Storm Over Rhanna
Page 14
‘Are you trying to send us all to sleep!’ Grant roared into his large, hairy, puckered ears.
Captain Mac drew his sleeve across his nose and yelled back, ‘I was just thinkin’ o’ my mither and how she used to sing to Nellie and me when we were bairns and feart to go to sleep for the bogles who haunted the night!’
‘You’re not feart now, surely?’ Grant yelled above the scream of the wind.
‘I’m aye feart o’ a sea like this! She’s a force no’ to be reckoned with and a bittie respect never did any harm – besides,’ he chuckled, ‘if I sing loud enough I might just succeed in frightening the warts off Canty Tam’s water witches. We have enough to contend wi’ wi’out them fleeing about us trying to steal our breeks!’
The little boat bucked and tossed as she came round the headland of Port Rum Point to meet a crazed sea torn apart by ferocious waves. A roar of thunder ripped the heavens apart, almost deafening the crew of the lifeboat. Close on the heels of the thunder a streak of lightening gashed into the Atlantic, imbuing the crashing waves with a strange blue-white light.
‘The wheel, Grant, take the wheel!’ ordered Captain Mac. ‘Make a good fight at that bitch out there or she’ll have the boat and all o’ us before this night is over.’
Grant planked his strong hands on the wheel and Captain Mac stumbled away out of the wheelhouse onto the crazily tilting deck. A wall of water twenty feet high reared above the snout of the boat, then collapsed to pour itself over the deck in a frothy tide that swept Captain Mac off his feet. His ribcage made a thudding sound as it came in contact with the rails to which he clung for dear life, all the breath squeezed from his lungs. Gasping for air he peered through sheets of salty rain which ran down over his bushy brows, half-blinding him.
‘Can any o’ you see the flares?’ he yelled when he had sufficiently recovered his breath.
‘Ay, ay, over there, Captain,’ Matthew pointed. Bright explosions of arching light lit the sky some distance away but no one had any time to try and determine their position. The Sgor Creags rose up suddenly, like glistening black fangs out of the jaws of some hellish sea creature.
Captain Mac half slithered, half ran back to the wheelhouse to wrest the wheel from Grant and work with it like a man demented. ‘The Lord be blessed, we’re no’ going to make it,’ he muttered under his breath, his bloodshot eyes wide and staring as in fascinated horror he watched the glistening pinnacles looming ever closer.
‘Look, Captain, I can see the yacht,’ Hugh yelled in high excitement.
‘Never mind the damty yacht,’ panted Captain Mac. ‘’Tis us I’m trying to save the now!’
‘It is the yacht!’ Righ confirmed, glad that his nephew had got something right for once. ‘She must have escaped the whirlpool and drifted wi’ the tide. Just in time too for she’s on the turn again if I’m no’ mistaken.’
Sweat was on Captain Mac’s brow with the effort of fighting the wheel. ‘Man, man, you’re right!’ he cried joyfully. ‘She is on the turn! If I wasny so busily occupied I would kiss ye, that I would!’ His heart was beating swiftly with fear and excitement. Fiercely he ground the wheel round and could have wept for joy as he experienced a sharp lift to the sea. The rocks were receding, the boat was in open water, bucking swiftly towards the Mermaid.
The men on deck sent up a cheer. ‘We’ve done it! We’ve done it!’ Hugh’s yell was full of triumph.
‘We’ve no’ done anything yet!’ Righ barked at his nephew. ‘And you’ll no’ do another thing till you put on your lifejacket! Why are you no’ wearing it, you dunderhead?’
‘I – I forgot,’ stammered Hugh.
‘Forgot nothing! No one told you so you didny bother. Get one out the locker this minute before I drown you wi’ my own bare hands.’
But Hugh had no time to make a move for just then an enormous wave took and lifted the boat, tilting her so that the crew slithered about the deck. There was a terrific thump as the bow crashed down into the trough, rode up out of it and almost collided with the port bow of the Mermaid. There were shouts and orders and Hugh, utterly respectful and obedient of his uncle in the normal way of things, stood undecided . . .
‘Here, take mine,’ a voice spoke behind him, ‘I’ll work better without it.’
‘No, no, I canny,’ protested Hugh, ‘Uncle Righ said . . .’
A bundle of soggy material was thrust into his face, smothering his words, and with cold, fumbling fingers he fixed the lifejacket in position.
A line had been thrown to the yacht but it fell back uselessly. One man stood on deck, frantically waving and shouting. Righ grabbed the hailer and began asking questions. The wind tossed the metallic sounds over the waves. The man bobbed down to return a minute later with a small hailer.
‘My arm’s broken. Can’t seem to catch the bloody rope!’
‘Bugger it!’ cursed Torquill Andrew, mopping salt water from his eyes. ‘We’ll have to try and get closer.’
Lurching to the house he spoke to Mac who set his lips grimly and ordered, ‘Get back out there, man, I’ll do my best but canny promise any miracles.’
The lifeboat inched nearer the stricken vessel till it seemed as if the two would collide as they tossed like driftwood in the ferocious swell of the ocean.
‘I can get over the gap!’ Hugh, anxious to redeem favour in his uncle’s eyes, extracted himself from the rest of the crew and rushed forward just as the man aboard the Mermaid successfully caught and secured a rope.
‘Hugh, come back, you young bugger!’ roared Righ, scuttling towards his nephew who was scrambling over the rails.
Hugh heard nothing above the roar of wind and waves. Below him the sea heaved, drenched him as he teetered on the edge of blackness. With his eye he calculated the distance that separated the two vessels. Bracing himself, he jumped – only to gasp in pain as something heavy grasped him from behind and pulled him backwards so that he hit the deck with a thump. In one terrific whoosh his breath left his body, his blood rushed in his ears but over and above all he was aware of horrified shouts, of boots pounding the deck.
‘Christ Almighty! He’s gone over, Matthew’s gone over!’ Torquill Andrew’s voice was a high-pitched, disbelieving scream.
‘Throw the belts! For God’s sake throw the belts!’ Graeme Donald’s deep voice vibrated with shocked horror.
Lifebelts rained down into the narrow black channel between the two hulls. A head bobbed momentarily amidst the freezing rush of waves, a white blob was upturned for a split second in time, one in which the heart of every watching man stopped beating for an instant. A hand punched up out of the water, scraped the blackness in a futile attempt to grab at one of the belts – then it and the pale, featureless blob disappeared and there was only the scream of the wind, the gushing of rain, the relentless snarl of the ocean wastes.
‘Who was it? For God’s sake who was it?’ Hugh’s fists beat the sopping deck. ‘It canny be Uncle Righ, it canny – oh dear God! Did somebody say it was Matthew? It was my fault – mine.’ He began sobbing in the darkest agony of his soul. The stench of his own vomit choked him. He was beyond caring. All he wanted in those dread uncertain moments was to curl up into himself and die.
‘I’m going in! I must get him, I must!’ It was Grant McKenzie, a demented Grant, near hysterical in his anguish. He plunged forward, ready to meet all the brutal, elemental forces nature had thrown at them that night. It took every pair of hands to keep the young man from pitching headlong into a watery grave and as the lifeboat turned and headed back to harbour with the Mermaid in tow, he sank to the deck, broad shoulders hunched, his dark head in his hands, sobbing as helplessly as a babe who has lost its way in a dark night.
‘She’s coming back – the lifeboat’s coming back!’ The crowd had waited patiently on the shore, some taking shelter in the boathouse, the less able drifting back to the comforts of hearth and home, the majority huddling together to talk in quiet voices about the latest excitement to hit the island.
Mark James stood a little way apart, hands deep in his pockets, sodden collars pulled up about his ears, trying to concentrate on things close to hand; the river of rainwater pouring down the channel of Ranald’s sou’wester; the rustle of oilskins; the familiar bowl of his pipe clenched tightly in one pocketed hand – he wondered why the palms of his hands were so icily clammy; why his jaw muscles were so tensely clenched; why he was trying so hard not to let his mind focus on what was happening out there beyond the harbour. The lifeboat was closer now – into safe waters – the gleaming white hull of the yacht she was towing showing up starkly in the black harbour basin . . .
Quite suddenly all his thoughts were outward now, and the sense of unease he had felt during all the time of waiting spewed out in trembling anticipation of what was to come.
He ran with the rest to the pier to reach out and grab the ropes and help secure them to the bollards. Although Mark was with the crowd he felt himself to be apart from it, unspoken questions fluttering on his lips. He sensed rather than saw the grief of the lifeboat crew, and when eventually he looked at them he beheld the grey ghost of death sitting heavily on each pair of weary shoulders. And then he noticed something else, a sight he thought he would never see: Grant McKenzie weeping – that handsome, brawny, carefree young McKenzie crying like a baby into his salt-encrusted hands, his footsteps stumbling, allowing himself to be helped from the boat and led away without uttering one word of protest.
‘My mither was right,’ Canty Tam’s thin, piping voice rose up from the crowd. ‘She foretold the worst storm of all would bring disaster. The Uisge Hags have taken a Rhanna man – why else would Grant McKenzie be greetin’ like a bairn—’
The cheerfully gloating words died in his throat. Captain Mac had him by the collars and was shaking him like a dog, for once in his life losing control of his temper.
‘Mac, Mac, stop it!’ The minister plunged into the crowd to pull Captain Mac away and lead him to the comparative quiet at the back of Ranald’s boatshed. ‘What is it, Mac? What in God’s name is it?’
Mark had meant to sound gentle but instead his voice came out harsh and uneven. He looked into the old man’s face – he was old now, old and haggard and utterly done, even his very whiskers seeming to droop with the rest of him as he stood there, bereft of speech, bereft of the very blithe spirit that had carried him so happily over the ocean of his life.
‘Mac.’ The minister searched the strong, weathered face, gazed into eyes that were black pools of misery. ‘What is it?’ he repeated, gently this time, his compassion for the other man overriding the sense of doom that lay heavy in his heart.
For answer the old sea captain searched some inner pocket to withdraw a large, grubby square which he held shakily to his eyes. ‘Mr James,’ he said huskily, ‘if you’ll be excusin’ me . . .’
Burying his face into the hanky he blew his nose loudly and swayed suddenly on his feet. Mark took his arm and led him over to a pile of ropes coiled on top of some fish boxes. There the old man sank down, leaned his back against the wall and gave way to silent, uncontrolled weeping.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Mr James,’ he sobbed brokenly, ‘I canny believe what’s happened. It’s too sore, too sore to take in – I loved that lad, he was a son o’ the soil and should never have joined the lifeboat team. He didny know enough about the sea. I mind fine when he took over from Hamish Cameron yon time he drowned out there beyond the Point. He never thought he was good enough to be Grieve o’ Laigmhor but the men loved him for he was a fit man for the job, none fitter.’
Something cold and cruel gripped the heart of Mark James, squeezing, squeezing till he felt faint from the lack of breath. ‘Mac,’ he got out at last, ‘you’re surely not telling me that something serious has happened to – to Matthew?’
Captain Mac took a deep shuddering breath. ‘As serious as it will ever be – he’s dead, Mr James, drowned in that hellish sea out there – and the awful thing is he died stopping another lad from risking his life. Just went right over the side o’ the boat and into the water. Young Grant McKenzie has taken it bad, he thought the world o’ Matthew who aye had time to spare for him when he was a bairn growing up at Laigmhor.’
He went on to explain everything that had happened, ending, ‘Some will blame young Hugh for no’ putting on his own lifejacket but it was an accident, Minister, everything happened too fast for it to be anybody’s fault – except maybe those two foolhardy buggers who got into difficulties in the first place. Folks do it all the time, think they can beat the ocean. The like o’ them have no respect for her power and this is the result. Ach, poor Tina, and her waiting for her man to show up at Granda John’s birthday ceilidh. Matthew had a present for the old man. He gave it to me to keep for him seeing I was in the wheelhouse and might hae a better chance o’ keeping it dry. ’Tis terrible just, I’ve never felt so bad about anything for many a long day.’
The full implications of Mac’s news hit Mark like a blow over the heart. ‘Mac,’ he whispered, ‘how can I tell them what’s happened? Where can I find the strength?’
‘Where you’ve aye found it before, son,’ was Mac’s simple reply.
‘I’m only a man, Mac, with the same frailties as other men!’
It was a cry from the heart. He wanted to shout out that he couldn’t always find his strength in God, that sometimes he felt so overburdened with human weaknesses he had to get down on his knees and pray for the Lord to give him more faith than he had. Instead he braced his shoulders and threw his arm round the older man. ‘I’m sorry I said that, Mac, of course I’ll give Tina and her family all the comfort I can but first I must see you home safe and dry.’
But Mac stayed him, his tear-stained face filled with understanding. ‘I ken fine it canny aye be easy to carry the burdens o’ other men but you were well chosen for the job, son. You’re human, you see, no’ some being apart, shoutin’ thunder frae the pulpit then creepin’ home to commit your wee sins in private. Na, na, you’re one o’ us, laddie, we can talk to you man to man and that is why every man, woman, and child on this island loves you like a brother.’
Mark took a deep breath. ‘Thanks, Mac, I needed to hear that. No matter what happens, how difficult it’s going to be, I’ll remember your words and bless you for them.’
‘Ach well, I don’t suppose any o’ us give you much thanks for all the good you bring into our lives. I’m no’ much o’ a kirkgoer myself but betimes I’ve heard you preaching and have come away frae kirk a much wiser man than when I went in. Tina will no’ hear a word against you. Thon time your roof caved in she near drove Matthew daft wi’ worrying about you and of course he just laughed in that nice way he had and tried to make her see the best side o’ a bad job.’
He drew another shuddering breath. ‘To think we were all sitting in Old Joe’s house just a wee whilie ago, cracking and laughing and listening to the old man’s stories. I think Joe saw something like this coming, for before we left the house he said a very strange thing. “Go easy the night, lads,” he warned. “There’s danger afoot and none o’ you must let each other out o’ your sight.” We couldny stick to his advice of course and now this has happened. I just canny believe it, son, I canny.’
The hanky was to the fore again and Mark put his hand under Captain Mac’s elbow to help him to his feet. Turning the corner of the shed they were in time to see a flying figure rushing down to the pier to plunge in amongst the crowd like a tormented thing.
‘Dear God, it’s Eve!’ Mark rushed forward and caught the girl by the arm. ‘Eve, come over here, I must talk to you.’
Eve had always been a calm, sweet-tempered girl with big, languorous blue eyes and a gentle, fair beauty that sat about her like a serene mantle. Matthew had adored her and had always declared that she was the most precious Christmas gift he had ever known
in his life, for she had been born on the eve of Christmas twenty-six years ago and had taken her name from that memorable day.
She had never given her parents a moment’s worry, was easy to live with for she laughed a lot and never allowed her temper to get the better of her – if indeed she had a temper at all. All the family were like that, Donald her elder brother even more than any of them with his quiet, shy smile, and his thoughtful manner. It was therefore all the more disconcerting to see Eve as she was now, wild-eyed, dishevelled, her sweet, young face contorted with fear. ‘Is it true, Mr James?’ she threw at him abruptly. ‘I met Fingal – he told me there had been an accident – my father . . .?’
‘Ay, Eve, God help me it’s true.’
‘Where is he? Where’s my father? I want to take him home . . .’ She was incoherent in her grief, her head turning this way and that, searching – looking for the man she would never see in her life again.
‘Eve,’ Mark took hold of her and tenderly stroked the bright gleam of her hair, ‘Matthew – your father – went overboard into the water – the men couldn’t save him – couldn’t bring him back . . .’
She screamed then, the despairing tortured cries of a daughter bereft suddenly of a beloved father. It was a sound Mark was never to forget for the rest of his days and he was almost glad to be released of the burden of her agony when several womenfolk came rushing over to enfold the girl to them with murmurs of comfort and condolence.
A small band of villagers were coming along the pier, bearing a stretcher in which reposed the inert figure of a man. Beside him walked a stranger with a bloody gash on his face and one arm tied up hastily by the cuff of his jacket.
He paused when he reached the group of women with Eve in their midst. Somebody had obviously told him who she was as his words to her proved. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry this had to happen.’