Came the Dawn

by Roger Bax

  “Blimey!” said Denny, staring at it.

  Personally, I didn’t like the look of it at all, but Denny was intrigued. The weapon was fantastically old—under the rust you could see the metal had once been chased. Someone had cherished it in days gone by. It had a bore of about two inches, and a heavy trigger.

  Although I’d been a war correspondent, what I knew about the actual operation of weapons of any sort would barely have covered a sixpence. I’d been more interested in the chaps who fired them. But Denny had been through a gunnery course during his tank training, and was in any case always fascinated by bits of metal.

  Soon he had the thing out of the skiff and was examining it with intense interest. “It’s an old muzzle-loader,” he said. “See, you put the powder down the muzzle, then a wad of oakum or something, then you pour in the shot and shove in another wad, and she’s loaded. The trigger explodes a cap and detonates the powder and everything blows up. It must take quite a while to load, Joe.”

  “Not as long as you’d think,” said Joe. “A couple of minutes, perhaps. The fellow who owned it used to load it before he put it aboard. That was one of the troubles—once he’d fired it he had to go ashore and unsling it and start from the beginning again. He couldn’t afford to miss. I remember he used to say it cost him five bob every time he fired it, but he used to get a lot of duck and widgeon.”

  “What does it fire?” I asked.

  “Oh,” said Denny, “small shot, bent nails, old bedsteads! Practically anything. What about the recoil, Joe? What did he do about that?”

  “He had it slung in a sort of rope cradle,” said Joe. “I think it was his own idea. He said it worked all right.”

  “You’re not seriously thinking of taking this along, Denny?” I asked. “Damn it, aren’t the perils of the sea bad enough without adding to them?”

  “It’s a useful weapon,” said Denny thoughtfully. “You could do a lot of damage with it, you know. And what’s more natural than that we should do a bit of duck-shooting on our holiday?”

  “Not in August,” said Joe, with a grin.

  “No? Well, I don’t know much about duck anyway,” said the urban Denny. “But we could still take the gun aboard and keep it hidden.” He looked across at Dawn and then back again at the stout steel gun. “Couldn’t we rig it up as a dummy bowsprit, Joe? Take the wooden one off and put this on instead? It’s about the right length and diameter, and nobody would know it wasn’t the real thing unless they inspected it closely. We could paint it the colour of the wood and varnish it.”

  Joe considered. He and Denny together were a menace. “I dare say we could,” he said. “But what about the recoil?”

  They became all technical again. I heard them discussing something about a sliding tube, and then they thought of springs, and Joe wondered about the effect of so much weight in the bows. Of course, the more they discussed it the more interested they became, until in the end they felt they just had to fix the gun to see if their ideas worked out all right. Altogether, what with cleaning and oiling the gun, and then fixing it and painting it, I reckon it kept both of them busy for the best part of three days. I had no part in it—I went up to town on business and left them to it.

  One of my first calls was at Steve’s office to see if there were any messages. There were no cables, but he’d already done five broadcasts, and two of them were interesting. One was an account of the progress of the Russian ballet. It described how the Russians were anxious to keep up the flow of new talent by means of their ballet schools, and how some of the younger girls were coming along nicely. Then it mentioned half a dozen names, including Lamarkina—that was Marya—who was being given a big chance this year by going on tour with some of the stars and perhaps dancing some of the lead parts in the provinces. I took that broadcast as confirmation of what we already knew about the tour and as Steve’s way of showing that he had the situation well in hand. I noticed that Donovan took a gloomy view of his colleague’s new-found interest in the Russian ballet.

  The other broadcast made me laugh. It was a lighthearted colourful piece about Soviet youth and Soviet sport. It said among other things that after an exceptionally good winter for ski-ing the young people were now turning to summer activities, and were getting very interested in what Steve called ‘aquatics’. Swimming was as popular as ever. “Any fine day,” said the broadcast, “if you go along to the famous bathing beach at Khimki you can see scores of blonde and well-built young Russians girls practising new strokes for the strenuous sporting events ahead.” Steve was certainly enjoying himself. I hoped for Svetlana’s sake that the water in the Moskva river was warmer than that in Southfleet creek.

  Meanwhile, I had my own communication problem. Somehow, I had to ask Steve to make sure that the light buoy on the Vake shoal was still functioning. I thought at first that if I sent him a cable starting with his own keyword ‘today’ and using his own cypher system I might be able to get the message through, but when I tried to draft such a cable I had trouble. The word Vake in a short cable stuck out like a sore thumb, and I couldn’t think of any descriptive circumlocution which would leave Steve in no doubt about what I wanted. Finally, I decided that the safest way would be to wrap my requirements up in a long letter and send it through the open post. Bang in the middle of a rigmarole of personal news I wrote:

  By the way, do you remember meeting old Vake at my flat this summer—the fellow with the flashing eyes? His boy was over here a couple of days ago—a nice young fellow whom I’d like you to meet some time. He used to be rather a spoilt kid, but it seemed to me he’d changed a good deal lately and now he wants to go into the newspaper business. I’m interested in the boy and some time when you’rea round I’d like to know what you think of him.

  I didn’t think a censor would make anything of that, but I felt sure Steve would remember the Vake light and would get the idea without difficulty.

  When I got back to Southfleet I found that Denny and Joe had got the punt gun in place, and I had to admit that they’d made it look remarkably like a real bowsprit. Denny had combed the local garages until he had found the springs he wanted, and Joe had ingeniously adapted the metal barrel so that it was actually capable of doing the work of a bowsprit in carrying the foot of the jib. Denny had fixed a rubber cap over the muzzle to keep the barrel free from water, and the firing mechanism and springs were securely covered with a piece of waterproof sheet. The barrel had been painted a light brown and varnished. The whole thing looked very normal and innocuous. Denny had managed to make contact with the former owner of the gun by telephone, and had briefed himself about the right amount of powder and shot to use. I couldn’t feel that he’d gone to the best sources for his information, but it transpired that the accident to the owner’s finger had been only indirectly concerned with the gun—at least, so Denny assured me. Denny had laid in a store of small roundshot and powder, as well as a box of caps to detonate the charge, and he told me proudly that the gun was loaded and that we were ready for battle! He was keen to go off somewhere and fire it right away, just to make sure that it worked, but Joe was fitting a second fresh-water tank and had his tools all over the place, so we decided to wait for a more convenient moment.

  Joe said, what about secondary armament? Weren’t we taking a couple of revolvers? I squashed that idea before Denny could focus his attention on it. We should have to spend a good deal of time in the territorial waters of friendly countries, and we might even have to claim the right of innocent passage in Estonian waters at some time, and I didn’t like all these bellicose preparations. It seemed to me that if we couldn’t succeed in our mission by skill and secrecy there was no chance of succeeding by force, and that if we tried to do so we should be asking for the worst sort of-trouble. I regarded the punt gun as nothing more than the eccentricity of a man who by his hard work had earned the right to be humoured, and I hoped profoundly that no one would ever notice it.

  We were now almost into June and our preparat
ions were nearing completion. All but a few perishable stores were aboard, and a colossal inventory it was. In the quietness of the short nights I went over and over in my mind the list of things we should need, trying to visualize while there was still time the demands that each emergency might make on us. If there was the least element of doubt I added to the list. To show how thorough we had to be, one of the things we had to think of was a complete outfit for each of the two girls. According to our plan they’d be swimming out to the dinghy in nothing but costumes, and for quite a while after that—at least until we reached Stockholm—they’d have nothing at all except what we took for them. That was a responsibility which involved a whip-round among our friends for coupons, a lot of guessing about measurements, and a quite fantastic shopping expedition. Denny explained to the slightly puzzled shop assistant that it was to be a surprise for our wives. The assistant regarded the pile of silk stockings, slips and sou’ westers and said she was sure it would be.

  On June 3, a glorious day, Joe formally pronounced Dawn ready for sea. Apart from her hull, she was virtually a new boat, and in her solid way she looked magnificent. We all three went aboard that afternoon when the tide began to flow, because Joe wanted to try her himself under sail before Denny and I took her down the estuary. We spent the rest of the day out in her, and when we finally brought up in the old spot Joe declared himself completely satisfied with her performance. So, judging by the comments I heard in the creek, was everybody else. Nobody had the least idea of our real destination, of course. It had been impossible to conceal the large quantities of stores we had taken aboard and the meticulous preparations we had made, but our story was that we were going through the French canals to the Mediterranean.

  The next day, June 4, was the real test. Denny and I slept aboard so that we could get away as soon as the ship floated. We planned to have a long day’s sail out to the Nore and back, and I felt very much on my mettle, but confident. After Wayfarer, Dawn seemed as safe and comfortable as a liner. All her gear, of course, was much heavier to handle than anything I’d been used to, and the brand new ropes were hard on the hands. But Denny, who had learned a good deal by now even if a lot of it was book knowledge, proved far more useful than he had been at first. It is true he was more interested in the compass and the course we were sailing and the buoys we had to identify than he was in the set of the sails and the niceties of pointing, but we had agreed that his main job should be navigation. All the same, I was determined that he should actually sail the boat himself for a spell and get the feel of her.

  It was a lovely day and we had a splendid beat to the Nore. Conditions were so good that I almost wished we were on our way instead of merely having a practice sail. If we could be blessed with three days of such weather for our passage to Sweden it would put us in good heart for the more difficult task to follow.

  Just before noon, when we were far out to sea, Denny said, “What about trying the gun?” He assured me that the firearm was in splendid condition and he could positively guarantee that nothing untoward would happen. There wasn’t, of course, anything in particular to fire at. The only objects in sight were the big iron navigation buoys, and Denny was much too law-abiding by nature to think of using those as a target. However, he said he only wanted to make sure the gun actually worked, and that it would be sufficient to fire it off into space.

  Denny went forward to operate the contrivance while I stood by with one eye on the life-buoy and the other on the fire extinguisher. There was no means of taking off the rubber cap at the end of the muzzle since it was far out over the water, but Denny had laid in some spares and was content to shoot through it. He took the waterproof cover off the breech, or whatever the thing was called, placed a cap in the little pan provided for the purpose, crouched down behind the mast with his face turned away, and pulled the trigger. There was a noise like a bomb going off, and a lot of smoke from the breech and the muzzle. The whole ship shuddered, and I couldn’t blame it. A fragment of rubber hanging from the muzzle showed that the shot had gone on its way, and Denny said he had seen some of it spattering the surface of the water, though I suspect that was his imagination. His ingenious recoil gadget had worked admirably, and altogether he seemed rather pleased with himself.

  “That cost you ten bob,” he said. He gave the barrel an affectionate pat and replaced the waterproof cover. As far as I could see, the boat had suffered no harm.

  After a snack lunch we made a wide circle round the Nore and turned for home. Denny had had a spell at the tiller while we were close-hauled, and now I wanted him to take over while we were running. The breeze had stiffened a little, and was just strong enough to give us a smart sail back. It was almost dead aft, and I warned Denny to keep his eye on the boom and to look out for a gybe, for his steering was a bit erratic. He concentrated on the job and we began to make fine progress, with a creditably straight wake. Southend Pier soon emerged out of the warm afternoon haze and I reckoned we were doing a good five knots through the water.

  Apart from a little trouble with his feet and the main-sheet Denny seemed quite at ease. He was sitting with the tiller in his left hand and the sheet tightly grasped in his right and looking very composed, and I was just congratulating myself that he’d soon make a fine sailing companion, when unbelievable disaster hit us.

  The wind was backing a little in gusts and I saw the boom lift once or twice as the pressure got round behind the sail. I was just thinking that perhaps I’d better take over for a spell when Denny—so he told me afterwards—saw a heavy balk of timber floating right ahead of us and put the tiller down to miss it. A gust got forward of the mainsail and in a moment we were gybing all standing. It wasn’t a serious gybe—there was no real weight in the wind. But as the boom swung across Denny gave a loud cry, almost a scream. Then, with an expression of surprise and horror on his face, he held up his hand for me to see. It was almost flayed!

  I knew what he’d done on the instant. As the boom had travelled across it had dragged the coarse new rope through his hand, and instead of letting go, as he should have done, he had tried desperately to hang on. There was nothing to do but get to a doctor at the earliest possible moment. I dived for the first-aid chest and found a roll of bandage. Poor old Denny was in pretty bad pain, for the palm was burned as well as torn. I made him stretch out in the cabin, and gave him some brandy. Then I got the sails down and headed Dawn for home again. It took us over an hour to motor back, and it was one of the longest hours I can remember. There was nothing more I could do for Denny and nothing I could do to increase our speed. It was with immense relief that I finally brought Dawn to rest against the wharf. I shouted to a chap sitting on a bollard that we’d had an accident, and he came aboard and looked after the boat while I helped Denny along to the doctor in the main street.

  Luckily the doctor was at home. He took one look at Denny’s hand and said we’d better go up to the hospital, where it could be properly treated and dressed. He ran us up in his own car, and the hospital surgeon and nurse soon got to work on the hand. The fingers were pretty well cut to the bone and there was almost no skin on the palm. They did a bit of stitching and put on a dressing, and told Denny to come back the next morning.

  Before we left I asked the surgeon how long he thought it would be before Denny could touch a rope again. He considered a moment, while we stood tensely waiting. Then he said: “If everything goes right, I should say two months. Not before.”

  To us it sounded almost like a sentence of death.

  The doctor dropped us at the saltings, and we walked across to the workshop in silence. There didn’t seem to be anything I could usefully say, and though Denny looked a bit less like a ghost he obviously wasn’t in the mood for talking. Joe had noticed Dawn at the wharf and had just fetched her over to our side. He looked deeply concerned as he came to meet us. I told him briefly about the accident, and could see he knew perfectly well what Denny’s hand must be like without looking at it. It wasn’t the first time
such an accident had happened in sailing history.

  I blamed myself savagely for not having warned Denny about letting go, but there it was. It was an elementary thing I’d overlooked, but the damage was done. All our wonderful plans were wrecked; all our hopes were shattered. As far as Denny and I were concerned, the bottom had fallen out of our world. I knew I couldn’t possibly manage Dawn singlehanded, and for a long time to come Denny would be a hindrance rather than a help. By the time the hand was healed we should be well into August, and it would be September before we reached the Baltic. It was hopeless. We had been prepared for failure at the other end, and perhaps worse than failure—but to be prevented even from starting was unendurable. I looked helplessly at Denny, but he was staring moodily into space.

  Joe, inevitably, had brewed a pot of tea, and he handed out the mugs. He said: “Cheer up! You’ll still make it.”

  I said bitterly, “I don’t see how.”

  Joe said, “It looks as though I’ll have to come with you.”

  Chapter Seven

  Joe confessed afterwards that he’d been thinking for a long time of offering to accompany us. It wasn’t just that he was afraid we should come to grief on our own—the fact was that he was attracted by the prospect of adventure and of a long cruise in a boat he’d fitted out himself. I think he also rather fancied himself in the romantic role of a marriage-mender. But however much he might be pleasing himself by coming, his offer seemed to us magnificently generous and neither of us could find words in which to thank him. A beatific expression had settled on Denny’s pale face, and I myself felt almost lightheaded with reaction and relief.

  All the same, we couldn’t let Joe come without stressing once more the risks of the trip. I emphasized—though he knew it already—that we might run into trouble with the Russians. I repeated that we should be breaking their laws, that for a time we should be inside their territorial waters, and that if they could catch us they’d have the right to jail us and would almost certainly do so. I drew a most unattractive picture of our likely prospects. But I don’t think Joe was even listening. He went on reflectively sipping his tea while I talked, and I’m sure that in his mind’s eye he was already crossing oceans.