, I think we’d be evenly matched if we had to wrestle for it.” He held out his hand and helped Keiron up, then shook hands with the rest of the laughing crew. “We showed them all, didn’t we? And now we will take the sloop race as well. See if we don’t.”
LUNCH FOR THE CLASSES AND THEIR FAMILIES WAS SERVED in a large hall. Harry and Ferghal joined Danny, Theo, Niamh, and Commodore Heron at one of the round tables, just the right size for their group. Theo studied the schedule for the sailing races that afternoon. “Have you checked the weather forecasts yet, Harry? I understand the prediction is for as bad or worse than this morning’s weather, though that didn’t seem to hinder Ferghal any.”
Everyone laughed and enjoyed easy conversation and friendly banter as they relished the delicious meal.
“Indeed, the weather is challenging, sir, but I think we still have a good chance against the others. I have checked our spars and rigging, and I think we have the ability to deal with a good blow.” Harry grinned. “I fear the onboard boat management system may not approve of what I have planned. It will be wet and hard work, but it will be like old times for Ferghal and me. We’ve sailed in worse conditions, haven’t we Ferghal? Much worse!”
“The pulling races were certainly an eye opener,” remarked Niamh. “And the swimming. Your class seems to be doing very well.”
“Yes, but the points are still very close. I suspect it will remain so right to the Gun Run.” The Commodore caught a signal from Captain Brandeis. “Excuse me, I see I’m wanted. I’ll join you again shortly.”
“WE’VE CONFIRMATION THAT THE GSG HQ WAS DESTROYED by the device intended for here.” Captain Brandeis handed the Commodore a glass, making a show of greeting a friend rather than relaying such important information. “Several of their agents are here, one on the staff we’re trying to get the proof for.” He lowered his voice. “Please make it look like we’re old chums, sir.”
“Well, well, fancy your being here, Marcus. How long’s it been?” James Heron remarked for the benefit of the group passing.
“At least ten years,” Marcus Brandeis replied in answer to the Commodore’s deflection question. James Heron was still as fly as ever. He returned a greeting from another passing officer then leaned closer to the Commodore and spoke quietly. “That man over there is Brian Barclay and his son, Eon, a midshipman here at the College. We’ve an eye on them. They’re connected to BarCor, and the head of that is on our wanted list. Eon is involved in something. We just don’t have enough on either of them to make a move yet.”
“The C-in-C knows?”
“Of course. He’d appreciate your company later.” Allowing himself a smile, the Captain changed the subject. “He suggested after the main race this afternoon.” He paused to allow the Commodore to acknowledge a greeting, then continued. “I understand young Harry’s a demon in command of that boat. I expect we’ll see some exciting sailing in these weather conditions.”
“I’ve heard. I just hope he doesn’t push himself and his crew too hard.”
Captain Brandeis laughed, causing heads to turn. “From what I hear, he’s very demanding of his crew and certainly pushes the boat to its limits. But you’re right, he gives a lot of himself as well.”
AFTER LUNCH, AS THE COMMODORE MADE HIS WAY to the VIP observation gallery, he was intercepted by the C-in-C’s Flag Lieutenant.
“Sir.” She glanced round. “The Commander-in-Chief’s compliments. The attack on the GSG building is being reported as a terrorist attack.” She hesitated as several guests passed them. “They were stakeholders in WeapTech, which complicates things. He’s closeted with the Chairman of the Fleet Board at the moment, but he’ll join you as soon as he can.” She smiled. “He said to tell you he’s counting on the Yotties to give him some good news.”
The Commodore smiled. The remark was typical of Grand Admiral Cunningham. “Thanks, so am I. Tell him I’ll be here when he wants me.”
“I will, sir.” Something caught her eye. “Looks like Mr Barclay’s headed this way, sir.” She saluted then hurried off.
“Commodore Heron.” The stocky figure of Mr Barclay stood in his path, giving him no option but to stay put and listen to what he had to say. “I’m Barclay. You may have heard of me.”
The Commodore shook the proffered hand after a moment’s hesitation. “Glad to meet you, Mr Barclay. I believe your son is in the Dreadnought class. I’ve heard from my ward of their acquaintance.” He was struck by the thought that if the old saying of sons being like their fathers was true, Harry had been economical in describing the younger Barclay. “Would you care to walk with me? I don’t want to miss the start of the sloop race.”
“It’s about to start? Good, good. Yes, I’ll accompany you. My son is in the crew for his class. Should be the skipper, but he tells me he stood aside to give someone else a chance to star.”
Hiding his amusement at this statement, the Commodore nodded. “Generous of him. You mentioned you had something to discuss with me.” He indicated some seats. “This should give us a good view. Something to drink?”
“What? Oh. Yes, yes.” He ordered a whisky from the android steward. “Yes, this business on the news — the entire building collapsed. Hundreds dead, they say. How was this possible? Surely Fleet Security is doing something about it.”
Accepting the coffee latte from the steward, the Commodore nodded. “I expect they are, and no doubt I’ll be briefed on the situation later. Not being in the Security Department, I don’t know any more than what is on the news channels at present.” He smiled reassuringly. “I have every confidence they will have their best operatives working to discover who is behind it, and will bring them to justice.” He paused, watching his companion. “You have some interest is Global Security Holdings?”
“No! I mean, yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, I have a major share holding in them — part of my family’s portfolio, of course. This is a tragedy. Shocking business.”
Watching the boats preparing for the start of the race, the Commodore nodded. “All such atrocities are, of course.” He decided to throw in a hook of his own. “I understand the security people managed to thwart an attempt by some group to target this event. I don’t know the details, but it was, they think, aimed at some of our more important visitors.” The manner in which his companion stiffened t
old him Barclay had been at least partly aware of this plot. He glanced at the lake again. “Ah, I see they are about to start.”
THE WEATHER CONDITIONS WERE WORSE THAN ANY THAT Harry and his crew had practiced in. The decision not to use the flimsy modern sails with their Venetian blind structure was the right one, he thought.
“I know they are less efficient — we have proved that — but they are stronger and easier to handle in this wind,” Harry told his crew. “And we will do this our way, by hand. I know it is hard work, but the automated system will work against us if we allow it to have control.”
“You’re the captain.” Keiron laughed. “If you say do it the old fashioned way — then so be it.”
“It will cost us a little speed,” agreed Harry. “But I think we will make up for that in better handling and the ability to drive her harder.” He looked at his crew. “Anyone who feels they would rather stay ashore than sail in this wind can say so now. I will not blame you, and we can find a replacement if need be.”
Elize looked at the others then at Harry. “If you think any of us would miss this, Mr Heron, you’ve mistaken your crew.” The others nodded in agreement. “None of us would miss this for the world. Now give us your orders and let’s show them how we sail!”
Harry Heron: No Quarter Page 18
