High Stand

by Hammond Innes

  We parked our bags in the mess room aft, which was below deck and empty except for the steward clearing away the last remains of the evening meal. ‘You like some coffee, help yourself.’ He nodded to the hotplate. ‘Coffee’s available any time and if you’re real thirsty there’s the fridge - milk, orange juice, cans of tomato juice. Biscuits in the rack above the table there. Okay?’

  I nodded and turned to Tom. ‘I’m going up to the wheel-house,’ I said. ‘See what the Captain can tell me.’

  Tom didn’t seem to hear. He was helping himself to coffee, his hair standing up like a brush and his brow creased in a horizontal line. The cup rattled in its saucer, his hand shaking, his mind shut away with its own thoughts and fears. I went up through the hatch and out onto the sidedeck where the wind of our passage thrust at my clothes and I had to clutch my cap. We must have been doing the better part of 2.0 knots, black water streaming past and the roar of the engines from the open hatch, where one of the oilers sat reading a magazine, almost deafening. A short iron ladder led up the side of the bridge-housing to the half-shut door of the wheelhouse. I slid it back and went in, a voice on the radio saying, ‘I can’t see nuttin’. No lights, no stars, not a fuckin’ thing. Where are you, Naughty Gosling? This fishing boat Chick Chick. Can’t see nuttin’. I’m in a fog right up to my eyeballs, boy, an’ ah reck’n ah’m lost.’

  The Captain reached up and switched stations. ‘Poor bloody Indian got himself lost. Next thing is he’ll call RCC — that’s the Rescue Coordination Centre at Esquimault, Victoria. If he does he’ll be out of luck.’ And he added, ‘Forecast is for fog and that bugger’s in it already. Trouble is we don’t know where he is. Seaward probably.’

  ‘Thickening up already, Doug.’ The Mate was standing by the radar, peering into the night ahead. He rubbed his eyes. ‘Shit! Why do we have to get ourselves dealt a bank of fog just when we’d like clear visibility?’

  ‘Good practice, Curly.’ The Captain’s voice sounded sour and they grinned at each other. ‘Be a long night, I reck’n.’ The Mate was short and fat with black curly hair and a voice that was hoarse as though he had a perpetual need to clear his throat and couldn’t be bothered.

  ‘Not going to be easy to locate that tug, is it?’ I asked.

  The Mate gave me a startled look as though he hadn’t expected the stranger to voice an opinion, and certainly not on the bridge. It was the Captain who answered. ‘Soon as we’re through the Lama Passage and into the Fisher Channel we should pick up the tow on our radar.’ He glanced at my battered sea cap. ‘You understand charts?’ I nodded and he turned to the chart table that stretched along most of the rear wall of the wheelhouse below all the radios, the Decca navigation and search and rescue equipment. ‘She’s out of the Fisher now and into Fitz Hugh Sound and there’s a ship the Defence Forces base at Esquimault has been tracking by satellite sitting waiting down there by the North Passage.’ He pointed a thick hairy ringer at the open sea area to the west of Calvert Island. ‘Don’t ask me how, but somebody’s bugged her so that they’ve been able to track her all the way from somewhere south of the Californian coast. It’s a big motor yacht, I’m told.’

  ‘And what’s your role?’ I asked him as he stopped abruptly, leaving me in the air as to what his instructions were.

  He hesitated, then said, ‘Well, I’ve let you on board, and since you’ll see what happens, no point in your not knowing the role we’re supposed to play.’ His finger tapped the open water area. ‘My instructions are to wait until I’ve got both yacht and tug on my radar scan and can report they’re closing. A chopper is standing by. The expectation is that this is the rendezvous position, that they’ll close to let the yacht lie alongside and pass her cargo over. I haven’t been told what that cargo is, but as I gather both you and Jim here have already leapt to the conclusion that it’s drugs, I can say that that’s my conclusion, too. The helicopter will be carrying a rummage party. We stand by in case there’s trouble.’

  We were in the Lama Passage then, the waterway narrowing to the width of a quite ordinary-sized river, forests of trees green on either side, a pale tide-band of exposed rock close above the surface of the water and our wake arrowing out behind us to surge against it. It would have been too dark to see it if we hadn’t had the spotlight trained on it, and as we entered the narrows, our speed unreduced and wisps of fog, Doug Cornish switched on the powerful beam of the ‘nightsun’ searchlight that seemed to pierce even the fog.

  Our speed at that time was just over 18 knots, rocks and lit beacons ahead; I watched Cornish’s face for some sign of nervousness, a flicker of hesitation. There was neither.

  ‘Starb’d helm.’

  ‘The wheel spun under the helmsman’s hand and he repeated, ‘Starb’d helm.’

  ‘Helm amidships and steer one-six-o.’ And a moment later, the helmsman reported, ‘Steering one-six-o.’

  After that we just stood there, watching the Fisher Channel shoreline, which on the port side was barely visible, and waiting. The watch changed, the helmsman handing over and collecting the coffee mugs scattered about the wheelhouse.

  ‘Everybody coffee? Milk and sugar?’ he asked me. ‘No sugar,’ I said, and Jim asked for two lumps. The engine beat and the swish of the bow wave, the slop of the water against the starb’d side of the channel, all these were constant sounds. Only the sound from the radio and occasional verbal exchanges between skipper and mate interrupted the monotonous, almost sleep-inducing background noises of a vessel under way.

  The Captain was bent over the radar, his eyes glued to the scanner, talking quietly to the Mate, and Jim had pushed open the door and was searching the Channel through a pair of ship’s binoculars. I turned to the white expanse of Chart 1933 spread out on the chart table. There was a pair of dividers in the rack and I measured off the distance from where we had turned out of the Lama Passage to Cape Calvert and the open water of North Passage, then checked it off against the minutes of latitude shown vertically on the edge of the chart. A minute is the equivalent of a nautical mile and die dividers indicated just on forty.

  ‘You a sailor?’ It was the Captain’s voice.

  I nodded.

  ‘The tide’s with us so we’re probably doing twenty over the ground. We’ll be up with them in two hours. Sailing boat?’ he asked.

  He lived at Fulford in the Gulf Islands and kept a small cruiser in the harbour there. ‘I named her Salish after one of the Indian tribes from the south - like Bella Bella is named for one of the northern tribes; the Haidas and the Bella Bellas were very fierce at one time.’ Mugs of coffee appeared on a tray and we talked about boats for a time, then his eyes began to watch the clock. At twenty-three minutes past the hour he switched on the HF single sideband radio and two minutes later he was talking to RCC at the southern end of Vancouver Island. He gave his ETA at the target as approximately 22.55 and it was arranged that unless contrary advice was received from him the helicopter would lift off from Port Hardy at 22.10 hours to be on call within range of the target as the Kelsey closed with the tug and ordered it to heave-to. ‘Good luck and let’s hope this isn’t another FBI rabbit that isn’t going to come out of the hat.’ The radio went silent and he switched it off.

  ‘What was the last tip-off you had, Captain?’ There was a wind on our backs and it was Tom’s voice.

  I turned - we both turned. He was standing in the starb’d doorway, leaning against it, his voice a little high but otherwise relaxed. ‘Was it another log tow?’

  ‘No.’ The Captain was leaning a little forward, peering at Tom from under his bushy brows. ‘I don’t think we’ve met,’ he said, the easy-going, friendly manner suddenly gone.

  ‘My name’s Tom Halliday.’ He came in, shutting the door behind him and holding out his hand. ‘You’re Captain Cornish, I take it. I have to thank you for taking Philip and myself on this trip with you.’ The Captain ignored the outstretched hand. He was frowning as Tom, quite unabashed, went on, his voice tending to slur some of
the words, ‘I think you know the “target” as you call it, the tow taking logs from the Cascades, which I own, down to Seattle for milling. I would like to talk to the people running this operation if I may. Can you get them on the radio please?’

  ‘No, I cannot.’ Doug Cornish’s reaction was immediate, his tone uncompromising. ‘And you will kindly ask permission before coming on my bridge. Do you understand, Mr Halliday?’

  Tom smiled and shrugged, not in the least put out. ‘So sorry. Of course. Permission requested, Captain.’ It just didn’t seem to occur to him his manner and the slightly supercilious tone in his very English voice were not the best way to approach a Canadian skipper on his own ship. And he didn’t hesitate, but went straight on, ‘You do understand, don’t you, this operation, which from all the talk I’ve been listening to on board is a drugs snatch, could result in a woman’s death - in a woman being murdered?’

  The frown on Cornish’s face deepened. ‘Are you drunk or something? What woman? What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘My wife,’ Tom said. ‘If this is drugs …’ He paused, shaking his head and looking suddenly uncertain. ‘I want to talk to them. Whoever has set this operation up. I have to warn them — they’ve threatened to kill her.’

  ‘Who have?’ There was disbelief in the Captain’s voice. ‘What are you talking about?’ He sounded exasperated.

  Tom started to stutter something, then stopped. ‘Ask Philip here. He’s a lawyer. Maybe you’ll listen to him.’

  And so I was brought into it and quietly I told the Captain of the cutter something of what I knew. I couldn’t help it. Tom, drugged to the eyeballs, had blurted it out and now I had to back him. In any case, perhaps it was as well, since it made up my mind for me.

  But then the incredible happened. They didn’t believe it. That Doug Cornish, standing there at the chart table with his Mate watching the scan, on the threshold of an awkward boarding operation with an American tug for target, wouldn’t believe me was something I hadn’t expected. That he wouldn’t believe Tom, whom he clearly suspected of being an alcoholic, was fair enough. Tom wasn’t easy to take at times. But that he wouldn’t accept it from me, after we’d been standing there at the chart table talking about our respective boats and drinking coffee together… ‘But the man’s right,’ I said. ‘He’s telling the truth. They’re holding Miriam Halliday and once they know her husband is on board…’

  Then we’ll keep him below. That way they’ll never know — will that satisfy you?’

  I must have been arguing with him for fifteen minutes or more, but he absolutely refused to contact his RCC base. ‘You can talk to them afterwards,’ he said finally. ‘Once we know whether there’s drugs on board or not. As soon as the operation’s over, then you can talk to them. Not before. Okay?’ And that was his final word. I couldn’t budge him, nor could Tom, whose tone of voice had changed to one of pleading, tears in his eyes and his voice half-choked with emotion. I could see his change of manner had affected Cornish. He was no longer resentful and there was compassion in his voice as he put his hand on Tom’s arm and said, ‘Look, even if I accept the truth of what the two of you have been saying, I can’t do anything about it. I’m just the skipper of a Coastguard vessel. I carry out orders, and my orders now are to stand by this tug while specialist officers of another branch of government service carry out a search. Afterwards you can talk to whoever you like. And now, Mr Halliday,’ he added, ‘I suggest you go below and leave me to get on with my job.’

  Tom hesitated, glancing at me, and then he turned without another word and went stumbling down the ladder to the sidedeck. ‘Better keep an eye on him.’ The Captain’s hand was on my arm, propelling me towards the door, and as I went out I saw him look across at Jim Edmundson with lifted brows, and seeing Jim nod, I checked and said, ‘It’s true what he told you. He had a note from her. She’s being held hostage —’

  ‘That’s a matter for the police.’ Cornish’s face had suddenly taken a shut look. ‘Nothing to do with me. You keep him off my bridge. Understand?’ His head thrust forward, his eyes on mine, waiting till I acknowledged his order with a nod. ‘Okay, then after this little business is over I’ll drop you both at Ocean Falls, or he can go on to the Cascades with Jim Edmundson, whichever he likes.’ He turned back to the radio. ‘Any sign of that tow?’ The Mate shook his head and Cornish thrust him aside and buried his eyes in the eyepiece of the scanner.

  Tom was waiting for me at the bottom of the ladder, his hand clutching at me. ‘What do I do?’ His voice trembled, on the verge of tears.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Nothing you can do - except keep out of sight when we meet up with the tow. They don’t know you’re on board.’

  ‘That man Lopez, he was with us when we came ashore.’

  ‘So was Camargo,’ I said. ‘All those two know is that a man you met on the ferry got you a lift on a Coastguard cutter. That’s all.’

  ‘But as soon as we reach the tug —’

  ‘That’s all,’ I repeated. ‘All they’ll be able to report. And it’ll take time for them to contact whoever it is that’s employing them. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest before they connect the Kelsey and us with the stopping and searching of the tug, and then all sorts of things may be happening.’

  ‘You think they’ll find coke on board?’ His hand was still gripped tight on my arm. ‘Is that what you think?’

  ‘How the hell do I know? But if that yacht makes a rendezvous with the tug and the customs boys search it … Then the offices of the SVL Company in Seattle will be raided and the tug boat owners, Angeles Georgia Towing, as well. If all that happens, then they won’t be worrying about Miriam.’

  It seemed to satisfy him. He stared at me a moment and I could see his mind grappling with the implications. Then he nodded. ‘Ya. Guess you’re right, Philip. And the Captain -he’ll believe us then, won’t he? I mean, if they find one of the ships stuffed with coke, he’ll have to believe us, an’ then he’ll let me talk to this RCC base of his and the authorities will be alerted and they’ll start a big search. Ya …’ He was nodding his head again. ‘Maybe it’ll all work out for the best. The poor darling — I just hope to God…’ There were tears in his eyes then and he let go my arm, snuffling into his handkerchief and turning aft. ‘Where’s the heads?’

  I told him where it was and he went aft, balancing himself carefully with his hand on the deckhouse rail. When he returned he asked ‘How long’ve we got- before we close that tow? An hour?’

  ‘A little more,’ I said.

  He nodded. ‘I’m going to get some coffee then.’ I went with him down to the mess-room and with the coffee I had some biscuits and cheese out of the fridge. By the time I had finished he was sprawled on the bulkhead settle half asleep. I got my anorak and went up on deck. The wind of our passage was too great for me to stand on the sidedeck, so I took up a position aft where I could look back from the shelter of the deckhouse along our wake to the vague outline of the mountains and the dark of the shore either side of the broad ribbon of water we were steaming down. The fog was no more than a gossamer-thin veil of mist now that we were out of the narrower Fisher Channel and into Fitz Hugh Sound.

  There was a sudden flurry of activity, the engine-room telegraph jangling, the engines juddering and the wake changing to a confused froth as the cutter heeled sharply to port, one engine still going ahead, the other astern as we turned 180° and headed back up the Sound, hugging the western shore, then swinging steadily in towards it to round a lit buoy, land closing in on our starb’d side. I was on the sidedeck then, one of the crew tumbling down the ladder from the bridge. ‘What’s happening?’ I asked.

  ‘We’ve sighted them, heading seawards through the Hakai Passage. Skipper says…’ But the rest was lost in the noise of the engines, the rush of the bow wave, his words swept away by the wind.

  I went up to the bridge then, thinking to hell with it. He could only throw me off again, and as long as Tom was safe down
below … The Captain and the Mate were standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the radar, the helmsman rigid with concentration. The Chief was there talking to Jim. I slipped over to the chart table. It was Kelpie Point we had rounded, not a lit buoy, but a beacon on a little rock island, and the Hakai Passage ran north of Calvert and Hecate Islands almost due west out of the Sound to the open sea. A small cross had been pencilled just by a lit beacon north of Starfish Island. I turned expecting to see the flash of it, but there was nothing. ‘Steer two-two-five.’

  ‘Two-two-five,’ the helmsman repeated.

  Cornish moved to the chart table in a couple of strides. ‘Fog’s thicker here,’ he said, using the sliding rule to pencil in the line of our course through the passage, checking the distance with the dividers, then scribbling 220° - 8m. ‘Say the tow is making something over five knots, then we’ll be alongside in less than an hour.’ Without turning his head he ordered, ‘Steer two-two-o.’

  ‘Two-two-o.’

  ‘Your friend all right?’ He gave me a quick sideways glance, and when I said he was sleeping he nodded. ‘Best thing for him.’ Then he was back at the scanner, no word about my leaving the bridge, so I stayed, making myself as inconspicu ous as possible. Apparently the tow was visible on the radar. But then the Captain straightened up, stretching and rubbing his eyes. ‘Well, that’s that, out of sight now round Starfish and Surf heading south beyond the South Pointers. Another hour.’ He sighed and turned to me. ‘You ever been on this coast before, Mr Redfern?’