by Nevil Shute
Presently, exhausted by the whimpering of the children and the screaming of the baby, they got up and made tea, and sat in the saloon in the darkness with the children, drinking it.
Corbett said: ‘It won’t go on much longer.’
As he spoke, there was a rushing, whistling sound, and a great splash near at hand as something heavy fell into the water. What happened then was past description. The vessel seemed to rise bodily into the air beneath them, plucking at her anchor-chain with a great crack that shook her to the stern. She was lifted, and thrown bodily on to the surface of the sea on her beam-ends, with a crash. In the saloon they were all flung together in a heap on the low side, stunned and deafened with the detonation. On her beam-ends she was carried swiftly sideways towards the centre of the channel; then she seemed to strike the bottom with her top-sides, though she had been anchored in two fathoms. Slowly she rose till she was nearly on an even keel. Then a great avalanche fell upon her, smothering her down, pressing her beneath the tumult of the sea. A ton of mud and water poured down into the saloon through the half-open hatch; she was spun bodily around. Then she rose, streaming like a half-tide rock, and drifted out towards the middle of the channel.
Deafened and dazed, Corbett groped his way to the hatch and clambered out on deck. By some freak of chance the dinghy was still with them; sunk to the gunwales she was still attached to the stern by her painter. The boom was trailing in the water, topping lift and mainsheet carried away. There was a tangle of loose gear at the foot of the mast that he could not stop to investigate; the glass of the cabin skylight was shattered. The anchor-chain hung straight down from the bow, broken off short; the vessel was slowly rotating out into the middle of the channel. She was much lower in the water than usual; the decks were deep in slime.
He hurried aft to the sail-locker, got a warp, and bent it to the kedge-anchor. Then he went forward and anchored her roughly with the kedge and warp; she brought up in about six fathoms. Coming aft, he saw that Joan was in the cockpit, working at the pump.
‘Are the children all right?’
‘I think they are. Look, take over pumping, Peter, and I’ll go and see to them. There’s over a foot of water in the cabin.’
He went to the pump. ‘Mark the level in the cabin, and tell me if I’m getting it down at all.’
He settled to the pump. In the cabin he could hear her sloshing about in the water, could hear her comforting the children. Presently he heard the roaring of the Primus stove. He pumped on steadily. On shore the battery was still throwing its barrage to the sky; bombs were still falling round about. At the end of twenty minutes Joan said:
‘You’re getting it down, Peter. It’s an inch lower than it was—an inch to an inch and a half.’
He rested for a minute, and began again. Presently, having soothed the children, she came to him with a cup of Bovril; he drank it gratefully while she relieved him at the pump.
He asked: ‘Do you think she’s making water?’
‘I don’t believe she is. The level’s going down all the time. I think it’s only what came into her by the skylight and the hatch.’
‘Lord,’ he said, ‘we don’t want another one like that.’
‘What about that quarantine anchorage, now?’
‘They can keep it.’
He busied himself with the boom. When that was inboard he went round the deck assessing the damage. It was not so bad as he had feared. The little yacht was injured, but she was not incapacitated; there was nothing there that he could not patch up and repair himself, given the time. He went aft and pulled the sunken dinghy up to the counter. Joan left the pump and went to help him; together they hauled it out of the water, emptied it, and put it back afloat. Then Corbett went back to the pump, and Joan went down below.
‘The water’s practically off the floor,’ she said. ‘I don’t believe she’s leaking more than usual. I’m going to change the kids into dry things.’
‘Are there any dry things?’
‘Oh yes. The things in the top drawers are quite all right.’
An hour later, the pump sucked. Corbett went below, exhausted and with a violent headache; he was amazed at what Joan had done. Regardless of the air-raid, which now seemed to be over, Joan had lit the lamp. She had the children into dry clothes and put them to rest upon the driest of the two settees; she had wiped over the floor and the paintwork. The saloon was looking almost normal, though it was smelling very bad.
He poured himself out a stiff whisky, and gave one to Joan. ‘We’ll get away from this bloody place as soon as we can,’ he said wearily.
‘Is the boat all right to get away?’
‘I think so. I’ll have to go and find the anchor. But it’s got a buoy on it.’
He made her lie down on the other settee. Then he changed into dry clothes and put on his oilskins, spread a sail doubled over Joan’s sopping bunk, pulled the wet blankets over him, and fell into a heavy sleep.
When he awoke, three hours later, it was daylight. He got up stiffly and took off his oilskins; Joan and the children were still sleeping. He went on deck, got a bucket, and started to swill away the slime that covered the vessel.
The morning came up sunny and bright. Joan heard him moving about on deck, got up, and came to the hatchway. She wrinkled up her nose at the mess on the deck; then she went back and started to get the children up. Corbett went off in the dinghy, found the anchor-buoy, and raised the anchor with ten feet of broken chain attached to it. He took it back on board and shackled it on to the remainder of the chain.
A couple of hours later they had more or less recovered from the incident of the night. They had had a good meal and had washed up; their clothes, their blankets and their bedding were laid out on deck and drying in the sun. Corbett was drying the magneto of the engine in the oven, and Joan, with sail-needle and palm, was repairing a long slit in the mainsail.
They worked all morning in the sun; by noon they were ready to get under way.
They were dead tired, and both confessed to headaches. The children were fretful and exhausted. Still, it was necessary to move on; they got the bedding down below again and put the children down to rest with a full meal inside them. For themselves, they took aspirin and a little food, and faced the future.
‘There’s one thing certain,’ Corbett said. ‘We’ve got to get away from here before to-night.’
Joan said hesitantly: ‘Do you think we might go to Yarmouth?’
‘That’s in the Isle of Wight. They wouldn’t let us in.’
She sighed. ‘They’re always so nice there.’
‘We’ll try it, if you like, but I don’t think there’s a hope. Still, they might let us have some water.’
She nodded. ‘If they wouldn’t let us stay we could go over and anchor for the night off Keyhaven, on the mainland side. We’d be out of the way of the bombs there, anyway.’
They got the dinghy up on deck and capsized her over the broken skylight in her sea-going position; then they set up the mainsail and got the kedge-anchor. There was a light breeze from the south-west as they sailed out of Southampton Water; the day was only partially overcast, so that there were patches of bright sun to warm them. They laid the vessel to the wind for the beat down towards the Needles; Joan went below to sleep.
An hour later she came up on deck and relieved Peter at the helm; in turn he went below, and fell asleep at once.
He woke later in the afternoon, refreshed and well. He came up to the cockpit and took the helm from Joan, who went below and made tea. They got the children up on deck and all had tea together in the cockpit; by the time they could lie Yarmouth in the late afternoon they were cheerful and in good shape.
As they approached the little town at the entrance to its narrow creek they got the sails down and went forward under engine. A motor-boat came out to meet them, as at Wootton; before it had time to intercept them Corbett had anchored with his kedge-anchor and warp.
The boat came alongside. Thi
s time the sergeant of police in the boat was more truculent.
‘Let’s see your Bill of Health.’
Corbett said: ‘I haven’t got one, I’m afraid.’
‘You can’t anchor here without a Bill of Health.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Where are you from?’
‘Hamble.’
The sergeant began upon a long, stereotyped harangue about quarantine, and the powers granted to the Local Authority under the Defence of the Realm Act to combat the spread of infection. Joan stood by the mast, aside. Out from the harbour entrance came an aged rowing-boat, rowed by a stocky figure in an old blue reefer and a seaman’s hat. There was a black retriever dog perched in the bows.
Joan watched the boat as it drew closer. Then she interrupted the discussion.
‘Oh, Peter!’ she cried. ‘Here’s Mr. Low coming!’ He was the Harbourmaster.
The police sergeant turned and looked with disapproval at the approaching boat. ‘He’s got nothing to do with this,’ he said. ‘Outside of his province, this is.’
Joan called out: ‘Mr. Low, do come and help us. We don’t want to land. We only want some water.’
The Harbourmaster bumped his row-boat unceremoniously alongside the police launch. He beamed at Joan. He spoke slowly and without concern. ‘Why, Mrs. Corbett,’ he said, ‘quite a pleasure seeing you, this early in the season. And Mr. Corbett, too.’
Joan said: ‘Mr. Low, they won’t let us stay here. We know we can’t land, but we want some fresh water. We’ve got the baby aboard with us, and I must wash out her nappies.’
The sergeant said: ‘They can’t stop here. They got to go to quarantine.’
In the Harbourmaster the slow anger rose. ‘Who says they can’t stop here. They can’t land—that I do know. But who’s to say they can’t anchor here, or anywhere they likes? Free for all, the sea is, below low-water mark.’
The sergeant, unaccustomed to marine law, hesitated. ‘I got my orders,’ he said a little weakly, ‘and I got to see them carried out.’
The Harbourmaster followed up his attack. ‘It don’t say nothing in your orders about Mrs. Corbett not anchoring here to get a drop of water, nor in the Defence of the Realm Act, either.’ He snorted. ‘Fine goings on, I do say!’ He turned to the sergeant: ‘All you want to known is that they’re not going to land. Well, I’ve known this boat, and Mr. and Mrs. Corbett, these five years past. They come here regular, all through the summer. They won’t land if you tell them not.’
‘I don’t want to land,’ said Corbett. ‘But I want some water now, and perhaps some more in the morning. I’d like to stay at anchor here for the night.’
‘Where are you bound for?’ asked the Harbourmaster.
‘Plymouth, if I can get there.’
The sergeant said: ‘All right,’ and pushed off from the bow. He turned to the Harbourmaster: ‘And don’t you go on board of them, either. We don’t want none of that cholera in Yarmouth.’
The Harbourmaster said disgustedly: ‘Ah, get on out of it. Don’t talk so soft.’ The driver of the launch let in his clutch, and the boat slid away. The Harbourmaster beamed up at Joan. ‘Got the baby with you, have you, Mrs. Corbett? And the other two as well? My, don’t they look well! A proper handful for you, they must be.’
Joan said: ‘It’s awfully good of you to let us stay the night. They wouldn’t let us even anchor at Wootton.’
‘Ah, stay as long as you like. You don’t want to pay any attention to him. And there won’t be any harbour dues, anchoring out here. But don’t go on shore—not without he says you may.’
‘We don’t want to. All we want is some water, and then we’ll be able to do the washing.’
‘I’ll get you the water—give us your bag.’ They passed him the water-bag. ‘How are you going on for milk?’
Joan said quickly: ‘Could you get us some? Fresh milk?’
‘Surely, Mrs. Corbett.’
‘Two quarts?’
‘Surely. Do you want anything else—meat, or vegetables, or bread?’
Corbett said: ‘We’re quite all right for bread. We’ve got plenty of tinned things, but we’ve got no fresh meat or vegetables at all.’
‘I could bring off two or three cabbages out of my own garden. What about a nice leg of lamb?’
Joan said unevenly: ‘A nice leg of lamb. You don’t know what you’re saying, Mr. Low.’
He smiled, and said: ‘Suppose I bring you off a little bit of meat that you could cook yourselves, and have it hot for to-night. Then I could buy a nice leg of lamb to-night and get the wife to cook it for you, and bring it off cold in the morning.’
Joan said: ‘That would be splendid. You’re ever so good, Mr. Low.’
He said awkwardly: ‘Ah, it’s nothing, Mrs. Corbett.’ He pushed off and rowed back towards the quay. Joan turned to Peter, and her cheeks were wet with tears. ‘I know I’m a damn fool,’ she muttered. ‘But it upsets one—when people are so kind.’
Half an hour later the Harbourmaster appeared, still rowing with the dog perched in the bows. He brought them a bag of water, four cartons of milk, a little round of beef, and a cauliflower. They emptied the bag into the water-tank and gave it back to him to bring off full again in the morning. Corbett gave him money, but he would take nothing beyond the bare peace-time value of the food.
They spent the evening washing nappies, putting the children to bed, and preparing a great meal. It was after ten o’clock when it was finished and washed up; they sat on deck for a short time, smoking and looking at the lights across the water. From time to time a shadowy form, a warship or auxiliary vessel of some sort, went secretly past them without lights.
Corbett stirred. ‘I knew that there was something wrong,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t place it. The lighthouse at Hurst Castle isn’t functioning.’
She looked towards the Castle in the black night. ‘Is that because of the war?’
‘I suppose it is. They turned out most of them in the last war, because they might have helped the submarines.’
‘Do you think there are submarines in the Channel now, Peter?’
He rubbed his chin. ‘I don’t know. I don’t think they’d bother much about us. We’re too small.’
‘I don’t want to get submarined.’
He laughed shortly. ‘If we stick around here, we’ll get sent back to Hamble sooner or later. I’d rather go to sea and try and get down west. I don’t think there’s much risk.’
She nodded. ‘You’re right. I’d rather take that sort of risk than get sent back to Hamble.’
Presently they went to bed. In the night the distant thundering of bombs and the sharp crack of guns went on continuously from Southampton; it did not wake them. They slept peacefully and heavily all night; it was not till daylight that they woke again.
All that morning the ship was festooned with the baby’s washing and their own, hanging out to dry. The Harbourmaster came off with the leg of lamb, fresh vegetables, more water, and more milk. He brought also a couple of loaves of bread to supplement the bread that Joan had baked, and a little bottle of boiled sweets for the children.
He asked: ‘When are you getting under way, Mr. Corbett?’
‘This afternoon, I think. The weather looks all right.’
‘I’ll ring them up at Hurst Castle and tell them at the boom.’
‘What boom?’
‘They got the Needles channel closed with a boom, same as they did in the war—the last war. Because of the submarines, and that. All ships come in by Spithead now—we don’t get none through here. But they’ll let you through if they know. You go through on this side, right up against the shore. You’ll see the mark boat there.’
He considered for a minute. ‘I don’t think they’ll make any trouble. Another gentleman went through, day before yesterday, and they didn’t make no trouble with him. They’ll want to know where you’re bound for.’
‘Say Plymouth.’
‘I’ll
arrange it for you, Mr. Corbett. They won’t make no fuss. I hope you’ll have a very pleasant trip.’
Joan said: ‘Good-bye, Mr. Low. I’ll never forget what you’ve done for us.’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘That’s all right, Mrs. Corbett. We shall look forward to seeing you back in Yarmouth again.’
He rowed back to the town, the dog still perched impassively in the bows of his boat. They watched him till he reached the quay.
‘I knew we’d be all right if we came here,’ said Joan.
They turned away, and started to get the boat ready for sea. They had baked a quantity of bread; with the two loaves the Harbourmaster had brought they had sufficient for a passage of two or three days. They had made a large meat stew and left it in the saucepan on the gimbals; they would get two meals out of that. They had a full water-tank, and some water still left in the bag.
They cleared the decks, gathering in the washing and stowing it away. Then they had lunch, washed up, and gave a feed to the baby. Finally at about three o’clock they were ready to go.
The day was overcast and cold, with a moderate easterly wind, fair for their passage. They got up their anchor and set sail towards the narrows; very soon they saw the mark boat with a small launch standing by. The launch ranged up alongside them; it was a naval boat, manned by two seamen and an R.N.R. sub-lieutenant.
It passed under their stern to read the name. The officer hailed them.
‘Sonia. Where are you from?’
‘Hamble.’
‘Where are you bound for?’
‘Plymouth.’
‘How many people on board?’
‘Five. Myself, my wife, and three children.’
‘Are you armed?’
‘I’ve got an automatic pistol.’
‘You’d better not try and use it. You can go through—between those two buoys. If you see any foreign submarine activity, or anything else that you think significant, put into Portland or Dartmouth and report.’
‘I’ll do that.’
‘Good luck.’
The launch slid away, and they sailed forward through the boom.