by Nevil Shute
"Did you leave any food on the Irene?"
Lanard considered. "Two tins of milk, one of bully, about half a pound of coffee, and a little tea. And half a pot of strawberry jam."
"Marmalade?"
"Ate it."
Dennison left his breakfast, opened a cupboard, and grovelled in it. He emerged presently, dragging after him a green-strained and battered patent log.
"I wanted that at Easter," said Lanard. "If I'd known it was there, I'd have taken it." He paused. "Going for long? "
"A week," said Dennison. "Where's its line? I brought it up to have it seen to, you know."
"Line's in the sail store," said Lanard. "Saw it when I went to get the light warp for the kedge."
Dennison continued with his breakfast in a moody silence.
"Pilot's guide? he said suddenly.
"On board. And the chart 'Weymouth to Owers.' "
"Where's 'Dodman to Portland'?"
His friend gazed at him keenly. "You can't get across the West Bay and back in a week," he said.
Dennison flared suddenly into a temper. "Damn it," he said. "I'll go where I bloody well like. Where's the chart?"
"In the cupboard, I think," said Lanard gently. He hesitated a moment. "If you care to wait a day, I'll come with you tomorrow."
Dennison got up and went into- his bedroom. "No, thanks," he said wearily. "There'd be black murder on the high seas."
"Right you are," said Lanard. "Get a new frying pan if you think of it—it's practically done for. And some prickers for the Primus. Back in a week?"
"Week or ten days," said Dennison.
Lanard finished his breakfast and departed for his office. Dennison dressed slowly in his sea-going clothes, and packed a bag. For a moment he stood looking round the sitting room, as if in search of anything that he might have left behind.
"I didn't think it would be like this," he said aloud.
He turned, picked up his bag, and left the house. He caught a morning train at Waterloo and travelled to Southampton, lunched at a restaurant near the Bar, and caught a bus to Hamble early in the afternoon.
He carried his bag down through the village to the hard, left it there, and went in search of the venerable proprietor of the yard. He found him by the water's edge supervising the finishing touches to a small cutter, brilliant with new paint.
"I'm taking the Irene for a week," said Dennison.
The old man turned and regarded him, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his overalls. "Aye," he said slowly. "Puttin' out with the last of the ebb, sir? She's no but half an hour to run."
Dennison glanced down the river; the long green banks of mud and the tall perches bore evidence to his statement. "She'll run over the flood with the engine," he said. "I've got to get some stuff aboard."
You'll be staying by the Island?" said the old man.
"Dennison shook his head. "Try and get down west," he said.
The old man glanced up and regarded the flying southwesterly scud. "Rain to come," he said. "I must get my painting covered. We don't seem to have had no nice weather for drying yet, not as we ought." He turned to Dennison. "You'll not do much good this evening," he said. "Rain to come, and the tide foul in the channel till after nine."
"Drop under Calshot for the night," said Dennison.
They turned and walked up the beach to the sail store. "Did you hear of Mrs. Fleming?" said the old man, "what kept the baker's shop in the village, died sudden last month."
He recounted the details of the fatality till they reached the sail store, where he hailed a small boy and directed him to see to the launch of the Irene's dinghy. Dennison fetched his bag, loaded up the little boat with tackle from the store, and rowed out to the yacht.
He opened the hatch and descended into the little saloon. Overhead the dark clouds massed up for rain; the interior of the vessel was damp and smelt unbearably of bilge and the stale fumes of paraffin from the motor under the cockpit. Dennison cast his bag down philosophically upon a settee and opened the skylight. Then he investigated the food that remained mouldering in damp cupboards, collected the cans for the paraffin and methylated spirit, lowered them into the dinghy, and set off again for the shore.
He landed at the hard and walked up the village to the baker's shop. The baker himself came out of the back premises instead of the florid lady to whom Dennison had been accustomed.
"Afternoon," he said. "Two dozen buns and four small loaves, please."
"Afternoon, Mr. Dennison," said the man. He wrapped the bread in brown paper and wiped his hands upon his apron. " 'Tis some weeks since we saw you," he said mechanically.
"Some time," said Dennison. He paused, and added gently, "I was most awfully sorry to hear about your loss."
The remark broke down some barrier of reserve; the baker leaned upon his counter and broke into a flood of simple lamentation. Dennison let him run on. "And I tell you what I've been doing," he said. "I've been gcttin' together all the snapshots we took of me and 'er and the kiddies, and binding them up into a little book"—he indicated the size—"just like that. My sister Emily what lives with me now said I didn't ought to do it, an' I ought to think of other things. But I don't see that—do you? I didn't want to let it all go .., and I wanted them photygraphs."
Dennison nodded. "You want to make the most of what you've got," he said. "One doesn't get so very much."
He returned on board with a heavy heart, spread a bun with marmalade and ate it in lieu of tea, and made his bed of blankets. For a time he busied himself setting things in order in the saloon, then he went and stood in the hatchway and took a long look at the weather. It was threatening. He decided not to make sail but to run down to Calshot under the engine and anchor for the night. Under sail it would be a dead beat out against the tide. The rising flood lapped mournfully along the sides of the vessel.
He made the dinghy fast astern, started his engine, slipped his mooring, and stood away down the river, cold and dispirited. Vessel after vessel, perch after perch, passed him with maddening slowness; the thick brown water churned into a loathsome foam at the edge of the mud-flats. Slowly he drew up to the red cage buoy at the mouth of the river, and headed across the water to Calshot. By the time he arrived, it had begun to rain in a misty, undecided fashion; he brought up and dropped anchor in about two fathoms under the lee of the mud-flats, not very far from the castle and the air station. There was nothing to do on deck; he remained in the cockpit till the vessel had found her position and was riding quietly to her anchor; then he went below and trimmed the riding light.
He spent an hour working in his little vessel, an hour of occupation and comparative happiness that carried him on till after dark. He trimmed even' lamp in the ship, filled the tanks of the engine, cleaned the Primus stove, set his riding light on the forestay, pumped out the vessel, unpacked his bag and arranged his clothes in the tiny cupboards, put the patent log in a safe place with a bottle of rum and another one of turpentine to keep it company. Then he laid his supper very elaborately, and supped off cocoa, bully beef, and a boiled egg, topping up with bread and jam. He scraped the mildew off the top of the jam and deposited it in the slop bucket; he was particular about what he ate.
After supper he washed up his plates, emptied the slop pail over the side, and saw that his riding light was burning properly. Then he went below and tidied up the little forecastle. And then there was nothing else to be done.
He lit a pipe, returned to the saloon, and produced a coil of new wire rope that it was his intention to turn into a new pair of bowsprit shrouds. But it was too dark to go up on deck and measure the length, so that all he could do was to splice one end of it round an eye and serve it, and in half an hour he was again at a loss. I desperation he turned to his charts and sailing directions, and spread them out upon the table. He knew them by heart; every light, every buoy, almost to every sounding upon the sheets. Outside the rain had set in in earnest and dripped monotonously on the deck, pouring in tiny
cascades from the puckers of the mainsail at
each roll of the vessel. Below, everything was damp and clammy to the touch, with all the grim squalor of a small ship at sea. On deck there was little to be seen through the rain; the air station lay dark and deserted. A couple of seaplanes rocked lightly at their buoys a hundred yards away; in the other direction the water lapped steadily along the mud-banks, gradually vanishing with the rising tide. In the fairway an occasional steamer showed a light. He was quite alone.
Dennison slept badly, was early awake, got up, and was over the side by six o'clock. It was a threatening morning; a stiff breeze from the southwest with scud flying over the sky. The wind blew bitterly upon him as he scrambled on board again; he swore at it in futile rage. It was the worst possible wind for him, dead in his teeth for going west. When ■ the tide began to run against it there would be a short, wetting little sea in the Solent. For a moment he thought of staying in the shelter of the Island, and abandoned the thought immediately in a miserable spasm of temper. He was damned if he'd change his plans.
He dressed and cooked his breakfast. He did not hurry; it would be useless to attempt to beat down the Solent without the tide under him, and the tide would not begin to run till ten o'clock. He breakfasted moodily, washed his plate, and set to work to cook a piece of steak which he would eat cold later in ' the day. He put the steak with some cold potatoes and half a loaf of bread in a large pudding basin, and hid it away in a locker in the cockpit. On such a day as this he would have little time for lunch, sailing single-handed. He thought that he would make for Poole if it proved to be a dead beat all the way. If he got a fair slant of wind at the Needles, he would run for Lulworth or Weymouth. Either course would give him ten or twelve hours' sailing and tire him out. He wanted to be tired.
He got under way about half-past nine with two reefs down, and drew out of the entrance to the Water. From the Castle Point buoy he could lay West Cowes, and crossed the edge of the Brambles in a smother of spray, battened down and huddling in his oilskins. It was his luck to get a wetting at the start. Everything on this infernal day was going to go wrong.
There were few yachts in Cowes; it was too early in the season for many vessels to be afloat. There was one big white yawl in the roads, of ninety or a hundred tons, with a spoon bow and a long counter. Dennison strained his eyes at her. There were men working on her deck, and he thought she was getting under way. He had not got his glasses on deck, and was afraid to leave the helm and open up the vessel to get them in so short a sea. He put her down as either the Laertes or the Clematis, reached in nearly to the beach at West Cowes, and put about on the other tack.
The morning passed wearily away. With the tide under him he made fairly good progress down the Solent in repeated tacks. The big yawl had come out of Cowes and was following him down under her trysail; she had given him three-quarters of an hour start and was drawing up on him steadily. From time to time he turned to look at her, the only other vessel on the waters. She followed him up grandly, carrying her wind well. He was nearly sure she was the Clematis; the Laertes would not have ridden the seas so cleanly. She had been a racing boat.
By one o'clock he was nearly up to Yarmouth. The deck was wet and glistening with the repeated spray; Dennison was cold and out of temper. He peered ahead into the murk and tried to imagine what sort of sea he would rind at the Needles. He wanted to get down to Poole if possible; at the same time he was experienced enough to know the futility of trying to beat his way down against a westerly gale. He determined to run out to the Needles and have a look at it. If he could lay a course for Studland he would carry on; otherwise he would put back to Yarmouth for the night.
Near the entrance to Lymington he put about on to the starboard tack.
The big yawl had practically caught him up, and was crossing to meet him from the other side of the Solent. It was evident now that she was the Clematis, owned by a shipping magnate, Sir David Fisher; Dennison wondered vaguely if the owner were on board. She came over from the Island to intercept his course, gently parting the waves with her powerful spoon bow and making nothing of the sea that caused him such discomfort. He watched her admiringly as she drove towards him.
It became evident that she would pass very close across his bows. She approached him on the port tack, only one man visible on deck at the helm. Dennison held on his course; he had the right of way. She would have to bear away a little and pass astern of him; there would be no room for her to cross his bows.
The yawl held on her course. Dennison gazed at her incredulously for a moment; then realized that she was bluffing him. He was cold, hungry, and wet; the discovery sent a sudden flare of anger through him. Damn it, let her put her helm up and bear away! He held resolutely to his course.
As the vessels closed, all the emotions of the last two days burst out in a sudden fit of temper. He was damned if he was going to give way to any nouveau riche who cared to barge about the Solent displaying his breeding. There were too many of the swine about. The fellow had only to get one of his men on deck, slip his mainsheet a little, and bear away. He had a full crew aboard; Dennison had seen them. He was damned if he'd give way.
He held on his course.
When she was fifty yards away, he realized that a collision was imminent. He thought rapidly. He might avoid an accident by throwing his little vessel into irons—with the risk of falling on to the Clematis, in which case he might be liable for the damages, as not having held his course. He was cold and wet; at the sight of the gleaming paint and winking brass of the yawl, he flamed into .a passion. By God, he'd let her have it. She should get what she was asking for. He'd do her as much damage as he bloody well could, and leave her to pay for both. He stood up in the cockpit the better to con his vessel, and held the helm steady.
The sharp white bow crossed his bowsprit; at the last moment the Clematis flung up into the wind with a slatting of heavy canvas. It was too late. Dennison held his course, blazing with temper. His bowsprit missed her main shrouds, crossed the bulwarks and stove in the motor launch that she carried on her deck. The bobstay parted with a sharp twang, and the straight stem of the little cutter crashed home upon the glossy whiteness of the topsides, splintering and gouging.
"God," said Dennison, "that's marked the swine!" and ran forward to separate the vessels.
The deck of the yawl was suddenly alive with men. A man at the bows shouted something, and somebody was heaving on the end of his bowsprit to push him clear. He ran forward of the mast. At that moment the bow of the Irene dropped into the trough of a sea. Her bowsprit crashed down on to the bulwarks of the Clematis as she dropped; then the heel of the spar leaped from the deck and came inboard waist high, straight for Dennison. He jumped backwards by the mast, and brought up against the main halyards. He put out his hand to ward the blow. A wire plucked agonizingly at his thumb, and then the spar was grinding its way along his ribs, slowly, intolerably. Suddenly the vessels freed and lay pitching together for a moment, grinding their sides; the spar jerked and fell heavily at his feet. Dennison caught blindly at the halyards and dropped slowly to his hands and knees beside the little capstan, sweating with pain.
From a great distance voices came to him, and the tag end of a sentence, "—he's hurt, I tell you. Look at him." Then came a silence; perhaps they were looking at him. Of course he was hurt . . , the bloody fools. There was a heavy thump on his deck, and the same voice:
"No, one's enough," and another thump. Then came silence, an end to the bustle and confusion, and a thin voice in the distance bellowing something about Yarmouth Roads.
Dennison raised his head; immediately the staysail began to beat about him cruelly. Somebody came forward and helped him to his feet.
He looked around him, drawing a deep breath, and winced at a fresh spasm of pain along his ribs. Away up to windward the yawl was lowering her trysail with a six-foot rent in it, laying to under her foresheets and mizzen. There was a man in yachting clothes beside him, and a
sailor of the Clematis at the helm. His hand throbbed and ached intolerably. He turned aft. "Bear away," he shouted. "Slack out some sheet. Let her away—right away. So. All right, keep her at that." He turned to the man beside him. "Help me get a line round this spar, or it'll be on top of us." He fumbled clumsily with his left hand.
The sailor hailed him from the cockpit. "Cam'ee aft, sir, 'n take her, 'n let me come forrard."
"Right," said Dennison. He thrust his injured hand between the buttons of his coat and stumbled aft to the little cockpit. He took the helm and sat down, numb with pain, anxiously watching the sailor moving deftly about the wreckage in the bows. With the help of the gentleman, a lean, cadaverous fellow perhaps twenty-eight or thirty years of age, the sailor got the foresheets off undamaged and passed a line round the spar. Then he turned aft.
"Better start yure motor going, sir, 'n get the sail off her, 'n head up for Yarmouth, I rackon?" His voice ended on the rising note of a question, in true West Country fashion.
"I know about motors," said the lean man, and jumped down into the cabin, working under Dennison's directions. The sailor came aft.
"Where by tyers tu?" he inquired. He was a genial old man, with a pleasant fatherly air, wearing gold earrings. Dennison indicated the locker. "Be 'ee hurt bad, sir?" He clucked his tongue in sympathy. "Deary, deary me! Sir David will be tumble upset."
Dennison smiled faintly. "Who was in charge of your vessel?" he asked.
The sailor paused. "Why, skipper had her," he said. "We was all below tu dinner, 'n he was tu give us a call when he wanted tu put about." He continued with his work for a minute, and then, "Rackon skipper don't take much account o1 the little boats," he said.
"Reckon he don't," said Dennison grimly.
The motor began to throb, and coughed steadily into the water. The lean man appeared in the hatchway. The sailor called to him and instructed him in the two halyards; Dennison threw her up into the wind and they lowered the sail, wrapping it roughly with the tyers.