Zelinski produced some brandy. We finished the bottle. Then we had breakfast. We were all of us pretty silent. With the Eilean Mor gone we were marooned on Maddon’s Rock.
CHAPTER IX
MAROONED
AS WE CLEARED up after breakfast that morning Zelinski took Mac on one side, “I dinna ken,” I heard the old man say.
“Plees?”
“I dinna ken what the hell ye’re talkin’ aboot.”
Zelinski took his arm. Mac turned to me as the Pole led him firmly out of the galley. “A’ got an idea he wants me to have a look at the engines. A’ll be doon below if ye’re wantin’ me.”
All that morning Jenny and I and Zelinski checked over the ship’s stores. Bert kept us informed of the weather. With the fall of the tide the Trikkala ceased grinding her plates against the beach. But even at low tide the waves were still seething against her stern, so high did the wind pile the sea in over the reefs. By midday we’d checked all stores and Jenny and I sat dejectedly in the mess-room working out how long they’d last us. Zelinski had disappeared into the galley.
It must have been about one o’clock that Bert came down and told us the wind was dropping.
“It always drops with the tide,” I said.
“’Ave it yer own way,” he answered. “But I say the wind’s droppin’.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “An’ there’s a luvly smell o’ grub comin’ from the galley. Decent chap, that Polski,” he ran on. “First time I ever knew a bloke volunteer for the cookhouse. Peels ’is own spuds, too. Where’s Mac?”
“Still down in the engine-room,” I said.
“Leave him there,” Jenny said. “So long as he’s got some engines to play with he’s happy. It’ll keep his mind off things.”
“You two look pretty glum,” Bert said. “Wot’s up?”
I pulled the sheet of paper on which we’d written our stores figures towards me. “Well, Bert—we’ve just been doing a little profit and loss account,” I said. “And there’s not much on the profit side.”
“Oh, it ain’t as bad as all that, mate,” he said, pulling up a chair. “We got ’ere. We fa’nd the Trikkala—complete wiv bullion an” hintact. We got ol’ slinky—wot’s ’is silly name?”
Jenny looked up. “Zelinski, Bert.”
“That’s right—Zerlinsky. Why don’t they ’ave names yer can get yer tongue ra’nd? Well, we got ’im as witness for the prosecution. That ain’t bad fer a start.”
“Yes,” I said, “but how the hell do we get away from here? Look, Bert—Jenny and I have had a look at the ship’s stores. There are five of us and we reckon that on a reasonable scale of rationing we’ve got food for just over three months.”
“Well, that’s better than ’aving ter live on seagulls’ eggs.”
His innate cheerfulness annoyed me. “You don’t seem to realise that Jon Zelinski has been here over a year,” I said, “and in all that time not a single ship has come near the place.”
“Nah, look ’ere—free munfs is a long time. I know the Eilean Mor’s gone. But in free munfs—well, in free munfs the five of us oughter be able ter do a lot.”
“For instance?”
“Well——” He frowned. “Get the radio going. Build a boat. There’s two ideas for a start.” And he smiled brightly. It was clear he’d no idea of our danger.
“To begin with,” I told him, “none of us know anything about radio. As for a boat—all the wood on deck is splintered beyond use. The only other wood is in the cabins—matchboarding a lot of it—quite unsuitable for building a boat that’ll sail through these seas. The dinghy is out of the question.”
Bert shrugged his shoulders. “Wot’s the Polski say? Lumme, a bloke wot’s bin marooned up ’ere on ’is own for over a year—’e’s ’ad time ter fink up somefink.” Jenny sat up then. “Bert’s right, Jim. Why didn’t we ask him before?”
“The man’s a cavalry officer, not a sailor,” I pointed out. “And then there’s the problem of Halsey.”
“’Alsey!” Bert snapped his fingers and grinned. “That’s the answer. Don’t yer see. He’s our return ticket. We knows ’e coming ’ere. ’E ain’t likely ter let us down, not with all that silver here. An’ when ’e comes——” His voice trailed off. “Ain’t we got no arms, Jim?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Eight rifles and a box of ammo, four cutlasses and two Verey pistols.”
“You don’t reckon we got a chance of takin’ the tug, do yer?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “We’ll be hard put to it to keep them from taking us.”
“Wot—free soldiers an’ a cantankerous ol’ Scot? Wiv them eight rifles we oughter be able ter keep ’em at bay.”
“Don’t forget they’ll have dynamite on board,” I reminded him. “In the dark they could just blow the ship apart. Obviously that’s what they intend to do. They won’t leave a trace of the Trikkala when they leave here.”
“Yes, you’re right there, mate,” he said. “Brother ’Alsey ain’t got much in the way of scruples. Like as not ’e’ll dump most of ’is crew, too—all but the old gang. An’ if I was Rankin I wouldn’t reck’n me chances of seein’ Blighty again very ’igh. ’Ullo, wot’s that?” he added as a steadv humming sound vibrated through the ship. “Sounds like an engine.”
The floor was vibrating under my feet. “Do you think Mac has got the engines going?” Jenny asked. There was a note of excitement in her voice.
The door opened and Zelinski came in with a tray piled with food. “Plees—dinner is sairved,” he said, smiling.
“Quite the ’ead waiter, ain’t he?” said Bert with a grin as he helped to unload the tray. “Wot’s under the cover, mate? Smells orl right.”
“Ravioli,” Zelinski replied. “We ’ave so much flour, you see—it is necessary that we eat Italian, no?”
“Eyetalian, is it?” Bert said and then shrugged his shoulders. Well, I ain’t perticular. Beastly starvin’, I am.”
At that moment the lights came on.
We sat there blinking, too stunned to comment. Only Zelinski did not seem surprised. “Ah, that is good,” he said. “It is Mac, no? He is very clever with the machine. He will get the engines to work and then we will go to England. I have never been. But my mother—she was English—she tell me it is a lovely place.”
Jenny leaned across the table towards him. “What do you mean, Jon—he will get the engines going and then we will go to England? How can we get to England when our boat is gone?”
He looked up, surprised. “Why, in the Trikkala,” he replied. “She will float. Her bottom has not fall out of her yet. All the time I am here I pray for someone to come who can work the engines. I do not understand them. I try. But it is too complicated. And always I was afraid I should kill them if I try. So. I wait. But I prepare. I take—’ow do you call them?—’awzers, out to the reef. I make a raft of wood and carry an anchor out. It was big work. But I do it. Now the wind is from the east. At high tide she can be pulled into the water. But it is not safe wizout the engines.” He had finished arranging the table. “Excuse, plees,” he said. “You must eat. It will get cold and then I shall be sorry, for it ees good. I will call Mac.” He looked quickly round at us. “If the engines are Okay, I shall be zo ’appy. I have given them grease. Always I have been down there wiz the grease.” He smiled and nodded his head like a happy father speaking of his children. “I know it is good for them. Excuse—I must go to find Mac.” And then he went out.
We stared after him in amazement. “Well, wot d’yer know aba’t that?” Bert said. “All yer questions answered.”
“How horrible for him,” Jenny said. And when Bert asked her what she meant, she added, “Don’t you see? He’s been here alone for over a year, facing certain death when he came to the end of the stores. And all the time he knew he had a chance of getting away if only he’d learned less about horses and more about mechanics.”
When Mac came in I asked him about the engines. “Weel,” he r
eplied, “A’ wouldna say they were all reecht. There’s some bearings gone on the port engine. That’s all reecht. A’ can replace them.” He nodded dourly towards Zelinski. “Yon feller’s done a gude job o’ maintenance. But A’m no sure about the starb’d propeller shaft. A’ve a notion it’s cracked. And there’s the boilers, too. A’ll no be sure of them till they’re fired.”
“Do you think we can get the port engine going?” I asked.
“Aye.” He nodded slowly, his mouth full of ravioli. “Aye, A’ think A’ can do that.”
“When?”
“Mebbe to-morrow morning—if the boiler’s no rusted to pieces.”
“Grand,” I said. “High tide’s somewhere between seven-thirty and eight to-morrow. Work straight through the night, Mac. We’ve got to take advantage of this east wind. It’s only when the wind is easterly that the tide comes far enough up the beach to lift her stern. And if we don’t take advantage of it, it may be months before we get another chance.”
He raised his fork. “Aye,” he said. “But what aboot the plates doon by her keel?”
“Zelinski says she’s all right,” Jenny put in.
“He canna be sure,” the old man said severely. “Unless he can see through a cargo of iron ore.”
“I don’t care,” I said. “It’s our only chance to get clear before Halsey arrives. Whether the hull’s damaged or the engines aren’t going, we take her off at the high to-morrow morning. When can you let us have steam enough to work the after donkey engines?”
“Och, mebbe in two or three hours. A’ve got one of the small boilers fired. A’ was jist testing her.”
“Right,” I said. “Give us steam on the after donkey-engines just as soon as you can. And keep the dynamos going. I’ll need the deck lights. While you’re working on the engines, we’ll clear as much of the iron ore as we can out of the after hold. And, Mac,” I added, “see that you’ve plenty of steam to-morrow morning. She’s bound to make water and we’ll need the pumps going flat out.” I suddenly laughed. I think I was almost light-headed with excitement. “My God, Jenny,” I cried, “to think that half an hour ago we were sitting here wondering how we were to get back. And here was our ship all the time. Lloyds will get a shock. She’s been officially sunk for over a year. And then we sail her into port.”
“Ay, but ye’re nae hame yet, Mr. Vardy,” Mac said.
“Can’t nuffink cheer you up?” Bert put in with a grin.
I got up then and went on deck to take a look at the weather. Bert was right. The wind was dropping. But it was still blowing half a gale and there was no change in the direction of it. Up on the bridge the glass was beginning to rise. A bit of planking lay high up the beach among some driftwood. On it I saw the letters E-L-AN MOR. I hoped Jenny would not notice it.
With Bert and Zelinski I got to work, removing the hatch covers from Number Three hold. We got the derricks rigged. Shortly after three Jenny came up to say that steam was laid on to the donkey-engines. It was wonderful to hear them clatter at the tug of a lever and the tackle of the derricks drop into the hold. Jenny quickly learned how to work them and with her operating the starb’d engine and the three of us in the hold loading, we began to clear the cargo from the hold and dump it over the side.
We worked steadily till dusk. And then with arc lamps rigged worked straight on into the night. In the intervals whilst we were loading, Jenny got us bully and tea. That was the hardest night’s work I ever did. We were shovelling almost continuously for fifteen hours in a stifling hell of red ore dust. Each load seemed to make little impression on the level of the cargo. But gradually, imperceptibly, the level dropped. As we sweated we became coated in a thick layer of the dust so that we looked as though we were as rusty as the Trikkala.
At six o’clock in the morning, when the stern was just beginning to bump on the shingle, I gave the order to pack up. “Cor luv ol’ iron,” Bert grinned, wiping the rusty sweat from his face, “I feel as though I done another ruddy year in Dartmoor.” I was too excited to feel sleepy, but by God I felt tired. My limbs ached so that I could hardly move.
When we climbed up out of the hold it was to find that the wind had dropped to little more than a strong breeze. The waves inside the reefs were much less violent. They still broke with a shattering roar on the little beach and against the rocks on either side, but there was not the same strength in them.
I sent Zelinski off to get breakfast and Jenny and I went down to the engine-room. Mac was under one of the boilers. When he emerged he was hardly recognisable. He was covered in oil from head to foot. It was as though he’d bathed himself in sludge. “Well,” I said, “how’s that port engine, Mac?”
He shook his head. “Yell have to gi’ me anither twenty-four hours, Mr. Vardy.”
I forgot that Jenny was standing beside me and swore violently. “What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“It’s the feed system to the oil burners,” he replied. “A’m having to take it all doon for a thorough clean. A’ve steam enough for the donkey-engines and the pumps—no more. The feed system of the main boilers is choked and until A’ve cleared it A’ canna fire ’em.”
There was nothing we could do about it. “Engines or not,” I said, “I’m taking her off on this morning’s tide. Well just have to hope that the anchors hold. Do you agree, Jenny?” She nodded. “You better come up and get some breakfast, Mac,” I said.
Breakfast finished we all went on deck, with the exception of Mac who returned to his boilers. We went aft and got the hawsers fixed to the capstan drums of the donkey engines. The port drum took the line that ran out to the reef, the starb’d drum the line to the anchor. “Do you think that anchor will hold?” I asked Zelinski.
He spread his hands out in a gesture of resignation. “I have hope—that is all I can say. The bottom of the sea is rocky.”
It was past seven-thirty now. The lightened stem was lifting as each successive wave spilled under it. As it came down on the beach again, the Trikkala shivered through her whole length and that wretched grinding noise was audible above the din of the sea. I sent Bert and Zelinski for’ard. We had already fixed the bow hawsers to the donkey-engines. Their job was to pay off for’ard as Jenny and I on the after donkey-engines endeavoured to pull the Trikkala into the water.
When they were all set Bert waved to me. Jenny and I took up the slack. The powerful clatter of the engines filled us with a wild sense of hope. If only we could pull her off. If only her hull was not damaged. If only the anchors held when we were clear of the beach and afloat. If only—if only—if only——
“Okay?” I called to Jenny.
She nodded.
I signalled to Bert that we were about to commence operations. Then Jenny and I waited tense for the next big wave. We let three waves dissipate their strength, lifting the stern and crashing it down on to the beach. Then Jenny pointed. I had already seen it, a great shaggy-headed comber, that was piling in a good deal higher than the others. Its crest seethed white. It curled. Then, as it dashed itself in a great burst of spray against the stern, I nodded to Jenny. The pneumatic drill chatter of the donkey-engines drowned the sound of the wave thundering on the beach. I felt the stern lifted high. I watched my hawser stretching in a taut line out to the rocks that seethed and boiled with foam. Would the line break or would the Trikkala move? The capstan drum revolved slowly. The hawser tightened, stretched to a thin line. Something had to give. The engine laboured. My heart was in my mouth. Something had to give—and I thought that thin steel strand would never stand the strain.
Then suddenly the drum was revolving faster, easier. The stern of the Trikkala hung on the full flood of the wave. I stole a quick glance at the other drum. It was revolving faster, like my own. The Trikkala was coming off. I watched the ebb of the wave seeth down the beach. I raised my hand and we stopped both our engines. How far we had dragged the ship it was impossible to say. There was nothing by which we could judge our progress. But my guess was that we had wound
in at least thirty feet of cable on that wave, some of which was stretch.
We waited, watching for the next big wave. Even the smaller waves were lifting the stern of the Trikkala easily now so that at moments I could swear we were afloat. And each time we crashed down on the beach with that wretched grinding noise. I didn’t dare wait long. For all I knew we might be bumping on rock now. A reasonably big wave came rolling in. I nodded to Jenny. The engines clattered as the three-inch gun at the stern lifted again the background of foam-flooded reefs. Again the hawsers tightened to thin lines. The drums began to wind them in. The Trikkala was moving again, floating on the flood of the wave.
Suddenly my engine raced. My line whipped out of the water and came sailing towards us, snaking high above the ship. Then it fell with a crash against the funnel, trailing its broken end in the water. It had parted at the reef to which it was attached. Either it had rusted or it had chafed against the sharp edge of a rock.
Whilst it was still snaking through the air, I glanced quickly at Jenny’s line. It was very taut as it bore the full drag of the ship. But the engine was not labouring and the line was coming in steadily on the drum. I signalled to her to keep going. The Trikkala was coming astern quite easily now.
The wave ebbed. I signalled her to stop. But this time the stern did not sink with a grinding thud on to the bottom, but remained uneasily afloat. Faintly I heard Bert call. I went to the rail and looked for’ard. “No more slack here,” he shouted through cupped hands and then pointed to the hawsers which were stretched taut from the bows to the black cliffs.
“Let ’em go,” I yelled back and made a cutting signal with my hand. He acknowledged with a wave of his arm. A moment later I saw them fall into the water.
On the very next wave Jenny started her engine again. At first I thought she wasn’t going to make it. The engine laboured, the line became tauter and tauter till it seemed as though it must part. And then at the full flood of the wave, the ship gave a little wriggle and the engine ceased labouring. A moment later and the hawser went almost slack.
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