Amberwell

by Stevenson, D. E. (Dorothy Emily), 1892-1973

  Tom leaned on the rail beside his friend and watched the stars dipping up and down to the gentle movement of the ship as she surged along through the dark water. Amberwell! thought Tom. Soon he would be there. Perhaps he should ring up from Edinburgh and say he was coming. Nellie would be pleased . . . and he would see Stephen . . . a nice kid, Stephen . . .

  "Look, there's the Bell Rock!" said Dennis.

  The rock was a thin dark streak on the starboard bow. It was so low in the water that one would not have noticed it but for the fringe of white lace where the sea broke upon the rocks. From the middle of the reef a finger stood pointing to the skies.

  "You've seen it lighted of course," said Tom.

  "Haven't you?" asked Dermis in surprise. "Oh no, of course not. I always forget you aren't a real sailor. It's wonderfully cheering to see the beams sweeping round the sky on a cold dark night—must have been a job building it. I must try to find out about it."

  Tom knew quite a lot about the building of the Bell Rock Lighthouse for although he was not "a real sailor" he had always been interested in everything to do with the sea. "The reef is only uncovered at low water," said Tom. "They worked at it night and day whenever the tide went out. At night they used torches; there was no other form of lighting in the early years of the nineteenth century. The tower was designed by Robert Stevenson and he was on the spot himself to superintend the work."

  "So it has stood there, battered by storms, for over a hundred years," said Dennis thoughtfully. "You know, Tom, I'd like to do a job like that—a constructive job that would last after I was dead."

  Tom was silent.

  "It would be good to make something permanent," continued Dennis. "Something worth while—so that in the year two thousand and forty-five two chaps would look at it and say, 'Dennis Weatherby built that.'"

  "We can't all do that sort of job," said Tom. "We've helped to beat Hitler. That's something, isn't it?"

  They were now approaching nearer the reef; soon they would be swinging westwards up the Firth of Forth. Dennis began to talk about the Firth in the days of peace, which seemed so long ago, when the lighthouse from the May and the Bass and Fidra flashed their welcoming beams, and the little towns on the shores of the wide estuary glittered like handfuls of jewels. Tonight there was not a light to be seen; the land which they were approaching might have been an uninhabited desert.

  "Soon we shall see the lights again," said Dennis cheerfully. "We're coming to the end of the tunnel. They can't hold out much longer. You know, Tom, I feel as if the war had been going on for about twenty years. It will be queer when it's over. Difficult to believe."

  "Frightfully difficult," agreed Tom. "I've got a brother who has been all through the Desert and the Italian campaigns. He's all right so far—thank Heaven! Well, I think I'll turn in now."

  "Wish I could," said Dennis enviously. "You wouldn't see me up here if I didn't have to be."

  Tom paused at the top of the ladder and looked back. He said jokingly, "Keep a good look-out, won't you?"

  "Don't worry," replied Dennis laughing. "You can go off to your nice comfy bed and dream of Amberwell."

  Tom waved and turned away—and at that moment there was a terrific shattering crash. The ship seemed to leap into the air and a sheet of flame burst from beneath her bows. A burning blast of hurricane force swept Tom from the ladder as if he had been a withered leaf and hurled him into the water. He felt himself sinking down—and down—into the dark icy depths.

  The shock was so severe that only his instinct for self-preservation made him struggle wildly to the surface—it seemed an eternity before he saw the bubbles breaking above his head and was able to fill his bursting lungs with air.

  The disaster had happened so suddenly and unexpectedly that Tom was dazed. He could think of nothing—there was nothing in his mind but the determination to keep his head above water. He was a strong swimmer but his sodden clothes were dragging him down and fortunately he had enough sense to struggle out of them, kicking off his shoes and trousers and struggling out of his jacket. It was easier now to keep afloat—but how cold it was! How bitterly cold! Already his legs were beginning to feel paralysed.

  The sea had looked calm from the bridge of the Starfish but it is never really calm in these uneasy waters and there was enough swell to make swimming extremely exhausting and to make it very difficult to see for more than a few yards. When he was on the crest of the waves he tried to look round for the ship, but he had no idea where to look— and the next moment he was down in the trough and could see nothing but dark green water.

  (What on earth happened? he wondered, and what will happen now? How long will it be before they realise I was swept overboard? The ship will be in confusion. They may not notice that I've disappeared.)

  A crate floated by. It was a big square crate which Tom remembered having seen on the upper deck of the ship. It was empty, so it floated tipsily upon the rolling waves. Tom swam to it and got hold of the rough wooden side . . . if only he could get onto the crate, out of the ice-cold water! He tried to pull himself up but the crate rolled over and over . . . and then he found a rope-handle attached to the side of the crate and heaved himself up. His weight sank the crate so that it was barely above the level of the sea, but it still floated. Tom spread himself upon it face-downwards gripping the sides with his hands.

  He was safe—or at least temporarily safe—but the effort had been frightful and he was so exhausted that he was suddenly engulfed in a roaring cloud and lost consciousness.

  It might have been a few minutes or it might have been an hour before the blackness lifted and Tom came to his senses. He sat up very carefully, balancing his crazy craft and looked round for the ship. There was no ship. There was nothing to be seen but the starry sky and the heaving waves. There was not even a piece of wreckage floating upon the water, not even a patch of oil. Could a ship go down and disappear completely? It was too ghastly to think of. It must have been a mine, thought Tom. One of those devilish mines that float beneath the surface—it couldn't have been anything else. The ship had run straight onto it and the thing had exploded . . . and then . . . and then the ship had either steamed on . . . or else . . . gone down.

  Tom began to shout at the top of his voice, half in a sort of panic and half in the hope that somebody else might have survived the disaster. He shouted until he was hoarse but nobody answered. Then he lay back, cold and shivering, pounded by feelings of misery and despair. If the ship had gone down—if they had all gone—all those good fellows he had lived with for months and loved like brothers—he did not want to survive. Why should he, and he only, be saved?

  The stars were paling now and the sky was filled with a grey ghostly light. Tom watched it spread and brighten. After what seemed years the sun rose out of the sea amidst grey and silvery clouds. The light was cheering after the long dark night and Tom's courage began to return; he even began to hope. Although he had declared to himself that he did not want to live the instinct to fight for life is strong and persistent. He knew nothing about the currents in these parts but there was a gentle breeze blowing from the east and the tide was making. The tide had been at its lowest ebb when he and Dennis had seen the Bell Rock. All this was in his favour. If he could just hold on he might be washed ashore. How long could he hold on? He tried to sit up again, for perhaps he might see the shore, but he was too weak and dizzy; he was so cold that his teeth were chattering and there was no feeling in his limbs. It's no good—I'm done, thought Tom.

  2

  There was a queer sort of rumbling in Tom's ears. It cleared gradually and became the sound of a deep voice talking.

  "Dinna take on, Bob," the voice was saying. "The lad's no deid yet. See he's coming roond! We'll lift the blankets an' gi'e him a wee rub. The great thing is tae get the circulation gaein'. Mind that, Bob. It's a useful thing to ken. There's some folks would pour whusky doon his gullet—an' mebbe choke him. Niver dae that, Bob. It's a rideeculous thing tae dae."r />
  The blankets were removed and Tom was rubbed and pommelled vigorously by hard, knotted hands. It was painful and unpleasant but he had enough sense to realise it was doing him good so he bore it without a murmur. When his attendants had finished the job they rolled him up again in the rough brown blankets.

  By this time Tom was able to look about him and saw that he was lying in a wooden bunk in the small dirty cabin of a fishing-boat. His two companions were fishermen; one was old, with a brown wrinkled face and a grizzled beard, the other was a mere boy with a smooth brown face and dark hair. Tom tried to speak to them but he could not.

  "He's better," declared the old man.

  "Wull I gi'e him a drink noo, Granfer?" asked the boy.

  "Aye, but mind an' raise him up a bit—here, lad, ye'd best let me help ye."

  They raised Tom's head and held a mug of steaming liquid to his lips. It was strong tea and condensed milk, laced with whisky. The warmth flowed through his body and the fumes dulled his brain. He drifted off to sleep.

  It was pitch dark when Tom woke and he could not think where he had got to. He was not in his cabin in the Starfish. The air was warm and stuffy and smelt of fish and tar and paraffin. The motion was unusual too, it was an unstable sort of pitch and roll; quite unlike the purposeful surge of the ship.

  Where on earth, thought Tom—and then suddenly remembered. He remembered standing on the bridge of the Starfish with Dennis; he remembered the explosion; he remembered floundering in the sea; he remembered lying on the crate for hours and hours, shivering and hopeless. All this was quite clear in his mind, but at the same time far away as if it had happened months ago. The ghastly shock and the horror of his experience had faded.

  Presently the boy came in with a lantern and hung it upon a hook in the beam.

  "Are ye feeling a wee bit better?" he asked anxiously. "Granfer said ye could have a boiled egg."

  "I just—want a drink," said Tom feebly. But when the boy had propped him up and brought him some food he found that he was hungry.

  "That's grand," said the boy, watching every mouthful with delight. "That'll dae ye guid. D'ye ken this—I thocht ye was deid. It was me that saw ye. We was fishin' off the rocks. Granfer pit a rope roond ma waist an' I went over an' pulled ye in. I thocht ye was deid," repeated the boy earnestly.

  "Did you see the ship?"

  "There wus nae ship—just you, floatin' in the sea on a boax. It was lucky I saw ye."

  The boy's eyes were very friendly, they surveyed Tom with a proprietory air—and Tom suddenly understood. He feels I belong to him, thought Tom, and so I do. If it hadn't been for Bob's sharp eyes I'd be dead by now.

  Tom stretched out his hand and seizing Bob's hand shook it firmly. For a few moments the boy looked bewildered, and then he smiled shyly, showing a mouthful of strong white teeth.

  "Could ye eat anither egg?" he asked eagerly. "I could get it in a minute, honestly I could. It would be nae bother."

  Tom could not—not even to please Bob—^but he accepted another cup of tea and drank it gratefully.

  The old man came in while Tom was finishing his meal. He was so big and burly that he seemed to fill the little cabin to overflowing. He sat down at the little table and folding his arms upon it looked at Tom thoughtfully.

  "Are ye feeling weel enough for a wee crack?" he enquired.

  "I'm all right," said Tom hoarsely. "I just feel a bit—done. I want to thank you and Bob. If it hadn't been for you— "

  "Och away! We did naethin', naethin' at all."

  "Saved my life—that's all."

  "Hoots! We did naethin'. But I'll need tae ken whaur ye came frae, if ye're feelin' weel enough tae speak. Glaister's my name—Robert Glaister. The lad's my grandson."

  Tom told Mr. Glaister his name and explained what had happened. He found it very difficult to talk for his throat was sore and he still felt weak and dizzy but as a matter of fact there was not much to tell.

  "Could it have been a mine?" asked Tom. "And if it was do you think the ship could have sunk—with everybody on board?"

  "It would be a mine," said Mr. Glaister. "But I canna' believe the ship would ha' gone doon sae quick an' left no wreckage."

  "You're—hopeful?" Tom asked.

  Mr. Glaister nodded. He reminded Tom that it was not rough, so even if the ship had been damaged by the explosion she might not have sunk at all. If the worst came to the worst there would have been time to lower the boats. There were strong currents off the Bell Rock (explained Mr. Glaister in his slow deep voice) and Tom might have drifted some distance from the scene of disaster before he was missed. Mr. Glaister was so large and solid and so sure of his opinion that Tom was comforted.

  "It's Leith we're makin' for," said Mr. Glaister at last. "We'll be in before dark gin the breeze haulds. I'll need tae report tae the authorities—"

  "I'll have to do that," said Tom wearily.

  "Ye'll dae nae sich thing," declared Mr. Glaister. "Yell gang straight tae the hoaspital, ma lad. If they're wantin' tae see ye they'll need tae send some buddy doon tae the hoaspital—but that's their beesness, no mine."

  "I think I ought to—"

  "There's tae be nae argument aboot it," said Mr. Glaister firmly.

  Tom was much too weak to argue with Mr. Glaister; he decided that you might as well try to argue with a rock, besides he had an uncomfortable feeling that he was going to be ill. His chest felt tight and talking to Mr. Glaister had made him cough—and coughing was extremely painful.

  "It's my behef ye're in for pew-monia," added Mr. Glaister looking at him with a worried frown. "The sooner we can get ye tae hoaspital the better pleased I'll be."

  Mr. Glaister was a man who knew his own mind and was afraid of nobody (red tape had no terrors for him) and having decided that Tom was to go to hospital he accomplished his purpose with the least possible delay. He saw his charge comfortably tucked up in bed and then went off to make his report and to despatch a reassuring telegram to Amberwell.

  Tom made him promise to come back when he had found out about the disaster to the Starfish and Mr. Glaister fulfilled his promise, but by that time Tom was too ill to be seen. Mr. Glaister was sorry, but not surprised. He told the ward-sister to tell Tom that the ship had sunk but his friends had been saved.

  "He's a fine lad. See an' luik efter him weel," added Mr. Glaister sternly, and the ward-sister (who was an absolute dragon) replied meekly that Surgeon Lieutenant Ayrton was being moved to a private ward and would have every care.

  3

  Tom was very ill; it was nearly a fortnight before he emerged from the no-man's-land of sickness and began to take an interest in the world. Even then it was a feeble sort of interest and the news that Mussolini had been murdered and Hitler had committed suicide seemed less important than the departure of his nurse, whom he had liked, and the arrival of her successor, who was much less sympathetic and did not dry between his toes.

  So far Tom had been allowed no visitors, but one afternoon he was awakened from a refreshing sleep and informed that,his tea was ready and a friend had called to see him.

  "I'm not allowed visitors," objected Tom.

  "Oh, but you're much better now."

  "I don't want to see anybody."

  "What nonsense!" exclaimed the unsympathetic nurse in bracing tones. "It will do you good to have a visitor. Sit up and put on your bed-jacket."

  Tom was sitting up arrayed in the bed-jacket when the door opened and Dennis Weatherby walked in.

  "Hullo!" said Dennis. "You're a nice one! What d'you mean by deserting the ship like that?"

  For a moment Tom could not speak. He was so pleased to see Dennis that tears of weakness pricked his eyes and there was a lump in his throat. He was obliged to swallow several times before he could find his voice, but at last he managed it. "Hullo," he said. "You're a nice one! Call yourself a sailor? What d'you mean by running the ship onto a blinking mine?"

  Having greeted each other in this peculiar manner th
e two young men felt at liberty to show their feelings—or at least to hint at them.

  "It's good to see you, old cock," declared Tom affectionately.

  "It's good to see you," echoed his visitor, sitting down on a chair beside Tom's bed and accepting a cup of tea. "I got the wind up properly when I discovered you weren't in the ship . . . but that was later, of course. At first nobody knew what had happened and there was a certain amount of confusion."

  "She didn't go down at once?"

  Dennis shook his head. "It was nearly an hour. Sparks sent an S.O.S. and we got the chaps into the boats. The sea was reasonably calm so there wasn't much to worry about really. The Life-boat came out from St. Andrews . . ."

  Dennis went on talking cheerfully. He had been told to talk cheerfully so he refrained from mentioning the fact that not everybody had been saved. He also concealed his distress at Tom's emaciated appearance.

  "Why aren't you on leave? Or are you?" asked Tom.

  "Oh, I've got to hang about here and answer a lot of silly questions before I get my leave. I went and saw old Glaister (what a grand chap he is!) and I thought I'd have a look at you. By the way I was wondering if you'd like me to ring up your people and tell them I've seen you? They've been ringing up the hospital about you, but you know what hospitals are."

  "Oh—yes—" said Tom. "That would be Nell of course. My stepmother wouldn't bother. Yes, you might ring up Nellie and give her my love. Tell her I'll be coming to Amberwell as soon as they'll let me out—probably next week."

  Dennis did not think it would be next week but he took down the telephone number and promised to give the message.

  "And another thing," said Tom, "Look here, Dennis, what could I do for that boy. Bob Glaister? If it hadn't been for him I'd be dead. Somehow I don't believe they'd like money."

  "Money? No, I don't see old Glaister accepting money for pulling you out of the drink. He'd just say it was all in the day's work."

  "I'd like to do something."

  Dennis considered the matter. "I'll sound him for you if you like. It would be easier for me. I'm off home tomorrow night for a month."