by Paul Henke
Meg laughed, ‘You’re impossible.’
Evan relaxed and stretched his legs out. The pain had subsided to a throb and irritating itch which he scratched absent mindedly.
Meg put her hand in his. She had not seen him looking so well in ages. Wales and the dangers of that last night were behind them, forgotten. At least, if not forgotten, then put aside, ignored and when they intruded pushed away again by a touch of the hand, a gentle squeeze.
‘Have you decided what you’re going to do when we get to America?’ Uncle James asked. ‘I’m not prying,’ he added hastily, ‘I just wondered.’
‘Uncle James, ask as much as you like, you have every right to,’ answered Evan, ‘and the answer is yes and no. I have an idea but I’m not too sure about it yet. David and Maud gave me the clue. In fact two clues. Would you like to hear what I have in mind?’
‘Of course we would,’ said Meg in some exasperation, pouring another cup of tea. ‘We’ve been talking about it for months.’
‘Well, the first thing is that business about borrowing money.’ Seeing Uncle James’ quizzical look he explained. ‘It’s simple. David dressed like a well-to-do merchant and persuaded the banks to lend him enough money to open a decent shop instead of the smaller one he would have ended up with if he didn’t get a loan. The second point was what he said about warehouses and shipping stuff in and out – you know Meg, buying direct from the docks. He showed me his books and explained what he thought was going to happen. Of course, he hasn’t been open long enough to know if his plans will work. But I think they will.’ He paused to sip some tea. ‘Meg, remember the book on America you brought home, all about the frontier towns? And how they’re crying out for goods? . . . Well, that’s the answer. If we can find a suitable place, I think preferably with a railroad, we set up a large shop or even . . . say a distribution centre sort of place. I guess it’ll be a kind of warehouse to supply shops . . .’
‘Hang on a minute, Evan bach,’ interrupted Uncle James, ‘don’t get carried away. That takes a lot more money than we have at the moment or are even likely to have for a long time. Come out of the clouds boy,’ he said not unkindly, ‘and let’s start with a shop.’
‘Yes, Evan,’ Meg added, ‘we can start with a shop and see how it goes from there.’ She frowned. She knew once Evan got an idea it took a lot to dislodge it.
‘No, listen, both of you,’ Evan continued. ‘What if I go to more than one bank and get a lot of short term loans? Wasn’t that what David called them?’ Meg nodded. ‘Right. I go to one and deposit some money . . .’ he talked on for a while but could not persuade them it was worth trying.
Finally, though, Uncle James admitted: ‘The decision has to be yours and yours alone,’ which made Evan nod soberly.
Dai and Sion returned, both nodding to Uncle James and grinning hugely.
‘Ah, well,’ said Uncle James, stretching and faking a yawn, ‘time for a nap I think. How about you two boys? Feeling tired?’ Much to their parents surprise they both yawned and stretched too, aping Uncle James unconvincingly and said they were.
The three were about to leave when Uncle James stopped and reached into his pocket. ‘By the way, you’d better take the key to your cabin. Dai, have you got ours?’ He walked after the boys, grinning.
Meg and Evan were so taken off balance they had no time to protest. The key on the table was for Uncle James’ second class cabin. The boys had been busy exchanging their parents belongings with Uncle James’.
‘I forgot he said we were to change with him,’ said Evan, thoughtfully fingering the key.
She laughed. ‘You, Mr Griffiths are so transparent. Shall we go?’
Later they lay in each others arms, contented. Meg said softly: ‘I love you, bach, do you know that?’
‘Ah, I was beginning to suspect something but I suppose it’s just as well because I happen to love you too.’
Evan fell into a doze; Meg was happy just to lie there, holding him.
Captain John Buchanan, master of the SS Cardiff, was sitting in his chair on the bridge. They were eleven days out from Cardiff and until a few moments earlier he had been a happy man. The voyage had gone well so far. There were the usual ups and downs with the first class passengers – but that was only to be expected.
The ship was fitted with the latest Morse receiving and transmitting equipment and sometimes, like now when the weather report threatened storms, he wished he did not have it. All it did was add to his problems. Furthermore, the reports were often wrong. How could those on land a thousand miles away predict what the weather was going to do here, he thought? All right, so a front had passed over New York a few hours previously, heading in this direction. Anything could happen to it in the meantime. The glass was steady and the cloud of nimbo stratus was about what he would expect for the time of year. The breeze was freshening from the north-west and backing slightly, but nothing to worry about, not yet at any rate. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry.
‘Officer of the Watch, tell Mr Beddows to prepare the ship for bad weather. Nothing serious but batten down all hatches not in use and check all compartments.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ the young third officer replied.
What Captain John Buchanan did not know and had no way of knowing was the warm front the signal referred to had joined with an earlier cold one to give an occluded front. A depression was forming to the north west, twelve hours steaming ahead.
During the late afternoon the wind backed further and began blowing whitecaps, gusting to a wind strength of four to five on the Beaufort scale. It was far from dangerous but caused a beam sea. The ship began to roll in a manner which was exhilarating for those who were not seasick and downright unpleasant for those who were.
Evan and Sion took to their bunks after an early dinner. Meg, with a few words of sympathy placed a useful bucket in their cabins and went up on deck to watch the waves with Uncle James and Dai.
Shortly after sunset the upper deck was placed out of bounds to all passengers on the captain’s orders. Less than ten percent of the passengers were not in their bunks and Meg was the only one of her family not feeling ill.
John Buchanan knocked the glass again. The pressure had fallen from 1010 millibars at midday to 981 at 2100 that evening. He had no need of a weather forecast to tell him they were in for a rough night. He had been at sea since he was fifteen and had served on everything from a trawler to a scabby coaster to this, the ultimate ship. He had run away as a lad to make a life of his own but had ended back in the family business with the only offer that could have attracted him – captain of the most luxurious liner in the world. He was not particularly worried because his senses told him the eye of the storm would pass far to the north and within twelve hours at most it would be behind them. He disliked bad weather because it upset the passengers, some acting as though he was to blame for their discomfort.
He stood at the front of the bridge peering into the black, rain-swept night, praying they would not meet another ship. He had doubled the lookouts and had one man in the forepeak who was changed every half an hour. The ship rolled heavily and he braced himself. She veered a point to starboard.
‘Steady on the helm,’ the captain said quietly. The greater the pressure the quieter he spoke. His crew had known him long enough to beware when he was in such a mood.
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied the helmsman, steadying the ship on her course of two five zero degrees. Another roll and the ship paid off half a point but the helmsman was ready for it this time and corrected quickly.
By 2230 hours there was a gale force eight on the beam and the ship was rolling heavily, though she was in no danger. It would be very uncomfortable, especially for those in steerage, poor sods, thought Buchanan. But if he turned to port to put the sea on the quarter he would be late in New York, especially if the storm pushed him a long way south. He would have to steam back north to get to Boston . . . time, speed and distances went through his head. The gale would
make him late, and he hated the thought but some things could not be helped.
‘Come two points to port. Officer of the watch: plot a new course and let me know our distance to go as of eight o’clock in the morning. Call me in my cabin in a little while. I’m going to do rounds myself. Also pass on to your relief I want to be called if the glass drops more than another two millibars.’ It had been steady for nearly an hour at 978. It looked as though the storm was already abeam, sooner than he had expected.
He put on a sou’wester and went out onto the platform on the port side of the bridge, known as the bridge wing. There was no need for him to do rounds but he liked to at times like this. It let the crew know he was about. Not like some captains, he thought sourly.
He gripped hold of a stanchion as a wave crashed over the deck, the spray adding its wetness to the rain washing over him. If the truth were known he was actually enjoying himself. He watched the waves for a few minutes, gauging how his ship behaved and was pleased with what he saw. There was not a break in the clouds and the rain lashed down on his handsome, upturned face. A streak of lightning lit the world for a split second, showing the towering seas, now on their starboard quarter.
He steadied himself climbing down from the bridge to the deck below. Carefully he made his way forward, the occasional wave which swept over the deck making the wooden planks underfoot slippery and treacherous. Once or twice he almost fell.
‘Hullo, Jones,’ he startled the lookout standing right in the bow of the ship. ‘It is Jones, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, sir. Cor’blimey, the ole man hisself. I’d heard he did things like this but I never would have believed it.
‘Keep a good look out,’ Buchanan yelled, the wind whipping his voice away and making it hard to be heard. ‘Have you checked your voice pipe with the bridge recently?’
‘Every time we change, sir,’ yelled Jones.
‘Good. Goodnight Jones,’ Buchanan turned back, glad to duck from the stinging spray and sea.
Meg had been unable to sleep as the ship’s motion became more exaggerated. She returned to the saloon, kneeling on one of the seats and peering into the darkness to enjoy watching the waves crash over the ship’s side. There was something so raw and harsh about it, something frightening and exciting at the same time.
She felt the ship turn to port and immediately the rolling reduced. All in all it was a much more pleasant motion. A few minutes later she was about to leave the saloon when she saw a figure coming towards her. Suddenly the ship yawed unexpectedly and rolled heavily. Meg saw the man thrown off balance and fall against the saloon’s bulkhead. She did not hear the crack of his head hitting the handrail nor did she see him get up again. She turned to run for help but the ship rolled again, throwing her back against the seat. She saw a wave sweep over the deck and the body washed into view. In horror she saw him slide towards the guard rails and just when she thought he would be lost overboard he jammed against one of the uprights supporting the rail. Instinctively, she knew the next wave would sweep him away before she could find help. For a few seconds she hesitated and then hurried to the door. She knocked her shins on tables and chairs, bumped her thigh painfully on something but at last reached the exit. She unlatched it to have it blown violently from her grasp. The rain and wind swept in and Meg gasped at the sudden cold. Her heavy skirt, blouse and sweater were no protection against the weather.
She shuddered and stepped through the door onto the deck. The wind whipped at her clothes and legs, the deck so slippery she half fell a number of times, only saved from being hurt by grasping the handrail. With relief she saw the body only a matter of a few yards away. She gripped the railing tightly and stretched out her foot but could not touch him. She yelled at the top of her voice at the inert form but there was no response. She was terrified to let go of the handrail and frantically she thought what to do. The ship pitched again and the body slid six inches so the upright now held him at his chest and not his middle. Once more and he would be over the side. The movement decided her. When the ship steadied briefly she let go, dropped to her knees and crawled across the space. She grabbed him and tried to drag him away from the rail. She pulled with all her strength but it was no good. He was a big man and too heavy for her. Desperately, Meg tried again but achieved nothing. She was close to panic. The ship pitched and he moved another few inches. She had no idea what to do. If she left to fetch help he would be gone before she could return. Why hadn’t she gone for help in the first place, she asked herself in anguish? She had to try again.
Her hair was plastered to her face, she was soaked through and the cold was biting into her, sapping her strength. Suddenly the ship rolled to port, she grabbed him by the waist and heaved with all her might. Together they slid across the deck to the saloon bulkhead. Meg stretched up and grabbed the handrail above her head as the ship rolled heavily to starboard. The body underneath and the jerk of the movement was too much for her and the rail slipped from her grasp. Inexorably they slid towards the railing, Meg frantically trying to push the body back. Her foot was over the edge and still the ship was not coming out of the roll. She fell across the body, her knees slipping out from under her and together they slid under the guard rail.
Then hands. They grabbed her, held her hanging half over the side. The ship’s roll stopped, started back the other way and she was lifted inboard. The three men helped drag the body to safety.
‘It’s all right now, miss,’ First Mate Beddows yelled. ‘You’re safe now.’
When she realised the meaning of his words, Meg fainted.
She came to, surrounded by strange faces but in warm and pleasant surroundings. The seamen had carried the captain to his bunk and Meg to the sofa in his day cabin. Somebody had wrapped a blanket around her and the First Mate held her propped up, administering brandy to her. She choked on the fiery spirit and pushed his hand away.
‘Thank you,’ she whispered and then found her voice. ‘Thank you, but I’m all right now.’ She sat up, cold, wet and feeling vulnerable beneath the stares of her rescuers. ‘I must go and find my husband. How is the man I was trying to hold?’
‘You don’t know who it was?’ asked one of the sailors, surprised; surely everybody knew the captain?
‘Eh, no,’ Meg shook her head. ‘I just saw him fall and went to see if I could help. I didn’t really get a good look at him.’
‘I think, madam,’ the mate said solemnly, ‘you should know that you saved the life of the ship’s captain. We got to you just in time, thank God, but if you hadn’t been there it’s more than likely he would have been swept over the side.’
‘Oh no,’ Meg began to protest, ‘he was so heavy. I hardly helped at all. I . . . .’
‘It didn’t look that way to us madam,’ said one of the men. ‘It surely didn’t’.
Meg shrugged. ‘Will he be all right?’
‘He’ll be fine in the morning.’ said the mate. ‘He was knocked out and is still a bit groggy but he’ll be all right after a night’s sleep. Is there anything we can get you?’
‘No,’ Meg replied, throwing off the blanket and standing up. A wave of giddiness swept through her. ‘I must go down to my husband.’ The ship rolled and she fell against one of the men.
‘Easy, madam,’ said the mate, taking her arm. ‘Here, let me help you. Which cabin are you in?’
‘I can manage, really I can, thank you. Please don’t trouble.’ The ship rolled again and Meg stumbled, admitting to herself she felt very unsteady.
‘It’s no trouble at all. Come on, now, which cabin is it?’
They had reached the cabin door when it flew open and Evan stepped out. He stopped in amazement when he saw Meg, white as chalk and soaking wet, being helped by one of the ship’s officers.
16
Evan took hold of Meg, bracing himself against the bulkhead when the ship yawed. Meg was shivering uncontrollably. ‘Meg, what on earth’s happened? Are you all right?’
‘Sir,’ the First Mate answe
red, ‘your wife saved the captain’s life a short while ago and very nearly lost her own while doing so.’ He touched his cap in a half salute, amused at the amazement on Evan’s face. ‘I’ll leave your wife to tell you all about it. If her story is as modest as the one I suspect she’ll tell, then no doubt the rumours my crew are spreading will add a few more facts. Goodnight, sir. Goodnight, madam and thank you once again.’ He walked away, rolling easily with the ship’s motion.
Evan came to his senses and quickly got Meg inside and onto her bunk. He undressed her, throwing her wet clothes into a corner.
He said almost brusquely, trying to hide the worry he had felt when he had woken and found her missing. ‘Well, what happened?’ He regretted it as soon as he spoke when he saw her eyes cloud with hurt. ‘I’m sorry, love,’ he leaned over and kissed her. ‘I was getting worried, that’s all. What are you smiling at?’
‘You. Watching the concentration on your face as you undress me. Let me help.’ A few seconds later she was under the blankets. Her body, Evan felt, was like marble and she had started to shiver again. He threw his own clothes on the other bunk and squeezed in beside her. The cabin had two bunks, one on either side of the door, two easy chairs, a small table, plenty of cupboard and drawer space and a wash basin.
They lay silently for a while, Meg’s body gradually becoming warmer, her shivering stopping, her head nestled on Evan’s shoulder.
‘What happened?’ he whispered.
She told him simply without really conveying the horror of the event, particularly the feeling she had had when she thought she was going to be swept overboard. She trembled at the thought. Evan squeezed her tighter and kissed her. He realised how close he had been to losing her.
‘I don’t know whether to . . . to,’ he cleared his throat, his eyes misty, ‘to tell you off for being so stupid for trying something like that or kiss you and tell you how brave you were. Which you were, incredibly so.’