Wildtrack

by Bernard Cornwell

  "He's a bloody wally," I said savagely, "and he wants to take Sycorax."

  "Sod him, then." Terry complacently accepted my judgement.

  "Exactly." But I was thinking of that look of mingled remorse and hatred which Angela had shot at me. She thought I was the enemy, that I had betrayed her. God damn it, I thought, but my emotions had become inextricably tangled with her. "Bloody women," I said.

  "Bloody engine." Terry had gone back to the struggle, swung the handle again, and by some miracle the old engine banged into protesting life. "Give it some throttle, boss!"

  I gave it some throttle, it threatened to die, then the cylinders settled into a proper, comforting rhythm and I slammed it into gear and Sycorax thrust forward against the tide.

  "Where are we going?" Terry asked.

  "I don't have a clue." I'd been trying to answer that myself. I needed to hide Sycorax from Bannister's bailiffs. The only refuge I could think of was George Cullen's boatyard on the Hamoaze. "Plymouth," I suggested. "When do you have to be in barracks?"

  "Fourteen hundred. Tomorrow."

  "It'll be tight. You want me to drop you off at the town quay?"

  He glanced behind. "Will those buggers chase you?"

  "They might."

  "I'll stay."

  They followed us. The first I saw of our pursuers was a gleam of reflected lamplight from Wildtrack II's polished bows. We were already abaft the town quay and the powerboat was a mile behind. It could close the gap in seconds if it wanted, but clearly Bannister, or whoever was at Wildtrack II's helm, did not want to make an interception in full view of the quay. The powerboat hung back.

  Our engine began to run rough. The diesel fuel was old, and I suspected there was water mixed in it. I hated bloody engines. There had been many times when I had been tempted to haul the damn thing out and sink it, but Terry coaxed it and we limped on. Someone shouted at us from the quay that we had no lights.

  The headlands that marked the river mouth closed on us. I could feel the wind's uncertainty as it was confused by the masses of land. Rain was slapping on the sails. There was white water at the bar and it would be a rough passage. The engine was missing a beat now, thumping horribly in its bearings. "Kill it!" I shouted. I didn't want the shaft to shake the gland loose and let in sea water.

  The engine died just as the bows juddered to the first sea. Sycorax was free at last, running to the ocean she was made for. Her sails were full and behind her the water whitened and spread. She took the steep, breaking seas like a thoroughbred and I whooped for the joy of the moment.

  Terry grinned. "Happy, boss?"

  "I should have done this bloody weeks ago!"

  "And what about those bastards?" Terry nodded towards the river mouth where Wildtrack II had appeared.

  "Screw them." I gave him the tiller and set about trimming the sails. The topsail yard and jackyard were loose, the topping lift needed slackening and the foresail halliards tightening. We were heading westward, along the coast, and we were hard on the wind. We went perilously close to the Calfstone Shoal from which a breaking wave shredded foam across our bows. The rain was slackening, and there were gaps in the southern cloud that were edged by silver moonlight. Sycorax was slicing the wind and cutting into a head sea. The waves were big enough to dip her bows low and I saw the jib's foot come up dripping with water and there had been a time when I thought I'd never live to see that sight again. I was happy.

  Except Wildtrack II still threatened us. "Bastards are closing!" Terry shouted.

  I'd deliberately put Sycorax head to wind, and close to the Calfstone, in the hope that Wildtrack II, emerging at speed from the river mouth, might run aground on the shoal. It was a slender hope, and one that failed. I twisted in the cockpit to watch the slinking powerboat. I did not think they were likely to ram us. Most likely Wildtrack II had been sent to follow Sycorax and to betray our final position so the bailiffs could find us. Bannister, I thought, would be remorseless in his revenge on me, just as Kassouli was remorseless in his revenge on Bannister.

  The night was not my helper. The sky was clearing. Soon we would be thrashing west under moonlight and would be in full sight of Wildtrack II without a hope of losing the powerboat. I needed time to think. I also needed to be comfortable. I was wet through and shivering. Terry was in the same discomfort and I told him to go below and find some warm clothes.

  "Some proper bloody food would help, boss."

  I fell off the wind slightly to put the floodtide on the starboard bow. I saw how gracefully the rebuilt Sycorax took the seas. It was a promise of what she would do with the bigger seas that waited in the years ahead. I trimmed her, belayed the sheets and pegged the tiller. She could sail herself now until we had cleared the transit of Start Point and could turn due west again. It would be a long hard thrash until the current ebbed, but we had all night.

  I fetched my monocular and trained it on Wildtrack II. It was hard to hold her in sight, and harder still to see who was on board. I could see three men. No Angela. I thought I saw a man with a bandaged face, who had to be Mulder. "Could that fellow you clobbered be walking by now?" I asked Terry.

  "Bloody hell, yes." Terry tossed me up a sweater and oilskin jacket. "I only tapped the fucker."

  I wondered if Mulder had brought his shotgun, but surely they would not plan murder? Then the thought occurred that if Kassouli was right, these men had already committed one murder at sea. I stared at the powerboat. It was taking the seas badly, rearing its slick hull high on the wavecrests, then slamming down in discomfort. Would they try and end the discomfort by sinking Sycorax? I couldn't lose the thought of the shotgun. "Terry?"

  "Boss?"

  "If you feel under the engine you'll find a wooden box screwed to a frame on the starboard side. There's a package in it. Can you get it?"

  He lifted off the companion steps and I heard him grunt as he groped in the bilge's darkness. "Jesus," he said as he felt the shape of the package. "Is that the bloody Colt I kept for you?"

  "I don't want to use it, not unless I have to."

  "No, boss." He sounded disappointed.

  "But unwrap it. Then get some sleep."

  Wildtrack II was still holding her distance. There were two fishing boats in sight, and I wondered if their presence was inhibiting Mulder. The beam of the Start Point light slid across the sky. I was sailing south now, aiming to go outside the tidal race at the Point. Wildtrack II was shadowing us. The powerboat was showing a white light at the top of its radar arch, another at its stern, and the proper red and green sidelights. My pursuers were letting me know where they were, and letting me know that I could not escape them.

  They kept abreast of us for the three hours it took to claw past Start Point. There was a deeper swell offshore, and Sycorax seemed to revel in the longer, higher seas. She felt hard and good, well rigged and confident. But in the morning, I thought, just as soon as I put into shelter, Bannister's lawyers would descend on her with a writ. I had no idea how such a process was initiated, or how it was fought; only that I would be damned if Bannister took my boat from me. I had a talent, I reflected bitterly, for the making of wealthy enemies. First Kassouli, now Bannister. And all I had tried to be was truthful.

  Terry slept for an hour, then came blinking up into the moonlight. "Still there?" he asked of Wildtrack II.

  "Still there." We were on a port tack now and the powerboat was further out to sea. She was probably using her radar to follow us, but Sycorax made a small target, I had no reflector hoisted, and there were fishing boats about to give confusing echoes, and so Wildtrack II was staying well within easy visual range. A container ship, brilliant with deck lights, steamed eastwards beyond her. I was certain now that Bannister only wanted to discover my destination, but I was determined to lose him. "I think," I said slowly, "that it's time to scare the fuckers off. I'm going to tack."

  Terry handled the foresails' sheets. Sycorax, never graceful in a tight turn, lurched round and settled on to the st
arboard tack. I let her off the wind, slackening the mainsheet into a broad reach so that we were running directly at our pursuers. "He's going to try and avoid us, Terry, but he won't really know what we're doing. So be ready for some smart manoeuvres. And get the gun. You'll need a couple of extra mags."

  He gave me a surprised glance, but said nothing. He fetched the Colt, came back to the cockpit, and worked a round into the breech.

  "What we're going to do," I said, "is scare the bugger witless. You're not going for the crew, but for the boat. Aim for the waterline or the engines. If you think there's the least danger of hitting any of the crew, don't fire. You understand?"

  "Yes, sir." The "sir" was unconscious. He put the safety on, then thrust the pistol into a pocket of his oilskin jacket.

  I used the monocular again, training it forward, and this time I clearly saw both Bannister and Mulder standing in the powerboat's cockpit. They were staring at Sycorax, doubtless wondering just what we intended, then they must have decided that we meant no good, for I saw Bannister bend down to the throttles and the boat dipped its stern as she accelerated away.

  "Tacking!" I shouted. We tacked. Terry sheeted the headsails across, we tightened up, and were clawing almost head into the wind. The breeze seemed stronger, slicing over the coachroof and bringing a sting of spray from the bows. "Watch the bugger for me, Terry!"

  "He's having a think, boss."

  Wildtrack II, having gone ahead of us, had now slowed again.

  I felt the tremble of water under Sycorax's hull. We pitched once and the bows slammed down with a thump which banged back through the boat's skeleton. The waves were building. The wind was noisy in the rigging and was slatting the leading edges of the sails. I was pointing her up as much as I could, still aiming her bowsprit like a spear at Wildtrack II's flank. "Where is he?"

  "He's putting his foot down."

  The powerboat, still puzzled by our behaviour, had accelerated again. She was going inshore of us now, perhaps planning to circle around to take position on our stern. I matched her move, spilling wind so that we were running north before the wind and banging into the cross seas. She was a hundred yards away, running across our bows, and I could see three faces staring from the cockpit.

  "Turning to port," I warned Terry. "Get ready to fire!"

  He brought out the gun and cradled it in two big and capable hands.

  I turned back into the wind and hardened the sails. Now it looked as if we'd stopped playing games and resumed our westward progress. As I'd guessed and hoped, Wildtrack II also slowed. Her bows began to turn towards us. She was circling to follow us and, at its closest, her turn would bring her to within thirty paces. Long range for a Colt, but I wasn't after pinpoint accuracy.

  I watched the powerboat. I was falling off the wind a touch, slowing and widening our own turn to close the range. Wildtrack II was also slowing. The sea was bucking Sycorax , thumping her hull and shaking her sails. "You're going to have ten seconds!" I shouted at Terry. "For Christ's sake don't hit anyone, but go for his hull! Aim as far for'ard as possible and as close to the waterline as you can."

  "Got it, boss." He grinned, and I heard the snick of the safety going off, then the slam of the gun being cocked. He crouched on the starboard cockpit thwart, steadied by the coaming and the cabin bulkhead. The movement of our boat, and the heaving of the target, would make accuracy almost impossible and I prayed that Terry would not hit any of the three men. I almost told him to hold his fire, but then, when we were just thirty yards from the Wildtrack II, a wave heaved her up and I saw an expanse of her anti-fouling revealed in the moonlight. "Fire!"

  Terry held the gun two-handed, braced himself, and opened fire at the speedboat's belly.

  The noise was just like a sail flogging in a gale. The old sailors used to say the wind was blowing great guns when their canvas banged aloft and made a noise like cannons, and now the Colt filled the sea with the same murderous sound. The muzzle flash leaped two feet clear of the boat and I saw a streak of foam reflect red, then I looked at the powerboat and I saw the three faces disappear beneath the coaming. There was no way of knowing where Terry's bullets went, but water suddenly churned white at Wildtrack II's stern and she shot away from us.

  "Hold your fire! We're tacking!"

  Terry changed magazines. I pulled the tiller gently towards me, wrenched in the mainsheet, and waited till Sycorax's head was round before releasing the headsail sheets. The effort tore at my back, and I wondered if I ever could sail this heavy boat alone.

  We were running now, stern to wind. Wildtrack II, like a startled deer, was circling at full speed. Her bows thumped the waves as she spewed a high wake sixty yards long. Once I saw her leap clear off a wavecrest before slamming down into a trough. Then she headed straight towards us and I suspected Mulder must have his gun and that he planned to have his revenge on Sycorax. "Get ready!"

  The powerboat accelerated. I guessed they planned to swamp us with their wash as well as loose a broadside at our sails. They would have to be dissuaded, and I decided against waiting to make our own broadside shot at them. "Into the bows, Terry. Fire!"

  The powerboat's bows were high and its anti-fouled belly, pale against the night, reared vulnerably above the water. Terry stood, legs spread, and fired. He emptied a magazine at the approaching boat and I swore I saw a scrap of darkness appear in the hull where a heavy bullet ripped the fibreglass ragged.

  Terry changed magazines. Wildtrack II was slowing, her bows dropping. Terry braced himself again, fired again and this time the powerboat's windscreen shattered in the night. The glass shards were snatched away like spindrift, and I saw the three heads twist away in panic. "Cease fire! Cease fire!" I was scared witless that the final shot might have hit one of the three men.

  The powerboat veered off. I stared intently and thought I saw three figures still moving in the cockpit. That was a relief for me, but not for them, for they were in trouble. The powerboat would be taking water, needing to be pumped, and now their only safety lay in reaching harbour as soon as possible. They were forced to forget us, and Terry jeered as they fled. I sat down. "Make the gun safe, Terry."

  "Already done it, boss."

  We tacked again, sheeted home, and clawed into the south-west wind. The tide had long turned and the surging channel current was at last coming to our aid. I thanked Terry for his help.

  "That's what the working class are for, boss. To get you useless rich sods out of deep shit."

  "What the working class could usefully do now," I said, "is get some bloody beer."

  I pegged the tiller. There was nothing to do now until we turned for Plymouth breakwater. We were a darkened ship sailing a black ocean. The wind was brisk, still chilled by the evening's rain. There was something mesmerizing about Sycorax's motion; her plunging bow and rocking buoyancy.

  Terry asked me about the filming and I told him how the television people kept asking me about the night I'd won the medal, and how I hadn't really told them anything at all. "I can't remember very much," I confessed.

  "You were a bloody wally, boss," Terry said amicably.

  "I remember going left round those rocks. The bastards were about ten yards behind, weren't they?"

  "Ten! Bloody fifty."

  "Truly?"

  "I could hear you shouting," he said. "You were like a calf in the slaughterhouse. God knows how those buggers missed you at first. The Major had come up to tell us to keep our heads down and he was shouting at you to come back."

  "I didn't hear him."

  "He gave up in the end. He reckoned you were a dead 'un. He said it was your own bloody fault 'cos you'd taken us to the wrong place anyway. We should have been a bloody half-mile away, and instead you was doing a Lone Ranger on their headquarters company." He chuckled. "Then when you switched out their lights the Major told us to get the hell up after you."

  "It worked," I said bleakly.

  "We screwed 'em," Terry agreed. Somehow the conversation had made us b
oth morose. I watched the loom of the Start light, then took a bearing on the entrance to Salcombe Harbour. We were making good time. I wondered how much water was in her bilges. There was bound to be some until the patched hull took up.

  "Mind you," Terry went on, "I don't know what bloody good it did us. Life's still a bloody bastard."

  "Is it, Terry?"

  "Bloody women," he said.

  I wished I had not heard the note of sad hopelessness in his voice. "As bad as that?" I asked.

  "As bad as that, boss." He huddled in the cockpit's corner, sheltering from the wind. "You got out, didn't you?"

  "Melissa left me. I didn't get out."

  "Would you have bugged out on your own?"

  I shook my head. "Probably not. I sometimes think women are more ruthless than us."

  "I wish mine would be sodding ruthless. I wish she'd go back to her bloody mother. Then I could go back to barracks." He tipped a beer bottle to his lips. "I've got some good mates in the barracks."

  "Is Sally still nagging you to get out of the Army?"

  He nodded. "Never bleeding stops. She says there'll be jobs in the pits when the fucking strike's over, but what jobs? All this bloody Government wants to do is gut the miners."

  "Would you want to work in the mines?"

  "I've two uncles down the pits, so it's family, like." He paused. "And it might take Sally off my back, and I suppose it would be a better life for the nippers, but I don't know, boss. I like the Army, I do." His voice tailed away and we sat in companionable misery; he thinking of his Sally, I of Angela. I'd lost her, of course, but I, unlike Terry, was free.

  "If you ever want to escape," I said to him, "there's always a berth in Sycorax for you. We're good together, you and I."

  He toasted me with his beer bottle. "That's true, boss."

  We fell silent. The cliffs to the north were touched with moonlight and the water broke on them in wisps of shredding white. Everything had gone awry, but at least Sycorax was back where she belonged. All I had to do now was to escape Bannister's lawyers, finish the boat, then go to where the lawyers couldn't follow; to sea.