Empty Nets and Promises

by Denzil Meyrick

  ‘It’s still passable on foot,’ said Watson sharply.

  ‘Only a fool would attempt that, Iain. And whoot good wid it do? This Marshall fella wid still be lying spark oot on Geordie’s floor, stuck behind this accumulation.’

  ‘But it would raise the alarm. They could arrange for one of the helicopters to airlift him out. I know fine it would suit you to string this out as long as you can so that you can devise some way out of the mess you’re in. Well, I’m here to tell you, it’ll not work. I’ll make sure you answer for your crimes, Sandy Hoynes.’

  Hoynes looked at the Fishery Officer and scratched his head. ‘You know, Iain, I’ve known for a very long time that you’ve had it in for me. Aye, an’ I think I know fine why.’

  ‘It’s not hard to work it out. You stole that boat from under his nose. Fair cheated him. By rights, I should be a skipper, not . . .’ He left the rest unsaid.

  ‘I bought the Girl Maggie fair and square fae your faither. I liked the man. It’s no’ my fault he snuggled up tae John Barleycorn that much he couldna be bothered gettin’ oot o’ his bed tae take up arms against the fish.’

  ‘But you took advantage of it, and forced him to sell at a knockdown price. You were his first mate, and you fleeced the man who taught you everything!’

  ‘Man, oh man, but you’re so wrong. I can see this has been eatin’ away at you for near thirty-five years. Nae wonder you scrutinise my catch so closely. But you don’t have the right o’ it, Iain. Not only was your faither tight tae go oot on a wave, he didna lift a finger tae help wae the upkeep o’ the vessel. Och, we tried oor best tae keep her in fettle, but it was jury-rigged at best. I gave your faither too much money, and that’s the truth of it. It cost me a small fortune tae make her seaworthy again, and you know it.’

  ‘Just enough money to make sure he lasted long enough to die of a broken heart.’

  ‘Your arse, a broken heart. Though it pains me tae speak ill o’ the deid, aye, an’ my auld skipper, he died starin’ oot the bottom o’ a whisky bottle. You know it fine yoursel’.’

  Watson stared belligerently at the fisherman. ‘And you changed her name. Called her after your wee girl, Maggie. Do you know that ended up making you the laughing stock of the fleet?’

  ‘How so?’ asked Hoynes, temporarily thrown.

  ‘She’s a neat wee craft, but she’s always been broad in the beam – just how your Maggie turned out.’ Watson laughed harshly.

  ‘I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again: it’s a family thing. All the women on her mother’s side o’ the family have big arses . . . Eh, where are you going?’

  The Fishery Officer slammed the passenger door of the Land Rover and began picking his way through the debris left by the landslide.

  Winding his window down, Hoynes shouted, ‘Don’t be daft, Iain. Get back in here. We’ll take Marshall tae Kinloch in Geordie’s lobster boat.’

  ‘I’d rather take my chances up here on the pass than navigate the Mull with you at the helm, Sandy.’ He stormed off, tripping over a small boulder, but managed to keep his feet. ‘The McKinnons’ farm is just on the other side, and they’re good folk – unlike you.’

  The fisherman watched him clamber over a large boulder, and soon he was out of sight. ‘You’re a braver man than I gied you credit for, Iain Watson. Who wid have thought you’d bear a grudge a’ these years. I hope you don’t hear the skirl o’ the pipes before you get tae safety – or a boulder doesn’t land on your heid,’ he said to himself. He turned the vehicle round and headed back to the bothy.

  Marshall mumbled incoherently as Hamish and Grant carried him out of the back of the Land Rover and down the beach towards a small stone jetty where Geordie’s lobster boat was moored. Though the rain had eased off, the sea was still angry, whipped into white-horse waves by the strong wind.

  It took the help of the two airmen as well as Hoynes, Hamish, Grant and Geordie to manhandle the injured man aboard the small vessel safely, as the three women looked on anxiously.

  ‘Are you sure about this, Sandy?’ asked Grant, a worried look on his face.

  ‘As sure as I can be. Your man here’s lost a lot o’ blood. I learned in the RNR never tae take a blow tae the heid lightly. In any event, between me, Hamish and Geordie, we’ve damn near a hunner years o’ seafaring under oor belts. If we canna get him tae the Cottage Hospital in Kinloch, who can?’

  ‘I’d be happier coming, too,’ Grant replied.

  ‘Oh no, you’re not! You’re staying with me!’ yelled Maggie. ‘It’s bad enough losing my father in a mission of mercy, without waving a hearty goodbye to my intended.’

  ‘See, there’s an example o’ loyalty for you, skipper,’ said Hamish. ‘Jeest typical o’ the wimmen, tae. Fair calculated that you’ve done your bit bringing her up, and noo that there’s somebody else tae take the strain, you’re expendable.’

  ‘Just you make sure he’s not expendable, Hamish,’ said Maggie.

  ‘Och, you wid think we were heading intae Corryvreckan the way you’re all lamenting oor early deaths. A couple o’ hours and we’ll be sitting wae a dram, fair getting warmed up,’ remarked Hoynes. ‘I’d like tae take you all, but as you can see, there’s precious little room aboard as it is, whoot wae this Exciseman floppin’ aboot the deck, an’ all.’

  ‘You’ve made the right decision, skipper,’ said Hamish. ‘I canna see your pair making it aboard. Beth, nae bother, there’s hardly a picking on her . . .’ He stopped when he caught Hoynes’ eye. ‘Och, I’m jeest meaning they’re fine figures o’ wimmen,’ he continued, with a cough.

  ‘We’ll send a bigger vessel back for you. Wish us luck,’ shouted Hoynes, as Geordie fired up the boat’s diesel engine in a flurry of smoke and clatter. Slowly, against the swell, they made their way out to sea, leaving Grant, the airmen and the three women on the shore.

  ‘I can see us having the wedding here, Duncan,’ groaned Maggie, as she watched the small boat set sail.

  ‘Your father knows what he’s doing. He’ll be fine,’ he replied confidently, biting his lip all the same.

  Iain Watson was making better progress than he’d hoped for. He was already more than halfway down the Piper’s Pass. The highest section had been the worst. He’d had to climb over a pile of slippery rocks and mud on his hands and knees, but now he was at the other side, the obstacles he faced were of an altogether less challenging nature. The rain had stopped completely now, and he felt a wave of confidence that, if he was being honest, had been utterly absent when he parted from Hoynes.

  ‘Push on, Iain,’ he told himself. ‘Just a little while and the MacKinnon farm will be in sight.’

  As he uttered those words, his foot caught on a boulder. He fell forwards, landing on his side and winding himself badly. As he sat up, trying to get his breath back, he heard a distant sound. It was barely discernible at first, but after a few seconds it rang clearly, echoing around the high hills that hemmed him into the pass.

  ‘You’ve banged your head, you daftie,’ he muttered, pulling himself to his feet. ‘There’s nothing there – it’s all in the mind.’ But as he took a few faltering steps, something made him look up.

  There, on a small rise up ahead, stood a figure standing stock-still.

  ‘Bugger me,’ he gasped. ‘It can’t be . . .’

  13

  Out at sea, the swell was greater than the fishermen had expected. Though they were trying to stay as close to the coast as possible, an offshore wind, combined with an ebb tide was proving too much for the tiny engine of Geordie’s lobster boat, meaning their progress was slow: three lurches to the side, one forward.

  ‘If we carry on like this, we’ll be taking Marshall tae the hospital in Newfoundland, Geordie,’ said Hamish, as an unexpected wave sent a shower of seawater into his face and extinguished his pipe with a gentle hiss.

  ‘This old girl’s jeest designed tae go oot in the bay and collect creels. She’s no’ an ocean-going liner. Once we’re roon’ the Mull, the condi
tions should improve.’

  They had wrapped Marshall in woollen blankets taken from the bothy, under which he mumbled and moaned. His bandage was now stained a deep red.

  ‘This fella’s still bleeding, though it’s no’ as bad as it was,’ said Hoynes. He had put on an oilskin jacket and a Sou’wester he had found under a bench seat on the boat. The garments stank, but at least he wasn’t getting soaked by the spray like Hamish, who was cursing as he frantically tried to relight his pipe.

  ‘There’s the Cat Rock,’ shouted Geordie. ‘Once we’ve weathered that, it’s plain sailing.’

  The little boat was caught by a wave, cresting the top of the swell and then plummeting down into the trough it had created. There was a sharp clunk, then what sounded like a dry piece of wood being broken in two.

  ‘I hope that’s no’ whoot I think it is,’ shouted Hoynes.

  ‘It’s the bloody rudder,’ said Geordie. ‘Look at this.’ He spun the boat’s wheel, to no effect.

  ‘I’m betting there’s no radio aboard this craft, neither,’ said Hamish.

  Geordie shrugged. ‘I told you I jeest potter about in the bay. There’s never been the need for a radio. If you lift the lid on that chest, you’ll find a flare or two.’

  Hamish did as he was asked, and the bright orange flare rent the dark sky above them as they drifted out to sea like a cork in a bath.

  ‘We should be thankful for small mercies,’ remarked Hoynes. ‘At least we’re not being driven ontae the Mull.’

  ‘But the Barrel rocks are no’ that far off,’ countered Hamish. ‘And if we’re lucky enough tae avoid them, we’ll no miss the coast o’ County Antrim.’

  ‘My, but you’re the cheery one, Hamish. Every craft within ten miles o’ here will have seen that flare. I’d be surprised if the Ballycastle lifeboat isn’t preparing tae make way, as we speak.’ His words were lost as a wave crashed over the vessel, drenching all aboard.

  ‘Well, they better get here quick,’ shouted Geordie, ‘or we’ll be having oor supper wae Davy Jones.’

  ‘The next time I’m foolish enough tae listen tae one o’ your schemes, Hamish, be sure tae gie me a skelp in the chops an’ tell me tae brighten up,’ said Hoynes, huddling down beside the recumbent figure of Marshall.

  ‘Och, you can hardly blame me! How was I tae know the forces o’ nature an’ the state were going tae unite against us?’

  ‘Aye, well, they sure have. Not only are we in the midst o’ one o’ the worst seasons for fish that anyone can remember, we’ve been accused o’ smuggling whisky, almost killed an officer o’ the Crown, and now we’re in danger o’ sinking.’

  ‘No tae mention that octopus,’ said Hamish. ‘I should’ve known that landing a creature like thon wid mean bad luck.’

  ‘Bad luck’s something we’ve a sufficiency of, that’s for sure,’ said Hoynes, as the boat plummeted into another trough. ‘Time tae start sayin’ oor prayers, I reckon.’

  ‘I started saying mine as soon as the polis, the Excise man, and the Fishery Officer came knocking at the door,’ confessed Geordie.

  ‘Wait!’ shouted Hoynes as they were propelled back up by the swell. ‘There’s a vessel on the horizon. Quick, Hamish, launch another one o’ they flares.’

  Jackie MacKinnon was about to tuck into a plate of lamb chops and mashed potatoes when an insistent knocking sounded on the farmhouse door.

  ‘Jean,’ he yelled to his wife, who was still in the kitchen, ‘can you see who on earth’s at the door at this time? I’m no’ wanting tae eat cauld chops.’

  He heard his wife making her way along the hall, grumbling as she went, and then the familiar creak as the old front door was tugged open.

  A scream from his wife sent Mackinnon to his feet, cutlery crashing down on his plate with a clatter. ‘What the . . . ?’

  The door to the room was flung open, to reveal a wide-eyed man covered from head to toe in mud.

  ‘Jackie, for the love o’ all that’s holy, you’ve got tae help me!’

  It took MacKinnon a few moments to recognise Iain Watson the Fishery Officer as the man who had just collapsed face down on the floor.

  ‘If you’re in disguise looking for an illicit catch, you’ll no’ find it here,’ Jackie said, before resuming his place at the table and lifting his knife and fork. ‘Jean, will you come and see tae this man afore these chops congeal.’

  The vessel was huge and painted scarlet. Too big to be a fishing boat – even a trawler – it steamed towards them at a rate of knots that left the fishermen aboard the stricken lobster boat scratching their heads.

  ‘I’ve seen some o’ they big trawlers oot o’ Hull and Grimsby, but they’re like skiffs compared tae this monster,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘I widna be bothered if it was the Queen Mary,’ said Hamish. ‘They’re getting us oot o’ a pretty pickle, and no mistake. Whoot flag is that at her prow, I wonder. I can make oot that it’s red, but that’s jeest aboot all.’

  ‘It’s no’ one o’ they new boats oot o’ Oban, is it?’ asked Geordie.

  ‘If it is, there’ll no’ be room for another vessel in the bay,’ opined Hoynes. ‘The Mull ferry wid look like a rowing boat moored next tae that. Aye, and as far as that flag goes, I recognise it only too well – it’s the hammer and sickle.’

  ‘You don’t mean the Bolsheviks, dae you, skipper?’ Hamish peered out to sea.

  ‘There’s no’ been Bolsheviks since thon Lenin was at the helm. They’re Communists noo, an’ a brave band o’ brothers they are, tae. We’d be well under the Nazi jackboot if it wisna for their heroics at Stalingrad, an’ the like. They gave Adolf pause for thought,’ concluded Hoynes fervently.

  Geordie looked at the Russian boat and stroked the stubble on his chin. ‘I’ve got two questions. Will they take my vessel under tow, and if they do, whoot on earth will the salvage amount tae? I’ll likely have tae get doon and ask the bank manager tae gie me roubles.’

  ‘I widna worry aboot salvage or the like. These boys are a’ aboot sharing and equality. Commendable stuff it is, tae,’ said Hoynes.

  ‘You’re no’ tellin’ me you’re a red under the bed, skipper,’ said Hamish, a look of horror on his face. ‘I never had you doon for anythin’ o’ the kind.’

  ‘No, don’t be daft. But I mind in the war, the boys fae they Russian convoys wid come back wae tales o’ how the folk survived jeest by boiling the odd turnip and quaffing some snow. Hardy buggers – they’d have no time for Iain Watson or his like. And even less for this poor unfortunate doon here.’ He glanced across at Marshall whose face had taken on an even more pallid hue.

  The Russian vessel now towered above them.

  Hamish stared up, open-mouthed. ‘How are we going tae get up thonder? I hope I’ve no’ got to scale one o’ they rope ladders. I’m no’ keen on heights. That’s how I went tae sea in the first place – nice an’ near the groon’, if you know whoot I mean.’

  Without warning, a door opened about halfway down the side of the craft and a head popped out. The man was wearing a black peaked cap above dark eyes and a darker beard. ‘You will want rescue, no?’ he shouted across the swell.

  ‘Aye, rescue wid be jeest fine,’ returned Hoynes.

  ‘Ask him aboot salvage,’ insisted Geordie.

  ‘Aye, and if he says it’s goin’ tae be a thousand pounds, dae we jeest tell them tae sail on? I’m telling you, salvage will no’ be a problem for these boys . . . Yes, we need rescue,’ shouted Hoynes. ‘Workers o’ the world unite!’ he added, for good measure.

  Hamish took in the Russian boat with a jaundiced eye. ‘She’s big, but she’s a trawler, right enough. Are you thinking the same as me, skipper?’

  ‘That it might no’ be thon plane and its booming that’s frightened the fish, after all?’

  ‘This beast could pull mair oot the water in a day than oor whole fleet, an’ she’s no ring-net vessel, neither. I’m betting she’s got a sister somewhere oot tae sea.’

  ‘We’ll soon
find oot, of that there is no doubt,’ said Hoynes. ‘For better, or for worse, Hamish. I hope they’ve got some Bolshevik baccy aboard. I left my new packet back at the bothy.’

  14

  Aboard the USS Newark

  Captain Walter P Rumsfeld scanned the sea with an enormous pair of binoculars. A lookout on the old destroyer had spotted a flare near the Kintyre coast, and they were steaming in that general direction, ready to assist. Though his hair was iron grey now, being back in these waters off the coast of Scotland brought the dark-haired young lieutenant he’d been more than twenty years ago to mind.

  Being on friendly exercise with the Royal Navy over the last two weeks was somehow like a pilgrimage, a nod to those days that now seemed so far off. The ragged convoys of merchantmen – easy prey for German U-boats – were under their care. The long, long hours searching the waves for any sign of a periscope. The fear, the joy, the exhilaration of being young – of being a seaborne warrior, of living life on the edge – had miraculously returned, as though the feelings had never been away.

  He felt his fingertips tingle at the memory – almost forgot that he now operated in a very different world, one where the enemy came from further to the east.

  But how could he forget? He, his crew, in this very warship, had shadowed the ships from the Soviet Union, stowed with their cargo of nuclear warheads, only a few years before as they neared Cuba. That was the last time he had felt the thrill he felt again now – of being on the edge as the world held its breath.

  His eyes sparkled as his lieutenant spoke. ‘Sir, we have a visual, fourteen degrees to starboard.’

  Rumsfeld swivelled his binoculars in the general direction he’d been given. Though they were a few nautical miles distant, he could make out a tiny vessel, probably wooden in construction, dwarfed by a red ship many times its size.

  ‘Lieutenant, confirm or deny, do we have the flag of the Soviets?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we do.’

  ‘Does that look like a fishing trawler to you?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Roger that.’