The pair nodded in silent agreement and, as though choreographed, knocked back the whiskies bought by the man they’d just derided, in absolute unison.
20
Jo had done her best to make Hamish comfortable by placing a pillow under his head. She was glad to hear him groan and mutter as she did this, and hoped beyond hope that he would regain his senses before long. As for Hoynes, he was clearly conscious, but still not in his right mind.
She remembered that they’d said on the wireless that the vessel should weigh anchor. She guessed this meant chucking a large cast-iron implement overboard, but reasoned that there was no way she could lift it. And, in any case, it was nowhere to be seen under the deep snow on deck.
When first she ventured up, following Hamish’s accident, she noticed the heavy swell was making the wheel swing to and fro, as if by its own accord. Jo had been taking driving lessons recently and, even though she was in a boat, rather than a Hillman Imp, she realised that this likely meant that the craft was describing a meandering path over the waves.
It was time to make a decision.
She knew enough to work out that an unanchored vessel would drift in any direction that took the tide’s fancy. This meant they could be dashed against rocks, sandbanks or the other hazards she’d heard mentioned during her short time at sea.
Jo thought hard about what the driving instructor back in Glasgow had taught her. If you wanted to turn in a circle, the wheel should be turned to its full extent, one way or the other. She grabbed the wheel in the small cabin and swung the wheel to her left. Yes, she could feel the direction of the vessel change!
Finally, after many more turns than it would take the steering wheel of a car to reach its full extent, it stopped. Jo could now picture the Girl Maggie travelling in circles on the dark sea. This wasn’t ideal, she knew, but at least it reduced the chance of drifting or ploughing into something while travelling forwards.
She tethered the wheel to a hook on the wheelhouse window with a length of old rope she found in the cabin, and then pulled back on the handle she’d seen both Hoynes and Hamish use to alter the speed. Sure enough, Jo heard the tone of the engine drop and the vessel slowed down.
Confident she’d done the best she could, Jo checked that the lights were still showing fore and aft, and, shivering in the cold, returned to the cabin and the indisposed crew. She was still worried that another vessel could collide with the Girl Maggie, but surely no sailors would be abroad on such a night.
Jo huddled by the stove, after piling in more coal. She was hungry, thirsty, miserable and scared. But then she heard something.
In the gloom she saw a shape emerge from the bottom bunk.
‘Mr Hoynes, are you okay?’
Silence.
‘Mr Hoynes, it’s okay to come and sit over here.’ She hoped gentle encouragement would help the skipper to calm down.
Hoynes’ figure remained stock still for a few moments, then slowly he eased himself off the bunk.
‘Is that you, Mother?’
Jo sighed. She’d hoped he’d have regained his senses. ‘No, it’s me, Jo Baird from the Glasgow Times, do you remember?’
A pause. ‘Aye, of course I remember. The wee lassie. A right scunner you are, too. Man, but I’ve been having such dreams. How long have I been asleep?’
‘It’s a long story, Mr Hoynes.’
The skipper appeared in the dim light of the oil lamp hanging above the stove. ‘What on earth is Hamish doing doon there?’
‘He fell and hit his head. I’m quite worried about him.’
Hoynes knelt over his shipmate. ‘Well, he’s still breathing, at least.’ He nudged Hamish with the toe of his boot. The younger man stirred, mumbled something incoherent, and was again still. ‘How long has he been like this?’
‘I don’t know, an hour – hour and a half, maybe?’
Hoynes raised his head, a puzzled look on his face. ‘And tell me something else. Why are we going round in circles?’
‘You can tell?’ Jo was impressed. ‘Ah, now you’ll have to let me explain.’
Hoynes listened with mounting alarm as Jo described the last few hours. Though she skirted over the real reasons for his temporary incapacitation, blaming it on the fall, the real danger they were in quickly dawned on the skipper.
‘You stay here with Hamish and I’ll get up there and weigh the anchor.’
‘How will you manage? I couldn’t even see it under all that snow.’
‘Don’t worry aboot that. I’ve been a long time at this, you know.’ With that he squeezed through the hatch.
As Jo looked on, she doubted she’d been as relieved by anything in her life. She stared at Hamish, who looked pale in the gloom. Now all she had to do was reinvigorate him and her job here would be done. She switched on the wireless just as the shipping forecast began its ritualised meander around the nation’s coast.
Then she remembered the job she’d been sent here to do. Clearly, there were things she couldn’t put in print, but she was in no doubt – redacted as it would have to be – that this would make a fantastic story. Especially now they had been on the wireless. She reached into her bag for her notepad.
Hoynes stared through the dark and the snow at the deck of the fishing boat he knew so well, illuminated only by a single storm lantern. Had a photograph of this been presented to him, he would have been hard pressed to identify it as a seagoing vessel, never mind his own.
His thoughts were still rather jumbled, and for some reason he couldn’t stop thinking about lobsters, but their current predicament was foremost in his mind. Jo had told him about the messages broadcast on the wireless, and while he felt a certain pride in this he was amazed they’d made it as far as they had without calamity.
It was cold, but Hoynes was sure the anchor would still work. Its weight would be sufficient to dislodge the snow, and it was unlikely to be frozen. He stopped the engine, then hauled on the handle to release the anchor. At first his heart missed a beat, but after a few moments the familiar sound of the chain releasing the robust anchor from the bow could be heard, snow muffling the usual clanking.
He had no idea where they were. Yes, he could see the compass, but that only spoke of which way they were now pointing. He’d no notion of how far they’d sailed, or in which direction. In normal circumstances, even below, he’d have been able to tell by virtue of instinct and experience whether or not the boat had drifted off course. But as he’d been unconscious, or at least not in his right mind, he’d been deprived of this sixth sense. He was still unsure quite why he’d suffered such an affliction, and vowed to press Jo on it when they were safely in port, as her explanation had been sketchy to say the least.
Hoynes leaned on the ledge beside the ship’s wheel, still jury-rigged by the rope his passenger had used to make them sail in circles. Aye, he thought. She may have no experience of the sea, but there was nothing wrong with her reasoning.
His choices were limited. They could try to plough on when the day dawned, but if the snow continued like this, there was little point. He’d have to sit at anchor until either the weather improved, or rescue was at hand. The former, he supposed, was the only real prospect; only the foolhardy would advocate initiating a search in such conditions.
Sandy Hoynes, still trying to recover himself, reached into the bib of his dungarees and fished out his pipe and tobacco. Soon the wheelhouse was clouded by pungent smoke as he puffed away.
He was just beginning to feel at peace when a flash of something to port was caught in the light of the sea lantern.
21
Kinloch’s town hall was thronged with people. Provost McMurdo stood on the dais, held out his hands and called to quieten the loud chatter. Gradually, the din diminished to a low murmur. He looked around the townsfolk who had gathered at this early hour to work out just what was to be done to find the Girl Maggie. Many of them had been listening to the wireless appeals, and they were now anxious for news.
‘
Ladies and gentlemen,’ began McMurdo, ‘I know how worried you are about our missing friends. But rest assured that all that is humanly possible is being done to locate them.’
‘The lifeboat’s still at the new quay. They’ll no’ find them there,’ scoffed Peeny, a look of disgust on his face.
‘In all conscience – and after discussion with the crew and the Coastguard – I cannot ask the lifeboat to take to sea in these conditions.’
‘But you didna bother aboot sending the fleet oot in it yesterday,’ an elderly woman shouted from the back of the hall. She was wrapped in an ancient greatcoat, brandishing a cigarette like a rapier in front of her as she spoke.
‘We had no idea how long this would last. The forecast was for the snow to clear. But as you can all see, it hasn’t.’ McMurdo nodded across to the arched windows through which the snow could be viewed still falling heavily under the pale glow of the street lamps.
‘Huh!’ replied the woman with disgust. ‘It’s easy seen you’re a man. If I was tae hang oot my washing every time the weather forecast tells me things are improving, there’d no’ be a stitch o’ dry clothes in the hoose!’ This garnered general agreement.
An old man in a wheelchair raised a withered, bony finger and directed it towards McMurdo. ‘You’ve sent fine men tae their maker. The blame is yours and nobody else’s. It’s a fact for which there is no excuse.’
‘Aye, the blood’s soaked right intae your simmet,’ said McKirdy with a shake of the head. ‘There’s no’ a mair respected man than Sandy Hoynes.’
At this a hush descended on the hall.
‘Well, I widna quite say that,’ said Jim McCahill. ‘He sails right close tae the wind at the best o’ times.’
‘Aye, but we’ve a’ cut corners here and there,’ said McKirdy.
‘He sold me a set o’ nets that weren’t fit for burning,’ piped up a young man in a sou’wester.
‘And they say he filled a box of fish wae sand to up the weight,’ shouted another. ‘Right doon the gobs o’ the poor creatures, tae. It’s a sin tae treat a fish like that – deid, or no’.’
‘He telt me he’d seen a mermaid sunning herself on the barrel rocks,’ shouted a cross-eyed man. ‘Even telt me she had blue hair and a fine bust – if yous don’t mind me bringing up such a thing.’
‘You canna blame a man for taking the rise oot o’ you, Peter,’ said Peeny. ‘Who on earth would believe that?’
‘Me!’ replied Peter indignantly.
‘I heard he’s got a woman on board!’ shouted a man in a thick blue sweater.
‘Aye, I heard that,’ said McKirdy.
‘Likely he’s floatin’ aboot wae a harem. I mean, that would explain why Hamish has no lassie in tow. All sorts could be going on when he goes tae sea that we’ve no notion of.’
McMurdo held out his hands again like a minister about to lead his congregation in prayer. ‘Come, ladies and gentlemen, let’s not turn this into a forum for idle gossip. The lives of men are at stake here.’
‘Aye, and a woman by the sound o’ it,’ said McKirdy.
‘To the matter in hand.’ McMurdo decided it was time to bring the meeting to order. ‘It will be light in a couple of hours. Our friends in the Coastguard and the Royal Navy will guide us as to when it’s best to begin a proper search. In the meantime, we should all think of those aboard the Girl Maggie and pray to God that Sandy Hoynes knows his stuff.’
Everyone nodded, and the hall fell silent.
For a few moments, time seemed to stop in the wheelhouse of the Girl Maggie. Hoynes was holding the pipe in one hand, his mouth agape. He could see more of the vessel now that it was athwart his port side. She was long and sleek, with a square-rigged sail. He was mesmerised, taking in the beauty of her sweeping lines through the darkness and heavy snow.
Two large sconces at either end of the craft blazed with bright flames that silhouetted those aboard. He could see that they were broad, well-built men, and counted at least twenty, peering at him as he stared at them.
Hoynes slowly emerged from the wheelhouse. For some reason, he felt the need to raise his hands, as though in surrender. He removed the sea lantern from its hook and stared across the few feet of waves at the sleek ship shimmering in the dancing flames.
It was then that the light from his lantern caught the face of one of those on the vessel. The man was leaning on one leg, which rested on the low gunwale, a broad smile on his face. Though it was too dark to see what he was wearing, Hoynes caught the sheen of leather from his breeches and jacket, but they were of a design he had never seen.
‘We are lost, you and I,’ said the man casually. His voice was deep, and seemed to fluctuate in the still air. Though they were at sea, they could easily have been on a pond such was the uncanny silence.
‘Aye, I’d say that few seafarers would be able to navigate through this,’ Hoynes replied.
‘But I think I have the advantage. Where I am from, this weather can happen in any winter.’
Hoynes was about to reply when the light from his lantern caught something else. From the curved prow of the boat, a great wooden serpent swept into the darkness. He could just about make out its pointed head, and the intricate carvings on its flanks.
‘You like my boat, I can tell,’ said the stranger.
‘Aye. She’s beautiful. Built for speed, I reckon.’
‘Yes, she is fast. Her name is Sea Storm. She moves through the waves as no other vessel can, propelled by the greatest waves. And we sail far and wide. She is our home, our fortress – our lover. I’m sure you feel the same way about your own craft.’
Hoynes considered this. ‘Aye, well, something like that, right enough.’
His opposite number spoke quickly, using words he didn’t understand, and a burst of coarse laughter came from the silhouetted crew. ‘I apologise. My men have an odd sense of humour.’
‘The same has been said aboot mysel’ right enough.’ Slowly Hoynes placed his hands at his sides. He knew he should be frightened, that something here wasn’t right, but he sensed no measure of threat from the men in the beautiful boat – the reverse, in fact.
‘Are you willing to take advice from one man of the sea to another?’
‘Aye, I am. There’s an old saying where I come from: when you’re lost in a storm, take any help that’s forthcoming. My faither was never done saying it.’
‘Then your father was a very wise man.’ The man smiled and nodded, the light of Hoynes’ lantern catching the gleam of his swept-back flaxen hair and the braids of his beard.
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying, but that’s a fine set of whiskers you have, right enough. My beard’s a bit on the unruly side.’
‘Thank you. My wife plaits and oils it for me before each journey.’
‘My wife makes me sandwiches and a flask of tea.’
The man in dark leather threw back his head and laughed heartily at this. When he recovered he stared at Hoynes, his black eyes piercing in the snow-speckled night. ‘You know that it is fate that brings us together, yes?’
‘I’m prepared tae believe that.’
‘A great chasm of time separates us, and yet here we are. But like seeing the coast of a distant shore in the haze of a summer’s day, we too can glance through time.’
‘I’ve heard o’ such a thing. There was an old fisherman I sailed with many a year ago who swore that he saw the coast o’ Buenos Aires when he was on the east side o’ Islay. Mind you, he took a good drink, but he was right convincing when it came tae this. Quite fractious he’d get if anyone tried tae gainsay him. Something to dae with refraction, so they say.’
‘And he was right! None of us really know what is in store. We think we are clever; we master the sea, the land – maybe even the sky one day – but to those who watch over us, we are mere playthings. It is something we should never forget. For there will come a day when man believes himself to be a god, and on that day there will be nowhere for us to go. We will cease to exit and
all that will remain will be Valhalla.’
Hoynes knew he’d heard that name before. After brief consideration he reckoned it was a pub in Oban. But as he kept his visits to that place as short as he possibly could, there was no telling if his memory was playing him false. All the same, he felt it only polite to nod and smile in agreement. Though he did feel slightly disappointed that the only remnant of humanity was likely to be some rundown bar in Oban.
‘I must sail on, my friend. But first I tell you this. This snow will last until the sun is high. But if you turn your vessel right round, you will be safe when it shines through the clouds. Look for a guide – a bird will point the way.’
The beautiful boat began to fade into the snowy darkness. Hoynes held the lantern higher, but it caught only ghostly shadows. ‘Thank you!’ he called. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
‘My name? You know it already, I think. The part of you that sees what can’t be seen and feels what can’t be felt does. Odin is with you always.’ The swirling voice was distant now. ‘My name is Hona, and we will meet again one day, of that you can be assured.’
Hoynes tried to speak, but no words would come.
22
Though dawn had broken over Kinloch it was a thin, miserable affair. The sky was still heavy with clouds, and snow fell without pause or hindrance on the town.
The Machrie miners had been back, digging deep trenches where once there had been roads and pavements. And a few hardy souls were battling through this new white-walled landscape to buy much needed groceries or just meet up for a chat in a pub or café with their fellow townsfolk. The main points of discussion were inevitably the unusual weather and the plight of the Girl Maggie.
The aromas of sausages cooking in Alistair the butcher’s shop, hot coffee from the Italian delicatessen and warm bread being baked by Michael Kerr wafted through the passages: all overlaid, as ever, by the tang of the sea. From Kinloch’s many watering holes, the mellow scent of whisky and tobacco drifted. Astute publicans, more than aware that the local police had enough to deal with, opened early, so by mid-morning the likes of the Douglas Arms and the County Hotel were thronged with customers eager for news of recent developments.
A Large Measure of Snow Page 10
