Blood Roots: Are the roots strong enough to save the pandemic survivors?

by Michael Green

‘But why?’

  ‘Just do it.’

  Using the bright yellow squabs as a marker he circled wider and wider from the spot. As the minutes passed, his despair increased. Then he noticed Misty staring out to starboard, sniffing the air. The cat began his weird calling. Mark changed course, following the direction in which the old cat was looking.

  ‘I can see her, I can see her,’ Fergus yelled from the spreaders. ‘She’s dead ahead.’

  ‘What a clever old cat you are!’ Mark said. At the sound of Mark’s voice Misty turned in his direction and miaowed softly. A wave caught AWOL’s quarter, the yacht lurched, and the old cat lost his footing and fell over the side. Mark was the only one who noticed, as everyone else was staring ahead at the figure lying motionless in the water.

  Fergus scrambled down the mast and rushed into the cockpit. He saw the tears streaming down his uncle’s face. ‘I’m sure she’ll be all right,’ he said, unaware of what was causing the tears.

  Mark brought AWOL to a stop to windward of Jane. Rick, Roger, Zach and Fergus, hanging over the side of the cockpit with the women and children clinging onto their legs, grabbed her as AWOL rolled down towards her.

  ‘Bring her aboard horizontally,’ Roger cautioned, ‘otherwise the blood could rush into her legs and cause a heart attack.’ Carefully they manoeuvred her around the stanchions and into the cockpit. She was deathly white. Roger leant over her and took her pulse. ‘She’s alive. Just,’ he announced.

  A fresh stream of tears flowed down Mark’s cheeks.

  21

  As soon as Jane had been carried below, Mark swung AWOL around and began the search for Misty. It proved a hopeless mission. While those on deck diligently kept a lookout, there was no sign of the old cat. When a beaming Nicole stuck her head through the companionway to tell her grandfather that her mother was sipping hot tea in her bunk and that Roger had said she would be fine, he could not bring himself to tell her the old cat had gone.

  The engine spluttered to a halt. They had run out of fuel. It was only when the sails had been hoisted and AWOL was back on course, heading southeast past Cape Horn, that Mark finally plucked up courage and headed below decks to break the news about Misty.

  ‘Well, I don’t expect as many tears when I go,’ he said when the others finally stopped crying. It was a poor joke, and it only made them cry again.

  Perhaps the drama off Cape Horn made everyone on board realise how precious life was. Everyone became more accepting, more accommodating. Even Rick was more amenable.

  It was a long trudge through the Atlantic to England — a journey of seven thousand one hundred nautical miles by great-circle course, but so much longer for AWOL as she was often forced to beat to windward. Following the scare with Jane, everyone clipped on their safety harnesses at night when on deck, irrespective of the wind strength, and everyone clipped on during the day when the wind rose above fifteen knots. It was only when the wind died totally in the Doldrums that they took off their harnesses and life-jackets and whooped and hollered with delight as they dived over the side for respite from the heat.

  Sometimes it would rain in the evenings and the men and children would stand naked in the rain rinsing the salt from their bodies. Then they would be ordered below so that the women could do the same. Mark wondered why the women were so coy.

  Due to the predominance of head winds, it took one hundred and nineteen days from when they left Ensenada to reach the Bay of Biscay. They were down to their last precious rations. Had they had fuel left, Mark would have made landfall to find fresh supplies. As it was, desperate not to risk an additional landfall without an engine when they were so close to their final destination, he ordered everyone onto short rations.

  ‘I don’t know why all you women keep being sick,’ he said irritably. It was a beautiful morning and the Bay of Biscay was not living up to its fearsome reputation. On the contrary, it was the best sailing they had had all trip. Everyone except Zach and Fergus, who had stood the last watch, was on deck enjoying the sunshine. ‘It’s not as if you can afford to throw up what little you’re being given to eat.’

  Then he felt sorry for his unsympathetic words, particularly when Anne put her head through the lifelines and was sick too.

  Roger looked in his direction, a smirk on his face.

  ‘You’re not telling me …’ he began.

  Anne turned round and nodded. He looked at Jane and she nodded too, her cheeks flushing.

  ‘I’m going to be busy in about five months’ time,’ Roger announced. ‘I’ve got six babies to deliver.’

  Mark’s jaw dropped momentarily. Then he smiled, looking in turn at Louise, Julie and Jessica. They all smiled back and nodded in confirmation.

  ‘So who’s having the twins?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, which of us is having twins?’ the women asked one another.

  Roger looked uncomfortable. Everyone was looking at him, waiting for an answer.

  Nicole suddenly turned around and retched over the side.

  ‘Surely, you’re not …’ Mark began, his voice petering out.

  ‘Nicole, you can’t be pregnant!’ Jane exclaimed. ‘You can’t be.’

  ‘She is,’ Roger confirmed.

  ‘She’s a child,’ Mark screamed, barely able to control his anger.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ Jane asked, her voice hysterical. No one answered.

  ‘Who’s the father?’ Mark repeated. Still no one answered. ‘Who is it?’ he shouted at Nicole. She retched again.

  ‘Stop shouting at her,’ Roger said sharply. ‘The last thing she needs is you upsetting her.’

  ‘Do you know who the father is?’

  Mark could tell by the evasive look in Roger’s eyes that the doctor knew. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘That’s between me and my patient.’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter who it is. It’s between Nicole, the father and me. It’s nobody else’s business.’

  Zach and Fergus, who had been woken by the shouting, were standing on the companionway steps, peering into the cockpit.

  ‘Of course it matters,’ Mark spat angrily. ‘We’ve got a bloody paedophile on the boat.’

  ‘What you going to do, chuck him over the side?’ Rick asked sarcastically. ‘You’re the one always talking about the need to increase the gene pool.’

  ‘Is it you?’

  Rick did not answer.

  ‘Who is it? I demand to know,’ Mark repeated, rounding on Nicole.

  Roger had had enough. He stood up and took Nicole by the hand. ‘She’s a thirteen-year-old girl. She’s frightened, she’s ashamed and she’s your granddaughter. Now get out of her face. The last thing a thirteen-year-old pregnant girl needs is stress. Just think yourself lucky she’s fit and healthy, and that I’ve delivered more than my fair share of babies to thirteen year-olds!’

  With the rebuke delivered, Roger motioned Zach and Fergus to clear the companionway. They scrambled up into the cockpit and stood aside as the doctor led Nicole below. Jane, weeping, followed.

  ‘Well, which one of you bastards was it?’ Mark demanded, looking each of the men in the eye. No one owned up.

  Not only would Nicole not tell her grandfather who the father of her baby was, she wouldn’t tell her mother either — not that Jane, having taken on board Roger’s comments about stress, pressed too hard. She had already made up her mind who the father was. She felt wretched. She felt that both her trust and her body had been violated.

  The stress aboard was palpable. All the women, momentarily at least, suspected their own partner, even Louise, who fleetingly suspected Roger. Julie knew Rick was a ladies’ man, but any suspicions she had of him were centred on Jane. She thought, and then hoped, that he would not have taken advantage of a thirteen-year-old girl. But could she be sure?

  Only the small children, oblivious to the drama, were immune to the stress. They were growing increasingly excited as AWOL approached England. Eventually their joy infected
the adults too and the drama of Nicole’s pregnancy slipped into the background.

  Mark, however, nursed his anger. He barely spoke to Nicole and often snapped at other members of the crew. He seemed to be civil only when he was talking to Anne, Zach and the young children.

  Tommy, who celebrated his ninth birthday two days out from England, was the only child aboard who had been to Haver. He had been six years old when he had been whisked away in the middle of the night as his mother Jessica escaped with Mark, Steven and other members of the Chatfield community. As a result he held court over the smaller children, telling them about his tyrannical uncle Nigel, who called himself Lord Chatfield of Haver, and had to be addressed as Your Lordship. What Tommy lacked in memory, he made up for in imagination — not that the hardships the little boy had suffered at Haver could have been surpassed by even the most creative storyteller.

  He also told his cousins about His Lordship’s sons, the horrid knights — Sir Jasper, Sir Damian and Sir Greg. It was only when Tommy began to frighten the wide-eyed children with the story of how Sir Damian had chopped off the heads of his Uncle Mathew and Great Aunt Margaret that Mark intervened and directed the story towards descriptions of the Great Hall and the grandeur of the thousand acre deer park that surrounded the grand house.

  As Tommy told his stories, the memory of the brutality of Haver came flooding back to Mark, and with it a torrent of anxiety. Had Steven managed to sail safely to England? Had he found the Union Jack and the Cross of St George both flying above the West Tower — the signal Mark had arranged with his brother Paul to be flown if Nigel had been overthrown? And if it hadn’t been safe to enter Haver, had Steven managed to engineer Nigel’s overthrow from outside the walls? If not, had Steven and the others found somewhere else to live? And if so, would Mark be able to find them?

  There were so many questions, so many concerns, that even Nicole’s pregnancy seemed to lessen in importance.

  On the third day of April they spotted the southern coast of England. With no fuel to run the motor, Mark kept well out in the English Channel. Over the ages many voyages had ended in disaster within sight of home, and he didn’t want AWOL’s to be one of them.

  He decided to follow the course he and Steven had taken in Archangel on their previous voyage to England, and to anchor in the River Medway. Though he hadn’t discussed with Steven where he intended to anchor when he arrived in England on his second voyage, he assumed his son would have made the same decision. While they could reach the coastal ports of Sussex and Kent sooner, none offered the protection afforded by the Medway.

  A safe anchorage was essential. He had already agreed with Roger to leave the bulk of the drugs and medicines in the solar-and wind-powered fridge and freezer aboard AWOL. They would return and retrieve them once they knew there was suitable storage at Haver. If necessary they would have to wait till winter, and until the ancient ice-house in Haver Park had been recommissioned, to store them safely.

  They sailed around the eastern tip of Kent and headed west towards the Thames and the mouth of the Medway which ran into it. Mark was amazed how clear the water was. The Thames had always been a grey river, even after it had supposedly been cleaned up during the late twentieth century. Now he could see what clean really meant — clear water teeming with fish.

  All hands were on deck as they entered the Medway and sailed past Stangate and Half Acre creeks. The breeze was steady, the sun shining. It was as if England was welcoming them home. As they reached the bend in the river near Gillingham, Mark handed the helm over to Zach and raised his binoculars. When he had escaped from England almost four years previously there had been more than a hundred yachts anchored in the vicinity. Now there were less than a dozen, some listing badly. He could only assure from the wreckage on the shoreline that the majority had either broken loose from their moorings or sunk on them.

  His heart sank. Archangel was not one of the vessels still afloat. He scanned the yachts washed up on the shore, but she wasn’t there either. He was worried. Then he remembered that Jasper and Damian had discovered Archangel’s anchorage before he and Steven had escaped. He told Zach to continue on up the channel, speculating to himself that perhaps Steven would have wished to keep his new anchorage secret. They sailed up the estuary till they could go no further. Archangel wasn’t there.

  Opposite Chatham’s historic dockyard, with a rattling of chain and a chorus of ‘Three cheers for the Captain, hip, hip …’, AWOL came to rest.

  Mark slumped down on the cockpit seat. He felt totally drained. They’d made it to England, but who knew what now lay ahead of them.

  22

  Jane sat down beside her father and ran her fingers through his salt-caked hair. ‘It’s going to take a good day to get everything organised for the trek down to Haver.’

  He nodded. ‘It’ll take at least a day. I want to leave AWOL shipshape, in case we have to sail again in a hurry.’

  ‘Surely we won’t have to?’

  ‘Unlikely, but as my Granny always said — be prepared.’

  ‘Is this where you and Steven anchored last time?’

  ‘We anchored a little further downstream, just below Gillingham.’

  ‘And you expected Archangel to be there again?’

  ‘I thought she might be. Steven must have found somewhere more suitable.’ He tried to disguise the concern in his voice.

  The rest of the crew wandered down from the foredeck.

  ‘Can we go ashore, Uncle Mark?’ Gina asked.

  ‘I’m sorry — there’s a lot of work to do.’

  Disappointment spread across the children’s faces.

  ‘Go on, take the children ashore,’ Jane said gently. ‘The rest of us can start the preparations for the journey.’

  ‘Don’t forget …’ he began.

  ‘Dad, we can manage. You’ve done your bit — getting us here safely.’ She kissed him on the cheek. ‘The rest of us can take the load now.’

  Fergus helped Mark lower the dinghy and Tommy, Gina and Audrey tumbled in, chattering excitedly. Tommy told the younger children with great authority that the grey vessels in the dock behind them were American naval ships and the big sailing ship was HMS Victory.

  Mark smiled to himself. He’d visited Chatham’s historic dockyard before. The naval ships were British, the old square rigger the restored HMS Gannet. He knew the Gannet particularly well — he’d spent three years on her as a boy cadet when she’d been called Training Ship Mercury. Suddenly he not only wanted to show the excited young children around, he wanted to show his grandchildren too.

  ‘Why don’t you two come?’ he said, looking towards Zach and Nicole. ‘And if you’d like to look after Chelsea and Marion, they can come as well.’

  The toddlers jumped up and down excitedly. Nicole and Jane both smiled. It was the first civil word Mark had spoken to his granddaughter since he’d learnt she was pregnant.

  The children spent three awestruck hours wandering around the historic dockyard. They clambered through the cigar-like interior of a submarine as Tommy told them how the torpedoes were fired, and Mark gently and unobtrusively corrected him. They walked through the ancient rope works, quarter of a mile long, where the hawsers for HMS Victory had once been made. But the highlight was the tour of the HMS Gannet, where they listened, enthralled, as Mark showed them where he had slept in a hammock, let them turn the old pump which the cadets operated when they were being punished, and showed them the photographs on the bulkhead in the forepeak portraying life aboard the training ship. It was a lost world. At the end of the afternoon the children clambered aboard AWOL all talking at once, vying with one another to tell their parents all the sights they had seen.

  Good progress was made with preparations for the party’s departure from AWOL but even so it took the whole of the following day to complete the task. A search party headed ashore and located a flatbed trailer in the dockyard workshops. The tyres were perished, but the rims were sturdy. They lashed a pipe acr
oss the towing bar so that two people, standing on either side of the bar, could hold the trailer level, and attached ropes to each side so the rest of the party could pull.

  Early on the third morning they ferried ashore personal belongings, the little food remaining in AWOL’s stores, Roger’s doctor’s bag, containing a supply of selected medicines and drugs, and some tools and ropes, and lashed them on the trailer.

  ‘What you taking that for?’ Fergus challenged Rick when he noticed the American packing his automatic weapon. ‘You wasted all your bullets, remember?’

  Rick shrugged. ‘I’ll get more somewhere.’

  Fergus was tempted to point out that the weapon was American military issue and it was unlikely suitable ammunition could be found in England. Jessica looked at her partner hard, her eyes warning him not to start another argument. Fergus glanced at other questionable items the children had stowed on the trailer and said nothing.

  After a final check of AWOL Mark gathered his best two rifles and the remaining three rounds of ammunition and clambered into the dinghy to row ashore.

  ‘All in order, captain?’ Fergus asked as Mark approached the quayside. The older man nodded and passed him the painter. They hauled the dinghy clear of the water and began the trek towards Sevenoaks.

  Although only a little over thirty miles by the route Mark had chosen, it proved a slow journey. With two people on the crossbar keeping the trailer level and the remainder pulling on the ropes, only ten miles were travelled the first day. They camped the night at the derelict village of Snodland.

  They made an early start the next day, but were delayed by a road barricade. They had to unpack the trailer, lift everything over the obstacle and repack the trailer on the other side.

  ‘What’s the plan, Dad?’ Jane asked after the journey recommenced.

  Mark looked up at the darkening sky. ‘I don’t think we can make Haver tonight. We’ll get as far as possible and rest up. Then we’ll leave the trailer and head in tomorrow morning. I don’t want to go bowling into the park with all this gear in tow.’