Then the spray cleared, the surf went roaring past us and the next wave was piling up. The bridge still vibrated under my feet, the Trikkala was still moving forward. She was going through the gap now and taking it at an angle.
The full weight of the second wave was astern. The wheel was whipped out of my hand and spun wildly. Our direction was altered as the whole stern of the ship was swept round by the force of the water. The Trikkala virtually pivoted on her bows.
I got hold of the wheel again. We were facing south into a welter of foam. I swung the ship back on to her course through a piled-up wave that came green over the decks. And then we were clear. I couldn’t realise it at first. There was the boiling turmoil of the gap full astern of us and we were headed out into the rolling furrows of a quieter sea. The Trikkala was rolling madly, but the engine was still running, the deck still vibrated, she was still afloat.
Jenny seized my arm. “We’ve done it,” she shouted.
My body seemed to relax, quite suddenly, and I felt desperately tired. It was then I became conscious of the pain of my left hand. It had been caught by the spokes of the wheel and the little finger was broken. But I didn’t care. We were through the gap and homeward bound.
We set our course sou’-sou’-west and before dusk closed in on us Maddon’s Rock was no more than a mad tumble of surf-whitened water far astern on the edge of visibility. Ahead of us lay a grey, deep-furrowed waste of restless water. The rust-reddened bows of the Trikkala thrust deep into the marching waves. Great clouds of spray drove the length of the ship as we struggled forward on our one engine. Just over 1,500 miles away lay Scotland and home.
Well, that’s the story of the Trikkala. There is not much I can add that has not been published already. Just after passing between the Shetlands and Faroes, the wind swung round and blew a gale from the nor’-east. It was the worst May gale tor several years. The seas rolled green over our stern. We lost our funnel and the whole bridge structure collapsed. We began to make water faster than the pumps could deal with it. Our acting wireless operator had got some sort of a transmission working and I decided to send out an SOS The call was answered strangely enough by Loch Ewe naval station. We were then about 100 miles north of the Hebrides. There were no ships in our immediate vicinity. But when they realised who we were and had been informed that the bullion was on board, they told us that an Admiralty tug was being dispatched immediately to our assistance. That was on the 16th of May. We then had eight feet of water in Number Three hold and were badly down by the stern.
The following day the gale slackened and by dusk the tug had us in tow.
The ether fairly buzzed with messages—from the Board of Trade, from the Kelt Steamship Company, the owners of the Trikkala, from the Admiralty and from practically every national newspaper. Before we docked at Oban bids for the exclusive story had risen to £3,000 and a film company had offered £2,000 just for the first option on the story.
This should have prepared us for the excitement that our arrival at Oban caused. But on a rusty hulk with the desolate wilderness of the sea all round us, it was quite impossible to realise that we were the topic of conversation of a whole nation. For three days we topped the headlines on the front page of practically every newspaper in the country.
Well, I suppose it is pretty unusual for a ship reported lost to be thrown up out of a gale over a year later. And, of course, there was that half million in silver bullion. That is what really made it a story.
When we docked we faced an absolute barrage of newspaper men, camera men and officials. Sir Philip Kelt, chairman of the Kelt Steamship Company, had flown up to meet us. And on the fringe of the crowd stood Jenny’s father.
That evening, when the barrage of questions had died down and we had all of us made long statements, we were allowed to go our way. Bert was catching the train to London. With him went Jon Zelinski and the cook’s cat. Zelinski was bound for Polish headquarters. Jenny and I and her father saw them off. So did about twenty newspaper men. The engine whistled. “Well, I’ll say s’long fer now, mate,” Bert said. “See you at the enquiry. An’ you, Miss. An’ I ’opes—” he gave us a sly wink—“I ’opes you two don’t go an’ make a mess of it.”
“We shan’t,” was said almost in unison. Then as the train began to move, Jenny ran forward and kissed him. Cameras clicked. He waved his hand. “Well, s’long then,” he called. “An’ thanks fer the trip.”
That night after dinner, Jenny and I walked down to the loch. A nearby full moon hung over Ben Cruachan. The highland hills were a vague, huddled mass. The water of the loch was like beaten pewter. We walked silently along the road beyond Connel bridge to the little inlet under Dunstaffnage Castle. There was no ship lying at anchor there now, only the little island of Eilean Mor stood in the placid water just off the end of the promontory.
“She was a game little boat,” Jenny said. She was crying silently.
I said nothing. But I decided then that part of my salvage money would go to the building of Eilean Mor II. And that that would be my wedding present to Jenny.
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Published by Vintage 2013
Copyright © The Estate of Hammond Innes 1948
First published in Great Britain by Collins in 1948
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ISBN 9780099577751
Maddon's Rock Page 27
