Run Before the Wind

by Stuart Woods

  “Oh, Mark!” Annie suddenly wailed, shock in her voice. Mark was struggling out of his jeans. I followed her line of vision to his knee. It was horribly discolored and badly swollen.

  “Not to worry,” he mumbled, reaching for a sleeping bag, “Not to worry. Be fine in a day or two.” He was asleep almost immediately.

  I told Annie about the launching and Mark’s leap for the boat, then I fell asleep, myself.

  I woke the next morning to the smell of cooking breakfast. Mark, incredibly for him, was still asleep. It was nearly ten o’clock. Annie didn’t even say good morning.

  “Listen to me, Willie. We’ve got to get Mark to a doctor this morning.”

  “Well, yeah, his leg doesn’t look too good, does it?” I was thoroughly hung over.

  “It could be a lot worse than it looks, even. He nearly lost it before, you know.”

  I looked at the sleeping figure. “I’ve never seen him sleep late before. I didn’t know he could.”

  “He can’t, ordinarily. He’s hurt, and his body is reacting accordingly. Here’s your breakfast. As soon as you eat, will you row over to Dirty Murphy’s and phone for a taxi? I’ll get Mark up, and we’ll be along shortly.”

  “How are you going to get him to leave the boat?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll get him over there; you just get the taxi. Tell them it’s to go to Bon Secour Hospital in Cork.”

  I did as she said. Half an hour later they turned up at the pub in the other dinghy, Mark looking angry as hell. We all got into the taxi and started for Cork. Mark produced his lists.

  “Here’s the way we handle it, Willie. First, we get all that gear sorted out. The sails and other unnecessaries can go aboard Toscana; that’ll give us room to work.”

  I glanced at Annie. Her eyes told me to go along.

  “Next, we get the generator running. That shouldn’t be too tough.”

  “Mark, neither of us is an electrician.”

  “We don’t have to be. The boat’s whole wiring loom is in place, and everything is marked with tape. All we have to do is hook up. And once we get the generator going we’ll have power for tools. We’ll siphon diesel from Toscana to keep it going. It’s all going to take longer than we’d scheduled, of course; there’s a hell of a lot to be done, but we can do absolutely everything there is left to do right where she is, except get the mast in; we’ll need a crane for that. Look, I’ve got a whole work plan outlined, with everything in the order it’s to be done.” He shoved his lists at me. I pretended to look at them. He talked all the way to the hospital.

  Annie and I sat in the doctor’s office and listened. The doctor, short, plump, and extremely Irish, clipped an X-ray film to a light-box and switched it on.

  “D’you want me to point at things and all that, or do you just want me to tell you?” he asked, in a musical Cork accent.

  “Just tell me,” Annie replied.

  “He needs surgery, I’m afraid, and fairly quickly. Won’t help to delay. Trouble is, there’s nobody in Cork I’d want to do it; that knee’s a mess, for a fact. There’s one or two in Dublin and lots, I expect, in London. Who did the original surgery?”

  “A Major Browning, at the Royal Naval Hospital in Plymouth.”

  “Then that’s where I’d take him back,” the doctor said, emphatically. “This was a gunshot wound before, and they know about those things in the military. I expect he still has his service medical benefit, doesn’t he?”

  Annie nodded.

  “Well, he’s going to need at least one operation, maybe more, and it’d be expensive in a civilian hospital, I can tell you. There’s a daily, direct flight from Cork to Plymouth. Shall I see if I can get you on today’s plane? He’s a strong fellow; he could manage with a wheelchair at both ends of the flight.”

  “Please, doctor, if you would,” Annie said quietly. “I’d better go and tell him.”

  I waited in the hallway, expecting to hear an explosion of protest; there was none. The doctor went into the room, and shortly, the three of them emerged, Mark in a wheelchair.

  “The plane leaves in an hour and a half, Willie. You ride with me to the airport in a cab while Annie picks up some things at the cottage.”

  As an orderly helped Mark into the cab I turned to the doctor. “Assuming the surgery goes well, and the recovery, how long before he’ll be all right again.?”

  The doctor shook his head. “I could only give you a guess,” he said, “but I don’t think he’ll ever be all right in the sense that he was before this accident. I’d say he’d be as good as he’s going to be in, maybe, a year—that’s with a good recovery. He’d be walking with a brace by then. He might not ever again walk without one.”

  I thanked him and got into the taxi with Mark. He started going over the list again, and then, maybe sensing that I wasn’t with him, stopped. “Willie, I know this looks bad, but we can still do this; really, we can.”

  I looked at him. “It doesn’t look too good, Mark. Maybe with Finbar’s and Harry’s help I can get the boat in good enough shape to motor to England or the Channel Islands, but we’re not going to make the Azores race, and remember, you’ve got to do a qualifying cruise before December thirty-first if the committee is going to accept you for the transatlantic. Don’t you think it might be better to pass on the seventy-two race and aim for seventy-six? I’m sure Derek would let you have the boat.”

  He took hold of my arm, and if I had never seen a zealot before, I knew I was looking at one now. “Listen to me, Willie. I know myself very well, and what’s more, I know you. If you’ll get some help from Finbar and get started, you can have this boat sailing in six weeks, and she’ll make the starting line for the Azores race on July seventeenth. And I don’t care what that doctor told you back there, I’ll be aboard, I promise you. You and Annie and I will have the sail of our lives. We can do it. You can do it.”

  I looked back at him, and just for a moment, I believed him. “Okay, Mark,” I said, my throat tightening. “We’ll do it.”

  By the time their plane had left for Plymouth, I was no longer sure. I was all alone, now, and not noted for finishing things.

  42

  I TOOK a taxi from the airport and picked up Mark’s van, which we had left at the boatyard. I didn’t go inside to speak to Finbar or Harry; it seemed best to keep them out of it for a while, at least, until I knew what I was going to do. What Mark had proposed was impossible. Even if I got the boat into some sort of shape, he was clearly going to be out of commission for a long time to come.

  At the cottage I sat, numbly, for a long time. Late in the afternoon I found my notebook and dialed a New York number. There was a beep after the first ring. “This is Will Lee,” I said. “I would appreciate it if … somebody would contact me as soon as possible.” I gave the number and hung up. Then it occurred to me that there was another call I should make. I left a message, and within minutes the call was returned.

  “This is Major Primrose, Mr. Lee; how can I help you?”

  “Major, the boat is no longer at the yard, so there’s nothing for you to guard anymore.”

  “I’m aware of your launching. My man says it was very exciting.”

  “Too exciting.”

  “Where is the boat, now?”

  I told him.

  “I’ll have a man nearby in an hour’s time.”

  “I think maybe that’s a good idea. There’s a lot of expensive gear on board, and it wouldn’t be difficult to break in.”

  I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening trying not to think about the boat at all, and instead, kept trying to think of a way out. I couldn’t just bug off to Paris, leaving things as they were, but there had to be some orderly way to wrap things up and then go. I was trying to figure a way out, when the phone rang at about eight o’clock.

  “Willie?”

  “Hello, Annie. How’s Mark?”

  “Annoyed, but resigned. He’s over at the naval hospital with his leg packed in ice; he goes to su
rgery at eight in the morning. Somehow, he managed to make them give him a room with a phone; he hasn’t been off it since. He’s arranged for you to be able to write checks on the London account for whatever you need for the boat and yourself. He’d like you to send them a specimen of your signature. Got a pencil? I’ll give you the address.”

  I wrote down the bank’s address, all the while trying to think of a way to begin to tell Annie how impossible the situation was, but she stopped me in my tracks.

  “Willie, I don’t know what I’d do without you. Mark will do so much better knowing that you’re still working on the boat. I told you how depressed he was when he had the original surgery. I honestly don’t think I could go through that again. But now he’s still got the boat to look forward to, and best of all, he’s got you.”

  I had been prepared to put myself up for the Shit of the Year award by backing out, and now I knew I couldn’t do it, not while Annie still needed me around. “Well, I don’t think his plan is realistic; I don’t see how I can possibly get the boat in shape in time to make the Azores race; and I don’t see how Mark can possibly be in any sort of shape to do the qualifying cruise before the end of the year. Those two items apart, we’re in perfectly wonderful shape; that is, if somebody’s lawyers don’t descend from the sky and take the boat away.” I thought of mentioning that the IRA might come and bomb it, too, but thought better of it.

  She laughed, and I knew I would have to go on trying to keep her laughing. It was such a wonderful sound. “Well, I’m going to turn in, now,” she said, yawning. “I’m at the Mayflower Post Hotel, if you need to reach me.” She gave me the number and Mark’s number at the hospital. “It’ll probably be day after tomorrow before you can talk to him. As soon as he’s safely out of post-op I’ll start looking for a flat hereabouts. You take care of yourself, now. I’ll talk with you in a day or two.”

  I hung up, and the phone rang almost immediately.

  “Will? This is Nicky. We got your message. What’s doing?”

  “Oh, hi, thanks for getting back to me.” I told him about the premature launching of the boat and Mark’s accident.

  “Well, that’s bad news,” he said, “but it sounds as if you’ve made the right decisions.”

  “Look, Nicky, we’re going to have a hell of a time getting the boat finished if I can’t take her back to the yard. What are the chances of this legal situation getting resolved soon?”

  “Not good, I’m afraid. Unfortunately, it’s tied to a whole string of other difficulties; it can’t be favorably resolved until a number of other things happen first. You certainly aren’t going to be able to go back to the yard with the boat this summer, not without its being attached, and to tell you the truth, I think Derek would rather you scuttled her than let that happen.”

  Scuttling her was beginning to seem an attractive option. “Well, maybe motoring her to Jersey might be the best plan, once I’ve got her sorted out a bit.”

  “From what you’ve told me, I think leaving the boat right where it is is the best, possibly the only alternative. You’ve got Primrose watching over you, and at least some of the resources you need. The yard in Jersey is very good, but we’ve no guarantee that she won’t be found there, and then we’d be right back to square one. Have you got enough money?”

  “I think so, for the moment, anyway. I can write checks on Mark’s London account.”

  “Good. We’ll make the final deposit of our agreement in that account immediately, so you can go ahead and pay Cork Harbour Boatyard what you owe them to date. Does anybody in Cork know that the boat has not actually left the country?”

  I thought for a minute. “No, nobody, not even Finbar at the yard. Mark purposely didn’t tell him.”

  “Good, my advice would be to keep it that way. Both the boat and Mark are safely out of circulation. Is there somewhere you could stay—someplace out of the way?”

  “Well, I guess the logical thing for me to do would be to live aboard Toscana. She’s tied up next to the boat, and she’s quite comfortable.”

  “That sounds a good idea. Now, Will, if you need anything, you let us hear from you, all right? Just call the New York number. Derek is very grateful for the way you’re handling this, and we’ll do anything we can to help.”

  “Okay, Nicky, thanks. If you should have trouble reaching me and can’t, call Mark or Annie at the Royal Naval Hospital in Plymouth.”

  I had a sudden urge to get out of the cottage before I had to explain anything to anyone. I sat down and wrote to Mark’s bank, then to Lord Coolmore, enclosing a check for the remainder of our lease on the cottage, through September. I said we wouldn’t actually be moving out until then but wouldn’t be around much. I certainly couldn’t move all of Mark’s and Annie’s things out, and it seemed better to leave everything in the cottage but what I needed. I began getting my things together and loading them into the van. There wasn’t all that much, really. I went into Mark’s and Annie’s bedroom and had a quick look around. I found some sailing gear of theirs and loaded that, too.

  On my last trip, I looked into their wardrobe and found the Ingram machine pistol and the .45 automatic. Those shouldn’t be left lying about; I put them into the van, as well, hiding them under everything else.

  Then I telephoned Finbar.

  “Where are you, Willie? Where’s the boat?”

  “It’s better if you don’t know, Finbar, believe me.”

  He estimated the amount owing on the boat, and I included instructions for payment in the envelope I was sending to the London bank. That way, the check would come from England.

  I had one last look about, collected some bottles of wine, some books and other odds and ends, locked the cottage and got into the van. At the main road, I put the note to Coolmore in his mailbox and in Carrigaline, I posted the letter to the bank. It was after midnight, now, and I drove slowly and carefully through the deserted streets of Cork, nervous about the possibility of being stopped by the police; I would have one hell of a time explaining what I was doing with a machine gun in the van. Then I turned east. The boat was moored on Great Island, on the other side of the harbor. I drove slowly across the bridge and through Cobh, formerly Queenstown, where passenger ships had once called regularly, even the Titanic, on her one and only voyage. The village was still a marine center, and I passed a couple of shops where I would be able to find things I might need for the boat.

  I could see from my map that a road ran close to where the boat and Toscana lay. I found a dirt lane leading through a field toward the water, and after closing the farmer’s gate carefully behind me, drove into the trees. As I neared the boat, the headlights of a vehicle came on, startling me, but they went off immediately, and a figure waved from a Range Rover. Primrose’s man. I was able to park within ten yards of the water, then I had to swim out for the rubber dinghy. Transferring the gear from the van to the boat took some time, then I rowed across the East Ferry Channel to Dirty Murphy’s and retrieved the hard dinghy and outboard that we had left there that morning, feeling terribly furtive. It was after four in the morning before I was able to climb into a sleeping bag aboard Toscana and, with a groan, start to fall asleep.

  I had effectively disappeared. I was alone, now, with what I had to do.

  43

  IT WAS NEARLY NOON before I could drag myself from the sleeping bag and force myself to face the mess at hand. I ate a makeshift breakfast while gazing absently through a port at the day outside. It was raining steadily. Trust the Irish summer to produce what the Irish call “A fine, soft day.” Just the sort of day to stay in bed with my cold.

  Finally, I stepped from Toscana aboard the big boat and hurriedly unlocked the hatch, hunching my shoulders against the rain. The reality in the dim, green light below was even worse than my memory of it. Chaos would have been too polite a word. Thousands in electronic gear was jumbled together with thousands in other, more mundane equipment. It took me twenty minutes of shifting before I could even get a flo
orboard up to check the bilges. She was still taking water. I checked the softwood plug under the galley sink and gave it a couple of whacks with the mallet for good measure. It was leaking, but not fast enough to account for all the water she had taken. I laboriously pumped the bilges, thinking all the while that somewhere in the jumble of gear there was an electric bilge pump that could make my life a great deal easier. It would be first on my list of installations.

  That done, I decided that neatness would help; just putting the boat in reasonable order would make my task seem easier and give me cause for optimism. Besides, sorting and cleaning didn’t require much thinking. I wasn’t ready for thinking yet. I would have liked to put everything on deck and start from there, but the rain prevented me. Instead, I had to rummage for things that could safely get wet, shove those on deck, and leave the rest below. It was slow going. By the end of the day I had separated much of the gear, but had stowed or connected nothing. My cold sapped my strength and slowed me down.

  That evening I went into Cobh, found a telephone, and called Annie in Plymouth.

  “He was in surgery for six hours,” she said. “They did a lot of very delicate work, and the doctor says that all we can do now is wait for the healing. The leg will be in plaster for about three weeks, and they won’t know until it comes off whether the surgery has been as successful as they hope. If everything is all right at that time, then Mark can begin physiotherapy to regain use of the leg.”