Then, pulling his ear thoughtfully, he lifted the telephone and asked for Coastal Command.
He might be wildly wrong, of course, and be sending the lads of Coastal Command off on a wild goose chase. But he had one of his feelings about this one.
It was Doenitz’s postscript. If anyone can do it you can.
There could be only one reason Doenitz had said that. Because he was asking his man to do the impossible. He was asking him to go into the jaws of the lion.
Chapter 29
JULIE SLAPPED HIS face.
Awful, but it had to be done. ‘Wake up! Please, wake up!’
He stirred slightly. ‘Monsieur Freymann! David! David! Wake up!’
He was almost unconscious. In desperation she put her mouth to his ear and shouted, ‘You’ve got to move!’
There was a crump! from the bow and, after a moment’s pause, heavy spray came flying over the deck. Julie ducked her head but it was too late and the water trickled down her neck. The old man was getting soaked too: that’s why he had to be moved.
His eyes had flickered open. The cold water must have woken him.
Julie shook him slightly. ‘You’ve got to move. To the front, over there.’ She indicated the bow. ‘Otherwise you’ll get soaked!’
He looked at her blankly then, closing his eyes with pain, nodded slightly. Taking his arm, Julie pushed him into a sitting position and began to pull him along the deck. At first she could feel him helping, shuffling sideways on his behind, but then he sagged and his weight fell against her leg. She saw that his face was white and contorted with pain.
She crouched down and, her arm round his shoulder, waited a while. The boat hit another wave and the inevitable deluge of heavy, cold spray rained down over them.
Julie blew the water off her lips, and, standing up again, tried to drag the old man along, but he was terribly heavy and she couldn’t keep her balance on the unsteady deck. Panting heavily, she knelt down and shouted desperately. ‘Please try, David. Please try.’
There was the faintest nod. Julie started pulling and felt him helping again. This time they reached the shelter of the small decked area under the bow. The motion of the boat was much more violent up here – Julie felt her stomach take off a couple of times – but at least it was dry.
‘Just a bit further, then you’ll be comfortable!’
The old man made a final effort and, at last, Julie managed to pull him up against some coils of rope. He lay back and closed his eyes. Julie covered him with sacking and placed a rolled-up section of tarpaulin under his head.
She looked at him fondly and, very gently, stroked his head. ‘Sorry I had to slap you.’ But he didn’t hear: he was unconscious again. She examined his face anxiously. It was deathly white, with an almost green tinge to it, and his breath was coming in short, shallow pants through a gaping mouth.
The pills: the old man had mentioned pills. She should try to get some more down him. He’d thrown the last lot up.
She looked in his bag and found a small bottle half full of white tablets. It had to be them: there were no others. The bottle had no label and no instructions. She guessed at two tablets and shook them into her hand.
Water. She’d need water.
She found a large, rope-clad bottle full of clear liquid, up by the lobster pot in the bow. She opened it and dipped a finger in. Water. But no mug or cup.
She placed the tablets on the old man’s tongue then, raising his head slightly, put the bottle to his lips and tried to tip it up. It was too heavy. She wedged her body against the side of the boat and, resting the old man’s head against her chest, used both hands to tip the bottle. Water poured everywhere. Some went into the old man’s mouth. He moaned loudly, then spluttered and coughed.
Julie patted his shoulder and watched him carefully. The pills seemed to have disappeared. It was something at least.
A moment later the old man groaned and, clutching his stomach, turned his head to one side, and threw up over Julie’s leg.
Julie stared in slight revulsion then realised with unhappy certainty that unless she moved away the same thing would happen to her. There was an uncomfortable feeling in her stomach and it was rising fast towards her throat. She got up and, lurching towards the rail, swallowed hard and gulped at the fresh salt air. She turned her face to the wind and looked out at the wide expanse of sea.
After a while she felt better. She looked back at David. He seemed peaceful enough. She couldn’t face going back, not just yet. The smell …
She turned away and, holding tight to the rail, made her way cautiously along the tilting deck to the tiller. Peter was curled up against the side of the boat on the uphill side, right at the back, where it was dry. He was asleep, a slight frown on his pale face.
Julie looked at the compass. The course had changed a little – slightly more westerly than before. She altered the tiller lines and the course improved slightly, but she could already hear a slight fluttering from the sails. They’d start flapping if she moved the tiller any further. The sails would need adjusting again. It would have to wait: with a bit of luck it might not be necessary and, anyway, she couldn’t face it at the moment.
She searched the sky. No sign of that plane. It was quite extraordinary: it had seen them, she was certain. It must have. It had changed its course slightly and flown almost directly overhead. Yet it hadn’t come down to shoot at them, or even to look more closely.
Julie had taken Peter and dived under the bow and waited for the rat-tat-tat of bullets. But the sound had never come. Instead the plane had stayed high, the hum faint, and then the sound had faded slowly away into the distance.
She couldn’t work it out at all.
But there was no sense in worrying about it. The point was, the plane hadn’t come back, and that was all that mattered.
Time: almost noon. She felt dreadful. Her eyes were aching in their sockets and her head felt as if it were banded with iron. Sleep; she would have to sleep some time. But at the moment she felt oddly light-headed and awake and in need of doing something – as if by keeping busy everything would turn out all right.
Chores: she would get the chores done. Just like at home.
The compass light. It had to be repaired. She thought: But I don’t have the first idea how.
She drew a deep breath. No harm in looking anyway.
To the side of the compass, mounted on the brass base, was a small flap fastened by a finger bolt. It undid quite easily. She looked. There was a wick. She touched it: quite dry. No fuel, then. Her heart lifted. It might be quite simple after all.
A filler cap: there had to be one. She peered into the small opening, then drew away sharply because it made her stomach feel queasy again. A moment for fresh air, then she took another look. Nothing.
Frowning, she looked all the way round the brass compass mount, and suddenly, there it was, on the forward side of the mount: a small brass cap which, when unscrewed, smelt of kerosene. She put a finger in. It came out dry.
All it needed was fuel. All!
She went to the box where she had found the torch. It was bound to be in there.
It wasn’t.
She made her way up to the bow, choosing her moment between waves and flying spray. David seemed to be sleeping peacefully. She put a hand on his brow. He was warmer than before but his colour was still terrible. She wished there was something she could do for him.
Crouching, she went up into the point of the bow. Another rope-clad container. She opened it excitedly. More water.
She searched carefully under the lobster pots, ropes and the single tarpaulin. Nothing.
Where else?
She made her way back towards the tiller. Halfway along the deck, in the centre, was a raised section built up from the deck in a large square. It had a sort of lid on it. The way into the hold, presumably, where the fish were usually stored.
Would the kerosene be in there? She’d have a look anyway.
There were f
astenings around the lid: clips. They were stiff. She tried to prise one open and tore a finger nail. She bit off the nail and tried again. It needed leverage. The spike. The one Peter had found in the box.
It was still there. She brought it back to the hatch cover and, putting it under the clip, levered outwards. The clip sprang open. Triumph!
The other clips opened more easily. Now, the cover itself. It was heavy, but, standing on the uphill side, she managed to lift it slightly, then, using the slant of the boat, to slide it downhill.
She looked over the edge of the opening into the hold.
Much of it was dark, but immediately below her there was a large square brilliantly illuminated by the open hatch.
Julie stared in disbelief, but there was no mistake.
The hold was full of running water.
Spray pattered onto Julie’s back, but she didn’t notice; she was mesmerised by the water flowing in a great torrent through the boat. After a moment she realised the water was streaming first one way then the other, as the boat seesawed its way across the waves. At its fastest the water made a great rushing noise then, as the boat reached the crest of a wave, the entrapped water slowed down and paused before beginning its frantic return journey.
There was tons of it.
Julie wondered how long it had been there – and how fast it was coming in.
‘Mummy!’
Peter was standing by the rail, well aft, out of the spray. ‘Mummy!’ he called again. He was looking unhappy. Julie got to her feet. The bow hit a wave and spray flew back over the deck and into the hold. She should cover the hold again – but then there was so much water in it anyway, a bit more wouldn’t make any difference.
When she got to Peter he held out his arms and she hugged him. ‘Mummy, I need to go to … I want to do a poo, Mummy.’
Julie sighed. ‘Of course, sweetheart.’
‘But where, Mummy?’
‘Oh.’ She hadn’t thought of that. Up till now it had just been a question of standing him near the scuppers. A bucket: that would have to do. She looked around desperately. Knowing Peter, there wasn’t much time.
‘Wait here.’
She looked in the large wooden box beside the tiller, then up in the bow. There had to be a bucket somewhere.
No bucket. But there was a square tin box full of fishing tackle. She threw out the tackle and, grasping the tin box, ducked out from under the decking.
‘Please … Please …’ It was David. He was looking at her with pleading eyes.
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried down the deck. Just in time by the look on Peter’s face. Without ceremony, she pulled down his trousers and sat him on the tin box.
‘Ouch!’
‘I can’t help it! It’s the best I could find!’ She supported the child’s weight, so he wouldn’t have to sit on the sharp edges.
‘Mummy, what about paper?’
Paper. Paper.
‘Wait here.’ The boy grabbed for the helmsman’s seat as she let go of him.
Her brain was seizing up, she could feel it. She made an effort to think. Paper. On a boat? Never. Never! It’d be soaked in a moment. What then? A rag – yes, a rag.
The big wooden box let her down again: it was always letting her down. Back to the bow again. Only an oily black rag. It would have to do.
David was grasping her arm. ‘Please, must talk … It’s very important … Please.’
‘Yes! Yes! In a minute. I promise!’ She was begining to whine. She lowered her voice. ‘Sorry … I really will be back – but I’ve got to take this to my son. All right?’
As she made her way aft for what felt like the twentieth time, Julie thought: It’s just a matter of keeping going, that’s all.
David watched her go. She looked worried. Perhaps things weren’t going so well.
He made an effort to keep his eyes open. Musn’t let go. Not yet.
He had to tell her, had to get it to her …
Before he couldn’t any more.
He felt so weak. The pain was eating into him, gnawing away at his body, and it was impossible to fight it any more. He wanted to escape, to drift away so that there’d never be any pain again.
But first he must talk to the girl. After … then he’d close his eyes and slip away. And there’d be no more pain, just peace.
But not yet. Mustn’t let go … Not yet.
When Julie got back David was asleep. Whatever he’d wanted to say would have to wait. She’d talk to him as soon as he woke up again.
In the meantime …
She searched the deck carefully. There had to be a way of getting the water out. ‘Manning the pumps’, that’s what they used to do in the stories she’d read. But was this boat big enough to have a pump? And if so what would it look like?
There was nothing on the deck that looked remotely like anything that might be a pump.
Nothing for it then …
She stared for a while at the gaping hold then, taking the torch, lowered herself over the edge and down into the darkness. She found a foothold and stepped down into the swirling water up to her calves. Immediately, she wished she’s taken her shoes off and left them on deck. Too late now.
The torchlight revealed an empty shell. Julie stooped down and shone the light right into the bow. Nothing: just the timber frame and, halfway down, the mast coming through the deck above. Behind, nothing either.
Crouching, she climbed forward and shone the torch into the bow again. The water was surging round something heaped on the floor – the anchor chain.
No sign of any kerosene. No sign of a pump.
The boat lurched and she grabbed for the mast. The nasty feeling began to rise in her throat again. She knew she must get out, and fast!
As she let go of the mast something cold touched her hand. Must get up on deck … Swallowing fast, she shone the torch back on the mast, to where her hand had been. A pipe. It ran parallel to the mast, down into the bottom of the boat where it was lost in the murky water.
She gulped hard and pointed the torch upwards. The pipe followed the mast until the spar disappeared through the deck, then it ran horizontally for a short distance until it stopped at a large metal object suspended from the deckhead.
I’m going to be sick.
She rushed for the open hatch and hoisted herself quickly over the edge of the coaming onto the deck.
She fell against the downhill rail and knew that nothing would stop it now. She heaved miserably for several minutes then began to feel better. She staggered back to the helmsman’s seat and, resting her head against the compass, waited for the faintness to pass. It would be so easy to sleep now, to let go.
After a few minutes she stood up and, still shaky, made herself go forward to the mast. She looked to one side of it, to where the metal thing must be just under the deck, and there, set into the planking, was a short thick metal post. She’d thought it was some kind of bollard, but now she could see it was mechanical: it had a socket thing, and bits that obviously moved.
Spray shot through the air and struck her coldly on the cheek. She dropped on to her hands and knees and looked more closely at the mechanical post. The socket was clearly designed to take some sort of handle. Then it could be moved back and forth.
A handle. She was getting tired of looking for things …
She glanced around half-heartedly and saw, right beside her, attached by a clip to the mast, a long straight piece of pipe iron. A handle.
It fitted the socket.
She pulled the cover across the open hatch so that no more water should get in from above, and, sitting on the edge of the hatch, started to pump. At first the handle went back and forth quite easily then, suddenly, it became stiffer and she realised it was only now beginning to draw up water. She settled down into a rhythm and wondered how long it would take to empty the hold.
The pump was situated in what was probably the wettest part of the deck, where the spray was at its thickest. Water drib
bled down her neck and into her clothing, which clung damp and sticky to her skin. But the action of the pumping was, at least, getting her nice and warm. She gave a small snort of amusement – you could make anything sound good if you tried.
After half an hour or so, she lifted the hatch cover and shone the torch down. Still tons of water. She’d half expected it. She settled back into the pumping, trying to clear her brain of everything but the necessity to pump. But her mind kept wandering; thoughts of home, and Jean, and Tante Marie, and him …
She made herself sing, and quite enjoyed it for a while, until she ran out of songs.
Her back began to ache. She took a rest, but it was a mistake: her back ached twice as much when she started pumping again.
After a while her hands blistered and she had to stop because of the pain. Wearily she lifted the corner of the hatch cover and shone the torch down. The water had almost gone. She nodded with satisfaction. Wrapping her hands in rags she pumped again, more quickly, desperately, until at long last there was a sucking noise and the pump was dry.
She put the handle back in its clip on the mast and slowly, shakily, made her way back to the tiller seat.
The course read North-west. Too far west. She rested her head against the glass bowl and closed her eyes.
‘Mummy …’ A small hand was placed on her arm. ‘Mummy, are you all right?’
‘Yes, darling, I feel fine.’ It was about the last thing she felt.
‘I opened another tin. I thought you might be hungry after all your pumping.’
She put her arms round his small waist and her head against his chest and said in a tight voice, ‘Thank you, darling.’
A faint cry sounded from the bow. Julie looked round. It was David. His hand was raised as if to wave. She’d quite forgotten about him. He must want water.
Wearily, she got to her feet and began the long wet journey down the deck.
She was coming back at last!
David watched her fervently, willing her to complete her uncertain passage along the heaving deck. She paused halfway and for a moment he feared she’d changed her mind, but after waiting for a break between waves and ensuing spray, she came on, staggering slightly as the boat gave a sudden lurch forward.
Night Sky Page 55