“The forecast is for fine weather,” Jenny said. “And she’ll stand up to anything within reason.”
“Within reason—yes,” I agreed. “But we may meet storms out there that are not within reason. And when we get to Maddon’s Rock we may have to hang around for days before we can get in through the reefs. And by that time Halsey and his tug may have arrived. Anything could happen then.” My imagination pictured it all so clearly—the giant seas, the barrier of wicked reefs with a narrow, foam-filled gap and the black, frozen rocks. It was frightening enough to face it on one’s own, but with Jenny—“Why don’t you drop the idea of coming with us?” I asked. And then I had an idea. “Suppose we don’t come back—if you were here you could get in touch with the police and get some sort of an investigation going.”
She looked up at me with an almost boyish smile, “No good, Jim,” she said. “That’s already taken care of. Daddy will see to it. I’ve left a letter with him explaining all the circumstances. He’s to let the police, the Board of Trade and the press have it if we’re not back within three months or if Halsey’s tug gets in before us. Don’t you see,” she added, “the mere fact that I’ve gone on such a trip will make the press, at any rate, interested.”
“I see,” I said. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you? But I still wish you’d stay——”
“Don’t let’s go into all that again,” she pleaded. “Not to-night. It’s so lovely out here. Let’s pretend just for now that we’ve not a care in the world. I’m saying goodbye again to places I love. Just for to-night I want to feel happy and at peace with the world.”
“Yes, but——”
She interrupted me with a sudden flash of anger in her eyes. “MacPherson and I are coming, and that’s all there is to it.” Her voice was strained, almost violent. “I can handle the Eilean Mor better than anyone. And Mac’s been a sailor all his life. I know he’s getting on—he must be nearly sixty. But he’s tough and he’s no family to worry about. Just leave it at that, will you, Jim.” Her voice had dropped to a pleading note again. We stood silent for a moment, staring out to the fading line of the hills. Her hand was still on my arm. I could feel the warmth of her body as she stood close against me. “I want to go up to the top of the hill behind here,” she said suddenly. “Up there, through the pines, there’s a grassy knoll. You can see Ben Cruachan from the top of it.” As we turned and climbed slowly through the tall pines, she said, “Ben Cruachan’s my Old Man of the Mountains. I always feel that if I say goodbye to him nicely he’ll look after me and see me home safely.”
So we said goodbye to that distant, snow-capped mountain and came down to our farewell dinner. Mac was there and Bert, and the old man was drinking hot rum punch with Jenny’s father when we came in. Jenny disappeared and came down later radiant in a long black evening gown with a silver girdle. The table groaned with the best that the farm could offer. And afterwards there was old port and liqueur whisky. The only reminder of the dangers ahead was when Jenny’s father proposed the toast of the Eilean Mor. “When I gave you the boat, Jenny, she was the best I could find. I hope she proves worthy of her trust.” And then he added, “The Lord bless you all and go with you.” There were tears in Jenny’s eyes as she drank to the Eilean Mor.
It was late that night when her father lighted me to my room. We were warm with drink. He paused at my door and said, “Don’t let her do anything foolish, Jim. She’s a wild lass and she’ll be trying to play the man. Her mother is dead and her brother was killed at St. Nazaire. She’s all I’ve got left. At the same time she must not be a hindrance to you. I’m trusting you to do what you think is right.”
He took my hand. The skin of his fingers was dry and old. But the warmth and friendliness of that handshake brought a lump to my throat. “I like being old,” he said, his eyes twinkling in the lamplight. “But there are times when it’s irksome. If I were just a few years younger I’d be coming with you.”
I thought I should never go to sleep, so many thoughts were chasing themselves through my mind as I climbed between the cold sheets. But the warmth of the drink closed my eyes almost at once and the next thing I knew it was morning and Maggie, their old servant, was shaking me.
It was a cold, crisp morning. The sky was blue. The sun sparkled on the waters of the loch. The hills were hidden in white, trailing mists. Jenny’s father came down to the lochside to see us off. His tall, erect figure stood alone on the yellow beach as we rowed out to the Eilean Mor. Mac went below and started the engine. The decks throbbed gently as we weighed anchor. Jenny stood in the wheelhouse. I felt the little ship shudder slightly as the screw bit into the water and we slid quietly out into the tideway and made the tip of the promontory. Jenny left the wheel for a moment and stood on the deck looking back to the beach where her father stood. His figure looked very small and solitary, alone there on the beach. We waved. He waved back and then turned and walked resolutely up towards the road. He never looked back. Through the pines we caught a glimpse of the house, the brick mellow in the morning sunlight. Then the promontory shut us off. Jenny went back into the wheelhouse. I think she was crying. I went for’ard. Our bows were pointed towards the white pinnacle of the lighthouse on Eilean Musdile. Beyond lay the Sound of Mull. The water was oily calm with a long, flat swell running.
After a while I went into the wheelhouse. Jenny had the log out. I watched over her shoulder as she wrote—Saturday, 13th April, 1946—6.43 a.m. Weighed anchor and left mooring under Dunstaffnage Castle outward bound for Maddon’s Rock. Weather fair.
The voyage had begun.
In the Firth of Lorne we picked up a steady sou’-easterly breeze and set our sails. As the mains’l filled Jenny ordered Mac to switch the engine off. Every drop of fuel was precious. Shortly after eight we passed between the half-submerged Lady’s Rock and Eilean Musdile. The race that runs below the lighthouse frothed with broken wave caps on our starb’d beam. The Sound of Mull opened out before us. The veil of mist was drawing back from the hills now and we could see their lower slopes. As we came under the lea of Mull, the sails flapped idly and we ran on our engine through the Sound.
Midday found us clear of the Sound with Tobermory astern, and leaning under full canvas to a steady sou’-easterly breeze, we rounded Ardnamurchan Point and with the wind on our starboard quarter we made a steady six knots in a long easy swell. By nightfall we were abreast of Skye and running into the Little Minch between Skye and the Hebrides. And when morning came, cold and grey with a damp drizzle, Cape Wrath was astern of us. There were no friendly hills around us now. The sea stretched in a desolate, restless waste to the horizon in every direction. And our bows were headed some 15 degrees east of magnetic north.
The third day out we ran between the Shetlands and Faroes without sighting either of the island groups. The thin drizzle that we had picked up off Cape Wrath stayed with us, reducing visibility to a few miles. The wind had gone round to the sou’-west. RAF weather forecasts, which we were able to pick up easily on the long waveband of our radio in the wheelhouse, remained fair. With the wind practically dead astern we were being hurried north with the long lines of the waves that heaved themselves regularly, monotonously, under our keel. We had no need of the engine. We sailed under full canvas and the Eilean Mor went like a bird.
An incident occurred that Monday which had a bearing on a decision we made later. It was just after two in the afternoon. I was for’ard repairing a cleat that had come adrift. Jenny, who was at the helm, suddenly hailed me into the wheelhouse. Her voice was urgent, excited. When I joined her I found her listening to the radio. Two men were talking. “It’s the B.B.C,’s broadcast to schools,” she said. “See if you recognise anyone?”
I listened. A B.B.C. reporter said, “And how do you propose to locate it?”
A voice answered, “We’re using azdec. That is the instrument used during the war to locate U-boats. This vessel was fitted with azdec when we bought her.” There was something about that voice t
hat stirred a memory. It was clear, distinct—it was as clear a voice as the reporter’s. It might have been an actor’s voice.
He was speaking again. “As soon as we have located the wreck we shall send a diver down to investigate. We are equipped with the very latest in diving gear. If, as I believe, the Trikkala is resting on a rock shelf——”
“My God?” I said. “Halsey!”
“Yes, Halsey,” Jenny said. “Listen!”
Just before the end of the broadcast we heard the information we wanted. “And when will you sail Captain Halsey?” asked the reporter.
“I was planning to leave a week to-day. But equipment has been coming through quicker than I thought and with luck I may be away the day after to-morrow.”
“Well Captain Halsey, we wish you all the best in your treasure hunt and we’ll look forward with interest to hearing what you bring back with you.”
Jenny and I looked at each other. The day after to-morrow! That meant that, if he got away then, we’d only be five days ahead of him. The margin seemed all too narrow. Still, five days could be time enough if luck was with us and the weather held fair. I stared out through the glass windshield at the grey, tossing waters—not a ship, not a sign of land. And yet through that radio we had just heard Halsey talking in Newcastle from the deck of his tug. It seemed incredible that we could be linked for an instant like that, so great did the distance between us now seem.
Five days isn’t much of a start for a small sailing boat against an ex-Admiralty tug capable of around twelve knots. But all that week the wind was with us, varying between sou’-west and nor’-west. The weather kept fair and the seas moderate—at any rate moderate for these waters. For five days we ran before the wind on a line almost parallel to the Norwegian coast which was about 250 miles to starboard of us. If anything our course was a little north of the line of the Norwegian coast, for Maddon’s Rock lies almost mid-way between Bear Island and Jan Meyen Island. And all that time the Eilean Mor made between five and eight knots without our once having to make use of the engine.
On the Tuesday we ran into a long, vicious swell that had us all feeling a little uneasy in the stomach. Even Mac had a far-away look in his eyes. Bert, who was acting cook, emerged from the galley with a face that was a pallid green and glistened with sweat. “Strewf!” he said. “Me bread-basket’s playin’ me tricks.” Then he added, “Jist my luck to click fer the job of cookin’. Me name’s bin me da’nfall ever since I joined the Army. “You—wot’s yer name? Cook? Right—you fer the cookha’se.’ Joke, see. Never knew a sergeant-major wot could resist it.” He suddenly clutched his stomach and dived for the rail.
By nightfall the wind had freshened and the movement of the ship was more violent and consequently not so disturbing. Bert, with the adaptability of the Cockney, was becoming a passable seaman. By the end of the week he was standing his turn at the wheel, though only during the day-time.
The first week of that voyage I enjoyed. With a following wind, air weather and a moderate sea, the work of sailing the ship was not great. I spent a lot of the time in the wheelhouse chatting to Jenny. In blue slacks, a red polo-necked jersey and her hair brushed straight back from her forehead, she looked neat and businesslike. She was a very efficient skipper and knew how to get the best out of her ship. We logged nearly 1,000 miles in that first week. And if if hadn’t been for the uncertainty of what lay ahead that would have been the happiest trip of my life. But on the Sunday it began to blow hard out of the north, the glass fell and the weather forecasts spoke of nothing but depressions. Their centre was Iceland which lay on our port bow. With every day’s sailing it had got colder and now an icy sleet closed about us with promise of bitter cold ahead.
But luck seemed to be with us. By Monday the wind was back in its old quarter, sou’-west, and we were running full on our course before a small gale. By the middle of the second week out the glass had risen again and we were sailing through cold, brittle sunlight with only a little over 400 miles to go. Weather forecasts were good again and the chances of arriving at Maddon’s Rock in fairish weather looked reasonably bright. One thing only was really worrying me. Halsey, in that broadcast, had spoken of advancing his sailing date to the 17th of April. If he had, in fact, got away on that day, and if he had set a course direct for Maddon’s Rock, I figured that at an average of ten knots he couldn’t be more than two days behind us. I wished to God we had definite information as to the date of his departure. Another thing, would he dare set his course direct for Maddon’s Rock? Surely he would play safe and at least make a show of going to the supposed wreck of the Trikkala? I kept my counsel to myself, but I realised that it was a point that was worrying Jenny for on the Wednesday she suddenly said, “I wonder where Halsey is, Jim? I think he’d make for the position at which the Trikkala is supposed to have been sunk before running north to Maddon’s Rock, don’t you?”
“I hope so,” I said.
“He must do,” she added. “He’d want a ship or two to be able to say they had seen his tug on the right course. He’d never make direct for the Rock. Unless he’s worried about you getting there first.” She gave me a quick glance. “You didn’t give him any indication that you were planning to go after the Trikkala yourself, did you?”
“Of course not,” I said.
Her brows were wrinkled. “Still, he’d naturally be worried. If you were capable of escaping from Dartmoor, he wouldn’t rule out the posssibility of your making an attempt to get to Maddon’s Rock. That’s probably why he advanced his sailing date. I wish we knew when he actually sailed. Since that broadcast, I’ve listened to every news bulletin in the hopes of hearing some announcement about it. But there’s been nothing.”
The weather was very cold now. We struck a lot of sleet and visibility generally was poor. But the wind held, varying as before between sou’-west and nor’-west, so that we made good progress. On Sunday, the 28th of April, I managed to shoot the sun through a gap in the clouds. I was thus able to confirm our position. It checked up pretty well with our estimate for with the wind mainly astern we’d not been blown off our course at all. “We’re approximately 85 miles sou’-sou’-west of the Rock,” I told Jenny who was at the wheel.
“When do you reckon we’ll make it?” she asked.
I glanced at my watch. It was three-thirty. We were logging just over four knots in a rather steep sea. “About midday to-morrow,” I said, “if we keep our present speed.”
She nodded. “Good,” she said. “We may just make it in time. I’ve just heard a meteorological bulletin. It’s not so good. There’s dirty weather coming up behind us. The glass is falling too. I’m afraid we’re about due for a blow.”
“Well, we’ve been lucky enough so far,” I said.
She turned suddenly towards me. “You know, Jim, even with the sea like this we may not be able to reach the Trikkala. We don’t know what the place is like. Rankin said they’d beached the Trikkala. That means inside the reefs, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “He spoke of going in through a gap.”
“And that gap may only be navigable on a really calm day. Don’t forget what that book of mine said—there are less that a dozen known instances of landings being made on the island. This is probably quite a calm day for these waters, but the seas are big enough. Right now Maddon’s Rock is probably hidden in a mist of spray and the gap in the reefs made unapproachable by a mad tumble of waves.”
“Don’t forget,” I pointed out, “that they managed to beach the Trikkala and get out again through the gap in an open boat that was smaller than this. And from the time we abandoned ship to the time they were picked up near the Faroes was only 21 days. They must have taken the Trikkala straight in and come straight out again in their boat.”
“They may have struck lucky with the weather,” she said. “Pray God we strike lucky with it. At best we’ll only have a few days to spare before Halsey arrives with his tug. If we don’t get in before then, well—we might just
as well not have come. Well get no proof. And if he catches us inside——”
She didn’t complete the sentence. “Luck’s been with us so far,” I said. “We’ll manage somehow.”
She faced me then. “Jim,” she said, “you’re sure Rankin was telling the truth? I mean, it seems so fantastic, beaching a ship right up here and leaving it packed with silver bullion for over a year. It sounded all right when you told me about it. But that was in Oban. Right up here, in this waste of sea, it seems—well it seems daft.”
“Your guess is as good as mine, Jenny,” I answered. “But at the time I certainly felt it was the truth. It was too fantastic a story for him to have made up.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Oh, well,” I added, “well know to-morrow—if the weather holds.”
As if in answer, our conversation was interrupted by another meteorological announcement. My heart sank as I listened to it. A gale warning was now in operation in sea areas Hebrides and Irish Sea. From mid-Atlantic to the North of Scotland the weather was uniformly bad with the wind strong to gale force according to the locality. That night the glass began to fall in earnest.
Next morning the sea was about the same, but the wind had risen and was coming in gusts so that the Eilean Mor would suddenly heel over and thrust her bowsprit deep into the back of a wave. All that morning the wind was erratic in both direction and strength. The Eilean Mor took it all in good part, but it was not easy keeping her on her course. There was no sleet, but the clouds were low and visibility poor, not above two or three miles. The glass continued to fall. Weather forecasts were uniformly bad. I tried to appear unconcerned, but deep down inside me I was scared. The bad weather must be right behind us now and we were approaching an island surrounded by reefs that were only superficially charted. My chief worry was that we should fail to locate Maddon’s Rock before nightfall. By then the gale would be upon us and the idea of running before a storm in these seas with no certainty that the island was behind us, was a frightening thought.
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