Run Before the Wind

by Stuart Woods

  “But what?” I thought I knew what was coming, and I didn’t like it.

  She turned and hugged her knees. “This has been marvelous for me, this time with you; I’ve loved it, I really have … ”

  I was right, she was going to tell me we couldn’t go on this way. In fact, she told me a great deal more.

  “If it hadn’t been for you, and for Derek, of course … ”

  “Derek?” Now I sat up. “What do you mean?”

  She looked at me. There was just enough light in the room for me to tell that she was surprised.

  “But surely, you knew. That day in the car … you saw me.”

  I groped for her meaning for just a moment, and then it flashed before me; a car passing on the Carrigaline road, a chauffeur-driven car—a woman in the back seat who, when I looked a second time wasn’t there—and then the cow had stepped into the road, throwing me into a spin, and in my fear and excitement I had forgotten.

  She read my face quickly. “You didn’t know. Oh, my God, I thought you did, I thought you were being kind, not making me explain.”

  “Tell me. Tell me all of it.”

  She turned back and rested her forehead on her knees. “Oh, Jesus, it started in London before I even met you, before Mark met Derek. It was when Mark was still in hospital the first time. I was going mad in Plymouth, and I went up to London to see my mother for a few days. I met Derek in Harrod’s Food Halls, of all places, buying smoked salmon. We had lunch; we had dinner; we … ”

  “I see,” I said dully.

  “It was just something I needed at that moment in time. Mark was hardly speaking; I was married to a man who seemed to be headed for a mental hospital.”

  Now I was beginning to see it all. “So you introduced Derek to Mark.”

  “It seemed ideal… it was ideal. Derek wanted a boat; Mark was going insane because nobody would sponsor the boat he wanted to build. I told Derek what Mark wanted to do, and it suited him very well. He came to Cowes, and I got Mark to the Royal London Ball, and, well, it worked out beautifully.”

  “And then, whenever you got fed up in Cork you hopped over to England and Derek.”

  “No, he took a place in Ireland. He came whenever I could get away, even after all the trouble in England. He could get in from France to a private landing strip. I just thought when you saw the chauffeur you knew immediately. I’m sorry to burden you with all this, now.”

  I felt hollow inside, but my mouth still worked. “Let me sum this up: you couldn’t handle it when Mark was hurt, so you went to London and started screwing Derek Thrasher. Then, you kept screwing him to buy Mark his boat, or was it the other way around—you got Mark to take the sponsorship so you could keep screwing Derek? Jesus, my summer job was nothing more than the fruit of a little casual prostitution … ”

  “Willie …”

  “That’s what it was, wasn’t it? One way or the other, you were buying something and paying for it with a little fucking. And me, I was just kept around, like a steak in the freezer, until you wanted to fuck somebody again … ”

  She slapped me, hard, then leapt from the bed, winding the sheet around her. “Willie, I don’t need this from you … ”

  I pursued her across the room. “Just what the hell do you need from me, then?”

  “A little understanding might help,” she said, backing away from me. I think she was afraid I was going to hit her.

  I was afraid I was going to hit her, too. I turned away and started pulling on clothes. “Oh, I think I understand,” I muttered. Then, still stuffing in my shirttail, I grabbed a jacket and slammed out of the flat.

  It was nearly dawn. I stalked down the narrow, cobbled street, my deck shoes slapping against the stones, echoing down the hill. I reached the waterfront and headed for the Estalagem, the ruined fort on the harbor. Having gone as far as I could go without getting wet, I sat on the wall overlooking the sea and wept, grateful for the privacy of the time of day. I had wanted to give her everything, and she had wanted nothing from me but a roll in the hay. My righteousness made my pain sharper and my weeping longer. I let myself forget that I had been trying to take my best friend’s wife. I was a wronged man.

  I sat there until midmorning, then went back to the flat. Annie was gone, but her bags were there, packed. I packed my own. Our plane was to leave in little more than an hour. She came back at the last possible moment, and I threw our stuff into the car without a word. The rent-a-car man drove us to the airport and took the car away. The flight to London and the change for Cork passed in hostile silence on both sides. We both tried to sleep on the plane. I couldn’t.

  54

  “BOTH THE BISHOP and the monsignor were very pleased with your work in the West Country,” Pearce said. “Why haven’t you been in touch? It’s been almost three weeks.”

  “It seemed a good idea to lie low for a bit,” Maeve replied. “And we weren’t so happy with the Plymouth results.”

  “Considering who you got, I don’t think you should be worried about who you missed. He’s not that important, anyway.”

  Maeve looked at the newspaper in her hand again and ground her teeth. “I wanted to let you know it’ll be a week or ten days before we’ll be ready for further instructions. We’ve some personal business to attend to.”

  “Personal business? You must be joking. The monsignor wouldn’t like it.”

  “Fuck the monsignor,” she said. “I’ll call you when we’re ready again.” She hung up the phone and read the brief article on the sports page again.

  WAVE WINS AZORES RACE

  Former Royal Marine Captain Mark Pemberton-Robinson, accompanied by his wife and one other crew in his new, 60-foot yacht, Wave, has won the Azores Race in just under ten days, finishing only seconds ahead of the 49-foot trimaran Three Cheers. Captain Pemberton-Robinson, who built the yacht for the 1972 Single-handed Transatlantic Race, is returning singlehanded from the Azores to Ireland, where the yacht was built, thereby greatly exceeding the required 200-mile qualifying cruise for the Transatlantic. “I want to see she has a real workout, “ he was quoted as saying. Wave departed Horta, on the island of Faial, on August 3, and her skipper expects the sail to Ireland to take only eight or nine days, since the return passage should be downwind.

  She drove back to the caravan park. “We’re taking a little Irish Holiday,” she said to Denny, tossing him the paper.

  He read it quickly, smiling. “So we’ll get another go at him, then.”

  “At him and the boat, too, with what I’ve got in mind.” She briefly explained her plan.

  “Red will be all for it, I know he will, but how are we going to get weapons over? The ferry ports are crawling with Special Branch types.”

  “We can manage with what’s available locally,” she said. “We’ll take the Swansea-Cork ferry as foot passengers, do the job, and take it right back. Call Red and tell him to meet us the day after tomorrow. That should put us there a day or so ahead of time. And tell him to keep his mouth shut; you know how he talks.”

  55

  WE MISSED our connection in London, spent an un-comfortable night at Heathrow, and got a noon plane for Cork the following day, still talking only when absolutely necessary. As we came out of customs as Cork Airport, I was surprised to see Connie. She rushed up.

  “Come on,” she said urgently, “My car’s outside.”

  She hustled us to the car park. “What’s going on, Connie?” I asked, puzzled.

  “I’m to get you down to the Royal Cork. Finbar’s waiting for you there.”

  I was exhausted and annoyed. “What is going on?”

  “I heard on the grapevine that Red O’Mahoney and some friends of his are planning to intercept Mark before he sails into the harbor,” she said. “I called Finbar, and he told me you were expected. I’ve met the last three planes. Finbar’s got a boat waiting at the club. He reckons we should try to head off Mark and divert him to England.”

  “Swell,” I said and tried to nap
on the short drive to the club.

  Finbar was, indeed, waiting for us with a boat—a very nice, old pre-war, wooden cabin cruiser of about thirty-five feet that I knew belonged to a Cork dentist. Finbar had done a lot of work on it.

  “Is Mark’s ETA the same?” Finbar asked as we came aboard.

  “Yes. Today or tomorrow, he thought, depending on weather,” Annie replied.

  “Well, Connie’s put some grub aboard. I reckon our best bet is to go out a few miles and try to raise him on the VHF.”

  Once out of the river and into the harbor, Finbar put the throttles down, and we moved along at about fifteen knots. “Sweet, isn’t she?” Finbar said proudly.

  We went out about six or seven miles and began patrolling up and down a five mile line at five knots. There wasn’t much sea, and we were comfortable enough, with Connie and Annie making coffee and sandwiches. We called Wave repeatedly, but got no response. Darkness came, and we continued.

  “Finbar,” I said, about midnight, “maybe we should go in a bit closer to the harbor entrance. This far out, if he doesn’t have the VHF on, he might get past us. Closer in, we’ll be nearer the neck of the bottle.”

  Finbar nodded and turned toward Roche’s Point Light, flashing in the distance. “We’ll be nearer Red O’Mahoney, too, but I reckon he won’t be expecting us, and anyway, we can outrun his trawler. He couldn’t get more than eight knots out of her.”

  We resumed our patrolling closer in, calling Wave every ten minutes on channel 16 of the VHF. At nearly three in the morning, five ‘minutes after I had tried calling, the radio came alive.

  “Cork Harbour Radio, Cork Harbour Radio, Cork Harbour Radio, this is the yacht, Wave, do you read me?”

  I grabbed the microphone. “Wave, Wave, listen to me; switch to channel M, channel M.” Channel M in the British Isles is reserved for marina and yacht club use. I knew a fishing boat wouldn’t have the crystal in its VHF.

  “Switching to channel M,” Mark’s voice came back.

  “Mark, this is Will, do you read me?”

  “Willie?” Mark came back, surprised. “Where are you?”

  “I’m with Finbar on a cabin cruiser about two miles south southwest of Roche’s Point Light. Annie and Connie are with us. Where are you?”

  “I estimate three, maybe three and a half miles south of the light. Wait a minute, I’ll fire a white flare.”

  “No, No!” I shouted into the radio, but I was too late.

  Finbar pointed across the water. “There! There he is!” He put the throttles down and turned toward the bright, white light.

  A couple of minutes later the flare died, and Mark came on the radio again.

  “Do you see me?”

  I pressed the talk button. “Listen to me, Mark. Red O’Mahoney and his crowd are out here on a trawler somewhere looking for you. We saw you, and we’re coming, but Red may have seen you, too. Do you read that?”

  “I read you. I’ll heave to so you can come alongside.”

  Shortly, we saw a flashlight on Wave’s mainsail. “Douse the light, Mark!” I shouted into the radio. The flashlight went out. In another minute or two, we were alongside Wave. Mark already had fenders out to receive us. Annie tossed her gear to Mark and prepared to hop aboard the yacht, while Finbar cut his engines. As soon as he did, I heard another engine. “Down there!” I pointed off into the darkness. “I hear a boat!”

  “Finbar, you keep Connie aboard and stand well off,” Mark said quietly.

  “But I want to help,” Finbar came back.

  “We’ll call you on channel M if we need help, now just start your engines, turn off your nav lights, and keep well off unless I call you.” Finbar did as he was told. Mark motioned Annie below, then followed and tossed up the Ithaca riot gun to me. “It’s loaded,” he said. “Twelve shells.” He came on deck with the Ingram machine pistol, slapping a clip into it and tossing two more onto a cockpit seat. “Let’s get sailing,” he said.

  We quickly pointed the yacht southeast and got her going, but the wind was light, and she was only making four or five knots. The other boat’s engine grew steadily louder. I stood, looking over the water, trying to locate it. “Listen, Mark, let’s don’t start shooting, okay? That might be some perfectly ordinary fisherman, you know.” On the other hand, I knew, it might not be a fisherman, in which case they might start shooting.

  “I’m not out to kill anybody, Willie, but I’m going to defend if I have to. You can put down the shotgun and go below if you want.”

  “Well,” I said, my voice not very steady, “if they start shooting, I’ll shoot back.” I was feeling very weak in the bowels. The other boat was very near, now, and she wasn’t wearing navigation lights, or we’d have seen her sooner than we did.

  “Good man,” Mark said.

  His statement was suddenly punctuated by a roar and a flash from about thirty yards away. Simultaneously, there was a loud crack, and a large hole appeared in the mainsail, about two feet above my head.

  “Shotgun!” Mark shouted, pulling me down into the cockpit. “Pump a couple over their heads, Willie! I don’t want to use the Ingram unless we have to!”

  I took a deep breath, popped up from the cockpit and, blindly, but high, fired two quick shots. I ducked, then peeped over the cockpit coaming to see what was happening. The trawler was closer and broadside on to us, now, running a parallel course. I wished the wind would come up so we’d have more of a chance to outrun her. Then I saw a flame on her foredeck.

  “Jesus!” shouted Mark. “Molotov cocktail!”

  The flame arched high into the air toward us, and I reflexively did the only thing I’d ever really done with a shotgun. It was easier than shooting skeet, really, it seemed to come so slowly. I led it just a bit and fired. The bottle burst like a Roman candle, showering down burning gasoline, which hissed when it hit the water, short of Wave. I saw another flame on the foredeck and pumped the shotgun, ready to fire again, but Mark was ahead of me. He had unscrewed the silencer on the Ingram and was firing noisily at the trawler. I was relieved to see splashes along her waterline as the big 45 caliber bullets pounded into her hull. There was shouting from aboard her, and the flame fell to the foredeck. There was a splash of fire, and the whole forward end of the trawler seemed to burst into flames.

  “Look at that!” Mark shouted gleefully. “I couldn’t have hit anybody, they must have just dropped the bloody cocktail!”

  We watched, transfixed, as the trawler suddenly fell away from us, flaming like a giant torch in the night. Just for a moment, I thought I saw the outline of a woman against the flames, but then it was gone.

  “I think she’s listing a bit,” Mark said as the trawler motored away from us. “The Ingram must have done some damage at the waterline.”

  Annie stuck her head up from below. “Is it all right up here, now? Is anybody hurt?”

  “We’ve got a nice hole in the mainsail, but that seems to be it,” Mark replied, looking around. “Well done, Willie, that was a nice shot!”

  “Excuse me, I have to go below,” I said, and scrambled down the companionway ladder. Five minutes later, with a better grip on myself, I came back into the cockpit as Mark was heaving to. Finbar stood just off in the cruiser, shouting.

  “Bloody marvelous, Mark!” he yelled, as he came alongside. “They’ve got their tails between their legs, now!” The trawler was now only a speck of flame in the distance.

  “Willie, we’ll head for England, I think,” Mark said. “Want to come along?”

  “I think I’ll go back with Finbar,” I replied, taking deep breaths. “But thanks for a lovely evening.”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any more trouble with that lot,” Mark said, looking off toward the disappearing trawler, then turning to me. “Willie, I can’t thank you enough for coming out here and helping. You’ve saved my bacon again. She’d be on fire if it weren’t for you.” He stuck out his hand. “Better go quickly. The wind’s coming up, now. We’ll be out of her
e like a shot.”

  I grabbed his hand and held it for a minute. “Well, anyway, you’re in good shape, now. The boat’s wonderful, the leg’s on the mend, and you’re qualified for the transatlantic.”

  “We’ll see you in the spring, then.”

  I avoided answering; instead, I clambered aboard the cruiser and shoved us off. I didn’t say goodbye to Annie. As Finbar pulled away from Wave and turned toward Cork, I saw Mark wear the boat around and start her sailing, then wave from the cockpit. Annie was nowhere in sight. I stumbled down into the cruiser’s saloon, ignoring an outstretched coffee cup from Connie, and threw myself onto a settee. I was asleep before we had gone another hundred yards.

  Later, Finbar dropped me at the cottage. I said only a perfunctory goodbye to Connie. I didn’t want to think about women for a long time.

  Finally, after dialing lots of digits and wading through two operators and a secretary, I heard his voice on the line, unchanged, dry, skeptical. “Yessss?”

  “Dean Henry? This is Will Lee. How are you, sir?”

  “I’m very well, thank you. To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Sir, I’d like to come back to law school this fall.”

  There was a short silence. “I assume you’ve done some thinking about this.”

  “Yes, sir, I have; a lot of it. I know it’s what I want to do, now, and I know I can do it well.”

  “Well… registration begins on the twenty-fifth of this month, you know. I suppose you can find your way here from wherever on earth you are?”

  “Yes, sir!” I said. “I’ll be there with bells on!”

  “A nontinkling presence will do nicely, Mr. Lee. Until registration day, then.”

  I hung up, vastly relieved. Still bone-tired from the exploits of the previous wee hours, I stepped among the packed boxes of Mark’s and Annie’s things, gathered my remaining belongings, put the recharged battery back into my car, locked the cottage, and drove away. I left the key in Lord Coolmore’s mailbox, with a note saying that a removals company would pick up the Robinsons’ possessions, then drove to my grandfather’s. I had a glass of sherry with him, then said my goodbye and left my car with him to be sold. His groom drove me to Shannon airport to catch the Aer Lingus flight to New York, where I would change for Atlanta, there to be met by my parents. I would have some time with them before school started.