by Stuart Woods
There was an ear-splitting smack as her topsides met the surface. For a moment, the water poured into the cockpit, and then, to everyone’s perfect astonishment, she was back upright and afloat. The four of us stood, transfixed, in the rain.
Finbar was the first to speak. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I’ve built over a hundred boats in my time, but I’ve never launched one like that.”
Then Mark shot past me, running flat out, and I saw why. The yacht was quickly drifting past the stone quay and downstream with the tide. We were losing her again. Mark planted one last step on the quay and leapt into space. His leap was long enough, but there had been no time to aim. He landed in a heap in the cockpit, and I heard him yell in pain.
“Let’s go, lads!” Finbar shouted. “She’ll either be gone downstream or aground in a minute.” We ran for Finbar’s dinghy, got the outboard started, and went after the drifting yacht. She seemed to be staying in midstream, but as we drew alongside and I leapt on board, she stopped suddenly. “She’s aground,” Finbar yelled. “Harry, grab a line and we’ll tow. Get the engine started, Willie.”
Mark was lying in the bottom of the cockpit, clutching his left knee, the one that, two years before, had taken the shotgun blast. I didn’t have time to think about that. I dove below and opened the cooling-water seacock. “Start her, Mark!” I stared at the engine and prayed; it had never been started before. I heard Mark fumbling with the controls and saw the cable that controlled the accelerator move; the engine began to turn over. “Hold it!” I shouted. “Use the glowplug!” Diesel engines have to be warmed electrically before being started cold. It takes about thirty seconds. It seemed like an hour, while the tide ran out under us. “Now!” I yelled, glancing at my watch. The accelerator cable moved again and the engine turned, then caught. I started up the companionway ladder; Mark was already at the wheel, giving the engine full power.
The yacht stood still while the water behind her churned, in the nautical equivalent of spinning her wheels. Finbar’s outboard whined. The yacht broke free.
“We’re off!” Mark screamed, as the boat surged forward.
“Good luck!” Finbar shouted, as we passed him and Harry.
Mark waved. “I’ll be in touch!”
I collapsed on a cockpit seat. “Okay, now what?” I asked.
“Now we get her out of the country,” he replied, steering carefully down the middle of the creek, the first glow of predawn lighting our way.
I turned and looked below at the jumble of boxes and gear, now scrambled even more by the violent launching, then lay back and took deep breaths. Rain pelted my face, and the wind swayed even the biggest trees along the shoreline. “Swell,” I said.
39
AN HOUR LATER, with the sun coming up, we were passing Roche’s Point Light, at the entrance to Cork Harbour. The wind had come up even more with the dawn, and we were motoring dead into a forty-knot southeasterly. Seas were breaking over the bar at the harbor entrance and Mark bore away to take them at an angle. Once past the bar, he still had to bear away to keep from motoring into the seaway that had been whipped up by the increasing wind.
I had been half-dozing in the cockpit during our trip down the harbor, but now the motion had me awake. “Okay,” I shouted over the wind, “what’s the plan? Where the hell are we going?”
Mark laughed. “We’re going just far enough out to sea to keep from making a liar out of Mulcahy—that’s to the three-mile limit—and then we’re going to come back and hide the boat in Cork Harbour.
“Hide it? Where? It’s a pretty busy place, you know. Aren’t you worried about somebody spotting her?”
“No, not where I have in mind. You want to take the helm for a while?”
I relieved Mark and he sat down heavily in the cockpit, rubbing his knee.
“Are you okay?”
“Sure, I just landed wrong when I jumped. The bad one took all the weight. It’ll be okay in a day or two.”
I had my hands too full with the yacht to worry about Mark’s knee. There is a certain rhythm to a sailboat, even going to windward in heavy weather, because the wind against the sails keeps her pressed. Not so under power with no sails. The boat pitches and rolls, and the lack of a rhythm to anticipate makes it very tiring just to be aboard, let alone to steer. For two hours I tacked back and forth, making distance to the south, motoring for the imaginary line that bordered Irish waters, the crossing of which would satisfy Mark’s sense of the proper thing to do with regard to Mulcahy. I would have said the hell with it and hidden the boat immediately, but not Mark. He had promised the man to get it out of the country. The size of the seas and the direction of the wind caused us to make slow progress; three miles was coming hard.
Mark spelled me and said, “We’ll give it another hour just to be sure, then turn and run for Cork. Take a look below; I think there may be some chocolate bars in the chart table.”
I worked my way to the main hatch and started down the companionway ladder into the dark cabin. I stepped off the last rung and found myself in water up to the knee. “Jesus, Mark,” I shouted out the hatch. We’re taking serious water down here; you better cut the engine and start pumping while I see if I can find where it’s coming in.”
I heard the engine die to an idle and felt the change in the boat’s motion as she came beam on to the seas; she rolled a bit, but was a lot more comfortable. I knew I had installed the seacocks properly, so there was only one place where that much water could have come in: the through-hull fitting for the galley sink drain, where I had hammered in a softwood plug. It should have held, but in her wild launching the yacht had struck the water hard on that side, and that must have loosened it. The plug must have been completely out by this time. I tried to get into the locker under the sink and discovered that, incredibly, a small, wooden crate had jammed itself into the opening. It would’t budge when I tried to pull it free, and I began to feel about for something to pry or smash it with.
Mark stuck his head through the hatch. “Hey, there’s no handle for the pump up here. It must be below somewhere; see if you can find it or a substitute, will you?”
Wonderful. Here I was in the pitch dark cabin of a rolling yacht, on my hands and knees in eighteen inches of water, and he wanted me to find a pump handle among the tangle of gear and boxes. I waded forward and began feeling my way through what was there. There was a steel toolbox somewhere in the vicinity of the chart table; I had put it there myself, but if it was still there, it was underwater and had probably spilled its contents into the bilges. After ten minutes of groping, while water continued to pour into the boat, I found it. I got it onto the chart table seat, yanked it open, and found a large screwdriver and a mallet. Using both tools, I tore at the box wedged in the galley locker until it splintered and came free. I handed up the screwdriver to Mark.
“This is close as you’re going to get to a pump handle; I hope it works.” I dove back below and began feeling for the through-hull fitting. It was easy to find, as a stream of water was gushing through it. Finding the plug was not as easy. I went to the chart table and, thank God, found a flashlight and, in the tool box, another plug and some sealant that would work underwater. Five extremely awkward minutes later I had the new plug pounded into place, and water stopped coming into the yacht. Using the flashlight I was able to find a bucket. There is an old saying that there is no better pump than a frightened man with a bucket, and, believe me, it is true. In an hour’s time the cabin was, if not dry, then only damp. I climbed wearily into the cockpit.
“Now listen,” I said, or rather, panted. “I say we’ve made three miles out, have you got that?”
He nodded, resignedly. “And if we’re ever questioned as to why we returned to Cork Harbour, we can say we were driven back by severe weather and difficult conditions.”
“No fucking joke,” I said. “Now, let’s point north and see how fast the tub will run before the wind under power.”
We made Roche’s Point in less th
an an hour and crept into the harbor in heavy fog. It could hardly have suited our purpose better. Mark at the helm, we followed the shoreline east, away from the boatyard, and came to East Ferry and the waterside pub, Dirty Murphy’s, keeping on the other side of the channel to avoid notice.
“Along here someplace will be good,” Mark said a few minutes later. “There are some deep pools back in the trees along this shore.”
He was right. In another couple of minutes he turned into a narrow cleft between the trees that opened into a neat little pool, not much longer than the yacht, and nearly round. I swam ashore with lines, and we tied up to trees, holding the yacht neatly in the center of the pool. Mark measured the depth with a makeshift leadline and announced that there would still be ample water, even at low tide. Then we went below, made room for ourselves among the boxes and gear and slept, unwilling to think about what we would do next.
40
THE RINGING of the telephone startled him. It was the second line, the ex-directory one he had had such a devil of a time getting, and it rang only when there was diocese business. He breathed deeply, then picked it up.
“Yes.”
“Is the bishop available?”
“Who is calling, please?”
“Sister Concepta.”
He was jolted for a moment. He hadn’t been ready for this call, and he would have to handle it carefully. “This is the bishop.”
Her voice was warm, eager. “We’re back. We’re in … “
“Don’t,” he said quickly. He had been ready for that. “It’s not necessary for me to know. Are you on an automatic exchange?”
“What?”
“Did you dial directly?”
“Of course,” she snorted. “Do you think I’m daft?”
“Just remember that it’s very important that you not go through an operator when ringing this number. Have you completed your education?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Were you pleased with it?”
“Quite. We studied a bit of everything. I think you might say we earned an honors degree.”
“Good. I’m sure you’ll put your education to good use. Are you ready for a posting?”
“Nearly. We’d both like to make a trip to the diocese to right a great wrong.”
“Are you speaking of the priest’s brother?”
“Yes. The priest is anxious to conduct the sinner’s funeral personally, and I am looking forward to assisting him. We were thinking of a burial at sea.”
“The sinner you’re referring to is the nautical chap—is that what you think?”
“Absolutely.”
Good, that was a relief. “I’m afraid you’re a bit late. I’ve just learned that he left the country last night—sailed away, in fact, to avoid a legal problem.”
“Bound for where?”
“I haven’t been able to determine that.”
“Do you think he might come back?”
“I don’t know, I might have further information later. But listen to me very carefully, now; you and the priest are not to return to this diocese unless I explicitly authorize it, on pain of excommunication. Do you understand that?”
“Excommunication? Are you serious?”
“I am quite serious, I assure you. The order you have chosen requires the strictest obedience, far stricter than the one you left. You must take your instructions from me and from those I delegate, is that quite clear?”
There was a moment’s sullen silence. “Yes, it’s quite clear,” she said, finally. “What are your instructions?”
“I want you to contact the Dublin parish; the number you used before is still good. Take your instructions from the monsignor.”
“But …”
“He understands that you and the priest are to work independently, but you must coordinate your tasks with him. You are still well-financed, I believe?”
“Fairly well. If we undertook any major new charitable work we would have to look for new funds, though.”
“Clear that with the monsignor, as well. I trust you can now handle fund-raising with somewhat more élan than in the past.”
She laughed. “I believe so.”
“Good, best not to rely on luck in these matters. Go now, and do good works. I’ll keep track of you through the monsignor, so don’t call me here unless it’s absolutely necessary, and then only with the proper precautions.”
“I understand.”
“Good luck, then.” He hung up and heaved a great sigh of relief. It wouldn’t do to have those two blundering into his diocese, going after Mark Robinson. He would have to keep close tabs on them. He turned back to the farm accounts he had been working on.
41
WHEN I WOKE, late in the afternoon, it took me several seconds to realize where I was, and only an instant to regret it. I had been sleeping in an awkward position on a sailbag, so my back was killing me, and I had a full-blown, very heavy, head cold. The atmosphere was cold and damp. Mark was sitting at the chart table, scribbling something on a pad by flashlight.
“Morning,” he said, cheerfully, “or rather, afternoon. It’s past five. Get any rest?”
“Not much,” I grumbled, sitting up. “Nobody’s arrested us yet?”
“Certainly not,” he laughed. “We haven’t broken any laws. All we’ve done is launch a new yacht a couple of weeks ahead of schedule.”
I looked around at the shambles of gear around us. “Nothing here is ahead of schedule,” I said. “Not anymore. And if we try and take her back to the yard, we’ll be right back where we started. If whoever’s suing Derek knew about the boat before, you can bet your ass they’ll know about her if we take her back.”
“We’re not taking her back,” Mark said.
“Well, we’re sure as hell not taking her to the Channel Islands, either, if experience tells us anything.” I blew my nose loudly into a sodden handkerchief. The rest of me was still pretty damp, too.
“No,” he agreed. “We’ll finish her here.”
I stared at him sadly; he had finally gone right out of his head. “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
He kept writing on the pad. “Willie, will you do me a favor? Dig out the new rubber dinghy, row over to Dirty Murphy’s and ring Annie, will you?” He ripped off a sheet from the pad and handed it to me. “Ask her to get as much of this stuff together as she can and bring it over here tonight aboard Toscana. I reckon there’s no more than one dinghy load here; she should be able to get it all aboard all right. Tell her to tow the dinghy and outboard when she comes, okay?”
I took the list and shoved it into my pocket. “Sure, Mark.” I thought it better to humor him. I rummaged about until I found the dinghy, neatly folded into its canvas bag. It was, of course, under everything else. Everything on the boat seemed to be under everything else. I humped it into the cockpit and unpacked it. Mark made no move to help me; he just kept writing; he seemed to be making more lists. I inflated the dinghy with the foot pump, pausing frequently to rest. The head cold seemed to have robbed me of all my energy. Finally, the dinghy was firm, and I got it into the water and started for the pub. It was still foggy, though not as bad as before. I rowed slowly, trying to think.
I wanted out; it was as simple as that. I found it hard to believe that only the morning before, I had greeted the day feeling just great. In less than thirty-six hours everything seemed to have gone to hell. The shock of realizing how much I wanted Connie again lingered painfully with me, like a spear in the chest, and the more than three unthreatening, productive months we had spent on the boat seemed to have evaporated into nothing. We were stuck, now. We hadn’t the resources—power, tools, help—to finish the boat where she was; we couldn’t take her back to the yard, and we couldn’t get her to Jersey in the shape she was in. It was nearly June. I could spend the summer traveling, spend some time in Paris with Jane, who, at least, offered physical consolation, even if she never seemed to think about anything else; then, in the fall, I could return to law
school. Law school was beginning to look pretty good.
I tied up in front of the pub and on my way to the phone, got hold of a large brandy. I needed it. I dialed the cottage, and Annie answered on the first ring.
“Yes?” Her voice was anxious.
“Your faithful and slightly bruised servant,” I said. Slightly drunk, too; the brandy was making its way quickly to the important places, uninhibited by anything in my stomach.
“Willie, where are you?”
“I’m at Dirty Murphy’s. Mark and the boat are nearby.”
“Thank God. I talked to Finbar, and he said you were actually taking her out of the country.”
“Oh, we did, we did. Right past the three-mile limit and back again.”
She giggled. “That’s just like Mark; devious to the end.”
“He’s made up a list of stuff; he’d like you to bring it over here aboard Toscana.” I read her the list; food, clothes, booze, flashlights, a couple of lanterns, some tools and a shotgun, my riot shotgun, which lived in my cupboard. “And he says to tow the dinghy and outboard over. Can you manage?”
“Of course. Exactly where are you?”
“Two or three hundred yards past the pub, in a little inlet on the opposite side of the channel; you can hardly see it. We’ll flash a torch for you. Make up bow and stern lines and lead them back to the cockpit. You can toss to me and we’ll tie you up alongside the big boat.”
“Right. It’ll be about … two hours, I should say.”
“See you then.” I went back to the bar and ordered another brandy and some sandwiches; I took a bottle of brandy, too. Mark was still scribbling when I got back to the boat. I didn’t ask what, just gave him a sandwich and a pull from the brandy bottle. We were both quite drunk by the time Annie arrived in Toscana. At Mark’s insistence, we tied the smaller yacht across the stern of the larger one. That way, anyone passing would see only the smaller one, if he didn’t look too closely. Toscana was a welcome haven—warm, dry and inviting. Annie made us some hot soup, while we stumbled about, laughing drunkenly over nothing, getting out of our wet clothes and into sleeping bags.
